Dressed to Killed

by Milton Ozaki

  "Where do I come in?" I asked.

  "I'm getting to that. There have been several big thefts lately. One of them was the Eastman hijacking which you said Richmond told you about. It's a big haul—four hundred thousand dollars' worth—which has been kept out of the papers, so I'm inclined to think you didn't dream that up by yourself. There's been a rash of robberies—all big-time stuff— and none of the goods has gone out through the usual fences. We know that for certain. In other words, it's being dribbled out in a new way, possibly in the way you suggested when you told about your dickering with Richmond. If so, we'd like more dope on the set-up."

  "More dope, hell," Matthews growled. "We want to knock it off."

  Trottmann nodded. "Forbes, this is where you come in: We've been cops too long not to have been conscious of a feeling of unrest in the district. Something has been building up, coming to a head. Maybe the murder of Sands was symptomatic. Maybe Richmond and Gold removed him because Sands was trying to muscle in oh their racket. Whatever it is, we'd like to know."

  "The guy to ask is Sands—and he's dead," I pointed out.

  "Yes, but Sands wouldn't have been operating alone. If he was active at all, it was with a highly organized gang, one which still exists, one which is floundering now but which will have a new boss in a few days."

  "I get the picture," I said. "But that's all I do get."

  "As cops, we're handicapped. We're hampered by routine and red tape. You, for instance, could dig faster than we could."

  I laughed sarcastically. "In other words, you want me to be a clay pigeon."

  "That's about it," Trottmann admitted. "The killing of the Kent girl makes the thing jell, to my mind. It gives credence to your story. Enough, anyway, for Captain Matthews and I to feel that it's worth a chance."

  "What it boils down to, then, is this: You're willing to give me a pass on the chance that I can raise a stink big enough for you to smell—officially."

  "Yes—and no," Trottmann said carefully.

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "Give it to him straight," Matthews interjected impatiently. He drummed his desk with his fingers. "He has to know what kind of a shake he's getting."

  "The papers have got hold of you and everybody knows you're tied in with the Sands killing," Trottmann said, nodding. "If either Matthews or I gave you a pass, we'd get hell from the papers, there'd be a difficult explanation to make to the commissioner—and, also, we'd be tipping the other parties to the fact that we're on their tail. So we can't let you go."

  "Then how the hell—"

  "But," Trottmann accented the word delicately, "but you could escape!"

  I blinked. "You'd still get hell."

  "Not as much. We've agreed that it's worth a chance."

  "But-" I stared at Matthews. "I'd be hotter than hell, wouldn't I?"

  "We'd have to broadcast a general alarm," Matthews admitted. "It'd be up to you to keep under the carpet."

  "Hell, I couldn't move without being jumped on by cops, or by Richmond's gang, or by—"

  "Sands' boys might take you into their arms," Trottmann suggested.

  "Nix." I spat the word. "I don't like anything about the deal. What's the alternative?"

  "The states' attorney's office is sending a man over. You're to be formally indicted for Sands' murder." Matthews flung his cigar toward a wastebasket. "We've orders to put you through the seven o'clock show-up. From there, you'll go to the county jail and the newspaper boys will take pictures of you. You ought to know the routine."

  I did. I thought about the show-up, where shabby characters shuffled beneath bright lights and obeyed the commands of a cop ringmaster while an audience of sensation-hungry citizens gloated over them. I thought about popping flashbulbs, picture-crazy press photographers, and front-page pictures of myself showing the kiss-bruises made by Fia Sprite. I thought of the endless questions, the stinking county jail, and the wheels of justice, which turned so slowly that it might be months before I got to face a jury. And I thought of the fact that I was broke, that I didn't have the dough to hire a decent lawyer, that I'd be fighting for my life on a legal sea with nothing beneath me except a leaking raft.

  I made up my mind. "How do I break out of here?"

  "Just beat it," Matthews growled. He pointed at the door. "We'll fix it at this end."

  "You'll have about five minutes," Trottmann added.

  I stared at them a moment, then I got up and jerked open the door. The corridor was clear. I closed the door decisively behind me.

  Where does a fox run when the hounds are after him? Into a hole—to suffocate? Up a tree—to be shaken down? Into a river— to drown? I was a fox, a desperate fox, fleeing so fast that my hind legs were almost around my neck—but I wasn't hauling down my tail, not yet. Maybe I didn't have anything else, but I still had my pride and I intended to go down fighting.

