He thought about that, nodded slowly.
“Also,” I went on, pointing toward the ashtray, “Estelle didn’t smoke, either. Yet some of these butts—and there’s some heeled-out ones on the dining room floor, too—show lipstick. And some don’t. Man and a woman.”
Drury smiled in defeat, shrugged. “Man and a woman.”
I moved toward the archway, kneeling. “After while they dragged her into the dining room—by the hair, I’d say. There’s some strands right here. Red. Hers.”
He knelt down next to me. “You haven’t forgotten how to be a detective, have you?”
I didn’t tell him that the only way I could handle this charnel house was to revert into being a cop; that I was forcing myself, like a man trying to put toothpaste back into the tube, into once again looking at the world from a detached, strictly business perspective. To keep from thinking about scorched flesh, the smell of which was in my nostrils. To keep from remembering the soft pink flesh of a girl I’d loved once.
“They were friends of hers,” I said, standing.
Drury stood, too. “Friends? Not hardly!”
“Well—not in the long run, no. But the firemen had to kick down the front door, right? It was night-latched, correct?”
“Yes,” he said. “So we can presume she kept it latched, and only let in people she knew.”
“And felt secure enough, having let this lovely couple in, to latch it behind her.”
“So she knew them. I’ll give you that. Not necessarily friends, though.”
“Friends. They knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t have liquor in the place and brought their own. She invited them into her kitchen. She was making one of them cocoa. Friends.”
He smiled a little and shrugged. “Friends,” he agreed.
“This back door is locked, too,” I noted.
“Yeah. We got ourselves a regular locked-room mystery here.”
“No mystery,” I said, unlocking it, looking it over. “This is a spring lock. The killers went out the back way, the door locking behind them.”
Drury gave me a wry one-sided grin. “There’s nothing here I wouldn’t have figured out for myself, you know.”
“Sure,” I said, managing to grin back at him. “But I don’t mind taking a couple of minutes and saving you two or three hours of brain work.”
“You should be on the radio. Cantor could use the help. Want a look at the bedroom? Maybe you can save me from thinking in there, too.”
Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom had been tossed; the mattress had been gutted with a knife, even its pink fluffy spread slit open. The white French provincial furnishings were scattered, occasionally broken.
“What were they looking for?” I said. “They obviously were torturing her, trying to make her talk. What was she hiding? What did she know?”
He shrugged. “I’m not so sure they were trying to make her talk at all. I think she was being made an example of.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s this grand jury thing, Nate. Nicky Dean was the last to squeal. Bioff went first, Browne cracked next but only recently has Dean loosened up. Only recently has he cooperated at all with Uncle Sam—now that a reduced sentence has been dangled in front of him.”
“And killing his girl is a warning from the Outfit for Nicky to clam back up?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Then why not just kill her? Why torture her like this?”
“This’ll have more impact, Nate. This’ll smack Nicky between his bushy eyebrows.”
“Yeah, right, only Nitti doesn’t work this way.”
“The old Nitti didn’t. But he’s been under a lot of pressure.”
“Since when?”
“Like the song says, since you went away. There was a big scandal about Nitti-owned linen services having contracts with the public schools. When the press got hold of that, he lost the contracts, which were lucrative, and then Mayor Kelly, to save face, let us crack down on Nitti’s bookie joints and nightclubs. Even the Colony Club got shuttered.”
“Where was Estelle working, then?”
He gestured to the sheared bed. “Right out of here, I’d say.”
“What do you base that on?”
“Sergeant Donahoe’s already given this room a cursory once-over, and he reports her affects indicate a call-girl operation.”
He walked me over to a dresser, on its side; one drawer had been taken out, its contents scattered, bundles of letters, mostly. I wondered if it had been done by the killers or the police. Drury poked around, found a little black address book, which he plucked from the rubble. He began thumbing through it. Smiling as he read.
“Well, well, well,” he said, running his finger down a page, then going on to the next page and running his finger down that one. “Some very familiar names. Of some very wealthy men—doctors, lawyers, here’s Wyman, the iron construction man. He was involved in a messy divorce not so long ago…”
“So she was a call girl, then.”
“Looks like.” He kept thumbing through it. “And get this—some of these other names…friends of hers from her twenty-six girl days. High-class hookers.”
“What, you figure she was their madam?”
He shrugged. “Of sorts, maybe. Maybe she was a referral service, if you will. But any way you look at it, she was making her living on her back.”
I couldn’t argue with him.
“Well, then,” I said, “you’re going to have a merry time sticking this on the Outfit.”
His expression darkened. “Why’s that?”
“If she wasn’t being tortured to make her talk, what does that leave? She was being made an example of, like you say. Or—she was tortured by somebody who wanted to see her suffer, for the sheer sweet pleasure of it. For revenge.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So what you got here is the torture slaying of a dead call girl who’s been seeing a lot of high-hats, and one of her tormenters, one of her slayers, seems to be a woman. Now, off the top of your head, what does that all add up to?”
He grunted. “Jealous wife.”
“You got it. See if the papers don’t land on that with both feet.”
