The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

  “So,” Delono soberly cracked, “there’s no emotion bubbling in your heart, this is only a paycheck.”

  “Emotions have to be packed in your brain and carried around. I don’t like luggage. I travel light.”

  “You’re a cold man,” the visitor observed as he turned to face the winter storm.

  “Blame the war,” Rawlings quipped. “Now you need to get away from here before Elrod’s delivery boy and the target arrive.”

  “I have to do a bit of shopping,” the visitor announced. “So I need to take my leave anyway.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for stores to be open?” Rawlings observed.

  “They stay open for me,” Delono quipped, “especially when I need an alibi.”

  “Buying something for the family?” the host asked.

  “Got those gifts,” the mob leader explained. “The only man left on my list is William Hammer. He goes back a long time. He worked for Big Jim Colosimo and Johnny Torrio before becoming an enforcer for Capone. He lives over in Cicero now, not far from the Hawthorne Race Track on Pershing. He’s old, alone, and dying with cancer. I’ve never bought him a Christmas present before. This will be my last chance.” He looked down at his feet and frowned, “Good help is hard to find and a man loyal to the organization is even harder to get. Ham has been both of those things.” Delono sadly shook his head before stepping out into the night.

  Rawlings walked to the still-open front door and watched his guest get into the back of a large Cadillac sedan. A few seconds after the rear door closed, the two-ton vehicle rumbled off into the night, disappearing into a thickening blanket of falling snow.

  Closing the home’s entry, Rawlings strolled back over to a green chair, pulled an M1911 single-action, .45 pistol from his pocket, and, for the third time in the past two hours, checked to make sure it was operational. Satisfied the weapon was ready for action, he eased it back under his sport coat and into his belt, sat down, and waited.

  6

  Thursday, December 19, 1946

  1:07 A.m.

  Tiffany Clayton, wrapped in a tweed coat and holding the attaché filled with cash in her arms, watched Lane Walker ease the Chicago Police Department’s unmarked 1941 Ford sedan up to the curb. As the cop shut off the flathead V-8 engine, the woman took a moment to study the small frame house. Judging from the architecture, it had likely been built in the 1920s. With its small stoop of a front porch, painted clapboard siding, and shutterless windows, the white one-story dwelling was simple and quaint. From what she knew of similar-style homes, she guessed it to have about twelve hundred square feet of living space and possibly two bedrooms. Glancing through the snow and down the street she noted a dozen other similar houses all likely built and sold in the years just before the stock market crashed and the country plunged into a depression. The area was well-maintained and the yards well-kept. Thus, she surmised this was a safe, secure block likely populated by people with big dreams and small budgets. On most days she would have gladly traded her tiny apartment to live in this neighborhood, but, as she considered the unknowns that waited for her behind the front door of the home on 1014 Elmwood, she fought a desire to run to another block in another part of the Windy City.

  “Quite a come-down from Elrod’s mansion,” Lane grimly noted.

  Tiffany nodded, “Pretty much anything would be.” She glanced from the scene outside the car to the driver, “Did you notice that every home on this street has some kind of holiday decorations except this one?”

  “Yeah,” he soberly replied. “I’m guessing Santa will skip this house.”

  She smiled morosely, “After we give whoever is on the other side of that door the cash we have in this case, I don’t think Santa’s visit will be missed.”

  “You might be right,” he agreed as he glanced down toward her feet where the attaché rested. “What’s haunting me is what did he do to earn this money?”

  “About this plan . . .” Tiffany cut in.

  The words had barely escaped the reporter’s lips when the cop noted, “There’s still time to walk away from this. I could tell him the blonde got cold feet and ran away at a stop sign.”

  “And,” she quickly added, “That would likely mean you’d hand over the money and pay with your life.” Tiffany again glanced toward the house, “Besides, I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” he quipped, “it’s your funeral.”

  “I certainly hope not,” she whispered. “But, with that in mind, shouldn’t I have a gun?”

