Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  She eyed the C-note, fingered it tentatively. “I don't know anybody with that name,” she said reluctantly.

  “He disappeared about two weeks ago. Used to drop in at The Golden Spoon rather late and take Millie home. Big man. Weighed about two-ten, height five-eleven, light hair, fat face, wore glasses. Wore single-breasted suits a lot and a Masonic emblem on a gold chain across his corporation. Had a diamond ring on—”

  “Oh you mean Gee-Gee!”

  “I do?”

  “Sure! He used to stop in almost every night and buy a couple packs of smokes from me. I knew Millie had been seeing him, but I didn't know he was married or— you know.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Why, I guess it's been a couple weeks, like you said.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Her forehead puckered a little. “I heard Millie asking Louie about him once, and Louie said something about him being at the park. They stopped talking when they saw me.”

  “Who's Louie?”

  “The manager. You know, the one who was watching you last night.”

  I frowned. “You heard him and Millie talking, and Louie said Pederson, or Gee-Gee, as you call him, was at a park. What park?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Why did they call this guy Gee-Gee?”

  “I don't know that, either. He seemed to like it, though.”

  I lit another cigarette. “Think hard for a second, Gerrie. Did he say the park or a park?”

  “The park, I think.”

  “Then he saw you and stopped talking.”

  *Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “Just a few days ago.”

  “You're sure they were talking about Gee-Gee?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded positively.

  “Okay, baby, the dough is yours.” I took a card from my wallet and dropped it beside the C-note. “If you can find out anything more specific, give me a buzz. Day or night. Cash with a smile.” I stood up and went around the foot of the bed. Rising, she came to the door with me.

  “I'm sorry about... the other,” she said, a Utile shyly. “I guess you thought I was pretty corny.”

  “We ail make mistakes, Gerrie.” I patted her cheek and discovered that her skin was as soft as a rose petal. “I think you're a nice kid. I might come back again, but not on business.”

  She smiled. “Why don't you?” she asked.

  I grinned and went down the stairs.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lieutenant Murray looked a little harried. His eyes were flecked with red and the deep shadows beneath them were like purple brassieres of flesh. He greeted me without enthusiasm and pushed the typescript of my statement toward me. I glanced through it, initialed each page, and signed my name in full at the end. I handed it back to him.

  “Sit down, Good,” he said brusquely.

  I sat.

  Murray tilted back in his chair and pursed his lips at the ceiling. “Something's going on,” he said after awhile. “I can't put my finger on it, but I've been a cop too long not to sense it. What's the word around town, Good? Have you heard anything?”

  “Taft's going to be the Republican candidate for president and MacArthur's going to steer the boat.”

  Murray spat a four letter word. “You know what I mean, Good. Stop handing me that wise guy patter.”

  “Well, the word in your district, lieutenant, is that business stinks and everybody's praying that you have a heart attack.”

  “That's more like it. What else?”

  “The big debate is whether you're a smart guy who's holding out for a bigger payoff, or whether you're an alumnus of the Sunshine Gospel Mission. The boys and girls can't understand why you don't want to own a big brick house out in the suburbs, like some of your predecessors.”

  “And what's your opinion?”

  “I think you're either too smart or too dumb. I don't know which.”

  “This district is driving me nuts,” Murray said with quiet vehemence. “The joints are dedicated to vice and every place I turn there's somebody trying to push dough at me. Because I refuse to compromise my conscience, I'm called a stupid jerk. Why, I don't see how any cop can ignore the hell that's going on. Clark Street is filthy with whores and pimps. Dearborn and LaSalle is crawling with perverts. Rush Street and Wabash Avenue stink to high heaven of high-heeled chippies and cologne-drenched mugs. In between, there's nothing but a honey-comb of gambling dives, over-night hotels, and dope dens. I clean out one section, and, by morning, they're operating at a new stand three blocks away. I don't get cooperation from anyone, not even the goddam judges; they spring them from the can faster than I can toss them in. Sometimes there's a habeas on file before we get the wagon unloaded.”

