Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  Without comment, she handed me a prepared receipt. I read it, then signed my name. She took it and passed another slip of paper to me. “This is Mr. Bain's address,” she murmured. “You had better hurry to the airport now.”

  “All right.” I turned off the flashlight, gave it to her, and opened the door.

  “Good luck,” she said softly.

  “Thanks.”

  The black sedan moved swiftly away, leaving me standing on the curb with the brief case swinging in my hand. I sprinted to my car, got in, and dropped the brief case on the floor beneath the heater. I went west on Ohio to Canal and south on Canal to Archer, intending to take Archer Avenue all the way to the airport. I'd gotten as far as Ashland when I became conscious of the headlights of a car which was following close behind me. A private eye is normally sensitive to tailing cars, but I was doubly so. A half-million bucks was riding the car with me and, naturally, I was a little nervous. According to my watch, I had forty minutes to make the plane. I slowed to a crawl —and so did the car behind me. At Damen, I turned south suddenly, tramped on the gas pedal, and sped to within a block of the river, then went west a few blocks, parked abruptly, and turned off my lights. Grabbing the brief case, I slid out on the sidewalk side of the car and crouched down beside the running board. A sedan came around the corner on two wheels, sped past, then skidded to a stop in the middle of the next block. The sound of its gears grinding into reverse floated toward me on the cool night air, and, as the car began to back, I sprinted along the shadowed part of a warehouse, ducked around it, and found myself in a weedy vacant lot.

  Someone shouted and feet pounded the sidewalk behind me. In a half crouch, I stumbled and ran across the lot to a boarded fence. Throwing the brief case over it, I leaped up, caught the top rail, got a leg up. A bullet pinged over my head as I let go of the rail and dropped into darkness on the other side. I found the brief case, and, clutching it tightly, ran straight ahead.' The smell of freshly sawed wood told me where I was before I actually reached the high, jagged alleys of lumber. I went up the side of a pile of two-by-fours like a scared cat and flattened myself on the rough timber like juice on a platter. I heard them grunting as they dropped from the fence into the yard, then heavy feet ran past the pile on which I was lying.

  “We've got him,” a rough voice cried. “There's no damn way for him to get out!”

  “Watch it, Charlie,” another voice warned, “the bastard's probably got a rod. Plug him if he tries to go back over the fence.”

  I raised my head a little and began to realize what a hell of a spot I was in. It was a small lumber yard, with three sides enclosed by a high wire fence. The fence I'd scaled on the way in was the only low one and, if I wanted out, I'd have to go back over it. But one of the guys was stationed beside it and, if I tried to sneak over, he'd spot the silhouette of my body against the sky and fill it with lead before I moved more than two inches.

  Footsteps approached and a voice said: “He ain't down there. If he's any place, he's right around here some place.”

  “Yeah. How about using a torch, Dan? We could shine it—”

  “For chrissake, I told you he's got a rod!”

  “That's right. Where'd Pee-Wee go?”

  “Down to the other end. Damn it to hell, I knew we should have jumped him sooner! We were riding him too close.”

  “Don't worry, Dan. He's in here some place. We'll find him.”

  “The lousy son of a bitch!”

  “Here comes Pee-Wee now. What gives, Pee-Wee?”

  “There's nothing down there but a lot of damned kindling,” a gruff voice announced. “He must be up at this end, among these big piles.”

  “Hey, I'll bet he's up on top of one of them!” Dan was the bright guy. It was his voice.

  “Yeah!”

  They were standing in a group, less than fifteen feet from me, and I could almost hear them licking their lips as they stared at the pile on which I lay. I rolled to one side a little and a hard object pressed against my side. Grimly, I reached down, got my hand around it, and brought it to my mouth. I gripped the firing pin with my teeth, jerked the grenade away, and lobbed it into the darkness toward the voices. Then I laid flat and held my breath. I heard it thud against the ground.

  “What the hell was that?” a voice asked.

  “It must—”

  The explosion shattered the night and air and dirt blew past me, then quiet triumphed again. When my ears stopped ringing, I clambered down the side of the pile and inched my way toward the fence.

