“I told you about that?”
Laura shook her head. “Jake never told me until today.”
I explained the visit from Mary Caldwell and the decision to go back for the memorial service on Sunday.
The bellhop finished loading the bags onto the cart. “The dead girl have a boyfriend? It’s always the boyfriend.” He stood beside the cart and held out his hand.
I slapped a dollar into his hand, then handed him another. “Oh, and we’d like these flowers delivered to Gino’s Restaurant in Queens.”
“All of them?” The kid stared at the two bills in his hand. “This is for the bags, right?”
“Jake’s a cheap bastard.” Gino pulled a sawbuck from his wallet. He stuffed the bill into the bellhop’s hand. “Take care of the flowers. They’re secondhand.”
Gino rose and downed the rest of the coffee. “So you’re going back to solve the murder.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m going to work on my novel until the memorial service.”
“Now I know you’re just messing with me.” Gino chuckled.
He headed for the door, set his hat on his head, and smoothed the brim. “Even if you’re going to Hanover to write, you’ll find a way to solve the murder.”
Chapter 8
They Love Me in Philly
While we checked out at the front desk, the manager handed Laura a slip of paper.
A flicker of concern swept over her face then quickly vanished. She gave me a reassuring smile that fell short of its mark. “It’s Paul. I better call and let him know about our plans.”
“Give him my best.”
The manager slid a phone toward Laura. “You can use this one.”
“Thanks, I’ll use a pay phone.”
While she crossed the lobby toward a bank of pay phones, I gave the manager the name of the inn in Hanover and asked him to reserve us a room.
I glanced toward the pay phones and my concern grew. Laura and I both knew how competitive the acting business was. She should be going to Hollywood instead of Hanover.
Laura had completed the phone call by the time I finished paying the bill. She slipped her arm in mine and we followed the bellhop. He wheeled the bags outside toward a cabbie leaning against a cab reading a Wall Street Journal. The newsstand must have been out of Daily Racing Forms.
The cabbie gave us an economics lesson as he drove toward Grand Central Station. He should have been in charge in ’29 instead of Hoover. It might have saved everyone a lot of trouble. We reached the station as he explained capitalization.
Laura and I took a seat in the compartment. We rode in silence as the train left the station. Soon the countryside drifted by the window. She rested her head against my shoulder. “When Mary Caldwell hears you’re in town, won’t she assume you’re there to reopen her daughter’s investigation?”
Rumors spread quickly in small towns. It wouldn’t take long for word to spread about a famous Hollywood actress in town. “We’re going to drop by her place first thing in the morning and set her straight.”
“Jake, if you’re right, she’s dying. There’s no easy way to dash a woman’s final hope.”
Laura was right. “Before I start on my novel, I want to meet with the sheriff and share my original findings.”
“Darling, that was ten years ago.”
I knew the main suspects: the boyfriend, the teacher, and the priest. “Before we rent a car, we could drop by the Pinkerton office and see if they’ll let me review my file. They liked me in Philly.” With one exception.
The file might jog my memory about the case so I could offer details the local authorities didn’t have. Something, anything, might encourage the cops to take a fresh look at the case.
“What do we have to lose?” Laura grabbed a Variety magazine on the seat across from us. She flipped through the pages. “I remember being sixteen. By then I’d fallen in love with you. If something happened to me back then, we’d never have what we have today.”
Talk of Katie Caldwell cast a pall over the compartment. I patted her hand. “You’re going to enjoy Hanover.”
As Laura leafed through the magazine, I grabbed a notebook from my carry-on bag. I jotted down a plot outline of the novel I planned to start in Hanover. I’d filled half the notebook when the compartment door opened, sending in a cloud of cheap men’s cologne. A man five foot tall and nearly as wide edged his way through the door, nodded to Laura and me, and sat across from us.
Laura flashed the smile she mastered in acting school. She set the magazine beside her and rested her head against my shoulder again.
