“Light fixing,” her dad whispered. “He had a guy turning back the dials on the meter. Only problem is, the electric company caught on and changed the whole gizmo. I even looked at it. Nothing can be done now. Told Al that he’s gotta pay the whole bill, unless he wants to cut hair in the dark. Rotten shame.”
“Wasn’t hurting anyone,” Al grumbled, overhearing their conversation. “Just trying to save a few bucks.”
The other men were all shaking their heads in solidarity. That the scheme was illegal didn’t seem to bother anyone.
She smoothed the folds of her long black dress. The gesture appeared to remind her father where she had been earlier. “How was the funeral?” he asked, his manner gruff.
“Fine, I suppose. It was a funeral.” She didn’t want to say anything about the conversation she had had with Marty’s family, since others sitting around the small barbershop were already listening in.
“Whose funeral?” Al asked, wiping the soft lather from his blade.
“Marty Doyle’s,” her father replied, before she could say anything.
Al glanced over at them, moving the blade away from the man’s throat. “You don’t say? Marty Doyle’s funeral?”
One of the other men spoke up. “Doyle? I heard about that. He was killed, down by the Harrison Street Bridge, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Gina replied, turning back to her father, hoping he’d take the hint. She didn’t want to discuss the topic anymore, even though the men still did.
“Heard it was one of Capone’s men,” Al said, meeting Gina’s eyes in the mirror. His voice then dropped, as everyone’s did when they mentioned the Chicago gang leader. “Whacked him real good.”
He began to add a soapy lather to the man’s face, still watching Gina in the mirror in a way that made her uncomfortable. “Why’d you go to his funeral?” There was curiosity, but some suspicion, too.
Catching her father’s eye, Gina could tell he’d grown more wary. Although his head was shaking a bit from the palsy, he had clearly caught on that there was something she needed to discuss with him in private. “Just paying my respects,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I worked with him a while.” She turned back to her father. “Papa, are you ready to go? Let’s head home.”
* * *
Their walk home was hard going, particularly since they had to push against the blowing wind and snow. Her father clung to her, and as they walked, she told him all about the service and meeting members of the family at the Doyle home. He grunted when she mentioned that Nancy Doyle was a policewoman. “I remember her,” he said. “Tough as tacks.”
Then, with some trepidation, she told him about the will.
“I don’t want you taking anything from them.”
“It’s an inheritance, Papa! Marty left it to me,” she said. “Well, he left everything to Mama before he went to war. When she passed, Aidan and me became the beneficiaries. I guess he never got around to changing his will.” Or he just didn’t have anyone else, she thought with a pang.
When they reached the front door, her father stopped short. “You left the front door open? In a storm?!”
“No, I’m sure I locked it,” she said. “Maybe the wind—?”
“Shhh,” he interrupted her. “Stay here.”
He began to move toward the stairs, trying to grip the railing. Ignoring his command, Gina mounted the steps directly behind him and was right at his elbow as he pushed the door open.
Staring inside, they both gasped. “What in the world?” she heard her father say. Gina just held her hand to her mouth in disbelief.
The whole front room was in disarray. Sofa pillows had been slashed, their stuffing spilling everywhere. Books and other items from the old oak bookcase that her father had made for her mother before Gina was born littered the floor.
Ignoring her strong instinct to flee, Gina opened the door wider, and they stepped inside.
“H-hello?” she called out, immediately feeling stupid when her father glared at her.
“We’re coming in!” her father shouted with a surprisingly deep voice. “You’d better show yourself or there’ll be hell to pay when I find you.”
They waited, still met only by a deep stillness. Together they moved toward the kitchen. No one was there. Gina stood silently, her heart beating hard, barely daring to breathe. She was ready to flee should anyone step out of either bedroom or the bathroom.
“Oh, no!” she heard her father call, and she followed him into his bedroom. Her mama’s jewelry box had been upended on the bed. Jewelry was spilled everywhere, as were the photographs they had been looking at the other day.
Trying to stay calm, she touched her father’s shoulder. “I’m going to call the police.”
* * *
While they were waiting for the coppers, Gina discovered that her father’s radio had been stolen, but thankfully the thief had not discovered the tiny cache of dollars she’d kept hidden in a tomato soup jar in the back of the kitchen cupboard. The camera, too, was still tucked away underneath the floorboard, just where she’d left it, along with the notebook and key. All was intact.
Mrs. Hayford started crying when Gina went to check on her. “I never heard anything, dear! My hearing’s not so good, and I had my radio on.” Her eyes were wide and frightened. “This neighborhood! What’s it coming to?”
The police arrived shortly after, their paddy wagon effectively blocking any traffic from passing on the narrow street. When the two cops walked toward them, Gina was surprised to see Officer Dawson, the young cop who had come to the Third Door to ask questions about Marty’s death.
The older cop, Officer Jamison, went straight up to her father and began making inquiries. Officer Dawson glanced at her and then did a double take. She could tell he recognized her but couldn’t immediately place her, and she didn’t feel inclined to enlighten him.
