Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  “Say, honey, have you got a smoke?” she asked.

  “Sure thing.” I took out the pack and offered it to her. While I held the match, I inspected her critically. She wasn't a bad looker. A little too full-blown and watery, but in fresh make-up and clothes she probably wouldn't look bad.

  “Thanks.” She tipped her head on one side and looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “You wouldn't be looking for a little fun, would you?”

  “I might.”

  “There's something about you I like. How about it, huh?” Her hand slid under my arm and I squeezed it against her.

  “Have you got a place?”

  “Sure thing, honey. I've got a nice room just a few doors down.”

  She smiled into my face and her arm pressed against mine. I walked along, letting her guide me. We came to a doorway between two beer joints and, releasing my arm, she found a key in her purse and unlocked the door. A long flight of stairs yawned ahead of us, I followed her up. At the top, she began to hum loudly and gestured me toward a door near the end of the bare hall. It took her a while to find the key and, when she did find it, she had difficulty getting it into the lock. I reached over and helped. With a grateful smile, she twisted it around and pushed the door open. Her hand found my arm and drew me inside.

  It was the sort of place I expected. There was a day bed, open and rumpled, a scarred chest of drawers, a gas plate, a once-enameled icebox, a couple of chairs, a table-model radio, and odds-and-ends of clothing everywhere. While she fumbled with the lock on the door, I picked out a solid looking chair and sat down. The air smelled stale. I noticed there were several doors, one of which appeared to lead to another room.

  She stepped away from the door, took off the green jacket, and unzippered her skirt. She tossed them carelessly over the back of a chair and unbuttoned the blouse.

  She pattered to the icebox, asked: “A little drinkie, honey?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “In a hurry, huh? Well—”

  She came to me and lifted herself onto my lap. One arm went around my neck and her mouth searched for mine. I felt like spitting after the kiss, but I didn't. I made panting sounds and said, “Baby, you're really hot.”

  As though I'd pressed a button, the door burst open and a thin old geezer in a seedy tweed suit strode in, brandishing a gun. “Ha!” he cried nasally. “I've caught you, at last!”

  “Ohhh!” the girl squealed dramatically, tightening her arm about me: “My husband!”

  I gave her a shove. She went off my lap and her buttocks hit the floor like a bag of cement. She squealed again, scrambled to her feet and fled to the day bed, where she cowered with her back against the wall.

  “So you're the dirty bastard who's been trying to break up my home!” the old geezer cried, pulling out all the stops. “I work day and night, trying to make a home, and when my back is turned you come here and try to seduce my wife!”

  “He forced me!” she sobbed. “I told him I didn't want to, but he grabbed me.”

  “Shut up, woman,” he snarled. “I'll take care of you later!” He pointed the gun at my navel. It was an old .38 caliber Colt and looked dangerous as hell except for the fact that its chambers were empty.

  “For chrissake,” I said, “all you need is an organ playing Hearts and Flowers.”

  “I ought to shoot you right now!” he went on, advancing threateningly. “She was a good girl until she met you. She—”

  “Can it, pop, before I pull a real rod. Mine's loaded.”

  His face collapsed like a wet paper bag. “What the hell is this, Betty?” he demanded.

  She was a little slow. The change in the script confused her. “He grabbed me downstairs, Sammy, and made me tell him where I lived. I told him I was married, but—”

  “Get wise,” I interrupted. “Your act is so old it's moldy with penicillin. I spotted the hook as soon as you started humming out there in the hall. You don't think everybody in pants is a sucker, do you?”

  Her face froze. Consternation and anger did a two-step. “Why you—!” Her lips hung open, showing the tip of a fuzzy tongue.

  “You dumb bitch!” Sammy commented. “I oughta beat the hell outa you.” He stared at me. “What'd you come here for?”

  “Conversation. Get rid of the gun and sit down.”

  He sat on the edge of a chair and pushed the gun awkwardly into his pocket. “You a cop?”