The man hefted a large suitcase beside him and wiped his brow with a handkerchief and stuffed it into a trouser pocket. He unbuttoned his suit coat, revealing thick red suspenders, and ran his fingers across a bushy mustache so thick he could’ve used it to paint a room.
He set the suitcase on its side. When he unsnapped it, a pair of red polka-dotted boxer shorts spilled out. He stuffed them back in the bag and grabbed a book, my last Blackie Doyle novel, Blackie Returns.
Minutes later, Laura dozed, or pretended to.
I tried not to speculate what the man across from us thought about the novel. It appeared he’d made it through a couple of chapters.
I couldn’t help myself. I stuffed the notebook in my suit coat and whispered, “Good book?”
He spoke softly. “It starts slowly. I can’t wait till the part where he gets the blond dame in bed.”
“He doesn’t.”
The man’s mouth slackened like I’d told him the Dodgers were moving out of Brooklyn. He glanced at the cover, Blackie standing in the fog looking up at a dame’s shapely silhouette in a two-story apartment building. “Just goes to show you can’t tell a book by its cover.”
He closed the book and set it beside him. He smoothed his mustache as he gazed at Laura. “Your wife’s quite a looker.”
“She’s my sister. I’m taking her to Philadelphia to join a convent, but I’ll pass along your compliment when we reach Philly. She’ll be very pleased.”
He let out a sigh. “What a shame.” He reached into his suit coat pocket and handed me a business card: Big Tony’s Suspenders. We hold up your pants so you don’t have to. “People notice suspenders. When’s the last time someone said to you, ‘Nice belt’?”
I stuffed the card in my suit coat pocket. “You Big Tony?”
He smacked his considerable belly. “Big Tony’s my little brother.” He let out a raspy laugh then covered his mouth as he looked at Laura. “Sorry.”
I grabbed my fedora and set it low over my brow. “Think I’ll join my sister in a quick nap. You might want to give the book another chance.”
Chapter 9
Distress Isn’t Good for the Baby
I closed my eyes, thinking about the Pinkerton office in Philly. I doubted anyone I used to work with would still be there. Pinkerton detectives often transferred from office to office, but I was hoping whoever was in charge would show me some professional courtesy so we could review the file before we headed to Hanover.
To my surprise, I drifted to sleep. I dreamed about the Philly Pinkerton office ten years ago.
That morning, I’d stepped into the office like it was any other day, but shouting came from the typing pool. I entered the office to the sound of Al Jacoby berating a secretary over a misspelled word on a report she typed for him.
The secretary’s eyes looked like two car headlights. I had to do something.
Fat Al, as we called him, paused in his tirade and glared at me, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand. “What?”
“Show some respect, Al.”
He straightened, took a deep breath, and slipped his hand in the pocket of his cheap suit coat. He pulled out a pistol and fired it at the center of the secretary’s head, which exploded with a shower of blood and smoke. He stuffed the gun in his jacket. “She won’t make that mistake again.”
I awoke with a start. The suspe
nder salesman and odor of his cologne were gone.
Laura was peering out the window, and we were pulling into 30th Street Station in Philadelphia, with the station’s familiar immense Greek stone columns. She smiled at me. “You have a nice sleep?”
I nodded and grabbed our carry-on bags. As we stepped into the corridor of the train, I followed Laura toward the exit.
My fellow detectives ten years earlier had worked long hours for the company and its clients, everyone except for Fat Al Jacoby, all five foot six, one hundred forty pounds. Five of the pounds consisted of a large chip he carried on his shoulder.
Back then Fat Al used his diminutive size to his advantage. Few took him as a threat when they met him, but he carried a set of brass knuckles in his pocket and wasn’t afraid to use them when he encountered thugs and lowlifes, or pretty much anyone he didn’t like.
I understood why he might overcompensate for his lack of size, but what I didn’t get was why he treated everyone like a thug. During my time in the Philly office, I avoided him at every opportunity. He’d never amount to anything.
