His only response was to drive faster. I kept up a monologue on the perfidies of the Yankees until we got to Twelfth Street, forbearing to comment on the fact that he was driving too fast for normal road conditions. He parked the car two feet from the curb and swung himself out, slamming the door behind him. I followed him into the back door of the Twelfth Street station.
“By the way, Sergeant, did you ever find anyone in the Kelvin murder?”
“It’s still open,” he said stiffly.
Mallory rated a tiny office in the maze making up the homicide division. The back wall was covered with a map of the city, precinct boundaries outlined in heavy black, high crime areas marked in red. Mallory was on the phone when we came in. I went over to look at my neighborhood. We had a very high homicide rate. There were a lot of rapes there, too. Maybe I would be better off in Melrose Park with six children.
Bobby hung up the phone and picked up a stack of papers. He put on his wire-rimmed glasses and started reading reports. “Come over here and sit down, Vicki.”
I sat on the far side of his metal desk while he continued reading. “You were at Plymouth Steel this morning when Clayton Phillips’s body was discovered.”
I didn’t say anything and he said sharply. “You were there, weren’t you?”
“I thought you were making a statement, not asking a question. Of course I was there-I called the police and I didn’t make any secret of who I was.”
“Don’t get smart with me. What were you doing down there?”
“I put Phillips’s body in the hold Sunday morning and I wanted to see people’s faces when it came out on the conveyor belt.”
Bobby slapped the desk top with his open palm. “Vicki, you’re this close to going to jail as a material witness.” He held up his thumb and middle finger to indicate a very tiny distance. “Tell me what you were doing down there.”
“I was looking for Martin Bledsoe. He owns the Pole Star Line.”
Bobby relaxed a bit. “Why?”
“I was on board the Lucella when she blew up last week. That’s his flagship. Someone put depth charges under her last Friday up in Sault Ste. Marie and-”
“Yes, I know all about that. What did you want to see Bledsoe for?”
“My suitcase fell into the middle of the ship. I wanted to know if they recovered it.”
Mallory turned red at that. “You don’t go bothering the owner of a steamship line for that kind of crap. Cut out the horseplay and tell me the truth.”
I shook my head earnestly. “I am telling you the truth. No one else knew anything about it, so I went to see him. You see, my Smith & Wesson was in my case. That cost me three hundred dollars and I can’t afford to replace it.”
I knew that would divert Bobby’s attention. He does not like the idea of my carrying a gun. He knows that my dad taught me how to use one. Tony believed most shooting accidents were caused by children not knowing anything about firearms. Since he had to keep his police revolver at home sometimes, he made me learn how to clean, load, and shoot it. Nonetheless, the idea of a woman toting around a Smith & Wesson is contrary to all Bobby’s notions of a proper lady’s life-style. He jumped on that, demanding to know why I had the gun with me on board ship and what I was doing on the Lucella anyway.
That was easier ground. I reminded him of my car accident. “You guys wanted to believe it was vandals. I thought it was someone connected with the Port. I went up to Thunder Bay to talk to the captain and the chief engineer of the Lucella. Since one of them might have tried to kill me, I took my gun with me.”
We talked about that for a while. I reiterated my belief that Boom Boom had been pushed under the Bertha Krupnik. I told him I thought Henry Kelvin, the night watchman in his building, had been killed when he surprised intruders trying to find evidence that Boom Boom had of a crime down at the Port. Bobby wouldn’t be persuaded. As far as he was concerned, Boom Boom had fallen in by accident, I was the victim of vandals, and Kelvin had interrupted a routine housebreaking. At that point a stubborn decision to keep the rest of my information to myself overtook me. If they were going to be so damned pigheaded, I would be, too.
When Bobby got back to my fingerprints in Phillips’s office, I evaded the issue. “What were you guys doing fingerprinting the man’s office, anyway?”
“He was killed, Vicki,” Bobby said with heavy sarcasm. “We were printing his office and doing everything else to it to find out if he was killed there.”
