Murder Doll

by Milton Ozaki

  “You heard what I did to him?” I repeated blankly. “What did I do?”

  “You killed him. You blew him to pieces.”

  “What?”

  “You killed him and three of his men. It was in the papers and on the radio, Carl. They didn't mention you, of course, but I knew what had happened. Pisano hadn't intended to let the money get out of Chicago. He'd followed me, then you—and you'd killed all of them. It changed everything, darling. It was like a weight being lifted off my heart. I didn't even know you, but I felt as though we belonged to each other. Then when I did—”

  “Jeez,” I said softly, “if Danny Pisano was one of them, there goes twenty-five thousand bucks!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I cross-questioned her mercilessly all the way back to Chicago but, when I got through, my mind was a messy blur of wavering lines and blotchy facts. Alice definitely didn't know who the queenpin was. Alice had had nothing to do with the plot to kill me—and didn't know who had, except that some of Bain's boys had probably been instructed to do so by the girl in charge. Alice had been instrumental in luring Pederson to the park, but she didn't know definitely what had happened to him, and she didn't know anything at all about his wife. In spite of my natural cynicism, she sort of half-convinced me that she really didn't care about the half million. She had rushed to me out of gratitude, because I'd fixed Pisano once and for all. She had just wanted to see me, to thank me, but her emotions had gotten out of hand. A lot of marriages get started that way, I reminded myself.

  “Look, Alice,” I said as we reached the Outer Drive, “where are those films? Do you know?”

  “A photographer on Ohio Street has them. At least, I always picked them up there and took them back each time. He's—”

  “Bannister?” I asked.

  “Yes, that's the one.” She looked at me curiously.

  “I saw those pictures you keep in that folder under your bed.”

  “Oh.” She colored slightly. “I'll tear them up.”

  I grunted and a silence fell between us which lasted until I nosed the car into Michigan Avenue. Then, in a small voice, she said, “You can divorce me, Carl. I won't try to hold you.”

  “Be quiet, for Gosh sake.” The words came out harsher than I intended. “Let me think.”

  I turned west on Grand, then north on Rush Street, and parked in front of the Hudson Hotel. According to my watch, it was 9:07. “Listen, Alice,” I said, making up my mind, “I want you to go up to your room and stay there. Don't leave it, no matter what happens. I'm going to attend to some business, then I'll come back here for you. Okay?”

  “Yes, Carl.”

  I hesitated, then leaned over and kissed her. “I won't be long,” I promised.

  “Carl—” Her eyes glistened as though she were about to cry.

  “Yes?”

  “Be awfully careful, will you? Because I'll be waiting.”

  I watched her walk to the entrance of the hotel and go through the revolving door. Then I took a deep breath and brought my foot down hard upon the gas pedal.

  The Nate Bannister Studio occupied the second floor of a three story building on Ohio Street, just off Clark. A display case screwed to the wall beside the door downstairs contained a single large sepia-toned print of a long-haired blonde attired in a potato sack bra. Beneath the print, a card was tacked. The card read: Bannister— Theatrical Photography—By Appointment Only. I snorted, opened the door.

  The man who came to the door in answer to my ring was short and heavy set and had grayish-black hair, a flat nose, and a square, dark face. In a heavy voice, he asked: “Yes?”

  “Mr. Bannister?”

  “I'm Bannister.”

  “I'd like to talk to you about some pictures.”

  “I am very busy, Mr. —?”

  “Good. Carl Good. It'll only take a few minutes.”

  He shrugged. “Well, come in.”

  I entered a huge room which obviously served as his studio, for the floor was cluttered with tripods, light stands, portable backgrounds, and cameras.

  “What kind of pictures are you interested in?” he asked, sitting down beside me. “A portrait of yourself?”

  “No—movies for a stag party. I'm program chairman of a local club, and I thought it would be a good idea to got some movies to show during the evening. You know, something spicy. I was told that you'd be able to supply me.”

  “You have been misinformed.”

  “Well, that's too bad,” I said. “Have you any idea who handles them? You know the kind I mean, don't you?”

  “No. I do theatrical photography, nothing but theatrical photography.” He stood up, obviously intending to show me out.

  “That's odd,” I told him. “A Miss Alice Carstairs gave me your name, and she said she was sure you could supply me with the kind of films I wanted. In fact, she told me she'd been getting them here regularly, herself.” I lowered my voice. “Price is no object, you understand.”

  A mask seemed to slide over his face. “Alice Carstairs?” he asked. “She told you about me?”

  “Yes. She was showing me the proofs of some pictures you took of her recently—they were very beautiful—and I asked her if you'd have any spicy movies.”

  “I see.” He rolled his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps I may have something, after all. Come with me.” He led me through a series of rooms toward the rear. Unlocking a door, he stood aside for me to enter. I started past him— and the back of my head caved in. I felt myself falling, then welcome darkness rushed into my eyes.

  When I recovered consciousness, my head was in someone's lap and a cold, wet rag was slopping over my face. Groaning, I tried to turn my face away from it. A voice said soothingly, “You're all right, Carl. You're going to be all right.”

