Dressed to Killed

by Milton Ozaki

"Like what?" I had to admire his self-control. I knew the pressure was building up fast within him, but, outwardly, he managed to remain detached and poised.

  "For one thing, the Feds are wise to the Poljako Garage. The stuff you had cached there can be scratched off your list of assets. They're probably there right now, checking everything from A to Z. You know how thorough those boys are."

  "Jesus." Max stiffened apprehensively. "What if they get my prints?"

  "If they do, kid, you're dead," I told him, "and they'd have to be blind not to. You left prints all over those cartons. The Feds won't even have to dust them; they'll stand out as though painted. And before they get through, they'll have Sam and Dominick spotted there, and there'll be a couple of murders hanging around your neck."

  "You dirty—!" Max's face reddened angrily and the gun arced upward.

  "Hold it, Max!" Gold snapped. "Goddamn it, control yourself." He puffed on the cigar, the shortness of the puffs betraying his inner nervousness. He eyed me calculatingly: "So you hollered cop. You tipped the Feds. That means you tailed me out there and did the rescue act for Ginny Evans."

  "Even as you hollered cop," I retorted, "but with a better purpose: I'll collect ten percent of the insured value of the stuff recovered. When you did your hollering last night, you did it out of spite. It shows your thinking has been weak, that you've been concentrating on petty things—and letting your organization go to hell."

  "Sam and Dominick were expendable," Gold said. "We're better off without them. All the Feds will pick up is a lot of film and stuff which we weren't able to sell, anyway."

  "What about Max?" I asked gently. "Is he expendable? They'll have his prints. If he has any kind of a record at all, they'll have his name, address—and him—before tonight."

  "Yeah, how about that?" Max demanded. "What if—"

  "Shut up," Gold said coldly. "If anything happens, I'll defend you—and I've got the right connections. You know that."

  "You had connections," I corrected. "Once you're in the soup, your political friends won't touch you for fear of contamination."

  "A change in Fia Sprite's story won't bother me," Gold said sharply. "She can blab from now until New Year's, and she'll never tie me to that frame. All she can give them is guesses and hearsay, none of it admissible."

  "But how about Richmond?" I asked. "He was there. He was front man. They'll have him cold."

  "The little bitch, if they pressure her, she might blow her stack," Richmond muttered. He eyed Gold. "We'll both be in it, Leo—"

  "Not me, Arnold. Maybe you, but not me," Gold said tightly. For the first time, he acted as though he were getting hotter than a water heater on Saturday night. "You daren't drag my name into this, Arnold. I can't defend you from jail."

  "I'm not taking a rap for—" Richmond began angrily.

  "Gold's going to keep you company," I said consolingly. "You don't think Trottmann's going to let him get away, do you?"

  "Trottmann, Trottmann, Trottmann," Gold repeated irritably. "You keep talking about Trottmann. Why?"

  "Because he's the boss now," I said. I grinned. "After all, he's got those DuMorell sets in his pocket."

  Gold stiffened. Richmond bent forward slightly, like a loose-jawed clown beginning a mocking bow. Max sagged against the door.

  "How do you know?" Gold asked thickly.

  "I told him—for various considerations."

  "When?"

  "Early this morning," I lied.

  "Leo, you just got through talking to him, didn't you?" Richmond snarled. "Did he say anything to you about having them?"

  "No." Gold appeared several shades whiter. "He didn't say a damned thing."

  "Probably because he was getting ready to put Fia Sprite through the wringer," I said. "Figure it out: now that he's got the sets, all he has to do is nail you with a couple of murders—and Discount Sales will have clear sailing. You've got a radio in your car," I suggested. "There's probably a flash on the air by now."

  "That's an idea," Gold agreed.

