Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  CHAPTER NINE

  I stopped in the newly remodeled Hudson Hotel and went downstairs to The Cloister Inn for a little scotch and a lot of thinking. Things stacked up about like this: Pederson was a wheel in the Pisano mob, handling real estate, leases, and such. He'd gone off without any notice and was staying, voluntarily or involuntarily, at a semi-nudist park somewhere in northern Indiana. The park was being used, evidently, as a sort of roundhouse by the new mob, which was an offshoot of Dippy Bain's empire and was being run, locally, by a woman. Bain's inroads on Pisano's holding were made possible by disgruntlement between the operators of the joints because of the current heat. Pisano's managers were being pushed out, Bain's managers were being pushed in. The move was just gaining momentum, but things should move fast from now on. That explained Bain's trip from the East. It also explained Pisano's anxiety to find out who the female king-pin was. If he didn't bump her, she had to bump him—and any guy who won't shoot a woman before she shoots him is a sap, which Pisano wasn't...

  I was in a nice spot. Bain evidently thought he'd taken me off Pederson's trail, but he hadn't. The agreement executed by Mrs. Pederson retained me to find her husband, not just get her a temporary handout—and I had no intention of tearing up an agreement which guaranteed me a daily fee plus expenses. The talk with Bain hadn't done me any harm; in fact, the contact might prove useful and interesting. By watching my p's and q's and holding the cards close to my chest, I might be able to collect an occasional but nicely tripled fee from Bain, I had a chance to cash in for locating Pederson, and I might spot $25,000 worth of woman—all in one smooth, coordinated operation.

  “Give me the usual, will you, Charlie?” a warm, pleasant voice beside me asked.

  “Yes, ma'am, Miss Carstairs!” The bartender didn't salute or click his heels, but he managed to convey that impression.

  I glanced at her casually, then blinked and did a double-take. She had long, shiny, yellow hair, a chip of a nose, soft red lips, and eyes of cornflower blue. The air about her was pleasantly scented—but definitely cool. She sat gracefully on the stool, with one slim bare arm resting lightly along its edge; the other arm was poising a cigarette against her lips. She wore no rings. I pulled my eyes away and took a quick gulp of scotch.

  The bartender brought her a highball glass containing a pale golden liquid. “Thank you,” she murmured. She touched it to her lips, sipped it delicately, set it down. “How's your little girl, Charlie?”

  “Fine, just fine, Miss Carstairs. Getting bigger every day.”

  “That's wonderful.”

  He reluctantly went away to take care of a group at the other end of the bar, and she sipped her drink and drew on the cigarette. I was conscious of every little move she made, the way a bride is conscious of every fleeting expression in her husband's eyes as he munches the first biscuit she has baked, but I kept my elbows against my side and my eyes straight ahead. After all, the Cloister Inn wasn't the same as Lennie the Lunk's.

  She had nearly finished the drink, when, with a little startled gasp, she jerked the arm nearest me and bent her head toward the floor. Automatically, I turned and looked too. A pearl earring was lying near the leg of my stool.

  “I'll get it,” I said. I got down, retrieved the earring and, having no scruples about such things, also stole an eyeful of long, lovely, nylon-clad leg. My heart was thumping erratically when I dropped the bauble into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. She smiled, enough to tell me that she was grateful but not enough to invite further conversation. I went back to my drink. She left a moment later. For the first time, I noticed that she wore a knitted dress of black wool. On most women, knitted dresses pull too tight or bulge too much, making their wearers look like fattened chippies, but hers fitted the lush curves smoothly and beautifully. I watched her until the angle of the stairs cut off my view.

  “Good Lord,” I said to the bartender, “who was that?”

  “That was Miss Carstairs, sir,” he told me, beaming and picking up the dollar bill she had left on the bar.

  “Comes in about this time every afternoon, has a glass of plain ginger ale, and always leaves a dollar. Wonderful girl. Never gives me any trouble.”

  “Does she live in the hotel?”

  “I think so.”

  “She certainly is a looker.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe she's a model of some sort.”

  “She can model for me anytime.”

  “I know what you mean, sir.” He moved away.

