Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  I pushed back the door and glanced down to see if any mail had been dropped through the slot. There was one contribution, a business-sized envelope, laying face down on the floor. Without picking it up, I could see that it was fairly bulky and of the penny-saver variety used by advertisers who know their message isn't worth sending by first-class mail. I kicked it in the general direction of the waste-basket, opened the window, and sat down behind the desk. I called the phone-answering service. There had been no calls. I thought awhile, then dialed the number Sarah Pederson had given me. I got nine or ten buzz-buzzes, indicating that her phone was ringing, but no one answered. Grunting disgustedly, I dropped the receiver onto its cradle and propped the heel of one shoe against the corner of the desk. I did some more thinking.

  My phone rang abruptly. I reached for it, said. “Hello.”

  “I'd like to see you for a few minutes, Carl.” It was Morrie Tannenbaum's voice.

  “How about right now?”

  “Fine.”

  Morrie's office was on the fourth floor. To take the kinks out of my legs, I walked down the six flights. His office wasn't much better than mine, but it sported a dinky reception room and a thin, frustrated old maid who typed his briefs and chased the flies. Morrie had always impressed me as quite a guy. He was in his late forties, had a bland, round face, no hair worth mentioning, wore thick horn-rimmed spectacles, and walked with a slight limp, the result of a childhood injury to his left knee. He had the reputation of being a shrewd, unscrupulous, shyster lawyer, dealing mostly with the lower elements of society, but I liked him. I knew he was smart and could be trusted. He practiced criminal law through choice, not necessity; he'd tried corporation law and had been bored stiff by it. As for dealing with crooks and social outcasts —what the hell? They've a right to be heard in court, and whom else would a criminal lawyer deal with, anyway?

  Shyster or not, Morrie was my idea of a good, practical mouthpiece. By virtue of his contacts with the so-called underworld, he knew as much as anybody—excepting Costello, possibly—about the location of the fleshpots, gin mills and gaming joints, the personnel of the mobs, and the working methods of the machinery which controls the cops, the prostitutes, the bookies, the dealers, the short con and the big con, the H and M peddlers, and all the other rackets. It was all as familiar as breakfast cereal to Morrie. More familiar, maybe.

  When I walked in, he was reclining in his swivel chair and his short legs were propped against the radiator which stood beneath the window. There was a frown on his face. I shut the door and sat down.

  “How's crime?” I asked.

  “Crime doesn't pay—enough,” Morrie said somberly, without any attempt at humor.

  “Neither does gum-shoeing. What's up? You look as though somebody's stolen your favorite mistress.”

  “I have a home, a wife, and three kids, Carl. You know—”

  I grinned. “Sure. I mean, if you had a favorite mistress and if somebody stole her, you wouldn't look any worse than you do right now.”

  “I didn't sleep well last night,” he admitted. He peered at me through his thick glasses. “I've decided to ask you to do a job for me, Carl. There's a considerable amount of danger attached to it, and I hesitated to—”

  “Danger is my business,” I interrupted. “Besides, I'm indebted to you. I'll do anything I can, Morrie.” I remembered Sarah Pederson. “I'm working on a skip-trace right now, but maybe I can ditch it for a day or so.”

  Morrie sighed and his frown deepened. “I knew you would say that, Carl. Frankly, I was hoping that you'd be involved in an important case and that your services wouldn't be available. I hate to take a job like this to a friend, but I know you are dependable and I urgently need an investigator whom I can trust.”

  “Can the build-up, Morrie, and tell me what's bothering you.”

  “I want you to locate a woman; at least, we're reasonably sure it's a woman—”

  “Who's we?”

  “My clients. It isn't necessary for you to know their names.”

  “Okay, you want me to locate a woman. What's her name and what does she look like?”

  “We don't know.”

  I stared at him, then laughed. “For chrissake, Morrie, you had me thinking you were serious.”

