Confusion creased the space between her brows. “They say they can’t be sure. But the phone call–” The piece that had eluded her fell into place. “He didn’t tell you.”
I shook my head.
“First thing this morning. Just as we were leaving the house. When he answered the phone, someone told him, ‘Dump the detective or it’ll be a bigger fire next time.’ Verbatim, I should think. Father doesn’t use slang.”
Attempting a smile Flora hugged the sleeves of the thin silk blouse she was wearing. She’d doubtless removed her suit jacket when she sat down at her desk, and hadn’t grabbed it when she raced out. Her words made puffs in the air. “I’m so awfully sorry.”
I nodded. “I think Beale has somebody watching this place now. Keep Paolo and Tony close.”
She went inside. I went back to my office.
* * *
It was 10 a.m., too early for gin, so I tried to read the paper. Chamberlain and Daladier had signed an agreement with Hitler in Munich. It said he could have the Sudentenland if he promised not to take anything else. I wondered how the Czechs liked losing their territory. About as much as I liked losing a client, probably. Tossing the paper aside I sat with my chin in my hands.
Woody Beale was a son-of-a-bitch. Since he wasn’t in jail, he knew I didn’t have evidence yet linking him to the burglaries. He also knew I couldn’t afford to keep digging for it with no client paying me. He’d scared Throckmorton off to stop me, which had to mean I was getting close.
I got up and aimed a kick at the trash can, which obligingly slid halfway to the door. My grudge against Beale was doubly personal now. First the ditch. Now getting me thrown off a case. Throckmorton was just the sort who once he got over being scared would start to believe his accusations about me – if he didn’t already. Six months or a year from now if someone mentioned me in a conversation he’d twitch his mustache and say he had it on good authority I wasn’t worth the price.
Yanking open a drawer I looked through the bills I was facing this month. I could manage without the last payment from Throckmorton. But only barely. The phone leered at me urging me to pick it up and say I’d changed my mind about the extra insurance work I’d been offered or to ask Abner Simms if he needed any help on background checks. Why not find out for once what it felt like to have more than five bucks in my savings account?
One day, or maybe two. That was all I needed. The certainty of it stung like salt in a wound. I picked up the trash can and was halfway back to the desk with it when I had an idea who might be willing to pay my fee for the two days I needed.
If.
If-if-if.
If only I could find a scrap of compelling evidence for what I suspected.
Fast.
Sometimes desperation gives rise to wild ideas. Sometimes they turn out to be not so wild. I slow-waltzed the much abused trash can back to where it belonged as those ideas began to cut in fast and furious. I’d been looking at too many trails and thinking they crossed in the wrong places. If that was right, I had a hunch where I could find some answers.
Grabbing my coat I set out for Mae’s – and hoped she wasn’t home.
Thirty-seven
As I drove I examined what I’d been missing, trying to evaluate my emerging theory. Benny Norris had seen or heard something that got him killed. But following that trail had led me too far out of the way. Woody Beale and his golden boy Al were searching for something. That’s where I needed to focus. What if Benny’s so-called insurance policy was what they were after but it had never occurred to them Benny might have it?
That could make sense.
Benny had been a company man when he came to my office. He’d threatened me and tried to pry out the name of the client who’d hired me. He’d never said anything like ‘Where is it?’ His only question had been ‘Who?’
In the argument overheard by the manicurist from Ollie’s, Houseman had referred to an errand boy. Even Mae said Benny’s role for his boss had been a minor one. What if Benny had been too far outside Beale’s inner circle to know about their lather over the missing item? His room hadn’t been searched the night he was killed. Nor had Mae’s place. Or Muley’s.
Instead, it was my office someone had ripped apart. Because they believed Peter had whatever they wanted and – because of my inquiries in his behalf and my line of work – that he’d maybe turned it over to me.
“It fits,” I said aloud, so satisfied I had to hit the brakes hard for a red light in front of me.
