1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  The couple who ran the employment agency noticed the broken glass and stopped to offer neighborly sympathy. It was better than nothing.

  I went back to my inventory of things that were still okay. My typewriter was where I’d left it. Whoever had done the decorating last night must not have wanted a hernia from hefting a Remington. Which meant the blotter was still in place beneath it. Which meant . . . .

  For the first time since opening my unlocked door my thoughts began to sharpen. Only half expecting reward, I slid my fingers under the blotter. The folder on my job for Lewis Throckmorton was still there. Since it held only two typed sheets, it was hard to tell if it had been disturbed. Still, I’d bet a quarter whoever dug through my stuff hadn’t found it.

  I was frowning over it, tapping my fingers, when I heard an explosive “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  The cops had arrived.

  Billy Leary let out a slow whistle as he came through the door and surveyed my office. He wasn’t much taller than me with a robust head of hair that was mostly white now. It looked good with his merry eyes and ruddy cheeks.

  “Looks like someone must’ve wanted something bad,” he said planting his fists at his waist and turning for a fuller look.

  “Yeah. Maybe this.” I tapped the folder in front of me.

  “Which is?”

  “Client file.” The hand I was resting on it spread protectively. Billy frowned, but he got the message.

  “Have to do with that business Freeze was chasing yesterday?”

  “I’m guessing so.”

  I cast a questioning glance toward the cop who was with him, who looked maybe six years older than me. His rusty red hair was just short of brown

  “Oh, this is my partner, Mick Connelly,” Billy said interpreting my look. “He’s only been over a couple of years, so don’t treat him too harsh. Mick, meet Maggie Sullivan.”

  “Miss Sullivan.” He nodded politely.

  “What happened to Seamus? He was with you just yesterday.” Billy and Seamus had been a team as long as I could remember, which meant before I started school.

  “Seamus has a knee giving out. Been doing mostly desk duty for the past eight months while I showed boy-o here some of the tricks. Yesterday Mick was in court.”

  Connelly had begun a slow circuit of my room, hands clasped behind him, inspecting everything. He wasn’t a large man, five-ten or eleven, medium build, yet something about his presence made the room feel small. He moved soundlessly, a cat alert for prey. I tried to ignore his prowling.

  “Freeze fill you in on anything?” I asked Billy.

  He shook his head. “Saw him on the way out, told him you’d had a break-in. He said let him know if we found anything. His lads have other fish frying this morning. Had another big ticket burglary at a business last night.”

  I nodded. There had been a string of break-ins at businesses in the last month or so. Times were still hard even though FDR’s New Deal was putting people back to work.

  “Okay. I’ll start with what I didn’t tell Freeze.”

  Connelly paused and turned his head to listen. Billy straightened my overturned client chair and sat down.

  “You ever hear of a fellow named Peter Stowe? Works for a place on Zeigler that sells stationery, paper goods, business forms. Seems clean as a whistle.”

  Billy shook his head and looked at his partner who gave a negative, then bent to study the books tossed onto the floor. Was he reading the damn titles? It felt almost like I was standing there in a swim suit. I forced my attention back to Billy’s familiar face.

  I told them I’d been hired to do a background check without telling who hired me; that the name Elwood Beale had come up without telling how; that I’d asked some questions and Norris had turned up warning me to keep my nose out.

  “I got the idea Norris worked for Beale,” I concluded. “But I know zero about who Beale is or what he does.” I looked carefully at Billy. He looked back. I wouldn’t ask him to find out for me just as he hadn’t asked to see the folder on my investigation. We both knew it.

  Connelly looked up from perusing my books. “Squad’s not likely to send anyone to check these for fingerprints, seeing as how there’s no murder or major theft involved. Want me to put these back on the shelves?”

  My defenses started to raise. This was my place. Nobody touched things but me. Then my brain reminded me how long straightening up was likely to take.

  “Suit yourself.” My dad’s voice chided me for not being more gracious.

  “Any way to guess when your visitors might have been here? Anyone work late?” Billy asked tugging his lip and eyeing me curiously.

  “Only one I’ve known to be here at night is the salesman with the locked office nearest the elevator. But that’s only been Fridays, and only if he got off the road late.”

  “Night watchman?”

  “Comes on at eleven. Spends most of his time downstairs in the back room playing cards. Two Negro girls come in to clean around seven. They’d go nervous with you just because you’re cops, but they like me. I did one a favor. Let me talk to them. I’ll fill you in if there’s anything interesting.”

  Billy looked at his partner, who shrugged. “We can write it up that they’ll be questioned when available.”

  “My money’s on the watchman being too deep in his card game to hear anything,” I said.

  “And you’re sure nothing’s missing?” Connelly shelved the last of the books with a hand that hefted four at once.

  “Only a pint of gin that was two-thirds full.” Did he take me for a bimbo who wouldn’t know if something was missing from her own office?

  Billy pulled a face, standing and preparing to leave. “We’ll ask around, pay a visit to the night watchman. But I don’t like you getting mixed up in something like this, Maggie Liz. Your dad wouldn’t either. Smart as you are, you’d make a fine teacher–”

  “If you’re worried about me, how about telling Freeze to give my piece back,” I interrupted.

