Shamus in a Skirt

by M. Ruth Myers

  She’d been sitting on a car in the parking lot, as I’d seen her do.

  “They argue. Handsome man laughs, says I will be in... in...”

  “Insurance?”

  “Yes, this. Man waves at me, friendly. He points to look at something in car. When I lean in for look... hit on head.”

  There ought to be a special hell for men like Perry, I thought as the knot came free and the silk, thereupon, all but unwound itself.

  “Julitta,” the girl said, rubbing her wrists. “My name.”

  I already was looking out the room’s single window. “I’m Maggie.” Below the window a flagstone area with stone steps led to a cellar. A jump would just about guarantee broken bones. The window itself was sealed shut by layers of paint.

  “Break?” Julitta asked gesturing.

  “No. The noise would bring them in here before either one of us could get out.”

  I made a quick search of the room, but found nothing that could be used as a weapon. Since the corpse that had been Great-Aunt Clara showed no visible cause of death, I suspected she’d been poisoned by something on the tray in front of her, but I doubted our captors could be persuaded to have a cup of tea.

  A chaise longue with fringed throws draping its foot faced the door. Dropping onto the floor beside it, I dumped out my purse. The crochet hook I carried would open the lock in three or four minutes, but chances were high we’d walk directly into the arms of one of the crooks. The only other items in front of me were my wallet and badge, a pencil, lipstick and car keys, and the folding ruler I’d used in my role as efficiency expert.

  If we extended the ruler and held it a few inches from the floor, we could possibly trip someone as they entered. On our knees, though, we’d make easy targets if more than one of them came in.

  Julitta perched on the chaise longue, watching. My eyes scanned the room again. They came to rest on the silver tea service. Toss the cream pitcher under their feet like a ball? The handle on it would cause it to move too erratically.

  Another thought occurred. I got up and began to remove things from the big silver tea tray.

  “No to eat!” Julitta warned, pointing at the corpse.

  “No,” I agreed. I hefted the tea tray.

  I’d played plenty of backyard baseball with Wee Willie and the other neighborhood kids. I usually struck out, but I swung hard.

  The oval tray was heavier than a baseball bat, but it was all I had. And I thought I heard a voice in the hall.

  “Get over there,” I said, indicating the opposite side of the room. If bullets flew, I wanted her out of the way. The farther apart we were, the more it also improved whatever small odds I might be able to give her.

  “If I can make them look at me, you run. Get out of the house. Understand?”

  “Out. Yes.” She nodded.

  “Run to a neighbor. Tell them the old woman here is dead and there’s a man with a gun.”

  “Old woman dead.”

  It was all we had time to plan. Outside the door, a key went into the lock. I stepped away from the door on my side. Julitta stepped back on hers. I took a batter’s stance and prepared to swing slightly upward.

  The gun hand came through the opening first, then the rest of the figure. I swung. The flat of the tray smashed into a head. A man’s. Bone crunched. He dropped with a grunt.

  Lena pushed in on his heels. The trim .22 in her hand pivoted in my direction, firing blindly. Reflex already had caused me to duck and raise the heavy tray in a feeble effort to shield myself.

  The impact of the bullet jarred my arm as it ricocheted off the angled tray. Julitta tackled Lena and brought her down. I threw the tray at Lena’s gun hand, then fell on top of her, grabbing her wrist.

  Rice, whom I’d clobbered, still lay motionless. My foot hit his arm as I struggled with Lena. Then it connected with something else, the gun he’d dropped, maybe. I kicked it as hard as I could toward the side of the chaise longue where it would be out of his reach as he revived.

  Lena aimed a punch at my face. It was a miracle the gun we were grappling for hadn’t gone off.

  “Run!” I screamed at Julitta.

  “Let go of the gun and get off her, or I shoot the kid,” said Perry behind me.

  FIFTY

  I sat up. Perry had a persuasive-looking .38 with a short barrel.

  “What the hell’s going on?” He was livid. “What happened to Kevin?”

  “She hit him with a tray,” said Lena scornfully.

  “Bring him around. It was worth getting into that safe downstairs but we need to clear out.”

  He aimed the gun at me.

  “Stay right where you are. You’ve made enough trouble. You.” He indicated Julitta. “Sit on the floor.”

  “Sit,” I told her, making a downward motion. It was safer for her if our captors didn’t realize she understood English.

  “Nick.” Panic edged Lena’s voice. “There’s something wrong with him.” She had turned Rice over and was staring at him.

  “What do you mean, ‘something wrong’? Is he dead?”