  I got my eyes open. Gerrie Spinosa's pale face smiled.

  “Cripes,” I muttered. “What happened?” Then, “How'd you get here, Gerrie?”

  “I heard her telephoning someone named Bannister and telling him to watch out for you,” Gerrie explained, laying the cold rag across my forehead. “She mentioned photographs and films and told him to stop you from getting them, no matter what he had to do to you, and I... I was scared, Carl. I called the police and told them, and then I came here as fast as I could. You were lying here, unconscious.”

  “The police,” I said dully. “They're here?”

  “Yes. They're in front, questioning him.”

  “Did they find the films?”

  “I don't think so. He may have destroyed them right after she called.”

  “Hell.” I sat up and touched the back of my head. “Is Lieutenant Murray here too?”

  “Yes. He's the one who recognized Bannister's name and told me where to come.”

  “Good girl,” I said. I got to my feet. “Some day I hope for chrissake I get smart.” Right then I felt like a prize boob.

  Lieutenant Murray and two cops were in the studio, grouped around Bannister, who was slumped in a chair with his jaw set stubbornly. He glowered at me when I came into the room, and Murray said, “The story, Good, is that you forced your way in here and he struck you in self-defense.”

  “It's a damned lie,” I gritted. “He's been processing filthy movies for Dippy Bain's organization. I came here and tried to snow him into showing me where they were but, like an idiot, I had no idea he might have been tipped to watch for me and I let him get behind me.”

  “Dirty movies, huh?” Murray looked interested. “Who put you onto him?”

  “It's like this, lieutenant.” I gave him the story Tony Wells had told me and described the methods being used by the Bain gang. “The Carstairs girl admitted that she picked them up here and brought them back here, so I figured they were cached on the premises.”

  “Well, it shouldn't take long to find out,” Murray said. “Petrowitz, take Bannister down to the car and keep him there. Tomacik, you and Valentine give the place a quick shake-down.” To me, he said, “We got here jus
t in time, it seems”—he smiled at Gerrie—“thanks to this young lady. She was pretty worried. I expected to find you with a couple of holes in your head.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I had her planted in a room at the Hudson, next to the Carstairs girl. What all did you get, Gerrie?”

  “Not very much, I'm afraid,” Gerrie admitted. “She didn't come in until real late the first night and she went right to bed. The next morning and most of the afternoon, she stayed in her room and all I could hear was her radio.

  Then, about two o'clock, right after there was a news report telling about Pisano being found dead, she made three phone calls. I couldn't tell where she called because she dialed the numbers, but I could hear her asking if there had been any report on you. After that, I heard her walking up and down her room for about an hour, and then she made two more phone calls. One of them was long distance, to some place in Indiana, I think, and I heard her say, 'You're sure it's him?' and then, 'I'm coming right away.' She left a few minutes later and didn't come back all night.” Gerrie smiled shyly. “I was awfully worried about you because you hadn't come back like you said you would.”

  “I don't catch on to all this intrigue, Good,” Murray interrupted. “What's the object?”

  “I'm still looking for a guy named Pederson.”

  “You can relax, then, because we found him.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “In the drainage canal,” Murray said succinctly. “We got a report yesterday morning that there was a body floating there, and it turned out to be Orville Pederson.”

  “I've done a hell of a lot of chasing around for nothing, then,” I told him. “The way things stand, now I'm minus a quarry and minus a client.”

  “Tough,” Murray agreed, cracking a faint smile. “How do you think Pederson feels?”

  “I wouldn't know.” I thought awhile, then said, “Gerrie, you'd better go back to the hotel. You-know-who may make some more phone calls.”

  “All right. When will you—?” Her eyes completed the question.

  “In about an hour,” I told her. “I'll come for you.”

  She nodded, smiled, and went out.

  “Nice kid,” Murray commented. “She told me she's working for you. The private eye racket must be good.”

  “It stinks,” I said violently.

  Tomacik and Valentine came in, each carrying a large box of photographic prints. “We didn't find any movie film,” Tomacik announced, “but we sure found a lot of pretty pictures. Take a look, lieutenant.” He dumped one of the boxes onto the sofa. A profusion of nude studies spilled out.

  “Very, very nice,” Murray said. He picked up one of the prints and held it to the light. “We'll drag the guy in and charge him with pornography. It won't stick, of course, but it'll give him something to think about.”

  I was staring at a print which I'd picked up from the pile. Suddenly I knew what it was about the old bag at Solar Park which had seemed to strike a familiar chord. “Lieutenant,” I heard myself say, “how would you like the answer to a whole string of murders?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Bannister must have hit you harder than I thought,” Murray commented when I finished telling him the rest of the story, all that I'd been holding back.

  “It holds together, doesn't it?” I demanded. “You've got to admit that the pieces fit.”

  “Maybe,” Murray admitted grudgingly. “You haven't a damned bit of evidence, though. What are you going to use for proof?”

  “Suppose we play it this way.” I explained the rest of my theory. “It'll make me a duck on a rock, but I'm willing to stick my neck out. All I'll need is a little cooperation.”

