by Milton Ozaki
A thought struck me: how had they gotten her as far west as Cicero Avenue? Had they spotted her as she left Ginny's place and picked her up then, or had they been waiting in her hotel room? A picture flashed across my mind, and I saw her opening the door of her room, expecting it to be me, starting to smile—and him pushing her into the room, slapping a hand over her mouth, forcing her to go down to a waiting car.
The picture vanished, leaving more questions. Why take her to the west side? If they'd cornered her in her room, why hadn't they killed her and left her there? Or if they'd captured her on Bellevue Place, there were alleys there as well as on Cicero Avenue. Why did they carry her so far? Why did they take such chances?
Without conscious planning, I stuffed the paper into my pocket and headed for the Crilton. I had to see her room. I had to know what had happened. I was in an elevator before I realized what a foolhardy risk I was taking—and then it was too late.
"Floor, sir?" the attendant asked.
"Nine."
He took me up, banged the door open, let me out. I walked slowly down the corridor, waiting for the sound of the door closing. It banged at last and the elevator hummed downward. I ran lightly along the corridor, searching for the fire stairs. I found them, dimly lighted concrete steps circling tightly above and below me, and I went quickly down them to the seventh floor. I stepped into the corridor cautiously, listening for the elevator, for voices, for footsteps. It was quieter than a baby's conscience. I approached the door of 712—and listened again. Nothing.
I studied the panel. There was no seal on the door. Evidently the cops hadn't arrived yet. Then I remembered: I didn't tell them she was staying here—and the only address in her purse had been the one on her driver's license, her hometown address in West Frankfort. Unless they'd phoned her parents, or checked the work-sheet in the Cadillac garage, they wouldn't know where she'd been staying. I took a deep breath and relaxed a little:
The lock was a standard tumbler affair, old and well-worn. The key slit, worn wide by the careless insertion of countless keys, lay at a forty-degree angle, suggesting that, the last time a key had been used, it had been removed hastily without returning the tumblers to zero position. I searched through the change in my pocket, found a dime, forced the edge of it into the slit. Then, with steady pressure, I turned it slowly. With a soft, oily click, the bolt slid back. I opened the door silently.
A plank of yellow light from the corridor fell into the room ahead of me, giving me a momentary glimpse of a chair, a dresser, and a rumpled studio bed near a window. Then my back was against the door and darkness was all around me. I stood there, breathing quickly, listening to the sounds behind me in the corridor. There were no questioning voices, no inquiring footsteps. I continued to stand there, nostrils quivering to the faint remembered scent of her perfume which lingered on the stale air, and letting my eyes accustom themselves to the darkness.
The square of the window sharpened gradually and the articles of furniture began to stand out. It looked like a typical hotel room, small, with Grand Rapids furniture and a woman's accessories. From what I could see, it looked as though she had dressed—or undressed—hurriedly, leaving small articles of clothing on the chairs and dresser. Automatically, my hand moved toward the light switch—and paused.
The window was open, its shade up. At regular intervals, an exterior neon sign blinked on, giving the room a reddish-green cast. I moved across the room, my eyes on the window, and came to a stop with my knees touching the edge of the studio bed. I leaned over, my fingers reaching for the shade— and then my heart stopped beating.
The rumpled covers moved suddenly and slim arms rose to encircle my neck. A ghostly voice said: "Oh, Rusty, thank God you've come—!"
TEN. Mistaken Identity
I RECOILED as though I'd poked my head into the embrace of a boa constrictor and a horrified yelp started to rattle against my teeth.
"What took you so long?" She sat up. "I thought-" "Giselle!" I gasped. "Good God, you're alive!" A strap of the lacy nightgown slid off her shoulder as, with a sleepy yawn, she shook her head to loosen the blonde hair about her face. I reached for her, still dazed and half-believing, and felt the smooth firmness of live flesh, still warm and faintly damp from sleep, beneath my fingers. With a laugh, she put her arms around me and pulled me against her. Her lips sought my mouth and clung.
