1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe nose out who Beale’s associates are? Maybe see if some of the shots of Beale show him with associates? Oh, forgive me. Here I keep thinking you’re some kind of newsman. I guess guys who just tag along with a camera don’t really qualify, huh?”

  It was his turn to glare, except he hadn’t had enough practice. “Oh, hell. Ione’s away and I’m going to be down here anyway. I might as well do your bidding. Let me see if I can find some shots of Beale.”

  “I’ve seen shots of him. Presenting the doorprize at some charity auction, another one at a holiday dance. It’s Al I want – his lieutenant.”

  “A scar on his pinkie, for chrissake.” He turned and stomped back toward the elevator.

  * * *

  I spent most of the afternoon driving the routes Peter Stowe had traveled the times Al rode with him. Since Peter used deliveries to spot where the company could improve its services, or filled in if a driver was absent, the trips had taken him in various directions. One went south on Main to Oakwood and Kettering. Another went down Wayne and Wilmington, then looped around and back. One cut southeast to Moraine and Miamisburg. One went east on Third. One ran north on Main across the river and came back down Salem.

  At each place that had been broken into I found a place to park while I had a good look, trying to spot any similarity of layout or type of business or how far they were set back from the road. If there was a pattern I couldn’t spot it. What did the businesses on that list have in common?

  I thought about it all the way back to the office. When I got settled in, I called Flora.

  “What sort of things would every one of those businesses need besides office supplies?” I asked.

  She was silent a moment gathering her thoughts. “Heat, electricity, phone. Janitors. Furniture. Advertising. An attorney, of course. Insurance....”

  I could tell by the pause that she’d hit on the same thought I had not long before.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Think I’ll have a look at that. Thanks.”

  It was already after four. Less than five hours til I met Muley. The phone rang.

  “I’m in the mood for a blue plate special,” Jenkins said. “Veal, maybe.”

  I gritted my teeth. He’d found something. Which meant I’d be buying his dinner since he’d come through for me. The veal part was to torment me, seeing as how it was Friday and I’d be stuck with a fishcake.

  “Half past five?” Being polite was the closest I would ever come to martyrdom.

  “Make it half past six.”

  Twenty-three

  “Ione finally throw you out?” I asked as Jenkins slid in across from me in the booth at Clancy’s. He slouched against the hard wood behind him as comfortably as a pasha on a divan.

  “She and her mother took the train up to Piqua to visit a cousin who has a new baby. Figured I might as well hang around downtown, catch a few extra pictures, maybe get lucky if the cops catch up with the burglary ring that’s put Wurstner’s fur up.”

  “That likely to happen?”

  “Not the way I hear it. More likely if the city fathers had coughed up money for the extra cops that FBI report said we needed.” His eyes twinkled shrewdly. “This interest you’ve taken in Beale and his outfit – it wouldn’t happen to be connected to the burglaries, would it?”

  “It would if I could figure out how to make it fit. Which so far I haven’t.”

  The waitress came. He ordered his blue plate. I decided chowder and crackers appealed to me more than fish cakes.

  “So what did you find?” I asked when we were alone again.

  Jenkins made a face. “Not enough to make you happy you’re buying my dinner.” He reached beneath his jacket and produced a manilla envelope which he slid toward me. When I undid the string, four clippings and a photograph peeked out at me. I removed them one at a time, glancing up to make sure no one was watching. I was fairly sure Jenkins could land in hot water for pinching things from the newspaper’s files and taking them for a stroll.

  Two of the clippings I’d already seen, the ones of Beale at the dance and presenting the doorprize. The others were older. One, taken two years earlier, showed Beale in a group of men who owned fancy cars and were lining up for an amateur race while well-wishers watched in the background. Another, almost five years old now, showed Beale at the opening of one of his clubs as he planted a smooch on the cheek of a singer who held an armful of roses. In that one three unidentified men whose suits didn’t quite disguise their line of work stood behind him.

  “It’s not much,” Jenkins said.