  “Private. That takes the curse off me. I need some information and I'm willing to pay for it.”

  “Why didn't you say so, instead of—” she began.

  “You didn't give me a chance. You've been working at The Golden Spoon with Millie White. Right?”

  “If it's about the murder, I don't know nothing.”

  “I'm trying to locate one of the guys Millie had on the string. A big, fat guy called Gee-Gee. Know him?”

  She looked at the old geezer. He licked his lips, then asked craftily, “How much you willing to pay?”

  “Enough.” I took a $20 bill from my wallet and creased it length-wise. “The more you talk, the more it's worth.”

  He licked his lips again. “Tell him, Betty.”

  “I know him but he hasn't been around lately,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don't know. I asked Millie about him once, but she gave me the shoulder.”

  “I've been tipped that Gee-Gee's out at the park.”

  She shrugged. “Could be.”

  My pulse quickened. “Do you know where the park is?”

  “Some place in Indiana. I've never been there.”

  “In Indiana? Any idea where in Indiana?”

  “No, but it isn't very far, I know that. It's got a funny name. I heard it once, but I don't remember it now.”

  I sailed the $20 bill onto the bed and took out another one. “Think real hard. Try to remember the name of it.”

  The old geezer glared at her. “For chrissake, Betty—!”

  She wrinkled her forehead and squinted at the wall behind me. “I just can't remember,” she insisted after a while.

  “Well, what kind of a park is it? A forest preserve, a playground—”

  “No, it's private, I guess, otherwise they couldn't run around like they do.”

  “What do you mean? Run around like what?”

  “You know, without much on. It's sort of a nudist park, and guys take girls there for week-ends.” She glanced at the old geezer. “I never been there. Honest.”

  I released the other twenty. “Okay. It might be a good idea for both of you to keep your mouths shut about this. You might run into trouble. Catch on?”

  They nodded. When I went out the door, he was slapping her around, trying to get the money.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I reached the street, the guy named Jim was standing on the curb. As soon as he saw me, he reached for his right ear and tugged gently at its lobe. Two large guys separated themselves from the side of the building, against which they had been leaning, and came toward me. Something hard poked into my back.

  “Get in the car,” the one on my left murmured. There was a soft smile on his face, the kind an old guy might get when remembering his youth, and I felt a kind of round hardness prodding into me on his side.

  I didn't argue. The car was a dark blue Pontiac sedan and the driver had the rear door open, waiting for me. I got in. The big guys divided, one with me, the other in front with the driver. The car moved smoothly away from the curb.

  “What's the idea?” I asked.

  “Shut up,” the guy beside me said. He moved his jacket a little so he could rest the gun on his thigh and still keep it pointed at me.

  “You're making a mis—” I began.

  “I said shut up.” He napped his elbow into my face and my mouth became salty with blood.

  “Better frisk him,” the one in front advised.

  “Yeah.” A big hand thumped my body, located my gun, jerked it away. I forced myself to relax and stared
out the window. The car had turned and was going east; at Rush it paused, turned left, and went north as far as Delaware. The driver swerved it suddenly into a side street, cut into an alley, and parked. He turned off the ignition.

  “Okay. Get out.”

  The driver remained behind the wheel. The other two shepherded me out of the car and through a door which led into a huge, cluttered kitchen. The gun prodded my ribs suggestively and I walked ahead of them, past rows of stainless steel pans and stacks of dishes, to another door. We went through it into a huge, dimly lighted room which I recognized by the pirate murals on the walls as the dining room of the Club Kidd. Chairs were stacked atop tables, the floor was freshly mopped, and the air was thick with the smell of strong soap. Only one table retained its dignity. It was against a far wall and, seated at it, was a stocky, dark-suited man with a round, pinkish, cherublike face.. A cigar jutted from his mouth like a tilted exclamation point. He wasn't anyone I'd ever seen before.

  “Any trouble, boys?” he asked briskly.

  “Naw, he come with us like a baby,” one of the guys growled. “We even got his rod.”

