1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  NO GAME

  for a

  DAME

  M. Ruth Myers

  Copyright © 2011 M. Ruth Myers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Contact www.mruthmyers.com.

  Published by Tuesday House

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design © 2011 Alan Raney

  Published in the United States of America

  For

  JoAnn Hague, Lee Huntington and Sandra Love,

  fine writers and peerless friends

  and

  in memory of

  Mavourneen Cross Flynn Parsons

  and Florence McCaslin Mullis,

  rooming house “girls”

  who went on to long careers as teachers

  One

  The guy with the bad toupee strolled into my office without bothering to knock. His mustard colored suit set off a barstool gut and a smirk that told his opinion of private eyes who wore skirts.

  “Maggie Sullivan?”

  I kept filing my nails. “Who’s asking?”

  “You’re bothering a friend of mine.”

  My legs were crossed on my desk. I have great gams. Sometimes I don’t mind displaying the merchandise, but Mr. Hair wasn’t my cup of tea so I sat up. I blew some filings off my pinkie onto the afternoon edition of the Dayton Daily News where a column predicted the French and the Brits would likely let Hitler have the Sudetenland. The wrong step to take with a bully, I thought, but no one had asked me. I made a couple more swipes with the emery board before I acknowledged my visitor.

  “Lose the stogie if you want me to listen.”

  I saw his jaw tighten. He didn’t like being told what to do. He looked around, saw the ashtray on the file cabinet by the door, and stubbed out his smoke. A top-of-the-line Havana by its smell, so the guy had money. Or knew people who did.

  “Who’s the friend?” I asked.

  “Elwood Beale.” He stood with his legs spraddled trying to look tough. Maybe he was tough. “Says you’ve been sniffing around asking questions. Mr. Beale don’t like that. Him being a businessman with a reputation to consider and all. Could give people the wrong idea.”

  “I thought businessmen liked to advertise.”

  The eyelids of the man in front of me lowered to half staff. “People who stick their noses in things get them busted. Even broads. Woody thought maybe you didn’t know that.” Leaning over he planted his hands on my desk and gave a grin as phoney as Houdini’s chains. “Woody treats girls right. Furs. Favors. Might take a fancy to a cute little brunette like you, smart mouth and all.”

  I picked the emery up and started on my nails again. “Anything else?”

  I knew one of his hands would move, and it did, smashing the emery onto the desktop.

  “Who hired you to snoop?”

  “Maybe you came in so fast you missed the ‘private’ part of Private Investigations.”

  He lunged for my wrist but I was too fast. I stood up, balancing on my toes. I wasn’t particularly scared. It was barely four o’clock and there were a couple of other offices down the hall from me if things turned nasty. All the same, Mr. Hair looked like the kind who might use his fists if he couldn’t bully you, and I liked my nose fine the way it was. He stood maybe five-eight so he had me by five inches and about seventy pounds, but a punch to the gut with all my weight behind it would probably topple him.

  He yanked my phone from the desk and ripped the line out of the wall, cutting off that help.

  “Smart girl, huh?” he said heaving it at a lamp and missing. The phone cradle hit the wall. The receiver bounced off a table and hit my umbrella stand. “WHO IS IT?”

  Presumably he was asking about my client. He dodged around my desk. I dodged the other way. I grabbed the umbrella stand and swung, clipping him in the chin. He staggered back against the file cabinet. With a sloppy jig step he just managed to stay upright against it.

  “Beat it!” I feinted with the umbrella stand. “I don’t give out names of the people who hire me. Come around here again and you’ll be sorry!”

  I was counting on my raised voice to make him decide against staying. After several seconds it worked. He heaved himself straight, gave me a murderous look, and stabbed a finger at me. “You’re gonna find out snooping ain’t no game for a dame.” As a parting shot he swept the dime store ashtray holding his squashed stogie off the cabinet. He watched it shatter. Then he turned and left.

  His toupee had slipped.

  * * *

  For several minutes I sat on my desk surveying the mess and waiting for someone from one of the other offices to come check on the commotion. No one did.

  Since no one else seemed inclined to commiserate with me, I decided to let a gin and tonic do it. The necessities were in the bottom drawer next to my handbag. I sat on the desk again sipping consolation and looking morosely at chunks of glass scattered everywhere, a broken phone, and dirt from a long dead plant that had gotten upended somewhere in the scuffle. I hated to clean. It was why I lived in Velma Zieman’s rooming house instead of an apartment. The other reason being I couldn’t afford both an office and an apartment if I also wanted to eat. I wondered how much it was going to cost me to fix the phone.

  Mostly, though, I wondered why the case I was currently working had earned me this kind of visit. I finished my drink and swung my legs a few times and thought about it. Three weeks ago Lewis Throckmorton, owner of a company that sold business forms and office supplies, had hired me to check on his nephew who worked for the company and, as Throckmorton put it, had been “acting odd”. The nephew, Peter Stowe, had too many new clothes lately, his uncle thought. He’d become distracted at work. Furtive, too, slipping out early a couple of times without telling anyone where he was going. Not that his absences were the problem. Peter had always worked many more hours than his paycheck merited. He was a good worker, understood the company bottom to top. Maybe it was nothing.