Caught up in thoughts, I hadn’t been as aware as I should. Now I checked the rearview mirror but didn’t see anything that looked like a tail. To play it safe I zig-zagged awhile and parked four blocks from my real destination. I went into a little grocery where I watched for a few minutes, then moved my car to another spot half a block from where Mae lived.
Decked out in the glasses I’d worn with Heebs and toting a shopping bag that contained an old sweater, I walked up the street. Pretending to collect for a rummage sale had gotten me out of several tight spots when I’d been caught in a place I shouldn’t be.
It wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where you needed to lock the front door. I let myself in and paused to let my eyes adjust and to listen for signs I’d been noticed. The hall wasn’t fancy, but there was a clean smell miles removed from Muley’s down-at-heels rooming house. Behind the door to my left someone was ironing. Chatter from a radio mostly muffled the thump of the iron, the sort of domesticity that people for some reason always thought I should share.
No sound at all filtered down from upstairs. I tiptoed to Mae’s door. When laughter from the radio across the hall seemed likely to keep other occupants of the house from hearing, I tapped lightly. No sound of movement. I waited for another burst of laughter and tried again.
I carry a couple of crochet hooks in my purse. I couldn’t use them to make loops in thread if life depended. Locks seldom resist them, though, and Mae’s was no exception. Thirty seconds later I was inside, calling softly.
“Mae? Hey, Mae, it was unlocked.”
Mae wasn’t at home.
Leaning against the closed door I surveyed the living room. Where would Benny have stashed whatever he meant by his “insurance policy”? I doubted it was cash since he’d need both guts and opportunity to steal from his boss. Besides, Al wouldn’t carry a wad of cash when he’d made rounds with Peter. Yet Al had believed whatever he was after had been lost in the delivery truck. Most likely I was looking for some sort of paper. A document. Or photo. I hoped.
Mae was a tidy housekeeper. Surely Benny must have seen he couldn’t shove something into a vase or under a stack of magazines and expect it not to be found. I tried to recall every detail Mae had told me about their last meeting. He’d been angry. Mae hadn’t liked him in that sort of mood. She’d told him to leave; come back when he’d cooled off. He’d maybe been standing right here, just inside the door. He’d asked for a drink of water.
Closing my eyes, then opening them again, I saw afresh what Benny would have seen that night. And could have reached in the short time Mae was in the kitchen. Stepping forward I began to time myself. The couch had probably been Benny’s spot when he visited. It offered more room for a man to sprawl than the doily trimmed arm chair. A quick check under its cushions revealed nothing hidden there, though. Neither did the arm chair. Getting down on my side I checked the steel springs, in fine position to look as though I’d fainted if the door began to open.
Nothing.
If Benny Norris had hidden anything here, either Mae had found it or he was smarter than I was. I was fairly sure it wasn’t the latter. On the other hand, I could think of only one other place to check, and the thought of it curdled my stomach.
* * *
No one had cleaned in the Ace of Clubs since I’d been there. Or since Lincoln was assassinated, by the looks of it. I’d waited for its noontime clientele to empty their glasses and go back to plastering walls and pushing papers. As I’d hoped, it was
as empty as on my first visit. The two guys leaning on opposite ends of the bar looked like same pair who’d been there last time, but the place was so dim it was hard to tell. The rouged woman wasn’t at the table today. Three rickety booths on the back wall also were empty.
The hulking bartender shot me the curious look any unknown woman alone would produce if she came through the door. Then a scowl appeared.
“You’re the one left the message for Muley.”
“Great memory for a big guy.”
“Soon as I give it to him I had cops crawling all over me.”
“Nice to see you’re so sentimental over Muley meeting his maker. Two customers dead in what, ten days? Two weeks?”
“Get outa here before I throw you out.” He started around the bar.
“Lay a finger on me and you’ll have half the cops in the city working you over in shifts until you pee blood. And I’ll see to it the city closes this dump as a health hazard.”
He paused uncertainly. One of the barflies had looked up, too glazed to understand what was happening but aware of drama.