  “I am serious.” He took out a handkerchief and nervously mopped his forehead. “Here's the story, Carl, I represent a lot of business interests. Hotels, restaurants, nightclubs, taverns, and various other enterprises—”

  “Hell, Morrie, why not lay it on the table and admit you represent Big Bill Pisano, who bosses the local syndicate, which, in turn, controls the really big rackets like dope and policy and flesh?”

  “Have it your way, Carl. I'm just trying to give you a picture of the current situation. Who controls what is unimportant. Suffice it to say that I represent various elements who are, at present, in control. The less you know about them, the better.”

  “Okay, Morrie. Pardon the interruption.”

  “There has been considerable unrest recently, principally because certain arrangements and connections which should have been made were not satisfactorily completed. The fault, actually, is not due to any dereliction of duty on the part of my clients, but a huge amount of money is involved and there is a feeling, in certain quarters, that the current—ah—tightness, or restrictions, on business has been aggravated by—”

  “The heat is on and business stinks,” I interrupted, “Somebody thinks Pisano should have engineered a fix with the cops, the state's attorney, the city council, or the state legislature. Right?”

  Morrie nodded. “In essence, yes. As I said, a huge amount of money is involved. A large sum, for instance, was borrowed from out of town investors for the exploitation of various local officials prior to the last election. Instead of easing the situation, things became tighter. Licenses have been revoked. Police captains have been shifted. On the near north side, Lieutenant Murray has been made acting captain; as a result, business is virtually at a standstill.”

  “I know the joints have been singing the blues. The shooting of Drury and Bas didn't help things, either.”

  “Of course not. The whole situation is explosive, as you can see, Carl. And now it appears that the outside investors whom I mentioned are attempting to move in and take control. They believe that the present tightness is due to mismanagement. Naturally—”

  “Where does the woman come in?”

  “We have reason to believe that she was sent here to head the new organization.” I whistled softly. “What makes you think if s a woman?”

  “Things. I can't explain, Carl. Everything I know came to me indirectly. There have been rumors, I suppose. You know how the grapevine works.”

  “Yeah. Exactly what do you know about her?”

  “Hardly anything at all. We think she's from the East because that's where the money came from. She's possibly fairly young and probably above the average in looks. I don't know whether she's blonde or brunette—”

  “What makes you think she's a looker?”

  “Well, to rate the job, she would have to be a woman familiar with the rackets, and the chances are that she has been intimately associated with one of the eastern chiefs, either as a close friend or—”

  “Or as something more,” I finished, “therefore she's a looker because the big boys don't waste their time on hags, not unless they happen to be married to them. Okay, I get it. What else do you know about her?”

  “Nothing. My clients have been inquiring and searching for several weeks, without result. We know she is on the scene and is actively engaged in undermining the organization, but no one has been able to locate her headquarters. That's why I suggested that you be retained.”

  “What happens when and if I find her?”

  “You'll be paid a bonus of $25,000.”

  I whistled again. “The boys really want her fingered, don't they! I'll do what I can, bonus or no bonus, but there isn't a hell of a lot for me to work on.”
/>   “If they knew much about her, your services wouldn't be required.”

  “That's right.” I grinned. “Relax, Morrie. You were griping about crime not paying enough. Why, all I have to do is spot this babe and we can both retire. I'll buy a nice, safe, peanut golf course with my bonus and, with the fee you'll collect, you can buy a set of platinum clubs with diamond-studded balls. We'll play a couple rounds before breakfast every day.”

  “You've got to be alive to play golf,” Morrie commented glumly.

  He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a sheaf of currency, bound with a narrow blue band. Eyeing it distastefully, as though it were a package of cyanide-laden gumdrops which he was being forced to offer to his mother, he pushed it across the desk to me. “Expense money,” he explained. “There's more if you need it. The sky is the limit.”

  “Thanks.” According to numerals on the blue band, the sheaf contained a thousand bucks. I put it in my pocket.

  “Say, Morrie, maybe you can tell me something—” I hesitated.

