Dames Fight Harder

by M. Ruth Myers

  “I’m not exactly sure. They went though her desk and her file cabinet, even the blueprint cupboard. The police are here now.”

  “How did the intruder get in?”

  “Drilled the lock or something like that. I heard one tell the other. Once I showed them back and answered some questions about things being out of place and was anything missing, they told me to stay out here and go about business as usual.”

  The business about the lock being drilled, plus the plain car out front, suggested it was the Robbery-Burglary boys who were here. I wasn’t surprised.

  “Had things been torn up?” I asked.

  “Torn up?”

  “Furniture broken, upholstery ripped, that kind of thing. Like whoever got in was angry.”

  “No. The only thing upholstered is Rachel’s chair. That was over it the corner and one of the wheels had come off like somebody shoved it aside. Other than that, nothing was damaged.”

  The breath I’d been half holding eased out. If the burglar had been after the envelope I’d burned yesterday, it didn’t appear they’d stumbled across its former hiding place.

  “Rachel’s not going to be in for a few days, by the way. She called.”

  My attention snapped back to Cecilia.

  “She said things had come up that she had to deal with.”

  “Did she say where she was?”

  “No, and she wouldn’t give me a number. She said she’d check in now and then.” Cecilia’s forehead creased with worry. “Maggie, do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  Cecilia didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark. Not when she was as loyal an ally as Rachel could have. Not when she was the one who had to deal with calls and people coming in. I took a breath.

  “I’d just as soon you didn’t tell anyone else who works here, but Rachel got picked up by the police. It’s all a mistake. I’m trying to help her. But I don’t know where she is either, or how to reach her.”

  “Picked up... for what? The police have been acting awfully pushy.”

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  She sagged against the counter, her hand to her throat. “Rachel would never kill anyone. Not unless it was self defense or-or something like that.”

  “Do you have her number at home?”

  “No. She checks in first thing every morning. Calls, I mean. I think her family’s, well, funny about outsiders. Sort of like some of the Greeks and Italians. I could be wrong, but from little things she’s said, I got the impression they were pretty religious and strict and that.”

  While she’d been talking, another aspect of my visit here yesterday had occurred to me.

  “Do you make a note of every visitor and every call that comes in, the way you did at the last place you worked?”

  “Yes...”

  “I need to let the police know I was here yesterday.”

  “They’re likely to throw you out,” she warned as I came through the gate in the counter and went past her.

  “That’s okay. I bounce.” The bounce I’d been forced to take dodging construction equipment last night had left my hip sore, though it came in second to my scraped shins.

  The door to Rachel’s office stood wide open. I rapped on it to announce my presence to the two men working inside.

  “You can’t be back here right now,” the one bent over the desk began, raising his head. “Oh, it’s the Sullivan kid.”

  “Hiya, sarge.” I couldn’t recall his name.

  “That applies to you too. You got no business here.”

  “I thought you might want to know, in case the fingerprint boys get involved, they’ll find plenty of mine on that desk.”

  He straightened. I had his attention now.

  “Why is that?”

  “I stopped in to pick up a book Miss Minsky had borrowed. We ran into each other a couple of days ago on the street. She said she was sorry she’d taken so long to return the book. I wasn’t in a hurry to have it. I said I’d stop by. She told me if she wasn’t around, it was in her desk. She didn’t say exactly where, though, so I had to look.”

  If he asked where we’d met on the street, I knew where she had her hair done. If he asked what the book was, I had a title ready. I needed to talk to Rachel, though. I needed to reach her.

  “You and Miss Minsky know each other, do you?” Sarge asked instead.

  “Yeah, for a couple of years.”

  I hadn’t mentioned it to Freeze because he hadn’t asked me. The question now told me the police had tumbled to a possible connection between the break-in here and the murder of Gabriel Foster. Unfortunately Rachel was the common link.

  “The secretary says they came in through the back,” I said. “It took somebody mighty nimble to climb over that wire fence.”

  “They didn’t come over the fence. The gate was wide open.” He clamped his mouth shut; vexed he’d shared the information. “Thanks for telling us about the fingerprints. Scram now.”

  I scrammed.

  ***

  One fib has a nasty way of leading to others. In my eagerness to explain my fingerprints in Rachel’s office, it hadn’t occurred to me I now needed an explanation for my presence today.

  Cecilia was back at her desk. I planted my unbruised hip on the edge and leaned down so we wouldn’t be heard.

  “I told the police I’d been here yesterday in case they look for fingerprints. If they ask why I was here today, tell them I wanted to know if you’d found a silk flower that fell off the hat I was wearing. If you don’t mind,” I added as her eyes widened.

  “I don’t.”

  I hesitated. Not far away the two male clerks were in their chairs bent over whatever kind of work they did.

  “Have you heard how whoever broke in got the gate open so they could get to the back?” I asked.

  “Not really. The three of us were just arriving. The phone was ringing when I came in. It was a message for Rachel, so I went back to her office to spindle it. That’s when I saw someone had—” She swallowed, reliving the moment. “—broken in. I... tore out in a panic. All I could think of was what if the person who’d done it was still in the building?

