Dressed to Killed

by Milton Ozaki

  "I'm sorry for her," Giselle said, backing away from the body. "She always seemed such a happy girl..."

  I took her arm and led her out.

  When we were in Ed James' car again, he looked quizzically at me. "Any bright ideas?"

  "Damned if I know," I admitted. "It looks like a simple case of mistaken identity, yet the whole thing seems sort of careless, as though there were loopholes just waiting for somebody to jump through them."

  "So?"

  "So I'm going to have a talk with Leo Gold."

  Ed lifted his eyebrows. "At this hour?"

  "He can get out of bed, can't he?"

  "Feeling tough, eh?" He grinned. "Well, deal me out. Thank God, I've got an edition to make."

  Giselle pressed my arm. "I'll go with you, Rusty."

  "Nix, kid, you're on the shelf," I told her. "Ed'll drop you off near your hotel. When I talk to Leo Gold, I'm going to use language that might give a sweet kid like you an earache."

  PART TWO. Fire When Ready

  ELEVEN. The Merry Widow

  TO PUT it crudely, the stink was getting stronger and I was beginning to quiver with the excitement of a bird dog on the scent.

  I walked a block north and stopped in a drugstore. Gold's office address was listed in the telephone directory, but not his residence. I drank a cup of coffee while I pondered the matter, and I decided it might be smart to approach him obliquely. With that thought in mind, I went west to Clark Street, then walked slowly south until I spotted Sands' joint, the Silver Cloud.

  I pushed my way through to a table against the wall, and, when a girl with a tray shouted: "Whatcha want?" I hollered for a scotch. I got it—half in the glass and half on the table— and she scooted away with fifty cents.

  A tired-eyed brunette in a once-white gown edged her way to my table. "Hello, honey," she cried, making a feeble attempt to sparkle. "Lonesome?"

  "In this crowd?" I asked.

  "It's possible, ain't it?" she retorted. "Wanna buy me a drink?"

  "Not especially."

  "Do it anyway, huh?" She groaned exaggeratedly and swelled her bosom so I wouldn't miss anything. "Gawd, my feet are killing me!" She squeezed into the chair across from me. "I'll have a whisky and water."

  Without being instructed, the waitress hurried up with another scotch for me, a shot-glass full of whisky, and half a glass of water. She snatched a dollar bill from my fingers and hurried away.

  Noticing my surprised expression, the girl said: "She knew you were going to buy me a drink, I guess. My name's Honey Hughes. What's yours?"

  "Give me a minute. I'll try to think of one."

  "Oh, married, huh? What are you doing, cheating a little tonight?" She winked knowingly and lifted the shot-glass. Her eyes alighted on my beret. "Hey, nothing wrong with you, is there?"

  "You ought to ask Diane about that."

  "Diane?" Her eyes narrowed. "She work around here?"

  "Diane Doll. She sort of moves around. You know."

  "Oh, one of those. Guess I don't know her. I'd remember a phony tag like that. How about another drink?"

  I invested another dollar.

  She downed the drink. "How'd you happened to stop in here? You looking for this Diane?"

  "No, I had some business with Eddie Sands but I hear he's been knocked off. Who's running the place now?"

  "The big girl, of course."

  "Who's that—Ginny?"

  "You just don't know from nothing, mister." She shook her head as though she had just noticed several screws missing. "If you mean Ginny Evans who used to thrush here, she don't even figure. The big girl these days is Norma Mae Sands, Eddie's wife."

  "Hell, I heard they broke up a couple years ago. She was chasing around, giving him a hard time, stuff like that."

  "Not Norma Mae." She moved her head positively. "Maybe you mean his first wife. Say, talking like this makes me thirsty. You going to pop for another drink?"

  "Sure." I waited until she had a fresh glass in her hand, then I said: "Maybe I can deal with Norma Mae. Where can I find her?"

  "Downstairs, probably." She nodded disinterestedly toward a side door. "She's down there counting the liquor already, and Eddie ain't even in the ground yet." "I'll see you later, baby." I got up.

  She didn't give me an argument. "Sure, sure," she said. "Any time, mister." Her eyes were busy with the crowd, searching for another likely male. As I walked away, she pulled herself to her feet and started toward another table.