“Maybe,” he said, giving me his best official look. “And we’ll pursue that avenue. I don’t rule anything out. You heard, when we came in, the downstairs neighbor say she saw a guy in the alley.” Around two-thirty, running, with fur coats in his arms, she’d said. “Well, there’s been a series of apartment fur thefts going on in Lakeview for the past three months. So I don’t rule that out either, though in my opinion the killer just grabbed the coats on the way out to make this look more like a robbery, not a mob hit. Nonetheless, I smell the Outfit all over this.”
I could only smell scorched flesh. My lunch was acting up again. Be a cop, a voice said.
“Somebody was looking for something,” I said, making myself get back into this on that level. “What?”
Shrug. “Jewels, maybe. Estelle was known to have ’em. That doesn’t rule out this being a hit; why shouldn’t an assassin pick up a little extra something in the bargain? At the same time confusing the police as to the motive.”
That made sense, but then, on cue, Sergeant Donahoe, a heavyset middle-aged detective with a basset-hound mug, came in from the other room with his hands full of obviously expensive jewelry, including a diamond ring and a glittering diamond bracelet.
“We found this in a baseboard hiding place,” Donahoe said, “in the living room.” His hound-dog expression made the news sound unintentionally woeful.
“So much for jewels,” I said.
“That just means the killers didn’t find the goddamn things,” Drury said, shrugging it off.
“Also,” Donahoe said, piling the jewels in one hand, reaching in his pocket with the other, “this was tucked away in there.” A little silver .25 automatic with a pearl handle.
Drury took the gun. “Didn’t do her much good h
id away, did it?” Dropped it in his pocket.
“And there’s a sable coat in the front closet,” Donahoe said glumly, and went out.
“So much for fur robbery as a motive,” I said. “If they weren’t looking for furs or jewels, what’s left?”
“Money,” Drury said.
“A popular item,” I admitted. “But Estelle was known for socking her dough away, in banks, in safe deposit boxes. She was notorious for sponging off people; she rarely had a cent on her, or in her place.”
“There is a rumor,” Drury said carefully, and I had the feeling he had waited till we were alone to say this, “that a fund Nicky Dean was in charge of—something to do with ‘taxing’ the Stagehands Union members—was emptied just before he was sent up. Dean refuses to discuss it, but the estimate is somewhere in the million-dollar area.”
The infamous 2 percent income tax Montgomery had once told me about.
“Jesus.” I finished the scenario myself: “And, I suppose, rumor further has it that Estelle was entrusted with this dough? By and for Nicky, till he got out of stir?”
Drury nodded.
“Then this could have been anybody, Bill. Anybody who knew Estelle and knew about the million. They tortured her and she didn’t talk. She held on to her dough till the last. Which is like her, the greedy little bitch. Damn her!”
“Nate, I’m sorry I brought you in on this…”
“Shut up. Quit saying that.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Ask.”
“Suppose I can prove Nitti was behind this. Not necessarily in court, ’cause God only knows if that’s even possible. You know the department’s record where solving gangland murders is concerned. But suppose I can prove to your satisfaction that Nitti did this. Would you tell what you know on the witness stand when the grand jury calls you?”
Estelle’s death in my nostrils, I said, “Yes.”
He grinned and shook my hand; his enthusiasm was not matched by anything of the kind from me. I was feeling weak. Be a cop, the voice said.
“What about those letters?” I heard myself say. Working by rote, now.
He went over and bent down at the dresser where the bundled letters lay. One of the bundles was already undone; he read a sample. Skimmed another, saying, “From some serviceman. Love letters. This one’s in answer to a letter of hers, so she was exchanging ’em with him. Pretty hot stuff. ‘If only I could see and fold you in my arms,’ ha. Hey, he’s pissed in this one—‘Damn your cruel heart.’ Jeez, you don’t think she was seeing some other guy besides him, do you? Heaven forbid. There’s no name on any of these that I can see, just signs his initials—A. D. Year of our Lord? Ha. Anyway, there’s a San Diego address for referral overseas. Well, we’ll track him down soon enough. Huh, and there’s a photo, too.” He held it up for me to see, a portrait of a young Marine in dress blues.
“Nate—what’s wrong? You’re white as a ghost.”
“Nothing. I think it’s time I got out of here, is all.”
I didn’t tell him it was a face I’d seen before. The last time had been in a shell hole on Guadalcanal.
D’Angelo.
She floated across the dance floor, which was her stage, which was hers alone, graceful as a ballet dancer, naked as the human id but considerably more controlled, a huge ostrich feather fan in either hand, first this fan and then that one, one or the other, strategically placed at all times, granting flashes of flesh at her whim, feathers swooping, fluttering, moving on the toes of her high-heeled pumps, blond hair stacked in curls upon an angelic countenance, no hint of the devil in her smile as her fleeting glimpses of nakedness turned the men in the house into peeping toms and the women into jealous janes.
