1 No Game for a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  My brain trotted, making assessments. Except for Beale’s, the cars by the half-hidden door were nondescript. That probably meant no high rollers were playing poker tonight. My guess was they used the door by Beale’s car when they did play, though. Jolene’s friend had mentioned a private room. In and out. Unseen.

  As Calvin rolled past, I managed to scribble plate numbers from three of the cars next to Beale’s. One was the number Evelyn had written down for me.

  “What now?” Calvin whispered as we came out into the lights at the front of the club.

  “Go on out up the street and we’ll make our way back and park where we waited before.”

  Our brief foray hadn’t warmed the car up much. As soon as we were settled back in by the restaurant Calvin filled the lid of his Thermos. I had a nip from my flask.

  “Apart from the Packard, which was the best of the cars by the back of the building?”

  “That Century.” Calvin didn’t hesitate for a second. “Not flashy, but those engines are the best Buick’s ever built – inline-eight, a hundred sixty-five horses. They do ninety-five miles an hour and better. Eli looked at one in a showroom – just to see. Says they’re built solid, too.”

  It was what I’d guessed, but my eye for cars was nothing compared with Calvin’s.

  “That Packard’s the one I’d like to get my hands on though,” he was saying with awe. “Look under its hood.”

  “If that Packard ever comes into Eli’s, you call me fast as you can. Guy that drives it can make people disappear if they get in his way.”

  I didn’t think that would happen, but I wanted to play it safe. I heard Calvin swallow.

  Twenty-seven

  Lewis Throckmorton was back to impatient.

  “I need this cleared up.” He rapped his knuckles on his desk for emphasis. “With Peter away I’m short-handed. And some of the customers may be getting suspicious. One cancelled an order on Friday with no explanation. Another made a comment at church. How much longer?”

  “Hard to say.” He’d rung before I got my coat off Monday morning, wanting to see me. “Now that I have some idea what’s going on, things are starting to move.”

  “Make them move faster.” His bushy mustache bristled. “The purchasing manager at a place we’ve dealt with for fifteen years has his feathers fussed – it could be there’s gossip about these break-ins, or it could be something else. Peter’s good at finding out. Smoothing feathers. Now I have to make time to go over and straighten that out on top of everything else. It’s no way to run a business, you know–”

  “Send Flora. She could probably reel off your whole list of customers and how much every one of them orders each month in her sleep. Send her to see him. Let her take up part of the slack.”

  He harrumphed and started to speak.

  “Just until Pete gets back, of course,” I mollified, and changed the subject before he could trot out excuses why she couldn’t fill Peter’s shoes. “Flora thought you might know who insured a couple of these places, or be able to find out.”

  He wanted faster, I’d give him faster. I handed him a steno sheet where she’d listed the names of half a dozen places from Peter’s delivery list. She’d been on her way to her father’s office with it as I was arriving.

  “It’s not looking awfully encouraging,” she’d admitted, giving me a separate page with names of insurance companies for five other places, ones where she was on good enough terms with somebody there to ask. Three had the same insurer but two were different.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree looking at insurance.” Throckmorton flounced in his chair. “I told Flora as much.” He liked pressing other people to hurry; he didn’t seem to like the shoe on the other foot. “I can have a word with men at two of these places. Maybe three,” he said grudgingly.

  He picked up the phone to show me I was dismissed.

  * * *

  I’d parked my DeSoto in its usual spot in a lot just off Third that morning. My leg was feeling almost normal, albeit sore as sin, and walking to Throckmorton’s had limbered it up. As I neared Patterson, though, I made sure to gimp along. It gave me more time to check license numbers on parked cars against the list concealed by the newspaper I was pretending to scan. Three doors down from my place and across the street I hit pay dirt: One of the numbers from the parking lot at The Owl. A guy slouched in the driver’s seat pretending to read his own paper.

