Don't Dare a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  By the time I finished lunch I’d sorted through the pros and cons of the next step I wanted to take. Then I shrugged them all off and went with instinct.

  I waited till mid-afternoon before driving up Salem to the half-timbered Tudor Cy Warren owned on Harvard Avenue. The area wasn’t as swanky as Oakwood, but it was a neighborhood favored by doctors and other well-to-do types. The street curved around, showing off nice-sized yards and houses.

  A couple of driveways had cars in them. Cy Warren’s didn’t. If he was the sort who occasionally came home for lunch, he wasn’t here now, which was part of my plan. I parked on the street. Except for one other car, mine was the only one relegated to public space. Two concrete steps led up to a sidewalk set in a long front lawn. I followed it and went up another set of steps where I turned the polished brass doorbell.

  After several minutes a sad-eyed colored woman who looked as if her knees hurt opened the door.

  “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Warren, please. It has to do with her husband’s campaign.”

  Thirty-eight

  For one fleeting instant the maid’s eyes noted my fading injuries.

  “Yes, ma’am. Please step in and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  She made her way laboriously down the hall to a room on the left. I’d been in entry halls larger than the one where I waited, but this one was beautifully furnished. The pale blue carpet looked as if it had been put down yesterday. An impressionist painting of couples strolling past a lake adorned one wall. Tessa Warren had a fine eye for decorating.

  Several minutes passed before the woman I’d seen in newspaper photos appeared. She seemed to float instead of walk. The dreamy semi-smile she wore looked permanent. Her head cocked prettily.

  “How lovely of you to want to help with my husband’s campaign.” The softness of her words was almost hypnotic. The handshake she offered had just enough energy to convey sincerity. “I’m afraid you need to go down to his headquarters if you want to sign up. Do you need the address?”

  “Actually I’ve already been there. This is about Mr. Warren’s early days. On Percy Street. He’s told me a few things, but I’m hoping you can fill in some details.”

  “Percy Street?” Confusion drew her brows together. “I was only a child...” A note of petulance crept through her serenity. “Cy should have told ... Dear me. We’d better sit down, I suppose.” Her hand flicked vaguely toward a parlor on the right. “I just need to ... take care of something first.”

  As she turned to go, something caught her attention.

  “Olivia, get that nasty doll out of here. I’ve told her a dozen times to keep it where it belongs. If I see it down here again, it goes in the rubbish.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I hadn’t noticed the battered rag doll at the foot of the stairs until the maid whisked it under her apron and began to climb ponderously. Tessa Warren glided away as if she’d forgotten my presence — which maybe she had. Her viciousness over a kid’s toy startled me. The fact her serenity didn’t so much as waver as she issued orders was downright unsettling. She behaved like a fairy tale princess inhabiting some world apart from the rest of us. Was it an act? Had she overdosed on something stronger than Miles Nervene? Or was there something else about her I was missing?

  With the maid upstairs and my hostess vanished, I gathered an offer of tea wasn’t on the agenda for me. I went into the parlor to wait. The carpet was the same soft blue as the hall, but the silk upholstery on the Queen Anne sofa and chairs featured a darker hue. In front of the sofa a low table held a vase half-filled with water. A handful of assorted flowers lay scattered as though forgotten on top of the florist’s paper which had held them. Just as I was wondering if Tessa planned to leave me sitting there, she returned.

  “Oh, how silly. I forgot to put the flowers in water.” She pressed both hands to her mouth and giggled girlishly.

  “Mrs. Warren, I didn’t introduce myself.” I gave her my card.

  “Maggie Sullivan.” She tried to appear attentive and failed. Plenty of men had probably fallen for it, though. “What a pretty card.”

  It was several miles off the reactions most people had when they read Private Investigator. Taking a seat across from me, she arranged her head in its decorous tilt.

  “What was it you said you came about?”

  “You lived in a house just behind Warren’s menswear shop before the big flood.”

