Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  “Christ!” he murmured.

  “Tell me about the phone call you got this morning,” I suggested.

  He glared malevolently at the big guy. “Goddam squealing rat!”

  “He made me!” he protested, bridling. “I didn't want to tell him!”

  “Shut up,” I said. “It's either talk or take another beating, Garcia. I want to know who sent you here? I particularly want to know who told you to plant this,” I took the grenade from my pocket and held it in front of him, “under my desk?”

  Garcia paled and the big fellow looked like he was going to faint again. Apparently they'd figured that I hadn't visited my office yet. Garcia swallowed several times, then muttered, “We was obeying orders, that's all.”

  “Orders from whom?”

  “We don't know. The word came down that a dame might phone us and that she'd be the big boss. We were to do what she told us.”

  “The word came down from where?”

  “Joe Sorento, the manager of The Cistern, passed it to us. That's where we hang out, sometimes. He said we'd better do like she said or get out of town.”

  “How did you know it was her when she called? It could have been any girl calling, couldn't it?”

  He shrugged. “The dough was where she said it would be, so I figured it was on the level.”

  “What dough?”

  “The pay-off. There were two C's in an envelope, one for me and one for him. The bartender at one of the joints had it waiting for us.”

  “Which joint?”

  “A place called The Ha-Ha. It's a dive on Illinois Street.” The grenade seemed to fascinate him; he talked in a harsh monotone, keeping his eyes on it.

  “What time did you get her call?”

  “A little before two o'clock. We were to plant that”— he nodded toward the grenade—“then pick up the Spinosa girl.”

  “What were you supposed to do with her?”

  “She just said to pick her up. We got here about four o'clock. There was nobody here, so we waited.”

  “Suppose she had been here. Where would you have taken her?”

  “To the club, like she told us to.”

  “The Cistern, you mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You've been here, both of you, ever since four o'clock?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then who killed the old lady?”

  “What old lady?” Garcia asked.

  “Mrs. Pederson.”

  “Who's she?”

  I put the grenade in my pocket and gestured with the gun. “Okay, boys. Take off your clothes.”

  “What?” Garcia asked, disbelievingly.

  “Take off your clothes. Throw them in a pile near the door.” Reluctantly Garcia undressed. “Everything,” I told him. “You'd better help your pal. Be careful of his arm, though; the elbow's broken.” When they were stripped to the skin, I gathered the pile of clothes under one arm and unlocked the door.

  I backed out into the hall, shut the door and hurried downstairs. There was a garbage can in the middle of the block. I dumped their clothes into it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  My suit was a mess, so I decided to drive home and change. It was four minutes after ten p.m. when I reached Elm Street and started upstairs to my apartment. One of the stairway lights was out and I was halfway up before I saw her. She was huddled against the wall like a waif dodging snowflakes and her thick hair was like a black cloud around her pale face.

  “For chrissake, Gerrie,” I said, “how long have you been here?”

  She smiled weakly. “I don't know. A couple hours, I guess.”

  “What's the idea?”

  “I had to see you.” She stood beside me while I unlocked the door, then stepped ahead of me into the apartment. Turning to face me, she noticed the condition of my clothes and her eyes widened. “Oh—-you've been in a fight!” she exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”

  I grinned. “You should see the other two guys. No, I guess you shouldn't.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I went to my office and learned that you'd phoned. I tried to call you but couldn't, so I dropped in at The Spoon. Louie was there, telling a redhead how to peddle cigarettes. I figured you'd gotten the sack and might be in your room. When I got there, I found a couple of boys keeping the chairs warm and waiting for you to come home.”

  “Oh, no!” The back of her hand went against her mouth. “They were waiting for me?”

  “Yup, they sure were. They're still there, too.” I gave her a brief resume, omitting the details which I didn't think fit for her ears. “Now tell me why you wanted to see me. Did you find out something?” I took off my jacket and began emptying its pockets.