“On the other hand, if some high-priced musclemen have come around trying to wring information out of you, I can maybe keep you from winding up dead like Muley and Benny.”
He turned his head and spit contemptuously. On the bar. Nice touch, as it would have been lost on the floor. “Don’t need no help with musclemen. You some kinda cop?”
“Nope. Private.”
“A dame?”
“Yeah. We can vote, too.”
“Why are you in here? What d’you want?”
“Love letters.” I tossed him a nickel. “Buy yourself a beer and show me where Benny usually sat. Quickest way to get me out of your hair.”
Hercules kept a glare on to show he didn’t like me, but he reached for a glass. It had a residue in it. He upended it so the dregs dribbled into a tub. He squinted as if assessing its cleanliness. When he’d filled it with beer he finally answered.
“Anyplace he could find at the bar, mostly. If him and Muley got together it was that corner booth.”
I moved briskly hoping it wouldn’t occur to him to come and watch. Sliding into one side of the booth I eyed every surface. Table, seat, wall – even the ceiling which was scarcely visible in the dimness. I peered in the crack between seat and wall and poked my fingertips in for good measure. When that produced nothing, I did it all over again on the other side. Across the room my pal sipped his beer and watched me.
Desperate now, I steeled myself for a final effort. Getting down on my knees on the filthy floor, I turned my face up to the even filthier underside of the table. Held in place by two thumb tacks amid wads of discarded chewing gum there was an envelope.
My maneuver roused curiosity in the bartender, who started to move. Shoving my fingers into crusty remains that harbored God only knew what kind of diseases I pulled the envelope loose. Rocking onto my feet I waved it gaily.
“See – a love letter. And to think that son-of-a-bitch left his last words to my mother in a place like this!”
I sailed past the bartender, well out of reach and prepared to run if he lunged. Just short of the door I shoved the envelope into my pocket and wrapped my hand around my .38.
Thirty-eight
I was jittery as an old maid on a picket fence all the way back to my office. Dumping my coat I took the envelope and draped a sweater over my arm to hide the .38. My eyes and ears confirmed the hallway was empty, so I scooted down it around the corner and up the back stairs. The fourth floor housed a real estate firm and a place that peddled advertising doodads. This time of day the salesmen were usually out. If anyone started up to where I was, sounds from the elevator or the echoing stairwell would alert me. I sat down at the top of the stairs by the ladies restroom and opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper folded in thirds. Tiny holes pierced it where the thumbtacks had been. I smoothed it flat on my lap and tried to make sense of Benny’s “insurance policy”, for which Beale and Al would gladly kill.
It was a florist’s receipt. For two dozen long stems. The clerk who sold them had dutifully noted “Mr. Beale’s account”.
Above the florist’s letterhead were several lines of cramped, tidy handwriting. What drew my attention, though, were two drawings on the unused bottom half of the page. Squiggles. Circles. Short lines connecting things. I didn’t know what they meant, but I surmised they were some sort of electrical or mechanical diagrams. Burglar alarms? Next to one, in the same cramped hand as at the top, was more writing:
Your boy must have bumped the white wire.
That triggers it. Come in from here and crimp
the red lead.
Two arrows pointing into the diagram showed the locations specified.
Beneath the drawings a different, sloppier hand had noted: He says forget the 618's. They take a special instrument.
I leaned back on my elbows as satisfaction spread through me. Someone – probably Houseman – had drawn up diagrams of burglar alarms and slipped Beale info on how to disarm them. The writing at the top of the sheet proved to be addresses. A three digit number followed each group. One of those numbers was 618.
It was all making sense now. Some of the addresses looked familiar. Dimes to donuts I’d find them all on the lists Flora Throckmorton had typed.
I had proof.
Footsteps rose in the stairwell. I went on full alert. Sticking the paper and envelope into my pocket I reached beneath the sweater folded beside me and wrapped my hand around the .38. Without a sound I eased onto my feet and backed up the stairs and around the corner. An instant later I recognized the light tap of a woman’s shoes.