  “Yes?”

  “Who runs The Golden Spoon?”

  Morrie blinked. “Bennie Fidulla. Why?”

  “I ran into a little trouble there last night.” I told him briefly about my stopping in, buying Millie White a couple drinks, and what happened. “Hell, all I wanted to do was ask her a couple questions.”

  “Fidulla's probably a little jumpy,” Morrie said thoughtfully. “Some of the boys think he's getting ready to out loose from Pisano and join the new mob.”

  “I didn't ask any questions about him.”

  “No, but things are very tense right now. That's the reason I hate to send you on this job, Carl. Millions of dollars are at stake, and the interested parties are apt to act first and listen to explanations later. You'll have to be extremely cautious.”

  “Pisano will clear me with his boys, won't he?”

  “Of course. The difficulty, however, is that no one is absolutely certain of the loyalty of any one else. Pisano'* okay might mark you immediately.”

  “So it's like that,” I said.

  “Yes. I'm sorry, Carl. I told you I hated to—”

  “Nuts,” I interrupted, getting up. “Even if I don't enjoy the job, I'll like collecting that twenty-five grand. I'll report to you as soon as I think I'm on her trail.”

  “Remember, Carl—be careful.”

  “That's for sure.”

  I left.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ten East, Wisteria turned out to be an old four-flat building which had been remodeled into a modern looking six-apartment affair with a sign company occupying the french basement. It didn't occur to me until I was in the tiny lobby, staring at the mailboxes, that I didn't know the kid's name. I opened the door of the sign company and walked in. An old geezer in a threadbare sweater was lettering a poster. He looked up at me,

  “I'm looking for a girl who works at The Golden Spoon,” I told him. “Good-looking girl, black hair, about twenty-four years old. She gave me this address but forgot to tell me her name. Which of these bells out there do I ring?”

  “Spinosa,” he said wearily, as though he'd answered the question a thousand times. “Gerrie. Spinosa, third floor, rear.” He went back to his poster.

  “Thanks.”

  I went back to the lobby, gave the button beside G. Spinosa three short jabs, and waited. I was about to jab it again when the door release began clicking. I pulled it open and went upstairs. On the third floor, the rear door was ajar. I rapped my knuckles on it, leaned on it, went in. I found myself in a pale green cube, littered with female accessories and cheap furniture.

  A voice from the bathroom called: “Who is it?”

  “The guy you slipped the match folder to.”

  “Oh.” Silence. “Well, find a place to sit I'll be out in a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  The sofa bed was open and its rumpled sheets yawned like a cocoon which had just released its butterfly. I edged around it, noticing as I did so that the pillow was lined with pale pink smudges and traces of lipstick. She had hit the hay fast, too fast to bother about make-up. I worked my way to a chair, lifted a pile of movie magazines from it, and set them on the floor. As I sat down in the cramped quarters, my shoe upset a can of foot powder which had been setting beside the bed. I shrugged, got out a cigarette, and slowly blew smoke into the stale, motionless air around me.

  The bathroom door opened and she came out, wearing a white terry cloth robe, belted tightly about her slim waist. The black hair was hanging loose, sort of fluffy-like, around the column of her neck, and she seemed younger. I sliced five years off my previous estimate and pegged her, mentally, at about nineteen. I could tell by the way she looked at me that I was about as welcome as a worm in an apple.

  “Well?” she asked. She sat down on the edge of the bed, on the side farthest from me, and felt nervously in the pocket of the robe. Her fingers came away empty and she glanced at the table. I took out my pack of smokes and tossed them to her. She took one out, put it between her lips, left the pack lying beside her. I threw her the matches, too.

  “I thought you wanted to see me,” I said.

  She took her time lighting the cigarette. “What if I did?”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “That was last night.”

  “There's a difference?”

  “Maybe.” She looked at me. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “The name is Carl Good. I'm a private investigator.”

  She sucked on the cigarette. “I guess I made a mistake.”