  I left a buck on the bar for the scotch and went up the stairs to the lobby. I spotted Gus McCabe, the house dick, leaning against a corner of the Room Clerk's desk. He straightened when he saw me and waved a hand.

  “Hello, shamus,” McCabe wheezed, pumping my hand briefly. “How's the skip-trace racket these days?” He bit off the end of a six-cent cigar and eyed me casually.

  “Not bad,” I told him. “I stopped in for a drink.”

  “Oh.” His face fell a little. To a house dick, the presence of a private eye on the premises means only one thing— a chance to make a quick buck by passing information about one of the tenants. The last time I'd been in, he had made a fast twenty by supplying me with the key of a certain room.

  “How are things around the hotel?”

  “Pretty quiet, except on week-ends.” He rolled the cigar expertly with his lips. “Long time since you've been in the neighborhood, isn't it?”

  “I've been out of town a lot.”

  He grunted, then said, “Take a look at that. Nice, huh?”

  I turned—and so did every masculine eye in the lobby. It was the blonde I'd met in the bar and she was hurrying across the lobby, on her way from the elevator to a side exit. She still wore the black knitted dress and there was a small black hat, trimmed with a crepe-edged black veil, perched atop her shiny yellow hair. The high heels of the black slippers which encased her feet caught in the pile of the carpet occasionally, impeding her progress, and she walked with her body at a slight forward angle and in quick, hard, bird-like steps. I was so busy enjoying the pleasant sway of her hips that I almost didn't notice the frightened expression on her face. When I did, I elbowed McCabe.

  “She's scared,” I said. “Look at her face, Gus.”

  “She's just a screwball,” McCabe replied easily. “I'd like to get my arms around her, though, wouldn't you?”

  “And how. What's screwy about her?”

  “Plenty. She's been staying here, off and on, for about six months. Lately she's been in pretty regular. Far as I can see, she's got dough and a terrific figure—and about as much brains as a fly. Did you notice the clothes she's wearing?”

  “Sure. Shows off her figure fine.”

  “Yeah,” McCabe assented. “That's the way she dresses all the time, but never in anything but black. You'd think she was in mourning.”

  “Maybe she is.”

  “Nuts.” McCabe sucked on the cigar, took it from his mouth, frowned. “Got a match, Carl?”

  I handed him some matches. “Come on, Gus, give me the story. I've other things to do, you know.”

  He finally got the cigar drawing properly. “Listen to this. She breezes in Monday morning and insists on having her usual suite. Naturally, she gets it. Well, she goes up and she stays there until right after lunch yesterday, when she goes to the manager's office and says she wants to rent the grand ballroom for two hours this afternoon, from one to three, to be exact. He has no objections, of course; so, at a quarter of one today, a six-piece orchestra shows up. At one o'clock, right on the dot, she comes down wearing that outfit you seen her in and tells the bell captain that she requires the exclusive services of a hop for a couple hours and will pay for the privilege. She slips him a fin, so the bell captain says okay and asks her if she wants any hop in particular. She says no, but she finally points at Tommy Wheeler and says he'd do.”

  McCabe paused deliberately and glanced sidewise at me.

  “I'm listening,” I a
ssured him. “What happened?”

  “She took Wheeler into the ballroom, the orchestra started playing, and she danced with him for two hours straight.”

  I stared at him. “You mean nobody else came?”

  “I don't think anybody else was even invited.”

  I shrugged. “She's got dough and she wanted to dance, so she hired herself a hall and a band and danced. What's nuts about that? I heard of a rich guy who—”

  “A babe like that?” McCabe raised an eyebrow and directed a withering glance at me. “Hell, she don't need to hire a hall and pay somebody to waltz her around! Any guy with the strength to walk would take her dancing for free—and that includes you and me, too.”

  He had something there. She had the best-looking female equipment I'd seen in a long time, the kind that usually has a surplus of men in attendance. I looked toward the bench where the bellhops were stationed. While I didn't want to give McCabe ideas, the situation he'd outlined was provocative. “Which one is Tommy Wheeler?”