  “Hey, Dan!” a voice called nervously. “What the hell happened?”

  I felt for my gun and eased the safety off. I started toward him.

  “Pee-Wee! You there?”

  He sounded worried. I edged around a pile of lumber, less than fifty feet from his voice, and debated my chances. Any second now, he'd tumble to the situation and start playing hide-and-seek. In the meantime, time was running out and the plane to Philadelphia was waiting.

  “Charlie!” I called softly, making my voice a little hoarse.

  “Yeah?” He came at a quick trot. “What's going on, Dan?”

  “Over here,” I called. “I'm hurt.”

  “I'm corning. Where are ya?”

  I saw the outline of his head against the sky and aimed a foot below it. I fired once. He stopped in his tracks and I heard the thump of his body hitting the ground. I turned and ran for the fence.

  I still had fifteen minutes. I ran south to Archer, flagged down a cruising cab, and sat on the edge of the seat while the driver gunned it toward the airport. It was 12:33 when he screeched to a stop in front of the United Airlines section. I threw him a $5 bill, grabbed the brief case, and ran for the Check In desk. On the public address system, a nasal voice was saying: ”—all persons for flight nine-oh-eight, United Airlines, will please board the plane at Gate Six. All persons for flight—”

  “Carl Good,” I told the girl at the desk, “for Flight 908.”

  “Any baggage?”

  “No.”

  She ran a pencil down a typed sheet, frowned, started down the sheet again. “Your reservation couldn't be for this flight, Mr. Good. Your name isn't listed.” She smiled. “Are you sure it was with United?”

  “Yes. It was for the 12:35 flight.”

  “I'm sorry, but I have no record of it. Do you have your ticket?”

  “No, I intended to buy a round trip now.”

  “I'm sorry.” She had a nice, sympathetic smile.

  “There are no vacancies?”

  “Not on this flight, sir. Sorry.”

  I must have had a lump of iron between my ears. It took me a while to catch on, but finally I began to get the idea ...

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I took A taxi back to Damen Avenue and located my car. It was still parked near the warehouse, where I'd left it, and the other car was there, too. Fortunately, it was a run-down industrial district and completely deserted at night. With considerable relief, I saw that the explosion had apparently attracted the attention of no one. I paid off the cabbie, got in my car, and drove toward the Loop.

  A lot of things were rapidly taking shape in my mind, and I couldn't help grinning a little. Dippy Bain would have a fit when the plane landed in Philadelphia and I wasn't on it. And the murder doll would have a fit when her boys didn't bring back the dough. Between the two of them, there'd be a mad scramble with everybody crying, “Money, money, who's got the money!”

  I drove into the Loop, turned south, and stopped at the Illinois Central depot at Twelfth Street. The brief case went into a ten-cent locker and the key to the locker went into an envelope. I addressed the envelope to myself in care of General Delivery at the Chestnut Street Post Office, stuck one of the stamps I'd found in DeGruchy's wallet onto it, and dropped it into a mailbox. I went out and climbed into my car again. I took the Outer Drive south through Jackson Park, then got on U. S. 41 and followed it all the way to St. John, Indiana. It was nearly three in the
morning when I rolled into the little town and not a hotel sign was in sight.

  I parked in a side street, yawned, and wrapped my legs around the steering wheel. I went to sleep.

  When I awakened, my neck felt as though it were broken and the car was rocking from side to side like a small boat wallowing between two waves. I groaned, straightened my legs, and opened my eyes. Three kids were on the running board, jumping up and down. As soon as I moved, they scurried away, laughing shrilly. I rubbed my face and looked at the dashboard clock. It was 7:20 a.m. I hadn't been up that early in a long time.

  Starting the car, I drove back to the main street and parked in front of an old railroad coach which had been made into a diner. An old guy in a soiled apron and shirt was hosing the steps and sidewalk. I opened the door and asked: “What time do you open up, Doc?”

  He pointed the hose into the street, squinted at the sky, and drawled, “Won't be for another half hour, I reckon. Pretty day, ain't it?”

