Death House Doll

by Keene, Day

  He was almost cheerful about it. “Okay. So I’m stuck up again.” He opened the cash drawer, “It’s not my money. Besides, any small diversion is welcome when a man gets so goddam old all he can do is stand back of a desk listening to his arteries harden.”

  I leaned on the desk. “Hold it, dad. You’ve got this a little wrong.”

  He closed the drawer again. “Don’t tell me that’s a banana in your pocket.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s a gun, but I don’t want to use it. I’d much prefer to buy my information.”

  He made me then. “Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t Ivanhoe, the second, the tough tech sergeant of infantry who is out to pry his brother’s widow out of the death house. Even if he has to pound on every hood and broad in Chicago.” I wished he wouldn’t talk so much. “That’s right,” he continued. “The last take on you I read said you were wearing a gray suit.” He lowered his voice and leaned across the desk. “What sort of information are you looking for, Duval? The name of some nice quiet place where you can hole up until the heat cools off a little?”

  I shook my head at him. “No.”

  The old man seemed disappointed.

  I added, “It was nice of you to ask but how do you know I didn’t rape the dame?”

  “In the name of God, how?” he asked me. “That apcray in the papers is strictly for the squares. Go ahead. You tell me. Just how would you ‘rape’ a dame who hustles at The Furnace? I would be interested to know. You see, Gloria used to bring her trade here before she crawled into Joe LaFanti’s bed. And a very nice business she did. I’ve rented her the same room eight times in one night.” He spread his hands on the hotel counter. “So what do you want of me?”

  I laid two twenties and a ten between his hands. “For you. For the answer to three questions.”

  He eyed the bills. “Go on. You interest me.”

  “You worked here when Mona lived here?”

  “I did. I was on duty the night they say she killed Stein.”

  “Did she?”

  “She was convicted. Is that one of the questions?”

  “No.”

  “Well, get on with it,” the old man said. “What do you want to know?”

  “During the time Mona lived here, who was her best girl friend?”

  The old man shook his head. “That’s hard to say. Girls turn over fast in the rackets, in more ways than one. She had quite a few friends. But during the last month Mona lived here, there was one in particular I remember. A mousy little dame she called Clara. She used to come over almost every night and sit with the baby.”

  “A hustler?”

  “No. Strictly on the level.”

  I thought a moment. “No, can you tell me this? What beauty shop did Mona patronize?”

  He shook his head. “There you have me, fellow. But there’s a place across the street run by a woman named Olga that quite a few of the girls who live here patronize. It could be she went there. And your third question?”

  “Where did Mona come from? That is, where was she born? Where did she live before she came to Chicago?”

  “That I can tell you,” he beamed. “Pierre, South Dakota. She got mail regularly from there up until about a month before the night she got involved with Stein. And I’ve heard her say several times she wished she’d had sense enough to stay there.” His hands hovered over the bills. “My money?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Your money. And now as soon as I walk out the door you call the cops and tell them I was here?”

  He spat back of the desk. “Believe me. I wouldn’t tell a cop the right time of day.”

  I believed him. The cops wouldn’t learn where I was from him.

  The beauty shop across the street was closed and dark but there was a light in the living quarters behind the shop. Either a radio or a TV was playing. I rattled the knob, then rapped and a well-built, middle-aged woman with red hair answered my pounding on the door.

  “Are you Olga?” I asked her.

  Her breath smelled of beer and braunschweiger. She looked at me in the half-light, amused. “Yes. I’m Olga. But if you’re looking for what I think you are, someone has steered you wrong, mister. This isn’t that kind of a ‘shoppe.’ Why don’t you try the massage parlor in the next block or the hotel across the street?”

  I said, “The hotel clerk across the street sent me here. All I want is some information.”

  It wasn’t light enough in the doorway for her to see me clearly. She asked, “Who are you?”

  “Let’s say I’m a friend of Mona Ambler.”

  She stiffened at the name.

  “You knew her?”

  “Very well.”

  “She patronized your shop?”

  “For a number of years.” Olga went on record. “And whoever you are and whatever ax you’re grinding, I think the kid is getting a raw deal.”

  “You don’t think she killed Stein?”

  “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. If she did it was his own fault. She made a sincere effort to go straight before LaFanti forced her back into the racket. I know she wanted out. And Stein had no right to tempt her by showing her one hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars’ worth of unset diamonds.”

  It was a new angle. I couldn’t decide if it was in Mona’s favor or not. “You say she had her beauty work done here?”

  “She did. Mona was a good customer. I could figure her for two manicures and a rinse and set every week and a new permanent every three months.”

  “You worked on her yourself? You handled her hair, her face, her ears?”

  “Of course.”

  I asked what I’d come to ask.

  Olga thought a moment. “Why, no. Come to think of it, they weren’t. She always wore clip earrings.”

  I felt good. I felt fine. I’d never felt better in my life. I grinned. “I could kiss you.”

  Olga shook her head. “I don’t get you, mister.”

  I leaned against the jamb of the door. “Now, please tell me this if you can. Was Mona her right name?”

