“He wants to go and fritter away all his money.”
“’Tis not all my money.”
I undid my coat. Seamus slid me a look. I was fond of them both, but Billy had a way of sticking his nose in. Seamus didn’t. Since I’d been on my own, Seamus and I had developed a kind of closeness. Both of us alone in the world. There if the other one needed you, glad when we saw each other, but not getting in each other’s way.
“And what are you thinking of spending it on?” I inquired. Seamus, as near as I knew, was the soul of practicality.
“A phonograph,” he said stoutly. “Been wanting one for a time and now I’ve found one. Price is fair, too.”
I was speechless.
“You see?” Billy fumed. “He’s gone daft.” He leaned toward Seamus. “What’s a man close to being a pensioner want with a phonograph? They’re for hoity-toits who want to listen to opera. Or young bucks angling for a way to dance with girls.”
“I like girls,” Seamus said, almost hiding a grin as he bent to his Guinness.
He was baiting Billy, I realized with fascination.
“You’ve got a bum knee!” Billy shouted.
Finn looked up from filling a glass to give them a frown. He was probably more concerned that Billy would have a heart attack than that they’d come to blows. Toward the back of the room Mick Connelly, along with half the room, had turned to stare at the quarreling duo. I’d hoped Connelly might be here.
Billy blew out a breath, struggling to regain his temper.
“What makes you want a tom-fool phonograph?”
Seamus turned, his face alight. “Want to play some music in it, is what.”
“Then get yourself a radio. You can hear all the music you want, plus Charlie McCarthy and whatnot.”
“Don’t care much for the funny stuff. Besides, I want to listen to music I like. Patsy Tuohey ... that fiddler Michael Coleman....” He looked dreamy eyed as a girl.
Billy pounced.
“See? It won’t stop with the phonograph. You’ll keep on spending, buying those records!”
“There’s worse vices. And I want it. Mick thinks it’s a fine idea.”
“Mick!” Billy’s color had begun settling back to normal. Now it surged again. “Then maybe he’ll toss you a blanket when you’re out in the street!”
Jamming his hat on his head he strutted out.
“Stuffed shirt,” Seamus said to his back.
* * *
After commiserating with Seamus, I got two glasses of Guinness. I headed warily toward Mick Connelly’s table. I wanted to smooth things out, and I wanted some information, but being in a room with Connelly gave me the same sensation I’d had as a kid when I went too high in a swing.
Connelly watched my approach through half-lowered lashes. He had a small cowlick dab at the front of a head of hair that couldn’t decide if it was dark red or brown. Marks from childhood pox emphasized the hardness of his cheeks. He lounged back, relaxed, yet with an alertness that never seemed to leave him.
“Peace offering.” I slid him the Guinness.
“None needed.”
“By way of saying thanks, then.”
He nodded. “Think you’ve done that a few times, though not with stout in hand. Guess my pride just took more of a bruising that I cared to admit. You going to sit down?”
I did, and immediately started to question my wisdom in coming over. I shrugged out of my coat, buying time as I tried to think of a round about way to broach my next subject. It didn’t help that Connelly watched curiously.
He had a fine mouth. Well defined. Expressive. One corner quirked and he started to chuckle.
“Jesus. Have I just been reeled in like a great fish?”
“What?”
Nudging aside his nearly-empty glass, he reached for the fresh pint. “You tripped over here to try and worm something out of me the police know and you don’t.”
“That’s a lousy thing to – Will you stop laughing?”
He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table.
“For the life of me, I can’t see how that innocent look of yours fools so many people, easy as you are to see through. I’ll spare you the effort of asking me; the answer is no.”
Connelly had too good an opinion of how smart he was. I smelled a challenge. I sipped some stout. He did likewise.
“Fine. Think the worst of me, then,” I sighed.
I unbuttoned my suit jacket. I slid one arm slowly out, shifted and did the same with the other. The white silk blouse I had on rippled along my skin as I moved.
“I was only going to ask if there was any reason you couldn’t tell me whatever you might know about a man named Draper.” Raising both arms, I arched my back and lifted my hair. I heard Connelly’s breath catch. “He went missing a couple months back.”
“Missing?” Connelly had watched every move. His voice sounded strained.
My hair settled back into place. I leaned my elbows on the table a foot from his. He regarded me for a minute, then took a swallow of Guinness.
“That was some performance,” he said, raising the glass in salute. “Wouldn’t mind seeing it any day of the week.”
I deflated, but only a little. I knew I’d won. He considered briefly.
“Only missing person I recall from the last few months was a woman. Husband was frantic. Her parents thought he might have killed her. Turned out she’d run off with a salesman from Louisville.”