  “It's a tough situation,” I agreed.

  “Now it's murder,” Murray went on, ignoring my comment. “There have been six homicides in five days. One poisoning, four shootings and, this morning, a strangulation. To listen to the commissioner, you'd think it was my fault, goddam it!”

  “Who was it this morning?” I asked.

  “A punk from Philadelphia, known as Silent Pete.” Murray's jaw tightened angrily. “If I had enough men, I could clamp the lid down and keep it down, but how the hell can I chase murderers, patrol the streets, check licenses, investigate accidents, drag in drunks, and shoo away the whores and queers—with only a handful of men? If I'd had an adequate staff, the girl's apartment would have been searched and guarded last night, before the punk could have gotten into it.”

  “You don't mean the guy was found in Millie White's apartment, do you?” I asked. I liked the tone of my voice. It sounded perfectly astonished.

  “That's exactly what I do mean.” Murray's eyes narrowed. “Have you heard anything about a gang from the East, Good?”

  “Just what Kefauver brought out during the hearings in—”

  Murray told me what I could do for Kefauver. I wasn't interested.

  “What sort of a punk was this Silent Pete?” I asked. “A runner or something?”

  “Hell, no, nothing like that. He used to be a sort of strong-arm guy, handy with a knife, but he ran into a guy who was a little faster than him and got half his face slashed to pieces. The story is that Pete blew too much about some other guy's girl, and the other guy jumped him in an alley and cut his tongue out. That's why they call him Silent Pete. His real name was Peter DeGruchy.”

  “Well, for chrissake,” I said, “no wonder!”

  “No wonder what?” Murray demanded instantly.

  I did a mental pirouette and managed not to stumble. “No wonder the guy cut his tongue out. I'd do the same thing if some jerk said nasty things about my girl.”

  “Women,” Murray snorted, “the root of all evil!”

  “What's the latest on Millie White? Did you get anything out of the bartender and waiter?”

  “I got the same line of crap you handed me. I'm not through with them, though, and I'm keeping you in mind, too, Good, and don't forget it. I'll teach these bastards to do their murdering in some other district.”

  “I'll pass the word, Lieutenant.”

  When I left, he was punishing the dial of his phone with a blunt forefinger.

  An idea had been flirting vaguely around in the back of my mind and, after a quick lunch, I went to Pederson's office. His bookkeeper, a sapless old woman with tired eyes and skin like wrinkled Waxtex, remembered me and ditched the remains of her sack lunch into a drawer of her desk.

  “Have you heard anything from Mr. Pederson yet?” I asked.

  “No, Mr. Good.” Her fingers twined together like passionate snakes. “Nothing at all. You don't think—?”

  “It's too early to say. Would his bank tell you whether any withdrawals have been made from his account recently?”

  “I don't think so.” She shook her head. I half expected it to rattle, but it didn't.

  “Well, can you supply me with a list of the properties whi
ch he controlled?”

  “I'll be glad to show you the list, Mr. Good, but it's rather extensive and I don't see how I can—”

  “That's all right. I just want to check a few addresses.”

  “Oh, I thought you wanted a copy of it.” She went to a large wall safe, swung back its door, and tottered back with her arms wrapped around a huge ledger. The inkwells jiggled when she set it on the desk. “They're all right in here,” she said proudly, pointing a yellowing nail at a series of pages, each covered with tabulated columns of fine Spencerian script. “The first column is alphabetized according to the surname of the lessee; the second column is the street address; the third column is the monthly rental; and the fourth—”