  McCabe smirked. “I figured you'd be interested.” Catching the eye of a tall, good-looking, clean-cut kid, he beckoned him over. The boy smoothed his sandy hair and pulled down the maroon tails of his monkey jacket and trotted over. “I was telling Mr. Good about Miss Carstairs,”-he told the kid. “He don't get it.”

  “Well, I didn't dig it myself,” the boy said, wrinkling his forehead in a puzzled frown. “It was strictly from crazy, and that's a fact.”

  “Didn't she offer any explanation?” I asked.

  “No, sir. When I tried to hint around, she clammed up. She talked a little, of course, but just about the music and stuff.”

  “She a good dancer?”

  “Gosh, yes. She was swell.”

  I eyed him steadily. His eyes met mine and his face began to redden guiltily. “What else?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, what the hell,” I said. “We're adults, aren't we?”

  He shuffled his feet, then grinned a little sheepishly. “Well, it wasn't anything, really, but I didn't mention it before because I don't want the other hops to kid the pants off me. At five minutes to three, this Miss Carstairs went to the orchestra leader and told him to play The Merry Widow Waltz. Then, after we started to waltz, she looked at her watch and said, 'I want you to dance me into that little alcove there and kiss me.'”

  McCabe guffawed and the kid's face got so red it looked like he had the blazing measles.

  “Look,” the kid said desperately, “I'm not trying to make you think she'd fallen for me, or anything like that It was an order, strictly business, see? It was sort of like she wanted to kiss me to make somebody else jealous.”

  “Somebody in the orchestra, maybe?” I asked.

  “No, it wasn't none of them. I talked to them later and they didn't know her from Eve. It was more like she was doing it for her own satisfaction; as though, in her own mind, she was showing some guy she didn't give a damn about him, even though he wasn't there to see what was happening.”

  I thought I knew what the kid meant. “That makes sense,” I agreed.

  “Well, come on,” McCabe broke in, looking like he was going to laugh again. “Did you smooch her?”

  “Sure, but just sort of quick and lightly. I felt kind of goofy, you know, not knowing what it was all about. As soon as I did it, she dug her fingers into my arms and said, 'You aren't a pansy, are you? Do it again and put some weight into it!'”

  “So?”

  “So I did. She made me feel like a dumb kid, or something, and I got kind of sore, so I tried to make her holler uncle. I hugged her like they do in the movies. I guess I did all right”—his face split into a grin—“because I didn't get a complaint that time.”

  “She shoulda called me—” McCabe began.

  “Then what?” I interrupted.

  “Well, that was about all. She looked at her watch again and it was a couple minutes after three. She smiled, sort of satisfied-like, paid off the orchestra boys, and handed me twenty bucks. Then she turned and walked away from me as though I were a wooden Indian.” The kid spread his hands, shrugged, and started for the door, where an old geezer was struggling with a pair of suitcases.

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly dinner time and too late to catch Morrie at his office. Besides, I was certain that there had been a frightened expression on her lovely face as she crossed the lobby. I nudged McCabe. “Got your passkey handy, Gus?”

  “Want to see what kind of nighties she wears?” McCabe asked, grinning knowingly.

  “Just nosey, like you. Let's make it snappy.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Miss Carstairs' suite consisted of rooms five hundred twelve and five hundred fourteen, arranged as a bedroom and sitting room. The sitting room contained nothing of particular interest. We went into her bedroom. I peeked into the closet and McCabe made a beeline for the dresser. Three dresses and two suits hung in the closet; all were black, fairly new, and delicately scented. The labels in the suits read: Cyril's—Chicago; those in the dresses: Modern Frocks—Philadelphia.

  “No nighties, p.j.'s, or nothing,” McCabe announced. “Looks like she sleeps in the raw.”

  “I do, myself,” I told him. “It's the best way to sleep.”

  McCabe grunted and held up a delicate black net pantie. “Look, Carl. How'd you like to get caught in one of these on a cold day?”

  I grinned. “I think I'd like it.”

  McCabe guffawed softly, getting my point, and laid them back in the drawer. On a hunch, I lifted down her empty suitcase and studied the baggage tags which were still tied to their handles. She had come by American Airlines; the crayoned code-lettering on the tags was: S29-Phila.Chi. That meant special flight No. 29, Philadelphia to Chicago. A date was stamped on the back of each tag.