  He chuckled, “There’s no way I’d let you have a gun. If I gave you the revolver that was in the glove box you’d likely shoot yourself slipping it into your purse. Just play things the way I planned and you won’t need one. I got things covered. My plan is perfect. Now, slide that attaché over here.”

  “Fine,” she quipped as she tossed the briefcase his way, yanked up on the door handle, and stepped out into the frigid night air. Glancing back to Lane, she issued a strong warning. “You just do your job and I will do mine. But if anything goes wrong and the worst happens, I’ll haunt you until the day you die.”

  “Couldn’t be any worse,” he shot back, “than the way you haunt me now.”

  In the twenty steps between the street and the front door, the sharp wind cut into Tiffany’s cheeks like a knife. She was sure it had never been this cold. As her companion knocked on the door, a stinging, Arctic blast forced tears from her eyes and down her face. They froze on her cheeks before they could fall to the ground. She was just wiping them off with her glove when the door opened and the entry was filled with a man who appeared to be a linebacker for the Chicago Bears. She was sure the last time she’d seen shoulders like that was on a gorilla at the zoo. Was it too late to back out and run? As she looked at the man’s right hand, her silent question was answered. In spite of the heavily falling snow, the light from a street lamp clearly reflected chrome from a revolver’s muzzle, and it was pointed at Lane.

  Their host, his face still hidden by the shadows, looked from the woman to the cop before stepping aside and allowing the visitors to enter the very dark living room. As Tiffany dusted the snow from her coat, the towering figure backed farther into the deep shadows. Other than his impressive size, it was now even more impossible to distinguish any of his features. He could have been white, black, or even green and have five eyes and three noses for all she could tell.

  As she tried to remember the plan Lane dreamed up for this little holiday party, the cop closed the door, stomped his feet, and dropped the attaché on the floor. Then, for what had to be the longest sixty seconds on record, no one moved and not a word was said. Finally, their host broke the silence with an unsurprising question.

  “You got the cash?”

  As Tiffany’s eyes tried to pierce the darkness and get a better read on the mystery man with the gun, Lane answered the question. “The money’s in the bag. Now, where are the files Mr. Elrod needs?”

  “They’re on a table about ten feet to your right. By the way, I have a gun trained on you and my eyes are accustomed to the dark. If you try anything you’ll be dead before your weapon clears your belt.”

  Though the man’s voice was deep, his accent was nondescript. He could have been from anywhere.

  “How can I see if the files are legit?” Lane asked. “I’ll need some light to study them.”

  “You’ll have to take my word.” Their host’s matter-of-fact reply firmly reinforced there would be no compromise. Thus, the stall Lane had put in his plans, those precious minutes when he would study the files while everyone waited and watched, had now been edited out of the script. It was now time to ad-lib and Tiffany had no faith in her temporary partner’s ability to do that. So, in retrospect, she now fully realized she should have penned the plan.

  “What about the woman?” the cop asked as he moved across the floor to a small table barely visible in the dim light.

  “Grab the files, get in your car, and leave her here. Th
at was the deal.” The host paused before adding, “And don’t try to be a hero. If you pull a gun, you’ll die and so will the woman. The only way you’re walking out is with her staying with me.”

  Lane picked up the documents and glanced back toward the host, “What are you going to do with her?”

  “If I don’t see that car drive off in the next two minutes, I’ll kill the dame. So, if you want her to keep breathing, get moving.”

  When the cop froze, Tiffany knew what was holding him in place. He was thinking about making a play for his gun, and that was definitely not a part of the plan. The last thing she needed was Lane taking a bullet for her. If he managed to live through the experience, he’d never let her forget it. So, she had to get him back on track.

  “Get going,” she spat. “I’m tired of having your paws on me.”

  “You heard her,” their host growled.

  Lane moved quickly to the door and took a final look at Tiffany before opening the entry and rushing off the porch and to the car. She took a deep breath as she heard the Ford’s engine come to life. At least for the moment, they were back on script. Still, as the vehicle eased forward her heart leapt into her throat.

