1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? They’re beautiful – and frightfully expensive.”

  “Someone ought to enjoy them. Tell Maxine I sent them to thank her for letting me use the phone.”

  Her eyes shone with mischief. “It will drive her crazy wondering if you mean it or you’re up to something.”

  She closed the door on her way out and I looked at the paper bearing the license number with satisfaction. I was starting to learn things. And I was done waiting. Time to nudge things along.

  I dialed Throckmorton Stationery and Business Supply and asked for Peter Stowe. Apparently no one except his uncle rated a private secretary as Stowe himself answered a minute later.

  “This is Mr. Stowe. How may I help you?”

  Baritone voice, on the soft side. I hadn’t heard it before. I said my piece quickly.

  “Woody Beale’s boys drugged me and left me in a ditch last night because of you. Unless you want to risk having that sweet little blonde of yours get the same treatment, get up to the Arcade and wait at the giant pickle place. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  My finger came down on the hook before he could speak. If he cared anything about Thelma, he’d do what I said. Even if he didn’t, he was probably scared enough to show.

  I grabbed my coat and headed out. To conserve my depleted energy, I hailed a taxi and rode the few short blocks to Daphne’s, a hole-in-the-wall hat shop on Fourth Street. The shop was popular and on the pricey side for my budget, which didn’t keep me from frequent browsing and an occasional splurge. Today my mind wasn’t on hats, though. Today I’d come to Daphne’s in case I was followed. It wasn’t a spot a man was likely to enter, and Daphne’s, though it didn’t look like much from the outside, was many times deeper than it was wide. Half a dozen display cases and stands showing creations that made my mouth water led the way back to a second entrance into the elegant, enclosed Arcade. Not far from where I expected to meet Peter Stowe.

  Seventeen

  The glass-domed Arcade sat just south of the courthouse and beckoned shoppers through entrances on Main Street, Fourth Street, Ludlow and Fifth. It was lunchtime when I arrived, past the peak but still early enough for the place to be crowded. Ringing the ground floor and running around the second floor gallery with its iron railing were shops and a handful of offices where people came and went. At this time of day more activity focused on the stalls and counters that sold food.

  Clerks and secretaries and plenty of others milled around the stalls with housewives who were doing their marketing. The downtown workers were after a bite of lunch they could carry. A roll from one of the bakery stalls with something from the cheese counter or one of the sausage sellers. Or maybe they’d choose a couple of pickled eggs and an apple turnover. Meanwhile housewives roamed the various butcher stands looking at chops and roasts and pale pink veal. If they didn’t make their own noodles they could purchase those at another stand. High above them all, the glass dome admitted soft light and reflected back their mingling voices.

  After my rough night I stayed well away from the smell of the fish sellers. Instead I sat on a bench where I could inhale the fragrance of Spanish peanuts roasted in oil and have a good view of the four main entrances. I’d spot Peter Stowe as soon as he came in, plus maybe have an edge if anyone had managed to follow me.

  If Stowe walked, he’d be here in about five minutes. Less if he took a cab, but they weren’t as easy to come by from his place as they were from mine. I watched a gray-haired woman buy a bar of fancy soap, a man buy chocolates – and here came Peter Stowe. He was slender with light brown hair and shoulders that already showed signs of rounding. The levelness of his gray fedora made me wonder if he was too much like his fussy uncle. His jerky steps betrayed his tension.

  Across from me and a few yards up was a pickle seller commonly referred to as Giant Pickles, though the owner probably gave his stand a different name. Other merchants sold dills and sweets and pickle relishes, but this one had a specialty, dills so enormous a single pickle could feed a family. Peter Stowe halted a good fifteen feet away from the stand, looked tensely around, then began what he probably thought passed for a casual circuit around it. At the end of the circuit, his nervousness more apparent, he glanced around again, probably fearing a gun in his ribs from one of Woody Beale’s goons. I waited until he moved uncertainly to the end of a line of customers waiting at the pickle stand and his back was toward me. A couple of quick steps put me at his elbow.

  “It’s me you’re looking for,” I said sliding my arm through his. “Let’s walk.”