  “Fine.” His eyes inspected me with casual interest. “Sit down, Mr. Good. I'm sorry you had to be brought here in this manner, but I was anxious to talk to you.”

  “About what?” I demanded.

  “Please sit down.”

  “I'd rather stand.”

  The gun jabbed me from the rear and a heavy hand clamped on my shoulder. “He said sit down,” a voice advised. The edge of a chair cut against the back of my knees. I sat.

  “That's better. Find yourselves a drink in the bar, boys.” He sucked thoughtfully on the cigar until the big guys reached the bar which occupied the other side of the room. “You've been getting in our hair, Good,” he confided. “What's your angle?”

  “My mother advised me not to talk to strangers.”

  “Sorry. I'm Harry Bain. You may have heard of me.” When I shook my head, he added, “The papers used to call me Dippy. I'm legit now. This is one of my joints.”

  I raised by eyebrows. “I thought Dippy Bain was erased by Attillio a couple years ago.”

  “Like hell.” The cigar jiggled. I decided he was probably chuckling. “What people don't know, don't hurt them. We do things different nowadays. The rough stuff is for punks; smart guys make deals, like Attillio and I did. Why fight over a few nickels and dimes? We talked it over like gentlemen, and Attillio took the slots and games and I took the houses and concessions. He's alive, I'm alive, everybody's happy.” He smiled and the cigar became horizontal for a moment. “See what I mean?”

  “I don't see what it has to do with me.”

  “Look, Mr. Good. I'm a busy man. I'm only in town for a few days and I've got lots of things more important to do than sit here and gab with you. But you've been getting in our hair and I want to get things straightened out. A sort of meeting of the minds, see? That way, we both avoid lots of trouble and we both keep healthy.”

  “Get to the point. I'm busy, too.”

  “Agreed. You're too busy. That's exactly what I'm getting at. You've been nosing into places that are my business and not yours. As a result, several unfortunate accidents have occurred. Had I been on the scene, I would have handled the details with more finesse, but the boys in charge got jumpy and, as a result, both you and I have been inconvenienced by the cops. There's enough heat without that sort of thing. Why jeopardize a nice, profitable business by tangling with the police or”—he smiled —“by antagonizing a private eye? Be smart, I say, and talk things over, find out what they want, try to fix things so everybody'll be happy.”

  “Millie White won't be happy.”

  “No, but that can't be helped now. I've spoken to the boys and that sort of thing won't happen again. As a matter of fact, I've told them that Pete DeGruchy got exactly what he deserved. It was a stupid gimmick and carelessly executed.”

  “You'd have done it better, I suppose.”

  “Definitely.” He nodded with quiet assurance. “That's what's wrong with the boys here. They've been crying about the heat, but most of it's their own fault. Instead of being smart and making deals, they've tried to buck the wrong guys. Take you, for example. I took the trouble of checking up on you. You're comparatively new to the private cop field, but you know the town and have connections. In addition, you're persistent, an ex-combat man, a little impetuous, you like Scotch and girls, and you fancy yourself as a rough, tough guy in a fight. Better yet, you're a man of your word and you're not dumb. A man like that shouldn't be given a quick shuffle. We can use you on our side, maybe.”

  “What side is that?”

  “Suppose we just call it my side for the time being. We're both realistic, intelligent men, and you can tell that I'm being reasonable. All I want to know, Mr. Good, is why you've been nosing around town, asking questions about Millie White and The Golden Spoon.”

  I couldn't see any harm in telling him. “A guy named Orville Pederson walked out on his wife a couple weeks ago. I got a tip that he and Millie had been playing around. I went to The Spoon to find out if she had any idea where he was.”

  The muscles of his face relaxed suddenly and the cigar drooped from the corner of his mouth. My answer had apparently astonished him. “You mean Pederson's wife hired you to find him?” he asked.

  “That's right.”

  “Why?”

  “She likes to eat, play bingo, and go to movies. It's hard to do that without money—and Pederson controls the bank account.”

