“What’s the ruckus?” he asked, his Russian accent thick.
“Some temperance workers are mucking about in the tea room.”
Little Johnny pulled the cord three sharp times. She heard faraway bells chime in the Signora’s office.
A moment later, the Signora and Gooch appeared at the top of the stairs with purpose and strode into the tea room. The intruders stopped midchant and fell silent.
“Good evening, ladies,” the Signora said. “If you are here for coffee or tea, pray seat yourselves.” She gestured to two empty tables in the corner. “Miss Ricci will take your order.”
The temperance workers looked scandalized and began to sputter. “We would never patronize this establishment,” one said, smoothing back a strand of hair that had escaped her tight bun. “Not where the devil’s drink is poured.”
“Is that so?” the Signora inquired, looking around at her patrons. “Any ‘devil’s drink’ here?”
One lady held up her teacup and gave the temperance workers an arch smile. “Just Darjeeling, I can assure you.”
“Thank you,” the Signora said with an approving nod. Turning back to the temperance workers, she said in an icy voice, “You have harassed my patrons enough. I must ask you to leave my establishment at once.”
Little Johnny entered the tea shop then, as if on cue. Gina wondered if he’d been listening behind the closed door. Like Gooch, he flanked the Signora. Now the patrons began to pull on their wraps and take their leave. Propriety clearly took precedence over curiosity, and they most certainly did not want to be part of the unseemly scuffle that was sure to follow.
One of the temperance workers planted her hands on her hips. “We’re not leaving!” she declared. “Not until I know what happened to my daughter!”
Her companions seemed surprised, and Gina felt the Signora stiffen beside her.
“Your daughter, madam?” the Signora asked, her voice silky and dangerous. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I am speaking about my daughter, Dorrie Edwards. She worked here, my Dorrie did, in this gateway to sin!” The woman fairly spat out the words. “Now she’s dead!”
“Ah, Mrs. Edwards,” the Signora said, her voice tight but controlled. “I am indeed sorry for your daughter’s passing. That she could be struck down in such a way, at such a young age, well, that was most certainly cruel. Her murder, as you well know, happened while she was on the L train, down in the Loop. Nowhere near here.”
“This place, with its liquid abominations, brought my daughter to sin,” Mrs. Edwards shouted, hysteria rising in her voice.
The other temperance workers shouted their agreement. “Do tell!”
The Signora drew herself up then, standing almost six feet tall. “I am indeed most sorry for your loss. However, what Dorrie did on her own time—and with whom—was no concern of mine.”
Tears were flowing down Dorrie’s mother’s face. “I know you know something about it!” The desperate conviction underlying her anger and desperation was hard to miss. The other temperance workers were now looking at her with concern in their eyes—she seemed to be going in a direction they had not expected.
“We live in Murder City,” the Signora said coldly. “I cannot possibly account for all the murders that happen here.” She waved at Little Johnny and Gooch, who each grabbed one of the woman’s arms to forcibly lead her out of the establishment. The other temperance workers filed out meekly behind them.
Before Gooch had shut the door, Dorrie’s mother shouted one more thing at the Signora. “Then why did you ask her to do it?”
The Signora turned away without replying, and Gooch locked the door. Little Johnny began closing the curtains and shuttering the windows. This was the first time that Gina had seen the tea room get locked up, and she realized how protected they were from the outside. Or locked in. She pushed the thought away.
Distantly they could still hear Mrs. Edwards screaming out on the street, but everything was muffled behind the heavy wooden panels. The Signora turned to Little Johnny. “Take care of that.” She then looked at Mrs. Metzger, who seemed unfazed by everything that had occurred. “You may close up now,” she said. “Gina, head downstairs for your shift.”
“Yes, Signora,” Gina replied, feeling a bit shaken.
“And Gina,” she said, her words coated in steel, “I expect all my employees to be discreet.”
Gooch stood beside the Signora in silent enforcement of her words. His knuckles rested on his hips now in such a way that his jacket was opened up, exposing his handgun.