  As briefly as a firefly’s blink her focus sharpened.

  “Somewhere over there, yes.”

  “You told a policeman you saw men put a mannequin out in the alley the day the buildings caught fire there.”

  “I...”

  “Actually, you called it a store dolly. Your mother explained to him that you meant a clothing dummy.”

  Her hands, which had lain decorously in her lap, moved toward each other. She didn’t know the policeman in question was dead. Nor could she be certain that Cy hadn’t already given me some song and dance about the mannequin story. Suddenly she giggled again.

  “I was such a silly little thing. Always imagining. Mama said I just dreamed it, because I’d lost all my own dollies. Cy says so too.... What does this have to do with his campaign?”

  I knew mad people bobbled around sometimes, rational one minute and not the next. Tessa’s question about the campaign confirmed my suspicion she kept track of things just fine. She wore her ethereal aura like other women wore perfume, but she wasn’t mad. She knew exactly what she’d seen that day.

  “In your, ah, dream, was your husband one of the men who carried the clothes dummy?”

  The tip of a small pink tongue darted into view as she moistened her lips. Once more, she couldn’t be certain what — if anything — Cy had told me.

  “I - I don’t remember—”

  “When you got older, you realized they were carrying out a body, didn’t you?”

  She stood up, pressing a hand to her temple. “Oh, dear. I’m getting a headache. You need to leave.”

  “The body of a man named John Vanhorn.”

  “It was a dream, I tell you!” The woman actually stamped her foot. Her voice had grown shrill.

  “Your husband knows you know the truth. He wants to get elected, and he’ll get rid of anyone who could cost him that. He’s already killed the other man who was there that day. Your life isn’t worth a plug nickel if you stick around.”

  The front door banged open in anger. No need to guess what prince was charging to the rescue of the damsel. I got to my feet.

  “You need to get out,” I told the woman staring at me. “Go to your sister. A friend. Take a trip.”

  I wasn’t sure she’d heard.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Cy strode in. “How dare you bother my wife!”

  Serenity back in place, Tessa fluttered to his side. Leaning against him, she rested a hand on his chest and gazed up.

  “Oh, Cy! She keeps asking about that dream I had — about the flood. I told her it was only a dream. I’ll bet lots of little girls had terrible dreams afterwards, don’t you?”

  She gave him such an adoring look I thought I might lose my lunch.

  He missed the adoration. He was too busy glaring at me.

  “Of course they did,” he said shortly.

  For all intents there were only the two of us in the room. Tessa had become another decorative item like the vase of water waiting for flowers.

  “Keeping tabs on your wife, are you Cy? What is it, that car parked down the way? Or did you buy one of the houses around here so you could keep track of comings and goings?”

  It was the only way I could figure he’d gotten here so fast. The likelihood of her calling him was something I’d anticipated, but I’d kept track of time, expecting to be gone before he arrived.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Deprived of anticipated attention, Tessa thrust her lip out. Cy patted her absently.

  “You’re agitated, sweetheart. Go upstair
s and lie down. Take one of your tablets.”

  Still pouting, she took her leave. My ears strained, trying to determine if Cy had brought some of his men with him. I moved so the low table wasn’t blocking me, crossing my arms and surveying the room as I did so.

  “Your wife has better taste in decorating than she does in men, Cy. This room’s as beautiful as I’ve ever seen.”

  “I couldn’t find a more perfect wife.”

  He closed the gap between us, watching to see if I’d retreat. I didn’t.

  “Handy, too, since spouses can’t testify against each other in court,” I observed.

  “Pity that the policeman she told her ridiculous tale to is long dead, isn’t it? Being a devoted husband I naturally looked for anything that could put her mind at rest when she first told me her dream.”

  Watching my every move, he took a cigar from his pocket and brought out a silver lighter to start it. In private he didn’t need the folksy touch of matches. The lighter lid clicked open and closed, open and closed, with no attempt to summon a flame. Open and closed. Its sound was a challenge as we watched each other like two cats waiting to spring

  “If you even attempt to contact my wife again, I’ll destroy you,” he said.