  It startled him so that he obeyed for a step or two before pulling away.

  “Who are you?” At least he didn’t blink like his uncle.

  “Maggie Sullivan. I’m a private investigator. Your uncle hired me.”

  “My uncle?” He looked as though he’d been punched in the gut.

  “That’s right.” I gave him a card. “And I meant what I said on the phone. Unless you’re prepared to see your girl roughed up – maybe roughed up bad – you better let me help you. The man you’re mixed up with gets what he wants and doesn’t like people who get in his way. He’d beat up a sweet girl like Thelma as easily as he’d kick a kitten.”

  Oblivious to the throngs moving past us, Peter Stowe slid both hands up his face and pressed the heels to his forehead. His hat slid back, but he didn’t notice that either. His face was gaunt with despair.

  “I’ve already tried to see to it Thelma’s not hurt,” he said in hollow tones. “I broke up with her over the weekend.”

  Typically male solution. I wanted to kick him. Dimes to donuts poor Thelma had been crying her eyes out with no idea what had gone wrong. Clumsy as his attempt was, however, it made me think Stowe might be okay.

  “Let’s go get some lunch. You may not be hungry, but thanks to your pal Beale I haven’t had anything but a piece of toast in twenty-four hours. Anyway, we have talking to do.”

  He shook his head with surprising stubbornness. “You can’t help me. It’s too big a mess.”

  “Woody Beale underestimated me too.”

  Color washed across his unnatural pallor. “I didn’t mean to be insulting....”

  As the manicurist had told me, a real gentleman.

  “It’s okay,” I said taking his arm again. “And I’ve handled messes before.”

  * * *

  The Embassy Grill was just across Ludlow next to ex-Governor Cox’s news mill. Going there meant a chance someone from the evening paper would come in for a ham on rye and see us together. But that same chance of news hounds almost guaranteed Woody Beale’s boys would steer clear of the place.

  The lunchtime crowd had thinned and we were able to get a booth at the back with the next booth empty. Peter Stowe didn’t speak as he glanced at the menu. Or when he set it aside to stare at his hands. I didn’t press him. When the waitress came he ordered a toasted cheese sandwich, his enthusiasm just about equal to that of a dress shop mannequin. In consideration of my not-yet-quite-sturdy system, I went for chicken and noodles.

  I waited until the waitress returned with a glass of Dr. Pepper for him and coffee for me. I cut the coffee with milk and sugar, which I didn’t usually do but figured was good for regaining strength.

  “What did you mean, my uncle hired you?” Stowe asked at last. “Why? When?”

  “Three weeks ago. Four now. He said he was worried about you – that you’d been acting odd, flashing new clothes. When I learned Beale was leaning on you, and a guy who came to see me ended up dead that same night, your uncle claimed he didn’t recognize either name. So.” I crossed my arms on the edge of the table and leaned across them, eyeing him steadily. “Is Uncle Throckmorton into something crooked or are you?”

  Stowe’s head jerked as the trance that had held him let go.

  “My uncle doesn’t have a dishonest bone in his body!” he said angrily. “He’s a fine, decent man who’s never turned his back on anyone in need. He worked without taking a
penny of salary so he could pay the people who worked for him when the stock market crashed–”

  “Funny, he sang your praises too.”

  The words deflated him as abruptly as my bait about his uncle had set him off.

  “I don’t deserve them,” he said looking down at the edge of the table. “I-I suspect I’m not worthy of all the things he’s done for me. But the only thing I’m guilty of is being stupid. I swear. Stupid and gullible and maybe having dreams that are ... impractical.” He frowned at the table edge. “Impractical,” he repeated softly. He was talking to himself now, and the way he sounded made me feel sorry for him.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  He nodded.

  “Start from the beginning. How did you meet Al?”

  He looked up in surprise. “You know about Al?” A rueful smile pushed its way through his wretchedness. “But then, you are a detective. I apologize for being surprised.”

  “Not necessary, but thanks.”