  “No, and her last name wasn’t Ambler. It was Jones. She came from some town in South Dakota.”

  “Pierre?”

  “That’s the town. I remember we were talking one afternoon and Mona told me her right name was Mary Jones but when she came to Chicago and tried to break into show business, she decided Mary Jones didn’t sound glamorous enough. So she changed her name to Mona Ambler.”

  I knew all I needed to know. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  Olga was puzzled. “Hey. What’s this all about? You say you’re a friend of Mona’s?”

  “Yeah. She was my bother’s wife.”

  “Your brother’s wife?” She took a lighter from the pocket of her dress and flicked it so she saw my face. “Then you must be Mike Duval, the crazy sergeant, who’s driving the cops nuts.”

  I looked across the flame at her. “Do I look crazy to you?”

  She studied my face for a long time. “No. You look like a good guy to me.” Her voice when she spoke again was harder than it had been. “This is more of Joe LaFanti’s work, huh? He’s pushing you around, just like he pushed Mona.”

  “Let’s say he’s trying to.”

  Olga put her hand on my arm. “Let’s hope he doesn’t succeed. You’re on the trail of something, something that may help Mona?”

  “I think I am.”

  “Do you need any money?”

  “No.”

  “Then, some place to lie low?”

  “I can’t help the kid lying low.”

  Her finger nails bit into my muscles. “Then luck to you, soldier. All the luck in the world. And if there is anything more that I can do or anything I can tell you, you come back.”

  I said, “I’ll do that. Thanks. Thanks a lot for the information.”

  My footsteps sounded hollow on the deserted sidewalk. I walked on up the steet away from her. When I reached the corner I looked back. Olga had turned on the overhead light in the doorway
. When she saw me look back, she raised her arm like she was wishing me luck.

  Along with what she’d told me, it gave me a lift, a big one. So there are a few bastards in the world. There are also a lot of swell people.

  I tipped my hat to her and turned the corner and walked south to the Loop.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE LIGHTS on the theatre marquees had been turned off, but the bars and restaurants along Randolph Street were still going strong. The walk was crowded with people walking, window shopping, or just standing on the corners enjoying the warm night. There were couples out for a good time, single girls out for no good and assorted two-legged wolves eager to oblige them.

  I walked into the lobby of the Sherman as if I owned the hotel. If the house detective or some city cop recognized me all he could do was shoot. I’d been shot at before. I’d been shot at a lot of times.

  The telephone room was off the lobby, a good-sized room lined with booths and two girls at a switchboard behind a counter. I told one of the girls I wanted to make a long-distance call to Pierre, South Dakota.

  She said, “Yes, sir. To whom do you wish to speak?”

  I said, “I don’t know.”

  She was puzzled. “You don’t know to whom you want to speak?”

  I tried to explain. “Look. It’s like this, miss. I’m looking for some information about a party who used to live in Pierre and I don’t know who would know. Could I talk to the operator in Pierre?”

  She said, “Certainly,” and assigned me to a booth. At that time of night it was like phoning across the street. When the operator in Pierre came on the wire, I explained the situation to her. “It’s like this, miss,” I said. “I’m trying to get some information about a girl who left there some years ago. I don’t know how many. All I know is her name is Mary and the family name is Jones.”

  She laughed. “That’s quite an order. After all, Jones is a fairly common name.”

  I said, “I realize that.”

  “And it’s half past two in the morning.”

  I said I also realized that but the information was very important to me. I made it as strong as I could. “In fact, and I’m not being corny, it could be a matter of life and death. How about the editor of the local paper? Do you think he’d mind being awakened if there was a big story in it for him?”

  “N-no,” she said. “I don’t. Just a moment, please.”

  I heard her ring a number, then a sleepy male voice came on the wire. The Pierre operator explained the situation to him and turned him over to me.

  He thought at first it was a gag. Bue he came awake with a bang, when I told him a girl who had been born and raised in Pierre was in the death house of the Illinois State Penitentiary under the name of Mona Ambler.

  He knew the case. He said, “We’ve had press service on it but I had no idea she was a local girl. What is her right name?”

  “Mary Jones.”

  I could almost hear him thinking. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally, “that doesn’t ring any bell. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll check with every Jones in the local exchange and see if they had a girl who went to Chicago. Where can I reach you?”

  I said I couldn’t be reached by phone but I would be glad to call him back.

  “You do that,” he said. “Suppose you call back in two hours. No. Better make it tomorrow morning at the paper. I’ll be there at seven sharp.”

  Five hours was a long time to wait. A lot could happen in five hours. But if it was the best I could do, I’d have to be satisfied. I wrote the number he gave me on the back of an envelope and went out and settled my bill.

  The girl behind the counter smiled. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?”

  “No, but I think I’m on the track,” I told her.

  I stood weighing my change in my hand. Making Gloria tell the truth was out of the question, but there was still the elevator kid. If I could get him and make him admit that he’d lied about me never having been in LaFanti’s apartment, his statement would give me something to turn around on. I could stop playing clay pigeon and let Captain Corson take over. The kid’s admission that he had lied would automatically clear up the business about war neuroses. It would also reinstate all the charges I’d made against LaFanti and give the captain a take-off point. Plus what I now knew about Mona, it also should take care of Gloria’s charge that I had first raped, then shot her.

