The city editor grunted again. “You stopped a guy from talking—a guy who could have talked,” he said.
I nodded again. “Any suggestions? I might get a microscope or try adding and subtracting figures for the secret formula. Or I could hop a rattler back to New York, furnish an office with thick rugs and etchings by Navarro—and mastermind from the inside.”
Phil sat down again. I poured myself a drink, drank it, made a face. Dobe smiled with his lips.
“It’s better when it gets down,” he said. “What in hell did that fat widow and Chief Butman have to do with the green stones?”
I passed the bottle back to him.
“Anyone can ask questions. You can ask me fifty of them and if I can answer two I’ll be lucky. But I’m still alive. This is 1930, and mobs work differently from what they did in Sherlock Holmes’s time. I may stumble on something.”
“On a slab in the morgue,” he suggested. “Maybe you’re right—maybe the killings are related. If they are, it isn’t a bunch of green stones that’s causing the gun-pops—”
The phone bell rang. I lifted the receiver, said that Howard Evans was speaking. I tried to make my voice sound sleepy.
Quirt said: “This is Jackson. No sign of my party. The front is loaded up with law—and I’d better ease away. What next?”
I looked at Phil Dobe. “Come back to the Penn,” I said. “I’ll wait up. I’ve got something to tell you.”
He said all right, that he’d be over in twenty minutes. I gave him the room number and told him to come right up. He hung the receiver. Phil Dobe took out a gun that looked like a cannon and started inspecting it. I got up and walked around behind him.
“Don’t mess things up like a damned kid,” I warned. “Don’t shoot until you can see the blue of his eyes.”
Phil swore. “You do the talking, Mal,” he said. “I’ll be in the bathroom—and I’ll get a look at him. He won’t see me. If I’m crazy, and Quirt has sneaked back to town, I’ll just sit tight. If he’s someone else—I’ll run the water.”
I groaned. “He’ll know I’m not alone,” I said. “He’ll be suspicious—”
Phil Dobe smiled. “Tell him this is one of your big nights,” he said.
He took a small package from a pocket of his overcoat, hanging over the bed. He broke the string. The object inside was pink, soft, and laced. He tossed it carelessly toward the dresser.
“It’s for my latest,” he said. “She likes ’em pink.”
I got up and swore at him. “How about a hat and a coat—if there was a woman in here—”
He chuckled. “Tell him she was in bed when she heard you were in town. She came right over—”
There was a knock on the door. It was soft, almost gentle. Phil’s eyes widened. He headed for the bathroom door. I put the wine bottle out of sight, went over and opened a window, went over and opened the door.
She was very pretty in a dark, plain way. She wore a gray-black ensemble with a hat to match. Her face was pale and decidedly oval. There was no makeup. Her lips had slight color. She was rather small, weighed about a hundred and five or ten. Her eyes were dark and she kept them on mine. Her gloved hands were motionless at her sides.
“Mr. Evans?”
Her voice was low and soft. It had a smooth, almost soothing effect. When she spoke, a slight smile played about her lips. Her teeth were very nice.
I nodded. The door was half opened. She spoke again.
“Mr. Steiner sent me—he said you’d see me. It’s important.”
I stepped aside. She walked into the room. She stopped about three feet from the bit of pink silk. I shut the door and locked it. She didn’t seem to notice the pink silk or the sound of the lock snapping. She picked out the chair Phil Dobe had been sprawled in, sat down, folded her arms casually. I went over and sat down on the bed, facing her. She had a small, flat, dark-colored purse on her lap. It was plain.
“How is—Mr. Steiner?” I asked.
She smiled. She wasn’t beautiful, but there was a beautiful quality in her face. Her eyes held a soft expression.
“He’s dead,” she said very calmly. “He died about a half hour ago.”
I reached for my package of cigarettes, knocked over an empty glass, picked it up. I offered the package to the girl. She refused with a slight smile.
“That’s tough,” I said slowly. “He was a pretty good fence. Maybe he should have stayed in his store.”
