Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries)

by M. Ruth Myers

  “Besides, brand new it didn’t cost half what your client coughed up,” Genevieve had insisted, tapping the money. “You and I could each buy a jacket for this amount, and that’s what I propose we do. Though it needn’t be a jacket, of course – as long as you don’t spend all yours on hats. If it will make you feel better, I’ll take an extra dollar to cover having my seam repaired.”

  So Saturday afternoon we’d had a shopping spree. Genevieve got a new skirt and I found a fine little evening jacket, black velvet brocade with lace cutwork. It looked perfect on me, and I didn’t have the willpower to take it back, but sitting in my office after Freeze and Boike left, I rued the extravagance.

  In twenty minutes I was scheduled to meet with Arthur Buckingham, the investor who hadn’t been able to see me on Friday. With my search for Draper at an unexpected end, I should call and cancel. Except I didn’t want to. The discovery of Draper’s body just as I started asking questions had my curiosity fizzing. Anything I learned talking to Buckingham would be irrelevant now, but it also would make my final – and only – report to Ferris Wildman more complete. If I couldn’t deliver anything spellbinding, he’d at least judge me thorough.

  The downside was the chance I’d run into Freeze, who wouldn’t be pleased that I was still snooping. With one of the men on my list out of town, that left one chance in five that I’d cross paths with Freeze. Not bad odds. I shrugged into my coat.

  * * *

  I didn’t run into Freeze, but I didn’t learn anything either. Buckingham was as bland as unseasoned potatoes. I didn’t tell him the cops would be calling, or even that Draper was dead. That way I hadn’t muddied the field for Freeze if he learned when I’d been there.

  “Hey, Sis, you look like your dog died,” called Heebs, my favorite newsboy, as I crossed Jefferson on the way back to my office.

  I lifted an arm, only half aware of him but smiling anyway. On impulse I did an about-face and trotted across to the corner where he spent most of every day.

  “Say, Heebs. They found a body in the river last night. A man named Draper. You hear anything about it?”

  Some of the newsboys live on the street, sleeping in alleys and doorways, moving in packs since they didn’t have families. Heebs was sharp as a tack. It was a damn waste.

  “Not yet,” he said with a grin. “What’s it worth if I do?”

  “Two bits.”

  “Make it four.”

  Cocky little devil.

  I nodded.

  Back at the office I thawed my toes on the radiator. Then I cranked a carbon set into my Remington. It didn’t feel right, typing a final report on a case I’d hardly started. I pecked a couple of words, then sat thinking about the visit from Freeze.

  My initial thought on learning of Draper’s death had been that its occurrence, just when I was starting to dig, was too convenient. That reaction had been nothing but instinct. What I’d pried out of Freeze spritzed some proof on that, or the smell of proof anyway. The police had identified the dead man from papers in his wallet. That meant the paper was still intact enough and the ink unblurred enough to read. That meant the body couldn’t have been in the water too long.

  I began hunting Draper. Not long after, he ended up in the river. There might not be proof one led to the other, but it seemed to me the condition of the paper he carried pointed in that direction.

  Shoving aside the thoughts I wrote my report for Wildman and typed up invoices for several small, routine clients who kept me almost solvent. I was licking an envelope when the telephone rang.

  “Miss Sullivan?” said James C. Hill. “Mr. Wildman wants to see you at half-past four.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to r.s.v.p.

  * * *

  I presented myself at half-past four. The butler ushered me to a small office where a fire blazed merrily in a fireplace whose mantel held photos of Wildman shaking hands with various dignitaries. One of them was Herbert Hoover.

  Wildman and his assistant sat in leather chairs by the fire. They were drinking sherry.

  “Thank you for alerting me about the police,” Wildman said rising to greet me. “They don’t appear to know a great deal.”

  “No, they don’t,” I agreed.

  “Will you have sherry? Mr. Hill and I usually confer at the end of the day. I asked him to stay. He oversees the day-to-day running of things, and I rely on his input. I thought his ideas might be useful as we plan our next steps.”

  Hill’s pale head snapped up. My disbelief just about matched it. I sat down without intending to.

  “I don’t follow you. You hired me to find Draper, who’s turned up dead. That’s about as found as anyone can be.”

  Wildman’s hands lay motionless on the arms of his chair. He leaned forward slightly.

  “I want to know who killed him, or held something over him that caused him to take his own life. You’re no fool. You know as well as I that’s what happened. No sooner did you start asking questions than the man you were asking about, a man who vanished months ago, reappeared dead. To suppose it’s any sort of coincidence is – preposterous.”

  Hill, with his love of neatness and order, looked fit to be tied. It took several seconds before his features smoothed. I chose words carefully.

