1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  “When I realized they were watching me, and that they’d seen me with Thelma several times, I worried they might - they might hurt her. I felt awful giving her the brush off, but it was the only way I could think of to keep her out of it.”

  My urge to kick him wasn’t quite as strong as before. He was a decent fellow. Like his uncle, he just hadn’t seen much of the bad side of life. He and Thelma seemed about right for each other. Assuming I got him out of the fix he was in.

  “The night you missed your date with Thelma and wound up with a split lip – I was following you, but I didn’t see anyone rough you up.”

  “They were waiting for me. Inside my apartment.” His shoulders sagged. “The hell of it is, I still can’t figure out what it’s about or what they want.” We slid from our booth preparing to leave the restaurant. “Will you be able to, now that I’ve told you?”

  “Yeah, once I fit a few pieces together.” I had a hunch, but if I was right, Peter Stowe was in a far bigger mess than he realized.

  The restaurant was almost empty now, just us, two other tables and the booth full of newshounds.

  “You head on back, and watch you’re not followed,” I said. “I need to say ‘hi’ to these jokers.”

  Jenkins had looked up the moment we stirred. Eyes crackling with interest behind his specs he flashed a lascivious grin as we neared where he sat.

  “You guys get a lot of hot scoops eating ham sandwiches?” I asked as Peter continued out the door with a small backward nod.

  “Just the one about you,” Jenkins said, grin widening.

  “Sorry to deny you bits for whatever peek-through-the-keyhole fantasy you’re slobbering over, but he was just a prospective client begging me to help him.”

  “I’ve begged a few girls to help me,” cracked a freckle faced guy across from him that I’d seen before.

  “Yeah, but I charge more per hour and keep my clothes on,” I said.

  To the sound of their hoots as the freckled guy turned beet red, I walked on out. On the other side of the street Peter was getting into a taxi. I watched for a minute. No one pulled out to follow. I crossed Ludlow and reentered the Arcade. Meandering through, and watchful of people around me, I emerged onto Main and turned right for half a dozen breaths of air before entering McCrory’s. It wasn’t near quitting time yet, but maybe things were slow enough for Izzy to give me a quick description of the guy who’d been asking about me. But Izzy wasn’t there; she was sick.

  That left me two choices. I could head back to the office, call the florist and maybe get proof about who’d sent the roses. Or I could settle in somewhere for several of hours of serious reading and note taking that might persuade me I was on the wrong track. More likely it was going to give me a worse picture of the trouble Peter Stowe was in.

  The good lunch had put me back on my pins. My brain, though, didn’t feel as sharp as I wanted for poring over columns of print where details that seemed unimportant could sometimes yield gold if you caught the glint. So I picked Choice Three: go back to Mrs. Z’s. One of the girls there could maybe answer some questions if I could catch her before she left for work.

  * * *

  “I wish you could see my outfit. It’s cute as they come,” Jolene said giving her fingers a lick and smoothing her stockings expertly. She giggled. “Of course Mrs. Z might throw me out if she caught me in it, so I guess it’s just as well we have to leave them in the dressing room.”

  Jolene was a cigarette girl. She came from a farm out near Xenia and was crazy about what she referred to as ‘the big city’.

  “I’ll bet you look swell,” I said. I’d never been in her room before. Her bed held a pair of lounge trousers, a magazine, a crumpled candy wrapper, and strips of rag she’d used to curl her long blonde hair. “Hey, listen, did you ever work at a place called Fanny’s? Or The Owl up on Main?”

  She shook her newly freed curls, dropped her robe on the bed and began wiggling into a blouse.

  “The Mademoiselle and Parker’s and three years where I am now. Harry, the manager, just offered to switch me to selling roses instead of cigarettes, pay me fifty cents more a week. I said thanks all the same, but you make more tips selling cigarettes. Everybody buys those. I think one of the hat girls used to work at The Owl though. You going there?”