  From my office the left window gave a pretty good view of the car. Good enough to tell if it moved, anyway. If Beale’s boys were good at tailing, which I figured they were, they’d use various cars to make sure they weren’t spotted. They’d take shifts. They’d likely change parking spots when they switched. The guy out there now had probably arrived around the same time I had or a little before. Say half-past eight. Odds were that come eleven, eleven-thirty, someone would turn up to replace him so his bladder didn’t burst.

  It looked like the plan I’d hatched would work out swell. Somewhere around seven that morning Calvin had parked his jalopy on a gravel lot just north of the produce market. It wouldn’t attract attention amid the farm trucks, and I had a key. Fifteen minutes before the guy tailing me was likely to move, I’d go out the back way and get into Calvin’s car. Then I’d wait and follow the car that had just spent a couple of hours waiting to follow me.

  Meanwhile, I phoned a few places where Peter had made deliveries with Al. I said I was looking to switch insurance coverage at my business and that Peter Stowe had said he thought they were pleased with whoever did theirs. It netted me two names that matched insurance firms on Flora’s list, one new one, and two polite refusals to give information. By the time the minute hand on my clock hit twenty ‘til eleven I was raring to get into place and follow one of Beale’s boys, which would surely be more productive.

  Except just then the cops arrived.

  “Hell’s bells!” I choked as they pulled to the curb. I was at the window taking a final peek at the car I planned to follow. Now I watched in frustration as Billy bounced out and Seamus unfolded his tall, gaunt form from the passenger side. I knew they’d gotten wind of my presence during the fracas at Brown’s rooming house and were coming to check on me.

  Odds were fifty-fifty I could get out the back way and around to Calvin’s car without them spotting me. But the first step in good surveillance was to stop at the powder room, besides which I’d feel like two bits if I gave them the slip. By the time they came down the hall I had my door open and was leaning a shoulder against it.

  “Thought I heard the sound of flat feet,” I greeted.

  Seamus grinned. Billy glowered, a stern gaze assessing my bandage.

  “You’re in the midst of a shootout, almost get yourself killed, look like you’ve been over fighting Franco with the Internationals – and we’re the last to know.”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.” The little girl sound of my voice made me wince.

  “See, I told you it’d be that,” Seamus said loyally.

  I linked my arm through his and gave it a squeeze. “Glad to see you two back together.” I flicked a look at Billy. “You get your fill of Rusty’s lip?”

  “You best not call him that where he can hear. And what have you got against him, anyway? Mick’s a fine lad.”

  I shrugged. Billy decided to come halfway off his high horse.

  “Mick had the morning off. He’s working extra hours – nights too.”

  “Him and plenty of others,” said Seamus. “Because of these burglaries.”

  I wondered if the cops had been watching Muley’s rooming house because they knew something I didn’t. Or because Woody Beale had friends at City Hall. That possibility made me uneasy. Nodding absently, I drifted back to the window and glanced out. The car was still there. Or one that looked a lot like it.

  “I’m sorry you worried about me,” I said. “I stepped on a rotten board, as you probably heard. I got worse as a kid.” My eyes slid to the window again. Still there.


  “What’s so interesting out there?” asked Billy.

  “Kid was looking like he might pinch something from a car. He didn’t.”

  Seamus sighed and shook his head. He hated seeing kids in trouble.

  “Funny no one’s been nabbed for the break-ins with extra patrols on the street,” I said. “Somebody up the ladder on the take?”

  “They are not.” Billy bristled as I’d known he would. “It’s just what the FBI found when they studied us – we’re too short on men. City of two hundred thousand and not even two hundred in the department, civilians included.”

  “Hey, don’t you have a birthday next month?” I threw my arm around Seamus. “I’ll have to buy you dinner somewhere.”

  Billy forgave me then, since we both knew perfectly well today was Seamus’s birthday. There was a big bash planned for him at Finn’s tonight, and if he suspected anything I’d just thrown him off. They said their good-byes. Billy shot me a wink as they went out the door. When they were halfway down the hall I hurried back to my window and looked out.