  I ran east on Chicago Avenue to State Street, then boarded a cab. There were still a few dollars in my pants, fortunately.

  I told the driver to let me off in the neighborhood where I'd dropped Giselle Kent. Then I remembered Ginny Evans' apartment was on Bellevue Place, a block south. I went back to the corner, headed south, and turned into Bellevue. The building was easy to spot. I walked past it slowly, trying to act like a casual stroller, and studied the windows. The entire third floor was dark. I walked all the way to Lake Shore Drive, then turned and came back. This time I turned into the driveway and followed it to the rear. The building had the usual wooden porches and zigzag stairs, designed to support garbage cans and provide a tradesman's entrance. I made like a tradesman. I went up the stairs briskly.

  Getting into the building was a cinch. A corridor ran straight through the center, servicing all of the apartments on the floor, and entrance was cut off by a mere screen door hooked on the inside. I jabbed two fingers through the screen, tripped the hook, and walked in. The Evans girl had the front apartment, the one to my left. That was more of a problem. The door was a single solid panel and had a tumbler lock. Without picks or tools, it posed quite a problem.

  I finally went back to the screen door and unscrewed the hook. On my way back, I listened for a moment at each door along the corridor and heard nothing. For good measure, I rapped lightly on the door across from hers. The raps echoed down the corridor but no one came running to find out what I wanted. That was fine with me. Using the hook as a miniature crowbar, I forced it into the stripping which edged the door on the side where the lock was located, and gradually pried it up. I was sweating like a June bride before I got it loose enough to get my fingers under; finally, with a faint protesting squeak of old nails saying goodbye to dry wood, the strip came away. I made another quick trip to the rear, this time to rummage in the garbage cans for an old milk carton.

  I found one. Tearing a strip from it, I forced the flat waxed paper along the edge of the door until it was over the lock and touching the arc where a spring-bolt begins to curve. Gently, but firmly, I exerted pressure, praying that the paper was strong enough for the job. It was. The bolt snapped back suddenly and the door swung open. Using the flat of my hand, I pounded the stripping back into place as well as I could. Then I shut the door and snapped on the lights.

  It was a living room, bedroom, dinette affair, littered with the smells and knickknacks of a girl who gets around. I made sure the shades were down, then made a quick tour of the place. The dinette was clean and uncluttered. The cupboards held an assortment of canned foods and breakfast cereals, and the refrigerator had eggs, some sliced meats, and a bottle of cream in addition to the inevitable ice cubes and soda bottles. The Evans girl cooked; not on a large scale, but she cooked. The living room bore the marks of a budget-cramped interior decorator and sported only one noteworthy piece of equipment: a huge radio-phono-television console that probably had cost more than the down-payment on a car. The gift of a boyfriend who hoped she'd stay in nights, I surmised.

  The bedroom got most of my attention. That's one of th
e first lessons I'd learned as a private eye. A woman's bedroom is her castle. If you want to find out what she's got on her mind, give it a thorough going-over. I did exactly that.

  For one thing, I discovered she was no penny-ante kid. The stuff she put next to her skin and dabbed behind her ear lobes came from places where the clerks wouldn't even spit on you for less than twenty dollars. Dresses, suits, blouses —all exclusive labels. Nylons by the box—the 12-denier, 60-gauge kind. A shelf-ful of hats, little silly ones—most of them by Bes-Ben or Mr. John. But my respect really zoomed when I came across her cache of jewelry. There were a dozen rings, several sets of earrings, a handful of pendants and pins—and they had the fiery glitter of genuine ice, the kind of friend a girl can't have too much of. I whistled softly and regretfully put it all back under the mattress where I'd found it.

  A second closet gave me quite a surprise. It contained four suits. Men's suits. One—a blue, silk-gabardine, sharply tailored number—looked as though it had been put on its hanger hurriedly. I took it down and studied it. It seemed to be my size. I tried the jacket on. Tight in the shoulders, but not too bad! Without thinking, I pushed my hands into the pockets. My right hand produced a lipstick-stained handkerchief, the left a package of Parliaments. I poked into the inside breast pocket. A wallet. With my eyebrows doing a jig, I flipped the wallet open. It contained $71 in assorted bills, no identification cards, no names except that of Mr. Buston, the man who had manufactured it.