  “Sure is,” I said. “Any idea where I can shave and wash up?”

  “Polly'll fix you up once she gets here,” he assured me. “She's right obliging that way.”

  “Thanks.” I pulled the door shut and closed my eyes. They hadn't been closed more than two minutes, it seemed, when the old guy was tugging at my arm and saying, “Wake up, mister, breakfast's nearly ready.”

  “Okay, okay,” I mumbled. “I'm awake.”

  “Polly says I better take you to her place to wash up.”

  “Where's that?”

  “A block south of here. I'll show you.”

  I got out and walked along beside him, and he led me to a neat white bungalow on a tree-lined street. The door was unlocked. He held it open for me and showed me where the bathroom was. There was a razor in the medicine cabinet and the water was warm. I washed and shaved and began to feel equal to facing the day ahead.

  “Who's Polly?” I asked on the way back.

  “She runs the diner,” he said laconically. “Nice girl. Kinda bossy, though, sometimes.”

  “Does she always leave her house unlocked?”

  “Why not? We all do. This is a God-fearing community, mister. We don't have no thieves nor robbers around here. You from Chicago?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's the devil's stronghold, Polly says,” he commented. “Yes, sir, it's the place the devil's the strongest, according to her, and I reckon she's right.”

  “It may be, at that,” I agreed, amused. “What's the population of St. John?”

  “Don't really know, mister. Polly keeps track of those things; she'll tell you right to the dot. Myself, I ain't sure whether Mrs. Macintosh had her baby or not.”

  We entered the diner and the tantalizing fragrance of frying pork sausage greeted my nostrils. A large woman in a blue gingham apron was behind the counter, officiating at a small grill. She smiled at us, gave the sausages an expert flip, and turned the gas lower before turning around.

  “Everything's ready,” she said cheerfully. “Hope you don't have objection to waffles and sausage, mister. I had some batter I wanted to use up. The Lord hates a waster, you know.”

  I grinned at her. “Waffles will be fine. Thanks a lot for letting me use your bathroom. I was on the road most of the night.”

  “You poor man! Zeke, keep your eye on the coffee. This man is really hungry and I'm going to make him another waffle.”

  “One ought to be enough,” I said, not too firmly. The waffle in front of me was a beautiful golden brown and practically afloat with butter; it looked like a cookbook illustration.

  “Don't you argue with me, mister. I know a hungry man when I see one!” She bustled about, brought more syrup, and made me feel like a favorite chick. I ate quickly and with great pleasure. The crisp, clean country air seemed to have given me an appetite.

  “Have some more coffee,” she said, pouring me a second cup.

  “Thanks. You're a wonderful cook.”

  “I like to see a man eat hearty,” she beamed, “and that's a fact. Zeke says you're from Chicago.”

  “That's right,” I admitted. “The devil's stronghold.” The words slipped out.

  “Well, sir, you've uttered my own opinion exactly. I never been in Chicago and I hope I never have to go there, but I got eyes and I can read the papers and see the kind of people they've got.” She wiped her hands on a clean towel. “I don't mean anything personal, of course, but you've got to admit, mister, it's God's truth that I'm saying.”

  “Not everybody in Chicago is bad,” I said mildly, thinking that she reminded me of my mother, who had been an Adventist and given to sprinkling her conversation with quotations from the Bible. “You've probably been reading the wrong papers.”

  “Maybe I have and maybe I ain't. The Lord's will be done, I say, and no good can happen to all them sinners. Why,' the things I could tell you about that camp they've got west of here, mister, would make your ears ring. It's a den of iniquity! Every night I pray that the Lord will rise in His anger and chase them as He did the sinners from His temple.”

  “What camp is that?”

  “Solar Park, they call it, three miles west of here. It's no more a park than this here counter”—she smacked it with the palm of her hand—“is a tabernacle altar. Do you know what they do there?”

  “No, what?”

  She lowered her voice and bent toward me. “Men and women and children run around practically naked!”

  “No!” I exclaimed. ,

  “It's a fact.” She pressed her lips tightly together and nodded grimly.