“Unidentified bodies?”
“Bum who froze to death. Never had a real name, but a couple of fellows knew him from a soup kitchen. Kid hit by a train. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. Most likely riding the rails from some little town in Kansas or such place.”
I looked away. Same age as my older brother when he disappeared. Maybe riding the rails. A long time ago.
“Might help if I knew more about the man you’re hunting,” Connelly’s baritone said.
“Businessman. Real estate investments. Had a good reputation until he put together a fake deal and took off with money from some pretty big wheels.”
Connelly rubbed his chin.
“I’d forgotten,” he said slowly. “Don’t know if it’s the same man. A month or two back a secretary called to say her boss hadn’t turned up for work. She was worried. Said she couldn’t raise him at home.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “We boys in the street weren’t brought into it, so I’d guess there was nothing suggesting foul play. Nor any complaints about being swindled.” His eyes traveled over me. They held the ghost of a smile. “If we picked at it over a bowl of stew, could be I’d remember something useful.”
I glanced toward the bar.
“I coaxed Seamus into letting me buy him ham croquettes at a joint he likes. I thought he could use a friendly ear.”
“Those two old fools squabbling over a phonograph,” Connelly said, shaking his head. “Go on, then. I’ll poke around, see if I can learn anything else.”
“Thanks.”
I got into my jacket and coat. When I rose to leave, Connelly stood too. His voice softened. He touched my elbow.
“Those bruises under your eyes that say you’re not sleeping – I figure it’s the shootout with Beale. The dreams go away, Maggie. It takes time, but they do go away.”
Nine
When I got to the office Monday morning my phone was ringing. Experience had taught me that usually wasn’t a good sign.
“That man you were asking about? They fished him out of the river last night,” Connelly said, low and fast. “Freeze is on his way over.”
He hung up before I could thank him. Freeze was a homicide detective. If Draper’s body had turned up, Connelly would have felt obligated to tell him I’d been making inquiries. That was okay by me. Connelly was a good cop, and good cops didn’t bend the rules.
In any case, he’d cued me in about what was happening. I wasn’t sure how I’d play things just yet, but I knew I had to call Wildman.
“This is Maggie Sullivan. Tell Mr. Wildman it’s urgent,” I said when the butler answered.
I undid my coat while I waited. I was wearing a swell hat, plum colored with a curly pink feather. It looked nice with my gray flannel suit. I’d barely had time to toss the hat on my desk before Wildman came on.
“Miss Sullivan–”
“Draper’s dead,” I interrupted. “They found him in the river last night. The cops heard I was asking about him. They’re on their way to see me. I won’t tell them I’m working for you, but they may have names.”
“Very good,” he said. “Thank you.”
No need to draw a picture for Wildman. We hung up at the same time. He could send people scurrying to help him prepare. All I could do was put on my thinking cap. It didn’t come with a feather, pink or otherwise. I hung my things on the coatrack next to the window and stood with one eye on the street.
Someone other than Connelly might have told Freeze I’d been looking for Draper, so I’d keep Connelly out of it unless he was mentioned. And as I’d assured Wildman, I didn’t intend to tell the cops who’d hired me. Apart from that, I’d share whatever information I had. That included the names of investors Draper might have duped. Including Wildman. He might deny it; I suspected some of the others might too.
A few of the cops, Freeze included, didn’t much like me. Sometimes I’d been a thorn in their sides. But when I could, I tried to cooperate with them. This was a murder investigation. Moreover I didn’t much like the way it had popped up. Draper, by all accounts, had disappeared months ago. Now, one day after I started asking questions, he turned up dead.
A nondescript black car came down the street and stopped. I guessed it was Freeze. The morning paper still lay on my desk where I’d dropped it to answer the phone. I moseyed over and propped my elbows over it and began to read. I was on page two when the cops came in.
* * *
Freeze was lean and gray at the temples with a nose too pretty for a man. He wore cheap suits and usually had two men at his heels. Today there was just one.
“Good morning, Miss Sullivan. I apologize for the intrusion,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly sorry.
“Hey, at least you knocked,” I said. “Some don’t. One guy walked in and caught me tightening my garter.”
“Uh–”
Freeze didn’t know how to respond. He and I weren’t exactly the best of pals. Behind him his sidekick looked from Freeze to me and shifted his feet.
“Sit down.” I gestured breezily. “What can I do for you?”
Freeze didn’t sit. He took a half-done cigarette from his lips and looked around for an ashtray. I pointed to the dimestore special on top of my four-drawer file cabinet.