  The trousers weren't quite as interesting. There was nothing in them except another handkerchief, a small leather flap containing two keys, and less than a dollar in change. A small idea began to percolate. I held the trousers in front of me. They looked short, but—. Two minutes later I had them on. They were loose in the seat and snug in the legs, but they looked a hell of a lot better than my own.

  I went into the bathroom and inspected myself in a full-length mirror. The suit looked good. My shirt was a mess, though, and so was my face. I had to do something about them. I snapped my fingers. Hell, a guy who parks his suits in a babe's apartment must have some of the other stuff around, too. I made another tour of the bedroom, looking into the bottoms of drawers. I found them in a tallboy across from the bed, squeezed in next to a pile of pastel sheets: three white shirts, size 15Vi, some pairs of fancy shorts and white-ribbed undershirts. No socks, though. The shirts would be impossible in the collar—I take a 16Vi—but that was okay with me. Anything was better than looking like a bum just out of stir.

  I began to feel as optimistic as an old maid at a church social. Maybe Jupiter was going into Uranus or something; anyway, things were looking up. I selected a pair of the fancy shorts, picked out an undershirt, and tossed them onto the bed. I started to strip. When I got down to my skin, I happened to catch a reflection of myself in a bureau mirror. Besides being dotted with purple butterflies, I looked dirty and scaly around the edges. I needed a bath worse than a kid needs marbles.

  I trotted into the living room, where I'd noticed a clock. It said 8:45. Giselle Kent had mentioned that Ginny was a singer. Singers work evenings and most of the joints start their shows at nine o'clock. If she wasn't already warbling, she was probably oiling her larynx and getting ready to. It looked like I had clear sailing. Without even bothering to toss a mental coin, I went into the bathroom and turned the shower on.

  The sharp spray stung my face and shoulders but I faced into it, enduring the heat and beat of the water until it penetrated and started to relax me. Then I soaped myself, luxuriating in the creamy, scented lather. Feeling like a new man, I gave myself a coolish rinse, turned off the water, and stepped out of the tub.

  A woman's short, throaty laugh greeted me from the bedroom.

  "Wrap a towel around yourself, honey," she said, "and come out slowly. If you get frisky and make me pull this trigger, you won't be a boy any more."

  EIGHT. Behind the Blonde

  I GRABBED a towel quicker than a shavetail jumping to attention. Then the complete awkwardness and stupidity of the situation struck me and I felt like crawling under the sink and scuttling like a roach.

  "Come on," she drawled, "and be sure you do it slow. Strange men make me nervous."

  She was a big blonde girl, built hefty and solid, with the fluid curves of a belly-dancer. The dress she wore may have accentuated the curves. It was a pale blue, satiny number, of a cut designed to make men stand on tiptoe, and it started with a pair of lacy cups, then smoothed down around her generous hips and fell in a long thigh-clinging line which didn't end until it touched the toes of gold-meshed slippers. Her face was oval, smooth, pretty, colorful—and expressionless, showing she'd done a good, careful job with stage makeup. Thick blonde hair was piled atop her head in a sleek up-do, the kind favored by entertainers. Her blue eyes were clear and rather friendly, I thought, although marred now by an expression which suggested knowing wariness. It was the third eye which bothered me the most. A blue-black circle, about .38 caliber, which peeked at me from the vicinity of her right hand.

  "Imagine my embarrassment," I said.

  The tip of her tongue moistened red lips. "A girl can't even step out to a store without getting visitors. Who invited you in?"

  "No one. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Who are you, anyway?" Her eyes danced across my chest and shoulders, doing a polka from bruise to bruise.

  I decided I might as well level with her. "Russell Forbes," I said. "The guy Giselle told you about."

  She made a tsk-ing sound with her lips. "Old lover-boy, himself—and hotter than a pistol. Aren't I the lucky girl?" A new note, cooler and more businesslike, came into her voice. "The papers said you were in the clink."

  "I didn't like the room they gave me. No Muzak, no maid service, no—"

  "You broke out?" Her eyebrows rose admiringly.

