Don't Dare a Dame Page 5

  I thanked them and asked them some questions about what sort of things they upholstered, to make them feel good. Then I made my way up their side of the street. For the time being I skipped the bank. Trying to ask questions there would eat up time since I’d have to speak to a teller and then a supervisor and on up the line. If I came up empty everywhere else, they’d be my last resort.

  By the time I reached the grocery store on the corner, I hadn’t found anyone who’d been in the neighborhood at the time of the flood. The owner of the grocery store shook his head in apology.

  “If my dad were alive, he’d be able to help you. He’d talk your ear off. His store was right here where we’re standing, and it got hit pretty hard. He lost just about everything. Had to struggle and scrimp to get going again. At least he didn’t have fire damage like some of the places farther up did.”

  My attention sharpened.

  “The fire didn’t take out the whole block?”

  His attention had drifted beyond me to something that was happening in the canned good section.

  “Only about half,” he said absently. “Three or four places down at the other end got the worst of it. More in the middle lost roofs and had damage. Don’t know why it didn’t spread all the way. Sorry.”

  He was starting to frown. I turned and saw the top cans on a pyramid had fallen. A kid who was scampering to catch up with his mama might have had something to do with it.

  “Anybody still around who might be able to help me?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so. I was just a kid at the time, didn’t notice the grown-ups much. I kind of remember a drugstore, but that’s about it.”

  I crossed the street to try establishments on the opposite side. The waitress in a little café looked old enough to remember things, but she hadn’t been in this area then. She brought me a piece of blackberry pie that was good except for too much lard in the crust. I couldn’t bake a pie, but my taste buds had been to college when it came to eating them.

  With energy replenished by pie and coffee, I worked my way through half a dozen more places of business.

  “Sure I was here then,” a leathery old fellow who ran a cobbler’s shop acknowledged querulously. “Had a place across the street, but it burned. Don’t remember nothing about the drugstore, though. Don’t believe in pills and doctors. Now, have you got shoes to fix? I don’t have time to yak.”

  My inquiries at an up-to-date looking drugstore two doors down got me information that they’d only been there ten years. And that the cobbler had never set foot inside.

  “Puts all his faith in drinking buttermilk and sleeping with the windows open,” said the owner.

  The last building on that side of the block was a five-and-dime. It sat directly across from the cheerful blue upholstery shop. Bright and uncluttered, it featured a cosmetics section prominently at the front, with less enticing household items at the back. Compared with McCrory’s the place was small, but from candy to sewing supplies it had most of the necessities of daily life. A man nearing fifty with a skinny, leading-man mustache balanced halfway up a stepladder, getting set to retrieve something for a customer who was pointing at the shelf above him. Toward the other side of the store a very young blonde was dusting a display of cheap leather wallets.

  “May I help you?” she asked looking up with a smile.

  Her dress had a Peter Pan collar. A bow held the waves of her yellow hair back at one temple. The shiny pink of her lips had come from a tube, but she didn’t look cheap, just up-to-date and fresh and eager. I put her at about seventeen.

  “I’m trying to find someone who might have known a man who owned a drugstore across from here before the big flood of 1913.”

  “Not me. I wasn’t born then.” She giggled, then covered her mouth with embarrassment. “If you wait just a minute Mr. Marsh should be finished. He can help. His family’s owned a store around here since the time of the pilgrims, I think.”

  Her gaze had been devouring my hat, a pumpkin gold Robin Hood number with a long, wispy feather.

  “Gee, that’s a great hat. I have to scrimp and save to even get one of the little felt ones we sell here.”

  “It’s tough when you’re starting out,” I sympathized. “I used to drool over hats like this. I’d have a million if I could afford them. I’d been eyeing this one for weeks — putting a quarter aside here and there — when it went on sale.”

  Her sigh was curtailed as she straightened, all business.

  “Mr. Marsh? Could you help this lady?” She waited until he was close. “She’s trying to find out about a man who used to have a drugstore across the street before the big flood.”

  Marsh, the man from the stepladder, gave me a sharp look.

  “Sorry. Can’t help. Don’t know anything about it.” Without so much as a phony smile, he started to turn away.

  Perplexity crossed the blonde’s smooth face. Before she could say anything to land her in hot water with her boss, I spoke up.

  “Gee, that old cobbler a couple doors down told me you’d been around for the flood and the fire and could fill me in.”

  The lie didn’t bother me in the least. The two disagreeable men deserved each other. Better still, it halted Marsh in his tracks.

  “My folks had the store then,” he said testily. “It was years ago. I don’t even remember what was across the street — just the mess cleaning up. As to what that old coot claims to remember, I wouldn’t trust it as far as I could spit.” He noticed the young clerk, who was listening avidly. “Emily, when you finish that dusting, restock the candy. You’ve dawdled all day.”

  She moved on, but not before her eyes caught mine to signal I should talk to her. The five-and-dime owner had turned his attention to me again.

  “Now, if that’s all you came in for....”

  “Gee, you’ve been a peach about helping.” I gave him a smile so sunny it just about scorched him. “Since I’m here and you’ve got such a nice place, I think I’ll just look for a new tube of lipstick to wear on my date tonight.”

