Dressed to Killed (10 page)

"I'm sorry for her," Giselle said, backing away from the body. "She always seemed such a happy girl..."

I took her arm and led her out.

When we were in Ed James' car again, he looked quizzically at me. "Any bright ideas?"

"Damned if I know," I admitted. "It looks like a simple case of mistaken identity, yet the whole thing seems sort of careless, as though there were loopholes just waiting for somebody to jump through them."

"So?"

"So I'm going to have a talk with Leo Gold."

Ed lifted his eyebrows. "At this hour?"

"He can get out of bed, can't he?"

"Feeling tough, eh?" He grinned. "Well, deal me out. Thank God, I've got an edition to make."

Giselle pressed my arm. "I'll go with you, Rusty."

TO PUT it crudely, the stink was getting stronger and I was beginning to quiver with the excitement of a bird dog on the scent.

I walked a block north and stopped in a drugstore. Gold's office address was listed in the telephone directory, but not his residence. I drank a cup of coffee while I pondered the matter, and I decided it might be smart to approach him obliquely. With that thought in mind, I went west to Clark Street, then walked slowly south until I spotted Sands' joint, the Silver Cloud.

I pushed my way through to a table against the wall, and, when a girl with a tray shouted: "Whatcha want?" I hollered for a scotch. I got it—half in the glass and half on the table— and she scooted away with fifty cents.

A tired-eyed brunette in a once-white gown edged her way to my table. "Hello, honey," she cried, making a feeble attempt to sparkle. "Lonesome?"

"In this crowd?" I asked.

"It's possible, ain't it?" she retorted. "Wanna buy me a drink?"

"Not especially."

"Do it anyway, huh?" She groaned exaggeratedly and swelled her bosom so I wouldn't miss anything. "Gawd, my feet are killing me!" She squeezed into the chair across from me. "I'll have a whisky and water."

Without being instructed, the waitress hurried up with another scotch for me, a shot-glass full of whisky, and half a glass of water. She snatched a dollar bill from my fingers and hurried away.

Noticing my surprised expression, the girl said: "She knew you were going to buy me a drink, I guess. My name's Honey Hughes. What's yours?"

"Give me a minute. I'll try to think of one."

"Oh, married, huh? What are you doing, cheating a little tonight?" She winked knowingly and lifted the shot-glass. Her eyes alighted on my beret. "Hey, nothing wrong with you, is there?"

"You ought to ask Diane about that."

"Diane?" Her eyes narrowed. "She work around here?"

"Diane Doll. She sort of moves around. You know."

"Oh, one of those. Guess I don't know her. I'd remember a phony tag like that. How about another drink?"

I invested another dollar.

She downed the drink. "How'd you happened to stop in here? You looking for this Diane?"

"No, I had some business with Eddie Sands but I hear he's been knocked off. Who's running the place now?"

"The big girl, of course."

"Who's that—Ginny?"

"You just don't know from nothing, mister." She shook her head as though she had just noticed several screws missing. "If you mean Ginny Evans who used to thrush here, she don't even figure. The big girl these days is Norma Mae Sands, Eddie's wife."

"Hell, I heard they broke up a couple years ago. She was chasing around, giving him a hard time, stuff like that."

"Not Norma Mae." She moved her head positively. "Maybe you mean his first wife. Say, talking like this makes me thirsty. You going to pop for another drink?"

"Sure." I waited until she had a fresh glass in her hand, then I said: "Maybe I can deal with Norma Mae. Where can I find her?"

"Downstairs, probably." She nodded disinterestedly toward a side door. "She's down there counting the liquor already, and Eddie ain't even in the ground yet." "I'll see you later, baby." I got up.

She didn't give me an argument. "Sure, sure," she said. "Any time, mister." Her eyes were busy with the crowd, searching for another likely male. As I walked away, she pulled herself to her feet and started toward another table.

I elbowed my way down an aisle, circled the four-by-four dancing area, and inched my way toward the door. I reached it and looked around. The guys were studying the girls, the girls were trying to do business with the guys, and the bartenders were jumping around as though the duck-boards were hot. Nobody was paying any attention to little me. I opened the door casually and went downstairs.

