Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  The secretary, a woman the Commander’s age, who had been with her for twenty years, had a screechy voice. She was a tall, solid woman with plain, freckled features and gray hair pulled tightly off her face. Dorie tried to anticipate their questions. No Lonnie to back her up. He had gone back to Lawrence, she was told.

  Her coffee was gone. She wanted another cup. The secretary finished rambling on about receptions and hoorah and who cares which about Wendell Willkie, a man who had never held public office and thought he could fill FDR’s mighty shoes.

  “Thank you, Mildred,” the Commander said. “You may go now.”

  The secretary looked up, surprised, glancing at the policemen, then at her employer. Mrs. Hines gave her an arched eyebrow and Mildred rose, clutching her notes to her bosom. When the door shut behind her, there was a long pause before the Commander let out a soft sigh.

  “Before we deal with this any further,” Eveline Hines declared, “I want to thank Miss Lennox publicly for her courage, her persistence, and her presence of mind, all qualities that make for the best sort of soldier. I am proud of you, Miss Lennox, and thank you here in front of all these people for saving my daughter’s life.”

  Dorie sat back in the hard chair. She glanced at Herb. He had a grim smile on his big hard face. She blinked, saw them all smiling at her.

  “I’ve spoken to Lonnie Masterson, who was with Thalia last night, as you know,” Mrs. Hines continued. “He told me Miss Lennox tried to scare off the blackguards with her car, putting herself in danger, then chased them into North Kansas City before they could return and finish what they had came for.”

  Mrs. Hines straightened the red wool shawl on her shoulders. “I am sure these men, whoever they are, intended to kill or kidnap Thalia.”

  Assistant Chief Michaels was nodding. “I think you’re right, Mrs. Hines. There can be no question Thalia was in grave danger. Our thanks, Miss Lennox.” He nodded to her nervously.

  Dorie returned the nod. She’d met Michaels a few times at her uncle’s, and never liked him. Michaels was the rich man’s pawn in the department, bowing and scraping whenever society came his way. Only Lear Reed, brought in from the FBI to whip the department into shape after Pendergast went upriver, had kept Michaels from the chief’s seat. Reed wouldn’t come sit by Eveline Hines’s bed and tell her what she wanted to hear. Not hardly.

  Herb Warren cleared his throat. “Is there reason to believe someone wants Miss Hines dead?”

  The Commander made a huffing noise. “After last night, you can ask that? Really.”

  “Before last night, I meant.”

  Michaels turned to him. “The point is, Captain, that she’s been attacked. She was almost killed. We need to find out who was in that black coupe.”

  Thalia made a loud slurping of coffee, seemingly unaware she was being discussed. Everyone looked at her for a second.

  “That’ll be tough,” Warren said, glancing at Dorie. Blame was back, and its name was Lennox.

  “But you must try, Captain,” the Commander said. “You must.”

  “We’ll put a squad on it immediately, Mrs. Hines,” reassured Michaels. “We’ll find it.”

  “There were a few suspicious characters around this week,” Amos Haddam said. All eyes turned to him. His face was still lined and pale, but different somehow. “Mrs. Hines and I, and Dorie of course, were just talking about Barnaby Wake.”

  “What’s Barnaby got to do with it?” Thalia said suddenly.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out, Thalia honey,” her mother said. “Did you see him last night?”

  “I was with Lonnie. Dancing,” Thalia pouted. “She saw me.”

  Dorie felt her face redden as everyone followed Thalia’s dagger glance. “I didn’t see Wake last night. Saturday night, she was with him.”

  “That chorus fella?” Michaels said. “The mayor’s wife sings in it, doesn’t she? What’s it called?”

  “The Hallelujah Chorus,” Amos said.

  “Everyone is in it,” Thalia said. “I am first soprano.”

  Michaels had a funny look on his face. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Find that black coupe, Mr. Michaels,” Mrs. Hines said. “I doubt Barnaby Wake drives one. But you could check. Who else, Mr. Haddam?”

  Amos ran off a list of names, men Thalia had seen recently: the lawyer, Oscar Gordon; a banker from Columbia; a young playboy who lived a block over; a cattle buyer who smelled like manure.

