I hoped Great-aunt Clara had a sweet tooth, or at least a hankering for tea, but I couldn’t count on it. Not after the way Lena had sulked at the whole outing. It seemed unlikely Nick or Lena would recognize my car, or even that they knew I had one. Still, no point taking chances. I parked the DeSoto on a side street, out of view of the Drake house, and walked to a house directly across from it.
A woman in a linen dress opened the door.
“Hello, I’m from Sterling Underwriters.” I gestured with the clipboard, which held the form I’d gotten from Rachel, flashing it just enough for the woman to catch a peek at how official it looked. “I’m verifying information one of your neighbors supplied on his application for coverage. All quite standard, and of course confidential. Could you spare me a few minutes?”
“Insurance?” she frowned, trying to follow.
“Very similar, only for businesses when they start.” I smiled.
“A neighbor, did you say?”
If anyone exists who isn’t curious about the neighbors, I’ve never met them.
“Nicholas Perry. We understand he travels a great deal, but he’s the nephew of Mrs. Clara Drake. He lists her address as his permanent residence.”
“Oh, yes. The handsome young man who visits her every year or so.”
It suggested she didn’t really know their connection. That was fine.
“So he visits approximately every twelve months.” I scribbled on a line that asked something about square footage. “And you’ve lived here how long?”
“Ten years—”
“Who else resides with Mrs. Drake? I see she’s a widow.”
“I don’t believe anyone lives with her except her housekeeper. There’s a girl who comes every day to clean.”
“No children? Grandchildren?”
“I don’t believe so. I don’t really know Mrs. Drake, to tell you the truth. She doesn’t mingle. Looks down her nose at the rest of us around here.”
“So as far as you know, Mr. Perry is her only relative?”
I scribbled industriously.
“Yes. Well...”
I looked up.
“I’m not sure. She had a niece – grand-niece, more likely, now that I think of it. Sarah, I think it was. Very pleasant, always said hello. Then suddenly she wasn’t around. I thought maybe she’d moved, or even died, but the girl who cleans for me talks to Mrs. Drake’s girl, and she said Mrs. Drake had disowned her niece.”
I asked if her household helper had gone home for the day, and if not, did she possibly know Sarah’s last name or where she lived. The girl was still around, but she had no more to add.
“As I mentioned in the beginning, our interviews are confidential,” I reminded the woman I’d spoken with. “We hope you’ll keep that in mind and not mention my visit to Mrs. Drake or Mr. Perry.”
I made a beeline to the house next door. It would shore up my story if she knew I’d talked to other neighbors besides her. It also might squeeze out more information about the cousin named Sarah. I glanced at my watch, aware of it ticking off minutes until Perry and his girlfriend returned with great-auntie.
The woman at the next house had a sprinkling of freckles that gave her a girlish look despite gray hair and glasses. She accepted my explanation of why I was there without question. She’d lived across from Mrs. Drake for going on thirty years, but only to say good-morning.
The only relatives she was aware of were Nick and Sarah. The little girl had grown up in Dayton. Nick’s family had lived here at one time, but moved when he was fourteen or so. Sarah was a lovely young woman; used to accompany her great-aunt to a matinee or an afternoon of shopping.
“Married a man named O’Neill, I believe. Sam O’Neill. I read it in the paper. Last year I ran into her on the street. She was in a family way and absolutely glowing. I meant to knit a cap for the baby, but you know how it is. I asked where they were living, though, and she said on McClure.”
When I asked why Sarah had stopped visiting Clara Duke, the knitter of baby caps merely shrugged.
“All I know is they had some sort of falling out.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Two more names to talk to now, one possibly crooked, the other a young mother, who by all indications was respectable. Unfortunately I didn’t have time to talk to either until tomorrow. I had a blind date with a skinny bum named Punchy who might have seen goings-on in the alley behind the Canterbury, and might have been sober.
If I hustled, I could make a fast stop at the office, so I did. While skimming my mail I called Ab at Rike’s to see if he’d picked up any scuttlebutt about Lagarde’s murder. He rewarded me with two things I hadn’t gotten from Boike. First, there’d been no attempt to get into the safe, or even the jewelry store itself. Second, the dead man’s employees thought from things the police were checking that Lagarde had been killed as he left the store Friday night.
“They aren’t open on Saturdays. Story is he always stayed late on Fridays and worked for a couple of hours. Toting up sales for the week, comparing to last week and month and year, checking inventory, then double-checking the whole shebang.”
“A man for details.”
“Sounds like it. Somewhere in there he’d usually telephone a cousin who’s a jeweler in Phoenix or one of those places out there. Do a little horse trading sometimes, but mostly chew the fat on the company dime.”
“Who’d you bribe to get information like that?”
“Doris, an old gal who’s worked there forever. Her late husband and I worked together before I came here. She was putty in my hands once I asked her to lunch. A real pushover for our chicken salad.”
“You’re a devil, Ab. And a pal.”
He laughed. I thanked him and set out to meet a bum called Punchy.