  “Okay, baby,” the man announced, “my car’s waiting in the back alley. Move out the door and lead the way into the backyard. When we get to the vehicle, you slide behind the wheel. You’ll be driving. And don’t try anything. I’ve got a forty-five ready to blow a hole in you the size of Lake Michigan.”

  This wasn’t the way things were supposed to go down. Everything was theoretically to take place in this house. Their leaving now wouldn’t give Lane the time to drive two blocks, park his car, make his way back to the scene to observe what was going on, and then, like the cavalry, rush in to save her. Thus, the second facet of the less-than-brilliant man’s plan had been destroyed. As she considered her options, she thought about her host’s warning. Would he really shoot her?

  “Listen,” she quipped, hoping her voice didn’t reflect how much her knees were shaking, “I really need to warm up a bit before I go back out again.”

  “Get moving,” the man barked.

  “Would it be all right if I used the bathroom,” she hurriedly added. “I’ve been drinking coffee all night to stay warm and . . .”

  He didn’t give her a chance to finish before spitting out what appeared to be his final ultimatum. “Get moving or die on this floor. It’s up to you.”

  “Great plan, Lane,” Tiffany muttered as she turned, opened the front door, and slowly marched out onto the porch. She momentarily stopped at the steps, grasping for a way to buy another minute, when she felt a gun in her back.

  “Baby, nobody can see you,” the gunman announced. “Everyone on this street goes to bed by ten. So keep moving.”

  Sensing she had no choice, Tiffany walked out into the now driving snow and around the side of the small home. This time her fear kept her from feeling the Arctic cold. It was 104 steps, she knew because she counted each of them, before she arrived at a 1939 Oldsmobile coupe. After opening the passenger door, she slid across the cloth-covered seat, dragging her huge purse behind her, and over to the steering wheel. Before she could take a breath, he was beside her, the gun aimed at her ribs.

  “The key’s in the ignition,” he barked, “start the car up and let’s get moving.”

  Her gloved hand found the key. After switching it to the right, she pulled out the manual choke, pressed the gas pedal two times, and pushed the starter button. The car’s six-cylinder turned right over and caught. After pulling out the light switch, she pushed the choke halfway in, depressed the clutch, shifted the car into first, lifted her left foot, and eased forward.

  “Turn right at the corner,” the man ordered. “You’re going to go across town until you get to Lake Shore Drive, then you’ll head north.”

  “Where we going?” she asked as she switched on the wipers to knock the snow off the windshield.

  “Somewhere your boyfriend can’t find us.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she shot back.

  “Fine,” came the gruff reply, “he’s a cop. His name is Lane Walker, there’s no use denying it. Still, he didn’t get a good look at me, he’s not on our trail, and as I have both you and the money, I’m not worried about much of anything now. Yet, I am sorry that I won’t see his face when he discovers that the house is empty.” The gunman chuckled, “I’d love to watch him as he runs a couple of blocks back to his car in a futile effort to catch up to us. Walker has always been a day late and a dollar short.”

  “You know him well,” Tiffany quipped as she shook her head. No matter how she cut it, she was getting just what she deserved. Once again, Lane Walker was standing her up.

  7

  Thursday, December 19, 1946

  1:27 A.m.

  Within five minutes of having Lane’s plan go terribly wrong, Tiffany’s heart rate returned to normal. With both hands on the wheel and her eyes watching carefully for ice, she silently navigated the Windy City’s all-but-deserted streets for twenty minutes until she finally made the left onto Lake Shore Drive. It was only then the driving snow let up, giving the woman a chance to relax and reflect.

  Her captor obviously knew Lane. How? Had the guy with the shiny gun been on the police force? Had he been arrested sometime in the last year? Maybe he and the cop had met in the service. Perhaps they had even been part of the same unit. Yet, before she felt she could dig into that area, she had to focus on the one thing she did know. The gunman apparently believed she was the blonde he’d been assigned to pick up. But for what purpose? Did he need information she was supposed to give him or was he going to rub her out? At this point knowing if she was living on borrowed time seemed far more important than discovering where this guy had met Lane. So, Tiffany opted to first voice a very haunting query, and, if she managed to get an answer that offered a chance at life, she’d figured she could go on from there.

