Don't Dare a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  He took a sip of whiskey, watching for my reaction.

  “Funny,” I said. “That’s just the effect it had on me.”

  His stern mouth smiled ever so slightly.

  “May I ask what you’ve learned?”

  “I’ve learned the man who disappeared was headed for a place called Dillon’s Drugs on Percy Street. I’ve learned the man found dead last Friday — Alf Maguire — was part owner of that business. There was a gas explosion, nothing like the one downtown, but several businesses along there burned down, including the drugstore. The other owner of the drugstore died in the fire, his remains pinned down by an overturned cabinet. Maguire and a man who’s now a politician were pals at the time, though they may have gone their separate ways since.”

  I wasn’t sure it was wise to mention their property dealings. For one thing I hadn’t seen evidence of anything crooked. For another, I had no idea how cozy Chief Wurstner was with various politicians. I drank some whiskey and water.

  “That’s about it.”

  Wurstner nodded. His eyes focused on distant thoughts.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to name the politician,” he said after a minute.

  “I’d rather not.”

  He took a pipe from the stand beside him, filled it, and when it was ready, puffed.

  “And what were the questions you wanted to ask?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me who was patrolling Percy Street at the time of the flood. If they’re still around, I thought I might....”

  He was shaking his head.

  “I knew the man who walked Percy Street very well. We were friends. He died, oh, six years ago.”

  “What about records?”

  “Record keeping, even of a rudimentary nature, wasn’t high on the list of priorities for some time after, I’m afraid. The cleanup alone was.... My God, I can still smell the stench of dead horses. Fourteen hundred carcasses. That was my job. Heading a detail to cart them out of the city to a disposal site. I’d just made corporal.”

  He chuckled, but he was rubbing his forehead. His eyes were dark.

  A tap at the study door interrupted.

  “Rudy, I’m sorry to intrude, but you apparently promised to look at some homework.”

  Wurstner knocked back the rest of his whiskey and got to his feet. I stood too.

  “I knew your father,” he said. “He was a very fine man. Tenacious. You remind me of him.” He opened the study door for me. “If I recall anything that might be useful, I’ll give you a call. Charlie and I — the man who patrolled Percy — talked about the flood sometimes. When we were alone.”

  “Thank you.” We shook hands.

  “I’ll see Miss Sullivan out,” said his wife.

  He nodded and started upstairs. Mrs. Wurstner walked beside me to the front door.

  “I do needlepoint,” she said. “If anyone asks. I’m working on a chair.”

  She was making sure I had a leg to stand on in case anyone learned that I’d been here.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” I said.

  They were a gracious couple, the Wurstners. Probably kind. Yet as I pulled away in my borrowed car, I couldn’t help thinking the chief of police had gotten plenty of information from me, while I’d gotten nothing useful from him.

  Twenty-three

  I’d had high hopes when I received Chief Wurstner’s invitation. The next morning I rattled around my office feeling sorry for myself. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t any closer to discovering what the Vanhorn case had stirred up than I had been before Corrine’s abduction. I walked back and forth to the window. I kicked the metal wastebasket next to my desk. The wastebasket was acquiring a swell brocade pattern as a result of similar assaults.

  Maybe talking to Franklin Maguire would shed some light on things. According to his landlady, he got home from work around half-past five.

  Meanwhile, I wanted to see what I could learn about Swallowtail Properties, the outfit that had bought up lots on Percy Street, including the ones owned by Alf Maguire and Cy Warren.

  There was something faintly familiar about the name. Did it only seem that way because of the property records I’d pored over yesterday? Or had I come across it somewhere before that?

  The newspapers at the library. Maybe.

  I grabbed for my telephone directory.

  There it was. Swallowtail Properties. I tapped my teeth with a fingernail. When I went through the papers at the library I’d been hunting things on Cy Warren. His occupation was real estate when he wasn’t politicking. That had to mean I’d come across the name Swallowtail in connection with him.

