Don't Dare a Dame (12 page)

   
The room at the back reeked of bay rum and male privilege. Four men in shirt sleeves looked up from a poker game as I stepped through the door.

   
“Mr. Warren, I wonder if I could speak with you for a couple of minutes.” I flashed my brightest smile at the man I recognized from the photographs. He was middle-aged, medium build and strikingly handsome. His dark hair swept straight back. White streaked the center and temples.

   
“Oh, Mr. Warren, I’m so sorry!” the girl from the front desk apologized, crowding in behind me. “She just brushed right past—”

   
“Don’t worry. No harm done.”

   
He waved a finger and she scurried off as he produced a chuckle which didn’t quite mask irritation. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his head and eyed me with practiced pleasantness.

   
“I’m afraid you caught us boys being naughty. What can I do for you, sweetheart?”

   
I let the ‘sweetheart’ go for the time being.

   
“My name’s Maggie Sullivan, and I’d like to ask you some questions about Alf Maguire.”

   
His reaction was nothing except faint puzzlement.

   
“Alf Maguire....” he repeated slowly. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize that name.”

   
Since he hadn’t done the gentlemanly thing and invited me to sit down, I helped myself to the chair in front of his desk and crossed my legs. All four men looked startled. Maybe they weren’t used to a woman making herself at home back here. Or most likely anywhere else. I made slow circles with my toe.

   
“Kind of odd it doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, the two of you cut quite a swath together over on Percy Street.”

   
Cy Warren stroked his chin with his fingers.

   
“Percy Street ... Do you mean Alfred from the drugstore?”

   
“That’s the man.”

   
One of his cronies started to clear cards and poker chips from the side of the desk where they’d been playing. The other two seemed mesmerized by my legs.

   
“Lord almighty. I haven’t thought about him in years.” Cy’s indulgent smile hinted at memories of youthful hijinks. “What’s this about?”

   
I leaned forward and slid him one of my business cards. He read it and frowned.

   
“Sam — track down Wilkins and talk to him about the northeast. You two, go through those records again,” he instructed the two who remained seated. “Use a fine tooth comb. I want something I can use at that meeting.” When all three were gone, he picked up my card and read it again. “What’s Alf done?”

   
I noted his switch from Alfred to Alf.

   
“What makes you think he’s done anything?”

   
The indulgent smile appeared again.

   
“That’s generally why people come to politicians. They’re in some sort of jam or need some sort of favor.”

   
“Alf’s not much in need of favors right now. Then again, maybe he is, since from what I’ve heard he may need to do some bargaining with St. Peter.”

   
Cy’s forehead wrinkled.

   
“Are you saying he’s dead?”

   
“Bingo.”

   
“When?”

   
“Thursday night.”

   
He sank back with a sigh.

   
“Poor old Alf. But I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you’re here—”

   
“I was hired to find out about a man named John Vanhorn. He went to Dillon’s Drugs on the day it burned down and he never came home. Alf Maguire knew him. I’m hoping you did too.”

   
He reached for a humidor on his desk, brows drawn in concentration.

   
“I’m sorry.” He removed a cigar from the humidor and clipped the end. “It’s not a name I recall—”

   
“Were you there on the day of the fire?”

   
“Was I...? No. Yes.” He paused to get the cigar going, buying time. The pupils of his eyes had contracted when I mentioned Vanhorn. “Those three days — that whole damn week — is a jumble, if you want to know. But yes, I was there then. Not during the fire, though. Earlier. Everyone was. Everyone with a shop. Moving whatever they could to the attics.

   
“My old man was exhausted. I made him go home while his horse could still get through the water. Told him I’d carry the rest of the boxes of shirts and some cartons of underwear up and stick them under the eaves before I locked up. It was the best we could do. Someone came along in a boat as I was leaving, shouted for me to get in. I don’t even remember where I got out or walking home.”

   
He let out a long stream of smoke and regarded me through it. Some cigars smell marginally better than cigarettes. This one brought to mind a hot iron scorching a shirt.

   
“I don’t suppose you can tell me why you’re asking about something that happened that long ago?”

   
“No.”

   
Cy glanced at the doorway into the front of the office. He stood and went over to look out for a moment. When he resumed his seat at the desk, he leaned forward, lowering his voice a notch.

   
“You knew I was lying when I pretended not to recognize Alf’s name the first time you asked.”

   
“I’ve had plenty of experience spotting liars.”

   
His sharp look told me he didn’t like being included in that group.

   
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand the intricacies of politics,” he said smoothly. “Voters are moody. Especially now that we have to win the votes of you ladies.” He shot me a smile that was probably meant to suggest we gals were all bright as buttons. “Sure, Alf and I had some laughs when we were young. But he isn’t — wasn’t — the sort I’d want people to associate with me now. In and out of debt. Setting up house for a woman half his age while his wife was dying.”

   
I thought Cy might be overstating his concerns about voters just a little.

   
“Tell me about the in and out of debt part,” I said.

   
Resting his cigar on the rim of a brass ashtray, he shrugged with what I recognized as impatience.