“Was he?”
Mallory drew a doodle on his desk pad. “He actually died of suffocation in the cargo holds. We don’t know where he received the head wound-that would have killed him anyway if he hadn’t suffocated first.”
My stomach turned over. What a terrible death. I didn’t like Phillips but I hadn’t wished him that kind of end. Although if he had pushed Boom Boom overboard… “When do they think it happened?”
“About six Sunday morning. Give or take a few hours. Now, Vicki: I want to know what you were doing in the guy’s office. And when you were doing it.”
“About six yesterday morning I went down there to talk to him about my cousin’s death. When he refused to answer my questions, I became enraged and hit him over the head with that brass thing he’s got sitting on the front of his desk.”
Bobby gave me such an angry stare, I felt my stomach turn over again. He called to McGonnigal, who was waiting outside the door. “Take down everything she says. If there’s one more smart remark, book her as a material witness. I’m getting sick of this.” He turned to me. “When were you down there?”
I looked at my fingernails on my right hand. Time for a manicure. The left was no better. “Saturday night.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“If I’d been burglarizing the place, I’d have been smart enough to wear gloves. I wasn’t. I was looking for information that might show Phillips led a life of crime.”
“Who’s your client, Vicki?”
I shook my head. “Privileged information, Bobby.”
We talked about that for a while. I still regarded Boom Boom as my client, but I was damned if I was going to tell Bobby that. Lock me up indeed.
“You can’t drag a body into the Port without someone noticing you,” I remarked at one point. “There’s a police guard at the gates. Have you asked them for the names of everyone who came into the Port early Sunday?”
Mallory gave me a withering look. “We can think of the easy ones, too. We’re questioning those people right now.”
“Was Niels Grafalk one of them?”
Bobby gave me a sharp glance. “No. Our guy didn’t see him. Why?”
I shrugged. “Just curious.”
Bobby kept asking why I was down at Phillips’s office, what information I had expected to find, and so on.
Finally I said, “Bobby, you think Boom Boom’s death was an accident. I think he was murdered. I was looking for something that would tie Eudora Grain into his death, because it happened at their elevator after he had been arguing with their man.”
Mallory made a neat pile of the papers on his desk. He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and placed them on top of it. That was a signal that the interrogation was over. “Vicki, I know how much you loved Boom Boom. I think that’s making you place too much importance on his death. We see that a lot in here, you know. Someone loses their son or wife or father in a terrible accident. They can’t believe it’s happened, so they say it’s murder. If there’s a conspiracy, it makes the death easier to handle-their loved one was important enough for someone to want to kill.
“Now, you’ve had a rough time lately, Vicki. Your cousin died and you almost got killed yourself in a bad accident. You go away for a few weeks, go someplace warm and lie in the sun for a while. You need to give yourself a chance to recover from all this.”
After that, naturally, I didn’t tell him about Boom Boom’s documents or about Mattingly flying in from the Soo on Bledsoe’s plane. McGonnigal offered to
take me home, but in a continuing spirit of perverseness I told him I could find the way myself. I got up stiffly-we’d been talking for over two hours. It was close to ten when I boarded the northbound subway at Roosevelt Road. I took it as far as Clark and Division, then transferred to a number 22 bus, getting off at Belmont and Broadway. I could walk the last half mile or so home.
I was very tired. The pain had come back in my shoulder, perhaps from sitting so long in one position. I walked as rapidly as I could across Belmont to Halsted. Lincoln Avenue cuts in at an angle there, and a large triangle on the south side of the street is a scraggy vacant lot. I held my keys clenched between my fingers, watching shadows in the bushes. At the front door to my building I kept a weather eye out for anything unusual. I didn’t want to be the fourth victim of this extremely efficient murderer.
Three dePaul students share the second-floor apartment. As I walked up the stairs, one of them stuck her head out the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She came all the way out, followed by her two roommates, one male and one female. In an excited trio they told me someone had tried to break into my apartment about an hour before. A man had rung their doorbell. When they buzzed him in, he’d gone past their door to the third floor.