  With Max and his gun bringing up the rear, we filed out of the shack and got into the Caddy again. Gold turned on the radio. The beat of a recorded dance tune seeped into the car. Gold adjusted the volume, then, slowly and delicately, like a man fiddling with his own fate, he began searching the dial for a newscast. The professionally hurried voice of an announcer addressed us:

  ... an upset in crime occurred this morning, when F.B.I. agents raided a west side garage and uncovered $500,000 in stolen merchandise. It has been revealed that the agents acted on a tip received from Russell Forbes, the private investigator police have wanted to question about the murder of Eddie Sands. A few minutes after the raid, Lieutenant Ben Trottmann, speaking for the Chicago police, exonerated Forbes as far as his participation in the Sands murder is concerned. He stated that Fia Sprite, the dancer who implicated Forbes, has been questioned again and has changed her story, admitting that she was paid to frame Forbes, who was investigating an undercover racket of vast proportions. Trottmann revealed that new evidence uncovered by his office may lead to the solution of at least four recent murders and the dissolution of a gang dealing in stolen merchandise. Warrants are being issued for the arrest of Arnold J. Richmond and Attorney Leo Gold, both believed to be leaders in the racket... From Kansas City comes another story of racketeering and violence. Geraldine Ritter, a nurse, revealed that a man—

  Gold snapped the set off. "The dirty louse," he whispered. "The dirty double-crossing louse..."

  "He's snagging those sets for himself!" Richmond cried hoarsely. He looked as though his tongue had slipped down his neck and was choking him. "He's going to try to railroad us and—"

  "Like hell," Gold said with an intensity I hadn't suspected him capable of. "No one is pulling a double-cross on me and getting away with it. If I have to kill him with my own hands, the bastard's going to get what's coming to him." He glared at me. "How much did you collect, Forbes?"

  "A clean bill of health and a promise of fifty grand."

  "You can whistle for the fifty. You know that, don't you?"

  "I'm a good whistler."

  "Where are those sets, Forbes?" He asked it quietly but in a tone which seethed with no good.

  "I sold them to Trottmann. As far as I'm concerned, they're his now."

  Gold spat an ugly word. "Take him inside and get the address," he told Richmond.

  I looked at Max. I looked at Richmond. Their insides were coiled tight with fear and anger, eager for the release which cursing and beating might give. I asked myself: What's the difference between a crooked cop and a crooked lawyer? Reason answered: None. I asked myself: What's the difference between remaining whole and being beaten to a pulp? Experience answered:-Plenty.

  My conscience thus placated, I said: "Okay, you win." I murmured the address.

  EIGHTEEN. Caught in the Act

  GOLD ran the car into a parking space and braked it with a viciousness which echoed his inner turbulence. He got out and lifted the front seat. From somewhere beneath it, he produced two automatics and handed one to Richmond. I got only a glimpse of Richmond's, but it looked like a .45 caliber service automatic. Gold rammed the seat back into place.

  "Let's go," he said tensely. He stood on the sidewalk, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet.

  Max scrambled out, looking frightened but game. Richmond nudged me with his automatic. "Out," he rasped. "You're invited."

  "Let me stay here," I said. "I swear to God I won't run."

  "Out," he repeated. The gun jammed into my kidney. I jumped, imagining his finger squeezing the trigger a tiny bit too much and a stream of hot lead playing atom bomb with my insides. I joined Max and Gold on the sidewalk. Richmond, cursing softly, got out and slammed the door.

  "You're sure this is the place?" Gold asked.

  I shrugged. "I got it from an unimpeachable source."

  "Let's go in."

  It was a huge frame building, three stories in height, built with a
n orange crate as a model, and occupying the better part of a block. The ground floor contained a series of narrow stores, each with an identical front of grimy plate-glass, narrow doorway, and faded gilt lettering. The store, which matched the number Ginny had given me, seemed even grimier than the others. The legend across its window was: BRUNS ICK BOX CO PANY. Behind the dirty glass, its window was piled high with dusty paper boxes.

  "Move," Richmond directed. The gun punctuated the command, making a hard, deep comma against my spine. I followed Gold into the doorway. He twisted the knob, then cursed softly.

  "Locked," he said.

  "Trottmann has the key," I told him.

  Without answering, he smashed the panel of glass in the door with the butt of his automatic, reached in, twisted the lock. He kicked the door open and stepped in. Richmond crowded against me. I stumbled in after Gold and heard the door rattle a tinkly protest as Max closed it.

  Gloom and silence enfolded us. We were in a long, narrow store, packed nearly to the ceiling with huge, dusty paper-wrapped packages. Gold poked his fingers into one and tore its paper covering away. A layer of excelsior dripped onto the floor, revealing the serrated edges of stacked, unfolded paper cartons within. We walked the entire length of the store, with Gold, at frequent intervals, repeating his examination of the various packages.