  “No. I need to find out if the guy who owns it has an office there.” It would save me tossing a coin to decided which of Beale’s places east of the river I wanted to watch. Wherever he kept his office was where I’d be most likely to get a look at Al and his other boys.

  Jolene’s eyes grew large. She stopped halfway thought checking her reflection in the oval mirror on her dresser.

  “Is this about something you’re working on?” she whispered.

  I thought half a second, decided to chance it.

  “Yes.”

  “Want me to find out about the office? I can be real slick about it.”

  Jolene wasn’t dumb. She’d come to Dayton not knowing a soul and found a job and kept it. She couldn’t be blamed if the job didn’t make much use of her brain.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll treat you to the picture show some Sunday when you don’t have a date. But listen, Jolene, don’t let anyone hear you asking about it, understand? The man who owns those two places I mentioned is bad with a capital B. He hurts people.”

  “Okay.” She was still half whispering. “How about if I say I heard he’s a real ladies man and keeps stacks of money all over his office and did he ever spend any on her?”

  I laughed. “Jolene, you ought to be writing for magazines.”

  * * *

  When the downtown library opened the next morning, I was waiting. Over the last few years one of the librarians, a matronly sort with a pigeon-toed walk and cantaloupe bosoms that rested on a surprisingly tidy belly, had taken a shine to me. Tucking wisps of white hair into an untidy bun that always held a couple of pencils she trotted off to fetch the first of the armloads of newspapers I’d requested.

  At one of the tables I set out my tablet and three sharpened pencils for note taking. Then I began to read. First I went through the wooden rods that held the current week’s papers, one morning, one evening. Then I worked backwards. Three months’ worth. Then, to be safe, I went back another two weeks.

  By the time I finished my eyes were dry enough for kindling and it was almost noon. I squinted and opened until my peepers revived. I stood up and walked around the table a time or two and flexed my shoulders. Then I sat down again and looked at the list I’d compiled. Nine burglaries at good sized businesses in the past six weeks, plus the usual number of run-of-the-mill ones which I didn’t think were related.

  I walked back to the office and called Throckmorton.

  “I’m making some headway,” I said. “I need to talk to you. Somewhere private.”

  I could almost hear him working up a head of steam preparing to object. He was used to being the one in charge.

  “I suppose you could stop by the house,” he said reluctantly. “Tonight at eight?”

  “Fine.”

  He gave me the address. I hung up and called his nephew.

  Twenty

  Lewis Throckmorton lived on the tony part of Harvard Boulevard five miles or so north of downtown. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was old-money substantial with plenty of elbow room between it and its neighbors. Two stories of dressed stone and timber, with a garret above to accommodate a couple of servants, opened onto a porticoed verandah running the length of one side. Lights glowed in downstairs windows, spilling out enough for me to make out the thick trunks and graceful branches of mature trees on the gently sloped lawn.

  I doused my headlights and parked at the curb to wait for Peter. My own neighborhood wasn’t one where an unfamiliar car with someone at the wheel could wait around unnoticed, so I was reasonably certain I hadn’t been followed. No harm in watching some, though. Besides, I wanted to make sure no one had followed Peter, and to give him a little moral supp
ort. He was likely to need it.

  His uncle didn’t know I’d invited him. It might get unpleasant and Throckmorton might not like it, but the time had come to toss the two of them together and see if anything came to light that I hadn’t gotten from either individually. Peter was feeling bad enough as it was. If Throckmorton popped his cork I wanted to make sure it didn’t hit Peter too hard. Unwitting as they’d been, Peter’s actions had put his uncle’s business in a very sticky spot.

  A modest little gray Ford turned onto Harvard, coming from the direction of Salem. It was Peter. I cranked down my window and told him to park and sit. After eight minutes passed without anyone else showing up, I got out. We went up a curving walk together and climbed a few steps. I rang the bell.

  A slightly built man in a gray suit opened the door. He was nowhere near as impressive as the butler at Mrs. Salmon’s place.

  “My name’s Sullivan,” I said. “Mr. Throckmorton is expecting me.”