“We told him you weren’t home,” one of the women said, “but he went on up anyway. After a while we heard him kind of chiseling away at the door. So we got the bread knife and went up after him.”
“My God,” I said. “He could have killed you. Why didn’t you call the police?”
The first speaker shrugged thin shoulders in a Blue Demon T-shirt. “There were three of us and one of him. Besides, you know what the police are like-they’d never come in time in this neighborhood.”
I asked if they could describe the intruder. He was thin and seemed wiry. He had a ski mask on, which frightened them more than the incident itself. When he saw them coming up the stairs, he dropped the chisel, pushed past them, and ran down the steps and up Halsted. They hadn’t tried to chase him, for which I was grateful-I didn’t need injuries to them on my conscience, too.
They gave me the chisel, an expensive Sorby tool. I thanked them profusely and invited all three up to my apartment for a nightcap. They were curious about me and came eagerly. I served them Martell in my mother’s red Venetian glasses and answered their enthusiastic questions about my life as a private investigator. It seemed a small price to pay for saving my apartment, and perhaps me, from a late night intruder.
23 A House of Mourning
I woke up early the next morning. My would-be intruder convinced me that I didn’t have much time before another accident would overtake me. My anger with Bobby continued: I didn’t report the incident. After all, the police would just treat it as another routine break and entry. I would solve the crimes myself; then they’d be sorry they hadn’t listened to me.
I felt decidedly unheroic as I ran slowly over to Belmont Harbor and back. I only did two miles instead of my normal five, and that left me sweating, the ache returning to my left shoulder. I took a long shower and rubbed some ligament oil into the sore muscles.
I checked the Omega over with extra care. Everything seemed to be working all right, and no one had tied a stick of dynamite to the battery cable. Even taking time for exercise and a proper breakfast, I was on the road by nine o’clock. I whistled Fauré’s “Après un rêve” under my breath as I headed for the Loop. My first stop was the Title Office at City Hall. I found an empty parking meter on Madison Street and put in a quarter. Half an hour should be enough time for what I wanted to do.
The Title Office is where you go to register ownership of buildings in Chicago. Maybe all of Cook County. Like other city offices, this was filled with patronage workers. Henry Ford could study a city office and learn something about the ultimate in division of labor. One person gave me a form to fill out. I completed it, copying Paige Carrington’s Astor Street address out of Boom Boom’s address book. The filled-in form went to a second clerk, who date-stamped it and gave it to a heavy black man sitting behind a cage. He, in turn, assigned the form to one of the numerous pages whose job it was to fetch out the title books and carry them to the waiting taxpayers.
I stood behind a scarred wooden counter with other title searchers, waiting for a page to bring me the relevant volume. The man who finally filled my order turned out to be surprisingly helpful-city workers usually seem to be in a secret contest for who can harass the public the most. He found the entry for me in the heavy book and showed me how to read it.
Paige occupied a floor in a converted apartment building, an old five-flat built in 1923. The entries showed that there was some kind of dwelling on that site as far back as 1854. The Harris Bank had owned the current building until 1978 when it was converted to condominiums. Jay Feldspar, a well-known Chicago land developer, had acquired it then and done the conversion. Paige’s unit, number 2, was held as a trust by the Fort Dearborn Trust. Number 1123785-G.
Curiouser and curiouser. Either Paige owned the thing herself as part of a trust, or someone owned it for her. I looked at my watch. I’d already been here forty minutes; might as well take a little more time and risk a parking ticket. I wrote the trust number down on a piece of paper in my shoulder bag, thanked the attendant for his help, and went out to find a pay phone. I’d been to law school with a woman who was now an attorney on the Fort Dearborn’s staff. She and I had never been friends-our aspirations were too different. We’d never been enemies, either, though. I thought I’d call her and give a tug on the old school tie.
