She’d been young, and poor and struggling to provide for a kid. By society’s standards, she hadn’t counted for much. There were thousands like her. But she was a human being. She deserved to have someone held accountable for her murder.
“You look as glum as I was last time you were here.”
It was Connelly. How had I failed to detect his presence when he stood right by my table?
“Just lost in a case.” I looked past him. “Seamus isn’t with you?”
Usually Seamus came in with Billy. Sometimes, though, he and Connelly came in together. Often that meant Seamus had a new phonograph record, some piper or fiddler or whistle player, which he and Connelly were heading off to listen to after their pints.
“He and Billy were bound for a meeting at the Hibernians.”
“The Hibernians!”
Chuckling, he dropped into the chair across from me.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s just... Billy and Seamus?”
What was wrong was getting hit in the face with the fact two men I loved and thought I knew belonged to a group that possibly wasn’t so different from the one attended by Count Szarenski and Bartoz. Except, of course, that one was Irish and one was Polish.
Connelly was frowning.
“Maggie, it’s only a club. Your dad belonged too. It’s not like they’re smuggling rifles. They’re raising funds for some fellow who needs an operation.”
“Yeah, forget it. Like I told you, I’ve got a tough case.” I drank some Guinness, stinging from the additional discovery that he knew something about my father which I hadn’t. Connelly was prudent enough to let me be. He savored his pint. Finally I slid him a look. “Do you belong, Connelly?”
He tilted back his head. His Adam’s apple quivered with quiet laughter, which made me bristle.
“Would it matter one whit what I answered?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” Sitting upright, he fixed me with piercing blue eyes. “The answer is No. But someday I might change my mind. Now finish your Guinney and meet me at that place on Fifth in half an hour. We’ll have some supper and you can tell me about this case that’s got you in knots.”
* * *
The place on Fifth had been there forever. Its age showed in brick walls supporting high ceilings. A long bar stretched the length of the room where you entered. A doorway to the right led into a good-sized dining room with scarred plank floors.
Connelly had gotten there first. He’d gone home to change into slacks, shirt and vest. We sat by one of the windows opening onto the street. It was cracked to let in a breath of fall air.
“Now,” he said when we’d ordered. “You going to tell me how you really came by this?”
Before I could react, he reached across to push down the silk scarf I wore and trace a finger down the pencil-line scab on my throat. I shoved his hand away, but not in time to stop a spurt of heat.
“I already told you. A tree branch hit me.”
“I’m a country boy, remember? Tree branches don’t cut like that. Garrotes do.”
His voice had hardened. My breath slowed.
“And no, I don’t know that because I’ve used one, if you’re wondering.” He looked away briefly.
Connelly had done things during his life in Ireland. Things that went with seeing family members killed for their politics. Things that wouldn’t be understood here.
“Yeah, that’s what it was,” I admitted. “You don’t need to gloat, though.”
He managed the ghost of a smile as his brief tension eased.
“And here Billy’s pleased as punch you’re safe working at some fancy hotel.”
I laughed.
“Now tell me what led to it, and how you managed to get clear. There’s not many who escape one of those.”
His patient concern filled me with guilt. Here he was, concerned about me. And here I sat, too much of a coward to make the short trip for my father’s pipes so I could give them to the one man worthy of them. The man who, if I were a different person, I might settle down with.
“I’d rather hear about Chicago. Tell me you had at least a little fun out of it.”
“Heard some grand music anyway. Mad as I was, I knew I’d never sleep, so I stayed up all night, going place to place with a couple of fellows I met. Ended up in the back of one that had closed, listening to two fiddlers try and outdo each other. I slept all the way back on the train.
“Now, quit trying to wiggle out of it and tell me about this case that’s troubling you.”
So, as other tables filled with diners and we settled into our meal, I did. I described the goings on at the hotel, the attack in the alley, and last night’s bizarre set-to with Bartoz.
“This fellow with the eye patch sounds like a bad one to tangle with,” he said when I’d finished.
“No argument there.”
“Can’t see any reason he’d get mixed up in stealing jewelry, though. I’d say you’re on the right track with Perry.”
I stared.
“Are you saying you believe Bartoz was prepared to kill because Count Szarenski really does have enemies?”
Connelly studied his coffee cup.
“I’m saying Bartoz believes he does. Where they’ve just come from, it was probably true.”
My eyes fell closed in frustration.
“It makes sense to him, Maggie.”
“Yes. I understand.”
Connelly’s father and brother had both been victims of Ireland’s political woes. He could see things from Bartoz’s view.
I shoved aside my plate with its last bite of Salisbury steak and spoonful of peas. A truth I’d been avoiding breathed in my face. All I knew was one city and one way of life. How could I begin to guess whether someone whose whole experience and culture had been different from mine did something out of guilt or innocence? How could I predict what they might do?
