1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  “I don’t even know your name,” I said to her back.

  Over her shoulder she flashed me a smirk at her own cleverness.

  Twelve

  Izzy had been bringing me my morning oatmeal and my noontime sandwiches for four years or better. From eight in the morning ‘til four in the afternoon she stood behind the McCrory’s lunch counter taking orders and refilling coffee. If she got tired, neither her friendly expression nor the efficiency of her movements betrayed it. Her given name was Isabel.

  “Did your gentleman friend get up courage enough to say hello?” she asked scribbling my ticket and putting it in without waiting for me to say what I wanted. On the rare occasions I got the urge for an egg and sausage I told her fast as I sat down.

  “Gentleman friend?” I looked up from unfolding that morning’s Journal.

  “He came in yesterday and asked if a pretty little brunette named Maggie ate here.” Sliding coffee to me she moved along to take the orders of two new arrivals just settling onto stools.

  I frowned at her snippet of information and let the coffee knead my brain. Whoever was asking could be someone I’d met. Mick Connelly, maybe, though I doubted that one. More likely, it had been one of Beale’s boys, which didn’t strike me as good for my health. Or maybe the cops were still sniffing at me over the Norris murder. Or because I’d mentioned Beale and he was supposed to be off limits. That possibility didn’t hold much more appeal.

  “What time yesterday?” I asked when Izzy returned with my oatmeal and a large glass of milk.

  “Right at four. End of my shift. Looked like he had a bank account.” She gave an approving nod as she turned away to grab another order.

  I drank some milk and added some cream to my bowl to keep the butter and brown sugar company. Having exhausted my cooking skills I mulled her information. A guy whose appearance suggested money wasn’t likely to be a cop or anyone I knew. That left Beale himself, or one of his boys. But why?

  Right now Izzy was swimming for her life in breakfast orders which wouldn’t let up until shops and offices opened. I’d stop back later; see what else she could tell me.

  Last night’s chill had lingered. As I cut through the produce market it sharpened the sound of hand carts on brick. When I got upstairs a glazier was unpacking his tools, preparing to fit the pane of glass beside him into my door. His unexpected presence suggested I’d won my latest round with the building super, so we exchanged pleasantries and I left him to his work.

  I hung my coat and hat on the rack and settled in at my desk with a nice blank tablet. Then for the better part of ten minutes, I sat clicking my teeth with a pencil. Unless I was missing something the size of an elephant, everything that had happened the last six days kept looping back to Peter Stowe. I asked questions about him; Ollie the barber called Beale to report it. Beale sent Benny Norris to warn me off and wreck my office. Norris ended up dead and someone broke into my office. It was at that point that things turned murky.

  Presumably whoever broke in was hunting something they thought I had. But what? And why had Norris been murdered? Did it have to do with his visit to me, or to something else? His girlfriend Mae said he’d been flush a month or so back. And two days before he’d played tough with me he’d been mad because he thought someone wanted to make him a patsy.

  Something about that burst of prosperity followed by anger began to wink at me from the edges of my mind, available but playing hard to get.

  I switched to trying to fit the bits and pieces I already knew with what I’d learned from the manicurist. Judging from her reaction to my question about the toupee, Benny Norris wasn’t someone she’d seen in the barbershop. He wasn’t the one named Al, anyway. Turning my tablet sideways to give me more room, I began to jot down names in my cast of characters for this little play: Peter Stowe. Beale. Norris. Al. The “rich guy” the manicurist had overheard having words with Beale. I sat back and studied the names. Under each I wrote things that might be relevant.

  Norris got a dollar sign, since he’d apparently had more money than usual, and under that the word patsy? He’d maybe known Peter, or known about him at least, so I drew a line between them to show a connection, and another line from Norris to Beale. There surely should be a line between Peter and Beale, but until I had confirmation I wouldn’t draw it. Al worked for Beale and had also brought Peter into the barbershop, so there were two lines. Most likely he knew Norris as well, but again I’d wait for proof. Finally there was the “rich guy”, who definitely knew Beale, and knew Al at least by name, which I decided merited a dotted line.