  He sniffed and jammed his hat on his head. “And it’s welcome you are.”

  Connelly followed him out, pausing to give the mere suggestion of a bow. His face was impassive.

  “Ravishing hat, Miss Sullivan.”

  I reached up to discover I’d never removed it.

  Ravishing?

  What the hell did he mean by that?

  Five

  The prospect of putting my office together again so soon after I’d cleaned up from Norris stuck in my craw. So did bobbing around like a cork tossed into a barrel of something I couldn’t identify. It was almost mid-morning and phoning to see if Throckmorton was in would give him a chance to duck if there was something he wasn’t telling me. That made a good argument for legging it over instead.

  The office supply company he now ran had been started by his grandfather. It was big enough to have its own building, three stories of brick and on a corner with the business entrance on one street and a freight loading door on the other. Throckmorton’s office was on the second floor. His secretary looked up from a stack of letters she was sealing and stamping as I came in.

  “I need to see Throckmorton ,” I told her skipping the chit-chat.

  “He’s in a meeting–”

  I was past her and through his half-open door before she could finish. I planted myself in front of his desk with my fist on my hip.

  “We need to talk.”

  Throckmorton was a blinker when you caught him off guard, which I had. His eyes worked a couple of times. Then they glared. A girl with a pencil behind her ear sat next to his desk, and they’d been pouring over some papers. His secretary was right on my heels.

  “I tried to stop her, Mr. Throckmorton. She pushed past–”

  “Yes, yes, Helène.” He turned to the girl with the pencil behind her ear. “Leave these. I’ll come up after I’ve looked at the rest of them. Helène – close the door as you leave and see that we’re not interrupted.”

  The women
scurried. Throckmorton was a short little guy but he’d puffed up like a banty rooster.

  “Our appointment was yesterday, Miss Sullivan. I don’t take kindly–”

  “How’s your nephew mixed up with Benny Norris?”

  He blinked. Hard to tell whether it was the name or me cutting him off that had startled him.

  “What? Who–?”

  “No bells ringing? How about Elwood Beale?”

  “I’ve never heard of these people, and this intrusion–”

  “Any idea why people you’ve never heard of would threaten your nephew?”

  He sank back. All the air went out of him. There was a chair in front of his desk I sat down uninvited.

  “Threaten!” He repeated it so softly the outrush of air disturbed his tidy gray mustache. “Oh dear. Oh my. ”

  His distress seemed genuine enough. Yet from the beginning there’d been something briskly guarded about him. He told me what he wanted to but not a lot more.

  Nudging someone when they were worried was a fine way to get them to spill. I sat back and crossed my legs.

  “Beale and one of his bodyguards stopped your nephew on the street the other day. It was clear they were having words and it wasn’t too friendly. Peter looked pretty shook up when they left. I found out Beale’s name and asked about him a couple of places. Next thing I know, a guy named Benny Norris, who’s Beale’s errand boy, shows up to warn me away. He rips my phone out, among other not-so-nice moves. That night he winds up with a couple of slugs in the back of his head. The cops haul me in to grill me about it – which is where I was yesterday. Don’t worry. I didn’t mention your name. Peter’s either.”

  Throckmorton stroked nervously at his mustache. He stared at the desktop.

  “It’s not possible. Peter’s not that sort.”

  “Somebody broke into my office last night, turned everything inside out. Hunting something to do with this unless I miss my guess. You sure there’s nothing you forgot to tell me when you hired me?”

  He straightened indignantly. “That’s preposterous!” Behind his wide desk with its leather blotter and polished brass fixtures he looked scared as a lost child. He avoided my eyes.

  “I – just knew Peter was acting strangely. As I said. He seemed to have something on his mind. And the fancy clothes....” As his voice dwindled he bestowed a stiff nod. “Very well. It did occur to me he might be involved with, well, the wrong kind of woman.”

  “Or have his hand in the till?”

  He swallowed. I leaned forward, trying to make sure he grasped the seriousness of whatever was going on. He understood bookkeeping forms and carbon paper; orders and deliveries. Most likely he had no inkling of a world where greed made even good people stupid, and men killed each other.

  “We’re talking about murder, and something crooked enough and worth enough to commit murder. No matter how your nephew got involved, he’s in the middle now, and it could get him killed. You hired me to find out what he’s been up to. This is just the first whiff–”

  A couple of quick raps sounded on his office door almost as it opened.

  “Here are those order inventories– Oh! Excuse me!” A flaxen haired girl with wide blue eyes gestured awkwardly with the ledger she held. The blues swung toward me for a couple of seconds, staring, and then back to Throckmorton. She was biting her lip so hard I expected to see blood. “I’m sorry, sir! You said you wanted these right away. And Miss Abbott was in the hall showing a delivery–”

  “Just put them there, Miss Taylor.” Throckmorton gestured irritably toward a basket on his desk.

  The girl’s hand shook as she obeyed. Giving me another once-over she hurried out. Poor kid. Throckmorton would probably rake her over the coals. After the door closed we both were silent a moment.