  Did he own Swallowtail Properties? Had he and Alf been partners?

  Grabbing my pencil, I dialed the number in the book.

  “Good morning. Swallowtail Properties.”

  “Hi,” I said in a breathless rush. “This is Sally. Is Cy in? I just need a minute.”

  “No, I’m sorry, he’s already out and about. Who did you say—?”

  “What about Alf?”

  “Who?”

  “Alf Maguire.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no one here by that name.”

  “Oh, gee, did I get it wrong? I can’t read what I’ve written.” I tittered. “I’ll try Cy at his campaign place. Thanks.”

  I hung up.

  Gloating would be unseemly. Then again, there was no one else to gloat for me. I’d just linked Cy to Swallowtail. It sounded like he might be the owner. But Alf appeared to be unknown there. Had he sold out to Cy all those years ago when, on paper, they’d both appeared to sell to Swallowtail? Or had what looked like sales actually been the formation of some sort of corporation or similar legal entity?

  And what did any of it have to do with John Vanhorn’s disappearance?

  The question put a crimp in my gloating. I thought for a minute and called Corrine.

  “Do you remember your mother or Alf mentioning something called Swallowtail Properties?”

  “Swallowtail Properties,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I don’t believe so. It’s rather whimsical. Is it important?”

  “It might be.”

  “I’ll ask Isobel.”

  “That’s okay. If it starts to look as if it is important, I’ll give her a call. How are you and P— Paul getting along?”

  “Oh, splendidly. One of my voice students came for a lesson this morning. I don’t believe he enjoyed that as much as piano. He’s so quiet most of the time that I almost forget he’s here.”

  I thanked her and hung up. Since this was Isobel’s half day at work, I’d be able to talk to her when she got home in a few hours. Right now I felt an urge to trot over to Cy Warren’s headquarters.

  Before I’d gotten my hat on, the phone rang.

  “Yeah, this is Mr. Thomas,” said Pearlie’s voice. “Just checking to see if those gentlemen— They have? Sure, I can make it then. Could you call Miss Sullivan and tell her to pick me up at twelve sharp? Thanks. Tell her if she can’t make it to give me a buzz and I’ll take a cab.”

  “You want me to be there at noon,” I confirmed. That was half an hour earlier than we’d arranged. Something was up. “Any problem?”

  “No, no. That’s all I need, thanks.”

  For several minutes I stood puzzling through the conversation. I couldn’t imagine anyone getting the drop on Pearlie and forcing him to make a phone call. Even if they managed to do it, they wouldn’t know about our subterfuge of his being in town for a business meeting. His gibberish had been for Corrine’s sake. Reassured there was no crisis, I headed for Cy’s campaign office.

  ***

  A meeting was in progress when I got there. Several dozen men, mostly white-haired or bald, sat or slouched around the tables by the map that was marked with red crayon. A man with a stogie jammed in his mouth was talking to them. Another man was passing out mimeoed sheets.

  The redhead who’d been in the back room with Cy the first time I showed up noticed me
first. He went over and whispered to Cy, who was listening to the cigar smoker. Cy looked around. I waggled my fingers. I thought he looked a shade irked, but it was gone by the time he reached me.

  “Miss Sullivan. What a surprise to see you again. Did you come to help put ribbons together? That meeting’s this evening. Or do you just find me fascinating?”

  It was either a joke or a warning. I smiled.

  “Not enough to worry your wife.”

  Pinpoints of something appeared in his eyes, gone before I could even be sure I’d seen it. Did Cy have wife troubles? I recalled his seeming indignation over Alf’s love nest. Maybe it had been real and the politician didn’t consider playing around a subject for levity.

  “Actually,” I said. “I came to find out about Swallowtail Properties.”

  He looked at me without understanding.

  “My business? It’s commercial real estate. As I’m sure you must know. I can’t see how this relates to what we discussed yesterday.”

  “I’m interested in its beginnings. When you and your pal bought up places on Percy.”

