“You think Beale could be running numbers given his accounting background?” I asked briskly.
“Or craps. Or cards. Things I’ve heard about him, I’d guess he’s got something going in the back room of those joints of his. Your office supply guy have a gambling problem, do you think?”
I shrugged. “No idea what his problem is, and that’s the honest truth. I just know Beale’s got a beef with him. Does Beale have an office at one of the clubs?”
Connelly leaned back from his now-empty bowl and surveyed me through narrowed eyes. “And why would you want to know that?”
“Might be useful. No reason.”
“I’ve told you all I know.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him.
“What about the guy who got killed? Benny Norris?”
“Current theory is he pissed someone off. No shortage of suspects.”
“Anyone report him missing?”
“Not so far. No family. Liked the ladies; changed them often.”
“Dames don’t usually pop a guy in the back of the head.”
“Nope. Fuller would have saved himself a world of grief if he’d had brains enough to know that. And while you have a gun – and word is, better aim than half the boys on the force – you’d have needed to stand on a crate to pump the bullets in at the angle they entered. Not that anyone considered that.” He drained his glass. “I’m going to get another. Care for one?”
I declined. His change of subject told me Connelly was through sharing information. But without intending to, he’d given me an idea.
Eight
Sometimes when you go fishing, you catch a duck.
On Monday I decided to fish.
The weekend had been uneventful. The girls who roomed at Mrs. Z’s had been chatted up by cops to determine if I had an alibi for when Norris was murdered and were splitting to ask me questions. But the day I’d been hauled in I’d managed to make it home ahead of everyone else. On Friday I left Finn’s late enough that most of them had gone out on dates, which meant I was able to sneak up the stairs to my room in stocking feet. Saturday morning I made sure the hallway was empty when I went to and from the bathroom. By that afternoon, just as I’d anticipated, much of their initial excitement had given way to other things like last night’s movies and swains. Vague answers on my part satisfied their remaining curiosity.
Monday it occurred to me the same trick that put Beale on my trail in the first place might work again to my advantage. After noting with satisfaction that I once more had a working telephone I opened some mail and told a man who wanted me to keep tabs on his wife that I didn’t do divorce work. Then I walked over to Ollie’s Barber Shop and peeked through the window. No guys with bulges under their jackets appeared to be cooling their heels there, so I marched in letting the door bang behind me.
“Which one of you ratted to Beale that I was asking about Peter Stowe?” I demanded. I reared back with fists on hips in my best one-foot-forward-bristling-to-punch-someone stance. Ollie and a junior barber, the shave guy and the manicurist looked up and stared, along with some customers.
“I thought we lived in a democracy,” I ranted. “Freedom of speech and that. But I guess not, huh? Guess we have some sort of bolshie police state where I ask a question and somebody runs to a guy I don’t know so he can send over a goon to bust up my office.”
The bleached head of the manicurist bent quickly over her work. The others except for Ollie, who had a button nose and a beard that pranced along his chin in the shape of a W, looked here and there and lowered their eyes with various degrees of nervousness. Ollie tried to look tough but wasn’t so hot at it.
“You’re bothering my customers. Get out before I throw you out.”
I snorted. “Rats run both directions. I got half a fin for anybody wants to tell me about Pete Stowe – or his pal Beale. Here’s my card. You can phone or stop in.”
Taking a step that made Ollie fall back several, I pitched a few of my business cards in a semi-circle. Most landed on the floor, one in the soapy manicure water and one on the belly of a customer who’d retreated under a hot face towel prior to his shave. No one made a move to grab one up. No one moved at all. That was okay. I’d cast the bait.
* * *
Heading back to the office I bought a pitiful excuse for a morning paper from the scrawny straw-haired newsboy at Fifth and Jefferson, the same kid who’d told me the name of Elwood Beale.
“Lookin’ swell today, sis,” he said flashing his dimples. “Fine as Ginger Rogers.”