  “I’m game to keep looking into this,” I resumed. “But there’s no telling where it could lead and you may not like what I learn.”

  “I have to know.”

  “The cops might find out faster–”

  “No. Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary. Peter’s....” His chin lifted. “He was only nine when his parents died and he came to live with us. He’s more than a nephew. I ... think of him more as a son, I suppose.”

  The words sounded stuffy. Either that or Throckmorton was laying it on pretty thick. “So this is hard,” I said.

  “It is.”

  “What exactly does he do in the business?”

  Throckmorton spread his hands. “Everything. Technically he’s supervisor of business maintenance. He’s in charge of making sure everyone’s satisfied with our service as well as our products. He makes regular contact with a number of our customers and suppliers, keeps his eyes and ears open for areas where we might improve; pays attention to trends, new products, things people wish they had that no one’s come up with yet. He even rides along with our delivery people twice a week or so just to make sure everything’s running smoothly. It also allows him to note any changes by regular customers that suggest adjustments we might want to make – for their sake or ours.”

  Throckmorton sounded proud as he reeled it off. For the first time since we’d met he seemed to relax.

  “He sits in on meetings with sales, advertising, purchasing, even maintenance. I value his comments, though he’s always reluctant to make them.” He ran his fingers down some of the paperwork he’d been looking at when I came in. “Since I have no son to step into my shoes, I’m hoping he’ll take over the business one day. Keep it in the family.”

  “He get involved in accounting?”

  “No, that’s my daughter’s department.” He squirmed in his chair. “She wanted a role in the business, and until she marries I see no harm in it. She’s quite good, actually.”

  * * *

  I left Throckmorton’s office with new possibilities skipping around in my brain. His own daughter – only daughter, I was guessing – was interested in the business, involved in it, yet he planned to turn it over to his nephew. I wondered how she felt about that.

  Odds were it had never occurred to Throckmorton his daughter and nephew could be on the fiddle together. They’d grown up together. They could be involved romantically. Or one could be using the other. Or they could have formed a partnership strictly for money. Or maybe one was crooked and the other, having learned about it, was trying to cover it up. Any one of those possibilities could come served with a side of blackmail.

  I came out the front door of Throckmorton’s office so deep in thought I’d have been easy prey for anyone wanting to jump me. As I passed an arch sheltering the door of the neighboring building the corner of my eye caught a blur of motion.

  “I need to talk to you. About - about Peter Stowe,” said the nervous blue-eyed girl who’d blundered into Throckmorton’s office. Her hands wanted pockets they could shove into. Instead they were tightly curled. As she fell into step with me she flung a look over her shoulder. “Not now. I have to get back.”

  “You know a place called Finn’s?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Respectable little joint. A girl can have a beer there without being bothered.” I told her how to find it. “I’ll be there when you get off work.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “Sometime after half past five.” She spun and fled.

  Skittish as she was, I wondered if she’d show.

  Six

  The super in charge of our building had three-day old breath and a personality that matched. I got off the elevator and saw him heading toward it from the general vicinity of my office. He noticed me and stopped, crossing his arms to show his authority.

  “You’re going to pay to replace that glass,” he announced.

  “Hey, thanks for your concern about my losses,” I said. “Maybe if your so-called watchman got up from his card game now and then and actually walked his rounds, you wouldn’t have hooligans breaking in. Or doesn’t the rent we pay here cover frills like security?”

  His face turned red
. It didn’t make him any handsomer. Throckmorton had told me to put any costs for repairs on his bill, so I wasn’t overly concerned about the door. It was true about the watchman, though, and since I’d put a few hundred miles on my own feet making rounds as a floorwalker, I didn’t think much of shirkers.

  “I’m thinking your rent needs to increase,” the super said sourly. “This here’s a respectable building. Never was any trouble before you moved in. Now we got police all over two days in a row. Brawls. Break-ins–”

  “The rent in this dump’s already overpriced. That’s why you’ve had two spots sitting vacant the last six months. Tell that poor excuse for a night watchman you’re docking him for the door repairs. Better still, give him his walking papers.” I marched past him. “And I want my phone working again by the end of the day or I can see to it there are cops here every day of the week.”

  I opened my office door, which I’d made the grand gesture of locking in spite of its missing glass. The super was still standing with his arms crossed, but his glare was slipping.

  While I’d been out, something new had appeared in my office. I noticed it in spite of the scattered files and a few things still lying upside down. A large manilla envelope lay part way off one corner of my desk. Either someone had jimmied my lock again, or they’d lobbed the envelope through the hole that currently constituted the top half of my door. Given its tenuous perch, I suspected the latter. I bent over it, recognized the tidy lettering scribbled across one corner, and skewed my mouth.

  See you’re finally redecorating.

  Very modern. This will add

  some pizzazz.

  It didn’t take the initials to tell me who it was from. When I opened it, I found exactly what I expected. There in a glossy eight-by-ten was me being muscled into police headquarters by Fuller and the younger cop. Some day I might even put it on my wall.