She didn’t seem to hear me. But there was no vacant expression in her eyes. They weren’t even dreamy. She seemed to be looking into mine, through mine. There was a silence that was beginning to grow awkward when I broke it.
“And he sent you to me?”
She shook her head. “That wasn’t the truth,” she said. “I wanted to see you—and I thought perhaps that would get me inside the room.”
I stared at her. She was smiling again. I started to get sore, changed my mind.
She said: “You’re alone?”
She looked toward the pink silk even as she asked the question. I couldn’t figure the best answer, so I stalled.
“Either way, it won’t matter,” I replied. “I’m curious.”
She relaxed a little. She started to remove her right-hand glove, changed her mind, crossed her arms again. Her eyes were very beautiful. Her hat was a tight-fitting turban—there was no chance of seeing her hair, not as she faced me.
“I came to tell you some things,” she said very quietly. “I’d prefer that you would just listen—and not ask about me. Do you mind?”
I nodded. “Of course I mind,” I said. “But it depends on what you tell me.”
She smiled, and the expression of her eyes changed. She seemed to be thinking.
“I’d like to help you,” she said. “There are some things I can tell you that will help you. I’m sure of that. But I’m selfish. I must be protected. So you mustn’t ask about me.”
I leaned back against the wood at the foot of the bed and smiled at her.
“Sort of a mystery woman,” I mocked.
She shook her head. “I’m not that important, I’m afraid. But I can help you. Do you need help?”
I couldn’t figure her. So I played along. “What sort of help?” I countered.
She smiled with her dark eyes half narrowed. Her features were very perfect; her face was slightly too oval. She looked something like a Benda model I’d seen on the cover of some magazine. Only the mask-like quality was absent.
“You did rather a decent thing two years ago,” she said. “Ellis wasn’t much of a woman. You served two years for her. I think women admire that sort of thing, don’t you?”
I kept my body relaxed, shrugged my shoulders. I thought of Phil Dobe, out of sight in the bathroom, thought of the man I knew as Quirt, on his way over to the William Penn. I tried to figure why this girl referred to Dot as “Ellis.” She spoke again.
“Serving two years for a woman is something a man can do.” Her voice was very steady, soft. “There are other things a man cannot do. Ellis was just one of Cherulli’s women. She was very foolish. She was drinking in excess. Garren murdered her. You called in Donelly and when Garren attempted defense, Donelly shot him dead. That was foolish of you.”
I kept my back against the wood of the bed, looked at the girl’s gloved hands, looked at her eyes, smiled. I said nothing.
Her tone was one of casual conversation as she went on. “In prison you decided that a few very clever crooks were taking advantage of smaller crooks, weaklings. You decided to use the little crooks as the big ones did—and eliminate the big ones, the crime-breeders. I have the same idea, the same plan. I want to help you.”
I nodded. I didn’t say anything. She smiled almost lightly.
“My brother killed himself, after he had become so involved in dishonesty that there was no other way out. He didn’t need money. That is the major motive of most criminals. But we had plenty of money. It was the adventure that he wanted, the thrill. After
he died—I decided to do what I could. I have a lot of money to help me. I have information that will help you.”
I leaned forward, tapped cigarette ashes into the tray on the chair. I didn’t speak.
The girl said: “I can tell you why Ellis was murdered. I can tell you why Wirt Donner was murdered—and who killed him. I can tell you why and how the Widow and Butman were murdered. I can tell you why Cherulli was killed—”
She stopped. I half closed my eyes and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
She said: “Do you want to know any of these things? Are you interested?”
I shook my head. “You’ve got me confused with some other person,” I said. “This Steiner—he must have given you a name similar to mine—”
She laughed a little. It was a very pleasant laugh.
“Mal Ourney is not at all similar to Howard Evans,” she said. “But remember, after I got inside I told you that I did not come from Herb Steiner.”
I nodded. “But perhaps he mentioned my name,” I suggested.
She shook her head. She looked at her left wrist—I caught the gleam of a watch crystal.