  “‘Bought up.’” He rocked his head back and chuckled. “You make us sound like a couple of moguls.”

  Over by the map, the guy with the stogie was still going on. Cy made deliberate show of consulting his watch.

  “I can’t spare more than ten minutes. Let’s go to my office.” He glanced at the redhead who’d tagged along and was hiding a grin as he eyed me curiously. “Eddie, take over here. I’ll be in back if you need me.”

  Cy and I didn’t chat any more until he’d closed the door to what he called his office.

  “First, let me assure you there’s not an iota dishonest about my business dealings,” he said, sitting behind his desk with force enough to suggest anger. “If there was any dirt to be dug up, believe me my political rivals would have done so long ago.”

  Once again he failed to invite me to sit. Once again I did anyway.

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” I said mildly. “As I told you, my only questions relate to Alf Maguire. When did he sell his interest in Swallowtail?”

  I was going out on a limb with that, but my call to the Swallowtail office and the fact Corrine didn’t remember the name gave me at least some confidence.

  Cy removed a cigar from the humidor and clipped off the end. He lighted the end and drew a couple of times, letting me wait.

  “Alf was never a partner in Swallowtail,” he said. “I started it. I bought several lots along there, including the lot Alf owned. It’s how I got my start.”

  “It wasn’t the lot where the drugstore had been though.”

  “No. Like most of the others whose places burned down, Alf saw he faced a long wait to rebuild and start over. So did my pop. He had the idea of selling, and taking the money from that and what insurance paid and finding someplace he could rent instead. Alf thought that was smart, so he did the same thing.”

  “But then you both turned right around and bought again.”

  Cy removed the cigar he’d started and studied the end.

  “The fire just about destroyed my father. Broke his spirit. He talked about starting over, but I could see his heart wasn’t in it. Or maybe it was, and he just....” His hand waved vaguely. “He’d lost his energy. Worried constantly. Didn’t sleep. My mother and I were worried about him. On top of that, places to rent were scarce, so much of the city had been destroyed.

  “I persuaded Pop to keep enough money to live on and use the rest to buy vacant property and put up a building or two to rent. No cost for merchandise, no waiting on customers six days a week. Property along there was dirt cheap by then. The bank knew him. He was able to get a loan for construction. I think he put in a good word for Alf as well.” He paused and smiled. “It turned out to be a very good move.”

  “And a few years later you, or your father, became Swallowtail.”

  “By then we saw the possibility of increasing our holdings. Having a business name made us appear more important than we actually were at the time.”

  He chuckled, an affable fellow looking back at how he’d succeeded, modestly hinting it was equal parts hard work and dumb luck. I wondered how closely his true nature matched the role he was playing.

  “But Alf wasn’t interested in being a part of it?” I asked. “You’d owned one parcel together.”

  “Ah. I’d forgotten. We bought him out, as I recall. Alf was impatient. Real estate was too slow a game for his taste. In any case, he’d married his winsome widow by then.”

  I gave him my sunniest smile and stood up.

  “Thanks. You’ve been a real help.”

  And he had been. Without even knowing.

  Twenty-four

  Amid all the rest that Cy had told me, the word ‘winsome’ blinked at me like a neon sign. At our first meeting he’d attempted to give the impression that he and Alf had scarcely any contact after the flood, and that certainly they’d done none of the swaggering around together attributed to them earlier. Yet he’d known that Mrs. Vanhorn was a looker. Moreover, Cy’s use of the possessive ‘his winsome widow’ suggested Alf had been interested in her for some time before he’d married her, and that Cy had been aware of that interest.

  Neither point struck me as something a man would mention casually on the street. It seemed even less likely if the two men meeting had been close once but no longer were.

  On the other hand, it sounded very much like something one pal would confide in another over a few beers. If the woman in question was happily married, the enamored man might lament his lot and exaggerate her charms. I’d overheard enough conversations in Finn’s and other gin mills to know such misery was usually met with the joking that passed for sympathy among men, followed by an off-color comment or two and maybe some prurient speculation.

