Houseman had worked for one alarm system company. Now he worked for another. Why had he switched? What did the place he worked now have to do with the robberies? Or Al? Or Beale? All of which brought me back to the central question that kept bothering me: Why would a big-time crook like Beale be involved in a rash of what by his standards had to be small time burglaries?
The thought of taking the pieces I had to the cops and letting them finish the puzzle skipped invitingly through my mind. I resisted temptation. Connelly had eased my concerns that Beale’s “friends” might include someone in the police. What held me back was my lack of hard proof, along with the chance of Peter’s name getting dragged in. Throckmorton was a pain of a client, but he’d get his money’s worth and more.
I gave the clock on the wall an irritated look. It was still too early to check with Mr. Seferis to see if my photos were there. In any case, I needed to find some other pictures to put with them. That meant sorting through some of the files that had gotten dumped when my office was ransacked. I’d been avoiding it. With a sigh for the peaceful elegance of the museum I set to work.
Forty-five minutes later I had one file drawer more or less back in order and three useful photos. Two were crooks I’d watched in the course of old investigations. Both were in prison. The third was a smooth talker who’d slunk out of town in disgrace after I’d given his well-to-do wife a more interesting photo that confirmed her fears of his infidelity. I tapped the photos into an envelope and called Mr. Seferis, but this morning’s pictures hadn’t arrived yet. Ten minutes later he called back to tell me they had.
I raised my window and leaned out to take a big breath of air, hoping it was movement enough to catch the eye of Beale’s lookout. In case it wasn’t, I stretched my arms and spread them to take another big breath, then propped my chin on the sill for a minute trying to look bored. When I’d closed the window I put on my coat and crab-walked out the narrow space that led to the alley.
It was time to surprise Ollie’s manicurist.
Thirty-five
The manicurist’s avarice the day we’d talked in the back of the hat shop had left me somewhat skeptical of the information she’d given me. Two days after that, I’d watched when she left work for the day so I’d know what trolley she took in case I needed to shake her. The more I’d learned, however, the more my skepticism had receded. Now what I wanted was confirmation my two plus two came out four.
I waited in a doorway next to her trolley stop until I saw her trotting along. She quickened her steps as the trolley approached, a terrier of a girl eager to get what she wanted. Keeping back I stepped into the knot of people getting on. By the time I boarded she was busy fluffing her hair and peering into her compact to check the fellow across the aisle. She didn’t notice me until I sat down next to her.
“What a swell chance to catch up on gossip,” I said.
She looked up and gasped. I crossed my legs, expertly blocking her as she looked toward the aisle.
“Hey! You can’t follow me! I’ll tell the cops!”
“Fine by me. Half of them either dandled me on their knees or went to school with me. They’d be pretty interested in the little chat we’re going to have, but I thought you might like it better if we kept it girl talk.”
Her eyes darted desperately, but the trolley already was pulling away. She lapsed into sullen silence.
“See? I knew you’d like that better,” I said cheerfully. “All I want is for you to look at some pictures; tell me if you recognize anyone.”
She crossed her arms defiantly. “What’s in it for me?”
“You have me out of your hair in two more stops. If you tell me the truth. If you don’t, I tell the cops to pay you a visit, ask you what you know about Woody Beale and his button boy Al. Maybe have them do it at Ollie’s so Ollie can call Beale and tell him about it.”
Her face had paled. Her tongue ran nervously around her lips.
“Yeah. Okay. But you’re sure some bitch. A nice girl wouldn’t put another girl on the spot.”
I smiled and took out my four photos. She flipped past the first, paused briefly on the second, but only because the man in the photo was handsome and she was predatory. When she came to the third she gave a flick with the back of her fingernail.
“Yeah. I recognize him.” She took a look at four and shook her head. “Just the one. You can get off now.”
“Which one did you recognize again?”
She flipped back to three and stabbed at the picture impatiently. “Him. He’s the one argued with Mr. Beale. Now let me alone.”
She turned her face to the window. I pulled the cord to get off.
The man she’d identified was Lyle Houseman.
* * *
Genevieve and I had the blue plate at a cafeteria and sat through half of a free lecture comparing Pearl Buck’s novels to Edna Ferber’s.
“By a man,” sniffed Ginny. “You’d think they could have a woman discuss woman writers. Wouldn’t you like to see China, though? Kimonos and pearls and those exquisite jade carvings.”
“And nationalists fighting communists and both of them fighting the Japs and all three armies burning down cities while the people who manage not to get killed starve by the millions? No thanks.”
She sighed. “I guess it is just about the bloodiest place on earth, isn’t it?”
“And to get the pearls you might have to be a concubine.”
“Which has lots to recommend it over being a wife,” she said archly.
We laughed and talked about it all the way home. Then we sat in what she called her ‘suite’ because it was the only room at Mrs. Z’s that had a second room adjoining it. Ginny used the second one, which wasn’t much more than an alcove, as her bedroom. The bigger one had a couch and drop-front secretary and a hotplate where she made some tea to give us a Chinese feeling while we yakked some more. We weren’t allowed to cook in our rooms, but Ginny was older and dependable as a clock and Mrs. Z had said it was okay as long as she kept it where the other girls didn’t see it.
