by Alice Duncan
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said."
"Doggone it, Sam Rotondo! How'd you find that out? That he doesn't exist, I mean."
"Ever heard of a cable gram? Or a telegraph?"
"Oh. So, who'd you cable to find that out?"
"The Dade County Sheriff's office."
"Oh. And they'd never heard of Enoch Billingsgate."
"I just told you that."
Darn him! "Thank you, Sam." I didn't want to rouse the bear, but since he seemed to be already roused, I decided to ask him anyway. "Have you found out who all else is included in the consortium?"
"According to your pal, Farrington—"
"He's not my pal!" Very well, I liked Del, but it was Harold who was my pal.
"Huh. Anyhow, this fellow who doesn't exist has duped Pinkerton, Hastings, your friend Mr. Smith—"
"And he's not my friend! Darn you, Sam!"
"Do you want to know this stuff, or not?"
I sucked in a gallon or two of breakfast-scented air and said, "Go on."
"Did I mention Hastings?"
"Yes, although you needn't have, since I'm the one who told you Hastings was involved."
"Yeah, whatever. Anyhow, Hastings, Pinkerton, Smith, Petrie—well, if he weren't dead—and two fellows named Johnstone and Delaney. Johnstone is part-owner of the Hertel Department Store, and Delaney is the vice-president of the Pasadena Public Bank. Oh, and Dr. Wagner, the guy whose daughter you stole a couple of years ago."
"I didn't steal her! She ran away from home because Dr. Wagner is a monster!"
"Huh."
Because I already knew it didn't do any good to argue with Sam, I held in further indignation on the Wagner front and concentrated on the Florida consortium. "So except for Smith and Petrie, all the investors are rich."
"Wagner's not so rich now. He lost a lot of patients because of you."
"Good."
Sam didn't even bother to grunt at that comment. "Anyhow, all the other ones we've found out about so far are quite wealthy. There may be more. But we're going to pick up Billingsgate today, if we can find him. Or whatever his name is. Once we get fingerprints, we might be able to find a match in Dade County."
"Oh, boy, I never realized what has to go into a nation-wide investigation. It really isn't much trouble for people to disappear in one place and re-invent themselves in another one, is it?"
"Used to be worse. Before we had proper fingerprinting equipment."
"I guess so. Still...."
"Yeah. I know. Anything else?"
I remembered the other reason for my call. "Mr. Pinkerton thinks someone followed him home from Mr. Hastings' law firm last night after he voiced disapproval of the way the Florida deal is being handled."
"I don't suppose he bothered to look at who was following him or take down the number plate on the follower's car, did he?"
"We're talking about a Pinkerton here, Sam," I said a bit stiffly.
"Yeah. Right. Anything else?"
"No. Thanks, Sam."
He hung up the receiver on his end without another word. The man was such a grump. I went back to my breakfast, fuming.
A bowl of oranges sat in the middle of our kitchen table. We had both a Valencia and a navel orange tree on our property, so we had oranges pretty much year-round. Yet another bonus we received for living in Southern California. I grabbed an orange and began peeling it viciously.
"Peeved with Sam?" asked Pa mildly.
I ripped off a big piece of skin from my orange which, fortunately for me, was a navel and easy to peel. "Yes. He's so grouchy."
"Well, it's only seven thirty. He's probably bone-tired."
"I suppose. But that's no excuse for being rude to me. All I was doing was relaying information."
Pa chuckled. "The problem is that you only give him bad news, sweetheart. If you ever called him up with a bit of good news, he probably wouldn't be so grumpy."
"Pooh. I'm doing my duty as a citizen. Coppers should be polite to the citizens of their city."
"Whatever you say, sweetie."
Pa went back to reading his newspaper, and I broke off sections of my orange and ate them. Delicious! My mood improved slightly.
After I washed the dishes and put them away, I changed from slippers to walking shoes, and Pa and I took Spike for a walk. The weather continued warm, so I didn't bother with a sweater, although I did wear a hat, since no woman would appear outside without one. This one was a straw number, and I'd tied a pink ribbon around it to go with my dress. When I looked in the mirror, I was pleased to see I didn't look as shabby as I'd felt when I woke up.