  “Any black coupes among them?” Warren asked Amos. Haddam shrugged his shoulders. Captain Warren turned to the girl. “Any men been bothering you, Miss Hines? Sending notes or making phone calls?”

  “I get lots of calls from men,” Thalia said, throwing back her hair.

  “Annoying calls, Thalia,” her mother said.

  “I need more coffee.”

  “Anybody threaten you? Ask you for money?” Warren pressed.

  “Money?” Thalia set her empty cup on the night table and stood up. “I haven’t got any money. But I will soon, won’t I, Mother? Now, I have to take a bath.”

  They watched her flounce to the door and sweep out. Dorie thought she saw Julian Hines behind the door before it shut again with a slam.

  “I am sure you understand, gentlemen,” Mrs. Hines said in the silence afterward, “it is easier for the girl to believe she is not in any danger.”

  Captain Warren frowned. “If she could help, though, Mrs. Hines— “

  “If she could, she would.”

  Dorie waited beside Gwendolyn Harris in the driveway. A few yards away, the men discussed their next moves, guarding Thalia from herself or strange men with pistols. She tried to think of something to say to the English woman. She still looked pale and fragile, but tea and a soft bed had helped. Her cheeks had a little color.

  For her part, Dorie had a headache. Lack of sleep compounded with bile. Thalia’s biting hatred of her mother, when the woman was dying no less, had turned Dorie’s stomach. The girl was waiting for her mother to die, so she could get her money without strings. No wonder her mother was worried. The girl’s heart was a cold stone.

  And what of her own ill thoughts about Verna last night? Dorie held her hand over her eyes for a moment, blocking out the bright sunshine glaring off the cement driveway. Around her, autumn burst forth in its final blaze of glory: red maples, yellow sycamores, orange oaks, acorns, squirrels, and the smell of decay. She couldn’t enjoy it; she shouldn’t.

  “Are you all right?”

  Dorie blinked at the sunlight, dropping her hand. Gwendolyn peered at her, concerned.

  “Just a headache. How are you today, Gwendolyn?”

  “Much better, thank you. I’m so ashamed about last night. But finding Amos was important, I’m quite happy about that.”

  Gwendolyn gazed over at Amos. He was talking to Captain Warren and Assistant Chief Michaels. As if feeling her eyes on him, he turned to smile at her.

  “He looks pretty happy himself,” Dorie said.

  “Hearing about his mum.”

  “What’s it like there, in London?”

  Gwendolyn tore her eyes away from Amos. “Oh, strange. During the day, we go on, or try to go on, as if we had normal lives, looking for supplies, complaining about prices. And cleaning up the debris, buildings and holes and such. Then at night, we barely sleep. Every night, in the shelters, we die a little.”

  Dorie examined the thin face, the lines worn from worry, the rough patches on her cheeks. The terror of bombs chilled them both. Up through the trees, the sky seemed so clear and calm. Here, across the world, there was no evidence of suffering, of the thunder and horror of war. So far, it was safe here. And yet, was she missing something vital? Could an ordinary Kansas girl help, somewhere, somehow? Could she fly airplanes, or was that a selfish wish in the face of war? The whine of an airplane echoed in her head. Was it her piloting, or a German dropping bombs?

  “You must be glad to have gotten out.”

  Gwendolyn
shrugged. “I had to— I was losing my mind. Claustrophobic, you see. Underground all that time, I began to see things in the dark.” She frowned. “Hallucinations.” She peered at Dorie. “My screams were bothering the others.”

  Dorie smiled, then saw the confession in the woman’s eyes. And something else— the fear that had unhinged her.

  “I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay and help. I’m trained as a nurse’s aide, and there was plenty to do. But they made me go. My aunt is in California. I hear the most wonderful things about California, the orange trees and the sunshine. Have you been there?”

  “I’ve never been anywhere.” Unless you counted the Beloit Girl’s Reform School. No one in their right mind would call that anywhere. “Are you hungry? Because I’m starving. Come on.” She pulled Gwendolyn along by the wrist toward Amos. The assistant chief was expounding about propriety and safety and newspaper reporters, but he stopped when the women approached.