  I elbowed my way down an aisle, circled the four-by-four dancing area, and inched my way toward the door. I reached it and looked around. The guys were studying the girls, the girls were trying to do business with the guys, and the bartenders were jumping around as though the duck-boards were hot. Nobody was paying any attention to little me. I opened the door casually and went downstairs.

  The short flight of wooden steps took me down to a concrete basement which was littered with empty coke cases, metal beer kegs, and the sticky smell of stale liquor.

  I worked my way toward the front of the building. I passed the pale circle cast by a bare 25-watt bulb and ventured into the semi-darkness beyond. A wooden wall confronted me suddenly. I felt along it, searching for a door. My fingers found a crack, moved upward, encountered a metal loop from which an open padlock hung. I tugged gently on it, like a lover suggesting that time was flying. It moved toward me, making a faint squeak like the hunger cry of a very young mouse. Immediately, my blood froze and I stood motionless, waiting in fear.

  A murmur of voices filtered toward me. I made out the high-key tones of a woman, speaking quickly and with some sharpness, and then the lower tones of a man talking persuasively.

  Very clearly, I heard the woman's voice say: "I'm tired of sitting here, wondering what's going to happen."

  More subdued, but still clearly, the man replied: "You pressed the buzzer, like I told you to, didn't you?"

  "Of course. But that was a good five minutes ago."

  "Whoever it is, they aren't going any place, Norma Mae. The boys will be watching."

  "It makes me nervous. That's my objection to this whole scheme. It's too complicated. You should have—"

  "For God's sake, be quiet, Norma Mae, for another minute or two."

  "But it may be a cop—"

  "It isn't. They don't sneak around."

  "But—"

  Then it dawned on me: when I'd come down the steps a warning light must have flashed in the office. They knew I was there! For a long moment, I felt like a buckshot rolling around at the bottom of a tin barrel. Retreat was out of the question; they'd taken care of that. My heart began to pound out a dull tattoo as, with my hand on the gun in my pocket, I cast caution to the winds and pulled the door back.

  A woman sat behind a desk, looking as shaky as a dish of jello with malaria. She had apprehensive dark eyes, a thin face, a nose like a blunted fin, and dark curly hair arranged in tousled fashion. The black dress she wore was folded over her breasts like thin paper over a narrow box—and with about the same effect. I figured her age as somewhere on the wrong side of forty.

  Leo Gold, working his jaws like a squirrel who has a tough nut to crack, sat on the far side of the desk. He looked less natty than he had that afternoon, but I sensed he still felt very much on the ball. His eyes added and subtracted me quickly, like a monkey contemplating a banana.

  "Well, well, it's Mr. Forbes," he murmured coolly. "Mrs. Sands, this is Russell Forbes, the private dick the cops are so anxious to talk to; Forbes, meet Norma Mae Sands, Eddie's widow."

  Norma Mae greeted me effusively, saying: "A dick. What's the idea?"

  "I imagine he has an interesting explanation," Gold hinted. He crossed his knees, being careful not to put undue strain on the crease of his trousers.

  Since it seemed time for me to say something, I said: "I thought I'd drop in and help the widow check through Eddie's assets."

  "The hell you say," Norma Mae commented. She glared at Gold. "What's going o
n, Leo? How come this guy's smelling around?"

  "He's a fugitive from justice," Gold replied, keeping his eyes on me. "You saw the papers, didn't you? The cops think he killed Eddie. They picked him up at Fia Sprite's place late this afternoon."

  "Why ain't he in the can, then?"

  "He broke out," Gold explained patiently. "You've got a phone there, Norma Mae. Give the station a buzz and they'll come and pick him up."

  "They'll pick you up, too," I snapped. "They know about your racket."

  "My racket?" Gold looked surprised. "Since when has the practice of law been a racket?"

  "What does peddling stolen merchandise have to do with the practice of law?" I goaded.

  "Quite a bit," he replied easily, "especially if someone happens to be arrested. A lawyer is required to represent people charged with all sorts of crimes. You should be aware of that, Mr. Forbes."

