Dames Fight Harder Read online

  “Now. How can I help you?”

  “I understand Rachel Minsky had fairly nasty quarrel with the dead man a few months back.”

  “More like eight months, but yes.”

  “You and some other people heard it?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was at...” I pretended to check my notes.

  “A building trades luncheon. Outside. By the entrance.”

  So far it matched what Rachel had told me. No reason why it shouldn’t, but I wanted to check. Unimportant questions relaxed people, too.

  “What did they quarrel about? What was said? In general or more specifically if you can remember.”

  “She was upset about a contract they’d both bid on. So had I as a matter of fact. She thought his bid had come in unrealistically low.”

  “And had it?”

  He spread his hands.

  “I’ve looked at a lot of numbers since then. All I can tell you is that it was the low bid, since he got the job.”

  “Isn’t that part of the business you’re in? Sometimes you submit the low bid, sometimes someone else does?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why was Miss Minsky upset?”

  “Well... she’s not the best of losers. She’s quick to take offense.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Mr. Clark—”

  “Look, I don’t intend to say anything pejorative about Miss Minsky. The fact is, we used to see each other.”

  “Dated, you mean?” It was one of the very few things for which I was unprepared. “When? For how long?”

  “As for when it started, I can’t exactly recall. About this time a year ago.”

  “And ended? Has it ended?”

  “Yes. Last fall. October, maybe.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. These things just run their course.”

  “Then let’s get back to her quarrel with Foster. Gallantry’s all well and good, but telling me what was said could be to her benefit in the long run. Did she threaten him?”

  “I suppose it could be interpreted that way.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Something about him getting what he deserved. But I could be remembering wrong.”

  “Any chance the guy who edged you out in her affections was one of the other people there that day?”

  I had aimed for a nerve, and I hit my target. Clark’s polite tone slipped.

  “I wasn’t edged out. I broke up with her.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. These things run their course.” Snapping his wrist for another look at his watch, he rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. I’ll show you the way out.”

  Since his office door opened directly into the small reception area where his secretary worked, I was fairly confident I could have managed without a guide, but I didn’t argue.

  EIGHTEEN

  They were pouring concrete at Rachel’s construction site. The foreman wouldn’t have time to talk. I returned to my office. A couple of bills had arrived, so I wrote out checks. Then I sat and thought about my talk with Clark, and what I’d learned so far that could help Rachel.

  Not a lot was the answer. But maybe a little. If Clark and Rachel had dated over a space of months, he might have spent a night or two at her place. If so, he would have had an opportunity to filch her jewelry and plant it. On the off chance Rachel might be able to talk to me on the phone as reward for what she’d termed good behavior, I called her at home.

  A woman answered and said she would see if Rachel was available. There followed an interlude so prolonged that I was wondering if I should hang up when Rachel came on.

  “Cecilia called a while ago and said you’d asked about contracts,” she said in greeting. “I told her to give you whatever you need. Have you learned anything?”

  “That you and Phil Clark used to be an item. How long did you go together?”

  “Six months. Thereabouts. Why?”

  “Why’d he break things off with you?”

  I heard her chuckle.

  “I got a contract we were both bidding on. Apparently his pride was wounded. Oh, he gave some cock-and-bull story about why he was calling it quits, but since he did it the same day the contract was let and nearly ruptured my eardrum banging the phone down, it didn’t take Einstein to see the connection. That’s hardly motive enough to frame someone for murder, is it? If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Well, you are a pretty hot tomato.”

  “I have to go.” Her voice had gone flat. She hung up.

  I blinked in disbelief at the receiver in my hand. Then I pushed the button to break the connection at my end and dialed her again.

  “Minsky residence,” she said with forced cheer.

  “Don’t hang up. I need to ask you one — no, two — more things. I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Her single syllable chuckle was as weary as it was amused. I wondered if someone had been listening in, or passing. Since she didn’t hang up, I continued.

  “The project you’re working on now, who’s the money behind it? Who’ll own the building?”

  “Merlin Kellogg. Cecilia can get his particulars. It’s on the contract. What’s the second question?”

  “Was Phil Clark one of the bidders? Is that the one that miffed him?”

  “That makes three questions. ‘No’ to both.”

  I smiled and sat for a second even though I knew it was time to hang up.

  “Good talking to you, Rachel.”

  “Same. And thanks, Maggie.”

  ***

  Kellogg’s secretary told me he could see me that afternoon. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to find, but often my job entailed the tedium of collecting pieces of lint. Collect enough lint and you got a wad you could roll together and twist into string. Then you looked for longer pieces of string that matched yours. Right now I was collecting specks of lint that had to do with the construction industry.

  I sat at my desk and listed those specks:

  – The commercial construction seemed to be inbred. Not every company bid on every project, but there was plenty of overlap.

  – Some of those people, like Clark, could get jealous.

  – Workmen were becoming scarce because of the war.