  “I agree with all you’ve said, but now it’s become a matter for the police–”

  “At best they’ll call it a suicide, not a matter for further investigation.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Can’t I?” Wildman raised an eyebrow. “Someone brought about Draper’s death to prevent me from talking to him. I want to know who. And why.”

  It might fit with what Rachel Minsky had said about Draper having a partner. If she’d told the truth, which given that I’d caught her in one lie, I had absolutely no reason to think. It was just as likely Wildman simply had a bee up his bonnet, and that this was merely a tycoon’s tantrum over not getting the desired lollipop.

  Hill’s eyes veered back and forth as he followed the conversation. He started to speak, then appeared to have second thoughts. In his employer’s presence, he couldn’t play cock of the walk.

  “What do you think, Mr. Hill? Mr. Wildman said he wanted your input.”

  Hill hesitated.

  “Yes, James. By all means.”

  His assistant avoided his gaze, and fortified himself with a sip of sherry. He blotted his lips methodically. He sat erect.

  “Very well, then. I think it’s madness, sir. Worse still, it appears capricious. Once people hear of it – which they will if Miss Sullivan continues asking questions – I’m afraid ... I think some might start to speculate you’re becoming ... dotty.”

  He sank back as though the reply had drained all his courage. He kept his eyes on the rug. I felt a mite of sympathy for the man.

  Wildman didn’t look pleased.

  “And do you think I’m dotty, James?”

  “No, sir. Of course not.” The vigor with which Hill knocked back the rest of his sherry suggested his meek tone took some effort.

  “No one knows who hired Miss Sullivan to make her inquiries,” his employer reminded.

  “It’s far-fetched, thinking anyone would care if you found Draper,” Hill said with surprising stubbornness.

  “Maybe not,” I said. “There’s talk he had a partner.”

  Both men looked stunned.

  Wildman recovered first. “Where did you hear this?”

  “A little green parrot.”

  “Did it tell you a name?”

  Wildman’s voice warned he didn’t like getting the run-around. Or maybe the flippancy. I shook my head.

  “Perhaps I need to apologize, sir,” Hill said stiffly. “It does seem strange, however, that I never heard so much as a whisper about a partner.”

  “It’s not necessarily true,” I said.

  “However, it would make any coincidence about Draper’s death even less likely.” Wildman looked at me expectantly.

  “If the p
olice decide they’re not interested, I’ll continue the investigation,” I said. “On one condition.

  Wildman frowned. He was accustomed to setting conditions, not hearing them.

  “What is it?”

  “From now on both of you are truthful with me.”

  “Truthful!”

  Once again I’d caught both off guard. Wildman looked angry, Hill indignant.

  “Miss Sullivan, I assure you neither of us–”

  “Neither of you bothered to tell me Charles Preston was dead when you gave me that list.”

  “It didn’t occur.... I regret to say it had slipped my mind.” Wildman redirected his gaze to the fire.

  “I’m afraid I wasn’t even aware of it.” Hill lowered his head and rubbed at his temples.

  “Yet Mr. Wildman relies on you to be up to date on people, deals, opportunities, gossip and rumors.”

  “Yes! Yes. I was remiss.” His hands clamped his head.

  “And the list of investors, which you compiled together, made no mention of Rachel Minsky.”

  Hill looked at me, flabbergasted. “Rachel Minsky! Where on earth did you–?”

  “Rachel Minsky? That – that impertinent little Jewish woman whose relatives went to prison? Surely she couldn’t afford an investment like Draper’s! She – it’s absurd!” Wildman sputtered.

  Rachel Minsky had told me the truth about one thing: She didn’t appear to be included in their social circle.

  Eleven

  I hadn’t touched the sherry I’d been offered. Nevertheless, my brain felt slightly off-kilter as I drove home past trolleys letting off weary passengers and street lamps haloed by mist-laden darkness. I’d gone to Wildman’s thinking it was the end of a case. Instead, one with twists and complications which I hadn’t yet had a chance to contemplate seemed to be opening before me. That was assuming my client knew what he was talking about when he said the police weren’t going to be interested in Draper’s death. If he did, I was going to be plenty mad. It would mean Wildman had an in somewhere up the ladder which ordinary people didn’t have. I didn’t like rich people having more pull than salesmen or waitresses.

  As I came down the quiet street where Mrs. Z’s two-story white house snuggled under a linden tree, I saw my favorite parking place was occupied by a car I didn’t recognize. Probably a boyfriend calling on one of the girls. I parked on the other side of Mrs. Z’s sidewalk and got out. A man stepped from the shadows, startling me so that I swore.