“It’s just one-twenty-five,” she said in her same smooth voice. “Why not ask Dobe to come out of the bathroom?”
I got up and walked around behind her. She didn’t move her body. My hands were shaking a little. I called out.
“Oh, Phil—come on out!”
He came out. The girl stood up, turned, faced us both. She nodded toward Phil.
“I don’t know what the paper will do without you,” she said softly. “But perhaps you can give me some suggestions to pass along.”
Dobe looked at her, then at me. He said: “It’s a frame.”
I nodded. Dobe’s right hand was under his suit coat. The gun bulged. The girl let her dark eyes glance toward the bulge. She looked at her wrist watch again.
“Your man Quirt’s late,” she said steadily. “He told me—”
She stopped as a very gentle tapping came into the room from the wood of the door.
12
FOURTEEN
FOR ONE
I looked at Phil Dobe. “Go easy on that gun,” I said. “This’ll be all right.”
The girl kept on smiling. Her eyes were half closed. I went over to the door, snapped the lock, opened it. Two men were outside. They were both smiling.
The girl called out: “Hello, Ed—hello, Tom. Come on in.”
I forced a grin. “Sure,” I said. “Come on in—it’s good to see you.”
One man was short, with a thin face. The other was medium in size. They both had dark hair and dark eyes. They walked past me—both of them kept both hands in their pockets. They smiled at the girl, but neither spoke.
I closed the door, but I didn’t lock it. When I turned around, Phil Dobe was standing near a window, his right hand out of sight. He was smiling at the shorter of the two men.
The girl remained seated. She said: “Mr. Grace and Mr. Anderson—meet Mr. Ourney and Mr. Dobe. Mr. Dobe is city editor of the Post-Dispatch. Mr. Ourney is just visiting in Pittsburgh.”
The two men nodded their heads. They looked bored. I didn’t care much for the expressions on their faces.
I walked back toward the girl and sat near the foot of the bed again. Phil Dobe smiled in my direction.
“What’s this all about?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Maybe we’re supposed to guess,” I suggested. “It’s a new game, perhaps.”
The girl got up from her chair, walked toward the door, stood with her back to it. The two men who had come in had separated. One stood near the bathroom door, the other had his back to the wall near the bed. They both had fixed smiles on their faces.
“We play it this way—” The girl paused, smiled pleasantly. Her voice was very nice.
There was silence, and then the sound of light footfalls came into the room. The sound ceased; there was a knock on the door. The girl looked at me. She said: “Quirt.”
I nodded. I called out a come-in. My voice was fairly steady, but my throat felt a little dry. The door opened a short distance. The man I’d figured was Quirt came in. He looked around before he closed the door. He was smiling.
I spoke to Phil Dobe. “Yes—or no?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said slowly.
The girl smiled toward the man I’d thought Was Quirt, then, smiled at me. She gestured toward the mild-faced one.
“You’ve met Mr. Christenson, I think.”
I nodded. “He was a big help,” I replied.
Christenson nodded. His mild blue eyes went around the room, then met mine.
“I’m glad, Mr. Evans,” he said simply.
I said grimly: “The hell you are!”
The girl laughed lightly. Her laughter had a tinkling tone.
“Suppose we get into the game,” she suggested. “We’ll play ‘Who’s got the stones?’ It’s a lot of fun.”
I nodded. “While it lasts, it is,” I said. “What stones?”
Christenson spoke in his thin tone.
“By the way, Ourney—I think Virgie got away. Too bad.”
I pretended I hadn’t heard him. My eyes were on the girl’s.
“What stones?” I asked again.
She let the smile fade away from her eyes and lips. But her voice remained pleasantly calm. “The green ones,” she said. “The ones Carrie Donner gave Garren. The ones you took away from him before you turned that dick loose on him.”
I swore softly. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you’ve been given the wrong dope.”
The shorter man of the two who had come in together moved restlessly. He muttered something I didn’t get. I didn’t like the sound of the muttering.
