Dressed to Killed (13 page)

"It must have been. I thought the eggs tasted old, but—"

"You know, Diane, you're practically an automatic liar." I shook my head regretfully. "Yesterday, while you were driving into Wisconsin, you got sick and you had to stop at a gas station and a drugstore. On the way back, you began to feel nauseated again, but you managed to make a production out of it like a game little actress. You probably had a good heave-ho while I parked the cars—and another after I made you go out and look at Sands' body. Add this all together, and any stupe could reach the conclusion that the eggs which just made you ill weren't chicken eggs."

She shrugged. "All right. So what?"

"So nothing, except that you've got one less lie on your conscience. Who's the papa? Not Arnold Richmond, I hope."

"None of your goddamn business."

"Maybe it is."

"Like hell," she flared, "as long as I don't accuse you—"

"The only reason you don't," I interrupted, smiling knowingly, "is because you have a better use for the information. Who are you putting the screws on for it, Diane? Anybody I know?"

"It's none of your damn business. Period. Are you interested in fifty grand—or aren't you?"

"I'm interested in many things—and fifty grand is certainly one of them. But, as I said a moment ago, you lie so fluently, and about such silly little, things, that I'm not exactly filled with trust."

"It's just because I'm nervous, Rusty." She paced restlessly in front of me, holding the woolen robe tightly about herself as though it were chilly in the room. "This business of having a kid is one of the reasons, I guess. I've been jittery and worried for a month, and sitting in this damned room hasn't helped. It's been hell. I can't think, can't eat, can't do anything, and in a few more months I not only will feel like hell, I'll look like hell, too!"

"You'll be able to wear a red carnation on Mother's Day," I reminded her.

She stopped her pacing and faced me. "Look, Rusty, I've got myself deeper into this than I planned. At first, it looked like a quick, foolproof way to make a big buck. But it's beginning to seem things are getting out of hand. Now I want out. Plain o-u-t, but not without my share of the dough. I did my part of the act and I'm entitled to it."

"We're talking about DuMorell sets again, I take it?"

"Certainly. Put into the right hands, Rusty, those sets are worth an easy fifty grand to you and"—she showed me her palms—"here are the right hands. I can market them. I know how they can be sold at a high price—and fast, too."

"How?" I asked.

"Do I get the sets?" she countered.

"Not for nix, baby," I said. "So far, all you've given me is conversation."

"I can't get the dough immediately," she hedged. "It might take a couple days, but I swear you'll get it."

"No dough, no deal."

"Can't you wait a couple days?"

"I could, but I'm not going to. The DuMorell Company is onto Libby, and I'm not going to get burned. I'm going to dump them as soon as I can."

She took a deep breath. "I guess I'll have to level with you, Rusty. No two ways about it, I've got to have those sets. I can't let you sell them to anybody else. I'm going to draw you a great big picture—and hope that you'll trust me."

"MY REAL name is Christine Stanislaus. I always hated the name, not because it marked me as another Polack, but because nobody else could ever spell it and I always had to dole it out to them, letter by letter. One of the first things I did when I got to Chicago last year was change my name. Diane Doll was simple—and it sounded like a good tag for a dancer. I never got to do any dancing, not the kind I intended to do, anyway, but I liked the name and I kept it."

"You hit the big city," I droned. "You needed money and you couldn't get a job as a dancer, so you went to work in a department store. You got tired of working for peanuts, and besides, you liked bright lights, so you started chasing around with men."

"I suppose you've heard this before." She laughed bitterly. "You're singing in the right key, but you've got the wrong tune. No one would give me a chance as a dancer. I stuck to the bright lights but, just for the sake of a little security, I got a daytime job as a switchboard operator. Did you ever hear of an outfit called Discount Sales?"

"No."

"Well, I hadn't either, until I started working on this switchboard. The place where I worked ran an office and secretarial service; in other words, they had this switchboard, and they did typing and mimeographing and, besides that, they had a large room full of desks which they rented out to manufacturer's agents, salesmen—people like that who needed a business address and phone service but couldn't afford to pay a lot for it."

"I get it. And you were on the switchboard."

"I took all the calls, found out who was calling, and made notes about what they wanted, and I did it so they'd think they were talking to somebody in a big office, even though the guy they'd called was nothing but a hole-in-the-wall operator. I used to get a kick out of talking to all these different people and sounding like a private secretary to some big shot. Well, I used to get a lot of calls for this Discount Sales outfit, and I discovered, after a while, that they had a real sweet racket."

"What did they sell?" I asked.

"Everything. I took calls all day long from people all over the city, and they ordered everything from electric toasters to gas freezers. At first I thought they were nuts, because I thought they were buying stuff without even seeing it. Then I caught on to how it works: This Discount Sales Company was nothing but a guy with a desk and a lot of catalogs. If he hadn't had to have some place where he could write up the orders, he wouldn't even have needed the desk. He could have operated out of his hat. Anyway, he'd take orders for any kind of nationally advertised merchandise and give the buyers a straight twenty percent discount on it, and these people were going around to the big stores, picking out what they liked, then phoning the model and style numbers to him. The stores displayed the merchandise and did the selling job— and he picked up the orders! How do you like that?"

"Sweet," I admitted, "real sweet."