The music, as usual, was classical—“Moonlight Sonata,” her theme song—filtered through the big-band sound of Pichel and Blank’s Orchestra, men in white jackets sitting on risers behind her, enjoying the uncensored rear view. The lighting was soft and blue, and from where I sat with Eliot, ringside at Rinella’s Brown Derby, at Monroe and Wabash, in “the heart of the Loop!,” she didn’t look a day older than she had when I’d seen her at the World’s Fair almost ten years ago, cavorting with a “bubble,” a big balloon she’d temporarily traded in for her ostrich feathers. It had been the second year of the fair and a new gimmick was called for. Even beautiful naked blonde women had to keep up with the changing times. Only time wasn’t keeping up with Sally, apparently. She was eternally beautiful. Unlike Estelle Carey, fate had been kind. Fate and soft lighting.
And now she was reaching the climax of her act, the moment all had been waiting for, when she unashamedly threw up the feather fans and they loomed over her as she stood like the statue of Winged Victory, smiling, proud, one leg lifted gently, knee up, keeping one small region a secret, a secret she’d shared with me, but long ago. Her smile was regal, her head back, proud of her beauty, her body, her talent. The house went wild with applause.
The lights grew dim and the applause continued but when the lights came back up Sally was gone, and no amount of clapping could bring her back. Once she raised her fans and showed her all, there was no encore possible. For those eager enough for another glimpse of the goddess in the full-figured flesh, there were two more shows tonight. This had been the finale of the eight-thirty dinner show, and as the orchestra began playing schmaltzy dance music, “Serenade in Blue,” Eliot and I were working on our third after-dinner drink. Which was beer, as that and wine were the only options; distillers had been banned from producing drinking liquor since last October.
For an ex-prohibition agent—an understated way of describing him indeed—Eliot Ness could really put the beer away. He would have preferred scotch, just as I would have preferred rum. But there was a war on.
“She really brought the house down,” Eliot said, latest beer in hand.
“She always does.”
“How long’s it been since she played Chicago?”
“Last time I know of was in ’41. She may have played here while I was away, though.”
“Probably not,” he said, taking a sip. “The billing said, ‘Triumphant Return’—that sounds like it’s been a while. You’d think she could play Chicago any time she wanted.”
“She could,” I said, “if she was willing to play the burlesque houses. But she only plays nightclubs and other classy…what is the word she uses? Venues.”
“Ha. Uh, how well do you know her, anyway?”
“Not well, anymore. I haven’t talked to her in years.”
“You knew her well once?”
“I knew a lot of women once. Damn few twice.”
He smiled. “You always feel sorry for yourself when you drink.”
I smiled. “Fuck you.”
A young lady at the table next to us spilled her wine; her older beau glared at me. Both were in evening dress. Both should have been less easily shocked for people who’d bribed a maitre d’ for the front-row seat at a strip show.
Eliot said, “You’re going to have to watch that mouth.”
“Out with soap?” I drank my beer. “Yeah, I know. I’m not fit for the real world, yet. Could you do me a favor?”
“Try to.”
“I’d like to track down a service buddy of mine.”
He shrugged. “Shouldn’t be any problem. In my capacity, I work hand in hand with the military brass, every day.”
“You mean, as the guy safeguarding the health and morals of the armed forces.”
“That’s morale, but yes. I’m well connected.”
“You should’ve shown some of your movies to Capone.”
Eliot smirked. “Al and I are fighting syphilis each in his own way.”
The young lady spilled her wine again; I waved and smiled as her beau glared.
“Of course,” he said, “if your friend is still overseas, it could take a while to track him.”
“He should be stateside by now. He was pretty badly wounded. He was one of the guys in tha
t shell hole with Barney and me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh. You figure he was hospitalized over here.”
“Yeah. He might even be out by now. The kind of wound I had, they keep you inside longer.”
“What’s his name?”
“D’Angelo. B Company, 2nd Battalion, 8th Regiment, 2nd Marine Division.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He dug inside his suitcoat and came back with a little notebook and a pen. He had me repeat the information.
“What’s his first name?”
“Anthony, I think.”
“You think?”
“We weren’t much on first names.”
He put the notebook and pen away, smiled tightly. “Get right on it, first thing tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I’ll be in the office.”
“This sounds pressing.”
“It is. Somebody else will be looking for him, and I want to get there first.”
Eliot thought about that for a moment, then smiled again and said, “It’s your business. You asked a favor, and it’s yours, no questions asked. I don’t expect an explanation.”
“I know you don’t. And I’m not going to give you one, either.”
He laughed and finished the beer. Waved at a waitress, cute as candy in her skimpy black and white lacy outfit, who came over and brought him a new bottle. Manhattan brand; the Capone mob’s label, forced upon the local niteries by union pressure. I was still working on my previous bottle of Nitti nectar.
“This afternoon sounds like it was pretty rough,” he said, pouring the bottle’s contents into his glass, meaning Estelle.
“Rough enough. That’s something else you could do for me.”
“Oh?”
“Keep me posted, Eliot. Now that Estelle’s been murdered, the shit’s gonna hit the federal fan.”
The young lady got up and threw her napkin down and the beau went rushing after her.
“You mean, specifically,” he said, “you’re interested in how this event affects Nicky Dean and his willingness to testify.”
“Precisely, my dear Watson. And my prediction is he zips his lip.”
“Do you agree with Drury that it’s a mob hit, or not?”
The Million-Dollar Wound (Nathan Heller) Page 24