  Her breath was sour and it was directed right into my face. “I understand,” I said, shouldering her casually aside. I bent over the book, flipped a couple pages, and ran my eyes through the p's. I drew a blank—no Pisano. I went back to the f's. The script made my eyes feel as though they were being filtered through lace. Fidje, Fidler, Fidonik, Fidulla. Fidulla, Ben. The address was that of The Golden Spoon. I grinned, went all the way back to the front, and went through the list systematically, comparing addresses on the list with the Tavern and Nightclub sections of the Redbook. It took me over an hour but, when I finished, one thing was for sure: Pederson's holdings were concentrated principally in the area between Wells and Rush Streets, and all of them were north of the river; in short, Pederson, had a big finger in a lot of hot spot enterprises if only because of no business, no rent I carried the ledger back to the safe for her, murmured my thanks, and left.

  I caught Morrie as he was getting ready to leave for court. “Just a quick question, Morrie. Who and what is Orville Pederson to the Pisano gang?”

  “He's a real estate broker and rental agent”

  “For himself or for Pisano?”

  “I wouldn't know, Carl. That isn't my department”

  “Find out, will you? It may be important”

  “In what way?”

  “Pederson had been in absentia for a couple weeks. I'd particularly like to know what the set-up is at The Golden Spoon. Pisano will tell you if you ask him.”

  “All right. I have to hurry now, Carl. I have a case on the afternoon docket.” He blinked at me through his thick-lensed spectacles, nodded shortly, and ran for the elevator. I waited for the elevator to come back up and rode it to the tenth floor.

  At the sixth buzz-buzz, Sarah Pederson answered her phone. I said: “This is Carl Good, Mrs. Pederson. I called you earlier but you weren't in.”

  “I went downtown to see a friend of mine who is an attorney.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said my husband is legally responsible for any obligations which I incur and that I could go to any store and charge anything I liked and my husband, or his estate, would have to pay for them. I went to Field's and bought myself a whole new wardrobe.”

  “I told you the same thing two days ago, didn't I?”

  “Yes, but I thought I'd better get an attorney's opinion, just to be safe. He'll be furious, of course, but I don't care.”

  “I think I have a lead on him, Mrs. Pederson. Did your husband ever talk about going to a park?”

  The receiver hummed in my ear for several seconds. “You mean... Arlington Park, the race track?”

  “I don't know which park. Did he ever go to Arlington?”

  “Not that I know of. I don't think you could call him a gambling man, Mr. Good, and I've never heard him mention horses.”

  “Well, if he'd told you he was going to the park, where would you think he meant?”

  “Oh, you must mean Lincoln Park? It's only a few blocks from our apartment.” She sounded triumphant, as though she'd gotten five kernels of corn in a row.

  With difficulty, I refrained from gnashing at the receiver. “Well, tell me this. Did any of his friends call him Gee-Gee?”

  “Gee-Gee?” There was silence, then: “Mr. Good, have you been drinking?”

  “No, but it might be a good idea.” I got rid of her, finally, and hung up.

  I'd never realized how many “parks” there were in the vicinity of Chicago until I started consulting maps and directories. As suburbs, there was Elmwood Park, Evergreen Park, Forest Park, Franklin Park, Highland Park, Melrose Park, Oak Park, Palos Park, Park Ridge, Park Forest, Schiller Park, and Villa Park. There was Tinley Park, too, farther south and, of course, Arlington Park. Right inside the city there were literally dozens of little plots of grass and trees, each officially designated on the maps as a park. And on their outskirts, Cook and Lake counties were dotted with forest preserves, sand dunes, and picnic areas, each of which was also, officially, a park.

  There's a lot of truth in the statement that a private investigator works more with his feet than he does with his brain. I junked the maps and directories and went down to pound my feet against the sidewalks.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A sign in front of the Clark Street sandwich joint said: Come in and Eat Before We Both Starve. I went in and straddled a stool at the counter. Characters from the street's spas were sprawled about the tables, sipping coffee and consulting racing forms. I laid my one-star edition of the Herald American on the counter and ordered black java. A buxom babe in a bulging pink uniform brought a steaming mug and set it down beside me without slopping more than a tablespoonful onto my paper. Around me uncouth, but interesting, conversation swirled.