  I studied the clippings. The one at the car race was all but useless. The camera’s focus had been on the drivers. Even though the onlookers weren’t far away, their features were blurred, some faces all but blocked by a neighbor’s hat. The one of the club opening gave me a good look at two of Beale’s men, but given their sturdy builds and the broad nose on one, neither matched the description of Al as ‘good looking’. The third man behind Beale looked like he might. He was trim enough and his suit fitted like a glove, but he’d been turning away when the shutter clicked. He was gesturing as if giving an order. All it really left me was a jawline and the shadow from his hat and a cigarette.

  With a small sigh I turned to the photo.

  “A different one of him presenting that doorprize,” I said in surprise.

  Jenkins nodded. “Different angle. Showed less of the winner than the one that got used.”

  It showed more of the space behind Beale, though. A man stood looking on, just far enough away to be out of focus. He might be the same man as at the club opening, or he might not. The blonde clinging to his arm came just to his shoulder, so he might be tall. Or she might be short.

  “Shit.” I took a better look at the two other goonies, making sure I’d remember their faces, then shoved the whole lot back into the envelope.

  “Cops may have a file on him,” Jenkins offered. “I waited ‘til one of the guys on the crime beat got a snootful after work and chatted him up. He showed off some about who works for Beale. One’s a guy named Albert Sikes.”

  He knew I couldn’t ask the cops about it. So did I. But I had other plans for Jenkins, and striking out with the photos would make it easier.

  “Since I know your conscience will bother you if you don’t earn that veal, then, how about riding along to watch my back tonight while I meet a thug?” I asked when we’d tucked into our food. I’d thought of it as soon as he’d mentioned Ione was away.

  He shot me a look. “I’m pretty fond of my neck.”

  “It’s not anyone from Beale’s outfit. You just need to sit out in the car while I go into a rooming house, hit the horn if anyone comes in after me. It’s only a couple of blocks from downtown.”

  He chewed some veal. “Any chance of a picture worth using a flashbulb?”

  “Probably not – but you might get some background that puts you ahead of the competition. I’m meeting a pal of the guy who threatened me in my office and then wound up dead in the alley.”

  “Who worked for Beale.” Jenkins whistled softly. “Could be you’re onto something, Mags.”

  * * *

  By nine-fifteen we were across the street and down a ways from the place Muley stayed, parked in a dark spot where a street lamp was out. If anyone noticed us we’d be dismissed as a couple of lovebirds. Meanwhile I’d get a sense of the street and its rhythm, maybe notice if anything seemed out of order.

  The skinny two-storey house we were watching was three times as deep as it was wide, a fact we’d established by driving through the alley beside it before continuing several blocks and meandering back. A hand-painted sign in the left downstairs window advertised ROOMS. Fifteen minutes slipped past with nothing to watch except two guys going into the Ace of Clubs a block and a half away. I pulled my wool tam down over my ears to keep out the chill.

  Good conversation made the waiting easier. Jenkins was an honest-to-God college man, a fact he mostly hid f
rom his newsroom cronies though it marginally redeemed him in the eyes of his in-laws, who disapproved of his profession. We were batting around whether war in Europe would mean more jobs and better wages here, when a man strolled into view from a side street. He turned in our direction. He looked like a man who belonged, cap pulled low, hands in his jacket pockets, gait unhurried. Not large enough to be Muley, I thought. At the place we were watching he left the sidewalk and went lightly up the four steps to the stoop. To anyone happening by, he’d seem to be putting his key in. But he took longer than was necessary, and the movements weren’t right. Was he forcing the lock?

  Uneasiness licked through me. The man on the steps had the door halfway open and was slipping inside.

  “If I’m not out in five, call the cops and clear out,” I said swinging out of the car.

  I sprinted across the street and took the steps two at a time. Even without a porch light I could see the gouges left by a screwdriver in the wood frame. Flattening myself to one side I slid through the door. Steep stairs just ahead led up and hooked left onto a hallway. Keeping an eye on the stairs, I rapped on the door of the room with the sign in the window. A woman peered out so promptly she must have been listening.

  “Call the cops. A guy just jimmied your front door,” I said under my breath.