The short flight of wooden steps took me down to a concrete basement which was littered with empty coke cases, metal beer kegs, and the sticky smell of stale liquor.

I worked my way toward the front of the building. I passed the pale circle cast by a bare 25-watt bulb and ventured into the semi-darkness beyond. A wooden wall confronted me suddenly. I felt along it, searching for a door. My fingers found a crack, moved upward, encountered a metal loop from which an open padlock hung. I tugged gently on it, like a lover suggesting that time was flying. It moved toward me, making a faint squeak like the hunger cry of a very young mouse. Immediately, my blood froze and I stood motionless, waiting in fear.

A murmur of voices filtered toward me. I made out the high-key tones of a woman, speaking quickly and with some sharpness, and then the lower tones of a man talking persuasively.

Very clearly, I heard the woman's voice say: "I'm tired of sitting here, wondering what's going to happen."

More subdued, but still clearly, the man replied: "You pressed the buzzer, like I told you to, didn't you?"

"Of course. But that was a good five minutes ago."

"Whoever it is, they aren't going any place, Norma Mae. The boys will be watching."

"It makes me nervous. That's my objection to this whole scheme. It's too complicated. You should have—"

"For God's sake, be quiet, Norma Mae, for another minute or two."

"But it may be a cop—"

"It isn't. They don't sneak around."

"But—"

Then it dawned on me: when I'd come down the steps a warning light must have flashed in the office. They knew I was there! For a long moment, I felt like a buckshot rolling around at the bottom of a tin barrel. Retreat was out of the question; they'd taken care of that. My heart began to pound out a dull tattoo as, with my hand on the gun in my pocket, I cast caution to the winds and pulled the door back.

A woman sat behind a desk, looking as shaky as a dish of jello with malaria. She had apprehensive dark eyes, a thin face, a nose like a blunted fin, and dark curly hair arranged in tousled fashion. The black dress she wore was folded over her breasts like thin paper over a narrow box—and with about the same effect. I figured her age as somewhere on the wrong side of forty.

Leo Gold, working his jaws like a squirrel who has a tough nut to crack, sat on the far side of the desk. He looked less natty than he had that afternoon, but I sensed he still felt very much on the ball. His eyes added and subtracted me quickly, like a monkey contemplating a banana.

"Well, well, it's Mr. Forbes," he murmured coolly. "Mrs. Sands, this is Russell Forbes, the private dick the cops are so anxious to talk to; Forbes, meet Norma Mae Sands, Eddie's widow."

Norma Mae greeted me effusively, saying: "A dick. What's the idea?"

"I imagine he has an interesting explanation," Gold hinted. He crossed his knees, being careful not to put undue strain on the crease of his trousers.

Since it seemed time for me to say something, I said: "I thought I'd drop in and help the widow check through Eddie's assets."

"The hell you say," Norma Mae commented. She glared at Gold. "What's going on, Leo? How come this guy's smelling around?"

"He's a fugitive from justice," Gold replied, keeping his eyes on me. "You saw the papers, didn't you? The cops think he killed Eddie. They picked him up at Fia Sprite's place late this afternoon."

"Why ain't he in the can, then?"

"He broke out," Gold explained patiently. "You've got a phone there, Norma Mae. Give the station a buzz and they'll come and pick him up."

"They'll pick you up, too," I snapped. "They know about your racket."

"My racket?" Gold looked surprised. "Since when has the practice of law been a racket?"

"What does peddling stolen merchandise have to do with the practice of law?" I goaded.

"Quite a bit," he replied easily, "especially if someone happens to be arrested. A lawyer is required to represent people charged with all sorts of crimes. You should be aware of that, Mr. Forbes."

"I'm aware of the fact that you practice very little law, Gold—and spend a lot of your time directing the activities of peddlers like Richmond."

"Say, what's going on?" Norma asked sharply. "You guys like to hear your own voices, or are you saying something?"

I grinned at her. "I'm saying something, Mrs. Sands! I'm saying that Eddie was killed because Gold thought he was trying to chisel in on his racket. Eddie had a quarter-million in TV sets cached away, ready to be moved—and Gold wants to get his hands on them."