  I found the Kelly page in the phone book. There were one hundred and thirty-nine Kelly’s listed in the book but only fourteen had first names beginning with M. I saw a Manton Kelly, Sr.

  Manton, Sr. looked good to me. I wrote the address and asked the girl back of the counter which side of the city it was on.

  She said, “On the south side. That shouldn’t be very far from Thirty-fifth and Wentworth, in the general neighborhood of the stock yards.”

  I thanked her and started back through the lobby to the street. A fish-eyed lad in a well-tailored suit was standing in front of the closed cigar counter. He smelled like a house dick to me. I didn’t look good to him either. I could almost see the wheels revolving in his mind, as he tried to decide if I was the mad rapist splashed all over the front pages of the papers. If I was, would it be smart to lay the arm on me and run the risk of giving the hotel a bad name?

  I solved the problem for him by taking my cigarettes from my pocket, as I walked up to the cigar counter.

  The counter’s closed, huh?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, “it is.”

  I stuck a cigarette in my mouth. “I wonder if you have a match? I seem to be fresh out.”

  He gave me a packet of matches with the name of the hotel on the cover. “Keep them,” he said, coldly.

  I lit my cigarette, then thanked him and walked on through the lobby, with him still undecided about me. As a general rule, lads who are wanted for rape and attempted murder don’t ask house detectives for matches.

  There was a cab parked not far from the Clark Street marquee. The palm of my hand slimy with sweat, I opened the door and got in before looking back at the hotel.

  The house man had come out on the walk and was standing, staring at me. I nodded pleasantly and waved my cigarette at him.

  “Where to?” the cab driver asked.

  “Thirty-fifth and Wentworth,” I told him.

  It was an old neighborhood with shabby-looking side streets leading off of the business district. The number I wanted was on Wentworth over a hardware store. With the exception of the bars and restaurants, all of the store fronts were dark, but there was a light in the flat over the hardware store.

  I stood a long time looking at the low-slung white Jaguar convertible parked at the curb in front of the stairs leading up to the flat. It wasn’t a Jaguar neighborhood. I walked from the car to the stairs and looked at the name over the bell. I’d come to the right place. Under Manton Kelly, Sr., someone had hand-painted the name Manny in pencil.

  I climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. A big, red-faced Irishman in a sweat-soaked undershirt came to the door with a can of beer in his hand.

  “Yeah —?” he asked.

  I said, “I’d like to see Manny.”

  He was worried. “You a cop?”

  I shook my head. “Hell, no. Just a friend of Manny’s.”

  He was relieved. “I see.” He blew beer fumes in my face. “For a minute I was worried. I thought maybe the punk had lied about how he got his new car.”

  “How did he get it?” I asked.

  Kelly, Senior chuckled. “At last a Kelly got lucky. He hit the big baseball pool for five grand. And what does the crazy kid do with the dough? He goes right out and lays down most of it for a Jaguar.” He was proud. “Quite a heap, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Quite a heap.”

  He remembered he didn’t know me. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Cole. Jim Cole,” I lied.

  He was friendly and lonely. “Come right in, Jim. A beer?�
�� I thanked him. “No.”

  He’d been watching his television set. He switched it off. “How was the late news?” I asked him.

  He made a sound in his throat. “Ahh. I’ve quit listening to it. So who cares if some doll over in England is going to be queen? Naw. All I ever watch is the wrestling and oncet in a while Groucho Marx an’ maybe on Sunday, Jack Benny.” He now remembered I’d come to see his son. “Now, look, about Manny, fellow —”

  “What about him?”

  “It can be, he’ll be back. You’re welcome to sit down an’ wait if you wanna. I’ll open up some more beer. But the chances are, he’ll be stinko by the time he gets here. He’s out kinda celebrating like. You know, on account of hitting the pool.”

  “You know where he is?”

  He laughed again. “Somewhere in the block. Probably either at O’Hara’s or Stan’s.” He explained. “I took his car keys offen him until he sobers up.” He drew a dirty lace curtain aside and looked down the street. “It would be a shame to smash up a heap like that.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “a shame.”

  “Look in O’Hara’s,” the old man said. “If he isn’t there, look in Stan’s. The punk is probably sitting in one of the booths with a girl or maybe even gone upstairs.” He finished the beer in his can and wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “So help me. I can’t understand you young guys. I never paid for quail in my life.” He confided, “And any time I do, it’s going to have to be platinum-plated with a cuckoo bird that comes out and sings Yankee Doodle. Ya sure ya don’t wanna beer?”

  I said I was sure and walked back down the stairs.

  I tried O’Hara’s first.

  “Yeah. Manny was in,” one of the barmen told me. “But I haven’t seen him for some time. You might try up the street in Stan’s.”

  I thanked him and ordered a rye and a short beer.

  As he served me, he asked, “Ain’t I seen you somewhere, fellow?”