Because Spike was a trifle plump, I decided to walk extra far that morning. Pa, whose heart wasn't in great shape, decided to walk back home without us. Spike and I had a good time together.
We'd almost made it back home when a big black automobile drove slowly past Spike and me. Often people would stop me on the street and tell me what a good-looking dog Spike was—and they were right. I expected a comment of that nature to come from the people in the machine.
You could have knocked me over with a peacock feather when a gun appeared through the partly rolled-down window, and whoever rode in the passenger side of the machine took a shot at me! Spike jumped and started barking hysterically, and neighbors rushed out of their houses. As for me, as soon as I saw the gun, and even before it fired, I plastered myself on the sidewalk on top of all the dried leaves, dust, and hard little pepper-tree peppercorns and yelled. Don't ask me what I yelled, because I don't remember. Talk about being scared out of your wits. I was. And then some.
Spike had begun licking my face when the first neighbor rushed up to me.
"Daisy! Are you all right? What happened?"
Afraid to open my eyes, I managed to chatter out, "S-s-somebody shot at me."
"Good Lord!"
I recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. Wilson, our neighbor to the north, and mother to Pudge Wilson. Pudge was at school, I expect.
"I called the police! I called the police!" came another voice. I recognized this one as belonging to the supremely nosy Mrs. Longnecker. Oh, well. I really couldn't blame neighbors for gossiping about me if people were going to take potshots at me.
Very slowly, Mrs. Wilson helped me to my feet. For some reason, I hadn't let go of Spike's leash, but gripped it as if it were a lifeline. In a way, I guess it was, since Spike was my main source of comfort and happiness back then. Other neighbors had gathered around. Mrs. Killebrew brushed the dust and peppercorns from my dress, another neighbor patted me on the back, and Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Longnecker helped me home. I didn't really need their help, but I was glad for it, although I'm sure Mrs. Longnecker would have a field day gossiping about how Daisy Majesty must have done something really awful this time if people were shooting at her.
Lord, I was frightened. When I reached the house, Pa stood on the porch, looking worried. "Are you all right, Daisy?" said he.
"I think so. The bullet didn't hit me, anyway."
"Good God. Somebody shot at you?"
"You didn't hear it?" I asked, puzzled. Heck, all the rest of the people in our neighborhood had heard it, to judge by the crowd that had gathered.
"I thought I heard a car backfiring. I came outside to see whose it was." Ever the automobile mechanic, my father.
"No. It was a gunshot, and I'm only lucky the guy missed me. And Spike." The thought of my darling dog being shot hit me in the stomach, and I burst into tears. Pa and Mrs. Wilson led me into the house, Spike cavorting at our feet—he didn't know what all the fuss was about—and I was still crying when Sam Rotondo banged on the door and barged in without being invited. For once, I didn't mind his lack of manners.
"All right, what's going on here?" he demanded, standing before the sofa upon which Spike and I sat, his fists on his hips, glaring up a storm. Spike jumped up and wagged at him. Sam petted Spike, but kept looking at me.
"Someone took a shot at Daisy when sh
e was out walking the dog," said Pa, succinctly summarizing events.
"This business is getting totally out of hand," said Sam. Need I say he was angry? I didn't think so.
"It-it's not my fault," I said, blubbering and embarrassed. My pink day dress, which wasn't new to begin with, was now stained and blotchy, as was, I'm sure, my face. I scowled at Sam Rotondo, who scowled back.
"You didn't see who shot at you, did you?"
"No! And I didn't look at the license plate, either! Darn it, I was scared to death."
"Figures," said Sam, disgruntled.
Well, I was disgruntled, too. "You try being shot and see how interested you are in looking at license plates and people!"
"You'd better stay in your house for a few days until we pick up whoever's responsible for the mess you've got yourself in to."
"I didn't get myself into any mess, Sam Rotondo!" I cried, my tears drying up like magic. "It's those horrible Klan and Florida people who are behind all the awful things that have been happening lately! If you coppers would do your jobs, decent folks could walk their dogs on their own streets without being shot at!"