  “I don’t need your wife, Cy. I’ve got you for Alf Maguire’s murder. Two witnesses.”

  The clicking stopped.

  “You’re bluffing,” he said after a pause. “You’re good at bluffing.”

  At last he snapped a flame to life and lit his cigar.

  “Want to dig into my past?” He chuckled softly. “Go right ahead. I dare you. But you won’t find anything, and some of my over-zealous supporters might get carried away. Without my knowledge, of course. They might do worse than that.”

  He indicated my face by leaning forward and blowing a stream of smoke directly into it.

  I nearly coughed, but managed not to. When several seconds had passed and the air was marginally clearer, I took a breath. His eyes were hard, trumpeting his superiority.

  “Don’t dare a dame, Cy. One may call your bluff.”

  Plucking the cigar from his startled lips, I dropped it into the vase full of water and brushed past him out of the room.

  Thirty-nine

  Because of my work I’d seen more than my share of the ugliness that hid in life’s corners. Nonetheless, the Warren’s marital arrangement made my skin crawl. A woman married to a man who’d kill her to silence her. A man who, knowing what she’d seen and aware of her unstable behavior, paraded her on his arm. Wherever the match had been made, it wasn’t in heaven.

  Jesus.

  The whole thing was unnatural.

  I tried to make sense of it over a pint at Finn’s, and then over a second one. I let Billy cluck over me while Seamus shot me an occasional look of commiseration. I jawed at Wee Willie. Somewhere after I settled myself at a table, Connelly joined me without my objecting. I could hardly say no, considering how he’d come to my aid a week ago at the hospital. It led to my telling him about Cy and Tessa.

  “Maybe Mrs. Warren’s one of those women who knows she’s got looks enough to land a husband, and doesn’t much care who he is as long as he’s got money,” he said.

  “Voice of experience?”

  “The ones that were eager to land me didn’t have money.” He flashed a grin.

  “But it just happening to be Cy....”

  “Yeah. That smells bad. Any chance she was shaking him down?”

  I gave a short laugh.

  “Tessa? Threatening to spill the beans if he didn’t marry her? First, I can’t see her figuring out it was him she saw on the day of the fire. She was seven years old. He was in his twenties. Besides, as much as she’s honed her talent for making a man feel important, I can’t see her managing something that took so much planning.”

  “And even if she did, given how respectable Cy’s become and his connections, why would he even blink at what some kid prattled about a quarter-century ago?”

  “There is the fact he’s running for office. But yeah, I thought of that too.”

  “Even with you roiling the waters.”

  “Even that.”

  I thought how smug Cy had been that afternoon, blowing smoke in my face. It reminded me I was facing what could prove to be a long evening with Heebs.

  “Got to go,” I said pushing the rest of my Guinness aside and standing. “We must’ve set some kind of record though, sitting here without squabbling.”

  Connelly studied me beneath lowered lids.

  “Maybe I’m losing interest.”

  I paused a fraction as I turned my coat collar up. The crackle of whatever existed between us had just surfaced, strong as ever.

  “Or maybe you’re changing tactics,” I said.

  His touch as light as a feather, he laid a finger on my hand, detaining me.

  “Mark your calendar for Saturday, though, will you? Rose served notice when she was drawing my beer a week or so back that I’d be in bad favor unless I got our scruffy little group to play some tunes in the big room here.”

  His eyes held mine. I saw goodness there, and more.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I promised.

  ***

  At half past eight I picked up Heebs. Ten minutes later I was parked in front of a bar on a seedy strip along the river. Using the list I’d drawn up with Seamus and Connelly, I’d come up with a plan to look for Neal while conserving my energy, which still wasn’t a hundred percent up to snuff, and which I’d need if I found him. While I sat in the car where I could keep an eye out for trouble, Heebs went in and showed the photograph of Neal and asked if he’d been in.

