Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries)

by M. Ruth Myers

  TOUGH

  COOKIE

  (Maggie Sullivan mystery #2)

  M. Ruth Myers

  Copyright © 2012 Mary Ruth Myers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Contact www.mruthmyers.com.

  Published by Tuesday House

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Alan Raney

  I would like to express my appreciation to members of the Dayton Police History Foundation, Inc. for preserving a rich and fascinating segment of Dayton history. Their dedication helps keep the past alive.

  My particular thanks go to that organization’s secretary-treasurer, retired Dayton police sergeant Stephen Grismer. His patient and insightful answers to my questions add great richness to the Maggie Sullivan mysteries.

  Any inaccuracies are entirely my own.

  One

  I was at my desk improvising a game of jacks with a rubber ball and spare slugs for my .38. The bullets wobbled a lot, but it was cheap entertainment. It beat trudging through slush and ice from Dayton’s last snowfall to spend three cents on the Daily News only to learn Herr Hitler was still bamboozling leaders in Europe.

  The knock that interrupted me at pigs-in-the-pen was self-important. Three precise raps.

  “It’s open,” I said to the frosted glass panel.

  I caught the ball and set it down with the slugs so I’d appear businesslike. A man in a fine gray fedora came in flicking sleet from his sleeves. He had ashy hair, a prominent overbite and a fussy air at odds with his age, which I put at early forties. He looked around and his brows drew together.

  “I’m hunting Miss Sullivan’s office.”

  “I’m Maggie Sullivan.” I rose with a smile so bright it risked blinding him.

  He was too busy glancing left and right again to notice. His lips pursed with suppressed disdain.

  “Oh my,” he said. “I expected you to be bigger.”

  “Gee, is there a height requirement for private eyes? I could stand on my tiptoes.”

  For the first time since entering, he favored me with a real look. It was the same one nuns nail you with while waiting for you to confess to a lie.

  I remembered my bank account was nearing empty.

  I remembered I’d been eating sardines for dinner all week to get by.

  “Ah, you mean you expected a secretary,” I said sweetly. “Most people prefer the privacy of a one-woman operation.” There might have been good reason why those nuns so often suspected me of stretching the truth. I gestured to the chair in front of my desk. “Won’t you sit down, Mr.–?”

  “Hill. James C. Hill.”

  He looked at the chair as if debating whether to dust it. He sat. Having already removed his hat, he placed it on his knees and tucked a pair of kidskin gloves fastidiously beneath it. He wasn’t acting like most of the people who walked through my door. Most were nervous, or maybe angry, but in one way or another always keyed up. The man in front of me seemed merely miffed at being here.

  “David Rike says you’re to be trusted,” he announced abruptly.

  “I’m glad to have earned that trust.”

  I’d worked as a part-time floorwalker in David Rike’s big department store while I was in high school, then gone full-time and gotten promoted. Three years ago, he’d lent me the money to hang out my shingle.

  “He says you handled a somewhat delicate personal matter for him.”

  “I never discuss what I may or may not have done for someone, Mr. Hill.”

  His mouth compressed in displeasure at my evasion. He surveyed me a moment. He was fairly good-looking, but gave an impression of setting great store by correctness in every aspect of dress and manner.

  “Does the name Ferris Wildman mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “Local tycoon, made his millions investing in businesses, building projects, that sort of thing.” It was all I recalled from the papers. I added some bait. “Seems to be well regarded.”

  My final comment was almost guaranteed to make prospective clients either feel good about coming to me, or to spew out a beef against the person in question. Hill’s condescending smile indicated I’d given an approved answer.

  “I work for Mr. Wildman. I’m his business manager. His assistant.” He paused in case I swooned at having such an eminent visitor. “Mr. Wildman would like for you to dine with him tonight. He wishes to engage your services.”

  Hill’s position suggested he enjoyed some status in his own right. He wasn’t accustomed to playing errand boy. But judging by his fine coat and kidskin gloves, he was too well paid to tell his employer no. Or maybe Ferris Wildman hadn’t been willing to entrust a task of this nature to anyone else.

  “I’ll need some idea of what it concerns.”

  Hill’s lips pressed primly together.

  “I’m not privy to that information.”

  So I’d guessed right. He resented being here. Compounding that was resentment at being left out. His pale gray eyes were analyzing every aspect of my office: The calendar from my DeSoto dealership showing their new 1939 models. My framed diploma from Julienne. The photo of my father in his police uniform. Hill’s expression hinted he found the surroundings only slightly better than a tenement. Maybe he hadn’t noticed the fancy pot with a dead plant decorating one corner.