  Murray grunted, then made up his mind. “Okay,” he said gruffly. “Be damned sure you don't get shot, though.”

  I became very busy. I drove to my apartment, got the guns I'd taken from Garcia and his pal, and went to the Chestnut Street Postoffice. The envelope I'd sent to myself in care of General Delivery was there, and I put it in my pocket without opening it. Next, I phoned the Hudson and told Gerrie to meet me at my office. She said she'd come right away. I got there first and was talking on the phone when she came in.

  “... that's the situation,” I said into the phone. I smiled at her and pointed at a chair. “I've got the dough and I'm willing to make a deal. With Pisano out of the way, there's a question as to whom it belongs to. I don't want all of it, but I do want a percentage. Get in touch with Bain and tell him what the set-up is and ask him how much of a cut he'll give me. I can get it in fifteen minutes. Well, he'll have to act fast, because I'm going to contact Pisano's boys and make them the same offer... Yeah... Okay, call me.”

  I hung up and dialed Morrie's number.

  “Hello, Morrie? This is Carl.”

  “I'm glad to hear your voice, Carl. Where have you been?”

  “I've been all around and busier than an ant in a bunch of grapes. Look, Morrie, I'm in a hurry and want some information. You knew about Pisano's half million dollar pay-off to Bain, didn't you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Pisano was being pressured by Bain and he decided to pay off to the tune of a half million. It's kind of complicated. Anyway, I got the job of taking the dough to Bain and Pisano tried to waylay me and snatch the dough. You know what happened, of course. I've still got the dough and I'm willing to make a deal with either Pisano's successor or with Bain, whichever will cut me in for the bigger percentage. I figure I've been kicked around enough to deserve a slice of it.”

  “I understand,” Morrie said carefully. “Will five percent be okay?”

  “How about ten?”

  “I'll have to call you later, Carl.”

  “All right. I may be out for a few minutes. You can leave word with my new assistant.”

  “New assistant?” Morrie sounded surprised.

  “Sure, I'm expanding. Gerrie Spinosa is her name, and she's a young, good-looking girl, not like that old bag you've got.” I grinned at Gerrie. “I don't want you hanging around up here, trying to date her, either, Morrie.”

  “Carl, I've got a wife and two kids and—”

  “Sure, sure. I'm just kidding, Morrie. Take care of that for me and call me back, will you?”

  “Of course, Carl.”

  I dropped the receiver and swung around in my chair. “Well, that ought to get some results,” I said with satisfaction. “How do you like the office, Gerrie?”

  “It's fine!” She walked to the window and looked out.

  “We'll be cramped for a while,” I told her, “until I can get more space and a desk for you. I'm going out to pick up the dough now, and I want you to stay here and answer the phone. It may take Bain's mob a while to contact him, but we ought to get some action from Pisano's boys in a hurry. I'll be back in about a half hour.”

  “What do I do if someone calls, just write down the message?”

  “That's the idea. If they don't want to give you the information, tell them I went out for a few minutes and will be right back. They can call later.”

  I drove to the Illinois Central depot and retrieved the brief case. From a public phone in the station, I called the Hudson and asked for Miss Carstairs' suite. “Alice, honey,” I said when she answered, “how about meeting me at my office?” I told her the room number and address. “You'd better take a taxi from the hotel.”

  “I'll have to dress, Carl.”

  “Well, come as quickly as you can. I'm about to make a deal with either Bain or Pisano's boys for that brief case full of dough. If it works the way I think, we'll have enough for a real honeymoon.”

  “I'll hurry, darling.”

  As soon as she hung up, I called the Hudson again and asked for McCabe. It took the operator a while to locate him, but finally his wheezing voice came on the wire. I promised him a ten spot if he'd take care of something for me. He said he would.

  I started back to my office.

  Tomacik and another plainclothes cop were loitering ne
ar the curb. Keeping my eyes averted, I walked past them and entered the building. At the fourth floor, I got out of the elevator and barged in on Morrie.

  “Carl!” he exclaimed as soon as he saw me. “What's going on? What's this talk about a half million dollars?” He peered at me owlishly through his thick-lensed glasses.

  “Pisano probably scraped it together on his own hook,” I told him. “As I understand it, Pisano borrowed a big hunk of dough from Bain prior to the last election for the supposed purpose of buying up a few candidates. The wrong guys got in and I think Pisano sat on the dough. When Bain started pressuring him, he decided to cough up—but real smartlike. He thought he could lay it on the line, make himself clean, then grab it back before Bain actually got his hands on it.”

  “Ethically, then, the money is Bain's,” Morrie said.

  “Certainly,” I agreed. “He can have it, too, for all I care. Right now, I'm using it as a means to an end.” Briefly, I explained the situation to him. “I want to clear the air and collect for all the fouls they've thrown at me. You're going to have to play along with me, Morrie. I'm counting on you to explode the whole mess.”

  “Please, Carl. I'm a lawyer. I'm not a—”

  “Look, Morrie, you got me into this mess, and you're the only one who can supply the trigger I need.”