  "They're not here," he announced angrily.

  "Maybe upstairs," Richmond suggested. His eyes traced a stairway which led up into darkness.

  "Maybe," Gold agreed.

  We retraced our steps and, in a tight little body, went upstairs. The gloom was thicker and so was the dust. My throat tickled and I stifled an urge to cough. With Richmond urging me on, I stumbled down a narrow lane, trying to follow the sound of Gold's impatient footsteps.

  Behind me, Max released a low cry: "Hey, I think I found 'em."

  Gold, from far to the rear, shouted: "They're here, Arnold. Hundreds of them!"

  Richmond ran toward the sound of Gold's voice. I stayed put, trying to remember the direction in which the stairway was and wondering whether or not it would be smart to try to duck and run. The necessity for decision was taken away from me by the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing. The others heard it, too, for within a split second the silence became intense.

  "Who's up there?" a voice shouted.

  It was Trottmann's voice, angry and suspicious. Then I remembered: Gold's blue Caddy was parked in front. Trottmann had recognized it, as sure as hell, and the broken door pane had told him the rest of the story. The question, then, was merely an invitation to disaster. I listened to the sound of their prowling footsteps downstairs. There were two of them and they were checking the aisles downstairs, making certain that no one was there to initiate a flank attack.

  The steps assembled at the foot of the stairs and began to ascend. I moved toward the front, where my eyes, becoming used to the gloom, had spotted another stairway, this one leading to the top floor. I was working my way toward it, when the floor beneath me screeched under my weight. Immediately, the sharp beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the darkness, illuminating an area where my head had been a moment before. I squatted down, hardly breathing.

  "Come out!" Trottmann ordered. "You're all under arrest—"

  I was not the only nervous one. From the rear, a gun of large caliber spoke twice. A high-pitched scream stirred the air and as the beam of the flashlight disappeared, a body thudded against the stairs and began a labored descent. Feet ran toward me and stopped. A second gun spoke, firing toward the first gun. Another gun... then another... joined in, each speaking the same language but from a different position. The crash of their explosions was deafening. Someone screamed and one of the guns became silent.

  "Come on, you bastard," a voice invited hoarsely.

  A gun answered him.

  It was no place for a man to remain healthy. I sucked in my breath and made a dash for the stairs. I went up them fast, so fast that I didn't notice the trapdoor. My head discovered it abruptly as, with a showering of stars, a giant hand seemed to throw me back down the steps. I lay still, groaning inwardly. No one seemed to notice. I got to my feet and went up again, this time pausing to find the latch and push the trapdoor up.

  I stood listening to the sounds below. Two guns were still active, but they were beginning to sound cautious, as though their users were conscious of a dwindling supply of ammunition. My nostrils flared. There was an acrid, biting scent in the air. I bent my head, sniffing critically. Then it hit me: Smoke. The place was on fire.

  Another minute and the smoke was coming up in thick gusts, climbing as though alive. For a moment, I was immobilized by fear. The building was a firetrap. The entire first floor was crammed with dry paper and the building itself was first-class tinder.

  I slammed the trapdoor shut and fought my way to the rear of the building. A row of narrow windows lined the wall. Dirt and grease, accumulated through the years, made their panes opaque. I fumbled with an ancient metal catch. It came away in my hands. I strained, trying to force the window open. Sweat stood out on me, drenching my back. In desperation, I rammed a pane with an elbow. It splintered. I rammed it again. The glass fell away in daggered shreds, leaving a small, deadly opening. I brushed sweat away from my eyes and got a shoe off. I hammered at the glass until there was an opening large enough to lean through.

  I pushed my head and shoulders out, gasping for air. The flat roof of a garage was twenty feet below me—and it looked farther. I inched my shoulders back into the room and climbed onto the sill. I poked a leg through the opening, got a toe on the outer window ledge, worked my other leg out. A clang of fire-engines became audible. I hung by the waist and worked my arms free. Then I slid into space, kicking the boards of the building and clawing at the frame of the window with my hands. For a long moment I hung suspended over the garage roof, then I closed my eyes and dropped.