   
“We’d run into one another a couple of times through the years. Had a drink together once, I think. Twice he came to ask if I’d bail him out with a loan.”

   
“Did he say why he needed the money?”

   
The politician shook his head.

   
“Gambling?”

   
“I don’t know. Actually....” He pulled at his chin again. “Now that I think, the last time he came, he mentioned legal expenses.”

   
“When was this?”

   
“Couple months back.”

   
When he was contesting his dead wife’s bequest of the house to Corrine, I thought.

   
“And before that?” I asked.

   
“Eight, ten years ago?” Cy gestured vaguely, his dwindling interest apparent.

   
“Did you pay?”

   
“The first time I did. Not the last. I feel somewhat bad now, knowing he’s dead.” He began to shrug into his suit jacket. “I’m afraid I can’t spare you any more time just now. Come back any time if you have more questions.”

   
I stood up. So did he. Resting a hand on my shoulder, he began to steer me gently but expertly toward the door.

   
“If I ever have need of detective work, I’ll keep you in mind. I can see you’re very good at your work.”

   
He gave me a smile which crinkled his eyes. I smiled back.

   
“Looks like you’re good at yours, too — sweetheart.”

Fourteen

   
I left Cy Warren’s office and headed left toward the corner without looking back to see if anyone watched me. Across the street, at the opposite corner and two doors up where he wouldn’t be visible to anyone in Cy’s place, Heebs lounged against a building. At sight of me, he began to amble toward the intersection, yelling in his best newsboy style to “get the early news.” I turned the opposite direction. Our paths never crossed.

   
Halfway up the cross street I turned into a hole in the wall that sold coffee and sandwiches. Chances of Cy and his cronies showing up here were just about nil. Their watering hole was much more likely to be a beer joint. Five minutes after I’d settled myself at a table with two mugs of joe, Heebs came in grinning.

   
“Easy as pie, sis. They even bought two papers just to get rid of me.”

   
He ladled sugar and cream into the coffee in front of him. The cream was too rich to pour and mounded on his spoon like pudding.

   
“Two sharpies and a girl in the front,” he reported, licking the spoon. “Didn’t get her name. They just called her ‘the girl’ when they told her to pay me. She took money out of a drawer, though, so I guess they weren’t making her pay. None of ’em looked too worried. Didn’t look like they were having a pow-wow or anything.”

   
He slurped some coffee, checking the temperature. His next drink was quieter.

   
“At first the gents said they didn’t need any papers, they’d already read the early edition and the late one would be out directly. I told ’em they ought to have papers out where people could see them if they stopped in. Make it look like they kept right up to the minute. They chuckled, but they said ‘no’ again. So I moseyed over to the girl and called her ‘miss’ — that butters dames up — but she said ‘no’ too.

   
“Didn’t matter, ’cause I’d been thinking the door behind her was closed, and I hadn’t seen any guy with white in his hair like you described—”

   
“Heebs!” I’d told him not to take any chances.

   
“So I said to the girl, all innocent, ‘Anybody back there? Maybe they’d like one.’ Only by the time I finished saying it, I had my hand on the door. I just got a peek before one the men in front yelled for me to get away from there or he’d knock me into next Sunday. He’d stood up and was heading over. I backed off meek as could be, and said I hadn’t meant any harm. That’s when he told me to give the girl two papers and git. So I did.”

   
He paused, and I suspected it was for drama. He did, however, take the opportunity to swallow more coffee.

   
“Saw somebody back there in the little bit I got the door open, though. White streak down his hair makes him look kinda like a skunk?”

   
“Yeah, that’s him.” An opponent or two might have called Cy a skunk, but I suspected this was the first time the term had been used to describe his looks.

   
“He was hunched over the blower, talking away to somebody,” Heebs continued. “Near as I could tell, he wasn’t too happy.” He hitched forward on his chair and crossed his arms on the table, eyes sparkling. “Listen, sis, if there’s something shady going on there, I got a plan to keep an eye on things for you.”

   
“No.”

   
“Aw, you ain’t even heard it yet. Haven’t,” he corrected hastily, saving me from doing it for the umpteenth time. “See, first I trade Con, who sells down here and let him have my corner for a week. He’ll do it ’cause he’ll sell more papers on my corner, so you’ll have to make up my difference there. Then I’ll keep going in to sell those pols papers, but I won’t do anything else to get them suspicious. I’ll just get chummy. Tell ’em how I’m interested in learning politics, and I’ll do chores for them for nothing if they let me hang around.”

   
“Okay, I’ve heard it and the answer’s still ‘No.’”

   
As plans went, it wasn’t half bad. His attempt to see into the back room showed he took risks, though, and I didn’t want to be responsible for his taking more.

   
“Why not?” he insisted.

   
If he put his foot wrong around Cy Warren’s crew, they’d have him shipped off to the orphans’ home before he could blink. If they suspected him of snooping, they’d do worse. But if I told the kid it was too dangerous, he might take it into his head to do it anyway. I thought quickly.