  A note of incredulity tinged his voice. “Didn't he leave her with some dough?”

  “Not according to her. She had to give me an I. O. U.”

  “The dumb bastards,” he commented, jerking the cigar upright. “You'd think they'd have thought of that!” His eyes narrowed. “You're giving this to me straight?”

  “Come over to my office. I'll show you the I. O. U.”

  “Your word's okay with me.” He shook his head. “It's a good thing I decided to come and give things the once-over. I thought she'd be sharp enou—” He caught himself and chewed at the cigar, betraying mild anger. “I'll give you a grand in cash for her. You can deduct your fee. Okay?”

  “I think she'd rather have a check, drawn to her order and signed by him.”

  “Why?”

  “It'd prove he's still in circulation.”

  “I was told she didn't give a damn about him.”

  “That's probably true, but he owns property and it'd belong to his widow. A check would set her straight and clear the air.”

  “That's an idea. Okay, tell her a check is on the way.”

  “Where is the guy, anyway?”

  “He's taking care of some business out of town.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “It might be smart for you to see that his employees are paid, too. I stopped in this morning and his bookkeeper was eating lunch out of a bag.”

  “Yeah. That's another good idea.” He eyed the cigar distastefully, tossed it away, and took a fresh one from his breast pocket. He eyed me as he stripped the cellophane away. “I hear you're handy with a gun.”

  I shrugged. “I was a paratrooper. We had to be fairly fast if we expected to come back.”

  “Had rugged training, huh?”

  “I thought so, at the time. I discovered it was necessary.”

  “What all did they teach you?”

  “Infiltration, sabotage, self-preservation—mostly self-preservation. Kill or be killed, you know. We weren't worth the investment unless we could strike and then get back.”

  He looked at me over the flame of a small platinum lighter. “How'd you like to work for me, Good?”

  “Doing what?”

  “I can use a man who's handy at taking care of himself. My headquarters are in the east, and sometimes I need things brought to me. You could bring them.”

  “What's the matter with the guys you've got?”

  “Most of them are dumb punks. Here's the way we'll work i
t: You keep everything the way it is. You keep on being a private cop and operate as usual, but when I need something delivered—say once a week, maybe— you'll make the pick-up and see that the stuff gets to me.”

  “I'd want to know what I was handling. Dope is out.”

  “Jeez, you think I'm nuts? Positively no dope. It'll be mostly cash, documents, things like that. Everything'll be strictly legit. You'll get a call, make a pick-up, leave a receipt. As simple as that.”

  “Where would I make the pick-up?”

  “Some place in the city, probably. The one in charge locally will contact you.”

  “And who will that be?”

  “A woman. You don't have to know who she is, not right now, anyway. She'll mention my name.”

  “Who'll pay me, her or you?”

  “I'll pay when delivery is made. Triple your usual rate, plus a bonus when the job merits it. Fair enough?”

  “It sounds okay except for one thing,” I told him. “There ought to be a definite schedule. When I'm on a case, I can't always drop things and rush off on something else.”

  “What the hell,” he said. “For triple rates you can oblige a special client, can't you? Besides, when we get things in hand here, you may not need any other customers. I'm offering you a chance to get in on some big money—and regular.”

  “Okay.” I said. “I'll try my hand at it. Have her call me.

  “You bet.” He poked a hand at me. “Shake.” He crushed my fingers briefly, then shouted: “Blackie!” A glass smacked the bar and the big guy came running, one hand pawing in his pocket. “Take Mr. Good wherever he wants to go.”

  “My gun,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, give him his gun, too.”

  The big guy looked puzzled, but he obeyed. I put my gun into its holster, nodded to Bain, and started across the dining room. Blackie followed close beside me. We went through the kitchen and out the door to the alley. I took a good, deep breath when we were outside.

  “You guys don't need to take me anywhere,” I said. “Tell Dippy I decided to walk.”

  He shrugged and went back inside.