Smart talk from a kid not old enough to shave. I gave him my usual tip and the dimples widened. At a coffee shop a few doors down from my office I picked up a cake donut rolled in cinnamon sugar along with a mug of joe which the owner let me take to my place since I always returned the mug.
Before settling in to enjoy my treats, I took some precautions. Since plywood hid where the glass ought to be in my door, I left it open enough to see anyone coming down the hall. Putting my .38 in my lap I read the paper and enjoyed the luxury of my coffee and donut. Then I sat back and thought about something that had been nagging at me.
Why had Benny Norris been killed?
I didn’t care that he had been, since he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to be my pal. Nor did I much care who’d pulled the trigger. But if I knew why he’d been popped it might shed some light on the business with Peter Stowe.
There’d been nothing in the papers so far on services for Benny Norris. Maybe the cops hadn’t even released the body, though that seemed unlikely. I steepled my fingers and tapped them against my teeth. Calling Billy or Seamus wasn’t likely to get me what I wanted to know, and it wouldn’t be right. I doubted I could worm it out of Mick Connelly. I’d have to go with the idea I’d hatched after he’d referred to Norris as a ladies’ man.
I got my pencil out and dialed. When someone picked up at Headquarters I pinched my nose together.
“Yeah, my name’s Flo Norris,” I said. “Someone sent me a note up here in Chicago said my jerk of a husband might be takin’ up space in your meat cooler. If he had cash in his pocket I got first claim on it. The s.o.b. took every cent we had when he skipped out on me.
On the other end I could hear the scramble through papers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. What did you say the name was?”
“Norris. Benjamin Norris. You got him or not?”
A brief pause. “I’m sorry. His body was released Saturday–”
“To who?”
“Let me get one of the officers who investigated–”
“How about just tell me where they took him, huh? Which cemetery? My boss just got out of his car. He’ll kill me if he finds me talking long distance.”
“If you’ll give me your name–”
“I’ll call back, okay?” I broke the connection. Fooling Freeze or one of his boys might not be so easy.
Half of what I wanted was better than nothing. It didn’t seem likely that Woody Beale would want his name connected with a murder victim. If I could find out who’d claimed Norris, it might lead me somewhere, so I gave that some thought. Norris didn’t strike me as a likely church member, and he wasn’t in the echelon of society that got planted down at Woodland with bluestockings like Wilbur Wright and the Deeds clan. Since no one seemed in a hurry to take the bait I’d tossed out that morning, I decided to call a few cemeteries that had potter’s fields and inexpensive plots. At the fourth place I hit pay dirt.
“Oh, hello,” I said when someone picked up. “I just came in on the train from Minneapolis because someone called and told us my uncle had died, but they didn’t say what time the funeral was, and I need to know how to get to your – your memorial gardens. Oh – Norris is his name. Benjamin Norris. I should have said....”
Apparently I sounded flustered enough to be convincing. The guy on the other end gave a grunt. “Norris. Yes. I’m sorry, Miss. The interment was yesterday.”
“Oh, gee. My mother will be aw
ful disappointed. She isn’t up to traveling herself, so I came down to, well, represent the family, only now I’ve gone and missed it. I feel just terrible. I guess if I come out you could show me the grave though, right? I could maybe put some flowers on it?”
“That would be very thoughtful. My condolences to your family.”
Now I’d have to gamble. I was betting Norris, with his cheap toupee and sleepy eyes, had been a ladies’ man.
“Uncle Benny wasn’t much on staying in touch. We didn’t even know he was married ’til we got that call. And Ma didn’t even think to write down her name – his widow’s, I mean. She was that upset.”
I paused to see if my gamble was good. The sound at the other end could have been a sniff or a snicker.
“I don’t believe the lady who made his arrangements was, ah ... I don’t think they were actually married. If you get my drift.”
“Oh. Well, if she cared enough to bury him, maybe I should meet her anyway. Don’t you think? Hey, maybe I could go and see her and the two of us could come out together. That is if you wouldn’t mind telling me her name again. And her address. You’ve been such a peach.”