“I read the papers every day,” I said in frustration. “France and Dunkirk and now bombs falling in London. I thought I knew plenty about what’s going on over there, but the fact is it’s been no more real to me than a Pearl Buck story or a cowboy movie.”
I nodded thanks to the waiter who was clearing our plates. Resting my hands on the table, I toyed with a stray crumb while Connelly listened in silence.
“Every last person who could shed light on the safe business or Polly’s murder either came from over there or lived there for months at a time. They’ve sat in places and walked in streets I’ve only read about. They see things differently. Like you did with Bartoz.”
“I lived in a mud street Irish village. You know as much about London as I do.
“What I do know is, much as I’ve hated England, it’s now the only thing standing between the Nazis and Ireland. If America doesn’t send help, my ma and the kids could soon have worse than Unionists or Black and Tans breaking their door down — while I sit over here twiddling my thumbs. You think that doesn’t feel like make-believe? You’re making too much of this, Maggie mavourneen.”
“Oh, am I?”
“People and the reasons they do things aren’t that different, no matter where they come from. If Perry’s your man, like as not he’s stealing out of simple greed, same as any other crook.”
“And if he’s not? I can’t trust my instincts on this one, Connelly. I can’t rely on things I’ve learned in the course of my work all these years.”
“You’re a smart woman, Maggie, regardless you’ve traveled or not. You’re good at your work. More than good. Stop trying to sell yourself short.”
His hands covered mine and squeezed gently.
It felt too comforting to pull away.
THIRTY-SIX
It was going on ten by the time I got back to The Canterbury. Connelly and I had lingered over pie and coffee, then walked along the river. Sometimes we’d talked, but much of the time had been spent in comfortable silence. The autumn night was so still we could hear the rush of t
he water. Stars spangled the surface. It had been a long time since I enjoyed that kind of evening.
The hotel lobby felt stuffy by contrast. A handful of men stood at the bar in the lounge. Bartoz sat in his usual spot facing the door. I’d never noticed him there after dinner. At sight of me, his chin lifted.
It might have been acknowledgment. It might have been a summons. The answer came as I continued toward the stairs. He rose at once to join me.
“You could have informed the police about me. You didn’t. You could have caused the count trouble. You didn’t. I think there is something useful I must do for you.” His words were hurried. “The man you were following last night, the one you lost because of me, I know where he’ll be soon. He meets with a hotel guest.”
“Perry?”
He looked startled. “Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve watched them. Twice. Always the evening after Perry throws a package from the window. Always about this time. They meet in a bar. I can show you, but we must hurry. Perry went out minutes before you came in.”
I’d been set up often enough to know he could be baiting a trap.
“What street?”
Bartoz shook his head. “I don’t know street names. That way.” He gestured.
I made a show of looking at the clock behind the reception desk.
“My cousin’s ready to have a baby any minute. Just let me check to see if she’s gone to the hospital.”
It was the sort of thing a man wasn’t likely to question. Using a house phone while Bartoz watched from a distance, I dialed Tucker’s private number.
“I’m going out with Bartoz,” I said when Frances answered. “If I’m not back by midnight, call the number I give you and tell the woman who answers who I left with.”
Rachel would still be up. She’d call Pearlie. The two of them would move faster and more effectively than the police. Unless she was out, in which case I’d be up a creek.
I walked back toward the man with the eye patch. Uneasiness tugged at my gut. By not going upstairs, I’d sacrificed the chance to tuck my Smith & Wesson into my purse, but I kept my .22 automatic under the DeSoto’s passenger seat. All I had to do was reach my car a few steps ahead of Bartoz and transfer it to the door pocket.
“If we take my car we can catch up, maybe even get there before him,” I said as we stepped out into the night.
Bartoz nodded. If he’d said we could walk, I’d have faced a hard decision. I’d put odds I could trust him at two-to-one. It was covering the one that might keep me alive.
As we neared the DeSoto, I hurried ahead.
“Got to clear some things out of the seat,” I called over my shoulder.
With one hand I picked up the clipboard and magazine I kept on the passenger side. With the other I slid the automatic from under the seat. Its reassuring angles disappeared into the door pocket next to me just as Bartoz opened the door on the opposite side. I pitched the other items into the back.
“Nice car,” observed Bartoz as I turned the key. It was the closest he’d come to social niceties.
“Reliable, too. Which way?”
He pointed south.
“After some railroad tracks you’ll turn east.”
Was he testing my nerve? He was routing me past my own office.
“Why did you follow Perry the first time? Did you think he was plotting to harm the count?”
“I heard movement in the hall one night. Very late and very quiet — a bad combination. I watched and saw someone throw something out. Perry. When he returned to his room, I went down the back way. There was a man in the street moving... not like a bum. Leaving. Accomplishing something.
“Turn here.”
It was warm enough that our windows were down. Bartoz lighted a cigarette.