  “But right then Rob and Terry came bursting in the front way shouting about who the Sam Hill had come in early and tried to start the bucket loader, didn’t they know it was broken?”

  “Somebody had opened the gate with a key? They hadn’t cut the padlock?”

  “I think so. It sounded like the men were upset that someone had started to take equipment out without logging it with one of them the way they’re supposed to. Only I started yelling about a burglary then, and everything turned into an uproar.”

  Her eyes slid uncertainly toward the two men.

  “I could ask if you like. They’re a bit clubby, but—”

  “That’s okay. I’d rather you just kept your ears open. If you hear anything, give me a jingle.”

  “It’s important then? About the lock?”

  “It could be.”

  If a key had been used to gain access, it suggested at least one of last night’s intruders had worked for Rachel, or come here often enough to nick a key.

  What it didn’t tell me was what they’d been hunting.

  EIGHT

  Unlike ordinary street cops who worked at the utilitarian building where I’d gone to see Rachel, Lt. Freeze and the denizens of the detective division worked out of Market House, which was smack downtown. The narrow white three-story building had enough decoration on it to shame a wedding cake. I climbed the stairs and made my way to Freeze’s area.

  His desk was vacant. Boike was there, using two fingers to peck away at a typewriter. Two men on the opposite side were the room’s only other occupants.

  “Freeze out having wisdom teeth pulled, I hope?”

  Boike gave me a half-hearted glare. He didn’t like it when I disparaged his boss.

  “He’s in a meeting. Anything I can handle?”

  I hitched up the wooden folding chair in f
ront of his desk and made myself comfortable.

  “Yeah. Did you find any people with dogs who might have been walking their dogs Sunday night?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Can’t because you don’t know or because you don’t think it’s my business?”

  He stared at a point beyond my shoulder.

  “Come on, Boike. You heard the pep talk I gave Freeze. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do.”

  “Except you’re working for the opposite team.”

  “The opposite—” I was taken aback. “Boike. I want to know who did this same as you.”

  “You’ve got a different agenda, though. You want to prove our number one suspect’s innocent.”

  “And you think I’d do something dishonest to get her off?”

  The solid, stolid detective tugged his ear, avoiding my eyes.

  “I think it might cloud your judgment.”

  I sat back, hearing the chair squeak behind me. His assessment hurt. I liked Boike. He kept his head down and his mouth shut and did better work, I suspected, than he got credit for. He looked uncomfortable now. A voice behind me broke the tension.

  “What are you doing here?”

  It was Freeze.

  “I’m trying to learn whether your men ever found the mysterious dog walker, or even any neighbors with dogs who might qualify. Boike here seems to think it would compromise your investigation even to tell me yes or no.”

  Collapsing into his desk chair, Freeze scraped a match to life.

  “Boike’s smart enough not to give out information without my say so.” He got his Old Gold going as he spoke. “But no. One guy with a lisp you could take a shower in has a dog, but the man who called it in didn’t lisp. Other than him and the old lady Boike mentioned yesterday, there was a dizzy dame who never lets her Sweetums out of the yard. She’d fall apart if she went outside after dark, let alone saw a body.”

  He squinted at me through the smoke curling up in front of his face. He looked tired.

  “So you could have been right. About the call being phoney. There’s still plenty indicating she’s the guilty party, starting with that earring we found.”

  “Which she could have lost any time before the body turned up. She pays almost daily visits to her construction sites.”

  Freeze propped his feet on his desk. His eyes had narrowed.

  “You know her that well, do you?”

  “I know her, yes. That’s the other reason I’m here. I stopped by her office this morning and heard about the break-in there. I already told the robbery boys who were there, but I wanted to let you know too. I was out there yesterday to pick up a book I’d lent her.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “Padraig Pearse.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I went back today hoping they’d found a flower that fell off my hat. A good silk one. Pink. You didn’t happen to find it after I chatted with you at the crime scene, did you?”

  Freeze ignored the question. Boike had gone back to typing, but I felt sure he was listening.

  “Seeing as how the two of you are pals, I don’t suppose you know where to find the torpedo who drives her around?”

  “‘Torpedo’? I thought that term went out with Stutz Bearcats.”

  “He used to work for the mob in Cleveland. A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  A chill crawled halfway up my spine before I pushed it back. Whatever he’d been, or done, Pearlie wouldn’t shoot someone and let Rachel take blame for it.

  “I can tell you he goes by Pearlie. And that he plays the piano.”

  “Piano?”

  “Yeah. That’s all I know. As far Miss Minsky and I being pals, I didn’t know she had an apartment. I thought she lived at home. How’d you find her so fast?”

  Freeze had sagged back in his chair like a balloon that was losing its air. He gestured impatiently.

  “Old lady across from the lot where they’re building had gotten into some scraps with the suspect’s workmen. Suspect came out to smooth things over and gave the old biddy a card. She wrote another number on the back and said it was for after hours. Now scram. I need forty winks.”

  I got up.

  “One more thing.”

  “Thirty-nine. I’ll get unpleasant if you keep spoiling my beauty sleep.”

  “Besides the earring, was there anything else of interest around Foster’s body?”