After that I washed my hair and wound strands around my fingers in nickel-sized coils to make pin curls, crisscrossing each with a couple of bobby pins to keep them in place. As soon as my head hit the pillow, in spite of the pins digging into my head, I floated off in a sea of dreams. There were gardens where women in silk kimonos sat drinking tea and admiring peonies while people fanned them. Those had somehow flowed into an even nicer dream involving strong male fingers on my leg when I was roused by soft yet urgent knocking at my door.
My eyes blinked open on darkness. Through a gap in the curtains I saw the moon was still out. As I swung my bare feet into slippers I sniffed the air for smoke, wondering what else would cause this nighttime rousing. The Big Ben next to my bed said three a.m. I was still struggling into my robe when I opened the door and saw Mrs. Z.
“Someone just phoned,” she whispered. “Said tell you there’s a fire at your client’s place and you should get down there.”
“Did they give a name?”
“No. They hung up before I could ask.”
“And that’s what they called it? My client’s place?”
“Yes.”
I already was snatching out the bobby pins as I thanked her. Three minutes later, in girl trousers and with my hand gripping the .38 in my pocket I ran for my car.
The client the caller referred to had to be Throckmorton. Was the fire at his home or his business? I could check the business first since it was on the way. As soon as I turned onto Zeigler I saw traces of light cast into the surrounding blackness by fire engine lanterns. A minute later I spotted the trucks. The office buildings and wholesale places next to Throckmorton’s were still closed tight at this pre-dawn hour. It was easy to park up close to the scene, right behind a car that belonged to a flash bulb boy for the Journal.
We passed each other as I walked toward the scene, him leaving with camera in hand, me arriving.
“No injuries,” he v
olunteered. He sounded disappointed. I nodded, continuing.
The fire crew lights showed more here. I could see sparks flying out of Throckmorton Stationery and Office Supplies. Embers. Smoke. Lots and lots of smoke. But I didn’t see flames. Not a big fire then. Just outside the fire line, as close as officials allowed, hovered several figures. One oversize shape with shoulders broad enough to lift a train turned and I caught a glimpse of a slimmer shape standing beside him. Flora Throckmorton made me out seconds before I recognized her.
“I’m so sorry to wake you and make you come down here,” she said coming toward me. “I panicked – told Kimmel to call you as we dashed out. There’s nothing you can do, of course, but I didn’t know–”
“It’s okay. What happened?”
She gestured helplessly. “We got a call. From the fire department. There doesn’t appear to be a great deal of damage, thank heavens. It may have ruined our engraving machine, but that’s insured. If the fire had been in the other side, where we store our paper, the whole place might have gone up.”
The bruiser towering beside her was giving me a sharp-eyed assessment. Flora seemed to become aware of it.
“Oh, this is Paolo.”
“Your bodyguard.” I ducked my head in greeting. “Sure he’s not too small?”
Flora looked puzzled. Paolo’s gruff expression eased.
“I meet tough guys, I yell for my big brother.” He jerked a thumb and I grinned. The shape he indicated matched his size and bulk and stood next to someone I took to be Lou Throckmorton.
“You’re sure it was the fire department who called you?” I asked.
“You think it might not have been?” Flora sounded startled. “The person who called gave his name, though. Sergeant something.” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, the first time I’d seen her composure waver. “Do you think – could the fire have been set? Could it be a warning?”
“Money on it.”
She drew breath, digesting the thought. The protective alertness with which Paolo watched her while still noting everything happening around her assured me anyone who tried to get at Flora would have a hard go. I wondered if her father inspired equal loyalty.
“There’s something you probably should know about,” she said. “Though I can’t see what help it is. Last night – not this one we should still be in bed from; the one before that – anyway, on the way home from work a car pulled up almost on my bumper and nearly ran me off the road.”
“Nearly?”
“Since Dad and I have been riding to and from work with Tony and Paolo, we decided it would be simpler to have them stay at our place. There’s a little apartment above the garage. In my grandfather’s day it ... well, the gardener lived there.” She looked embarrassed. “But one of our better customers had asked Dad and me to lunch with him at the country club to talk about some upcoming needs of theirs. So we’d taken two vehicles in to work, my car and the truck.”
“Usually we all go in our truck,” said Paolo. “Miss Flora, Mr. Throckmorton, Tony and me. But our gas tank maybe leaks, so we borrow a cousin’s truck. Big bull, lots of dents.”
“Tony was driving the truck, just a space or two behind us,” Flora continued. “He saw the car start trying to run me off so he pulled up and whammed it just enough to make it skid off on the opposite side. It was quite artistic.”
“Artistic.” Paolo nearly strangled restraining his laugh.
“Did you call the police when you got home?” I asked.
Flora shook her head. “We were too afraid we’d wind up having to explain about Peter. Besides, the Fazios weren’t very keen to.”
“Can’t trust cops,” said Paolo. “They might have tried to take my shotgun. Then how am I protect Miss Flora?”
“I want to find out if there’s anything else your father can add, and what the firemen have told him so far,” I said.