“The group that I told you about had approached the count about speaking. I wasn’t sure what game Perry played. I’ve kept my eye on him.” He flicked some ashes off. “An apt expression in my case, don’t you think?”
If he was making it up, he spun as good a tale as I did.
“Twice before now, I’ve seen him leave without the woman. Late, but not too late. Like this. There’s a way a man moves when he wants to get somewhere without attracting attention.”
“The way he carries his shoulders.”
“Yes. Naturally, I followed. He came here, where we’re going. Turn.”
We were south of where I’d had supper with Connelly. The area was a mixture, homes and mid-sized businesses. Things were run-down here, but not as disreputable as they became closer to Wayne.
“Tell me about the Frenchwoman.”
“Frenchwoman? Ah, you mean Madame Houdin. She’s American, though she’s lived away long enough to be mistaken for French. Her husband’s family was very old, with extensive lands.
“He was a painter. One of some reputation. The count had one of Houdin’s works in his grand salon. After Paris fell, Houdin joined a partisan group. He was killed. She fled to keep the boy safe, I assume.”
His intact left eye slid toward me. If he was playing a game tonight, part of his brain would now be occupied wondering why I’d asked.
At his direction I made a few more turns and parked across from the sort of bar which drew clerks and shop owners rather than workingmen. It would be a good place for meeting without being noticed.
If Perry had come here. If Bartoz wasn’t inventing it all. He finished his cigarette and lighted another.
“You told me you were in the alley the night you attacked me because you were protecting the count. Going to one of the meetings across the river. What you didn’t explain, is why he goes out the back way.”
The man beside me was silent so long I started to suspect he was having trouble fabricating an answer. When he finally spoke, however, his voice sagged with the weariness of truth.
“He doesn’t want anyone to know the women are unprotected.”
“In a good hotel? With locks on the doors and people around?”
“When he was away fighting, near the end, the Germans came to his house in the country. Only a few peasants — farm workers — and some elderly servants were there to defend it. They were slaughtered. Some German officers broke down the door. They raped the count’s sister. They were trying to do the same to his wife. Julitta shot one. I was in the attic, delirious with fever from my wounds. They tell me I crawled down and shot the other.”
A man came out of the bar we were watching. It was Perry. He paused where light from inside caught his face. He touched the breast of his jacket.
“He’s got something under there,” I said. Wrong place for a gun. “Did he have it when he left the hotel?”
“No. The man he meets gives him something. The first time I followed, there was a truck parked in front. It made nice camouflage for me to go closer and watch. I saw.”
“Any idea what it is the man gives him?”
“Money, perhaps? I think Mr. Perry is stealing things from the hotel. From the rooms.” His tone was disinterested.
Perry tosses something out a hotel window.... An accomplice retrieves it.... A night or two later, Perry meets a man in a bar and the man gives him something. According to Bartoz, both parts have happened more than once. And in the daytime, someone who might be Perry wearing phony moles and a phony mustache asks about getting quick copies of jewelry.
Could Perry be coming here to pick up copies and stroll nonchalantly into The Canterbury with them tucked into his pocket?
Maybe. It might just make sense.
“You’re not worried he might harm the count?”
Bartoz sneered.
“I was. I watched. Perry is a thief and a leech who lives off women, nothing more.”
The man we were talking about looked around. He started to walk.
“Does he go back to the hotel when he leaves here?” I asked quickly.
“Yes.”
“Directly?”
“Yes.”
“And the other man?”
“Has a car.”
Meaning Bartoz had no idea where he went. Even as I tried to decide my next move, another man emerged from the bar. Bartoz touched my arm.
“There. Him.”
The man turned in a different direction than Perry. He walked with his elbows out like the man from the alley.
“I want to see where he goes. You can go on back, see if Perry turns up. A trolley will stop at that sign there in a couple of minutes. It runs right past the hotel.”
“The man who came out, if he deals in stolen goods, could be dangerous. I’ll come too.”
“Thanks, but I can manage.”
“You’ll lose him if you argue. Go.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
The thought of the automatic in the door pocket at my side reassured me. My aim with my left hand wasn’t as good as with my right, but it was still better than average. When the unknown man got into a car and started away, I followed. Mostly I hung back half a block, varying it at intersections or when the occasional car intervened.
“You follow well,” Bartoz observed as we made our way back across town.
I welcomed neither his assessment nor his assumption I needed one.
“What time is it?” I asked tersely.
He showed me his wristwatch. An hour and a half remained before Frances sent out the troops. It surprised me how little time had elapsed.
“I don’t think I’ve been in this part of your city before. When the count gives a speech, some men pick us up near the hotel. They drive, but a different direction.”
“You go north. Across the river.”
“How do you know this?” He’d grown wary.
“That’s the Polish neighborhood. Over by St. Adelbert’s church.”
He fell silent. My purse rode along on the seat between us. His eye moved toward it, maybe speculating that my .38 was inside and out of my reach.
Shamus in a Skirt Page 15