  “What sort of a mistake?”

  “You know, last night. I thought you were looking for a girl. The way you gave me the eye, I figured I might interest you.”

  “For free or for dough?”

  “Dough, of course. What do you think I am, a nympho?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I'm telling you. Anyway, the hell with it. I don't feel like that this morning. You might as well beat it.”

  “What made you change your mind? I'm still the same guy—and you look better to me right now than you did last night.”

  “I've changed my mind, like I said.”

  “What made you change it?”

  “Things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Jeez, what kind of a guy are you? Can't you see I don't want to have anything to do with you?”

  “You did last night.”

  “Sure, but that was before—” She stopped and bit her lip.

  “Before Millie got it, you mean?”

  “You know all the answers.”

  “Look, honey.” I reached over and helped myself to one of the cigarettes. “When I came into the joint last night, you didn't know me from Adam. You saw the thin guy in the penguin suit watching me, and you knew I was looking for Millie. You didn't have to tip me that I was spotted, and you didn't have to slip me your address. But you did. You—”

  “I told you—”

  “You told me you figured I was a sucker looking for an easy babe. That's a damn he—and not a very good one, at that. A girl that's for sale is for sale, period. How she feels or what she thinks has nothing to do with it. If you were for sale last night, you ought to be for sale right now —and you aren't. If I'm wrong, prove it I like brunettes.”

  “I'm not... cheap.”

  “How much?”

  She swallowed. “A hundred dollars.”

  “Fair enough.” I took out the sheaf of bills Morrie had given me and peeled off a C-note. “Here you are, baby.” I sailed it onto her lap. “Let's see what I've bought.”

  She stared at it with wide eyes and her shoulders began to shake. Her fingers sought the fold of the terry cloth robe and tightened upon it, clutching it as though it were a rope supporting her from a deep chasm. A tear trembled in the corner of one eye, then slid down her cheek.

  “You poor damn kid,” I said.

  She dabbed fiercely at the tears. “All right,” she s
aid in a hard voice. “I was lying. I hope you're satisfied. Take your money and get out of here. Please.”

  “Listen, Gerrie,” I said placatingly, “I think you're a nice kid. I had to call your bluff, you know that. You've been trying to sing like a Clark Street cat but you don't know all the notes. I'll bet you're fresh from the country —Iowa, Wisconsin, or Indiana—and the only joint you've ever been in is The Golden Spoon. How long have you been peddling smokes there?”

  She shrugged. “Eight weeks.”

  “Where'd you work before that?”

  “No place.”

  “So I'm right. You know life like I know Beethoven. You've been rubbing shoulders with a bunch of clip artists, picking up their patter, listening to their rotten schemes for tapping suckers.” I snorted. “You probably thought The Golden Spoon was big-time glamour with a capital G, but I'll bet they didn't pay you more than forty bucks a week.”

  “Thirty-five,” she admitted in a small voice.

  “The cheap jerks! No wonder you were looking for a way to make a quick buck. Tell me if I'm wrong, Gerrie. You figured I was there looking for information, and you thought that, if Millie couldn't supply it, you could. That's why you slipped me the matches. You saw a way to make a few easy bucks, but Millie's death scared the hell out of you. Right now, you're torn two ways: You want the money, but you're afraid of what might happen to you. I don't blame you for being scared, but there is such a thing as right and wrong. I'm looking for a guy named Orville Pederson, who slipped out on his wife. He'd been playing around with Millie and I figured she might know where he was. I didn't have anything to do with Millie's death; in fact, I think the slug of poison was intended for me. The way I look at it, Gerrie, when a guy walks out on his wife for the sake of a chippie like Millie White, it's only right for anybody who knows where he is to pass the word along to the proper authorities. I'm sure your mother would tell you the same thing.” The sanctimonious taste of the words almost gagged me. “All I want to know is where he's hiding or what happened to him—and the pretty gift certificate, complete with an etched portrait of Benjamin Franklin, is yours.”