  “Yes.” She was sitting on the edge of my couch and her fingers were french-braiding each other. “After you left, I felt sort of... ashamed, and I decided to quit my job and go back home. I got dressed and went to The Spoon to tell them and to get the money they owed me. Louie wasn't there, but Mr. Fidulla was in the office and I told him I was leaving. He didn't seem to care; he just made out a check and gave it to me. While he was making out the check, the phone rang and he answered it. He listened a couple seconds, then told me to go outside and wait until he called me. I went out and closed the door but, by putting my ear against the wall, I could hear most of what he said. I listened—and he was talking to someone about Gee-Gee.”

  “Why, you wonderful girl! What did he say?”

  “It didn't make much sense to me, but it sounded like he was assuring somebody that Gee-Gee was still at the park. A couple times he said, 'I tell you he's still there. Take my word for it!' Then, just before he hung up, he said, 'I can lay my finger on them any time you say, but it looks to me like Piano'”—she shook her head a little and frowned. “That doesn't sound right.”

  “Maybe you mean Pisano.”

  “Yes, Pisano. He said, 'It looks to me like Pisano is going to kick back the dough.' Does that help you any?”

  “A lot. What else did he say?”

  “I was afraid to listen any longer. I tip-toed away and I no sooner reached the dining room when he opened the door and called me so he couldn't have said much more.”

  “That's right.” I stared at a folded piece of paper which I'd had in a pocket. It was the sheet I'd taken from the pad in the Carstairs girl's room. “What time was it when you were at The Spoon, Gerrie?”

  “Oh—it was kind of late in the afternoon. I'd spent a lot of time making up my mind, getting dresses ready to be packed, and things like that. I guess it was around four or four-thirty when I got to The Spoon.”

  I nodded. “Where'd you go from there?”

  “I went to see a girl friend who lives on Superior Street. I used her phone to call you, and I stayed there until it was time for her to go to work. Then I looked up your address and came here.” She smiled shyly. “You were nice to me, and I wanted to be sure to tell you what I'd heard in case it was important.”

  “It's a good thing you didn't go back to your room. I don't know where you'd be now, if you had.” She was wearing a pink sweater, a single strand of imitation pearls, and a black jacket and skirt, and she reminded me of a girl I'd known back in my high school days, a girl who had made me want to buy a ukulele and learn the words of the Pagan Love Song. She had a better figure than Helen, though, and Helen was nearly old enough now to be her mother. I tore my thoughts away from the past in time to hear myself say: “How would you like to work for me, Gerrie?”

  “Sure, Mr. Good.” Her eyes brightened. “Doing what?”

  “Let me think about it for a minute. Suppose you make yourself at home while I change clothes.”

  I went into the bedroom and closed the door. When I came out a few minutes later, I was wearing a fresh suit— the covert cloth one, with patch pockets—and she was wiping dust from the radio with a towel she'd gotten in the kitchen. She started guiltily and began to color.

  I laughed. “That isn't the kind of work I me
ant,” I told her, “but the place sure needs it, doesn't it? A maid comes in once a day, but all she does is slap the bed together and empty the ash trays. After you've been in Chicago a while, you'll get used to dust on things.”

  “I just... felt like doing something,” she murmured apologetically.

  “I know, You're a nice girl, Gerrie.” It sounded all right the way I said it, but I was conscious of the fact that, deep inside of me, the wolf was beginning to howl and I'd used the words more as a reminder to me than as a statement for her. “What I had in mind was this: I need a larger office and I ought to have a bright girl around who can answer the phone, keep books, and act like a general all-around assistant. A girl can go places a man can't, you know, and, on some cases, it'd be handy to have someone like you available. I can't pay you a lot—not more than fifty bucks for a six-day week—but it'd be a regular job and you wouldn't have to take a lot of gaff from lecherous old men.” I grinned. “None, that is, except me.”