Seeing the question on his lips, Gina hurried past him to help her father answer the other policeman’s questions. She pointed out the scattered objects that had been on the shelves, told them about the missing radio, and showed them her mother’s overturned jewelry box. Strangely enough, all of the jewelry appeared to still be there.
“Some expensive-looking pieces there,” Officer Jamison commented. “Costume?”
Her father scowled. “All real,” he said, having prided himself on never having to pawn her jewelry.
“Interesting.”
The policemen continued their exploration. Gina watched, a detached daze coming over her. She wanted to take the objects from their curious hands and push the cops right out the door. Already drained by Marty’s murder and the funeral, she thought she would just topple over in complete weariness if they didn’t leave soon.
She was alert enough, though, to hear Officer Dawson’s comment. “Odd time of day for a robbery,” he said.
Officer Jamison nodded. “All of it’s odd. Broad daylight. Thursday afternoon. At the start of a snowstorm. Unusual.”
Officer Dawson turned to her. “Miss Ricci, you said you were attending a funeral and had just returned to your home around three thirty?”
“Yes, that’s so.”
“Your home had not been disturbed at that point?”
“No, and my father was getting a shave at the barbershop. Mrs. Hayford told me so.”
Officer Jamison noted something in his notepad.
Officer Dawson continued. “When you left, did you lock the front door?”
“Of course,” she replied, trying not to get angry. “As you can see, someone broke the door in.”
The cops walked over and inspected the door. Gina could see where the wood had splintered. “One quick shove and the door just gave way,” Officer Jamison said. “Still, the burglar risked bringing attention to himself. We’ll canvass the neighbors when we’re done here. See if anyone saw anything.”
Good luck with that, Gina thought. In this neighborhood, they’d be lucky if anyone would even talk to either of these
Irish cops, let alone snitch on someone else.
Officer Dawson glanced back over his notes. “So, whose funeral were you at?” He held his pen ready.
Before Gina could deflect, her father answered the question. “Martin Doyle’s. He was related to Gina, on her mother’s side. Second cousin or something like that.”
Officer Dawson’s eyes flicked back to Gina, and she could see the recognition flood across his face. It was obvious that now he remembered her from the drugstore. “Marty Doyle’s niece? Interesting.”
Officer Jamison wasn’t paying attention to his partner. “Did you see anyone suspicious on the street? Someone who might have been watching the house? Or you?”
Gina felt a shiver run over her. “What do you mean?”
“I suspect someone was watching you, waiting for you both to leave. Might even have known you’d be gone long enough to break in. That takes guts. It also means someone was casing the joint.”
“Someone was looking for something specific,” Officer Dawson added.
“Like what?” Gina asked, her heart beginning to pound. “The radio?”
“No offense meant, Miss Ricci, but there are other ways to get a radio. You mentioned that yours wasn’t so new, right? A few years old, I think you said.” Officer Dawson eyed her. “You’re sure that nothing else is missing? None of your mother’s jewelry? What about yours, miss?”
Gina shook her head, having already found that her few pieces of costume jewelry were still intact. What could the thief have been after? She thought about the camera, still hidden beneath the floorboard.
Hoping her face hadn’t betrayed her thoughts, she shrugged. “Nothing else seems to have been taken.” She made an elaborate pretense of looking at her watch. “If you’re all done here, I’d like to get my home back in order so I can start making some dinner for my father.”
“Of course,” he said. The officer’s eyes were still narrowed. “If you find anything else has been stolen, let us know.”
* * *
As soon as Gina had shut the door behind the police, and wedged a chair under the knob to keep the door secure she turned back to her father. As usual his hands were shaking a bit, but she couldn’t tell if that was his regular palsy or anger. “Whiskey, Papa?” she asked.
Without waiting for him to reply, she pulled a bottle of whiskey from behind the icebox and poured into two glasses, an extra slosh in each. “I could reheat some soup for dinner,” she offered, her voice wan. “There’s some bread in the bin.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said, bending down to kiss the top of her head. He picked up his drink in two hands. “This will do me just fine.”
Her heart still pounding, Gina took a great gulp of whiskey before going into her own bedroom. She heard her father close his door, and then she shut her own and lay on the bed.
Could the thief have been looking for the camera? Except that no one knew she had it. Or did they?
She remembered again that step in the darkness when she knelt over Marty’s body. Had someone been there? Had someone seen her take the camera from his jacket?
With a sigh, she closed her eyes. None of this made any sense. The weariness and emotion she’d been keeping at bay finally overcame her, and she lay on the bed and sobbed.
* * *
Lulu nudged her. “You’ve got a gent asking for you,” she said. A day had passed since she had attended Marty’s funeral. “Over there, in the corner.”
“For me? He wants cigarettes or something?”
“I suppose. I already brought him whiskey. A real flat tire, that one.”
Gina walked over to the man in the corner, who was sitting with his back to the wall, looking straight and out of place. Not even tapping his foot to Ned’s lively tune.
Putting her brightest smile on her face, she held out her cigarette tray. “Cigar, sir?”
“Sure, Miss Ricci,” the man replied.
With a start, Gina recognized him. It was Mr. Dern, the Doyles’ family attorney. She took the cigar and cut the end off, handing it to him when she was done. Instead of lighting it, he slipped it inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He then slid a few dollars onto her tray, more than what the cigar had cost, with a meaningful glance. “Better put that away,” he said. “There are thieves about.”