  Our captors were probably both decent shots, Lena because she’d come from a background that numbered target shooting among its sports and Perry because he’d been a thief long enough to make it practical. What they lacked was the awareness that came as naturally as breathing to experienced thugs. Lena had forgotten Julitta and me. Even Perry had taken his eyes off me briefly.

  An experienced gangster would never make such a mistake. Nor would he fail to account for every gun that had entered a room. The one I’d kicked — the one Kevin dropped — lay out of my reach beneath the chaise longue. The fringed throw hanging to the floor on the foot of the chaise hid it from the pair between me and the door.

  “He’s breathing, but — his eyes are open and one’s rolled up funny,” said Lena. “And – and he’s got spittle coming out of the edge of his mouth!”

  Perry nudged the other man with his toe but got no response.

  “Then we only have to split the money two ways.”

  I scooted back an inch. He didn’t notice.

  “But Kevin’s the only one who knew the name of the man we’re supposed to meet in Detroit,” Lena protested.

  The forgotten gun lay six inches or more from my hand. Right behind me, however, in the things I’d dumped from my purse, was the folding ruler. Leaning on my arms, I felt for it.

  “When we get there, we’ll find a fence,” Perry was saying.

  My fingers closed on the ruler.

  “Or maybe Nick here would just as soon not split the money at all,” I suggested. “After all, he replaced your bracelet with a fake just like he did some of the others.”

  Her smirk was patronizing.

  “I had mine copied two years ago. The money bought hundreds of rifles for a partisan group. When Nicky told me those Hollywood idiots were coming to the middle of nowhere, I saw a chance to help even more. America’s not lifting a finger. That cow with the diamonds and all the others — none of them care! Well, I’m going to do what I can to save Europe!”

  “Gee, that sounds noble.” Shifting my weight, I began to work the ruler segments open with one hand. “Maybe you even did send money that first time.” The chaise hid some of my movements. I still had to move carefully. “But stealing from Countess Szarenski along with the others? That proves you’re nothing but a crook.”

  The paling of her face surprised me with the truth: She hadn’t known.

  How much of the world’s evil comes from people with good intentions? Lena was helping a cause supported by tens of thousands of decent people. The difference was, she’d resorted to theft and the murder of innocent people to advance it.

  Vibrating with hate, she stared at her partner in crime.

  “You... good-for-nothing...”

  “Relax. We’ll count the money from the Poles in my half,” he said blandly.

  I bent the ruler segments around to form a crude lasso. With luck I could hook it ar
ound the gun and pull it toward me.

  “How could you steal from someone like them? How could you, Nick?”

  Julitta shifted, either because she’d understood or because she was getting impatient.

  Sweet Mother Mary, don’t let her move now.

  My wooden lasso found the gun. It slid toward me.

  “Oh, spare me your soapbox, Lena. If you want to throw away your share of what we’re going to make from this on bullets and parachutes, fine. I plan to enjoy mine. It’s too late to save Europe. Now grab that kid and let’s—”

  She shot him.

  Which seemed like a good time to raise the gun my fingers had closed on and put a bullet through her shoulder.

  Lena shrieked like a banshee and fell to the floor. The .22 clattered out of her hand. It discharged again.

  Julitta sprang to her feet.

  “Don’t move, Julitta!”

  Perry had doubled onto his knees, but I couldn’t tell how much threat he still posed. Planting my foot in his back, I slammed him flat. It looked as though he’d been hit in the midsection. He still held his gun. His fingers were tightening. I shot his wrist. Then, very cautiously, I removed the weapon from his unresisting fingers.

  When I looked up, Julitta had the gun Lena had dropped and was pointing it at her.

  “Don’t,” I said softly. “If you shoot someone here, they’ll put your father in jail. Bartoz too. Do you understand?”

  It was a lie. A terrible one. But not half as bad as letting a child who’d already been through too much have another life on her conscience to wrestle with years from now.

  I held my breath. My armpits were drenched. Slowly, Julitta brought the gun down to point at the floor.

  Lena was bleeding profusely but wasn’t injured as much as she probably thought she was. She lay on her side and alternately whimpered and cursed. I walked around to stand between her and Julitta.

  “Who was the man in the flophouse, Lena? Tell me or I’ll stand here and watch until you and your boyfriend both bleed to death.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “Yeah, I know. Bringing you to meet his aunt made a good excuse for you to both be here.”

  “He thought she’d change her will... make him her heir...”

  “The man in the flophouse.”

  “Just some hobo, riding the trains. Kevin found him. I need a doctor—”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You killed him and you didn’t even know his name?”

  “It’s war! People get killed in wars!”

  “There’s no war here. You just didn’t want to get caught.”