* * *
It was turning into a very long day, with a night shift still ahead of me. At a quarter till five, I backed the DeSoto into a parking space across from the soup kitchen Heebs had described, the one beside a church with a boarded up window. Less than two blocks away, where Fifth crossed Wayne Avenue, one of the nastiest parts of the city started its ooze. Once it got dark, I’d think twice, maybe three times, before coming here alone, even with my .38 handy. Now I sat and watched hungry people, most of them men and most with shoulders rounded by defeat, join the line forming at a place that would give them a hot meal.
It didn’t take long for a wiry fellow I thought might be Punchy MacKenzie to make an appearance. He had his hands in his pockets and he kept checking the street. Either he was keeping an eye out in case he had to run for it, or he was looking for someone. The next time his head swiveled, I caught the glint of what might be a gold tooth.
Waiting for a trolley to pass, I crossed the street. A few of the men noticed me. Their looks were more sullen than anything else.
“You Punchy MacKenzie?” I asked.
“Maybe.” Yep, he had a gold tooth, along with skittering eyes suggesting he might be sly or not-quite-right, or both. “You the one’s gonna give me two-bits if I talk to you?”
I took a nearly new dollar bill from my pocket.
“I might give you this instead.” I creased it lengthways so the snap would get his attention. “Depends.”
He reached for the money. I moved it out of range. The line had advanced enough to leave a six-inch gap in front of Punchy. The man behind him tried to squeeze around into it. Punchy’s arm swung out, hitting him hard in the neck.
“That’s enough!” I thrust out my own arm, blocking the roundhouse the other man aimed at Punchy.
My sharpness, and maybe the deflected swing, made them both pause. I hooked a thumb at Punchy.
“Let’s talk over there. I’ll give you an extra quarter on top of the dollar if you lose a chance to get in here.”
Punchy rubbed the back of his hand back and forth over his mouth. He nodded. We moved a few steps away to the curb. The man who’d taken Punchy’s place was too pleased with himself to be curious.
“The alley behind Hotel Canterbury’s your turf, I hear.”
“Maybe.” His eyes bounced. He looked at the dollar.
“That girl they found in the trash can back there, you see her?”
He shook his head vigorously.
“Alive, I mean. Her walking through the alley.”
“Not alive or dead. You gonna give me the dollar?”
“You never look in the garbage cans?”
“Sure I do.”
“Then how come you didn’t see her body?”
Cunning gripped his sallow face.
“Have to time it just right to get there before the others. Good scraps out behind that hotel down the way. ‘Bout half-past twelve I get there. Always head that direction soon as I hear those church chimes ring quarter past.”
I wasn’t following him and he knew it. He chortled at his own cleverness.
“No body to find when I went through back there on Wednesday. Thursday, I couldn’t look in the can where they found her, now could I? Not with the night watchman at that place it belonged to sitting there playing cards with his pals till all hours like they do sometimes. Door open, they’d spot me for sure.”
He stretched a hand out.
“You still owe me that dollar, though. I may not have seen anything, but I told you what I didn’t see.”
“Yeah. You did.”
Moreover, it seemed to confirm Polly had been killed Wednesday, and sometime after twelve-thirty. I gave him the greenback.
“Not much Punchy misses.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Men in that alley, coming and going. But no girls.”
The soup kitchen opened its door. Cackling, he raced to the end of the line that was shuffling in.
The old guy was half crazy.
Which meant he was also half sane.
TWENTY-NINE
Since I was planning another late night, I thought it wise to fortify myself with dinner. As I approached the dining room, Lily-of-the-diamonds-Clarke stormed out with her husband hotfooting it after her as he attempted to get a word in.
“I will go home on Sunday, and you will take me someplace decent for dinner. Surely this wide spot in the road has one!” she snapped.
“But, Lily—”
“Why you had to come here in the first place is beyond me.”
“Honey, I told you—”
“There’s no one to talk to, nothing to do. Having brats in the dining room — in the evening — is the last straw!”
She drew up short, mainly because I was blocking her way. She started around me. I danced to the right. She moved the other way. So did I.
“Don’t you think that little French boy and the Polish girl need to be with their parents after all they’ve been through?” I said, so mad I could spit.
Lily might be rich, but she wasn’t smart enough to recognize I was blocking her way out of contrariness. We did our two-step again.
“What they’ve been through? Their parents chose to run. They let Paris fall to the Germans. Now I’ll have to get my clothes from second-rate New York designers. And God only knows when we’ll have decent champagne again. Get out of my way.”
I did.
She stormed past with her husband still trying to pacify her. At the door to the dining room, Lena Shields had also turned to watch. Our gazes met in shared disgust.
“That takes the prize for selfish,” I said, forgetting the role I was playing.
Lena didn’t notice.
“That sow! She deserves every rotten thing that happens to her!” Behind her black-rimmed glasses her eyes fixed on the retreating couple as if unable to look away. “Pardon me,” she said moving past me. “I’ve lost my appetite.
* * *
Shortly before midnight, I got up and put on an old tweed skirt and a sweater that had been darned on one arm. I laced up a pair of gum-soled shoes. They were ugly things not meant for anyplace but a gym, but they excelled at soaking up sound.