  “Uncle Herb. We haven’t got wheels, because your boys picked us up. And now we’re starving.” Dorie smiled at her uncle, at six three an imposing old bull with a red neck and little hair. Three rolls over his eyebrows framed hard blue eyes that always reminded her of his dead sister. He squeezed her elbow kindly.

  “Always put away more than the men,” Herb said, smiling. He turned to Michaels. “We’ll get the extra men out this afternoon.”

  Amos took Gwendolyn’s arm. “Ready for tea?”

  Captain Warren dropped the three of them off at the Canteen downtown. They slid into a red leatherette booth with a commanding view of dirty sidewalks and boarded-up speaks, then ordered hot turkey sandwiches, biscuits, extra gravy, green beans. The waitress was a sullen lass who needed extra gravy on her bones.

  Gwendolyn tucked into her food as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. Perhaps she hadn’t. Dorie felt the same way, as if days went by without a proper meal because of her odd schedule. She missed all the boardinghouse meals these days. They listened to radio shows she hated, dramas about boys who played football. Boola boola, rah rah rah. The last time she’d eaten breakfast with the boarders, Ronald had regaled the table with gems from the wisdom of America’s most beloved racist, Father Coughlin. It was enough to make you lose your appetite.

  Amos and Gwendolyn sat side by side in the booth. Two peas in an English pod: Colorless complexions and thin shoulders made them look like sister and brother. Amos was obviously pleased at finding someone so like himself. Dorie wondered if Gwendolyn would ever get to California.

  As Dorie finished the last of the biscuits and gravy and wiped her mouth, the night’s adventures came slamming back.

  “You think they were after Thalia last night?”

  Amos shrugged, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “What else? Follow the money— that’s all those boys know.”

  “What boys?”

  “That type.”

  “So they kidnap her?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first in Kansas City. Mike Katz was hijacked right on Ward Parkway. They got a hundred thousand for him.”

  “And thirty-thousand for Mary McElroy. Girls are cheaper.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?” Gwendolyn said, eyes wide. She stared at her plate, wiped clean of gravy. “Who was the man who was killed?”

  “Her chauffeur. Name of Tommy Briggs,” Amos said.

  “Nobody even brought that up,” Dorie said. “Too busy worrying about little Thalia to remember a man had his head blown away.”

  Gwendolyn cringed, closing her eyes. Dorie was sorry she’d been so crude. The girl had probably seen terrible things in the bombing raids.

  “You can go to the funeral. It’s Friday in St. Louis.” Amos smiled.

  “Oh, swell. Just pop over.” Dorie frowned. “You don’t think he was up to something, do you?”

  “Like what?”

  She shrugged. Why was he driving Barnaby Wake around the other night? “I need to find Wake. Will we be tailing Thalia anymore?”

  “Doesn’t sound like Eveline will let her out of the house for a while.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  Amos sat back as the waitress cleared their plates, inquired about pie, and poured them all coffee. Gwendolyn stared at the black liquid. “It won’t kill you, ducks.” He patted her hand.

  “So I’m to look at the cars of all Thalia’s dates?” Dorie asked.

  “Righty-o. All the gents’ autos. Some have more than one, remember. “

  She pulled some bills from her trouser pocket.

  “Tsk, now. My treat.” He smiled at her. She wondered if she’d ever seen him so content. She blinked and put her money away.

  “Call you later at the office?”

  Amos nodded. Gwendolyn was braving the sludge in her cup. Dorie slid out of the booth. At the door, she heard them laughing. She turned and saw Amos put his arm around the Englishwoman’s shoulders.

  Amos squeezed Gwendolyn’s slender shoulder through her coat. She beamed at him and they laughed again. The providence that brought them here, together. Fourteen to forty-one— must be some kind of symmetry. Wait— how old was he? He realized he’d be forty-three in just a week.

  Why had she been sent to him? What had his mother seen in her that she sent Gwendolyn and not just a bloody letter?

  Not that he was complaining. Cassandra had sent a letter. The note Gwendolyn had extracted from her pocket the night before was comforting, explaining the work the old bat was doing in the shelters, organizing brigades of volunteers to police certain areas, keep them clean and orderly. She quoted Churchill’s speech in the letter: “Men will still say: This was their finest hour … there will always be an England.”