“Yes, Signora,” she repeated, a chill washing over her. Trying to hide her sudden alarm, she gave a nonchalant fluff to her curls. “I get it.”
As she scurried down the stairs, questions surged through her mind. What had Dorrie’s mother meant? What was it that the Signora had asked Dorrie to do?
CHAPTER 7
Gina was still distracted by the encounter in the tea room when Ned called her over to the piano. He seemed to be in an unexpectedly jovial mood, even telling her a few jokes that he had overheard from a bunch of smartly dressed College Joes in the corner. All the while he easily played one of his regular quick-stepping tunes.
Despite her fear of Gooch and the Signora, she just had to get some answers about what Mrs. Edwards could have meant. After a quick look around to make sure neither Gooch nor the Signora was watching, she took a deep breath and said, “Say, Ned. Do you think there was something funny about Dorrie’s death?”
He stopped playing abruptly. “Funny? Got sliced on the L, doll. A short journey on a long train. Nothing funny about that.” He then began to bang out a jazzy tune.
“I mean, Dorrie’s mother was just here and—”
He glanced up at her, his expression changing. “Park it, doll,” he said, patting the end of his piano bench. His playing was still loud but less showy than before, as if he didn’t want to draw any attention in their direction.
She sat down beside him, keeping time with her foot, trying to look lighthearted.
“Tell me all about it,” he said. His words seemed to come out of the side of his mouth, and he didn’t look at her.
“She stopped by the tea shop, with some other temperance workers. They were giving the Signora an earful, but she was having none of it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, grimacing when he hit a wrong note. “What did Mrs. Edwards say to her?”
“She said that—” Gina hesitated, thinking about the Signora’s warning. Regardless, she pushed on, hoping she could trust Ned. “Just that she didn’t believe that Dorrie was murdered by some random stranger. That someone here might know more about it.”
“You don’t say,” he said. He didn’t seem too impressed. “I only met her mother once. It was pretty clear that she was a bit mad. Hated that Dorrie worked here. Guess Dorrie’s pop was a vicious drunk. Her mom thought for sure Dorrie would turn out the same. Or come home knocked up.”
“Yet her mother seemed convinced that Dorrie was doing something that got her killed.”
“Talking to a stranger at the wrong time.” He scratched his jaw. “I’m sure her mother is just looking for answers that she’ll never find.”
“Did you know Dorrie well?” Gina persisted. Something in Ned’s manner just didn’t seem right. Faye, who happened to be passing by at that moment, gave Gina a curious look but didn’t stop.
Still playing with one hand, he pulled his ever-present flask from his inside jacket pocket and took a quick swig. “Not so well. I know she didn’t deserve what happened to her.” He looked blankly at the music in front of him. “Nothing more to say about it, toots,” he said, playing a little faster. “The Signora likes my music up-tempo, dance music. I don’t want to talk about some dumb girl who got herself killed.”
Clearly dismissed, Gina got up and walked back to the bar, to keep an eye on her tables.
“He was keen on her,” Faye said to her, over her shoulder. “Took her out a few
times. Practically engaged.”
“What?” Gina asked.
“Dorrie. I heard you asking about her.” She lowered her voice. “Not for me to say, of course, but you have to wonder where she was going so late that night. She was killed in the Loop. Ned lives in Old Town.” Her implication was obvious. Dorrie had another guy.
“Oh. Did she and Ned have a fight?”
Faye shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Who can say? He’s been blotto since she died, anyone can tell you that..”
“He’s not the only man to drown his sorrows with a bottle.”
“You got the hots for Ned?” Faye asked, smirking. “Is that why you’re asking about Dorrie?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Gina replied, adjusting the roses on her tray.
“You got a man already?”
“Nah, not looking for one, either,” Gina replied, moving away to tend to a customer.
* * *
Before long, the Third Door was hopping, and Gina found herself sidestepping through another lively Saturday night crowd.
“Did you hear?” Lulu asked, sounding a bit breathless as she twirled by, balancing a tray full of colorful drinks. “Benny Goodman might be stopping by later. He’s home from New York, you know.”