"Sure, I'm alive," she whispered. "Do I have to convince you?"
"No, but—" I pushed her away. "Haven't you seen the papers?"
"Of course not." The neon sign outside flashed on, bathing the pale oval of her face with its bizarre reddish-green long enough for me to see the puzzled expression on her face. "You said I should stay here and wait for you. I've been here all day, wondering what had happened. You could at least have called and—"
"But, honey—they said you were dead!"
"Dead?" The neon illuminated her face again, showing the startled O formed by her lips. "Who, me?"
"Yes, you!" I turned a lamp on and pulled the Tribune out of my pocket. I found the item and pushed the paper into her hands. "Here. Read all about it."
As she read, her eyes registered horrified disbelief. "Why, it couldn't be! It must be a terrible joke of some kind! I haven't been out of this room—"
"It's no joke," I said grimly, "not to the girl who got strangled."
"But... how horrible! Who could she be?" "I don't know, but we're going to find out." I reached for the telephone directory and looked up the number of the Sun Times. I gave it to the switchboard operator and, while she was making the connection, I said: "Get dressed, kid. We're going places." With a quick nod, she slid off the bed, and, in a swirl of filmy nylon, scampered into the bathroom.
A metallic female voice droned: "Sun Times..."
"Ed James in the city room," I told her.
"One moment, please..." She went away and the line hummed in E flat. It clicked abruptly and a man's voice said hurriedly: "Yeah. James speaking."
"Ed, this is Rusty Forbes."
I could visualize him blinking at the phone through his horn-rimmed glasses. "No fooling. Where you at?"
"That's not important. Look, Ed—I need a little help."
"You need a lot of help, plus maybe some divine intervention."
"It isn't as bad as it looks."
"What's the story?"
"I've got a witness who'll swear that Sands' body was in the car before I touched it this morning. Also, Fia Sprite's story is part of a frame, and—"
"Who's the witness?" he interrupted.
"Giselle Kent."
He laughed shortly. "I've got news for you. She's dead."
"Like hell. She's with me now, and very much alive. Somebody made a mistake in identifying the other body. I think they killed the wrong girl. Can you tell me where the body is?"
"Not off-hand. The coroner usually uses some local undertaking places as a temporary morgue." His voice changed as the story possibilities hit him. "Are you sure about this?"
"Positive."
"You think you'd know the girl?"
"Giselle Kent might."
"Suppose I pick her up? We could use something to balance the Journal story. I'll keep you out of it, of course."
"How soon?"
"Where are you now?"
"How soon?" I repeated.
"Well, I can leave here in about a half-hour. Tell me where—"
"We'll be in Kritickson's Restaurant on Chicago Avenue, near State. Back booth. I'll be watching for you."
"Right." He hung up.
"Come on, kid," I said. "We've been pushing our luck. We'd better get out of here."
She was staring at my red hair. "You ought to wear a hat," she said. "Somebody might recognize you."
"I'll have to chance it," I told her. "The stores are closed."
"How about a beret? I have a blue one—"
"You want people to think I'm a pansy?"
"It'd be better than having somebody call the cops, wou
ldn't it?"
She had reason, as the French say. I put it on, pulling it back from my forehead and letting it flop toward my left ear. I felt jerky in it, but it sure as hell changed my appearance.
"All right, let's get out of here," I said impatiently.
She swung out of the room ahead of me, looking trim and smart in the tailored suit of coral cloth which she'd put on. Several people stared at the beret as we rode down in the elevator, and I could feel them winking at each other behind my back, but I just gnashed my teeth. When we reached the street, I hailed a cruising cab.
"You and your bright ideas!" I gritted, climbing in after her.
She giggled. "You look cute. Real arty!"
Kritickson's was crowded but I spotted Ed James at the bar. I waved.
He peered at me through the horn-rimmed glasses, smiled slightly, and started to turn away. "Hey, Ed!" I called. "Over here."