* * *
I was sitting on the corner of my desk, congratulating myself on the name and address I’d just gotten and thinking it was too bad I’d never had a chance to go someplace like Las Vegas where gambling would pay better, when the call I’d been hoping for all morning finally came. The voice at the other end was female and muffled. Maybe by a handkerchief.
“I got a friend wants to know will you really pay half a fin to find out about that Peter What’s-his-name and Mr. Beale,” it said quickly.
I straightened up giving my full attention. “Yeah, cash in their pocket for something worth hearing. You need my address?”
“Nix on where you work. Mr. Beale’s got eyes and ears.”
“Okay there’s a haberdasher on St. Clair three or four doors north of Fifth–”
“What’s a haberdasher?”
“Place that sells gents’ hats.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Apollo Hats, it’s called. Faces west.” I hoped she was writing it down. She didn’t sound like a genius. “How’s five-thirty today?”
“Make it six. My friend needs to make sure nobody’s following.”
“Six, then. I’ll pin a red silk flower on my pocket.”
Nine
The Great Miami River wound around the city of Dayton like a feather boa. I decided to walk up toward it to clear my head and think about what I’d learned that morning. Stuffing my coat pockets with a couple of Jonathans I’d picked up on my way through the produce market that morning I strolled out into a fine September day.
My gut told me I was finally getting somewhere on this job. Or at least I was following crumbs that could lead me somewhere. Now I needed to think about how to approach Benny Norris’s lady friend. From the one time I’d seen him, I couldn’t imagine Norris attracting women with money. That meant Mae Johnson, whose name I’d gotten from the cemetery guy, was probably working now and I didn’t know where. At mid-afternoon I’d head over to her address. That would give me time to look around her neighborhood, maybe find out something about her, talk to her when she got home and still get back to Mr. Seferis’ haberdashery to meet whoever had information to sell.
The air had just enough crispness to freshen my cheeks, but there was no wind to speak of. I cut over to Jefferson and followed it north until it hit Monument. In front of the Engineer’s Club I waited a minute for traffic to clear. They said Orv Wright had a barber’s chair in the building because he was so shy he found it easier to talk through new ideas with his fellow inventors while he trimmed their hair.
On the other side of Monument a grassy levee overlooked the river, protecting the city from floods like the big one they’d had two years before I was born. An old man and a little boy too young for school were barely managing to get a kite up. Not very high; it wasn’t the best day for kites. It was high enough for the little boy to shriek with delight, though. I sat down on a bench watching them and remembering times I’d flown kites here with my dad. For several seconds I could almost hear his laugh. The sound of him playing his pipes. Paidin O’Rafferty. I polished an apple roughly on my sleeve and took a bite. It was hard to swallow, I stilled missed him so.
“Would you mind company?”
Startled, I looked up to see the girl who’d grabbed the phone and let me use it at the sock wholesaler’s.
“Sure. I mean, no. Sit down.” Lucky for me it hadn’t been one of Woody Beale’s boys who caught me daydreaming.
“I didn’t mean to sneak up. I was getting ready to come down to your place when I saw you go out so, well, I followed you. I thought you might enjoy this.” She handed me a paper wrapped sandwich and took another from the small cloth bag she carried.
“Gee, thanks,” I said in surprise. “I’m starved, but I didn’t think to go by the Arcade and buy something on my way here.”
“It’s just cold pork,” she said modestly.
“I haven’t had cold pork since I was a kid, and I’m crazy about it.” I took a bite. “Delicious.”
“I wanted to say I’m sorry about – about not doing anything when that awful man was shouting at you and throwing things. I wanted to call the police, but Maxine wouldn’t let me. She said it would only make trouble for us.”
“It’s okay.” I reached in my pocket and offered her the other apple. “How about one of these with the sandwich?”
“Oh ... thank you. I think this officially makes it a picnic, don’t you?” She laughed, then put out her hand. “I’m Evelyn, by the way.”
“Maggie. Maggie Sullivan. Does Maxine suck on lemons or what? She looks like a real pill to work with.”