  “How do you know? Did you see them?”

  “No, but Zeke did. They're shameless, sinning hussies, believe me! I made Zeke kneel down and ask the Lord to forgive him for looking at them.”

  “Sounds incredible,” I said, stifling the chuckle which threatened to bubble out of me. “They've got kids there, too?”

  “Dozens of them, some hardly more than babies. I tell you, one of these days the Lord's going to wreak His vengeance upon them. They're corrupting the minds of infants, that's what they're doing!”

  “It certainly sounds like a terrible place. I'm surprised the town hasn't run them out.”

  “We're trying to, believe me. They buy a lot of things in Kreutzburg, though, and the merchants there have been bought by the devil's silver. They don't see things like we do.”

  Another customer came in and she bustled off to wait on him. When she came back, I asked her what I owed. She decided, after some thought, that fifty cents would be about right. I left a dollar on the counter, thanked her again for the use of the razor, and strolled out.

  Zeke was out in front, sweeping some rubbish into a pile. “What you think of Polly?” he asked, chuckling, when he saw me.

  “She's quite a woman, all right,” I told him. “She isn't married, is she?”

  “No, sir. I don't think nobody except a minister would put up with her, and even he'd have to have an awfully fine constitution.” He chuckled again, then said: “Don't pay no attention to what she told you about that there park, mister. I wouldn't waste no money on it, if I were you. It's disappointing once you get inside.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there ain't hardly no young people there except the kids. It's mostly old women and they ain't much to look at. Suit yourself, though. I just thought I'd give you a tip. After listening to Polly damn them nudists, most young fellows want to go right over there and cavort around.”

  “Thanks, Zeke.” I found another loose dollar bill and pressed it into his hand. “Buy yourself a couple cigars when Polly isn't looking.”

  “Polly won't like it,” he said winking. With an apprehensive glance toward the diner, he stowed the bill in a pocket beneath the soiled apron. “Tobacco is the devil's weed, she says.”

  “I've found that almost anything that's any fun is illegal, immoral, or fattening,” I told him. “You're old enough to use your own judgment.”

  When I started the car, he was c
huckling, and poking at the pile of rubbish with his broom. I turned west.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I came to A high stone fence which ran along beside the road for at least two hundred yards. In the center of the fence there was a sliding gate, surmounted by a painted sign which read: “Solar Park —Members Only.” The gate was closed. I honked my horn and waited. A chain rattled and the gate opened a few feet, pushed by an old crone who wore a red bandanna bra and a pair of faded jeans.

  “What you want?” she asked in a business-like voice.

  “This is Solar Park, isn't it?”

  “You bet it is.” Her eyes examined me critically. “You want to come in?” “Yeah.”

  She pushed the gate all the way back and I drove in. To my left, a long, low building nestled against the inside of the stone fence, and, on the right, there was a parking area beneath the spreading branches of several tail trees. Eight cars were parked there; mine made nine. I locked it, put the keys in my pocket, and walked to the building. The gate was closed and padlocked, I noticed, and the door to the building was standing open. I stopped on the steps a moment, filled my lungs with the damp, clean, country air, then strolled inside. She was bending over an egg crate filled with assorted groceries and checking the items off on a pencilled bill.

  “The air certainly smells good out here,” I told her. “It's wonderfully quiet, too.”

  “We got a nice place here,” she agreed. “You thinking of joining?”

  “Of course. What's the procedure?”

  “There's a ten dollar membership fee and the daily charge is two dollars. How long you intending to stay?”

  “Several days, probably, if the weather's nice.”

  She smiled toothily. “The weather's been fine and, when it ain't, there's always plenty to do in the recreation hall. You been a nudist long?”

  “For several years, off and on. I've been living in Chicago the last few years, though, and haven't had much chance to get back to nature. How many members do you have?”

  “Around a hundred, more or less, but they ain't here all the time. They got jobs and homes, you know. We're pretty crowded weekends. I'm here all year 'round, myself. Never wear a stitch except when I'm taking care of the gate, and that's only because some of the delivery men are sensitive. Who told you about us?”