He came toward me. When he got close enough to get me in sharp focus, he grinned suddenly and slapped his forehead in a gesture of complete bafflement. 'Terrific," he said, plopping down beside me, "absolutely terrific. At first glance, I thought one of the girls was waving at me."
"You're asking for a case of no teeth," I told him.
He punched my arm lightly. "One never knows in this neighborhood. Done eating?" He looked casually at Giselle.
I did the introductions. I knew Ed James pretty well. I was sure I could trust him. So as soon as they stopped smiling formally at each other, I gave him the whole story. He listened without comment until I finished.
"All right, let's find out who the kid is," he said. "I phoned Walter Andrews, one of the assistant coroners, and he said he'd meet us there and keep his mouth shut."
The drive took about twenty minutes. On the way, I pumped Ed for information about Leo Gold. "I can't give you a hell of a lot," he told me, "because he's been off my beat. I can tell you, though, that he's had an office in Chicago for quite a few years but never got much attention until the Kefauver Committee came into town and started smelling around a couple years ago. Then he popped up as the mouthpiece for a couple of the big boys. Since then, he's been scurrying around town, dressed real pretty and keeping his hair combed. I think I heard his name involved in a couple real estate deals lately."
He negotiated a sharp curve expertly.
"Personally," he continued, "my guess is that you're making a mistake about him being the big gun in this deal of yours. He impresses me as being strictly errand-boy caliber."
"Richmond took orders from him," I reminded him.
"So what? Richmond's a peddler. That puts him way down the line."
"But if it isn't Gold, who could it be?"
"Anybody," Ed said flatly. "It could be damned near anybody—even me, or my virgin Aunt Susie. It just takes capital, connections and loose morals. All I'm missing is the capital." With a grin, he braked the car and swung it toward the curb.
The building he parked in front of was a wide, glass-fronted store with heavily-draped windows. A chaste legend in gold letters proclaimed: SYDNEY POLLIN—Mortician.
"This is the last place I wanted to go," Ed cracked.
I felt a shiver course through Giselle. I gave her a quick squeeze before taking my arm away, then I opened the door and we got out. Ed James gave her a keen look. "Aren't upset, are you, Miss Kent?"
"No." She tightened her chin. "No, I'm all right."
"Fine." He rang the night bell and stamped his feet impatiently. "With luck, I may be able to make the last editions with this," he said.
A thin, bald-headed old guy in a stiff collar and dark suit peeked around the drapes, then opened the door for us. Sidney Pollin, in person. Inside, a younger man, wearing a rumpled seersucker suit, was waiting. He got up and shook hands with Ed James. It developed that he was Walter Andrews, the assistant coroner.
Pollin led us through a small, spooky chapel to a smaller room at the rear where, on a waist-high table, a sheeted figure lay. I put an arm around Giselle and walked to the table with her. Walter Andrews pulled the sheet away. Stretched before us, as relaxed as though in sleep, was the nude body of a slim, blonde girl who looked so much like Giselle that I did a tripletake.
"Why... that's Diane—" Giselle said in a trembly voice. "Oh, the poor thing!"
"Diane who?" Ed James asked.
"Diane Doll." Giselle's voice sank to a troubled whisper. "That's the name she used, anyway."
"Where'd she work?"
Giselle shook her head. "I don't know. I used to see her at some of the places. You know."
"Any idea where she lived?"
"No. I just saw her around. I think she used to be a dancer. I'm not sure."
"Remember seeing her with anyone in particular?"
"Well... men, of course. I don't know any of their names." James turned to Andrews. "What's the latest, doc? Any definite conclusions?"
"Not many," Andrews conceded. He moved a fluff of blonde hair away from the girl's neck, pointed with a finger at a series of tiny bruises. "Judging by the position of these semilunar bruises, which appear on both sides of the neck, laterally and at the level of the larynx, a rather strong person grasped her from the front, using two hands, and caused the fracture of the laryngeal cartilage. The smaller curved lesions were caused by her assailant's fingernails."
"Man's or a woman's?" I asked.
"It could be either."
"Would a man's nails be apt to leave marks like that?" I insisted.