  "I'm aware of the fact that you practice very little law, Gold—and spend a lot of your time directing the activities of peddlers like Richmond."

  "Say, what's going on?" Norma asked sharply. "You guys like to hear your own voices, or are you saying something?"

  I grinned at her. "I'm saying something, Mrs. Sands! I'm saying that Eddie was killed because Gold thought he was trying to chisel in on his racket. Eddie had a quarter-million in TV sets cached away, ready to be moved—and Gold wants to get his hands on them."

  The bomb I tossed casually between them fizzled and refused to pop. Without blinking an eye, she snapped: "My God, it looks like everybody knows about it. I told you we should have—"

  "Please, Norma Mae—" Gold moistened his lips and eyed me with a little more respect. "What do you know about these sets, Forbes?"

  "I know the whole story, including what they'd be worth to a guy in your racket."

  "Do you know where they are?" He asked it gently.

  "I know how to get them," I sparred.

  "How?"

  "By laying a hundred grand on the line."

  "That's funny. Really hysterical."

  "Well, it's what they want."

  "It's what who wants?"

  I let the question join the millions of other unanswered interrogations in the world. For what seemed an eternity, the three of us sat there, each busy with his own calculations, each deciding which path led to the biggest—and safest—bank balance. Mrs. Sands broke the silence first.

  "How much would you pay, Leo?" she asked, very businesslike.

  He moved one shoulder. "Ten grand."

  She recoiled as though he had an infectious disease. "You're crazy!"

  "I can't help it." Gold repeated the shoulder tic. "We'd have to get rid of them fast, and the only way to do that is to deal with dealers. To make hot goods interesting to them, we'd have to slice the cost way down. Possibly we could grab ourselves about seventy-five grand which, even before it's cut up among the boys, has to cover trucking fees, protection, warehouse charges, and half-a-dozen other things. Ten grand—and that's being generous."

  "We'll move them ourselves, then!" she snapped.

  "But, Norma Mae—you can't move something you haven't got," Gold pointed out.

  Silence slid in and did a waltz among us. Mrs. Sands was thinking hard, which gave her sharp face the strained expression of a hen about to lay an egg. "He came to see me," she said abruptly. "You can beat it, Leo."

  Gold evinced surprise. "You'll regret this, Norma Mae."

  "It works both ways," she snapped. "I'm not afraid of you."

  Gold arose, frowning as though his opinion had been asked on a weighty matter, and adjusted the drape of his suit jacket. He walked to the door, nodded slightly before opening it, then turned. "I hope you know what you're doing, Norma Mae," he said. "This takes it out of my hands, you know."

  "It's been out of your hands all along," she retorted. "Beat it."

  With a slight smile at me, he did.

  "Now," she said, bending her thin lips into what she probably thought was a confidence-inspiring smile, "we can get down to brass tacks, Mr. Forbes. I'm Eddie's widow, so the sets belong to me. I don't intend to get robbed, but I'm a reasonable woman. How much will you take?"

  "Fifty grand," I replied.—"That's the minimum."

  "Gold offered ten. I'll make it fifteen."

  "Hell, I can get that without lifting a finger."

  "How do you figure?"

  "The insurance company will be delighted to pay ten percent."

  "Twenty, then. That's top." She squeezed her lips into a narrow hyphen. "Don't forget, they're really mine."

  "Twenty percent?" I asked innocently.

  "Twenty grand. Take it or leave it."

  "I don't know," I said. "My friends wanted fifty. If it were me—" I let the phrase dangle, hoping she would pick it up and weave it into a bond of understanding.

  She did. "It's twice what Gold offered. You heard him. You can explain things to your friends, can't you?"

  "I suppose."

  "I'll give you an extra grand for your trouble."

  "Thanks. There's no phone where they are. Suppose I see them and come back."

  "Sure. I'll be here a while."

  "Well, okay, then. I'll see them and give them the story—"

  From far away, the thin wail of a siren rose like the cry of a sex-crazed tomcat, splitting the stale air between us. As though jerked by the same string, we jumped to our feet and listened. It rose again, coming rapidly closer, its wail more strident and imperative.

  "God—!" we said in unison.

  "The dirty bastard," she added. "He hollered cop!"