  “What time will Mr. Wildman expect me?” I asked.

  “Half past seven. You’ll be compensated for your time, of course.” He stood. He gave his hat a shake to free it of rain. Or dust.

  “You’ll need to give me his address.”

  But Hill’s composure had slipped. He was staring at the pile of bullets, which my telephone had hidden while he was seated. Uncertainty teetered in the gaze which jumped to meet mine. I smiled and lowered my voice to share a secret.

  “I like to take them out and polish them now and then. Makes them shoot faster.”

  He drew himself up.

  “It has always been my experience that those with an untidy desk do untidy work,” he said stiffly.

  “Mr. Wildman’s address?” I prompted.

  “Mr. Wildman will send his car. He knows where you live.”

  “I’ll need an address anyway. If he wants to see me.”

  James C. Hill stood still as a stone for a moment. I sensed the two of us weren’t likely to become great pals.

  Good thing he wasn’t the one who wanted to hire me.

  * * *

  When I’d heard the elevator go down I stood for a minute and listened to the steam knock in the radiator. Then I went to the window and looked out.

  A navy blue Cadillac town car twice as long as the other cars parked along Patterson glided to a stop in front of my building. Twelve cylinders, judging by the length of it, maybe even one of the sixteens. Once the Depression sank its teeth in deep, even most rich folks had shied away from cars like that. A driver in livery jumped out into leftover snow to open the door. Apparently he didn’t do so fast enough for James C. Hill, who had come forward beckoning impatiently with his finely gloved fingers.

  It was pretty clear Hill liked his nice job and the importance it gave him. I had a hunch he and I would end up going a couple of rounds if his employer hired me.

  To celebrate the prospect of a fatter fee than those from the small, routine employee background checks that had kept me solvent this pa
st month, I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out the necessities for a gin and tonic. I’d drink it with my pinkie extended to get in practice. Then I’d dig up whatever background on Wildman I could in the next few hours.

  I wondered what sort of trouble had prompted someone like Ferris Wildman to send for a private investigator. I wondered what people like him served for dinner.

  Whatever it was, it was bound to beat sardines.

  Two

  Since I didn’t keep a dress at the back of my closet for when I dined with the Rockefellers, I went to Genevieve, who lived two rooms away from me at Mrs. Z’s.

  “You won’t shove a gun in the pocket and stretch the poor thing, will you?” She quirked a brow as I slipped into her close-cut black velvet jacket, admiring its tailoring.

  “If I need one I’ll have the butler bring it to me on a silver platter,” I kidded. She didn’t need to know about the .32 automatic in my evening bag. I hadn’t told anyone I still got the jitters from having a killer who’d stood almost as close as Genevieve try to shoot me a few months earlier.

  Genevieve laughed at my answer. She was a good ten years older than the rest of us girls in the rooming house, but the two of us were pals. I surveyed myself in the mirror on her wardrobe door. The jacket was a little roomy, but add it to my moire skirt, silk blouse and pearls, and I looked pretty good for five foot-two of cop’s kid who hadn’t yet turned twenty-five.

  Excited knocking sounded at Genevieve’s door. Against all etiquette usually observed by residents at Mrs. Z’s, it burst open before Genevieve had a chance to speak. Three of the other girls crowded in, wide-eyed.

  “There’s a car downstairs for Maggie!” Constance said breathlessly.

  “It’s a limousine!” said her sister.

  The usually unflappable Genevieve quick-stepped to the window with them at her heels.

  “Oh, my,” she said. “That’s not a car, it’s an ocean liner.”

  I knew it must be the big Cadillac. Slipping into my coat I headed downstairs with one eye peeled for Mrs. Z’s tomcat, who had a nasty habit of sinking his teeth into passing legs.

  The liveried driver I’d seen from my office window that afternoon was standing ramrod straight beside the big blue car. He stepped forward to open the door as I drew near.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said with a nod. “There’s a robe in there if your knees get chilly.”

  I thanked him and off we went. My attempts to chat him up didn’t bear much fruit.

  We were almost to Webster when a truck shot out of a side street. It was big – impossible to say what kind since its headlights were off. The engine revved and it came straight at us, picking up speed. Through a little window in front of me I saw the chauffeur try to wrestle his oversized chariot out of harm’s way. A crash of metal on metal sent me sliding across the seat as I grabbed for a handhold. I heard tinkling glass. The Cadillac fishtailed. Before my head cleared enough to realize we’d stopped, someone was opening my door and speaking urgently.