  “Yeah, two casings. Different caliber than the ones at her business.”

  As I closed the door behind me, I heard a soft snore.

  * * *

  Walking the few blocks to my office afforded me time to rid my ears of hearing Rachel referred to in impartial, scarcely human cop lingo. The suspect. Taking one deep breath after another, I forced my thoughts to other things.

  Dollars to donuts Freeze wouldn’t have told me about the shell casings if he hadn’t been half asleep when he said it. It might not even be significant. The person who killed Foster could well be the same man who had shot at me outside Rachel’s office. Some people owned more than one gun, and using a .22 to kill Foster might be another attempt to frame Rachel.

  I wanted to talk to the neighbor to whom The Suspect had given her card. I wanted to find out more about the nature and seriousness of the quarrel the neighbor had with Rachel’s workmen. Most of all, I wanted to know if the neighbor had seen or heard anything the night Foster’s body was found.

  If I spent a lot of time walking in the course of a workday, it wasn’t unusual for my legs to draw one or two wolf whistles. Today my legs weren’t even showing, yet by the time I reached the block with my office, I’d already had three. Maybe trousers weren’t so bad.

  “Hey, sis! Wait up,” a voice called behind me.

  A tow-headed kid with a newsboy’s bag slung over his shoulder trotted up. He was probably thirteen now. I’d paid him to keep an eye out for something now and again, because he was smart as a whip. He had no family and slept in doorways most of the time, but his expression was one of perpetual optimism.

  “Shouldn’t you be peddling papers, Heebs?”

  His grin was contagious.

  “Already sold ’em all so’s I’d have time to come see you. I got a business proposal.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Other than pestering me for an ongoing job, he’d never shown interest in any sort of business scheme. Given the way his mind worked, it was likely to be a doozie. “Fire away.”

  “There’s all kinds of jobs opening up because of the draft. I know I couldn’t get factory work, but I figure that’s what all kinds of fellows who aren’t in the draft are doing, going where pay’s better. The way I see it, that means their old jobs are vacant. So I’ve been looking at want ads, and calling some of the places. One said I could come talk to them this afternoon, but I’d have to take the bus, see, and I don’t have fare.

  “So here’s my offer: You lend me a quarter and I’ll pay you back thirty cents from my first wages. What do you say?”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Bellhop, real respectable.”

  “Okay then. Here.”

  Wondering whether he had a snowball’s chance in his ragged clothes and poorly trimmed hair, I wished him luck and watched him hustle back toward the corner where he sold papers. When I entered my building, I found another kid a few years older than Heebs looking around uncertainly. His attire was considerably different, a spiffy tie and vest with a starched white shirt. He too carried a bag, but his was the sort used by downtown bicycle messengers.

  “If you’re hunting a directory, there isn’t one. Could I help you?”

  “Yes, m’am. What floor for Maggie Sullivan Investigations?”

  “Third, but I’ll save you a trip. I’m Maggie Sullivan.”

  “Message for you from Minsky & Feldman.” He flourished an envelope and extended a clipboard. “Sign for it there, on that line. I’m to wait and take back an answer.”

  NINE

 
; The envelope the messenger gave me was heavy, not because of its contents but because the paper itself was thick white linen. The Minsky and Feldman name was engraved, prominent but tasteful. I opened it and took out a single, folded, piece of paper. The message on it was handwritten.

  My sister would like to see you at 5:15.

  Joel Minsky had signed it.

  There was an address.

  A small envelope with a blank sheet that fit inside had been included. Using the pencil I carried, I wrote that I’d be there. I sealed the envelope, tipped the messenger a dime, wondering whether it was enough, and watched him leave. Relief lightened my feet as I climbed the stairs.

  At least I knew that Rachel was out of jail now. The address where I was to meet her was in the area of the ones I’d seen in the phone book. As soon as I’d hung up my hat, I sat at my desk and took the directory out again to check. Abe Minsky was listed at the address in the message. I was betting he was Rachel’s father.

  I called the number Pearlie had given me.

  “I need to talk to Pearlie.”

  “Never heard of him,” the voice on the other end told me, as it had on the last occasion.

  “Yeah? Well, if you should happen to make his acquaintance, tell him our friend’s out.”

  I waited in case he said anything. All I got for my efforts was the sound of the connection breaking.

  * * *

  I drove to Rachel’s construction site to see what was happening. That turned out to be worth watching. A trim gray-haired guy in neat workman’s garb was muscling a man in a suit off the site as I drove up. The older man was exerting such vigor that the man in his grip had trouble keeping his footing.

  “You come around trying to poach my men again and you’ll get a broken jaw, not a warning.” Shoving the interloper toward a late model car, the gray-haired man, who had to be the foreman here, stood watching until the car departed. It came just short of squealing its tires.

  I sat for several minutes to give the man I took for the foreman a chance to cool down. Then I moseyed over to the sketchy hint of a building going up there. The interlude gave me a chance to look things over. The police were gone, but it looked as though work had come to a standstill. Half a dozen men sat talking and smoking. There was usually twice that many, maybe more, hard at work. They didn’t look happy. Finally I walked over.