  – Company owners weren’t above trying to lure workmen from other companies.

  I looked at the list. What was this about? Why had Foster been killed and why had he been dumped where he was? It had to have something to do with the line of work he and Rachel were in.

  At noon, I waited outside the cleaning supply firm where Gloria had worked and asked to tag along with the girls who’d worked with her when they came out for lunch. The business cards I passed out produced an eagerness to chatter about a co-worker they hadn’t liked.

  “The only reason she even went to lunch with us was to brag about where she’d gone with her boyfriends,” one said.

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Each one better off than the last to hear her tell it.”

  “This latest one even got her an apartment,” a dishwater blonde told me.

  They didn’t remember any names though, hadn’t bothered to since they didn’t like Gloria. The man I knew as Gabriel Foster, she’d referred to only as Mugs.

  “Something about him always wanting his coffee in a mug,” one volunteered.

  Needless to say, she hadn’t been in touch with any of them. As far as they knew, she didn’t have any relatives.

  ***

  They were better company than the balding real estate developer who would own the finished building where Rachel’s men were working. He had a nice office in a nice downtown building, and it soon became apparent that his only concern about Foster’s murder and Rachel’s trouble was that his profits would suffer.

  “If Miss Minsky had to bow out of the project, because of legal problems or anything else, what would happen?” I asked when I’d g
one through preliminaries to put him at ease.

  “I would lose money. A lot of money,” he said curtly.

  “Because the bid that came in after hers would require you to pay more than what she’s doing the project for?”

  “Yes, my costs would go up. I will also lose income because of delays, if a shift becomes necessary. Worst of all I won’t realize income from the building as soon as expected. I should think that was all quite apparent.” His face was starting to redden.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the construction business. I’m trying to get a feel for who might benefit from this kind of trouble and who might lose.”

  “Well, I lose, that’s for damn certain. How would anyone benefit?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ve assumed too much. Would the next lowest bidder pick up the contract? Or would you start the whole bidding process over again?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Verging on explosion, he swept his hands over the sides of his nearly bald head. They curled into fists.

  “I have no idea how this will work if the Minsky woman defaults on her contract. It’s never happened before. All I know is that firms like the ones who’ll lease space in the building that ought to be going up there are clamoring for offices. Outfits who do business with companies making doodads for airplanes, or Jeeps or all the other things factories are making now. Every day that building isn’t completed means money out of my pocket.”

  ***

  The man bankrolling Rachel’s project wasn’t likely to get an award for patriotic fervor. His lack of interest in anyone’s troubles but his convinced me he could be eliminated as a murder suspect.

  When I got back downtown, I walked over to buy a paper from Heebs.

  “Aw, sis, you just missed a chance to meet Marcie,” he said.

  “Who’s Marcie?”

  “My girlfriend. She’s a peach.”

  He sounded so starry eyed that it worried me.

  “Uh, swell. Did you get that job?”

  His face fell, but just for a second.

  “Soon as I walked in, they said they’d already filled it. Didn’t even talk to me. Can you beat that? I’ll pay you back, though.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take it out next time I need your help on something. So tell me about this girlfriend of yours.”

  It was a slow time of day for peddling papers. He flashed a grin that showed the tiny gap some people have between their two front teeth.

  “Can’t hardly take her eyes off me. And is she a looker!” He glanced around, preparatory to confiding something. “She’s older than me. Says I’m mature for my age.”

  Glumly I reflected that Heebs, who had no one to rely on and give him advice except other newsboys, had probably reached an age to be frisky.

  “Well, uh, make sure you don’t do anything to get her in a family way.”

  “Aw, sis.” He ducked his head bashfully. “It’s not that way. She’s a nice girl. Gets real lonely ‘cause her mother works second shift and isn’t around, so she comes by and talks, is all. You can tell she comes from a nice family, too, the way she dresses. Not fancy, except she makes anything she wears look fancy. And she’s funny, and smart. Kind of reminds me of you.”

  I knew a losing cause when I saw one, so I tugged the bill of the flat cap he wore down over his eyes and went back to split my time fretting over him and the day’s news. At a quarter til five, per appointment, I took a seat in the outer office of the developer financing Foster’s project.

  After I’d cooled my heels for half an hour, three unhappy looking men filed out. The man I was waiting to see ushered me into his office with weary apologies.

  “Whiskey and water?”

  He looked as though he needed one, so I said sure. His answers to my questions were much the same as those from the man financing Rachel’s project. Replacing the contractor on the project would cost time and money, not to mention possible legal complications. The men I’d seen leaving were his co-investors.

  “It’s a roll of the dice, really, whether to see if one of the previous bidders has men available or would be willing to take over Foster’s crew, or whether it’s better putting out bids again,” he said rubbing his face. “And demand for office space is soaring every day.”

  “Other than his turning up dead where her men were working, do you know of any connection between Miss Minsky and Mr. Foster?”