  Muley had sounded scared, and now someone was breaking into the place where he lived. I drew the .38 from my pocket. In a crouch as low and silent as a cat slinking after a bird I crept up the stairs. Every move had been honed in childhood games with my father.

  Before I was halfway up I heard shots above: pow-pow-pow.

  Back flattened against the wall, I saw the man in the cap round the short stretch of rail at the top of the stairs. On the verge of racing down them he spotted me. We fired at the same instant. I felt the breath of his bullet as I fired again. There were screams, another shot, maybe two. The man in the cap spun out of view. Hoping he was down I pushed off the stairs behind me. A sharp crack, louder than the others, sounded and I lurched backward.

  Twenty-four

  “Mother of God!” I opened my eyes to my leg on fire and pandemonium all around me. Men barked words to other men. Shapes sprinted past me. Mingling with the man sounds were those of a baby crying, a woman’s shrill hysteria, and somewhere close at hand, a woman’s nervous staccato:

  “She’d just knocked to warn me when we heard the shots upstairs–”

  “Hello, Sunshine. Glad to see that bump on the head didn’t do too much damage.”

  A cop I recognized as one of Billy’s pals was kneeling over me. Walker? Waller?

  “Don’t call Billy or Seamus,” I said thickly. “I’m okay.”

  “– and he fired right at her–”

  “Lie still for a minute.” Walker/Waller put out a restraining hand as I tried to sit. “Give us a chance to check you, see if we want a stretcher.”

  My brief disorientation passed. I was lying just to the side of the stairs I’d been creeping up what seemed like only minutes ago. Maybe it was only minutes ago. The air still reeked of gunpowder. A shard of wood as long as my forearm dangled from one of the stairs. It bobbled as a pair of feet hurried down them. My left leg burned like sin.

  “How many bodies up there?” I couldn’t nod to indicate the second story since Walker’s fingers were poking firmly but gently at the back of my neck, hunting any hint it might be broken.

  “One. Plus some blood in the hall.” He sat back on his heels. “Looks like maybe you winged the killer.” He glanced up at someone approaching. “Hey, Mick, how about checking her leg?”

  “Not me. I’ve heard what she does to cops who get overfriendly.”

  “You’ve got better skills with the ladies than that idiot Fuller. They want me talking to witnesses.”

  “Gee, I think maybe I can check my own leg,” I said. Both of them grabbed to help as I started to sit. I willed my brain back to speed. What the hell was Connelly doing here in uniform this time of night?

  “Turn and rest your back against the stairs,” he ordered, shifting me as he said it. He looked perversely pleased when I swore at the pain.

  Bereft of memory I stared at my leg. It was streaked with blood. Okay, I was supposed to check it. I put two fingertips tentatively to a spot near the worst of the blood.

  “Oh, for chrissake. You wouldn’t recognize a break or sprain if you found one.” Connelly shoved my hand away, his irritation barely contained. He took out a crisp white hanky and scrubbed at his fingers. Holding my ankle and moving it gently he probed and pressed. His hands were strong. Confident. More aware of them now than of pain, I hitched in my breath.

  “Hurt?”

  “If there’s a bullet in there, you’re going to shove it in further,” I hedged.

  “You weren’t shot. Though it doesn’t appear to be from lack of trying.”

  Reaching past me he smacked something into my lap with unnecessary force. I looked down at the tam that had kept me warm in the car. Two neat round holes, one in, one out, now punctured the top of it. An inch from where the top of my head had been. Maybe less.

  “Your leg got scraped good and proper when the rotten wood in that step gave way under you.” Connelly had turned his attention back to my leg. “If you have any sense – which I’ve yet to see evidence of – you’ll have a doctor clean out the splinters and get yourself a lockjaw shot.”

  Craning my neck I saw the partially missing stair where the shard of wood hung. I remembered the cracking sound.