The bomb I tossed casually between them fizzled and refused to pop. Without blinking an eye, she snapped: "My God, it looks like everybody knows about it. I told you we should have—"

"Please, Norma Mae—" Gold moistened his lips and eyed me with a little more respect. "What do you know about these sets, Forbes?"

"I know the whole story, including what they'd be worth to a guy in your racket."

"Do you know where they are?" He asked it gently.

"I know how to get them," I sparred.

"How?"

"By laying a hundred grand on the line."

"That's funny. Really hysterical."

"Well, it's what they want."

"It's what who wants?"

I let the question join the millions of other unanswered interrogations in the world. For what seemed an eternity, the three of us sat there, each busy with his own calculations, each deciding which path led to the biggest—and safest—bank balance. Mrs. Sands broke the silence first.

"How much would you pay, Leo?" she asked, very businesslike.

He moved one shoulder. "Ten grand."

She recoiled as though he had an infectious disease. "You're crazy!"

"I can't help it." Gold repeated the shoulder tic. "We'd have to get rid of them fast, and the only way to do that is to deal with dealers. To make hot goods interesting to them, we'd have to slice the cost way down. Possibly we could grab ourselves about seventy-five grand which, even before it's cut up among the boys, has to cover trucking fees, protection, warehouse charges, and half-a-dozen other things. Ten grand—and that's being generous."

"We'll move them ourselves, then!" she snapped.

"But, Norma Mae—you can't move something you haven't got," Gold pointed out.

Silence slid in and did a waltz among us. Mrs. Sands was thinking hard, which gave her sharp face the strained expression of a hen about to lay an egg. "He came to see me," she said abruptly. "You can beat it, Leo."

Gold evinced surprise. "You'll regret this, Norma Mae."

"It works both ways," she snapped. "I'm not afraid of you."

Gold arose, frowning as though his opinion had been asked on a weighty matter, and adjusted the drape of his suit jacket. He walked to the door, nodded slightly before opening it, then turned. "I hope you know what you're doing, Norma Mae," he said. "This takes it out of my hands, you know."

"It's been out of your hands all along," she retorted. "Beat it."

With a slight smile at me, he did.

"Now," she said, bending her thin lips into what she probably thought was a confidence-inspiring smile, "we can get down to brass tacks, Mr. Forbes. I'm Eddie's widow, so the sets belong to me. I don't intend to get robbed, but I'm a reasonable woman. How much will you take?"

"Fifty grand," I replied.—"That's the minimum."

"Gold offered ten. I'll make it fifteen."

"Hell, I can get that without lifting a finger."

"How do you figure?"

"The insurance company will be delighted to pay ten percent."

"Twenty, then. That's top." She squeezed her lips into a narrow hyphen. "Don't forget, they're really mine."

"Twenty percent?" I asked innocently.

"Twenty grand. Take it or leave it."

"I don't know," I said. "My friends wanted fifty. If it were me—" I let the phrase dangle, hoping she would pick it up and weave it into a bond of understanding.

She did. "It's twice what Gold offered. You heard him. You can explain things to your friends, can't you?"

"I suppose."

"I'll give you an extra grand for your trouble."

"Thanks. There's no phone where they are. Suppose I see them and come back."

"Sure. I'll be here a while."

"Well, okay, then. I'll see them and give them the story—"

From far away, the thin wail of a siren rose like the cry of a sex-crazed tomcat, splitting the stale air between us. As though jerked by the same string, we jumped to our feet and listened. It rose again, coming rapidly closer, its wail more strident and imperative.

"God—!" we said in unison.

"The dirty bastard," she added. "He hollered cop!"

THE siren slid into a long soprano ahhhh, then abruptly died. The floor above us rattled with the sound of running feet. A moment later, a red bulb above the door began flickering.

"They know you're down here," she hissed. 'The low-down, dirty—!"

"How can I get out?"

"Here." She circled the desk, grabbed the edge of a filing cabinet, and pulled it aside with a strength which surprised me. She kicked at a plywood panel. The panel fell away, leaving a dark hole about three feet high and two feet wide. "Duck through there."