  The glazier knocked politely, bringing me out of my concentration. He wanted to know what lettering went on the door. I wrote it out for him and came back to my list. There was something useful in it I felt certain, but like those tidbits I’d gleaned from Mae, it eluded me. I studied it and clicked my teeth some more.

  The nameless “rich guy” was worried because someone knew too much and might talk. He’d also referred to Al’s pigeon blowing up. I had a strong suspicion he wasn’t discussing birds.

  Beale had promised he’d take care of the matter. Was Benny Norris what got taken care of? Was a pigeon the same as a patsy? I didn’t think so. And why send Norris to threaten me and then turn around and kill him? Why break into my office? What did any of it have to do with Peter Stowe?

  I groaned. At the speed I was going, I’d lose a race with a turtle.

  The glazier finished. I decided to go have some lunch. Then I’d track down a codger I knew who managed to stay about one step shy of being an alkie while frequenting most of the not-so-posh beer joints in town. With luck he’d be able to tell me how to find the one where Mae said Norris had been a regular.

  * * *

  The Ace of Clubs was the sort of joint that made you want to wash it off you as soon as you stepped inside. A years-old stink of tobacco juice missing spittoons and mingling with spilt beer oozed from corners where dreams had died. What few rays of sun fought their way through a dirty transom over the door met their death on the gummy floor before reaching the bar. I waited a minute so my eyes could adjust before I approached it. No brass here, polished or otherwise. Just a stretch of scarred wood lighted by two chintzy lamps, one at either end of a shelf that held liquor.

  A bartender built like an elevator eyed me with more wariness than curiosity.

  “You lost, sis?”

  Anticipating I might come here today, I’d worn my brown tweed jacket. After parking I’d buttoned my blouse up like a church matron running for president of the altar guild. I’d fastened my best dime store cameo at the collar. My shoes were sensible lace ups.

  “I’m looking for Benny,” I said. “Benny Norris. He told me I could always get hold of him here. Has he been in?”

  The bartender gave a mean-spirited grin displaying a gold tooth next to a gap where one was missing. “Try the cemetery.”

  I waited a second, then widened my eyes. “You mean he’s dead? Oh, gee. My goodness. He wasn’t that old.”

  Shrugging indifference he slapped a gray rag onto the bar with a hand the size of a phone book. His burst of helpfulness past, he began to work his way down the bar’s length.

  “Um, could I have a ginger?” I hadn’t gone to the effort of finding this place to hear what I already knew.

  “Beer, whisky, gin, seltzer, tonic,” he intoned.

  “Oh ... tonic then, if you please.” Booze might stand half a chance of sterilizing a glass, which in this place would need it, but tonic seemed more in keeping with the role I was playing. I didn’t intend to drink whatever I got.

  He stomped around in what was possibly better humor and slid the tonic toward me. I paid, then toyed with the glass. I’d timed it to come in during the dead time that follows the last of the lunchtime drinkers. The only other customers were two men on stools about as far apart as they could get. By their looks they’d probably made a beeline in at noontime or a little before and would stay where they were till they s
lid off the stools. A woman with too much rouge on her cheeks sat at the only table. None of them took any notice of me.

  “Dead, huh. When did he die?”

  “Wednesday, Thursday. Somebody shot him.”

  “No kidding? Gee. He wasn’t a crook or anything, was he? He’d said he could get my brother a job – said he had real good connections.”

  The bartender snorted. “Not good enough to keep his bill paid half the time. Good thing for me he got bumped off in the half when it was.”

  “What about Al? You know, good looking, nice dresser, has a scar on his pinkie?”

  He showed me his gold tooth again. “Nice dresser, huh? You come to the wrong place.”

  I cupped my chin in my hand, damsel in distress.

  “What about that pal of his? Has he been in?”

  “Pal?”

  The goodwill my untouched tonic had bought me was just about gone. I knew so damned little about Norris that anything out of my mouth would be a gamble.