That was news. Even though Benny was just in his early twenties, he was one of their neighborhood’s most famous sons. He’d grown up over on Maxwell Street, just a few blocks away, his family living alongside the many other Jewish immigrants who had fled from Russia before the revolution there. Though he was the bee’s knees in New York, it seemed he hadn’t forgotten his Chicago roots.
As Gina made her rounds, she kept her eye out for Marty, hoping this time he’d give her some answers. There was something funny going on, she could just feel it.
Yet Marty didn’t arrive until nearly nine, just before the headliners were scheduled to perform. Glimpsing him across the room, she was about to approach him until she caught sight of Gooch staring in her direction.
Time to give Gooch something else to look at, she thought. At that moment, a rather sloshed woman moved unsteadily in front of her.
Here’s my chance, she thought, taking a deep breath. Pretending to trip, Gina pushed against the woman’s hip, causing her to topple directly into the lap of a man sitting with his date, who steadied her with a wide grin on his face.
“Say, whatcha doing with my fiancé?” the man’s companion growled. “And what are you smiling at, Georgie?”
“Pardon me,” Gina said pertly, stepping around the ensuing skirmish. As she’d hoped, Gooch had to intervene—the two women were already nearly at blows—so he was no longer keeping tabs on Gina.
Gina slid over to Marty as he was taking a picture of a couple clinking their martini glasses together. The woman, whose shock of red curly hair was clearly from a bottle, was wearing a blue boa made of tightly woven ostrich feathers, which she had playfully thrown over the man’s shoulder. For his part, the man’s tailored tweed suit marked him as a man of means.
“This’ll be a real nice memento of our time together, sweetie,” the woman said, clutching the man’s arm.
“I can remember just fine without a picture,” Gina heard the man reply. As the woman began to pout, he quickly gave in. “How much?” he asked Marty, pulling out his wallet.
“A buck,” Marty replied, positioning his camera. “Steady, steady. Big smile. Eyes open,” she heard him say. “Come by Tuesday night. I’ll have it ready for you by then.” He pulled out a small notepad. “Name?”
“Mimi,” the woman simpered. “This here’s Jacky. I mean Jack,” she added when the man glared at her.
“Whatdaya need our names for?” Jack asked Marty.
Marty pushed back his spectacles and gave them a bland smile. “I don’t. I just need something to write down, to keep my prints straight when I develop them. How’s about I just write ‘Gorgeous Boa and Friend.’”
The woman giggled, and Jack gave a curt nod. “That’ll work.”
“Just catch me at my break on Tuesday.” He pocketed the folded-up bill the man gave him, placing it deep inside his double-breasted suit coat, along with the small notepad. “I’ll develop it tomorrow in my darkroom.”
Marty was about to move away when Gina seized his elbow. “Hey,” she said. “Can I speak to you?”
“Later,” he said through clenched teeth. “We can’t talk here.”
* * *
Over the next hour, Gina was too busy to find a time to talk to Marty, but around ten o’clock she saw him slip out of the main area of the speakeasy, into the salon.
Well, I’m due for a break anyway, she thought, moving to follow him. When she reached the salon, though, she didn’t see him. I guess he went through the tunnel. I can still catch up with him.
Her plan was derailed when Jade flounced into the salon. “Can you believe I have to switch my set?” Jade asked, stripping off her stockings and shoes and leaving them in a heap by the stuffed purple sofa.
For the next few minutes, Gina listened to Jade complain about the other musicians, all the while feeling annoyed that the starlet was keeping her from pursuing Marty. Finally Jade went into the women’s dressing area to touch up her rouge and change her costume.
Seizing the opportunity, Gina slipped through the door and found herself in a fairly dark tunnel, lit only by a few flickering electronic lights along the passageway. The tunnel smelled strongly of mold and yeast, and she could see a long row of barrels lining one long, damp wall. At the end of the tunnel there was another door, and a ladder on the wall beside it. Marty was nowhere to be seen.