As we made our way through the station, I began to think about what really happened that morning ten years ago with Fat Al Jacoby. I’d arrived at the office early. Shouting came from the typing pool.
Fat Al glared at me. “You making this your business, Donovan?”
I glanced at the frightened woman. “I guess I am.”
He ignored the woman and reached one hand into his pocket, for his brass knuckles, I presumed.
Six inches taller, I stepped toward Al and glared at him.
It was early, and except for the three of us, no one had arrived in the office. I could see Fat Al wasn’t going to back down, and neither was I. The secretary’s wide-eyed expression softened a bit when I smiled at her and winked.
Fat Al jabbed the air with a bony finger. “Mind your own business, pretty boy.”
Pretty boy? Few words got me hot under the collar more than being called a pretty boy, but I held my temper as the secretary got up from her chair, hurried down the hallway, and entered the ladies’ room.
I claimed a victory for ending his treatment of the woman in the typing pool. I turned and headed for my desk.
Fat Al hurried after me. He grabbed my arm and spun me toward him. “This ain’t over, pretty boy.”
The brass knuckles were on his right fist. I shook off his grip, knowing this wasn’t going to end well.
Thanks to my old man’s boxing lessons, I watched the man’s bony shoulders. They tightened, and I knew he was preparing to throw a punch.
When he swung, I threw a quick jab that snapped his head back.
He stumbled against the wall and shook off a dazed look. He took a wild swing, with the brass knuckles flashing in the light from an office lamp.
I sidestepped the blow and socked Fat Al in the gut with a left hook. He let out a stale puff of air. A right to the jaw dropped him to one knee.
I stepped back, flexing the sting from my hand, content to end it there.
Fat Al grabbed ahold of the desk and pulled himself to his feet and spit blood from his busted lip onto the floor.
The door opened and our boss came in. We used to call the manager Huggins after Miller Huggins because, like the Yankee manager, he was tough but fair. “Sorry to interrupt.”
I unclenched my fists and dropped into the chair at my desk.
Fat Al straightened the lapels on his jacket. “Jake was just showing me how to protect myself. Guess I zigged when I should’ve zagged.”
Huggins tossed Al a handkerchief.
The battered man wiped blood from the floor, brushed past me, and headed for the men’s room.
A smile curled from Huggins’s lip. “Choose your battles, Donovan.”
I often thought of that confrontation. I was sure Fat Al and I would’ve tangled again, but that was the day Mary Caldwell came in and I left for Hanover. A week later, I was on a train to New York City.
Laura and I retrieved the rest of our bags then took a cab to the Pinkerton office. We went inside, and I set the suitcases on the floor next to the hat rack.
A receptionist with black-rimmed glasses stopped typing. She peered over the top of her glasses and welcomed us to the agency. She gave us both the once-over but didn’t appear to recognize Laura or me.
I didn’t want word getting around that Jake Donovan wanted to review the Katie Caldwell file, so I handed the secretary Big Tony’s business card and asked for the manager.
She handed the card back. “He doesn’t wear suspenders.”
Laura fluffed her hair. “He will after he hears our pitch.”
A minute later, my heart stopped and I quit breathing. Fat Al Jacoby’s hair had thinned considerably. What was left had turned mostly gray. Hair he lost appeared to have grown between his eyebrows, turning his brow into one long hairy line.
He’d gained a few pounds, and he still wore the five-pound chip on his shoulder.
He tossed the card on the receptionist’s desk. “You always were a wiseass, Jake Donovan.”
I knew from his expression, our visit was useless. I glanced at Laura. “Let’s go.”
Her eyes shifted between Fat Al and me. “I don’t know what went on in the past, boys, whether it was a dame, a bet, or money, but whatever happened was years ago.”
For her sake, I decided to give it a try. I extended my hand.
He ignored the gesture. The man clearly hadn’t forgotten our last encounter.
It took some doing, but I acted like we were old pals from the neighborhood. “So, you’re the manager.”