  I tried to wrap the towel a little tighter about my waist. "That's why I pushed in here. It was handy and I figured you'd be at work. I thought I'd clean up a bit." I nodded toward the clothing on the bed. "I was going to borrow some of your boyfriend's stuff, too. Temporarily, of course, and strictly because of the emergency."

  "You've got a hell of a nerve," she commented.

  "Necessity, not nerve," I corrected.

  "What are those marks on you?" Her eyes flickered over the bruises again.

  "Those are the love-bites of a little beauty named Fia Sprite."

  "Little punk, you mean," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Who gave the cops that story about her being Eddie Sands' girlfriend?"

  "She must have confessed."

  "Confessed!" Her nostrils flared and she made an uncomplimentary sound. "Eddie wouldn't have used her to stir paint with."

  "You mean she wasn't?"

  "It's strictly from dreams, take my word for it."

  "Richmond or Gold must have suggested it to her, then," I said thoughtfully. "Anyway, it made a nice story. I wonder—"

  "Gold? What's he got to do with this?" she interrupted sharply.

  "He's the master mind, as near as I can figure out. He and Richmond engineered the frame."

  "You don't say!" Her red lips parted in an expression of rapt interest. "Tell me about it."

  "Like this?" I shifted the towel. "How about letting me get decent?"

  She did the throaty laugh again. "Okay." She lowered the gun and swung her arm casually, letting the .38 dangle by two fingers. "You can borrow the clothes. Eddie won't need them any more." She turned on a golden heel, giving me a view of additional curves, and strode into the other room.

  My skin crawled a little as I slipped into the fancy shorts, but I decided I couldn't afford to be fussy. They looked new. Maybe Sands hadn't even worn them. Keeping a firm hand on the superstitious qualms which kept pricking at me, I put on the trousers and shirt, leaving the collar of the shirt unbuttoned. I went into the living room, carrying the suit jacket on my arm.

  She was sitting in a wingback chair, arms relaxed, ankles crossed, very ladylike.
The gun was not in evidence.

  "Tell me about Gold," she said.

  "I'd better tell you about Richmond first."

  "Richmond I know. Tell me about Gold."

  "They're in this together." I told her about wangling a date with Richmond, the rendezvous in the garage, and the conversation I'd overheard in Richmond's apartment. When I went into details of the episode with Fia Sprite, her eyes began to smolder and her lips curled a little. "The way I figure it," I concluded, "Richmond passed the word to Gold, Gold tipped a pal on the staff of the Journal, this pal wrote the story with one hand and waved to the cops with the other—and I got the rap. You have to give the Sprite babe credit. She put on a good act."

  "She's a floosie." Ginny narrowed her eyes at me. "What do you intend to do?"

  "I don't know," I admitted. "I'm a fugitive from the cops and a pain in the tail to Gold. I'd like to keep on being a pain. But now that Giselle's dead—"

  "What?" She started as though I'd slid a sliver of ice down her back.

  "She's dead," I repeated. "It probably hasn't hit the papers yet. The cops found her in an alley somewhere on the west side."

  "Giselle!" She seemed stunned. "How?"

  "Strangled. I don't know any details."

  She gripped the arms of her chair so hard that her knuckles stood out like rows of ivory buttons. "The poor kid," she whispered. "If I'd only known—!"

  "What could you have done?"

  It was an idle question, deserving no answer, and it settled through the silence and disintegrated into nothingness. I sat there, trying to resolve the facts into a picture. Sands' clothes in Ginny's apartment meant they'd been more than buddies. She'd been broken up by his death enough not to work that evening, I guessed. And she'd been sizzling on account of the story in the papers about Fia Sprite being Sands' girl. It had probably hurt her pride. But—

  It was a large but. I'd dropped Giselle off at her place early in the afternoon, and Giselle must have told her that Sands was no more. Also, according to Giselle, she'd picked up Richmond's check and instructions from Ginny early that morning—and the only time Sands' body could have been cached in the Caddy was while Giselle was upstairs getting said check and instructions. Did Ginny know, even then, that Sands was dead and that she was helping Richmond make a quick shuffle to get rid of the body? If so, why hadn't she gotten rid of Sands' things, just to protect herself in case of official questioning? Keeping his duds around showed negligence, not sentiment, and could have gotten her into a peck of trouble.