  “The big guy.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Well, not as big as you, of course.” I slid four-bits across the bar to him. “Come on, mister. My brother really needs that job. Maybe Benny’s pal could tell me about it.”

  He rested a fingertip on the coin. “Big, huh? Mighta been Muley. He’s kind of big. Two of ‘em used to sit together sometimes. Have to come at night if you want to catch Muley.”

  I made a big deal out of sighing.

  “I don’t suppose you know where he lives?”

  The bartender raised his voice and inquired. His three customers raised their heads and shook them. I wasn’t sure they really saw anything or heard the question. Could be they were like plants, just turning automatically.

  “Next time he’s in, ask him to give Mavis a call.” I scribbled my office number on a scrap of paper. “Oh, and tell him Benny asked me to keep something that I guess he might as well take. Them being friends and all.”

  I slid the phone number to him with another two bits. Maybe he’d give the message to Muley and maybe not.

  Thirteen

  I was getting tired of sneaking in and out of my own building. When I got back I went in the back door and brazenly out the front one down to the market. Some of the vendors already were packing up. Good housewives shopped early. So did restaurants that wanted to offer first-rate fare at suppertime. The wind bit hard. Pretty soon the offerings here would be largely cabbage and turnips, parsnips and sprouts, maybe some kale. I bought a Gravenstein and added a Winesap to keep it company. Back in my office I nibbled them both to the core while I worked on my columns of names.

  When my telephone rang I was startled to see it was half past five

  “Hello?” I said keeping my fingers crossed it was Muley hunting for “Mavis”.

  “I can tell you about Peter Stowe,” said a pleasant male voice. “In fifteen, maybe twenty minutes I’ll be walking my dog along Stewart between St. Mary’s and the cemetery. A brown and white terrier.”

  The line went dead.

  I shrugged into my jacket and grabbed my coat. Fifteen minutes. I could just about make it. Somewhere in my brain an alarm bell jingled. I stopped with my coat halfway up one arm and dragging the floor.

  What if it was a trap?

  Call and dangle meeting I’d have to rush to make and maybe I wouldn’t take time to think. Was that the plan? Okay, I’d think as I walked. The spot the caller had named was public. This time of day there’d be plenty of people. What once had been St. Mary’s College was now the University of Dayton. Students would be going to Mass, or maybe just coming out. Some would be leaving the library. Those who stayed in dormitories would be going to dinner. Those who lived at home would be walking to trolleys. People who lived in the neighborhood would be coming home from work, taking out garbage ... and walking dogs.

  By the time I’d weighed the odds I’d almost reached my car. I quick-stepped the last half block, slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Everything pointed to the meeting being safe, and I was about due a break in this case. I pulled into traffic, went half a block and cut through an alley to double around and check for a tail. Satisfied, I made my way through after-work traffic and headed south on Brown.

  North of Apple the street was closed. Flares and saw horses marked an open manhole. I detoured into a warren of side streets, then turned south again. A youth with a parcel under his arm who’d hopped on a bike somewhere near the detour whizzed past me, causing me to hit the brakes and curse the superior speed of two wheels as he shot in front of the car ahead of me and wove through traffic to disappear a block ahead. I hoped my caller wasn’t the impatient type. The detour had delayed me.

  Just ahead of me, a furniture van pulled into the intersection, swung and began to back in my direction. I hit my horn and my brakes at the same time. Unfazed, the van continued to back while one of the men inside jumped out on the passenger side and made hand signals guiding the driver. The truck was too far into the street to squeeze past it. I glanced in my mirror to see two cars and maybe a third had come to a stop behind me.

  Another blast from my horn won a cheery wave from the helper who was opening the back of the van. Fuming at the driver’s failure to pull to the curb so traffic could keep flowing I cranked down my window.

  “Hey!” I shouted sticking my head out and catching a glimpse of a sofa upholstered Coke bottle green. “Hey, pal!” I leaned farther. “Pull over closer so folks can get–”

  A hand came from behind to cover my mouth and a sickly sweet smell overpowered me.

