Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  Betty Kimble and the new girl, Carol, were laughing as Lennox stepped around them on the stoop. Betty probably telling a joke. They nodded and said hello.

  “Oh, Dorie,” Betty said as Lennox opened the screen door. “Joe was around earlier, looking for you.” She smiled. “He’s sweet on you, honey.”

  Carol laughed, then hung her head to hide it. Joe Czmanski’s looks were an object of derision by the girls in the boardinghouse, but it wasn’t polite to acknowledge, let alone laugh at, his misfortunes.

  “What’d he want?” Dorie asked, frowning at the new girl. The garage across the street, Joe’s place, was shut up tight.

  “Said he had something he needed to discuss with you. Seemed kinda excited. You two got something to announce?” Betty was enjoying herself, as usual.

  “Thanks, Betty,” Dorie said, ignoring the implication as she went inside. It was true Joe Czmanski had been sweet on her, off and on, for reasons she couldn’t figure. She’d done everything to discourage him. She felt sorry for Joe; he’d had a tough time. Having a car engine blow up in your face changed a man, would change anyone who survived it. Pity was one thing. She believed in kindness; she’d seen the results of too little of it. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be his girl.

  Lennox used the pay phone on the landing to call the office. “Everything okay?”

  “What’s shaking.” Amos seemed distracted.

  “I went over to Plaza Methodist.” She told him what she’d found out at the church about Barnaby Wake. It took long seconds.

  “Hmm.”

  “Thalia’s choir practice was at the Knights of Columbus. So I guess he’s all over town, doing this and that.”

  “Seems so.”

  “I’d go check out the Knights Hall, but I don’t think he has an office there or anything. And he won’t be there today, do you think?”

  “Doubtful.”

  A pause. “How’d your appointment go? New client?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Good.”

  “You didn’t hear anything from London, did you?”

  “No, not on Sunday.”

  Telegrams come any day, but she didn’t tell him that. “Where do we meet tonight?”

  “Pick me up at nine. I’ll know by then.” He hung up.

  Lennox stared at the receiver and replaced it gently. Was the man he was meeting still in the office, or was he losing his concentration? She wished he’d let her go alone tonight. He could get some sleep. He needed it.

  ~~

  Amos Haddam smoothed out the sheet of notebook paper.

  The three men across the desk looked back from their polite gaze out the window, worry etching their foreheads. Quincy Gilmore was a dapper man in his forties, a man who liked being the public face for the white owner of the baseball team. He enjoyed dressing the part, from his patent leather shoes and satin lapels to his white felt fedora. It might be Sunday, and these might be his church duds, but Amos had seen him just as spiffed at Chamber meetings. Why he had brought along the young ballplayer, who was dressed, and obviously paid, so poorly, bothered Haddam. The contrast between them was striking. The boy was maybe nineteen and as green as a southern farm boy could be.

  “You found this where, Leroy?” Amos asked.

  “In the locker room,” the boy said. “I been coming in to practice by myself.”

  “Where in the locker room?”

  “On the floor. When I opened the door.”

  “Just like this? No envelope?”

  “No, suh.”

  Leroy looked at Quincy Gilmore. “Did I do wrong?”

  Gilmore reached out a manicured hand to pat the boy’s knee. “Course not. You came to me. That was right.”

  Amos read over the note again: “Niggers. Cancel the Blues game or you’ll be more than sorry.”

  It could mean anything, or nothing. There was no nuance to interpret. He sat back in the chair and folded his hands. He was too tired for this nonsense. Maybe he was too tired for this business. He should just take a train to the coast and go to England. Find out what the bloody hell was going on. Ned Brainard wasn’t going to comb the shelters for his old mum, not when he was trying to keep the BBC afloat. Amos rubbed his eyes and rocked back, letting the creaking chair do his complaining.

  “You reckon it’s just Blues fans, Amos?” Gilmore asked, breaking into his reverie.

  “Could be. Who else would be afraid of the Monarchs beating the tar out of the favorite sons?”

  Gilmore frowned, his clipped mustache dipping. “There’s folks. There’s always folks, Amos. Thems who don’t like to see the Negro best the white man.”