  “No! Yes. I don’t know. Ohhh!”

  “Why did he go to the flophouse?”

  “Money. Last payment.” She groaned.

  “And the envelope the man left? The way he slipped out? That was just so the cops would think Tucker was spinning another tall tale if he noticed somebody had been in the safe but couldn’t find anything missing, wasn’t it?”

  The bait Freeze had swallowed so neatly.

  “Yes, yes, yes! I need—”

  I turned away.

  “You okay, Julitta?”

  She’d come to my side.

  “Yes. Okay.”

  Suddenly and unexpectedly a smile brightened her features.

  “Name Julie is American, yes? I like.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Ten days later, FDR came to Dayton. Equipped with their new two-way radios, every police car in the city accompanied him in the parade.

  The following afternoon, late, I stood in my office repacking my father’s pipes in their canvas bag.

  Business at The Canterbury had never been better, despite days of front page publicity over the robbery. My clients were happy as clams, with each other and with me. Lena was so furious at Perry that she’d told the cops every detail of what they’d done. They both would spend decades behind bars. Kevin Rice was unlikely to regain consciousness, which caused me twinges of regret now and then. The Szarenskis, Bartoz and the French artist’s family had departed for Cleveland with some vague plan of starting an art gallery there.

  With a last stab of uncertainty over what I was doing, I picked up the valise and headed for Finn’s. Last night the pub had been jammed wall to wall with a grand celebration marking the success of the President’s visit. Tonight, when I opened the door, it was as quiet as I’d expected. Only a handful of regulars were in evidence. Seamus and Connelly stood at the far end of the bar.

  “Leaving town, are you?” Connelly asked as I joined them.

  Seamus’ eyes jumped from the bag I carried and met my own. He recognized the valise. He knew what it contained. I set it on the bar.

  “Nope. I just stopped by to give you this. If you want it.”

  Connelly’s expression grew puzzled.

  “What is it?”

  The tightness of my throat prevented an answer. I gestured.

  “Look.”

  Seamus ducked his silvery head to drink some Guinness, extending us privacy. Connelly unlatched the bag. He spread its jaws. He stared, already suspecting. Lifting back the towel that wrapped the ivory-fitted blackwood pipes with their bag and bellows, he stood wordless.

  His gaze rose slowly to mine. Every emotion he felt showed in it, raw and vulnerable.

  “These were his, weren’t they? Your da’s?”

  I nodded.

  He swallowed, struggling to read my expression.

  “You’re certain about this, Maggie? There’ll be no going back.”

  We both knew what he meant. The words stuck, but I got them out.

  “I’m certain.”

  The End

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  Books by M. Ruth Myers

  No Game for a Dame (Maggie Sullivan #1)

  Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan #2)

  Don’t Dare a Dame (Maggie Sullivan #3)

  The Whiskey Tide

  A Touch of Magic

  Out of print:

  A Journey to Cuzco

  Captain’s Pleasure

  Friday’s Daughter

  Costly Pleasures

  Insights

  Love Unspoken

  A Private Matter

  An Officer and a Lady

  About the Author:

  M. Ruth Myers received a Shamus Award from Private Eye Writers of America for the third book in her Maggie Sullivan series. She is the author of more than a dozen books in assorted genres, some written under the name Mary Ruth Myers.

  She and her husband live in Ohio as domestic staff to an overly-empowered cat. They have one grown daughter.

  Did you love Shamus in a Skirt? Then you should read Don't Dare a Dame by M. Ruth Myers!

  ** 2014 SHAMUS AWARD winner **

  Depression-era private investigator Maggie Sullivan risks losing her P.I. license — and her life — when two spinsters hire her to learn the fate of their father, who vanished twenty-six years earlier. She’s barely started when her main suspect commits suicide and Maggie is summoned before the powerful chief of police. A stroke of his pen will revoke her license, and he warns her he’s getting complaint
s about her from City Hall.

  With her livelihood on the line, fortified by a nip of gin and her .38, the intrepid detective follows a trail all but obliterated by time and the catastrophic Dayton flood of 1913 in which the vanished man went missing. It leads her to a local politician with bigger ambitions — and possibly secrets to hide. It takes her into dime stores, cheap hotels, and a violent ambush by men wearing brass knuckles.

  As a cop wages a wily campaign to win her affections, and a rag-tag newsboy pushes to become her assistant, crimes of the past explode in the present. Maggie fights to survive foes who must destroy her to destroy each other.

  Fans of strong women sleuths and historical atmosphere have dubbed this tough little private investigator “Sam Spade in a skirt.”

  Read more at M. Ruth Myers’s site.