I spotted a dirty brown felt hat on a stand in the corner. I snatched the hat and went through the hole on my hands and knees. Before I could scramble to my feet, she had swung the filing cabinet against the wall again. I got to my feet, bent, felt around until I located the panel, and pressed it back into place again. By the musty smell about me, I knew that I was in another basement. I took off the beret and clapped the brown felt on my head. It was tight but it felt better than the beret. I flung the beret into the darkness.

With a hand against the wall to guide me, I moved cautiously toward the rear. Several times I heard the scratching-scrape of scampering rats, and once my feet kicked a cardboard carton. Then I spotted the pale gleam of a lighted crack far ahead and went rapidly toward it. A door! I listened a moment, then opened it. There was a garbage can on a small landing—and narrow stairs leading sharply upward. I made a swift decision and ran up the stairs.

They continued for three flights, then ended on a blank landing. A series of iron rungs imbedded in the wall led to a skylight. I went up the rungs gingerly, swung an arm into space, and pushed against the skylight. A metal catch held it. I released the catch and tried again. A shower of dirt enveloped me. Choking and cursing, I pushed the skylight up with my shoulders and clambered onto the roof. Above me, a sliver of moon was rocking toward a scattering of stars. I dropped the skylight into place and ran south, hurdling the small brick ramparts which separated each building.

The corner building was a hotel. I tried a door which led to an elevator housing, but it was securely locked and barred. The top of a fire ladder loomed against the sky. I ran toward it, tested it with my weight, then backed down it carefully. My feet touched an iron grating. I rested my weight on it and, flattening myself against the building, looked around. The fire escape zigzagged down, ending in a final section suspended above the street and which, I knew, would make a hell of a racket if I made use of it. To my right, within easy reach, there was a partly open window. I crawled toward it, made certain that the room within was unlighted, and raised it several additional inches. Then I grabbed the sill and heaved myself in.

I landed on a bed with my belly across a pair of thin naked legs which protested feebly by drawing away. At the same instant, the plaintive voice of a much-liquored woman moaned: "Whassa doin', hon?"

Without answering, I wriggled across the bed and swung my feet to the floor. Behind me, the voice moaned: "Hon? That you, hon?"

I found the door and got it open.

When I reached the street, a black Ford squadrol bearing the word POLICE was double-parked in front of the Silver Cloud and a collection of the usual motley Clark Street characters were loitering on the sidewalk, staring morosely inside. On a hunch, I crossed the street and moved cautiously along beside the buildings, studying the doorways. I spotted him easily enough: Leo Gold was standing in the doorway of the Pit Bar-B-Q, intently eyeing the goings-on at the Silver Cloud.

The traffic lights at Grand Avenue turned green and a Vet cab came idling north. It gave me an idea. I stepped to the curb and waved at it. The driver spotted me, gassed the cab toward me and stopped at the curb. I got in.

"Where to?" He started to ease the cab into gear.

"Stay parked for a couple minutes," I told him.

"Huh?" He turned an unshaven chin toward me. "What's the big idea?"

"See the guy in the doorway of the barbecue?"

"The dude?"

"That's the one. I want to follow him when he leaves."

"You a dick?"

"No. I got an idea he's been messing around with my wife."

"Ohhh." Great understanding flowed between us. "He looks the type, all right. Where's your wife now?"

"She's supposed to be at home, but I got an idea she isn't."

"Women are bitches." He noticed the squadrol and the growing crowd. "Hey, wonder what all the heat's about."

"Drunks fighting, probably," I offered.

"Yeah, this is the neighborhood for it, all right."

I agreed with him and kept an eye on the Silver Cloud. Minutes crawled by. Gold began to shuffle his feet impatiently. After a while, he moved out of the doorway uncertainly, started toward the Silver Cloud, then thought better of it and returned to the doorway. More minutes crawled past. At last three cops came out of the Silver Cloud, patting their lips with handkerchiefs, and climbed into the squadrol. They drove off.

Gold clenched his fists and moved his lips in a way which suggested that he had made an emphatic comment of an ugly nature. Without any further dilly-dallying, he strode to the corner and unlocked the door of a blue Cadillac sedan.