  “Yah, Johnny wants to sell. He says the racket stinks. All he gets are jerks and they're always raising hell...”

  “The jerk ought to put in a few girls...”

  “The heat, wise guy, remember the heat?”

  “Say, the Liberty's closed, I hear.”

  “Yah? Since when?”

  “Monday. They're talking about jerking the show out of the Paree, too.”

  “That's tough for Roy, then. He services them joints, don't he?”

  “Yah. I'm thinking of hitting the road to Las Vegas, myself. I got a friend there and he says a good dealer can do all right. I wish I had the fare right now.”

  “Go to Stan's and promote a game, why don't you?”

  “Nobody's promoting any games these days, not even Dave.”

  “You mean the game in back of the shoemaker's is out, too?”

  “Damned right A guy can't make a dime around here any more.”

  A girl came in and sat a couple of stools away from me. She wore a green gabardine suit and a rumpled white blouse and looked as though she had just rolled, or been pushed, out of the hay. “Gimme a cup of coffee, Mae,” she said in a throaty voice.

  “Say, Betty,” one of the guys called, “What's the dope on Millie?”

  The girl looked around, a little bleary-eyed, and shrugged. “They found a dead joe in her apartment this morning,” she announced wearily.

  “The hell you say. Who was he?”

  “I didn't hear. One of the girls said she caught it on a news report.” She looked toward me. “Anything about it in the paper?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I was talking to a guy down the street, though, and he said the stiff was somebody known as Silent Pete.”

  “Silent Pete?” Eight brows wrinkled in thought. “I never heard of nobody named Silent Pete. How about you, Jim?”

  “Naw, there's a Pete called High Spot, and there's one called Lucky, but I don't know anybody tagged Silent.”

  “According to this guy,” I said, “the stiff got the tag because somebody cut his tongue out years ago in a fight.”

  Eight heads shook in unison. The guy named Jim said, “He ain't from around here, then. I been up and down the street for twenty years, and I never even heard of anybody like that.”

  I shrugged. “Anyway, that's the story I got. I guess they're still questioning some of the guys from The Spoon.”

  “They oughta drive a nail through Louie and rock him back and forth,” Betty snapped. “If there ever was a no good bastard, he's it!”


  “Louie's just watching out for Louie,” somebody commented.

  “You know what he did a couple nights ago?” the girl demanded. “It's nearly two o'clock and I'm getting ready to leave, and Louie comes up to me and asks me to go on a party with a friend of his. You know what that means. Either I go or I look for a new job. Well, the guy looks all right so I go along with him. He drives me way the hell out south to his place, and the next morning what do you suppose he gives me—a big five!” She laughed bitterly. “Five bucks! He said Louie told him that was all I was worth. How do you like that!” She snorted into her coffee. “Believe me, I told him what to do with it.”

  “Louie needs his face pushed in,” the waitress decided. “He'd do that to me just once—and it'd be the last time!”

  “But what can I do?” Betty asked plaintively. “The way things are, everybody is scratching in everybody else's yard, trying to make a buck. Only a few places are using girls, and if I smack Louie he'll kick me out and I'll have to go legit and sell dresses at Goldsmith's again. If things were a little looser, it'd be different. I'd fix Louie but good!”

  “That fat slob who manages the place on the corner is the same way,” Jim said lazily. “What he don't take himself, he tries to give away.”

  “Sometimes I feel like going back to Kaukauna, Wisconsin,” Betty muttered. She lifted her cup, sucked some of the coffee into her mouth, and swished it around. She swallowed slowly, looked my way, smiled tentatively. I smiled back, folded the paper, and pushed it away. I tasted my coffee. Surprisingly, it was good. I drank it, dropped a quarter on the counter, and strolled out. She caught up to me before I'd gone twenty feet.