  The car I’d been watching all morning was pulling away.

  * * *

  At twenty ‘til two I launched the plan that I’d had to scrap before lunch. I went out the back way and through Mr. Seferis’ place where at lunchtime I’d picked up the tweed cap I’d had made for Seamus. I headed up Fifth with lengthened steps to fit the men’s trousers I was wearing. My hair was pinned up beneath a secondhand fedora. The knot in my necktie was perfect since I’d tied a million of them for my dad. All I could say for the cheap suit coat that went with the trousers was that it hid the holster with my automatic.

  Entering the produce market on its far side, I made my way between stalls and eventually out to Calvin’s jalopy. I slid into the driver’s seat. No need to warm it up. The engine would purr like a baby tiger. I opened my paper and waited. My eye was on a gray Ford parked four doors up from my place, a different spot than the car that morning. I’d spotted it on my deliberate jaunt to the Arcade for lunch. The number on the Ford matched one on my list. Too bad all my ventures didn’t pay off as well as my night out with Calvin.

  Shortly after two o’clock the gray car pulled away from the curb. I slipped out after it, half a dozen cars behind. After a couple of blocks I closed the distance so I wouldn’t confuse it with other gray cars. When it started along the very route I’d taken to Throckmorton’s house I grew uneasy. Was the driver onto me? A street or two shy of where Throckmorton lived he turned off.

  He stopped in front of a nice half-timbered Tudor and turned off the engine. I started past, intending to circle. Before I’d gone ten feet, a car shot out of a cross street, made a sharp turn and stopped on a dime, facing my direction. A Buick Century. Not flashy but powerful. I kept rolling.

  The driver of the Buick swung out with easy grace and started toward me. He looked like he’d stepped from a magazine cover. Slender. Features many women would find attractive. Clothes so finely tailored they’d easily hide a gun.

  I had no doubt at all I was seeing Al.

  Another car swept to the curb behind his. Two men jumped out and fell into step with him as if from long practice. Reaching into a pocket of his dove gray topcoat, he removed a pair of brass knuckles.

  And looked directly at me.

  Twenty-eight

  One of Beale’s men behind me, three coming toward me – in the same second I decided to keep my foot steady rather than hit the gas, Al’s gaze moved on. At a word from him the two toughs behind him peeled off and made swiftly for the back of the house it appeared was their target. I turned the corner, slowing enough to watch them disappear. Meanwhile Al and the man I’d followed strolled up the front walk.

  As soon as I was out of sight I pulled to the curb. I waited for my heart to slow to normal rhythm. What I’d taken as Al’s notice of me had been nothing more than a precautionary, probably habitual check of his surroundings.

  I hoped.

  To my annoyance my palms were sweating. It irked me thinking my night in the ditch could have produced this case of jitters on seeing him. I turned my irritation into a grudge and started the engine. Something was going on at that house back there, and I was going to find out what.

  Reversing direction I parked where I had a good view around the corner. My urge to get closer on foot warred with common sense. This time common sense won. The stealth with which the two men had approached the back of the house suggested this wasn’t some prearranged meeting. My guess was they’d be strong-arming someone out of the house any minute now. I wanted to see who it was and where they went.

  After maybe fifteen minutes, just as I was beginning to worry Calvin’s jalopy might stick out too much in this neighborhood, a van appeared that advertised Furniture Removal. It turned into the driveway of the house and two men jumped out and opened the rear of the van. At nearly the same instant the front door to the house opened. One of Beale’s men stepped out with a hat in his hand and a dove gray jacket that looked like Al’s folded over his arm. He checked left and right then called something over his shoulder.

  Out came two more Beale boys carrying a rolled up carpet. It sagged in the middle as if it contained something heavy. They heaved the roll into the back of the van and closed the door. Almost before they’d stepped aside the van began to back away.