“Don’t be silly.” The girl’s voice was still pleasant. Her oval face was turned toward mine. “Cherulli passed them to Ellis. Garren took them and got them to Wirt Donner. He sent them back by Carrie. Or maybe by Virgie Beers. Anyway, he sent them back. You got them.”
I shook my head. “I can see why you think I did,” I said. “But I didn’t.”
Christenson spoke. “I’ve got enough on him to turn him in,” he said. “If he won’t come through—let him squirm through a thirder.”
Phil Dobe chuckled harshly. “It won’t go,” he said. “I know Mal—and I know the bulls in this town.”
The girl turned her head slightly. She looked at Phil as though she were doing so for the first time.
“Ourney’s a crook,” she said steadily. “It doesn’t matter that you’re city editor of a scandal sheet. I’m fighting crooks. They ruined my brother’s chance for a decent life. Every one I can send over—I’m sending over. I’ve got Ourney with the goods. He’s been playing reformer. He’s a crook.”
Phil grinned. “Let me kiss your hand, madame,” he intoned softly. “I think you’re right.”
The girl’s lips got tight and thin. She narrowed her eyes. They were on Dobe’s.
“I said I didn’t know how that yellow sheet of yours would get along without you—and I meant it,” she said softly. You talk too much. In a week or so you’ll be quieter. You’re playing with the wrong sort of children.”
I sat up straight on the edge of the bed.
“Let’s get down to facts,” I said. “What’s it all about? This fellow isn’t Quirt. You want stones I haven’t got, and you know things. Talk sense.”
The girl walked over and stood close to me. She snapped the catch of her plain purse, got a hand inside. I looked for a gun—but it didn’t come out. She made a swift movement and spilled green color all over the white spread of the bed. The color rolled in all directions.
Phil Dobe whistled softly. “Emeralds,” he whispered.
The girl shook her head. “Fused glass,” she contradicted. “I’m trading.”
Christenson and Phil Dobe had moved in close to the bed. The other two men remained where they had been. The girl’s dark eyes met mine.
“Trading—for what?” I asked.
For the first time there was a shade of annoyance evident. She didn’t smile. Her voice wasn’t so soft. She clipped her words a bit.
“For just one green stone,” she said.
I reached into my vest pocket and produced the stone I’d picked up near Carrie Donner’s body. I rolled it on the spread. The girl stopped its movement with a gloved finger. She didn’t pick it up. She got her head down closer. The light was good, and the white of the spread made a nice background.
We all stared at the stone. I looked at some of the others. They were similar to the one I had found in the Harris Hotel room. Most of them were larger. Some were the same size. Only one was smaller.
The girl straightened. There was a little gleam in her eyes.
“Thanks,” she said. “That’s all right, Mal. It’s a trade.”
She slipped the one stone in her bag. Phil Dobe looked at me.
“You don’t have to stand for this, Mal,” he said. “These crooks can’t get away with anything like this.”
I smiled. “You’ve got a good look at them,” I said. “Don’t forget them, Phil.”
The girl went over to the door, turned her back to it. She had poise. Her tone was soft, amused.
“I’m letting you stay out of stir, Ourney,” she said. “It’s the best way—for me. My name’s Jeanette Ramone.” She spelled out the last name. “I’m registered at the Schenley. It’s quieter there. I’ll be there for a few days. I’m trying to do something in my way. You’re a crook, but you’re not important. I’m after the big ones—the ones who use the little fellows.”
There was mockery in her voice. The last words were mine. I shrugged my shoulders, looked at Quirt.
“You saw me pick up that stone,” I said quietly. “Congratulations.”
He smiled at me. “I did the job you paid me for,” he said. “I was in Quirt and Callarson’s office when you phoned. I was on an extension. So I went over.”
He moved toward the door. The girl looked at one of the two men who had come in together, then at the other. She nodded her head. They followed her.
The girl looked at me. Her oval face held a smile that was half mockery. Her voice was rather lovely. Softer than ever, perfectly controlled.
Green Ice Page 15