Flora put a quick hand on my arm to discourage movement.
“This isn’t a very good time for talking to Father. He’s awfully upset. I’m afraid he’s not the nicest person when he’s all worked up.”
The next day turned out not to be so good for talking either.
Thirty-six
I got to the office early, but not early enough. The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door. When I managed to snatch the receiver up, I was greeted by the voice of Throckmorton’s secretary. Only it wasn’t exactly a greeting.
“This is Helène in Lewis Throckmorton’s office,” she announced in clipped tones. “Mr. Throckmorton wants you to see you immediately.”
Click.
Helène didn’t seem to be warming up to me.
I thought about cooling my heels for twenty minutes or so. Maybe reading the paper. Letting Throckmorton expect me to jump as soon as he snapped his fingers would be a mistake. Then again, the man’s business had almost burned down, so I maybe I shouldn’t get sore that he didn’t trot out his best manners. I turned around and went back to the elevator without so much as removing my coat.
As far as I could see, no one was sitting in a car outside my building. It put me on guard. My guess was that Beale had arranged the fire at Throckmorton’s business to scare him off. If so, maybe Beale didn’t think he needed to sit on me any more. Shortly after I turned onto Patterson, a pug nosed guy like the ones who’d been catching up on their newspaper reading outside my office stepped out of a shop and sauntered along a good ways behind me. Beale hadn’t given up on me; he was getting smarter.
A residual sharpness of ash met my nose as I neared my destination. Just before I turned onto Zeigler my shadow melted into an office building. That probably meant Beale now had someone keeping tabs on Throckmorton’s building. Someone who knew what I looked like and could pick me up there if I happened along. My pulse thumped harder a couple of times. Changing tactics usually meant someone was upping the ante. Sometimes they were desperate. Sometimes they had something up their sleeve. Either way, I needed to stay on my toes.
At the site of the fire broken windows and a scorched patch of wall were attracting some gawkers. I went inside. On the second floor I nearly collided with Thelma, who was marching down the hall with an armful of ledgers.
“Oh – hello,” she managed as we both sidestepped.
“Hi,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine. Perfectly fine.” She whisked out a hanky and rubbed her nose savagely. “P– that man I was worried about was less interested in me that I thought. But I’m perfectly fine.” Her eyes were moist. “It’s - it’s a relief, actually. Not having to worry. I need to get going.” She marched on before I could caution her she still ought to watch her back.
* * *
Throckmorton’s secretary tapped a stack of envelopes into alignment and gave me the fish eye. She took her sweet time placing the envelopes in her OUT box before announcing me to her boss.
He was at his desk, one index finger tapping angrily on its surface. Everything about him looked drained. Same suit, same glasses and mustache, but someone had forgotten to starch him. He didn’t get up. He didn’t invite me to sit.
“I have paid a substantial amount for your services, and all I have to show for it is nearly having my business burn down,” he began without niceties.
I opened my mouth to object. He held up a hand.
“Peter’s no safer now than he was before. You’ve done nothing to stop the thugs who are after him. Nor have you done anything to keep his stupidity from ruining this company.” His voice was hoarse and angry and oddly flat. “All you’ve managed to do is stir things up and jeopardize a business three generations of my family struggled to build. You’ve endangered everyone involved in its running.
“I am terminating your employment with me, effective immediately. Please don’t bother sending an invoice for this week’s services as it won’t be paid. In view of the dismal results, I’m sure you’ll agree you’ve been paid quite enough already. That will be all.” He turned his attention to some papers befo
re him.
I’d been insulted plenty of times. I’d even had my competence questioned. But until this moment I’d never been fired.
“Now just a minute–”
“That’s all, Miss Sullivan!” Something wobbled on the tightrope of his voice along with the anger. Desperation, maybe.
Still stunned and with my own anger rising, I was dimly aware that if I said anything I’d probably regret it. My best move was to turn and leave. So I did.
Of all the arrogant, overbearing, thankless.... My hand gripped my purse so hard it shook as I thought about waking up drugged in a ditch. About the connections I’d painstakingly been drawing together.
“Miss Sullivan.”
Here I was, on the brink of getting the goods on Woody Beale, of tying him to the robberies, of ridding the city of an out-and-out crime boss whose power grew daily. All I needed was – what? One more day? Maybe two?
“Miss Sullivan!”
The sound of my name finally registered as I went out the front door of Throckmorton Stationery and Business Supplies. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to look back, but I did. Flora Throckmorton hurried after me, her face concerned.
“I heard,” she said awkwardly. “He was in such a lather this morning that I called down to check, and Helène said he was with you. By the time I got downstairs you’d left and she told me–”
“It’s okay.” I tried not to think about the chunk of money I’d be out for my efforts these last few days. Unpaid hours sitting in cars. Clothes and payment for Heebs.
“No, it’s not. Not after all the work you’ve done–”
“It’s okay.” All I wanted right now was to wash my hands of the Throckmortons.
“It’s unfair. And dammit I know he’s only going to make things worse giving into their threats. But they’ve scared him! There’s no reasoning with–”
“Threats?” Something in what she was saying pierced my anger. “The fire department says the fire was set, then?”
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