  “Why, that'd be wonderful, Mr. Good! I hated the thought of going home and admitting to the folks that I couldn't make a go in the big city. Now I'll be able to get a nicer room and—” She stopped and her smile faded a little. “I don't know much about shorthand or typing, Mr. Good.”

  “There won't be any use for shorthand and you can peck at the typewriter, the same as I do. Here's your first job.” I took the sheet of folded paper from the dresser, flattened it by smoothing a finger along its creases, and laid it on the desk. With an emery board, I rubbed the point of a pencil so that tiny grains of graphite fell onto the paper. I tapped the edge of the paper gently, jiggling the black grains, and they began to form the numbers 781. “Keep doing this,” I explained, “and gradually a list of telephone numbers will appear. Don't press down on the paper, though, and don't breathe too hard or you'll blow all the stuff off. Catch on?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, go ahead. As soon as you get a complete number, call it out and I'll find the address that goes with it.”

  I sat down on the couch near the telephone and closed my eyes. It wasn't just sentiment, I told myself, and it wasn't that I had designs on her, because I hadn't. It was strictly a smart business move. By hiring her, I could give the kid a break and give myself a break, too. People would see that I was expanding and they'd know I was going places. Besides, I'd had a few lucky cases and the bank balance was comfortable—with a lot more in prospect, providing I located the mystery moll—and her salary would be deductible from taxable income. In actual dollars and cents, having her around wouldn't cost me much at all.

  “One of them looks like DE-5-1176,” she said.

  “Okay.” I picked up the phone and dialed DE-5-2080. It isn't generally known, but the telephone company maintains a listing service, intended primarily for the use of their own personnel and the police. This confidential service is gimmicked by the use of the exchange code of the number you want to find out about, plus the number 2080. If you want the address of someone whose number is Superior 7-6972, for instance, you dial SU-7-2080—and you'll get the listing service for that exchange.

  “Ope-er-a-terr...”

  “One-one-seven-six,” I told her. “Listing, please.”

  “That's Henry's Cafe, 55 East Ontario.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome...”

  I hung up. “There are some initials beside that number, Gerrie. Can you make them out?”

  “I think they're D. M.”

  D. M. at Henry's Cafe. Duke Marino, of course. Duke was an ex-con and the real owner; Henry Torro's name was used as a front so the joint could get a city liquor license. It was a cheap dive, supposedly a hangout for characters and addicts, but a gold mine. Suckers poured into the place in a steady stream, hoping for a glimpse of life in the raw, and they got taken so fast that most of them woke up the next morning without knowing exactly what had happened.

  “The next one is HU-8-7192,” Gerrie said. “The initials are R. B.”

  I had the phone in my lap and was reaching for the receiver, when it rang. I said, “Hello?”

  “Mr. Good?” It was a warm, smooth voice, very, very female.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Bain gave me your number. He told you that I would call.”

  “Oh,” I said. Then: “Yeah.”

  “Be on the northwest corner of Wabash and Ohio in a half hour. Stand on the corner, alone, where I can see you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes. What's the job?”

  “I'll explain that when I see you.”

  “I ought to know how long it'll take so I'll know whether to bring a toothbrush or not.”

  “It'll be overnight. I'll see you in a half hour.” The line went dead. I looked at my watch. It was exactly eleven o'clock. I got up, went into the bedroom, buckled my shoulder holster into place.

  It felt good. I came out, went to the dresser, began throwing things into my pockets. I started to put the grenade into a drawer, then hefted it in my hand thoughtfully and put it into the side pocket of my jacket. Money, a handkerchief, keys—

  “The third one is—” Gerrie began.

  “Look, honey,” I interrupted, “I've got to go out and I won't be back until sometime tomorrow. I want you to stay here until you dope out that list. Then I want you to go to the Hudson Hotel on Rush Street. You know where it is, don't you?”

  She nodded.