  It didn’t take a detective to figure out Throckmorton thought his nephew might be dipping into the till. Nor was it the first time a business had hired me to investigate one of their own. Naturally Throckmorton didn’t want his nephew to know about his suspicions. That meant my end was to check what the nephew did after he left work.

  In three weeks of surveillance, what I’d unearthed would fit in a thimble. He’d visited an engineering firm. He’d made a couple of trips down to the university. A couple of times he’d met a girl but I didn’t know who she was. Then two days ago after work, as he was legging it uptown, a dark green Packard had pulled up beside him. Two men swung out, one from the front seat and one from the back. By the looks of it they didn’t engage him in very friendly conversation. As soon as they pulled away, Peter Stowe dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and turned and made straight for home. He’d looked over his shoulder a couple of times.

  I knew a kid who sold newspapers a couple streets over and might have seen the Packard before, or could keep his eye out.

  “Easy money, sis,” he said snatching the quarter I offered. “Car belongs to Elwood Beale. Goes to Ollie the barber and gets the works a couple-a times a week. Has business over this way ‘most every day.”

  So I’d talked to Ollie, asked about Peter Stowe. I’d played a hunch and mentioned Beale at the tailor where Peter Stowe had gotten his snappy new suit. For my money that wasn’t enough to merit sending a goon to sweet-talk me.
Not unless Stowe was mixed up in a lot more than his uncle suspected. Or unless the uncle was dodgy as a revivalist’s offering plate and had lied about why he wanted my services.

  I reckoned it might be smart to let what I knew and didn’t know simmer. That left me with not much to do except get rid of the worst of the mess left by my caller. I got most of the glass from the ashtray and some of the dirt from the upended plant. I put the phone back on my desk with what was left of the cord wrapped around it. That would have to do until the Negro girls who cleaned all the offices came in tonight.

  The warning from Mr. Hair had made me cautious. I locked up fifteen minutes early. Downstairs I slipped a note through the management’s mail slot telling them an irate client had ripped out my phone. They’d probably think I’d told some guy his wife was cheating, imagine risqué details and maybe see about fixing the phone sometime this century.

  I continued a few steps past the management office and slipped into the janitor’s closet. Behind mops and buckets and ladders there was an old exit that nobody used but me. Since our building sat near a point where two streets angled together, the main lobby door and the one for deliveries both opened on Patterson. The one in the closet, if you opened it all the way, smacked the side of the neighboring building, which probably hadn’t been there initially. The narrow gap between the structures went on to the alley, where an electric pole and couple of trash bins hid it from view.

  I squeezed along sideways. The alley beyond was deserted. When I reached the street I made a couple of zig-zags to make sure Mr. Hair wasn’t following, and headed for the two storey white rooming house where I hang my powderpuff.

  Two

  Dirty laundry can land you in trouble when you least expect it.

  Mrs. Z had swept, and her geraniums glistened from sprinkling when I set out for work the next morning. It was Thursday, so I had my usual bag of dirty clothes to leave at Spotts’ Laundry. As I shifted the laundry bag I noticed Butterball, Mrs. Z’s nasty orange tom, crouched behind a geranium pot, just waiting to sink his teeth in the next leg that came down the steps. His girth matched his name so he couldn’t move fast except when he bit. I let my laundry bag plop down on his backside. While he tried to scramble I caught him by the scruff of the neck.

  I’d gladly have booted him into the next county, but Mrs. Z thought the world of him. She worried whenever he sneaked out. The cat growled and kicked, trying to shred some part of me with his back claws, as I took him back to her downstairs apartment.

  “You’re the only one who ever brings him back,” she said sadly as she thanked me.

  Small wonder. The cat had left puncture marks in the calves of every girl in the house. I told Mrs. Z it was no trouble and went back out and picked up my bag of clothes.

  I noticed the cop car down the street but didn’t think anything of it. Patrols come and go in every neighborhood, even the quiet ones.

  My DeSoto was parked three houses up and I’d just about reached it when I heard a screech and whirled. The prowler had come to a stop right behind me. Two boys in blue sprang out. One started yelling for me to drop the bag and put my hands up. My brain tried unsuccessfully even to grasp what was happening.

  “Hands in the air!” he repeated. But I was staring at the cop with him, who had an undersized head like a pigeon.

  “If this is your idea of a joke, Fuller, I’m not laughing.”

  “Better do what the officer says, Maggie. We’re taking you in one way or another.”

  Fuller had made a pass at me once and I’d had to say no with a knee where it hurt him. He hadn’t been a bit friendly since. Him I wasn’t worried about, but his partner was young enough to be my kid brother, and getting twitchy. His fingers slid toward his billy club. I put down my laundry. My purse too.

  What happened next made it personal.

  The young cop grabbed the laundry bag. He looked inside the way someone had told him to. He did some half-embarrassed poking. He nodded at Fuller.

  “Yeah. There’s blood on some of them.”

  “It’s there every month if you want another gander,” I snapped.