  “Please come in. He’s waiting for you in the study. ’Evening, Mr. Peter.” He gave a curious look at Peter, who hadn’t uttered a word. I bet Mrs. Salmon’s butler never showed he was curious.

  “ ’Evening, Kimmel. How’s the knee?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  A curved staircase rose from the hallway. Kimmel led us to the left of it and we followed a Persian runner woven in browns and gold. Oak floor gleamed at its edges. The walls were white. Kimmel stopped at the middle door of three and rapped lightly.

  “Miss Sullivan is here, sir. Mr. Peter is with her.” He stepped aside to let us enter.

  “Peter!” Lewis Throckmorton wavered uncertainly in front of the dark blue wing chair from which he’d just risen. To the right of the wing chair a fire burned cheerily on a marble hearth.

  “I asked Peter to join us,” I said quickly.

  “You what?” The corners of his mouth pushed down. Behind his spectacles his eyes were blinking.

  “Did I hear voices?” A young woman with hair the color of dark honey materialized from an adjoining room. She was leggy, taller than Throckmorton, clad in a camelhair skirt and a frilly white blouse with a real cameo. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she beamed at Peter. Noticing me she became self-conscious. “Oh, hello.”

  “Er, I thought you had a committee meeting of some sort.” Throckmorton was blinking again, regarding her with near dismay.

  “It was cancelled, Father. I told you yesterday,” the young woman said patiently. Her hair was tucked back in a pageboy that cleared her collar.

  “Oh, yes. Yes of course. Um ... perhaps you would ... excuse us, then, my dear?”

  She looked startled, but managed a gracious smile. “Of course–”

  “Actually, I’d like her to stay.”

  “Stay?” Throckmorton’s eyelids would be exhausted before the evening was over, the way they were bouncing. His stuffy little mustache thrust forward. He was used to order. He was used to giving the orders. “Well. Perhaps Kimmel could bring us all a drink,” he huffed.

  Peter was by the fireplace, one hand clenched on the mantle, the other rigid at his side. Yesterday when he’d finished talking to me he’d been wrung out. Tonight, standing there, he displayed an abject determination, but his gaze didn’t stray from the carpet. Throckmorton’s daughter began to look puzzled.

  “A gibson for me, please,” she said when Kimmel appeared.

  I said I’d have a gin and tonic. Apparently Kimmel knew what the men drank. As soon as he left an awkward silence filled our little tableau.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” The honey haired woman extended her hand. “I’m Flora Throckmorton.” She had a nice handshake, firmer than most women.

  “Maggie Sullivan. Your father hired me.”

  Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t pursue it. “Why don’t we sit down?” she suggested.

  “Right,” agreed her father without enthusiasm. Across from his chair was another one nearly identical. Between them a sofa of the same dark blue was flecked with tawny gold like that in the carpet. Flora Throckmorton settled herself on the end of the sofa nearest her father. I took the chair. Peter stayed at the fireplace.

  “Perhaps you should be the one to explain,” said Throckmorton, his equilibrium returning. “Since you’ve called us all together, as it were.” His tone warned I’d better deliver.

  I nodded. “What Peter and I have to say concerns all of you, I think.” I broke off as Kimmel returned with the drinks. A toast didn’t seem in order, so I had a nip of my gin and tonic while he served the others. When he’d gone out again and closed the door, I sat forward a little.

  “I’m a private detective, Miss Throckmorton. Your father called me several weeks ago because he was worried your cousin might be in some kind of trouble.”

  Flora Throckmorton’s fingers went to her cameo. She looked at Peter in alarm. It had been an impulse when I told her father she ought to stay. I’d all but decided she had nothing to do with the snare that had closed around Peter. Still, having her sit in gave me a chance to judge her reactions, which so far looked innocent.