  “When you get there, ask for a guy named Gus McCabe. He's the house detective. He'll probably be in some corner, resting his feet, but scout around until you find him. Tell him you're a friend of mine and want Room 510 or 516. He'll understand.” I pulled some bills from my pocket. “Slip him this ten-spot and you won't have any trouble.”

  “I've got the money you gave me this—”

  “I know, but this is different. Here, take it.” I forced the bill and a couple others like it into her hand. “When you're in the room, take a water glass and do like this.” I got a glass from the bathroom and showed her how to hold it against the wall and lean her ear onto it. “The person I'm interested in will be in either 512 or 514. You'll be able to hear what's said in the room next to yours. You may hear a lot and you may hear nothing. Have you got the numbers straight?”

  “If I'm in 510, I'm to try to hear what's said in 512, and if I'm in 516, I'm to try to hear what's said in 514.”

  “Right. Once you're in the room, don't leave it. If you get hungry or need anything, call Room Service and order it. Just don't let anyone spot you, and keep listening all the time. Can you do that?”

  She smiled. “Sure, Mr. Good. It sounds exciting!”

  “You won't think so when you start to get blisters on your ear. I'll come there for you as soon as I get back. Good luck, Gerrie—and remember to be careful.”

  “You, too, Mr. Good.”

  “Don't worry.”

  I shut the door quietly and went down to my car.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The block between Ohio and Ontario Streets, on the west side of Wabash Avenue, is occupied by the Masonic Temple. I parked near its main entrance and walked beside the big, dark building with my hands in my pockets. It was a clear, cool night and a sliver of a moon was sailing over the Devonshire Hotel. Toward State Street, I could see the bright windows of the new Advance Pharmacy. My stomach felt like a hard, cold, hunk of putty, but I stood on the curb near the corner and rocked on my heels, waiting for whatever might happen.

  At the stroke of 11:30, a black Caddy sedan came swiftly south on Wabash and swung in to the curb, bathing me in the bright glare of its headlights. I took my hands out of my pockets and started toward it. When I came abreast of it, the rear door opened and a girl's voice called softly, “Get in, Mr. Good.”

  The overhead light was off and the window on her side was shaded. I got into the car, found a cushioned seat, and sank onto it. When I pulled the door shut, I saw that the window on my side was shaded, too. It was like sitting in a dark dugout on a starless night, only the sm
ell was nicer, a lot nicer. I recognized the clean, stimulating scent I'd noticed on the Carstairs girl, and I smiled secretly to myself. I could almost see Carl Good, private eye, walking into Morrie's office and coming out with twenty-five grand in beautiful, beautiful banknotes.

  “You are to deliver a package to Mr. Bain in Philadelphia,” the smooth, warm voice said, speaking from the corner of the car. “A reservation has been made in your name on Flight 908 of United Airlines. The plane leaves at 12:35. You will—”

  “Just a minute,” I interrupted. “I talked to Mr. Bain this afternoon. Why didn't he take it himself?”

  “He left before it was ready. You will guard it every moment that it is in your possession and will see that it is delivered to him, personally, immediately upon your arrival. He will pay you for your services. Here.” A brief case was laid in my lap. “You are to check the contents of this, then give me a receipt.” She tapped the brief case.

  “How am I supposed to see?” I asked. “Use this.” Her hand found my arm and a pencil-type flashlight joined the brief case in my lap. I snapped it on and held it so part of the tiny beam flicked into her corner. I might have saved myself the trouble. She had on a black hat, a black veil, black dress, and looked like a silhouette. I turned my attention to the brief case. Unsnapping its lock, I shook its contents onto the seat beside me. There was a sheaf of blue-ribbon securities, a thick bundle of government bonds, and a dozen tightly-bound packages of currency. The currency was in large denomination bills. I checked each item against the list she handed me and discovered that I was holding a neat $500,000 worth of negotiable paper on my lap. While my head spun around inside, trying to appreciate the enormity of the sum I was being trusted with, I managed to stuff the bundles back into the brief case. I snapped the lock, removed the key, and put it in my pocket.