  He frowned. Got it. Almost dropped the bag as he blushed.

  “She lies as easy as she breathes,” Fuller said. “Let’s get it to evidence.”

  Fuller shoved me toward the prowler. From the cocky way he walked, he thought he was scaring me. I played docile. When I found out what this was about, he was going to be eating his shoes.

  The ride to HQ took under ten minutes. When we got out Fuller grabbed one of my arms and his partner the other. They marched me between them like a burlesque queen who’d stabbed a senator. A small crowd had gathered, more than you’d normally find on the station house steps. As the young cop reached for the station door a voice I recognized called, “Smile, Mags!” A flashbulb blinded me.

  “Jenkins, you jerk!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  Behind me the onlookers chuckled and hooted. Then we were inside where I recognized cops who’d worked with my dad. No one hurried over to say “hi”. I was hustled into a windowless room with two chairs and a table. A matron came in to stand by the door and I saw the young cop hand my laundry bag to someone outside. This wasn’t looking like something Fuller had brains enough to cook up, and I didn’t think anyone was surprising me with an early birthday party. I wondered what I might have done to mash the toes of someone up the ladder.

  Fuller stuck his head out the door and yapped at somebody. Then he closed it and leaned against the wall while he smirked at me. The matron stood with her hands crossed. The young cop shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. By this time most mornings I was at McCrory’s lunch counter into my first cup of coffee. I felt the lack of it. My head especially.

  Several minutes passed. The door opened. Three men entered wearing cheap suits that screamed “detective”. One, a lean guy with a perfect little nose girls would envy, spun the empty chair around, straddling it to face me.

  “I’m Detective Freeze,” he said in a tone that pretended cordiality. “Please tell us where you were last night, Miss Sullivan.”

  He was homicide. I knew his name from the papers.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your whereabouts?” he repeated. He’d put a folder on the table. It probably listed my age as twenty-four, my height as five-foot-two.

  “What time last night?”

  “Any time.”

  I’d been sitting erect in my best Catholic girl posture. Now I leaned back. I didn’t like the feel of this. Freeze’s eyes matched his name. They watched to see if I so much as blinked.

  “Left work around four-forty. Walked home. A friend and I went down to The Oaks for the meatloaf special–”

  “The friend’s name?”

  “Genevieve Tompkins. Ginny. She has the room next to me. Look, if Sgt. Hanlon or Sgt. Leary’s in the station they can vouch–”

  “I’m fully aware your father was a policeman, Miss Sullivan. What did you do after dinner?”

  “A couple of guys we knew ran into us and bought us a drink. We got back to the place we stay around eight. The bathroom was free, so I had my bath.”

  Another uniform had entered the room and was taking notes. I began to wish I was chums with a shyster.

  “And after that?”

  “Palled around with some of the other girls. One has a radio and she invited some of us in to listen to Charlie McCarthy.

  “Names?”

  I gave them. The two other guys in suits slipped out and I knew they were going to check. Freeze took out his cigarettes, held the pack toward me, and stuck one in his own mouth when I shook my head. He scraped a match across the table and lighted up.

  “Describe your relationship with Benny Norris,” he said watching me though the smoke.

  I shifted to avoid the smell, knowing damn well he’d mistake it for nervousness.

  “Who?”

  “Benjamin Norris.”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
r />   “Funny. He had one of your business cards in his pockets.”

  “I give out lots of cards. People pass them on, leave them on tables, in trash cans. Last year I ended up with a client who’d found one in a library book.”

  Freeze worked his jaw so he didn’t have to take his cigarette out of his mouth. His eyes were stony.

  “You were with him yesterday afternoon. We have witnesses. They say you two had quite a row and you threatened him.”

  I sat upright again, one hand lifting. “Whoa. Stop. Are you talking about a middle-aged guy in a mustard suit? Cheap toupee?”

  “Hard to tell about the toupee with the back of his head blown off.”

  I let my breath out with unusual care. “Where? When?”

  “Your relationship?” Freeze prompted.

  Now that I was getting the picture I didn’t like what I saw. It inspired me to be more cooperative.

  “He came to see me yesterday. Never gave his name. Busted my office up pretty good.”

  “And you threatened him?”

  “He threatened me. Said he’d bust my nose. When he started going nuts, I took a swing at him with an umbrella stand and told him to scram. I told him if he came around again he’d regret it. Something like that.”

  “Meaning?”

  I sat back again, crossing my arms. “Officer Fuller could give you an idea.” Fuller looked daggers at me.

  “Someone called about a disturbance at your place yesterday,” Freeze said sharply. “Officer Fuller noticed it in the reports.”

  “Officer Fuller check all the other disturbance calls that came in? Haul them in too?”

  The detective’s jaw tightened.

  “Look. The boys you sent down to poke through my office will find a Smith and Wesson in a handy little pocket under the seat of my chair. If I’d wanted to plug this guy Norris I could have done it there. I’m guessing the dames at that sock wholesaler down the hall called it in. They didn’t so much as stick their noses out before or after. I could have lain there wallowing in my own blood for all they knew.”