  Marsh stared at me uncertainly, maybe wondering if I was unhinged.

  “Uh, yes. It’s right there.”

  I drifted toward the cosmetics, and when he’d put a few steps between us, I raised my voice.

  “Hey, I saw this color I liked in a magazine, in a lipstick ad. I don’t suppose you’d happen to know—”

  “Oh, I bet I know the ad you’re talking about!”

  Emily didn’t need a picture to recognize the opportunity I’d given her. Putting her feather duster down, she scurried to a rack of magazines and brought one over. Meanwhile I had moseyed into the cosmetics section, far enough away that the store owner couldn’t hear us, though he had cast a watchful eye in our direction.

  “This one right here,” the girl bubbled, flipping some pages. I shifted to shield her as she dropped her voice. “Come back Monday between noon and two. Theda works then.”

  “Boy, you’ve got some memory,” I said aloud, then under my breath, “Who’s Theda?”

  “Older woman. White hair.”

  “Do you really think I could wear that shade? The model’s hair’s darker.” I changed volume again. “Why noon to two?”

  Emily’s gaze slid beyond me, making sure all was well.

  “Want to look at it in the tube?”

  She led the way toward a glass case and I had to strain to hear her reply.

  “Some group he’s in has lunch. Hears speakers.”

  Emily unlocked the case and we made the right lipstick chat while she got out a cotton swab.

  “You get a commission if I buy one?” I asked quietly.

  She nodded, flushed with embarrassment.

  “Gee, I hope I look half as good in it as the girl in that magazine,” I said for her boss’ ears. “Go ahead, ring it up.”

  Nine

  Getting information, or information leading to information, often costs money. Usually it’s not a lot. Sometimes four bits, sometimes fiv
e bucks, on rare occasions more.

  A tube of lipstick fell on the cheap end of things. For once I even got something fun out of the deal. Usually my outlay went to some sullen bartender or a down-at-heels character with a hard luck story. I hoped Emily made more than a couple of extra cents for selling it to me.

  Back in my DeSoto I took my compact out and tried the new shade. It fell midway between the two colors I already owned, and having three to choose from now made me feel like a socialite. It made me look snazzy too, even though I’d lied about having somewhere to wear it. Maybe Neal Vanhorn would be so dazzled by my looks that he’d come clean about any shenanigans without the need to punch him again.

  Asking questions on Percy Street had eaten up most of the afternoon. It was just about time to head across the river to Neal’s place of work. I wanted to be there when the factory let out.

  As I drove I thought about my visit to the five-and-dime. I’d learned more there than Marsh, the owner, probably realized. That wasn’t even counting the tip from Emily about coming in Monday.

  What I’d learned was that Marsh knew more about the time of the flood than he’d admitted. First of all, he must have said something about the event at least a few times for Emily to be so prompt in telling me he’d been around then. Next, there was his brusqueness, almost bordering on rudeness. Most business owners took pains to be cordial to anybody who might be a customer — even shoppers who weren’t so cordial themselves. The cobbler I was willing to write off as a crank, but Marsh had been all pleasantries for the customer who needed something from a top shelf. Finally there was the fact that the grocery store owner, who’d been the same age or even younger than Marsh at the time of the flood, at least remembered Dillon’s Drugs, if only vaguely.

  Marsh had been too quick to answer. He was hiding something. Either that, or he’d been warned not to talk to me. The question was what? Or why?

  ***

  With ten minutes to spare I pulled to the curb a block from the factory where Neal worked. It gave me a chance to study the street and spot a few beer joints where men coming off their shift were likely to head. Since I hadn’t the least idea what Neal’s car looked like, or even if he drove it to work, my best move was to find a spot a few doors away from the factory entrance and try to look inconspicuous. The inconspicuous part didn’t work so well.

  A whistle blew, and men began to file out. They carried lunch buckets and some wore overalls, but they weren’t covered with the soot and the grime spit by the machines at most factories. Whatever they made there possibly demanded a bit more skill or maybe just cleaner conditions. Most of the time they came out in groups of four, five, six. Most of the time someone in the group gave me the once over and nudged his companions.

  A big guy with cowlicked black hair and a grin that had probably broken some hearts peeled off from his chums and strolled my way.

  “That’s some hat, sweetheart. Want to show it off over beer and a sandwich?”

  “Hey, thanks for the nice offer, but I’m looking for someone.”

  “What’s he got that I haven’t?”

  “V.D.,” I said.

  He took off fast.

  A few minutes later Neal appeared with two other men. As they ambled up the street I stepped out of the doorway where I’d been waiting and fell in behind them. Neal was on the outside of the trio, which made it easier. Taking a couple of fast steps to catch up, I hooked my arm through his.

  “Hi, Neal. We need to have us a little chat.”

  He tried to pull away as he recognized me.

  “What the — You meddling piece of fluff. We’ve done all the chatting we’re going to.”

  He jerked his head curtly at his companions. They moved away with frequent glances over their shoulders, torn between entertainment and fear of tripping over their feet.