"Some men have very nice fingernails." He lifted his eyes and glanced at my beret. "On the other hand, I have observed that some women have almost no fingernails at all."
I felt the back of my neck grow hot. "I just wondered," I muttered.
"How about assault?" Ed James asked.
"There was no sexual attack, if that's what you mean," Andrews stated carefully. "Assault—yes, of course. It happened very fast, probably, before she could make any attempt to defend herself."
"How do you figure that?" James asked.
"By the condition of her clothes and by these—" Andrews moved to the middle of the table and lifted the girl's hands. "You'll notice that she has long fingernails, filed to a rather sharp point. None of them are broken, nor were we able to find any foreign particles, such as flesh from her assailant's face, beneath them."
"Umm." James frowned. "What are those marks on her knees?"
"They're rather interesting," Andrews said. He put a hand under her left knee and turned the leg slightly so we could all see a long, bluish discoloration which marred the pallid skin. "This one is pre-mortem; in other words, it occurred shortly before death. Yet, oddly enough, it was covered by a very sheer stocking which was undamaged. It suggests that she bruised herself—or that a severe blow was administered— while she was dressing, immediately prior to the strangulation."
He released the leg and pointed at the other knee, where a series of ugly marks abraded the skin.
"These were caused post-mortem. The stocking over the area was ripped to shreds. It suggests that she was dragged for a short distance because her assailant was not quite able to bear the entire weight of her body."
"Suppose she was thrown from a car. Would she have been marked like that?" James asked.
"Possibly; in fact, very probably."
"Tell me this," I interrupted. "What made everybody jump to the conclusion that she was Giselle Kent? Who made the identification?"
"I'm afraid I'm responsible for that," Sydney Pollin said nervously. "A purse was brought here with the body. When the police inventoried its contents, it was found to contain an envelope addressed to Miss Kent." He coughed delicately. "Naturally, I was interested in locating a relative or... ah... establishing whether or not—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know," I broke in, "you wanted to find out who was responsible for her so you could try to sell them a fancy casket. So what'd you do, open the envelope?"
He recoiled as though I'd clacked false teeth in his face. "Why, yes. I suggeste
d it to the police. They agreed."
"Why, the idea!" Giselle snapped, sounding angry.
"What was in the envelope?" I pursued.
"A letter from a hairdresser—a Mr. Mel—reminding her that... ah... she might need a new permanent."
"He sends them to all his customers every couple of months," Giselle said. "He must have sent it to me in care of the Frolics Club."
"What the hell was Diane doing with it?" I asked. "Anyway, that sounds to me like the lousiest job of establishing an identity that—"
"But Mr. Mel came and looked at her, sir," Pollin interrupted hastily, "and he identified her as Miss Kent. We thought that, being a hairdresser, and so forth, he would be in a position to know."
"Mr. Mel said it was me?" Giselle shrieked incredulously. "Why, he ought to know better!"
"Yes, miss, you'd think so, wouldn't you?" Pollin stammered.
"Wait a minute," I interrupted, "what was in the purse besides the letter? Wasn't there a wallet, some cards, anything like that?"
"No, sir." Pollin shook his bald head. "Just loose change, a package of cigarettes, and some Kleenex tissues. The letter was in a sort of flap inside the purse; the police nearly missed it, in fact."
"Some of the girls don't carry much identification," Giselle put in slowly. She colored a little. "You know, sometimes the guys get sort of out of hand, and they try to look in a girl's purse to find out where she lives so they can—well, so they can bother her, maybe, later." She bit her lip. "It's terrible to say this, now that she's dead, but maybe she was going out to meet somebody, and she thought they'd... Well, you know."
"Sounds reasonable," Ed James agreed.
Andrews soberly drew the sheet over the pallid body. "It's getting late, gentlemen. Any other questions?"
"I'm set," Ed James said. He looked at me. "How about you?"
I nodded.
"In that case, thank you very much, Miss Kent, for setting the records straight. We're sorry it happened, of course, but mistakes do happen."