Evelyn made a face. “She’s even worse as a mother-in-law. She and her husband own the business. Simpson’s Socks. I married their son.”
She was attractive. Dark hair swept into twin rolls at the top of her head. Cold cream skin. It was the wry intelligence in her eyes which set her apart, though.
“Lousy fate, falling for someone with a mother like her,” I said.
She laughed again. “Well, yes. At noon I get away for a bit whenever I can, until it gets so cold I absolutely can’t stand it outside.” She was quiet a moment. “That ... man who was shouting at you. Why did the police come asking about him?”
“Someone shot him.” I figured that was just about all the detail she could handle. She studied her hands and gave a nod.
“I thought it must have been something not very pleasant. I expect he brought in on himself, the way he sounded.” We sat for a moment. “I have to get back,” she said standing. “I’m suppose to pick up some carbon paper on the way. I hope we get a chance to talk again.”
“Maybe when it gets too cold for you to escape you can bring your lunch down to my place now and then.”
I didn’t intend to say it. Somehow it just slipped out. Her face brightened.
* * *
Even though Mae Johnson had paid to have Norris buried she might be guilty of nothing worse than bad taste in men. Woody Beale could have someone watching me. I’d noticed a car parked by my place with a guy inside reading a paper. If Beale had someone on me I didn’t want to lead him to Mae and get her in hot water. When I left my office that afternoon, instead of heading toward her place I drove south on Jeff, then cut over to Brown. I was pretty sure a blue Ford followed me. A few blocks later I pulled into Wheeler’s Garage and pecked on the horn. Almost immediately Eli Wheeler emerged from his service area wiping his hands on a rag.
“’Afternoon, Miss Sullivan. That clutch getting balky again?”
“Still working smooth as butter, thanks to you. Could I borrow Calvin for twenty minutes? Pay for his time?”
Eli grinned and rubbed the edge of his ear. “Well, now, I expect he’d pay to ride around with you, especially on this nice day. You can have him for nothing.” He gave his cheery laugh. “Eli!” h
e yelled over his shoulder. “Bring one of them sheets.”
A beanpole kid with freckles ambled out. He was nutty for cars. A good worker, too.
“Calvin, I need you to drive me back to my office and drop me off,” I said as Eli opened my door for me. Calvin nodded and put the much-laundered sheet on the driver’s seat to keep it clean while I went around and hopped in the passenger side.
By the time we got to my building I’d explained what he was to do. He pulled to the curb and let me out as he usually did whenever the DeSoto needed work. I made a show of leaning in the window to tell him one last thing. He drove off. I sniffed the air and stretched and took no notice of the blue car that cruised by and parked half a block away. As if consulting my watch I went inside. I waited in the lobby a minute for good measure before heading to the janitor’s closet with its unused door that for the agile of foot and not too portly led to the alley. Calvin was waiting exactly where I’d told him to.
“Haven’t seen any cars go by out there more than once,” he reported indicating the street.
“Good. Keep an eye out.” I clambered into the back seat and lay down out of sight and we pulled out of the alley’s far mouth.
Ten
Eli still wouldn’t take any money when we returned. Making a mental note to stop back with a wedge of the cheese he and Calvin both liked and some fruit from the market, I headed back toward Union Station.
Mae Johnson’s address was in a pocket sized area wedged between the tracks and the river. The neighborhood was down on its luck but holding its head up. Starched curtains hung at windows. Mums and coneflowers bloomed in front of houses that needed paint and mostly had been divided into apartments. Vacant lots here and there gave testimony to structures swept away in the Great Flood. Just west across the river was another neighborhood exactly like it except the residents over there would be Negro.
I parked half a block down from Mae’s place and across the street. It was half-past three. For the better part of five minutes I studied the street and kept an eye peeled in case anyone had managed to follow me. By all appearances I was alone except for a young woman who came past pushing a baby carriage and leading a toddler. When they got the carriage onto the porch of a house down the way and went inside, I got out and made my way to the stoop of the house next door to the one I wanted. It was a single with no bell. I knocked at the door.
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