  “The behavior your father described to me – seeming distracted, unexplained absences – made me think Peter might have his hand in the cookie jar, or maybe was being blackmailed.” Throckmorton squirmed uncomfortably. Peter looked at him in dismay. “It’s nothing like that,” I continued. “Peter’s done nothing wrong. He has, unfortunately, landed himself on the bad side of some very tough characters.” Flora’s fingers flew to her lips. Her father muffled a groan. I nodded. “I think it would best if I let him tell you about it.”

  Peter took a quick slug of the whiskey he was drinking. He straightened and faced them. Red patches of self-consciousness spread across the wanness of his cheeks.

  “I never meant any harm – and I certainly never meant to worry you, Uncle Lou. I was stupid, and there are consequences for that just as there are for everything we do. I’m afraid I may have somehow jeopardized the business by my lack of judgment. I certainly don’t deserve your trust. So once you hear what I’ve done, if you want me gone – from the business and – and from your life as well, I’ll understand.”

  Throckmorton looked ill. His daughter had locked her hands around her knees and was listening anxiously. Neither spoke. They scarcely seemed to breathe. And Peter told the story he’d told me the previous day.

  * * *

  When Peter’s voice at last fell silent Throckmorton looked at his glass as if to find a starting place. The glass was empty. He tried to speak. His voice broke. He frowned.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Peter. This is betrayal. A betrayal.”

  “Father –” His daughter moved to his side and place a hand on his shoulder. He ignored her.

  “I’ve tried my best to be a parent to you. Tried to teach you the value of level-headedness and practicality. But rather than appreciate the trust I’ve place in you, you’ve succumbed to - to some absurd fantasy. You’ve jeopardized–”

  Abruptly the starch went out of him. He tugged his glasses off, polished them savagely and settled them back in place.

  “I’m paying you. Can you get him out of this?” he snapped at me.

  Behind his bluster I heard the appeal. For the first time since he’d hired me, I decided Throckmorton was on the level.

  “I can try,” I said.

  Throckmorton nodded. The reality of my answer possibly reassured him more than a flat promise. He took off his specs again, studying them.

  “Could this – do you think it might have something to do with those burglaries we’ve been reading about?”

  “That occurred to me. I expect it has to Peter as well.”

  “Uncle Lou, I am so abysmally sorry–”

  “So you should be. Still mooning over Tom Swift engineering nonsense at your age.”

  “Don’t make him feel worse, Father! Pete would no more do anything he thought might hurt the business – or you – than I would.”

  T
hrockmorton waved a hand at her words.

  “The important thing now,” he said eyeing me, “is what do we do?”

  Tackling something the way he would a business problem was more comfortable ground for him than sorting out feelings. It was also just what was needed.

  “To start with, you can take a gander at the list of places that have been hit and that the cops or the papers seem to think are big enough to be part of this rash.” Opening my purse I took out the list I’d made at the library that morning. I’d typed it up minus my notes. “Let me know if these are all your customers.”

  Flora, who had settled herself on the sofa again, got up and handed it to him, moving behind the chair and leaning over his shoulder as he read.

  “Yes ... yes ... yes....” His spirits sagged as his finger moved down the column. “Hang on. Miami Steamworks isn’t ours.”

  Peter, after hesitating, had come to read over Throckmorton’s other shoulder. “Neither is Gibbs Brothers.”

  “Ours ... ours...”

  “MJ&J is ours, but they have another supplier as well,” Flora said with excitement.

  Throckmorton looked up blinking. “What do you mean?”

  Peter looked at her too. She flushed under their gazes.

  “Haven’t you ever compared their orders with orders from other places their size? It’s about half as large. I wondered why, and the only explanation I could come up with was that they also purchase supplies from someone else.

  “I thought if I could confirm it, Pete could do his magic with someone there and get the whole account. There’s a girl from my class at Miami Jacobs who works there, so I took her to lunch one day and asked her what we’d have to do to get all their office products business. She said we couldn’t. One of the owners apparently made it a rule that they have to use two suppliers – his way of making sure they weren’t left in the lurch a few years back when things were awful and places went broke every day and couldn’t deliver their goods.”