  “Now here’s how it’s going to work, Neal,” I said pleasantly. “Either you answer a couple of questions without any guff, or I start screaming how if you don’t marry me, my daddy’s going to come after you with a shotgun.”

  His eyes took on an uneasy look. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “You’re nuts,” he said hoarsely.

  I smiled.

  “Who did you call at City Hall?”

  “At ... what?”

  “To complain about me?”

  His mouth opened and closed without sound.

  “I never — Don’t start screaming! I’m telling the truth! — I never called City Hall. To complain about you or anything else. By the time those cops finished asking questions and said I could go, I was praying to God I’d still have a job. I didn’t take time to pee, let alone make a phone call!”

  He began to regain equilibrium. Cunning edged out his panic. His shoulders eased free of their protective curl and he waggled a finger closer to my face than I deemed polite.

  “I’m warning you, though. If you bother me again, I will make a complaint!”

  “Do you think Alf really killed himself?” I asked on impulse.

  The whitening of his face was at odds with his returning swagger. His tongue licked out.

  “How would I know? I was home in bed. I wasn’t there!”

  “But you know—”

  “I don’t know anything! I didn’t even talk to him that day! Now let me alone!”

  Wresting his arm free, he hurried away.

  ***

  Back in my office I hung my hat carefully on the top of my coatrack. It had occurred to me that until I discovered the source of the complaint against me, it might be wise to stay in the good graces of the chief of police, so as soon as I’d switched my .38 to its holder under my chair, I put in a call to his office.

  “Miss Sullivan?”

  “This morning I neglected to ask whether you’d object to my looking into that disappearance from twenty-five years ago I told you about.”

  “With all the more recent things we have to deal with? I certainly have none.” He paused. “Check with Lt. Freeze in case he feels differently.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  I hung up and tapped my teeth with a knuckle. Freeze and I trusted each other about as much as two dogs circling the same bone. Come to think of it, that more or less described the situations in which we usually encountered each other.

  Freeze worked hard and was smart enough to deserve his spot as homicide chief. It made sense to remain on his good side. I wanted to keep the chief happy too. And if for some reason Freeze did object, I could ignore him. By talking to him there was even a slim chance I’d learn whether they were looking at Alf Maguire’s death as a homicide.

  It already was a quarter to six, but Freeze and his unit worked late, especially when they had something fresh. I called and was told he was down the hall but would call me back when he returned.

  Meanwhile I typed up my notes from that afternoon. When that was done I decided to treat myself to a drink. The pub in the bottom drawer of my desk was always open. I took out the fixings for gin and tonic. It was the only recipe I knew, but a tried and true one. I turned off my light and sat and enjoyed the sharp tang of gin and the gathering dusk.

  As soon as Freeze called back I’d head for Mrs. Z’s and see if Genevieve or one of the other girls wanted to go get supper somewhere. But Freeze didn’t call. My stomach growled. I fixed myself another drink. When the hands of the clock nudged seven, I gave up and headed out.

  The nature of my work had ingrained a low-level watchfulness in me that was second nature. If I was on the trail of something, or had a hunch I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest, I stayed more alert. Tonight, once a glance in a shop window reassured me the crook who’d been sprung from the pen wasn’t slinking along behind me in the shadows, I was free to enjoy the dance of the city where I’d been born.

  The buildings I passed had long since emptied of workers. Most people were home now, finished with supper and putting their feet up. Reading the paper or, if they had one, listening to radio. Half a dozen blocks uptown, the well-o
ff were dining and dancing at the Hotel Miami or the Biltmore. Big-wigs who invented things or owned the city’s manufacturing powerhouses were hobnobbing at the Engineer’s Club. Down where my office was, at this time of day, streets were mostly deserted.

  On days that I drove, I usually left my car in a gravel lot between some railroad trestles and the edge of the Fifth Street produce market. A casual scan didn’t show anyone else in the parking lot, or any shadows moving between the cars. Under FDR, the Depression seemed to be loosening its grip, but there were still plenty of desperate people willing to wait and bash somebody over the head for the coins in their pocket. I crunched my way toward the DeSoto. It was parked with the luggage trunk toward me. As I stepped around to the driver’s side, a hand closed around my ankle and I felt myself yanked off my feet.

  Ten

  Even before my back slammed into the gravel I was reaching behind for my gun. My attacker had the advantage of surprise. He caught my wrist. It was too dark to make out his features, but I could see his free arm swing back to deliver a punch. I rolled toward him, catching him off guard with my direction. His knuckles got just the edge of my cheek and enough of my ear to make it ring.

  I hurled myself in the other direction. It freed me long enough to scramble mostly to my feet. Then he was on me again, his grip on my wrist tighter this time, twisting my arm up hard. Rather than try to cover my mouth, he reached over my head. The fingers of his left hand pinched my nose shut, holding where I couldn’t bite.

  “Breathe or scream, girlie. Can’t do both.”

  As I fought and tried to suck in air, I realized any yell I managed would be puny. Did I recognize his voice? Was he the hooligan I’d helped send to prison?

  My left hand flailed ineffectually, unable to deliver a punch. Scratching him would be futile. Pain seared the arm he was twisting.