"There goes your man," the cabby commented. "That's some boat he's got. Seems like all them women-chasers have Caddies. You ever noticed?"

I was intent on Gold's movements. "They got to have something to impress them," I said.

"Yeah, it's dough that they go for these days, the bitches..."

Gold's sedan pulled away from the curb, moving slowly, as though he were taking a final, regretful look at the Silver Cloud; then he made a U-turn into Ontario Street. The cabbie slapped his meter flag down and followed. The Caddy went west to LaSalle, north to Division, then straight west again at a steady clip. When we reached Kedzie, the cabby growled: "Any idea where he's headed, mister?"

"I live out this way," I told him. "Looks like he's going to pick her up or maybe visit her for a while."

"You got any kids?"

"Three of them."

"The louse. You oughta shoot him." He settled down to the chase with increased sympathy.

At Pulaski Road, Gold turned north and continued to Diversey. The Caddy began to loiter, as though uncertain as to its exact destination. It crossed Diversey, idled along for another block, then abruptly swerved to the curb and halted.

"Drive on past," I told the cabby. "Turn the next corner, then let me out."

"You live around here?" He eyed the dark, ramshackle buildings skeptically. "It doesn't look to me like—"

"Back a ways," I told him. I tossed a ten-spot at him. "He's playing it smart. Going to walk back, you know."

"Oh, yeah—I get it." He winked. "Give him hell, huh?"

"Sure." I got hurriedly out, strolled to the corner, then crossed to the other side of the street. I faded into the shadows surrounding a loft building, turned up the lapels of my jacket so the white of my shirt was concealed, then edged out to where I could get a view of the street. Gold's lights were out and the street was deserted. No lights were visible in any of the buildings. I was staring at the Caddy, wondering where he could have gone, when a shadow moved beside the sedan and the click of a closing door disturbed the morning silence. I froze into the shadows and waited.

He walked briskly north on the opposite side of the street, paused on the corner, then turned in the direction the cab had taken. I waited a moment, then followed. He walked another half-block, then crossed the street, apparently heading for a large building which bore the painted legend: POLJAKO GARAGE. I stopped in a deep shadow and watched. He walked past the two large car entrances and stopped in front of a small side door. My ears caught the faint metallic jingle of keys. He unlocked the door and faded into the darkness within. I continued to watch the building, but no lights came on.

Puzzled, I went back to the corner and circled around to the alley. It was blacker than my thoughts, unpaved and littered with trash. Cursing every time my stumbling feet kicked a can or stepped into muck, I made my way to the rear of the garage—a concrete wall, broken by a single double-doored car exit. The doors were solid, barred, and chinkless. I pressed my ear against them and listened, but the only sound was that of my own heavy breathing. Disgusted, I made my way back to the street and found a friendly shadow near the side door through which Gold had disappeared.

I waited, each minute increasing the desperation welling inside me. For all I knew, the answer to everything lay inside the garage, and there I stood, stuck outside and sizzling in my own juice, while Gold cooked up more deviltry.

I was cursing my helplessness, when the side door opened without warning and Gold stepped out. The keys jingled as he turned to lock the door. Without conscious planning, I darted toward him. My left arm snaked around his neck, pulling him backward against my chest and throttling his cries. He struggled frantically. I brought my right fist up and administered a solid punch behind his ear. He went limp and his body sagged in my arms. With the side of my hand, I chopped him where I thought it would do the most good. His keys were still in the door. I pushed it open and walked inside. I found myself in a glass-enclosed office, surrounded by desks, gloom and silence. Far to the rear of the garage, a small bare bulb burned. I walked between the desks to a half-open door and ducked behind a panel truck. A thump sounded against the ceiling, high above me. I stood still, listening, but the sound was not repeated. Moving more quickly, I dodged among trucks and cars until I was near the area lighted by the bulb. The rear of the garage became visible. It was deserted.

Wooden steps against a side wall led to an open trapdoor in the ceiling. As I eyed it, a sense of danger made the hair of my neck prickle. Just then the ceiling thumped again, and a short, sharp cry swung in the stale air for a split second. I slipped off my shoes, pushed them under the nearest truck, and ran toward the steps. I went up fast, the .38 poised in my hand.