  Fourteen

  It was the cold that finally woke me. A body I didn’t recognize as my own was shivering. After a time the shaking penetrated my consciousness. I made vague, useless movements trying to pull up something for warmth. Unable to find it I forced open reluctant eyes.

  My reward was darkness.

  Silence.

  And primal panic.

  Everything seemed to be spinning. My head ached. Something had happened. I moved and my elbow struck something hard. Like a single bit of colored glass falling in a kaleidoscope and launching a pattern I remembered. The phone call ... the furniture van ... the handkerchief over my nose.

  My stomach heaved. Blindly, weakly, my fumbling fingers caught at a handle and wrenched open the car door, pulling me part way out into crisp, fresh air. I clung to the handle while the contents of my gut spilled out, mostly missing the running board. For several minutes afterward I clung and hung, too shaky to do anything else and feebly aware I should wait to make sure the nausea was past. Finally, crooking my free arm through the steering wheel for leverage, I managed to tug the door closed. Trembling and cold I rested my head on the steering wheel.

  I was in my own car. But I didn’t know where. I was alive. At least I thought I was. What I had to do now was start my car, get away.

  Instead, I dozed off a couple of times. When I finally woke my head still spun like a merry-go-round but was mostly clear – and I was even colder than before. Moving carefully I sat upright and waited for the worst of the dizziness to pass. It took a while.

  Next order: start the engine and put on my headlamps. First, though, I reached under my seat, glad to find my small automatic was still there. Fumbling, I made sure it still had its clip. Then I set about finding the ignition key, which had been pulled out and tossed on the floor. By the time the engine finally purred to life and I pulled the knob for my headlights I’d have signed on a dotted line to be a housewife. The wash of the DeSoto’s lights brought more bad news. I was off the road and a dozen yards down an embankment. Getting out would require rocking the car, spinning the wheels – and maybe a tow truck.

  Cutting the engine I sat again and listened to silence so undisturbed I knew I must be in the country, or at least the outskirts of town. I hoped that town was Dayton, but for all I could tell from my surroundings I could be outside Osborne or clear up to Troy. In the glovebox I found my flashlight still present and
in working order. My watch showed almost eleven. With that much time gone I could be all the way to Cincinnati.

  Rather than think about it I got out and opened the trunk and put on a sweater I kept there. Unless I wanted to spend the night in my car I’d have to walk somewhere. With my coat buttoned over the sweater I turned in a slow circle looking for lights or the shape of a building to guide me. Far off in one direction I saw a high, steady light that might be the railroad tower on West Fifth. Since Dayton was the only area where I knew landmarks, I might as well assume that’s where I was. I didn’t know if I was north or south or east or west of the dot of light. No matter, if it was the railroad light, walking toward it would bring me closer to town. I’d use the first Gamewell box I saw to call for help.

  Weak as I felt, I’d have to choose between toting the flashlight or my automatic. If someone wanted me dead they could have finished me off when they dumped me here, so I chose the flashlight.

  By the time I’d climbed the embankment through thigh-high weeds I felt weak as a kitten and dizzy again. I sat down and rested and muttered a few Hail Marys while I listened to a cow somewhere in the distance. I got up and began to follow the narrow paved road. Ten minutes passed without meeting a car. Decent folks were in bed now. Occasionally the beam of my flash touched the shape of a house or barn set back at the end of a dirt track or a dog bayed as I passed.

  A time or two my stomach went queasy again but I gulped breaths of air until it passed. I kept myself going with thoughts of evening scores with Woody Beale. He was the only one miffed enough and with clout enough to set up that play with the furniture truck. It was meant to show me his power. To scare me. But why?

  Lights from a car appeared, raising my spirits until it turned and vanished down some unseen crossroad. After forever the pavement beneath my feet widened. Other paved streets started to cross it but all the houses were dark. So far I hadn’t seen a single blue light marking a police call box. Maybe I was still outside the city limits.