  “So, is this my final ride?”

  She glanced over to the man as she waited for an explanation. From the glow of the car’s dash lights she could now perceive he was not only broad-shouldered but also square-jawed, clean-shaven, and ruggedly attractive. His dark, bushy eyebrows framed large eyes and his sharp nose and jutting chin gave him a bit of a Dick Tracy look.

  “You’re a good-looking doll,” he noted as their eyes met.

  “Pickup lines aren’t really necessary,” she replied as she turned her attention back to the road. “You already have me in your car and that gun pretty much dictates I’ll have to do whatever you want me to do.” Suddenly feeling a bit bolder she added, “But whatever you do, please don’t call me a doll. I’ve got a college degree and I can put together sentences in both print and verbal fashion. Dolls can’t do that.”

  If she’d touched a nerve, it didn’t show. He cocked his head and barked, “Take off your gloves.”

  “It’s cold and I’m driving the car,” she snapped, “it would be dangerous for me to let go of the steering wheel. Besides, my hands aren’t my best features.”

  “Okay,” he replied, “I’ll make this easy; just use those full red lips to answer a question. Are you wearing your jade ring?”

  “Listen,” she cracked, “on what I make each week the only piece of jewelry I can afford is a cheap watch. Why don’t you use that cash we brought tonight and buy your own jade ring? I don’t have one.”

  He was quiet for a moment before he began spitting out words that chilled her even more than the hard December weather. “I’ve been paid big bucks to get rid of you, and that jade ring you claim you don’t have is the key to my not getting rubbed out, too.”

  She considered his words and, as she did, a plan quickly came together in her mind. The guy needed a jade ring to seal the deal. He obviously figured she’d be wearing it. If she played things right, the mere fact she wasn’t might just buy her some time.

  “The ring’s at my apartment,” she lied.

  “But I was told yo
u always wear it.”

  “Well,” she stalled, “I do, except when it’s this cold. My gloves don’t fit right when I have it on. So tonight, I left it home. Why’s it so important to you?”

  She waited for his response, but it didn’t come quickly. It was a full three miles later when he finally posed a question. “How far is your place from where we are now?”

  “With the streets the way they are,” she explained, “maybe half an hour.”

  “Let’s go,” he suggested. “You’re no good to me without that ring.”

  Tiffany turned right, drove around a block, and pointed the car back toward downtown. She’d successfully and unexpectedly bought a little time, but would that really matter when they got to the apartment? When she had to admit there was no ring, then what would the guy do? That was something she didn’t want to consider and thanks to his breaking in with a question, she didn’t have to dwell on it either.

  “What do you have on Richard Delono?” he demanded.

  This was interesting. Just the mention of the gangster’s name proved that Elrod had been on the right track with his investigation. But what did a blonde woman have to do with it? Why was she so important to finishing this equation? It was time to find out and perhaps the best way to get that information was to play dumb.

  “What makes you think I know anything about . . .” she paused for effect, then added, “what did you say the guy’s name was?”

  He leaned against the passenger door and studied her for several seconds before asking, “How much farther?”

  “About ten minutes, unless we hit a patch of ice.”

  He smiled grimly. “Elrod turned you over to me or at least he used Walker to do that. That’s how badly he wanted those files. On top of that, Delono paid me to make sure you didn’t talk. So what is it that you know?”

  She was getting someplace now. The blonde was valuable, at least to the crime boss, maybe what the mystery woman knew might even bring him down. But if that were the case, why would Elrod turn her over to the very man he was trying to expose and stop? Or was he? Maybe Elrod had been playing both sides of the street and the blonde and cash were meant to assure Delono that they were on the same team. As she rolled the theory over in her head, she turned to her captor, “What was in the files?”