I rose over the edge of the trapdoor, bent in a low crouch, and ducked behind a pile of tarpaulin-covered boxes. Black shadows opened their arms and enveloped me. Toward the front, a bulb of high wattage cast a sharp circle of light. As I started toward it, the thump was repeated and a woman's sob, shrill with agony, rent the silence.

A man's voice urged: "Tell us where he put it!"

"No!" It was a gurgled syllable, thick with pain and mucous.

"Maybe she's got a girdle on," another voice suggested. It laughed with bored humor.

"She ain't going to have nothing on in a minute," the first voice said grimly. "Pet her again, Sam."

There was a faint whistle, then thump—and a muffled shriek.

I crept around another stack of covered crates and lifted my head cautiously. The backs of two of the men were toward me. The third man was Sam, the barrel-chested pug I'd met before. He was stripped to the waist and stood, legs apart, with a pleased grin on his stupid face. His right hand held a thick wooden handle to which were affixed several long narrow thongs. His little pig-eyes were fastened on something on the floor, something obstructed by the backs of the other two men.

"We oughta take a picture of this," the humorist suggested.

"Yeah, we got the film," the other agreed. "Too bad we ain't got a camera."

"I know a guy who sells these kind of pictures."

"Hell, I'd buy one myself. Sam would, too; wouldn't you, Sam?"

Sam grinned and licked his lips. The others laughed.

"Pet her again, Sam. She's going to sleep."

Obediently, the big guy raised the whip and brought it down with a smooth, vicious sweep. The air murmured with the passage of the thongs, and thump. The woman shrieked pitifully. Sucking in my breath, I felt my way around the pile of crates until I was to the side of the seated men. Again I lifted my head cautiously. The sight which met my eyes made my heart stop pumping for several seconds.

Ginny Evans, clad only in shreds of the blue dress, was lying over a huge oil drum. Her hands were roped together and tied to a stanchion in the oil-slaked floor. Her naked back, once smooth and white, was streaked with livid welts.

"How about it, baby?" one of the guys asked. He was a young kid in loose slacks and a sport shirt. "Better tell us where he put it."

Ginny's long blonde hair, now loose and dragging on the floor, jerked a violent negative and she sobbed, "No, no, no...!"

"Stubborn, ain't she?" the other guy asked. He had slick, sandy hair and a doll of a mustache. "I still think she's gotta girdle on."

"See if she's got a girdle on, Sam," his pal directed. "Give it to her good."

The whip rose and fell swiftly. As the thongs wrapped themselves around her hips, biting at the remains of the blue dress, Ginny squirmed in agony and jerked at the ropes. The shifting of her weight rocked the heavy drum slightly and it thumped against the wooden floor. As a scream started to tear loose in her throat, the gun in my hand spoke twice.

Sam jerked violently and spun half around, dropping the whip from suddenly nerveless fingers. He stumbled a step, then crashed forward on his face with his hands clawing at the rough floor.

For several seconds, the other two stood as though paralyzed. Mustache was the first to react. With a warning shout, he sprang to his feet and snapped a hand toward his hip. His gun was out and beginning its upward arc when my .38 spoke again, and again. Mustache yelped and dropped the gun as a round red hole, looking like a large ornamental button sewn to the fabric of his shirt appeared on each of his shoulders. He screwed his thin face into an expression of mingled torment and chagrin and fell backward as though blown by a gigantic blast of wind.

Sport Shirt was slow—but smarter. He half-rose, twisted around, and flung himself toward an aisle between the crates. I snapped the gun around and squeezed the trigger, aiming at his hip. The gun clicked emptily. With an oath, I hurled the useless weapon at him. It struck the calf of a rapidly disappearing leg and clattered to the floor. I heard him squeal frantically, then scramble on the floor as though he had momentarily lost his balance. I leaped toward the prone body of Mustache and scooped up his gun. Sport Shirt was on his feet again, and, judging by the sound of his retreat, was fleeing toward the trapdoor. I fired a warning shot.