"Daisy," said Pa. He didn't say it forcefully, but I'm sure he didn't like me hollering at Sam. Too bad. I didn't like Sam blaming everything on me.
"Anyhow, I can't stay home. I have an appointment with Ms. Pinkerton at ten o'clock this morning, and then I'm going to visit Flossie and Johnny, and then I'm going to visit Jackson in the hospital. At least the crazed gunman missed me, which is more than poor Jackson can say!"
"For God's sake, do you want to be killed?" bellowed Sam.
"No!" I bellowed back.
"And we are doing our jobs! Dammit, we're working our hardest to catch the perpetrators of all the crimes being committed in the city!"
"You could have fooled me." I added a sniff at the end of my sentence, mainly because my nose was running. Oh, but I was angry with Sam.
"You don't have to leave your house," Sam snarled. "If you choose to do so, thereby putting yourself and anyone near you in danger, you can't blame it on the police."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I told him, as acidly as possible.
To my surprise, Sam plumped down on the sofa next to me and took my hand. I jerked back, not expecting this.
"Please, Daisy. Can't you just make life easier on all of us for a couple of days and stay indoors where those idiots can't get at you?"
"Sam's right, Daisy," said Pa, concern evident in his voice.
Fuming, feeling mulish, yet knowing Sam and Pa were right, I considered the matter. If I left the house even though someone clearly knew where I lived and had already taken a shot at me, I'd be an idiot.
After some thought on the matter, I decided I aimed to be an idiot. "I'm sorry, Pa and Sam, but I'm not going to desert my friends. You know who's doing these things, Sam. I know you claim you don't have evidence, but you still know. I don't expect you to put a guard on me or anything, but I promise I won't do anything more foolish than drive to the Pinkertons' place, the Salvation Army, and the Castleton Hospital."
"Dammit," Sam grumbled. "Wait here a minute." He dropped my hand, got up from the sofa, and stomped to the front door, which he opened and left open.
I blinked at Pa a few times and got shakily to my feet. Being shot at is truly a shocking experience, and one I advise everyone else in the world to avoid, if possible. Nevertheless, I made my way to the door and stared outside. People still milled about. As for Sam, he seemed to be searching his Hudson for something. I guess he found it, because he turned abruptly, gave the assembled neighbors a comprehensive frown, and stormed back to our house. I barely got out of his way before he could barrel into me.
"If," he said as nastily as he could, "you insist on making a target of yourself, at least put this on your dashboard when you're at the hospital. Then you can park right up front and won't have to walk a mile from the parking lot to the building."
And, by golly, he handed me a cardboard sign that read: PASADENA POLICE DEPARTMENT. OFFICIAL BUSINESS.
"You won't need it at the Pinkertons' or the Salvation Army, I don't suppose," said he, doubling his negative and thereby telling me I would need it at those places. But I understood. In fact, I appreciated his thoughtfulness.
"Thanks, Sam."
"You're welcome."
"I appreciate this." I waved the sign at him.
"Yeah. Well, use the damned thing, will you?"
"I will. You needn't swear at me."
"Like hell."
With that, Sam exited the house once more and stormed to his Hudson. He took off with a roar that seemed to scatter the last remaining neighbors back into their houses.
I stared at the sign and then at Pa. I didn't know what to say.
"That was nice of him," said Pa.
"Yes, it was."
"I wish you wouldn't leave the house today, Daisy."
"I know you do, Pa, but I... I don't know. I just think I have to. If I don't... well, all I know is that after Billy died, I nearly became a hermit, and I don't want that to happen again."
"These circumstances are entirely different, sweetie."
"I know they are. But they're making me feel sort of the same." I pressed a hand to my still-palpitating heart and felt my juju. Hmm. Maybe it was bringing me luck. I mean, getting shot at wasn't lucky, but the fact that the bullet hadn't hit me was. It then occurred to me that it was fortunate the person behind the gun had held a pistol. Or maybe it was a revolver. I don't know the difference. Anyway, if he'd held one of those Thompson submachine guns, I'd be splattered all over the sidewalk on South Marengo Avenue instead of standing, safe and secure, in my own home.