“I understand you’ve been making inquiries about a man named Harold Draper.” He tapped ash from his glowing tobacco into green glass.
“That I have. He owes a client of mine some money.”
“I wouldn’t count on collecting,” Freeze said. “We pulled him out of the Great Miami.”
I leaned back a smidgen. “Dead or alive?”
“Dead.”
“Drowned?”
Freeze just looked at me.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me if it was suicide?”
He didn’t answer. He did sit down, though, hitching my client chair close enough to rest one arm on my desk.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know about him?” he said evenly.
His toady, following his lead, eased into a chair against the wall and took out a notepad. He was younger than Freeze with a broad face which might have been pleasant if it ever relaxed, which seemed unlikely working for Freeze. I was pretty sure his name was Boike, or something similar.
“Businessman,” I began, reciting what was starting to feel like a litany. “Commercial real estate, mostly. Well thought of enough that people with big money to invest coughed it up for a deal he was putting together six months ago. The way I heard it, he waltzed off with the money. One of the men he bilked hung himself not too long ago. There’s some speculation he did it because Draper ruined him.”
Freeze regarded me steadily.
“Nothing that we don’t already know. What else?”
I gritted my teeth. If he, in fact, knew all that, I’d be willing to bet it was only because he’d talked to Connelly. I’d bet more that some of it was new to him. If the body had been found last night, Freeze and his boys hadn’t had time to turn up diddly.
“Yeah, you probably got all that when he first went missing,” I said. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who pulled strings to keep that out of the papers?”
I’d pressed the right sore spot. Freeze sat up indignantly.
“Nobody pulled strings. There were no complaints against him. We had no indication a crime was committed.”
“In other words, you weren’t looking for him. Then how’d you identify the body?”
“He had identification.”
My poke had jarred loose a couple of nuggets. Freeze, as if catching on, clamped his mouth shut. Boike was watching us, head cocked. His eyes moved tactfully to the corner, halting as he noticed the dead plant.
Freeze stubbed out the end of his cigarette, which had gotten dangerously short.
“What else do you know?” he repeated tightly.
I thought for a minute. I could flip through my notes but that was likely to make Freeze demand them.
“He was a widower, possibly for some time. No children. Someone said he played tennis.”
“You don’t seem to have learned very much.” He nailed me with a look he probably used to break suspects.
I smiled.
“You’re absolutely right, I’m afraid,” I said sweetly. “But then I only started asking questions Friday.”
Freeze blinked and his steely look slipped. Toes together, I swiveled my chair back and forth a couple of times while he digested it.
“Curious, the timing of his body turning up, don’t you think?”
His grunt suggested agreement, and that he no longer thought I was holding back. Freeze was smart. We just got in each other’s way too much. Right now I could practically see the gears in his head turning.
“I’ll need the names of the people you’ve talked to about this,” he said. “Particularly any who fell victim to Draper’s scheme.”
I gave him the five names I’d been given, plus Ferris Wildman and Rachel Minsky. At the last name Boike looked up from his scribbling. I couldn’t tell whether it was because the name belonged to a female, or because he recognized it.
“And who hired you to find Draper?” Freeze asked.
I smiled.
Our truce was over. His pretty nose thinned in irritation.
“Is there some reason why you choose to withhold information?”
“Because the sign on the door says private investigations?”
He let his breath out slowly, seeking control. Pushing the issue would get him nowhere and he knew it. He got up.
“If you think of anything else, let us know.” Snapping his hat on, he went swiftly out.
Boike lagged behind, closing his notebook.
“That plant the same one that was dried up six months ago?” he asked, indicating the withered brown specimen.
“Yeah,” I said. “They all end up like that. Figured I might as well quit throwing money away on replacements.”
I’d dolled this one up in a green and black art deco pot from McCrory’s. Clients could see I had taste enough to decorate, but assume I got so involved helping people like them I forgot to water.
Boike nodded as if the answer made perfect sense.
Ten
With Draper turning up dead, Wildman wouldn’t be writing me any more checks to trace his whereabouts. Thanks to his advance I still would come out with my bank account looking healthier than it had for a while. Nevertheless, I began to wish I hadn’t spent my share of the money to replace Genevieve’s jacket.
“How ri
diculous even to think of getting another one when a halfway decent seamstress could spend ten minutes on this one and make it good as new,” she’d laughed.
That was Saturday morning. Examining the jacket’s underarm seams, I’d had to agree. The inch of seam where the sleeve had pulled away from the rest of the lining had been repaired so invisibly I no longer could determine where it had been.
Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries) Page 5