  “But you’ve played the Blues before. Have there been problems?”

  “A couple of phone calls from crackers, you know. Some Kluxers. Razzin’ in the crowd. Nothing serious.”

  Amos pushed the note to the edge of the desk. To get rid of it. “But you think this is serious?”

  Gilmore raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Leroy Williams sat forward, his muscular arms balanced on his legs. He was a strapping boy, a good hitter when he connected. He played second base like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

  The third man, quiet until now, stood up. He was another player, one Amos had seen play a couple times. He hadn’t been on the team long, maybe two years. Older than Leroy by at least ten years, he had an air of confidence the boy could only dream of. His clothes were plain, but he wore them well. He cleared his throat.

  “What we have here, Mr. Haddam,” the player said, “is a case of intimidation. They want us to roll over, like we been rolling over for many a long year. They think this scrap of paper going to do it. There is nothing you can do to change their minds, Mr. Haddam. Nothing any of us can do really but get out there and play the best damn baseball we can.”

  “Well said,” Amos replied. “I didn’t get your name, sir.”

  The ballplayer leaned across the desk with his hand outstretched. “Gibson Saunders, sir. Third base.”

  His hand was warm and strong. Amos smiled at him. Muscular, with a wise look in his eye, this player could go far. “I remember you. That game last season.”

  “Three-run homer,” Quincy said proudly. “Over the right-field wall.”

  Leroy whistled. “Wish I’d seen that.”

  “You’ll hit one yourself,” Saunders told him. “Give it time.”

  “If they let us play,” Leroy said, looking again at the note on the desktop.

  “They can’t make us quit,” Saunders said. “Can’t nobody make you quit, boy. You remember that.” He poked a finger into Leroy, “Remember.”

  Amos got the hint: Gilmore and Saunders were making this effort for the boy. Leroy had been scared by the note, afraid something would happen to ruin his chances at major-league glory when the Monarchs trounced the Blues. Or maybe just scared.

  “How long till the game?”

  “A week. It’s a Sunday-afternoon game.”

  “Had a good season this year, didn’t you?”

  Leroy looked up, pleased. “Oh, yes, Mr. Haddam. It was a good time.”

  “I don’t see how I can do much with this, Quincy,” Amos said. “Like Gibson says, nobody can change their minds. But if something else comes up, a phone call or another note, you come see me again. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Gilmore rose and the boy followed. Dressed in faded cotton pants and a too-small white shirt, Leroy towered over the manager, making him look like a dandified midget. Saunders held the door for them as Amos shook their hands, promising to keep an ear out for miscreants.

  Saunders turned back. “You’ll be coming to the season end party?”

  “Mr. Wilkinson mentioned it.” Amos hadn’t paid much attention to the invitation.

  “Tuesday night at Mr. Wilkinson’s.” Saunders waited politely for a reply.

  “Sure. Tell him I’ll come.”

  “Appreciate it, sir.”

  Giving them a head start, Amos followed down the stairs, catchi
ng the Broadway streetcar and walking three blocks to his apartment. By reflex, he checked the mailbox. Empty— Sunday. It hardly affected him anymore. He was becoming numb— with fatigue or depression or anxiety, he wasn’t sure. He unlocked the door, then, after a cup of tea and a sandwich, fell into bed, so tired that his bones hurt.

  It was dark when he woke. The sound of weeping seemed to ooze out of the walls. From a dream? He touched his eyes, but they were dry. He sat upright and looked at his watch. Half-past seven. He listened. Nothing. Must have been dreaming.

  Amos lay back in bed, the crusty sheets reminding him that washing day was long past. He had once been fastidious, but he could hardly remember those days. Now he was just a bachelor, hanging by a thread to sanitary conditions. Thinking about doing laundry, even stripping the bed, exhausted him. The nap had been a drop in a bottomless well of fatigue. His sleep at night was rattled with bad memories of bombs, helplessness, and terror.