  We waited while the waitress set our plates in front of us. Peter broke one corner off his sandwich; stared at it; dropped it back on the plate. My chicken and noodles came with rolls and a side of peas. I decided the peas might slow my recovery so I set them aside and buttered a roll.

  “Okay, here’s part of what I know about your pal Beale,” I prompted after I’d had a nice chunk of chicken, which was so tender that the only point in chewing it was to savor the taste. “I know he owns three night spots and has a lot more money than those bring in. “The cops figure there’s gambling in the back rooms, but they don’t have proof yet.” That was stretching the truth, but Stowe needed some nudging. I watched for his reaction about the gambling. There wasn’t any. Which meant I could maybe eliminate him or his cousin having unpaid debts from the gaming tables.

  “I know Beale’s right-hand man is Al,” I continued. “And I know when Beale gives the order, people can wind up dead.”

  Peter had taken a small bite of grilled cheese. He swallowed with difficulty.

  “I’ve never been to his clubs! I don’t know anything about the gambling. There’s no reason you should believe that, but–.” He put the corner of sandwich down and gave it a nudge. “I’d never heard of Beale. I’d never laid eyes on him until his car pulled up beside me one night and two of his musclemen got out and dragged me to him. In the beginning it was just Al, and I realize now that I was an idiot, but it all seemed so harmless. Now it’s a nightmare!”

  “Then maybe you’d better tell me about it,” I said gently.

  Eighteen

  Peter Stowe gulped some of his Dr. Pepper.

  “My uncle’s an excellent businessman. He says it’s more productive to satisfy the customers you already have than to chase after new ones. At least once a week I drive one of our delivery routes to keep up with customers. Occasionally I see how we can alter a route or do something else to be more efficient. Mostly I listen for little complaints. Or maybe someone mentions they wish there was a product that did such-and-such. I might have read about something new that would do the trick. Useful stuff, I suppose, but not very exciting.”

  He glanced at me shyly. So far it matched what his uncle had told me.

  “That’s how you met Al? Doing deliveries?”

  He’d made another stab at eating some sandwich. He was relaxing some, but his manner was grave. He nodded.

  “It was, oh, two months ago, I guess. I was doing the south route. I’d made a couple of stops and was coming out of a place in Oakwood. He was standing there on the sidewalk. Hands in the pockets of a suit that probably cost more than I make in two weeks, a cigarette in his mouth, looking at my delivery truck. He said something like ‘That was some armload of cartons you carried in there.’ I said ‘All in a day’s work.’ I figured he’d come out of the tony little restaurant that’s across the street.

  “Then he asked did I deliver things all over the city and I said yes. He said boy, the things I must see, like a cowboy riding the range. We both laughed, it was so outlandish. He was – he was pleasant.”

  I nodded encouragement.

  “Then he said ‘Hey, I’m a writer and I’ve got a million questions I’d like to ask you. Any chance I could ride along with you? I’d treat you to lunch.’ I thought, what’s the harm?”

  Bitterness hardened the voice of the slender young man facing me. He managed a rueful smile and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “It’s awfully dull, my job. And–” He spread his hands. “I suppose I was flattered.”

  “So what did he ask you to do?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.” Peter shook his head in bewilderment. “He just took it all in like a carnival ride. Said how great it was. I was such a damned fool – excuse me–”

  “I’ve used worse myself. And I’ve had some experience being a fool.”

  That seemed to encourage him, or maybe now that he’d started unburdening he couldn’t stop.

  “At lunch he told me he’d been hired to do a movie script, and he’d been hunting a job like mine that took the hero all over the city. He didn’t go on about it, which somehow made it all sound believable. At the end of the route he asked could he ride with me again. He said the studio would pay me an advisor’s fee, but I said that wasn’t necessary, that I enjoyed his company. Which was true. He was likeable. Then.”

  Peter swallowed. “So he rode with me several more times, asking questions about the places we went – how often I delivered and such, helping me carry in cartons sometimes, taking notes –”

  “Taking notes?”

  “To make him seem like a writer, I guess.”