  “Oh.” As the full impact of the shootout sank in, it was my spirits that took a bullet. Here I sat with a less than heroic injury. Upstairs a man lay dead, killed even as I arrived. It had to be Muley. Meaning my one and maybe only chance to learn more about Benny Norris – why he’d thought someone was trying to make him a patsy, where he’d gotten money to flash, who might have killed him – was gone. So was my chance to find out what had scared Muley. It all had slipped through my fingers. On top of which I’d ruined a good hat.

  “You okay?” Connelly’s fingers had paused on the calf of my leg.

  “Yeah, spiffy. All I need is a bandage.” I pushed his hand away.

  “Ambulance boys should be here to patch you up shortly.” He sat back on his haunches nailing me with his gaze. I noticed his eyes were blue. “You damn fool girl, what were you doing here?”

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same. Where’s Billy? And how’s it happen the cops set a speed record showing up?” We’d both lowered our voices.

  “Chief has half of us pulling extra duty at night ‘til we crack this burglary ring.” He hesitated; glanced around. “Also happens Freeze had a car up the street keeping an eye out on this place. Guy who lived here was in gaol with Benny Norris, but he hasn’t turned up since Norris was shot. Landlady says he came back last night.

  “Your turn. And don’t get cute. Freeze’ll be here any minute wanting to know same as I did.”

  I shifted, watching blood ooze from a couple of places on my leg.

  “As far as I could see the cops didn’t care much who’d killed Norris. I did. I’m the one he warned not to snoop. I’m the one whose office got tossed. I didn’t like looking over my shoulder. So I asked around. Learned Norris might have been pals with a guy. I put out the word I was interested and today that guy called. I’m guessing he’s the stiff upstairs. I was coming to meet him.”

  Connelly’s hard look had faded. Maybe he’d been expecting some cockamamie story and I’d disappointed him. He was opening his mouth to speak when the force’s ambulance crew banged through the door with their kit. At their heels came Freeze with his perfect little nose and his attitude that matched his name. Behind him trailed the same two assistants who looked to be wearing the same cheap suits as the last time we’d met.

  “Miss Sullivan. What a coincidence,” Freeze said snidely. One assistant continued upstairs like a well-trained puppy.

  “Her wound’s going to need a good bit of cleaning,” Connelly advise
d the ambulance boys. “No breaks, no sprains.”

  Freeze sent a reproving look. Beat cops shouldn’t speak unless the lieutenant in charge told them to.

  “Have you taken her statement?” Freeze’s tone was sharp.

  “Just about to, sir. Walker called me over to check on her injuries and she seemed somewhat addled at first.”

  “Take it now. Dobbs, start questioning neighbors. And you, Miss Sullivan, can start by explaining how you happened to be here.”

  Lt. Freeze struck me as maybe too fond of his status. His other assistant scurried off. Connelly took out a pencil. The nun inside me told me I should be a courteous and conscientious citizen. Instead I smiled.

  “A friend of mine wanted advice on his love life. We were riding around and turned on this street and saw a guy jimmy the front door.”

  Connelly’s pencil made an erratic scratch. He stared at me with a dumb-struck fury one step short of the way Moses must have looked when he smashed the tablets. Just then one of the ambulance boys doused my leg with peroxide, or its first cousin. I gritted my teeth to hold back a yelp. Freeze had started to frown, reluctant to buy my tale but still nursing bunions from the last time we’d waltzed. The medical boys were swabbing my cuts now. It took several seconds before I could speak.

  “Okay. That’s malarky,” I managed. “I figure you earned it the last time you questioned me. Here’s how it really happened tonight. The dead guy upstairs, his name Muley?”

  “Clarence Worth,” Freeze said stiffly. “But yes, I’m told he went by that nickname. What’s your connection?”

  I told him the same thing I’d told Connelly. This time I mentioned the Ace of Clubs and the bartender. With luck they’d lean on the big gorilla. With even better luck they’d learn something. Freeze seemed to recognize I was leveling now and kept his questions on things that mattered.

  “I’ve got a hunch Muley was scared of somebody,” I volunteered as the ambulance crewman wound a last lap of bandage around my leg and plastered it with adhesive tape. “He made quite a deal about how the meeting had to be after dark, and right around here.”