  His winsome widow.

  I thought about it as I watched the car that was following me. It wasn’t the Ford with the crooked headlight that had tried to trail me once before when I was headed to the Vanhorn place. This one was a nondescript black Dodge. Such cars were plentiful, and I wouldn’t have noticed it except for having to keep one eye peeled for Oats Ripley. As near as I could remember, it had been behind me since I left the parking lot. As soon as I’d become aware of it, I’d jotted down part of the license number. This was still the same car.

  The problem was, I was on my way to get Pearlie, and he’d made it clear I shouldn’t be late, but I didn’t want to lead anybody straight to the Vanhorns.

  The occupant of the black car could be Oats, or someone he’d hired. It could also be one of Cy Warren’s lackeys. Cy would know about the Vanhorns since I’d asked not only about Alf, but about John Vanhorn. Oats wouldn’t. It gave me an idea.

  After hopscotching several blocks, I cut back through an alley, then nosed in between some other cars parked at the side of a building. For several minutes I watched the intersection where I’d begun my maneuver. No sign of the black car.

  There were only three blocks to the Vanhorn’s street, but each was several times the length of those downtown. I recognized Pearlie’s car at the end of Corrine’s block. It was headed in the right direction for what I had in mind. And there at the opposite end sat a black car that looked a lot like the one that had followed me.

  Corrine’s perkiness when she opened the door assured me all was well. Pearlie was right at her heels.

  “Come back any time you’re in town,” she said as he thanked her.

  “You’ve been an exquisite hostess,” Pearlie replied. His alertness as he ducked past me conveyed impatience to be under way.

  “Isobel should be home in thirty minutes or so,” I said. “Don’t answer the door until then.”

  Corrine had two fingers over her mouth and was chuckling silently. Her attention appeared to be fixed on something beyond me.

  “I’ll be perfectly fine,” she said waving aside my concern. “Mr. Thomas does use some odd words at times, doesn’t he?”

 
“Uh, yes,” I agreed.

  At the curb Pearlie was leaning comfortably against my DeSoto.

  “Some cop’s coming over to see her,” he said when I joined him. “Called her and asked if he brought some dogs by, would she give him advice. Said he had the afternoon off.”

  Boike.

  “And you didn’t want to chance being here,” I said.

  Pearlie shrugged. “Don’t like cops.”

  “Mind helping me with something else for maybe fifteen minutes?”

  “Sure.” He opened the passenger door.

  “There’s a black Dodge parked up the street,” I said as I went around to the driver’s side. After I drop you off, I think it’s going to follow me.”

  Pearlie was the only person I knew who not only didn’t need warning not to look, but never appeared to do so no matter how casually. He flicked his cigarette into the street and got in.

  “What do I do?”

  “Fiddle around till he passes you. Check your tires or something. Then you follow him. I’m going to hunt for a stretch with a couple of parking spaces and pull into one. If he pulls over too, you block him in.”

  Pearlie wore a small smile of expectation. It showed only his canine teeth.

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  I started my engine and executed a U-turn to deliver him to his car.

  “Then you go on back to Rachel and tell her I said thanks.”

  ***

  This time the black car was cagier, but only because it kept a couple of cars between us. Either the driver was used to tailing Dumb Daryls, or he didn’t have much experience at what he was doing.

  I went up Brown instead of Main. Less traffic would get snarled if I had a chance to try my plan. Eventually I saw the perfect setup. Just ahead of me was a vacant parking spot. Four or five spaces beyond that, a car was pulling away from the curb.

  Sticking my arm out the window, I signaled and slowed, creeping toward the newly vacated space. I couldn’t see Pearlie behind the Dodge, but I had every confidence that he was. Motioning a car around me, I began to angle into the parking space. Another car went around me. Then all my attention, not to mention my muscle power, went into turning the steering wheel.