  A soft moan came from outside. A bumping sound. He got up, tiptoeing to the window. Was the plumber upstairs beating his wife again? No, they’d moved out during the summer. The summer? When the bloody hell had they moved? He couldn’t remember things like that anymore.

  There it was again. He padded softly to the living room window. A woman, yes, close by. He spread the Venetian blinds with two fingers. The street was quiet. His dusty auto sat across the street, neglected. A streetlight on the corner shone a circle of yellow light. A man on a bicycle rode by on the cross street.

  Then the sound, a hoarse whisper: “Aaamooos.”

  He opened the front door. A woman leaned against the door frame, slumped on her shoulder, eyes shut. She wasn’t young, but it was difficult to tell much about her face with her light brown hair in disarray. A red felt hat had slipped over her forehead. She was thin and wore a gray coat and dusty black shoes. Her socks were streaked with grime. Amos leaned toward her.

  “Are you looking for me?” he asked softly, hoping not to startle her. A vain wish, as her eyes flew open and she gasped.

  “Amos Haddam here.” He gave a little bow, noticed he was in his shirt, under shorts, and stockings. Two toes were visible through a large hole in his left stocking. He glanced nervously over the woman’s shoulder. With his luck, the neighbors, unruly as they were, were out for an evening stroll. He tugged on his shirttail. “Can I help you, miss?”

  The woman pushed herself upright. It was a struggle. She swayed on her feet, blinking her brown eyes. Her voice wouldn’t come. Her chest rose in quick breaths.

  “Amos?” she whispered finally. “Is that you?”

  “‘Tis I. And you would be?”

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Dear God.” Opening her eyes again, she gulped air. “Amaa. Yaamaa— ” Her words blurred. She tilted to one side, then the other. He reached out to steady her, but she swayed the other way.

  “How’s that?”

  “Your mum, she— “

  Her dark eyes locked onto his for an instant, then rolled back in her head. And she crumpled into a heap there on the doorstep.

  Chapter FOUR

  THE EVENING WAS STILL AND COOL. Dorie wore trousers and a wool jacket. She pulled the jacket close as she knocked on Amos Haddam’s door. The windows blazed with light. Usually, a tap on the horn was all it took to bring him out, but not tonight.

  The door flew open. Haddam stood in his stocking feet, his suspenders off his shoulders, his shirttail sticking out.

  “Are you ready?” Obviously not.

  He didn’t answer. He wiped the loose hair back off his forehead, dancing in place. She felt her stomach sink. He had heard. He had gotten a telegram.

  Amos grabbed her hand suddenly, dragging her over the door-sill. He appeared to have lost his voice.

  “What is it? What news?” He was very anxious— that was for sure. He couldn’t stand still.

  Finally, he said, “Come on,” and beckoned her to his bedroom door. He turned, pointing inside.

  Streetlight streaked through the blinds. In the dim light, the form of a woman made a lump on his bed. Her shoes were placed neatly on the floor, but otherwise she was dressed as if she’d been out for a drive, a coat, hat, gloves. Her head lay tipped to one side on the pillow.

  “Is she—”

  Amos frowned. “What? Dead? God no. She just fainted on my doorstep. What should I do with her? Will she wake up?”

  “How long has she been out?” Dorie crept closer. The woman was very pale, her skin almost blue in the dark room.

  “Hour, a little more. Will she be all right? Should I take her to hospital?”

  The woman’s lips were purple. “Put some water on. Do you have a bed warmer— a hot-water bottle?”

  “Right, yes. Righty-o,” he said, relief in his voice as he backed out of the bedroom.

  Dorie sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the woman’s hand. Slipping off the kid glove, she rubbed the frigid hand between hers. Who was this woman? She had an odd look. Dorie picked up the edge of her coat. Her dress was bunched up. She straightened the dress hem and took a peek at the label on the lining of the coat. Sandington Bros., Bristol.

  She found a blanket in the closet and spread it over the woman. Sitting on the bed again, she eased the hat off, finding the pin and slipping it out. She stuck the pin in the hat and set it on the bed, then pushed the thin strops of hair off the woman’s face.