Tonight’s schedule didn’t call for talking to cleaning women in indoor comfort. Over the rest of the outfit I added a warm jacket. My .38 fit under it nicely. With a ham sandwich I’d ordered from Room Service prior to my shuteye stuffed in one pocket, I listened at the hall door long enough to be satisfied no one was coming or going. I eased the door open a sliver.
Click.
Had another door opened? Had one that had been ajar closed? I held my breath and tried not to pinch the small scrap of paper in my fingers. Two minutes passed. I counted the seconds. Finally, as silently as I could, I stepped out.
Alert for sound or movement in the hall, I slipped the scrap of paper between the latch and doorplate of my room. It muffled the faint scrape and snap of metal settling into metal. The door would stay closed and the paper itself wasn’t likely to be noticed.
My steps were noiseless. I crept to the window at the end of the hall. I’d tested it when I returned from the soup kitchen. Now, as then, it glided up so silently I wondered if someone had oiled it. With a final glance back, I ducked through it onto the fire escape.
The metal gave a nearly inaudible chink as I dropped down. Stepping out of view, I pulled the window closed save for a crack large enough for my fingers.
Again I counted two minutes. If anyone had heard me leave, peddling a tale about stepping out for a breath of air would be easier to sell if I wasn’t headed up the metal stairs to the floors above. When the time passed uneventfully, I did just that.
Shifting weight from foot to foot so the metal beneath me creaked as little as possible, I reached the third floor and ducked past a window identical to the one I’d climbed out. Driving through the alley a couple of times in daylight had allowed me to pick a spot on the fire escape that would give me the best vantage point. I could see not only the alley, but also the kitchen door to the hotel and the side street. Anyone coming down from the floor above would have to pass me, and I could move quickly if anyone sneaked out the window on this floor or the one below.
The only problem was sitting crosswise on one of the narrow stairs.
“Watch out for the boogeyman,” a voice teased.
I tensed.
It was only someone leaving the kitchen. Seconds later a figure appeared, flapping a good-humored hand at whoever inside had spoken. Len the bartender, maybe? He turned down the side street.
Not much time passed before a clank at the far end of the alley caught my ear. Then another one, closer. A thin shape bobbed in and out of the edge of the shadows. Punchy making his rounds. It must be twelve-thirty.
He passed beneath me; found something good in the hotel garbage can, to judge by the smack of his lips closing over it; went on his way. More time passed. I ate the ham sandwich. I blew on my hands to keep my fingers limber. Soft as the rustle of leaves in a breeze, I heard the sound of a window sash easing open below me.
My hand slid to the Smith & Wesson. I peered through the metal grid of the step where I sat. An arm emerged from the window. A bundle the size of a tin can arced across the spindly rail of the fire escape and into the alley.
Seconds trickled in a steady stream. Finally, shadows across from the hotel and ten feet further along the alley shifted. A man’s shape emerged, moving quickly. He darted across and bent to retrieve whatever had come out the window.
I’d planned for someone coming in or out, not a duo. While the man made his way to the street, I waited in vain for the sound of the sash below me closing. Only when the man with the bundle had turned out of sight did I hear the sash whisper down.
I breathed a time or two, then went down the stairs, sacrificing some of my previous stealth in the interest of speed. As I neared the window the bundle had gone out, I forced myself back to total caution. It was closed all the way now. The hall beyond it appeared deserted. I hurried past. I flew down the stairs to ground level.
Memory of the garrote across my throat was fresh enough for me to have the .38 in hand as I hit the alley. One quick sweep of the shadows for unfriendly shapes, and I took of
f for the street.
There. Half a block up. A man who walked with his elbows out. The man in the alley had walked with elbows out. Nice confirmation, though, since the street was otherwise empty. He stopped at the corner. Ducking into a bank entrance in case he looked back, I caught the sound of muffled steps behind me.
They stopped. Someone was following me. The person who minutes ago had tossed something out a window?
Fat white columns framed the front of the bank where I’d taken refuge. There was just space enough for me to squeeze between the nearest one and the front of the building. As the man behind me drew abreast of the column, I circled it like a carved horse on a small and dangerous merry-go-round. I came out behind my stalker, who held something between both hands. He turned into the entryway, expecting to find me. He had a fleeting second for puzzlement. Before he could look around, I yanked his arm double at the small of his back and slammed him face first against the side wall of the entry.
I shoved the Smith & Wesson against his head.
“Drop what you’re holding and do as I say or you’re dead.”
I felt his reflex: Quick tensing, followed by pretended acquiescence. He meant to play along until he could jump me.
Something hit the ground by my feet. I was pretty sure I knew what it was.
“Lock your hands on top of your head. Spread your legs.”
He resisted the second part, knowing it would slow his movements. I slid the tip of the gun to the back of his ear. He complied.
“Okay, Bartoz. How about telling me why you tried to kill me the other night in the alley?”
Up close I could see the cord securing his eye patch. He sneered, the sound of a man who didn’t care whether he lived or died.
“It’s what any Nazi-loving traitor deserves.”
THIRTY
The accusation was so outlandish it threw me. Aware he was tensing to move, I ground the gun barrel into his head.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Shamus in a Skirt Page 12