  “How long did you say she's been staying here?” I asked.

  “She came in Monday about—”

  “No, I mean altogether.”

  “About six months, off and on. You find something?”

  “Nothing exciting. I just wondered.” The tags were approximately six months old. “How long had she been away this last time?”

  “Hell, I don't know. Ten days, maybe.” McCabe was absorbed in the contents of a small overnight case which had been under the bed. “Look at this!” He held up a small, nickel-plated automatic. “Wicked, isn't it?”

  “Female pea-shooter,” I commented. “About a .25, isn't it?”

  “Yeah. It's loaded, too.”

  “Don't leave your prints on it,” I warned.

  “You think I'm stupid?”

  I lifted the suitcases back into the place and closed the closet door. Miss Carstairs was becoming more and more interesting. Her eastern antecedents were probably a coincidence, but not very many girls carried guns. I checked the wastebasket. Nothing. I went through the drawer of the desk. I found a pad of paper on which a half-dozen telephone numbers were scrawled, each followed by a set of initials. None of them rang a bell with me. McCabe was squatting on the floor with his back to me, absorbed in something he'd found in the overnight case. I tore out the sheet beneath the one on which the numbers were written, folded it carefully, and slipped it into my pocket.

  “Look at these pictures, Carl,” McCabe wheezed. He looked toward me and winked broadly. I went over and knelt beside him. He had a leather-covered folder on his knees, opened to an 8 x 10 glossy photograph of the Carstairs girl. The picture was a figure study, printed in low key and showing her posed with a Mexican water jug balanced against her hip. The lighting was clever and every curve of her flawless skin was as smooth and inviting as could be. “Quite a dish, huh?” McCabe chuckled. “Built like a race horse.”

  “The bartender downstairs said she was a model of some sort.” I flipped through the rest of the pictures. There were about twenty of them, all semi-nudes, showing her in various graceful and classic poses. Rubber-stamped on the backs was the legend: Proof from Bannister, Chicago.

  “Lo
ok at them legs and that body!” McCabe exclaimed admiringly. “Do you think she'd miss one of these if I snitched it? I'd sorta like to—”

  “Forget it,” I advised. “You might get yourself in a hell of a lot of trouble. Besides, this is Art, Gus. Pull yourself up out of the gutter.”

  “Huh! Since when did you know anything about art? You like to look at them, just like I do.”

  “Sure do,” I admitted, “but there's a difference. Better put them back where you found them. We ought to get out of here.”

  “Aw, there's no hurry,” McCabe protested. “She's gone for the night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Experience. Once she goes out, she usually stays out.”

  “Where does she go? Any idea?”

  “Naw, I tried to check on her once, just for fun, but she doesn't use taxis very often. Most of the time, there's a black Caddy sedan out in front waiting for her. The only time she used a cab, the driver told me he took her to the Club Mimi. That was a couple months ago.”

  “Well, let's get out of here, anyway. We've nosed around enough. I think we wasted our time.”

  “Not me,” McCabe said. “I didn't waste my time. Looking at those pictures was worth the trouble. I'd still like to—”

  “Nix,” I said flatly, “no petty thievery. I'll get you some pin-ups if you want them, but leave her pictures there.”

  “It's a deal, Carl.” McCabe put the folder away, snapped the case shut, and pushed it under the bed. “When'll you get them for me?”

  “In a day or so.”

  “Real hot stuff, like hers?”

  “Yeah, real hot stuff.”

  He locked the door and we took the elevator down to the lobby.

  My first stop after leaving McCabe was the Tribune's Public Service Bureau on Michigan Avenue. When I asked one of the clerk-librarians for information about nudist camps in northern Indiana, he raised his eyebrows a quarter of an inch and gave me a quick analytical glance. He went away and came back with some penciled notes. There were two nudist camps in Indiana, according to the information he had on file. The better known of the two was Zoro Nature Park, a two hundred-acre tract near Roselawn; the other, smaller and more exclusive, was Solar Park, about thirty miles south of Chicago's Loop, between the towns of St. John and Kreutzburg.