  “Jesus, Connelly! What are you doing skulking around like a burglar?”

  “Waiting to talk to you. Have you had supper?”

  “No. Why?” I said warily.

  We’d met up under a street lamp. By its yellowish glow I could tell from his coat that he wasn’t in uniform.

  “Because I have information on Draper. I reckon you have some too. I thought you might like to go somewhere and compare notes. What do you say? Share and share alike?”

  It wasn’t like any cop to offer to cough up information but I took about half a second deciding.

  “Yeah. Sure. Okay.”

  With a grin I could see in the street lamp, he grabbed my hands.

  “Let’s see the crossed fingers.”

  I jerked away with guilt burning my skin. What made him think he’d catch me pulling a kid’s trick? I’d only been crossing them mentally.

  “Were you that fresh with girls back in Ireland?” I asked indignantly. “Catching hold of them whenever you took a notion?”

  “Yeah, probably. Can’t recall any of them objecting, either.” He gave me a wink, completely unfazed. “So. Fancy a plate of stew or the like?”

  “As long as I buy my own.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  * * *

  We went to a joint on Fifth that had been there since before the Indians. A long bar led from front to back, but we went through to a room on the right. It was raining again, midway to freezing, and the long widows in the brick wall facing the street let in plenty of chill. We settled ourselves at a table back by the fireplace instead.

  “So.” Connelly swirled his whiskey and water. “How likely do you think it is Draper was killed?”

  The bluntness of it surprised me, as had his earlier offer to divulge information.

  “You’re the cop. You tell me.”

  “No way of knowing, at least not for sure. The back of his head had taken quite a knock.”

  “Before or after he went in the river?”

  “There was water in his lungs, so he was alive when he went in. But it could be he was unconscious. If the poor soul came to at all he was too befuddled to save himself.”

  “Not that many manage to save themselves if they go in accidentally.” A series of dams built after the big flood of 1913 tamed fluxuations in the Great Miami’s water level. They also created patches of turbulence.

  “I think Freeze would like to look at it closer. But nothing we’ve turned up gives good reason.”

  “And no one’s even willing to implicate him in a crime.” It was more statement than guess.

  Connelly lounged back and rubbed a hand up the back of his hair.

  “Right on the money. Only one fellow on that list of names you provided would even admit to Freeze that he’d been swindled by Draper. Freeze figures him for the same one who hired you.”

  I was silent a minute.

  “Frank Keefe?”

  He nodded, grinning.

  “Nope.”

  “Shite.” The grin faded.

  It didn’t surprise me that Wildman hadn’t acknowledged his loss to Draper. He might be leery of looking guilty, but I suspected it had more to do with the reason he’d hired me: protecting his reputation.

  “Freeze send you to see what you could pry out of me?”

  “He did not.”

  “So why this invitation to chat?”

  He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, so close I could feel the energy crackling from him.

  “Because you’re smart, Maggie, and you may know things we don’t. And I know whatever you choose to tell me will be true. Festooned with malarkey around the edges, most likely, but somewhere there’ll be a grain of truth.”

  I sipped some gin, as much to escape the heat he gave off as how well he assessed me.

  “Freeze is okay,” he said. “Has a poker up his backside, but he’s good at his job. I know you two tangled some in the past, but now he appears to trust what he hears from you. More or less.”

  “‘More or less’?”

  He saluted me with his glass again. “As much as any sane man should.”

  I tried to hear the compliment about Freeze’s opinion, but Connelly’s amusement ruffled my feathers.

  “Wouldn’t hurt you having Freeze in your corner now and again,” he said.

  “And what do you get out of us exchanging tidbits?”

  “The pleasure of your company, pretty Maggie.” He winked. “And down the road, when there’s a promotion slot comes empty, maybe I’ll have earned Freeze’s good opinion.”

  We paused while our meal was delivered.

  “The man who hired me is convinced Draper was murdered,” I said at length. “He thinks once I started hunting Draper, someone shut him up so he wouldn’t spill something.”

  Connelly looked up sharply. “About what?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea, and I don’t think my client has either. As near as I can tell, he’s sore because he got hoodwinked. He thought if he found Draper it would show the business community that neither Draper nor anyone else could make a fool of him. I guess it was, in his eyes anyway, a matter of honor.”

  “Ah, yes. Honor. The lives that’s cost.”

  Connelly’s eyes were like stones, seeing far away. All the way to Ireland, perhaps. His voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

  “He seems to believe the police will write Draper off as an accident,” I said after a moment. “So he wants me to find out who killed him, a
nd why. That hadn’t come up when I talked to Freeze.”

  Connelly grunted. He seemed lost in thought.