  The prime minister’s words made Amos curiously sad. He would always be English, but he would always harbor a resentment, a cold corner of his heart, for what had happened in the Great War. He couldn’t explain it to his mum, or to Gwendolyn. Anger— and the deep, searing burn in his lungs. He’d done what he was told; he’d been the proper soldier. So had thousands of boys, thousands who never came home. There was nothing left in England for him.

  He realized he was smoothing the letter on the tabletop. Gwendolyn was looking at him with a worried eye. He stilled his hand.

  “She says nothing about Beryl here. My sister in France. Did she say anything to you?”

  “I don’t recall. Sorry.”

  “Tell me again about the shelter where you met.”

  “It’s the tube station two blocks from my flat. Near your mother’s, too.”

  “But you said her house was hit.”

  “Yes, just before I met her. She was living in the shelter full-time.”

  Amos winced. He imagined dirty mattresses and rats. “But she was all right? Down there in the tube station?”

  “Oh, yes. Better than most.” Gwendolyn smiled at him. “I think she rather enjoyed the activity. Organizing the lads into brush-up brigades, finding clean water, cooking up stews from whatever the people contributed. She was very keen on it all.”

  “Sounds like Mum.”

  No one had heard from Beryl since the Nazis took Paris. She lived in the north, the worst part of France right now. And she was English. Would that make a difference to the Jerries? And what about the children?

  “We’ll write today to Mum, tell her you arrived,” Amos said. “And to Beryl.” For what that futile exercise was worth. Still, on the chance that with the fighting over— what little fighting the bloody Frogs had undertaken— perhaps mail would get through now. If it got across the Atlantic at all.

  “Yes, we shall write.” Gwendolyn turned to the windows. The sunshine was hitting the sad brick buildings across the street. “Amos, are there some heaths about? Some greens?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can we go to one and sit in the grass? Just look at the clear blue sky?”

  The sky. He had once thought of it as clear and blue, and did again. But in between, he was like Gwendolyn. The sky could bear menace. The sky cou
ld turn black and fill with enemies. The sky could betray you, hurt you, kill you.

  But this was America. This was Missouri. The sky was clear and blue and safe.

  He stood and took her hand. “Right this way, mademoiselle.”

  Chapter SIX

  DEEP SHADOWS UNDER ARCHING BRANCHES made Barnaby Wake’s neighborhood more menacing by daylight. At night, it was possible to imagine that all the shadows were unintentional. In the sunshine, the tall hedges, dense shrubbery, and drooping tree limbs created an atmosphere of mazes and secrecy. Few houses were visible from the narrow, winding streets; even fewer looked welcoming.

  Dorie had knocked on Wake’s door and retreated to the Packard. Parking was limited on these cow paths, and she’d found the widest spot was under the elm tree where they’d parked before. She went over the list of addresses in her notebook. She’d located two men’s cars. The playboy’s mother and Oscar Gordon’s neighbor had both described their vehicles to her. One new black Buick sedan and one ragtop Oldsmobile. Trips through the bushes, peeking into their garages, confirmed the reports. The cattle buyer, Thalia had gone to dinner with only once; he was from Chicago and came on the train. The banker from Columbia was still a question. She hoped she didn’t have to go to there.

  The food made her drowsy. Her eyelids were half-closed when the yellow-and-black taxi pulled into Barnaby Wake’s driveway. She pulled open her door and was walking toward the house, along the trees that had tried to trip her Saturday night, when the cab backed out again. She paused, waiting for it to disappear, when she noticed the man in the backseat. It was Wake.

  Had he been in the house all the time? She clenched her teeth and ran back to the Packard. Following a taxi through Kansas City was usually not difficult, but she almost lost him before he got on the boulevards. She caught up on Gillham. The cab stopped in front of the Plaza Methodist Church. Barnaby Wake hurried up the steps and inside.

  She waited until the taxi pulled away before she parked. She climbed the church steps, shook herself to set loose the gloom that threatened to settle between her shoulder blades.

  Smile, Miss Lennox. It’s a glorious day and you’re alive.