  “Miss! Miss! Are you alright, Miss? Don’t try to sit.”

  I did, of course.

  “Holy Mother!” I scrambled out past the uncertain hand the chauffeur raised to deter me. My breath made large, uneven puffs in the cold air. The truck had vanished.

  “They meant to hit us.” I gripped the top of the door to steady myself.

  “Yes. I–” He swallowed hard. “It looked like they did.”

  We stood for a minute breathing and gathering our wits.

  “It would have been a bad hit if you hadn’t turned this whale as fast as you did.”

  He smiled wanly. “It’s a responsive car.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rogers.” He pressed a hand to his cheek bone.

  “You get hurt?”

  “Hit my face on the steering wheel. I’ve had worse.”

  He started around to inspect the damage. I tagged along. It was going to take a headlight and a new fender and maybe some work beyond that to restore the car to its former elegance.

  “Any idea who did this?” I asked.

  “Who did it?” He looked startled.

  “You drive Mr. Wildman places. You hear things. Probably get a sense when things aren’t right.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “No idea.”

  Several porch lights had come on, prompted by the sound of the crash. No doubt plenty of faces were peering out behind curtains, with the fancy car adding extra interest to neighborly concern. A door opened and a man came toward us.

  “Do you need help?” he asked. “Is anyone hurt?”

  “Thank you, no,” Rogers said. “The car looks driveable. I’ll inform the police and come back to meet them if they wish. But first I need to get the lady to her destination.”

  The man who had offered help gave an awkward nod in my direction. Probably thought I rode around in the Cadillac on a regular basis. Rogers gestured and I went around and slid into the back seat again. But not until I’d noted which house the helpful man returned to.

  * * *

  Ferris Wildman lived in Oakwood. His driveway curved up a small hill, but with only the Cadillac’s single headlight cutting the darkness, I couldn’t tell much about the house itself. The glow from the windows was just enough to let me see it was three stories, with a crenelated balcony roofing a wide front verandah, and some kind of six-sided tower at one end. We stopped by the tower and Rogers accompanied me to the front door.

  “Tell Mr. Wildman I need to speak to him for a moment. There was – an accident,” he said to the black-suited man who opened the door.

  “Of course,” said the man in black without even a blink. He was medium build with an oblong face and traces of gray in his hair. He gave a small bow of apology. “If you’ll be so good as to wait just a moment, miss.”

  A maid in a black dress and frilly white apron stepped forward and took my coat. Rogers stood at parade rest, one arm curved to hold his hat and the other arm tucked behind him. Before I could notice much more than the hall where we stood being large enough for roller skating, and that a staircase flared like a cornucopia to the left of the entrance, a tallish man with silvery hair and a nose resembling an eagle’s beak appeared.

  “Miss Sullivan, I’m Ferris Wildman,” he said with hand outstretched. “Are you all right? I understand there was some sort of accident.”

  “Perfectly fine, thanks. Your man Rogers is an exceptional driver.”

  He smiled absently, more reflex than anything else.

  “If you’d show Miss Sullivan to my study, please,” he said to the butler. He turned away, attention now on the chauffeur. So far his manner conveyed concern, not anger.

  Wildman’s study turned out to be in the tower room. The outside wall held a beautiful little fireplace with Delph tile decorating the face and edge of the hearth. There was a drop-front mahogany secretary but no desk. I could hear the buzz of voices in the hall, too indistinct to make out what they were saying. I hoped Rogers wasn’t getting a dressing down.

  A few minutes passed. Ferris Wildman entered the room, speaking over his shoulder. “Just give Smith the approximate location. He’ll take care of formalities with the police. They can come here if they have any questions. And have Mrs. Tate give you a glass of something bolstering with your supper.”

  He advanced on me with a smile of apology.

  “Do sit down, Miss Sullivan. May I offer you something to drink? I’m partial to whiskey, though I’m told the sherry is also quite good.”

  “Whiskey, then. With a splash of water.”

  The butler went to a cart and removed the top from a silver ice bucket. I sat on a Queen Anne chair. The ease with which Wildman sank onto the divan across from me made me suspect it was his spot of choice.

  “You’re sure you’re not hurt anywhere?” he asked. “Rogers says the collision was hard.”

  “You’ve got a sturdy car.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. A terrible indulgence.�
�� He didn’t sound at all repentant.

  I waited while the butler set our drinks down and departed.

  “Did Rogers tell you they rammed us deliberately?” I asked.

  “He said they might have.”

  “Any chance it’s related to whatever problem you brought me here to discuss?”