  “Only the rumor, which I’ve only heard about secondhand.”

  “It’s not exactly a rumor. Several people heard their argument.”

  “Oh yes, that. I thought you were fishing about... the other.”

  “What other?”

  He stared at me for several seconds with his glass halfway to his lips.

  “I assumed someone had told you. As I said, I’ve only heard second hand, but apparently Foster bragged to several of the other contractors that he and Miss Minsky had, ah...”

  “Been intimate?”

  “Yes. I didn’t believe it. She didn’t strike me as the type. Even if it was true, I don’t think much of a man who’d tell. It bothered me enough I almost dismissed his bid because of it, but in the end I’m ashamed to say I chose profits over principles. I regret that now.”

  NINETEEN

  Rachel had two dandy motives for killing Foster, the quarrel and the rumor he had spread about her. Assuming it was a rumor. Why hadn’t she told me about it?

  On the other hand, new commercial buildings, and the contracts for constructing them, were prize commodities these days. Those made better motives, in my book, so Friday morning I decided to take a look at the site where Foster’s men had been working at the time of his death. It didn’t tell me much.

  The building under construction by the murdered man’s crew was half again the size of Rachel’s. Maybe more. It was also further along. The walls were all up. I parked across the street and watched the activity.

  The men didn’t have much spring in their step, which wasn’t surprising, given the uncertainty of their future. That set me to thinking about the attempts to lure Rachel’s workers to other employment. I wondered if similar attempts had been made here. If so, was it only because workers were in short supply, or could there be more behind it? I couldn’t answer the question, and I couldn’t think of a tale tall enough to pry information out of the foreman here without the connection I’d had at Rachel’s place, so I started the DeSoto and let the clutch out and moved on.

  In contrast, the pace of work at Rachel’s site seemed faster today. Partial scaffolding was in place and sounds of hammers driving nails home filled the air. Someone was whistling. The foreman was so busy giving directions that I was close enough to touch him before he noticed me.

  “Looks like things are going well,” I observed.

  Removing his cap, he wiped a sleeve across his forehead and nodded.

  “Concrete’s poured. Pay packets are coming tomorrow. For now we’re managing. Miss Minsky sent word through a fellow who works her front office. That helped morale, knowing she’s keeping tabs on things.”

  “I see Hawkins hasn’t left for greener pastures yet.”

  The sullen workman with the oversized muscles was sawing away at a board set on sawhorses. The foreman glanced over and made a face.

  “Yeah, he’s a pain in the neck, but I’m glad he hasn’t.”

  “Any more trouble with other builders coming here and trying to recruit?”

  “Nah.” All at once he bellowed at someone beyond me. “Did you mark that? I don’t want it touched til it’s marked.”

  ***

  Foster.

  Rachel.

  Which was the target?

  Was it possible both were?

  I hoped a visit to Rachel’s office could give me some answers. To my surprise, Cecilia met the request I made there with a frown.

  “You want all her contracts? Going back how long?”

  “Four years. Not just contracts, everything she’s bid on,
whether she got it or not. Don’t you keep paperwork that long?”

  “Well, yes.” She bit her lip. “Couldn’t you look at them here, though? You could use Rachel’s office and spread out. I know you’d be careful, but that’s going to be an armful of folders and things can slip out....” She brightened suddenly. “I don’t have much to do with Rachel away. Could I go through them and type out what you want from each? Who the developer was, who bid, how much they bid if Rachel knew that? It might be easier to compare them all, if that’s what you want to do.”

  Cecilia was sharp, no question about it. I could understand her reluctance to have materials from the files leave the building, and what she was suggesting made sense. It would be more efficient, too.

  “Cecilia, if I had a fairy godmother, I wouldn’t ask for a prince. I’d ask for a secretary like you,” I said.

  She laughed. “I’ll call when they’re ready.”

  I blew her a kiss and set off to keep my appointment with the builder who had been next in line for Foster’s project after Foster and Rachel.

  ***

  Oscar Jones, the bidder who’d come in third on Foster’s project was a broken little man who moved a pencil aimlessly around on his desk and sighed a lot as we talked.

  “I don’t know what the world’s coming to, with decent people getting their throats cut.”

  “His throat wasn’t cut,” I said.

  “Well, no. I just meant well, dead. Killed.” He shook his head. “First the Depression, and then just when things were turning around, this war... Oh. But you said you wanted to ask some questions about him, didn’t you? Gabe Foster.”

  I smiled reassurance.

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Oh, saw him at business lunches, and a holiday party we do for the gals.”

  “Was he successful, would you say?”

  “Oh, more successful than me, at least.” He gave a weak laugh.

  His telephone rang and he answered it. It gave me a chance to study his office. Like Rachel’s, it had a honeycomb cabinet with rolled up blueprints sticking out and maps of the city and of outlying areas on the walls. Like Phil Clark’s, the walls and floor were finished, though not as glossy.