Don't Dare a Dame Read online

  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.

  “I need you to do something that’ll help more. We’ll use part of that plan of yours, though.” I looked at my watch. “I’ll explain tomorrow — once I’ve gotten everything you’ll need.”

  “Equipment?” He’d been looking down in the mouth, but that perked him up.

  “I guess you could call it that. Right now you can help me with something else. When I leave here, watch out the window and see if anyone follows me. Not necessarily anyone from the place you just visited.”

  His face grew sober.

  “You in some kind of danger, sis?”

  “Nah.” I slid out of my chair and winked. “Just may have an admirer I don’t want.” I picked up my purse. “Don’t forget to get over to The Good Neighbor and ask for Clarice. Tell her I said put a pair of shoes for you on my tab.”

  ***

  Heebs and I had met up so soon after my visit to Cy that I’d had no chance to think about what I’d learned. As I walked back to my office, I began to put that to rights .

  I’d learned Cy knew about Alf’s love nest, for one thing. Maybe he’d only heard about the set-up second hand, but I was willing to bet a dime or two he’d had more contact with Alf than he admitted.

  Maybe a lot more.

  I wondered whether he might be the friend Alf was talking to in the back yard that night when two little girls were listening up in the tree house.

  I also wondered whether the conversation the Vanhorn sisters had overheard that night was as sinister as they’d imagined.

  When I’d removed my hat and had a cone of water from the cooler at the end of the hall, I began to update my notes. Most still went on a typed page, but now I also had a single hand- written page I kept beneath my typewriter when I went out. I started one when a case began to turn risky or odd, just in case anyone decided to snoop in my office, which had happened at least a couple of times. It had names and tidbits I wanted to keep close to my chest while I decided whether they mattered or not. The notes on it switched back and forth between English and Latin, in part because not many people inclined toward burglary would understand Latin, and in part because keeping my skills up to snuff was fun. If anyone invested muscle enough to lift the heavy old Remington, they’d be more irritated than enlightened by what they found.

  Looking over my two lists of what I knew so far, one ugly little gap stuck out its tongue at me. It galled me I couldn’t find out more about Alf’s so-called suicide. Had the homicide boys decided yet if it was one?

  Maybe I’d have to bat my lashes at Connelly. Now that I thought about it, he’d promised me a favor. Except I owed him one first, and I’d forgotten it.

  I reached for my telephone book and flipped though pages to find the one I wanted. As I started to lift the receiver, the phone rang under my fingers.

  “Hello? Hello?” The voice in my ear was hysterical. “Maggie? Are you there?”

  “Isobel?” I said uncertainly. “What—”

  “Help me! Please, you’ve got to help me!”

  “Isobel, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Corrine....” She hiccuped with fear. “They’ve taken — Someone’s taken Corrine!”

  Fifteen

  I drew a breath, trying to make out what she was telling me.

  “Isobel, what do you mean? Who’s taken her? Where?”

  “I don’t know!” She sobbed once, but struggled and managed to keep on talking. “I got a call at work. Someone — a man — said they had my sister. He told me to go home and wait if I wanted to see her again. He said if I told the police, they’d — they’d—”

  “Are you at home now?”

  “Y-yes. And she’s not here!”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I shoved my page of notes beneath the Remington and retrieved my .38.

  My brain raced faster than the DeSoto as I made for the Vanhorn house, so I’d gone at least three blocks before I noticed the gray Ford behind me. It was an older model with headlights still on stalks. The left one was slightly out of alignment. Spotting it, I uttered a string of words which if overheard would have caused Mrs. Z to kick me out permanently.

  Maybe it was just someone heading home, doing business, something innocent. To test the theory, I went another block and turned right. At the first opportunity, I pulled to the curb and unfolded a map. Rarely did I use it to find streets, but it made handy window dressing.

  The Ford rolled slowly past and continued until it found its own place to park. I ground my teeth. I didn’t have time to play these games. Isobel was waiting. As soon as I had a chance, I eased back into traffic. All I could determine as I passed the Ford was that the driver appeared to be on the short side, and somewhat fleshy. He pulled out after me.

  Circling, I got back on Brown with the gray Ford hanging back two cars behind me. I had a plan now. I dawdled until the car between us became impatient and passed me. Burns Avenue was just ahead. I slowed some. Sped up as I neared the intersection. Waited until the last minute. Then I cranked the wheel hard and shot left on Burns without sticking my arm out to signal a turn.

  Behind me I heard brakes squeal. The rearview mirror provided a fleeting view of the intersection, just long enough to assure me my tag-along had come to a stop rather than risk being broadsided by the car I’d seen approaching.

  With luck the driver of the Ford would think I was headed for Percy Street. If this had anything to do with that location, which seemed increasingly likely. I turned sharply into an alley, and watched in the mirror as the Ford went past at a clip that suggested he’d taken my bait.

  I made my way to the Vanhorn place without picking up my shadow again and without any sign of him when I turned into their street. Before I got halfway up the walk, Isobel threw open the door. Her curly brown hair was disheveled, as if she’d been crumpling it with her hands. I could see she’d been crying.

  “Why would anyone do this?” she burst out. “Why? To a woman who can’t even see? It’s... it’s....”

  Taking her elbow, I steered her gently back inside.

  “They’re trying to scare you,” I said.

  Or me, I thought grimly.

  Someone didn’t want any more digging into what had happened on Percy Street the day John Vanhorn had disappeared. Maybe they wanted to scare the Vanhorn sisters into dropping any further inquiry. Or maybe, having failed to scare me off with the threat on my license — and possibly the attack in the parking lot — they’d made an innocent woman a pawn to dissuade me. If that was their plan, it was much more effective than anything else they were likely to try.

  Right now the only thing I could afford to think about was finding
Corrine. Her sister refused to leave the hall, where she could reach their telephone in a flash. We stood there while I had her go through every detail, starting with the phone call.

  “And you’re certain it couldn’t have been Neal?” I asked when she’d finished.

  “Heavens no!” She looked at me in horror. “He has a short fuse, but he’d never do anything like this. Besides, I’d recognize his voice even if he disguised it.”

  Having played some roles on the phone in my time, I wasn’t so sure. Still, I didn’t see what Neal had to gain. Especially since I’d already established he couldn’t have been the eavesdropper that first day I came to this house.

  “I’m afraid they’ve already hurt her,” said Isobel lapsing into sobs. She gestured toward the parlor, unable to speak.

  I went into the room where I’d sat on my first visit. A lamp was broken. A chair near the door was turned over. The gleaming poker from the stand beside the fireplace now lay on the floor at least six feet away.

  “They didn’t even let her take her cane,” said Isobel looking in from the hallway. Her voice broke. “She hardly ever used it once she got Giles. But without either one of them, in a strange place, she’ll be utterly helpless!”

  I eyed the white stick lying on the floor. Had Corrine hurled or brandished it in a futile effort at self-defense? Or had the intruders kicked it aside before she got the opportunity?

  “They were probably afraid she’d wallop them with it the first chance she got,” I said in hopes of bolstering Isobel’s spirits. “Looks like she put up a pretty good struggle.” There was no sign of blood, which was good, but I didn’t mention that.

  The phone rang. We both jumped.

  “Yes?” said Isobel. “Hello?” She tipped the receiver so I could listen.

  “Isobel? Oh, Isobel! Are you all right?” sobbed a voice.

  “Corrie! Thank God! Are—”

  “Come get me! Please come get me! Some awful men took me and drove me around and let me out and — I don’t know where I am! I don’t know where I am!”