When she reached the large wooden door, she tugged on it cautiously. It seemed to be locked. If Marty had gone through that door, there was certainly no way to follow him. She looked up at the long ladder that led to a window far above her, which had to open to the gangway that ran between the alley and the street.
Gina put her hands on the metal ladder and shook it. It seemed attached to the wall, at least. Taking a deep breath, she began to ascend the rungs, trying to refrain from stepping on her dress as she climbed. When she reached the top, she could see that the window, slightly ajar, opened upward. An exhilarated feeling of victory and conquest swept over her as she shimmied carefully though the window, trying to keep her precious dress from getting dirty.
Immediately the chilly Chicago air engulfed her, and she almost regretted she’d lacked the foresight to bring a coat. Except the joint had been so hot, the cold air was actually refreshing.
She decided to wait in the gangway itself, right near the window, in case she had to beat a hasty retreat. Hauling herself atop a conveniently positioned barrel to await Marty’s return, Gina popped another piece of chewing gum in her mouth. Don’t care if I look like a cow, she thought, resentfully recalling what the Signora had told her the other day.
The quiet was broken by a murmured conversation from a couple on Harrison Street. She could hear a woman’s high melodic laugh, punctuated by the man’s deeper chuckle, as the pair passed by the gangway entrance. Gina idly wondered if the couple might be heading to the hotel down the street, or perhaps somewhere more respectable.
The conversation faded as the couple walked away. Soon after, she heard a funny sound at the other end of the gangway, this time in the alley. It sounded like a few people whispering harshly to each other.
Then she saw what looked like a man being pressed against the edge of the wall at the end of the corridor between the two buildings.
“Oof!” The man made a sickening sound, as if he had been punched in the gut. She saw his figure slump to the ground and then heard footsteps moving quickly down the alley, toward the street.
Gina put her hand to her heart. Should she go back inside? Then she heard the man groan and saw him shift slightly. He’s probably all right, she thought. Just down for the count. No need to get involved.
Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself leave without checking on the slumped-over figure. Ke
eping her back close to the brick wall of the building, she tiptoed carefully toward the man, who was now moaning softly. That must have been some wallop. A cold sense of trepidation washed over her.
“Hey, mister,” she whispered. “You doing all right?” His hands were gripping his stomach, and his fedora was covering his face.
Thinking he could breathe more easily if she removed it, she pulled the hat off.
Then she gasped, recognizing him. “Marty! Oh my God! Did those men punch you?”
He opened his eyes and turned slightly toward her. He seemed to be trying to focus as he gasped for breath.
“Marty, it’s me. Gina. Who did this?”
As he opened his mouth to speak, a trickle of blood ran out from between his lips. With fearful recognition, she moved his hand from his stomach and was sickened to feel a sticky warmth spreading across his coat. Without thinking, she unbuttoned it. There was blood everywhere. “Oh, Marty! Let me get help!”
When she started to stand up, he grabbed at her arm. He mouthed something, but she couldn’t make it out.
“What? What did you say?” she cried. “You need help! A doctor!”
“No.” His hand dropped to his side, and his eyes fluttered.
Without thinking, she slapped at his cheeks. “Marty, Marty! Wake up! Please, tell me who did this!”
He opened his eyes again. “Camera,” he said, scrabbling at his coat, seemingly with all the energy he could muster.
She felt his pocket and pulled out his black leather camera case, which was a little longer and wider than her mother’s old Bible The weight suggested that the camera was neatly tucked into its collapsed state within. “Here it is, Marty. Should I give it to someone?”
“No! Hide. It.”
“H-hide it? Why?”
His breath was growing shallower and more pained. His lips were still moving, but sounds were no longer coming out. His eyes were imploring, frantic, and she took his hand again to calm him.
“Okay, I’ll do it, Marty, I promise.” She looked wildly about. Where could she hide it? Not in the alley or behind the barrel, that was for sure. Someone would likely find it there.
Murder Knocks Twice Page 9