It took more than a tug-trust documents were confidential, she could be disbarred, let alone thrown out of the bank. I finally persuaded her that I’d get the Herald-Star to come in and suborn the clerical staff if she didn’t find the name of the person behind the trust number for me.
“You really haven’t changed a bit, Vic. I remember how you bullied everyone during moot court in our senior year.”
I laughed.
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment,” she said crossly, but she agreed to call me at home that night with the information.
While I was wasting dimes and adding to the risk of a ticket, I checked in with my answering service. Both Ryerson and Pierre Bouchard had called.
I tried Murray first. “Vic, if you’d lived two hundred years ago they would have burned you at the stake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That Arroyo hiking boot. Mattingly was wearing them when he died, and we’re pretty sure they’re a match for the footprint the police found in Boom Boom’s place. We’ll have the story on the front page of the early editions. Got any other hot tips?”
“No. I was hoping you might have something for me. Talk to you later.”
Bouchard wanted to tell me that he had checked around with Mattingly’s cronies on the team. He didn’t think Howard knew how to dive. Oh, and Elsie had given birth to a nine-pound boy two days ago. She was calling him Howard after the worthless snake. The members of the team were pitching in to make a donation to her since Howard had died without a pension and left very little life insurance. Would I give something from Boom Boom? Pierre knew my cousin would want to be included.
Certainly, I told him, and thanked him for his diligence.
“Are you making any progress?”
“Well, Mattingly’s dead. The guy who I’m sure pushed Boom Boom in the water was killed Sunday. Another few weeks like this and the only person left alive will be his murderer. I guess that’s progress.”
He laughed. “I know you will have success. Boom Boom told me many times how clever you are. But if you need some muscle, let me know. I’m a good man for a fight.”
I agreed with him wholeheartedly-I’d watched him cutting people’s heads open on the ice with good-natured enthusiasm many times.
I sprinted back to my car, too late. A zealous meter maid had already filled out a parking ticket for letting the meter run out. I stuck it into my shoulder bag and inched my way across th
e Loop to Ontario Street, the closest entrance to the Kennedy Expressway.
The weather had finally warmed up slightly. Under a clear blue sky, trees along the expressway put out tentative, pale green leaves toward the sun. The grass was noticeably darker than it had been the week before. I started singing some Elizabethan love songs. They suited the weather and the chirping birds better than Fauré’s moodiness. Off the Kennedy to the Edens, past the painfully tidy bungalows of the Northwest Side where people balanced their paychecks with anxious care, up to the industrial parks lining the middle-class suburbs of Lincolnwood and Skokie, on to the Tri-State Tollway and the rarefied northern reaches of the very rich.
“ ‘Sweet lovers love the spring,’ ” I sang, turning off onto route 137. Over to Green Bay Road, making the loop around to Harbor Road without a single wrong turn. I went on past the Phillips residence and parked the Omega around the southern bend in the road, away from the house. I was wearing my navy Evan Picone pantsuit, a compromise between comfort and the need to look respectable in a house of mourning.
I walked briskly back along the greensward to the Phillips house in my low-heeled loafers, my legs a little sore from the unaccustomed run this morning.
Once on the driveway, I stopped singing. That would be indecorous. Three cars were parked behind the blue Oldsmobile 88. Phillips’s green Alfa. So he hadn’t driven himself down to the Port Sunday morning? Or had the car been returned? I’d have to ask. A red Monte Carlo, about two years old and not kept up as well as the neighborhood demanded. And a silver Audi 5000. The sight of the Audi drove any desire to sing from my heart.
A pale teenager in Calvin Klein jeans and an Izod shirt answered the door. Her brown hair was cut short and frizzed around her head in a perm. She looked at me with an unfriendly stare. “Well?” she said ungraciously.
“My name is V. I. Warshawski. I’ve come to see your mother.”
“Well, don’t expect me to pronounce that.” She turned her head, still holding onto the doorknob. “Mo-ther,” she yelled. “Some lady’s here to see you. I’m going for a bike ride.”
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