  “Piece of cake, Sis,” he reported swaggering out of the first one. “Showed ’em the picture and said he’d skipped out on my stepmom and me, and the little ones were getting awfully hungry.”

  “Had they seen him?”

  “No.”

  I started the engine. I needed something concrete on Cy, and if Tessa wouldn’t talk to me — which I still hoped I could persuade her to do — Neal was my best bet. There had to be some reason why he’d run.

  Eight places later, we still hadn’t had any luck. I’d had to double-park twice in narrow streets, waving out-of-sorts drivers around me while I waited for Heebs. He came out of the ninth place with his hands filled with peanuts.

  “Want one?” he offered cracking the shell.

  “Not sure my mouth could manage it yet, but thanks.”

  “They hadn’t seen Neal, but the guy serving beer said a dry cleaning place had called hunting him too. Gave me a wink and said Neal had left some money in pants he dropped off — like he was telling me to go get it.” He finished the peanuts. “All the yakking I’ve done tonight made me thirsty. Okay if I get a beer while I’m in the next place?”

  He made it sound as casual as he could. I gave the little hustler a sideways look.

  “Nice try, Heebs, but there’s Coke in that sack if you’re thirsty.”

  Unruffled, he took out a bottle and pawed through the sack for the metal opener that was my only claim to kitchen equipment. He pried off the cap of the bottle and sipped in silence.

  “What happens if you don’t find this guy, Sis?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But here’s another place to try.”

  Heebs set his bottle of pop down carefully on the floor of the DeSoto. I sat waiting, listening to the mournful wail and clatter of a freight train as it passed. The streets we’d been traversing had a weary feel. Just across the river were colored neighborhoods, some nice and some not so nice. West Fifth and other streets there had clubs and theaters that brought in fine entertainment. My photographer friend Matt Jenkins and his wife and I had gone over once to hear jazz. There’d only been one table left, at the back of the room, and ours had been almost the only white faces.

  Heebs returned to report no more success than he’d had elsewhere. It was past ten. Only four places were left on my list. By the spri
ng in his step when he came out of the third one, I knew he’d learned something.

  “Old Neal’s been coming in regular,” he said bouncing into the car. “Last week he got such a snootful that two of the regulars had to drag him home. Tonight he came in about five. Left just when they were thinking they’d have to do it again.”

  “Sweet Mary. Tell me you got an address.”

  He rattled it off.

  “It’s a fleabag hotel called The St. George. Cheap rates if you rent by the week. As drunk as he is, the two of us could take him easy.”

  “As drunk as he is, I’m not likely to get any answers from him. I’ll wait till tomorrow,” I said.

  But I was lying.

  Forty

  The St. George Hotel fell somewhere between the Ritz and a roach farm. It inclined toward the latter. After I’d dropped Heebs off, I came back and located it and circled the block several times to get the lay of the place. Twice as I passed I saw ladies who didn’t appear at all matronly enter the hotel accompanied by men unlikely to be their husbands.

  One hint the establishment wasn’t the classiest came from its neon sign. Sputtering in the front window, it proclaimed ST. GEORGE HOT, the final EL having burned out. As I pushed through the swinging door into its small lobby, one of the girls I’d seen was cozying up to her guest of the evening as they climbed the stairs.

  Half a dozen steps beyond where I’d entered, a desk clerk with a sharp nose and sharper eyes looked up from behind a counter. There were pigeonholes in the wall behind him and a phone and register book on the counter. By the way his eyes flickered I knew he noticed my face.

  “Need a room?” he asked sliding the register toward me.

  “What I need is to talk to Neal Vanhorn.”

  His expression told me nothing. The bilious hue of his necktie made me glad I hadn’t eaten much supper.

  “Came in drunk as a skunk a couple hours back,” I prompted in case Neal was using some other name. “What room is he in?”

  “We don’t give out information on guests.”

  I put four bits on the counter.