“Oh! You gave me a start!” exclaimed the woman from the employment firm next to my office.
“It’s too quiet up here this time of afternoon,” I said smoothing the draped sweater with my free hand so it didn’t slip and give her a worse start. She chuckled agreement and turned into the ladies. I headed down.
In my office I locked the door and sat at my desk while my head whirled with what I now knew. What I had. My fingers edged toward the blotter and the list of Peter’s deliveries hidden beneath it. I was eager to compare those addressed to the ones on the page with the diagrams. First, though, I had to make sure this single, irreplacable bit of proof wasn’t stolen or destroyed.
The phone rang.
“Hey,” said Jenkins. “Ione and I just decided to take in some jazz tonight. Want to come?”
“Gee, I can’t,” I said.
Even before I heard his voice, I’d discarded the thought of asking him for help. From our paling around I felt sure he could take a photograph of the paper Benny had hidden and somehow make prints. Problem was, Stutzweiler or somebody else might come in, and was sure to ask questions if they noticed he wasn’t developing a picture of people or buildings.
“You on the trail of something?” Jenkins knew it wasn’t like me to say no to jazz.
“Bad tooth. Got to see a dentist.”
He commiserated. I hung up and steepled my fingers. Assuming Ernie knew how, he’d be willing to take a picture and make some prints in his backroom porn studio. But he’d charge me an arm and a leg for the rush job and still wouldn’t have it done by the end of the day. Plus I wasn’t sure how much I could trust Ernie if a higher bidder showed up. Especially one with a gun.
With either of those choices, the document also would be, however briefly, out of my possession. And Woody Beale was willing to kill for it. I puffed my cheeks and tilted my knees side to side to swivel my chair. After several minutes it occurred to me there was a better way to get what I needed – if whoever I talked to wasn’t fussy.
* * *
The abstract office was up toward Miami-Jacobs. I’d been there a year, maybe eighteen months, earlier. A teacher at the theological seminary suspected his elderly aunt was being snookered in a land transaction. Some digging on my part lent weight to his suspicions. The chain of ownership
on the property suggested there might be a problem. Since he’d come to me late, we’d had to scramble to get proof in front of her and a lawyer who could dissuade her from signing. The lawyer had told me about the place I was now headed.
“They can make you three copies in twenty, thirty minutes,” he’d promised. “Like pictures.” He’d been right. But I hadn’t had reason to think of them since.
It was half an hour before quitting time, maybe the best time for my purposes since people were less inclined to argue if it meant staying late to do what you asked. I bounced up the steps to my destination and gave the woman at the counter my best smile.
“Oh, hi. Mr. Shaw needs three copies of this for a meeting first thing in the morning. He called about it.”
The woman eyed me without encouragement. “I didn’t hear about any phone call.”
“Oh, gee – he said he’d call. And he’s already gone to meet some lawyer buddies for cocktails....” I took the page with the diagrams out of the fresh envelope I’d provided and slid it to her as I talked.
“It’s only one page. It won’t even make you late getting off – I’ve seen what a whiz you are with that big machine.” I wasn’t at all sure she was the one who’d run the machine, called a Photostat, when I’d come here before. Nonetheless she looked up, weakening at the compliment.
“I guess I’m caught up on everything else....”
“I could talk to your boss–”
“I’ll do it. Next time call ahead though, okay?”
I nodded a vigorous promise and kept her busy with questions while she ran the machine. Most people like it when you take an interest in their job. It also distracted her from taking a good look at the document she was copying for me.
While I watched I wondered whether Jenkins had ever seen one of these machines in action. Two minutes to make what the woman called a blackprint of the florist’s receipt with its incriminating additions. Then, using the blackprint and sheets of special paper, maybe fifteen seconds for every white copy. A little more time to set up and finish, but still a whiz. Some day would Jenkins and his fellow shutterbugs use a gadget like this to print pictures?
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