  When it reached the street Al himself appeared, the last one out of the house. He was rolling down his sleeves, and I caught a good glimpse of the shoulder holster I’d detected earlier. He took out a pocket knife on a chain. The knife sprang open, and he ran the tip beneath his nails as if removing something objectionable. Al closed the knife. The man who’d checked the street held out the jacket and topcoat while Al slipped his arms in. Smoothing his hair, Al settled his hat on his head.

  Both men came briskly down the front walk, then turned toward their respective cars. Their other two pals already were pulling away. I was left to face the unsettling likelihood that in less than twenty minutes a murder had been committed and the body whisked away – all while I sat close enough to see everyone but the victim. Ignoring a sour taste, I started my engine to follow Al.

  * * *

  He led me to a half-dirt-half-cobble street which in not much more than a block petered out into railroad tracks. Figuring he was smarter than the goons who watched my office, I didn’t risk following when he turned into it. The seedy factory area without so much as a beer joint seemed an odd destination for Al in his fancy suit. Either he was up to something and didn’t want to be spotted or he was meeting someone.

  If I wanted to find out what he was up to I’d have to get out of the car. I parked in a coal yard and grabbed the clipboard I carried to make notes during stakeouts. Hoping my cheap tie and gent’s suit would let me pass for a salesman I got out and ambled toward the intersection where Al had turned.

  His Buick was parked a third of the way up the dead-end street. He was still at the wheel. A guy with a cap shoved back on his head and a cigarette riding his lips lounged against the side of the car. The guy’s thumbs were hooked in his pockets as he and Al talked through the rolled-down window, and even at a distance I made him for a thug. It wasn’t his clothes, it was the slouch, the way he carried himself.

  Al wasn’t asking directions. This was some kind of meeting. There was no way to hear, but I wanted to watch. The corner I’d reached held a good-sized warehouse. At mid-afternoon no one was coming or going. I sauntered up close to an L-shaped wall and spread my legs like a gent relieving himself. The thug on the fender appeared to be listening to Al. Then his cigarette flipped up and down a few times as he spoke.

  “Old maid at the front desk sees you doin’ that, you won’t get an order, pal,” chucked someone behind me.

  My head jerked around. A beefy man had just come out of the door at the opposite end of the warehouse.

  “I – uh – didn’t see any place–”

  “Don’t worry. She’s yakking away on the phone.” He took a couple steps
toward me. “What you peddlin’?”

  I glanced at the Buick. They were still talking.

  “Nuts and bolts,” I improvised.

  “Nuts and bolts.” The man hooted. “You got guts, kid.” Still laughing he headed away toward Findlay.

  Did whoever owned the warehouse manufacture nuts and bolts, or something that didn’t require them like ladies’ drawers? I turned attention back to the Buick in time to see Al hand the other man something. The thug on the fender moved lazily, stuffing it under his jacket – but not before I’d caught a flash of green. Anger rose in me as I thought of hungry, honest people – men, women, kids and babies – waiting in endless lines for soup and bread and another slice out of whatever dignity they had left while crooks like these stuffed their pockets with cash at God-only-knew whose expense.

  The Buick started. The guy on the fender sauntered clear. The glossy black car edged to one side like it meant to turn back my direction. If I lit out fast I might make it back to Calvin’s jalopy in time to follow. Except someone hoofing it double time was likely to attract Al’s attention. I waited until he was almost even with me, averted my face and gave my shoulders the up-and-down lift men give after using a wall.

  Twenty-nine

  “Oh, Maggie! You’re nothing but skin and bones!” Kate Leary caught my hands so I couldn’t escape and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  The party for Seamus was already overflowing the back room at Finn’s. Most of the time the room was used for storing spare tables, chairs with wobbly legs, and empty crates from the smaller official storeroom across from it. On special occasions, though, the chairs got fixed, the crates went out, and it was used for do’s like this.