With that not-quite-comforting thought in mind, I decided to take a long, soaking bath, in hopes it would relax me. I wished Spike could bathe with me, but he didn't enjoy bubble baths as much as I did, so I didn't force the issue.
When I got out of the bath, I felt a little better, albeit not much. Face it, getting shot at is an upsetting experience. It would probably take me some time—and the arrest of the participating villains—for me to feel absolutely secure again.
Nevertheless, I chose a nice cool dress made of a light brown, wool crepe fabric I'd bought when it was on sale at Nash's fabric department. The pattern was one I'd made myself after seeing and liking a Worth dress modeled by a tall, skinny woman gracing the pages of a fairly recent Vogue Magazine. The fact that I was neither tall nor skinny didn't matter much in this case. The bodice bloused slightly, was hip-length, and was secured on each side with a white disk. I'd had to search some to find the right kinds of disks and had ended up improvising, but they worked. The dress had a U-shaped neckline edged with a band of white silk. The sleeves were wide and had a broad cuff also edged with white silk, and I'd done some fancy beadwork at the neckline and cuffs, which gave the dress an elegance far greater than its price had been. It came to my mid-calf, and I wore flesh-colored stockings and my brown low-heeled shoes. I also wore my brown cloche hat.
When I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I didn't look like a woman who'd had a near-death experience not an hour earlier. In fact, I was rather proud that I appeared so serene.
The front door slammed, and I jumped a foot in the air and slapped my hand over my heart. Whirling around, I saw Pa and Spike smiling at me. And don't tell me dogs can't smile. Spike could and did.
"Sorry," said Pa. "I had my hands full. Hope the slamming door didn't startle you."
I flipped my formerly flattened-to-my-chest hand in the air with as much nonchalance as I could muster. "Not at all, Pa."
"Brought these for you," said he, handing me a bouquet of chrysanthemums he'd clipped from our very own flower beds.
Oh, my, but I loved my father! "Thanks, Pa."
I slipped my juju over my head, made sure it was concealed under my fancy bodice, put the flowers in a vase—by the way, in case you wondered, chrysanthemums and orchids go splendidly together—slipped on my gloves, grabbed my tarot c
ards and Ouija board and the sign Sam had given me. Then I kissed Pa on the cheek, patted Spike three or four times for the sake of my soul, and left the house for the day.
Chapter 23
I not only kept my eyes on the road as I proceeded to Mrs. Pinkerton's house, but I also craned my neck in every way it could crane as I watched out for slow-moving black automobiles. There were lots of black automobiles on the roads, but I didn't see the one out of which someone had shot at me.
The gate to the Pinkerton place stood open again today, but a uniformed man sat in a chair in the middle of the opening. He wasn't a policeman; at least not an official one. He jumped up as soon as he saw me pull into the drive, held up his hand, and I stopped the Chevrolet.
He whipped a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. "Name?" he barked, sounding older than he looked.
"Mrs. Majesty."
The guard peered down at his notebook, which apparently held a list of people authorized to drive up the deodar-lined way to the Pinkerton abode. Or palace. Choose either word; they both apply.
"Very well. Please drive on up."
He stood smartly to one side of the Chevrolet, whipped the chair out of my way, and I continued to the house. Harold's bright red Stutz Bearcat wasn't parked in the circular drive in front of the porch, and I was disappointed, but his absence didn't deter me. I had an appointment.
Featherstone opened the door to my knock, said, "Please come this way," as he always did, and I followed him down the hallway to the drawing room. He announced me as I waltzed through the door.
Springing up from her chair—quite a feat, considering her bulk—Mrs. Pinkerton cried, "Daisy! I'm so glad you came!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Pinkerton." I smiled one of my mysterious spiritualist smiles at her. "I'm happy to be here." Not much of a lie.
So Mrs. Pinkerton talked to Rolly through the Ouija board, I consulted the tarot cards for her—they said the same thing today as they had the other sixty million times I'd consulted them for her—and Mrs. P was happy. I didn't upset her by telling her someone had taken a shot at me. No need to distress the woman any more than she was already distressed.
I did, however, ask her about Mr. Pinkerton's experience of the night before. "You said Mr. Pinkerton was followed from Mr. Hastings' law offices last night?"