When she picked up the money, she saw that he had also left three keys on a metal ring. “To Marty’s flat and darkroom. Both are on Polk and Morgan.” He pointed upwards, in the direction of Madame Laupine’s. “On the third floor. 3A and 3B. The third key, I understand, is to the outer door,” he said. “Your grandmother didn’t see any reason to delay your inheritance.”
“Jeepers!”
“This is, you must understand, against my better judgment.” His cough was more an affectation than the result of a scratchy throat. “This sort of business should be done in my office, with signed papers, not in a ‘gin joint.’” The last two words were spoken with considerable disdain.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Gina said, momentarily distracted by a skirmish going on at a nearby table. One man had grabbed another by his tie, and Gooch was already on it.
“As it turns out, there’s more to be paid out to you, you understand.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked, her attention fully returned. “I thought you said that you expected there to be very little inheritance.”
“You are fortunate in that Mr. Doyle was not in debt. Quite the opposite, in fact,” Mr. Dern went on in his dry lawyer’s manner. “He paid his rent six months in advance to his landlords—the Castallazzos, as you may have figured out.”
Gina twirled one of her corkscrew curls. She had already worked out they might be his landlords, given that all the businesses on the block seemed to be under their thumb.
The attorney continued. “We’ve settled all of Mr. Doyle’s small charges at local businesses. He really didn’t seem to run on credit, as so many do, and appeared to have a lean lifestyle overall.” He paused.
“Mr. Dern?”
“There could also have been, you understand, other debts, which may still surface.” Mr. Dern scratched his chin. Gina’s face must have betrayed a bit of the inner distress she was feeling, for the lawyer suddenly seemed human. “In the same way that I would advise my own daughter, I invite you to come to me should such alternative debts present themselves, and we shall decide together what is to be done. Until then, let us not be concerned about such things.”
Something about all this seemed a bit off. “So why just these keys?” she asked, not caring how greedy she sounded. “Why aren’t I getting everything at once?”
The lawyer hesitated. “Before the bequest can be finalized, Mrs. Doyle would like to know that she can trust you. Can she trust you, Miss Ricci?”
“Trust me? How?”
“If you know anything—or perhaps learn anything—about Marty’s death, she would like to know. There is, shall we say, a great deal of interest from my employer in knowing who killed her son.”
“You think I can help find out?” The tingle was becoming full-fledged goosebumps now.
“Mrs. Doyle, I shall say, took a fancy to you. She would like you to have access to his equipment and anything else you might discover. She’d like you to convey any information you have back to her. Do you understand?”
At Gina’s small nod, he stood up and downed the glass of whiskey. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
“Mr. Dern,” Gina called before the attorney had taken more than a few steps. She narrowed the gap between them so that no one would hear her question. “Who knows that Marty bequeathed his belongings to me?”
The lawyer scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Officially, just those of us who were in the parlor at the Doyles’ house, after Marty’s funeral. However, others might suspect a connection of sorts, given the Doyles’ claim to you as their grand-niece.” He looked up at her, his brown eyes watchful. “Why do you ask?”
She didn’t want to say anything about the break-in that ha
d occurred. “No reason,” she replied. “I was just curious how public these sorts of things tended to be.”
“Not public at all,” he said. “However, given the nature of his untimely death, the fewer people who know about this, the better that will be for you.” After he let that sink in, he added, “Remember, Miss Ricci. The Doyles will expect you to demonstrate loyalty to them.” He turned then and mounted the stairs with great agility, despite his seemingly advanced years.
“Be their stool pigeon, sounds more like,” Gina muttered, feeling the weight of the keys in her pocket. What secrets might Marty’s flat hold? she wondered, as she moved off to serve another customer.
CHAPTER 12
“I’m going to Marty’s flat today,” Gina said to her father, handing him a plate of scrambled eggs and some slightly burned toast. “The Doyles’ attorney, Mr. Dern, gave me a key. I thought I might poke around, see if there is anything of value.”
“Not proper for a girl to go through a bachelor’s things.”
Her father seemed extra grumpy this morning. They hadn’t discussed Marty’s will since that moment before the burglary, and she could tell he was still put out. “Do you want to come with me?” she asked, hoping he would decline. Mr. Dern had said Marty’s flats were on the third floor, and it was unlikely there was an elevator. Besides, she wanted time to look through everything, on her own.
He rustled the newspaper that Mrs. Hayford had dropped off earlier. “Probably just a bunch of junk. The Doyles probably want you to clear out the flat for them.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right, Papa,” she said. Standing up, she dropped a kiss on his forehead.”
Now he did look up. “Be careful, Gina. I mean it.”
* * *
After asking Mrs. Hayford to check in on her papa, Gina walked quickly over to Morgan and Polk, finding the unobtrusive entrance to the flats between the shops. The smallest key fit the outer door. Around her neck she was wearing the key that she’d found inside Marty’s camera case, looped onto a long silver chain that used to belong to her mother.
Murder Knocks Twice Page 15