  TWELVE. The Gold Hunt

  THE siren slid into a long soprano ahhhh, then abruptly died. The floor above us rattled with the sound of running feet. A moment later, a red bulb above the door began flickering.

  "They know you're down here," she hissed. 'The low-down, dirty—!"

  "How can I get out?"

  "Here." She circled the desk, grabbed the edge of a filing cabinet, and pulled it aside with a strength which surprised me. She kicked at a plywood panel. The panel fell away, leaving a dark hole about three feet high and two feet wide. "Duck through there."

  I spotted a dirty brown felt hat on a stand in the corner. I snatched the hat and went through the hole on my hands and knees. Before I could scramble to my feet, she had swung the filing cabinet against the wall again. I got to my feet, bent, felt around until I located the panel, and pressed it back into place again. By the musty smell about me, I knew that I was in another basement. I took off the beret and clapped the brown felt on my head. It was tight but it felt better than the beret. I flung the beret into the darkness.

  With a hand against the wall to guide me, I moved cautiously toward the rear. Several times I heard the scratching-scrape of scampering rats, and once my feet kicked a cardboard carton. Then I spotted the pale gleam of a lighted crack far ahead and went rapidly toward it. A door! I listened a moment, then opened it. There was a garbage can on a small landing—and narrow stairs leading sharply upward. I made a swift decision and ran up the stairs.

  They continued for three flights, then ended on a blank landing. A series of iron rungs imbedded in the wall led to a skylight. I went up the rungs gingerly, swung an arm into space, and pushed against the skylight. A metal catch held it. I released the catch and tried again. A shower of dirt enveloped me. Choking and cursing, I pushed the skylight up with my shoulders and clambered onto the roof. Above me, a sliver of moon was rocking toward a scattering of stars. I dropped the skylight into place and ran south, hurdling the small brick ramparts which separated each building.

  The corner building was a hotel. I tried a door which led to an elevator housing, but it was securely locked and barred. The top of a fire ladder loomed against the sky. I ran toward it, tested it with my weight, then backed down it carefully. My feet touched an iron grating. I rested my weight on it and, flattening myself against the building, looked around. The fire escape zigzagged down, ending in a final section su
spended above the street and which, I knew, would make a hell of a racket if I made use of it. To my right, within easy reach, there was a partly open window. I crawled toward it, made certain that the room within was unlighted, and raised it several additional inches. Then I grabbed the sill and heaved myself in.

  I landed on a bed with my belly across a pair of thin naked legs which protested feebly by drawing away. At the same instant, the plaintive voice of a much-liquored woman moaned: "Whassa doin', hon?"

  Without answering, I wriggled across the bed and swung my feet to the floor. Behind me, the voice moaned: "Hon? That you, hon?"

  I found the door and got it open.

  When I reached the street, a black Ford squadrol bearing the word POLICE was double-parked in front of the Silver Cloud and a collection of the usual motley Clark Street characters were loitering on the sidewalk, staring morosely inside. On a hunch, I crossed the street and moved cautiously along beside the buildings, studying the doorways. I spotted him easily enough: Leo Gold was standing in the doorway of the Pit Bar-B-Q, intently eyeing the goings-on at the Silver Cloud.

  The traffic lights at Grand Avenue turned green and a Vet cab came idling north. It gave me an idea. I stepped to the curb and waved at it. The driver spotted me, gassed the cab toward me and stopped at the curb. I got in.

  "Where to?" He started to ease the cab into gear.

  "Stay parked for a couple minutes," I told him.

  "Huh?" He turned an unshaven chin toward me. "What's the big idea?"

  "See the guy in the doorway of the barbecue?"

  "The dude?"

  "That's the one. I want to follow him when he leaves."

  "You a dick?"

  "No. I got an idea he's been messing around with my wife."

  "Ohhh." Great understanding flowed between us. "He looks the type, all right. Where's your wife now?"

  "She's supposed to be at home, but I got an idea she isn't."

  "Women are bitches." He noticed the squadrol and the growing crowd. "Hey, wonder what all the heat's about."

  "Drunks fighting, probably," I offered.

  "Yeah, this is the neighborhood for it, all right."