  I landed with a jar which drove my knees into my belly.

  Smoke was billowing out of the window I'd just vacated and the air was screaming with the wild concussion of many approaching sirens and engines. I crawled to the edge of the garage, got my legs over, and closed my eyes again....

  NINETEEN. All Over But Love

  GINNY'S head was warm against my shoulder. "Thank God, you weren't trapped like the others," she murmured. "That's all that matters. Now it's all over and—"

  "It isn't all over," I said wearily. "The same thing will happen again and again, as long as there are crooked cops, and crooked lawyers, and people—let's face it—people like you and me, who aren't averse to making a quick buck. We're as guilty as they are."

  "We didn't murder. Besides, money isn't everything," Ginny said. "I can do without quick bucks."

  "You were singing a different song yesterday," I reminded her.

  "Yes, but... that was before—" She snuggled closer.

  "Before what?"

  "Before I found out there were other things more important."

  I happened to glance at the clock. "Hey, it's nearly five o'clock. See if you can get the news, will you, hon?"

  She went to the DuMorell set and twisted dials. Chesterfield cigarettes marched across the TV screen and a blonde-haired girl chanted a silly commercial, something about A-B-C's. Then a narrow-faced, thin-haired guy appeared, gave us a slow smile, and rustled a sheaf of papers importantly. I put my arm around her again and closed my eyes.

  "The big news in Chicago this afternoon," he began, "is a million-dollar fire in the warehouse district on West Madison Street. Engines from six companies have been fighting the raging flames for more than four hours, and already five persons are known to have lost their lives. The known dead include Ben Trottmann, police lieutenant of the 35th District, who rushed into one of the buildings in an heroic attempt to warn occupants of the approaching flames; Leo Gold, prominent attorney, who is believed to have been conferring with a client in the building at the time the fire started; Miss Diane Doll, a dancer, who was in t
he company of Mr. Gold; Arnold J. Richmond, a manufacturer's agent, who was inspecting a consignment of valuable radio-TV consoles stored on the premises; and Robert Hall, the building's janitor, who was trapped amid fallen timbers in the basement of the building!

  "According to Assistant Fire Marshall Peter Grote, the fire was of unknown origin. The building, located in a low-rent district, was of frame construction and flames from it have spread throughout the block...."

  "My God," I groaned, "he's got the whole thing snarled up!"

  "Shhh." Ginny hugged my arm.

  "Federal agents were jubilant tonight," the newscaster went on, "over the break-up of a ring of big-time dealers in stolen merchandise. Agents of the F.B.I., acting on information received from Russell Forbes, a Chicago private investigator, raided a west-side garage and recovered over a half-million dollars' worth of merchandise known to have been hijacked during interstate transit...."

  "Turn it off," I begged. "I don't want to hear any more. They've made Trottmann a hero and Richmond a manufacturer's agent, and by tomorrow they'll be around to hang roses around my neck. For chrissake, can't those reporters get anything straight?"

  Ginny leaned toward the set and switched it off. "They're doing their jobs as well as they can, Rusty. They couldn't know what really happened, could they?"

  "I suppose not. But making Trottmann a hero... 1"

  "How do you think the fire started?"

  "Diane was with Trottmann and maybe she had a cigarette in her mouth. When Gold or Richmond—or whoever it was —fired and hit her, the cigarette rolled down the stairs with her and—pssst! All that place needed was a spark."

  "I know you think Diane killed Giselle, but—"

  "Think, hell, I'm damned sure she did. Trottmann killed Sands because Sands had got wise to his hook-up with Discount Sales and was putting pressure on him, and Diane had to kill Giselle—or she thought she had to—because she'd found out that Giselle was Trottmann's wife."

  "I don't get it." Ginny frowned.

  "I'll draw you a diagram," I said. "Diane had made a pitch for Trottmann, or vice versa, and, either intentionally or accidentally, became with child, as they used to say in biblical times. So, in addition to wanting dough, Diane wanted a father for her child—and Giselle was in the way. By getting rid of Giselle, she figured she'd be able to get Trottmann to marry her. As a matter of fact, I think he would have, too. He was pretty hot for her, you know."