  She had fine skin, or it had once been fine, but the years and the elements had taken their toll. Rough patches dotted her cheeks and nose, as if she’d been out in the weather. Fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and gray hairs mixed into her light brown ones, indicated she wasn’t young. Around her neck was a locket on a gold chain. Lennox picked it up and debated opening it for a moment. She could hear the teakettle beginning to blow in the kitchen. Slipping her fingernail under the catch, she popped the locket open. A tiny photograph of a woman in a silly feathered hat and high collar, a grim smile on her lips, had been pressed into the small oval.

  Amos arrived with the hot-water bottle. She snapped the locket closed, then slipped the water bottle under the blanket, half on the woman’s stomach, inside her coat, then tucked the blanket up around her again. While they watched the woman’s face for signs of life, Amos snatched up the red hat.

  “Bad luck,” he explained.

  “Who is she?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. She just arrived on my doorstep.”

  “She didn’t say anything?”

  “Nothing. Just my name.”

  Lennox looked up at him. “She knew you?”

  “She’s waking up,” Amos whispered.

  The woman moved her head back and forth and opened her eyes. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, then saw Lennox and Amos. Her eyes flitted around, then locked on Amos. Her hand raised from under the blanket, reaching for him. She said his name.

  Amos looked helplessly at Lennox. “Take her hand,” she said.

  He did as he was told, terrified.

  “Thought I’d never get here, I did.” The woman’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but the accent was there. “Your mum sent me. I’m out to California to stay with my aunt. America is so bloody big.”

  Amos had lost his voice again. He squeezed the woman’s hand.

  “Did I spark out? Lawk, I ran out of money in Chicago, but I had my ticket here. I thought it would be an hour on the train, and I had nothing for eats.”

  Dorie said, “When did you see his mother? How long have you been traveling?”

  “About a month. Didn’t see Cassie for two weeks or more before I left for Portsmouth. But she was fine, Amos. She said to tell you she was just fine.”

  Six weeks. Anything could have happened to Amos’s mother in that time. If anything, the raids had gotten worse. Dorie looked at him. He was trembling so badly, he dropped her hand.

  “You don’t remember me, do you, Amos?” The woman smiled at him. “When we were fourteen. My parents took that little cottage near yours.
The one with the pink roses. We used to go fishing every day.”

  Amos swallowed and ran a hand over his forehead.

  “My mum died the next year and we never went back. Do you remember, Amos?”

  With some struggle, he nodded.

  “Things were so different then. So different…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Gwendolyn,” Amos whispered. The woman smiled, her face alight. “I remembered,” he whispered, eyes wide at the wonders of his memory.

  “I’m Dorie Lennox. Amos’s associate.”

  “Gwendolyn Harris. You didn’t remember that part, did you? I stumbled across your mother in the shelter— she’s part of the home defense. Very important, she is. When I bumped into her, I couldn’t remember at first where I knew her. Of course, I’ve changed a wee bit since fourteen.” She looked at Amos. For a fainter, she had a healthy glow in her eyes. “But I’d know you anywhere. Quite the summer heartthrob, you were.”

  “You look not a day over sixteen,” Amos said.

  “Lawk! He’s gone doolally in America.” She smiled up at him, her face revealing the girl she once was.

  The woman still looked pale, but she would recover. Dorie stood up, easing away from the bed. At the door, with Amos still staring and smiling at his guest, she cleared her throat.

  “Can I speak to you out here, Amos?”

  It took some minutes to convince him to stay with Gwendolyn and let her take the night’s tailing of Thalia on her own. He wasn’t going for it. He reminded her of the sort of men Thalia attracted, and the fact they often brought along muscle. But she convinced him finally. It was getting late and she could argue till hell froze over. In the end, he wanted to stay. She could hear them talking in low voices as she let herself out the door.

  A cloud cover lent a blanket to the evening air, keeping the city warmer than the middle of October deserved. Driving with the window down, Dorie felt a jolt of freedom. Behind her, in Haddam’s apartment, the old days lived in regret and memory. But for her, the future was now. A prickly feeling of living in the moment. Half fear, half exhilaration. Half pluck, half folly.