“Acting manager,” the receptionist answered, then bit her lip.
Fat Al shot her a look before puffing up in importance. “My boss is taking over the Scranton office. I’m in charge for the foreseeable future.”
If anyone could soften the man up, it was Laura. “This is my wife, Laura Wilson.”
The receptionist’s mouth dropped open.
“Laura, this is Al Jacoby. We worked together back in the day.”
His lip curled. “We worked in the same office. Never together.”
Laura had perfected the art of smiling. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Jacoby.”
Fat Al gave her a brief nod. In spite of her looks and charm, he wasn’t going to be nice to her either.
I hadn’t given up entirely. “If you have a few minutes, we’d like just a moment of your time.”
Fat Al looked me straight in the eye then led us to a room around the corner. “Time is money.”
I considered apologizing for splitting his lip ten years earlier, but I owed him squat.
Laura sat and smiled at Al like he was a long-lost brother. What an actress. “Jake has some fond memories of working as a Pinkerton. You must enjoy this line of work, Mr. Jacoby.”
“It’s a living.” He crossed his arms. “Like I said, I don’t have much time.”
I remained standing, enjoying looking down at the man. “I’ll get right to the point. I’m here about the Katie Caldwell case.”
“Who?” His eyebrow bent at the middle. “Wait, is that the case in Hanover you were working on when you walked away and never came back?”
Maybe he hadn’t heard about my old man’s stroke. “That’s the one.”
Fat Al scratched his head. “I heard you left the business and became some big-shot writer. You planning on reopening the case?”
It didn’t make any difference, but I wanted him to think I was still a big-shot writer. “Laura and I are headed to Hanover to attend the ten-year memorial service.”
Fat Al pulled a toothpick from his pocket and bit down on it. “How does that concern me?”
I struggled to not lose my temper. “I just want to refresh my memory in case the subject comes up.”
“You never were a good liar, Donovan. This file is important to you.” He ran a hand over his chin. “It’s in storage someplace, and my time is valuable.”
Valuable? I wasn’t goin
g to pay the bum a dime.
Laura opened her purse and held two twenties toward the man. “I’m sure your time is invaluable. Will this help?”
“I could use the dough, but I’m not going digging for a ten-year-old file, not for your husband.” Fat Al didn’t want to keep me from reviewing a sensitive case file. The long and the short of it was, he just didn’t want to help me.
I let out a deep breath. “Look, I see you’re still sore about our last encounter.”
“You sucker punched me.”
I did nothing of the kind. “Your memory’s not what it used to be.”
Laura tried her charm again. “Mr. Jacoby, my husband and I just want to review the file. Then we’ll be on our way.”
Fat Al spit out the toothpick. “Beat it, Donovan. I’ve got work to do.”
When I got up, his lip curled. “You never liked being a detective, did you, Donovan? That’s why you walked out on the Pinkertons.”
“I liked it fine. I didn’t like you.”
He left the room without another word and headed down the hall before slamming an office door.
“Guess that’s that.” I led Laura to the lobby.
“Sorry.” The receptionist flashed a sad smile. Then she gazed at Laura and jumped to her feet. “Are you all right, Miss Wilson?”
“I feel a bit faint.” Laura grasped my hand. Her face was pale and she stared glassy-eyed across the room.
I helped her into one of the lobby chairs. “Laura…”
“I’ll get some water.” The receptionist dashed down the corridor.
I knelt and held her hand. I’d never known Laura to faint, except in a role onstage. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
Laura winked at me.
I let go of her hand and breathed a sigh of relief.
The worried receptionist returned with a paper cup and handed the water to Laura.
Laura’s hands trembled as she drank. “Thank you.”
The color on her cheeks returned to normal. How did she do that?
Laura handed the empty cup to me then rubbed her belly. “Stress isn’t good for our baby. My doctor warned us about that.” She clutched my hand. “Didn’t he, darling?”
The Big Brush-off Page 6