  Or maybe not. I began to get a bad feeling as several things nudged me at once: Someone telling Beale the pigeon Al picked had blown up in his face. Peter going into businesses all over the city. A rash of burglaries.

  But words were pouring out of Peter now. The dam of fear inside him had burst.

  “He gave me twenty-five dollars, cash, every time after the first. Said he’d talked long distance to the producer who was crazy about the idea and insisted I be paid. Then, a week or so later, he called and asked me to have a drink with him after work. When we did, Al said the producer was coming to town and wanted to meet me, that he’d seen my snapshot. Did I mention he’d brought his Kodak one day? Al said the producer thought I’d be perfect for a small part. Only a couple of lines, but ‘a nice chunk of money’ as he put it.”

  A blush replaced the pallor on his face. “I’d – I’d been saving up so I could propose to Thelma. And I wanted to take more engineering courses down at the university. I’ve had some already. It’s what I want to do. Electrical circuits. Antennas. My uncle, though, expects me to take over his business someday, and he’s raised me, given me everything. I feel like a traitor even thinking of anything else, but–. Anyway. Al’s rubbish seemed like a dream come true. I suppose I wanted to believe it. So I did.”

  A noisy trio entered the restaurant, ribbing each other. One was Matt Jenkins. His specs hid his eyes at a distance, but as his companions slid into a booth near the front he said something and began ambling toward me.

  “Grab my hand and look lovey-dovey,” I said.

  It took Peter several seconds before he reacted. He grabbed my hand so clumsily it maybe looked like passion. Another second or two and he added his other hand, squeezing mine between both of his. Jenkins raised his eyebrows at me, gave a wicked grin, and did an about face to rejoin his friends.

  “Problem solved,” I said retrieving my hand. “Don’t look around – it was a friend from the paper you didn’t need to meet. So you spent the money Al paid you on a new suit to impress the producer?”

  “Only one trip’s worth. I was keen to save as much as I could, but I wanted to make a good impression on the producer.”

  “And Ollie’s barber shop?”

  Once again Peter looked startled by my knowledge. “It was Al’s idea, his treat the first time. To get me looking just right and wish me luck, h
e said.” Bitterness returned to his voice. “When the non-existent producer got delayed, and then delayed again, I went to the place several times on my own. I wanted to look right when he finally came since he was giving me a chance.”

  I’d polished off most of my chicken and noodles. I waited while the waitress refilled my coffee.

  “How did it turn ugly?”

  “One day, oh, maybe six weeks from the time the whole thing started, I got home from a lecture on regenerative circuits one night and there was a car in front. Al got out. He said he’d misplaced some notes he needed. We’d been out that day and he thought they might have fallen out in the delivery truck. He wanted me to let him in where we keep our trucks so he could check.

  “I said I couldn’t, that I’d look first thing the next morning and call if I found them. He said he had to have them that night. All at once it felt queer. I’d never told him where I lived. And I remembered reading about a burglary up at Holtz Brothers not long before. Maybe – maybe deep down I’d always known it was all too good to be true, his hooey about a movie. I told him again I’d check the next morning.

  “Then, well, once it didn’t feel right, I guess I needed to test it. So I told him I wouldn’t be able to let him ride with me for a while, either, that a customer had complained about him wandering around in the warehouse while I finished paperwork on a delivery.

  “What happened?”

  Peter drew a deep breath. “He went all quiet and lighted a cigarette. He took a couple of puffs leaning there against his car, all calm and casual. Then he looked at the tip like I wasn’t worth the bother, and his voice was pleasant, and he said ‘Don’t get cute, Pete. The people you’re crossing will swat you with no more thought than they swat a fly.’”

  Nineteen

  The remainder of Peter’s story went fast compared to the first. Al laughed at his offer to repay the so-called ‘advisor’s fee’. He never saw Al again. Soon afterward, two thugs hustled Peter to a car where a man in the passenger seat said he wanted his property back or Peter would get hurt. Peter’s response that he’d tell the police if they didn’t leave him alone won him a gut punch along with a warning that he was the one who’d end up in jail. They kept turning up, their persuasion getting rougher. He didn’t know which way to turn.