"That isn't all, either," she went on. "I found out that, once people did business with him, they told all their friends about how they could save twenty percent on everything, and a lot of times they'd call up and order stuff without even bothering to check with the stores first. That gave him a chance to make more money, you see, because he'd order, say, six Motorola radios instead of one, getting a better wholesale price on them, and he'd ship them out to everybody who'd ordered a radio but who hadn't specified a particular make."

"He was working on a mighty small margin, though," I pointed out.

"Are you kidding? Why, he was operating on nerve, practically. His only expenses were a desk, a phone, and a few nickels for stamps and business cards. He was giving everybody a discount, but as a result he was getting a terrific amount of free advertising and he was still netting another twenty percent—sometimes more—for himself, and getting cash on the line for everything. What if he'd had a store? He'd have had to pay clerks, tie up a lot of cash in floor stock and samples, take credit losses, pay a lot of rent, and—well, hell, there's no comparison, is there? What's more, it's strictly legit, too."

"Okay, so it's a sweet racket. So what?"

"So I tried to find out all I could about it, and I dated this guy a few times. That's how I met Arnold Richmond. We were in a joint one night and Richmond happened to come in. This guy—"

"This guy, this guy," I interrupted. "Hasn't he got a name?"

"Paul Fletcher. Anyway, Richmond came over to our table and whispered to Paul, and Paul excused himself and they went to a corner of the bar and talked for a while. I didn't get it, at the time, but later on, after Paul had had a few drinks, he told me that Richmond sometimes got his hands on a shipment of standard brand stuff and, when he did, Paul trickled it out to his customers and he and Richmond split the profits."

"I get the idea," I said. "You think Fletcher can unload these DuMorell sets."

"I know he can." She nodded positively. "It's one of the best sets made, and, whenever anybody talks about getting a big console job, it'll be easy for him to convince them that the DuMorell is the one they ought to buy. The way he operates, he'll get rid of them fast—and for eighty percent of the list price."

"Which we, of course, would have to split with him." I calculated rapidly. "Our end of the deal would be around a hundred grand." "Half of which would be yours—fifty grand. See?" "But we wouldn't be able to get that until they were sold." "Paul couldn't advance it to you, but I think his partner might." I lifted my eyebrows. "Oh, Paul has a partner?" "Well... it's kind of complicated." She bit her lip, as though punishing herself for having said too much.

"Too damned complicated, it seems. Who's Paul's partner?" "Maybe I better explain that, too." She frowned a little. "About four or five months ago, Paul got into a little trouble. Richmond had given him a truckload of Sunbeam mixers to get rid of, and the cops got on his tail. They found a few cartons of them in his car. It looked pretty bad for him because they had him cold—some of the original shipping labels were still on the cartons. Well, Paul managed to get in touch with Richmond, and Richmond got Leo Gold to represent him."

"Ah, I wondered when Gold would come into the act."

"He got in, but good, and he's been in ever since. You see, Gold has a lot of good connections. It only took him a couple hours to get Paul off the hook. But, the way he arranged it, Paul had to agree to handle a lot of merchandise for Gold and Paul had to take in—well, another guy—a silent partner, sort of. Paul didn't have much choice, of course; he either had to agree or do time in jail."

"And who is this mysterious other guy?"

"Well... he's a cop."

"Even cops have names."

"Lieutenant Trottmann."

"Trottmann!" I jerked to attention.

"Yes." She traced a pattern on a knee with a forefinger. "Since he's been in on the deal, Paul has been left strictly alone, by the police, I mean. It's a terrific set-up and they've been looking for something big to handle. Once they get the sets—"

"No wonder you said you could turn off the heat!" I exclaimed softly. "Trottmann—a crooked cop!" I eyed her with renewed interest. "Where did Giselle come in, Diane? I know she was picking up the pay-off dough for Trottmann, but where did she figure in this particular deal?"

"She didn't."

"She must have."

"Believe me, she had nothing to do with this."

"You're lying, Diane."

"I'm not. I swear I'm not. She didn't know anything about it!"

"But she got killed," I reminded her.

Diane shrugged. "She didn't know anything about this," she insisted.

"She must have had a solid connection with Trottmann. How come he trusted her to make the pay-off pick-ups for him?"

She lowered her eyes and shook her head slowly, as though viewing the face of a dear, dead friend. "It's got nothing to do with the other, Rusty. Drop it, won't you?"

"I want to know her connection with Trottmann."

"All right. I suppose you'd find out sooner or later anyway." She met my eyes. "Giselle was Trottmann's wife."

"Holy jumping Moses!" I exclaimed softly. "What a situation this is!"

"Yeah." She shivered a little and stood up. "Okay, Rusty. I drew you the picture you wanted. Do I get those sets?"

"If Trottmann will guarantee me fifty grand."

"I'll call him." She moved toward the phone.

"Tell him to turn off the heat," I reminded her.

She nodded and began dialing a number. "He knew you weren't guilty, Rusty. He was hoping you'd tangle with Richmond and Gold and maybe knock them off for him."

"The fewer the partners, the bigger the split?"

"Naturally." She parted her lips expectantly and brought them closer to the mouthpiece, as though it were a favorite lover. "Hello... Lieutenant Trottmann, please." She smiled at me. "Hello, Ben, this is Diane.... Uh-huh... Well, everything is set... He wants a guarantee of fifty and no heat.... Uh-huh... Sure, he's right here..." She held the instrument toward me. "He wants to talk to you."

I took it, standing so I could watch her while I talked. "Hello," I said, "this is Forbes."

"Yeah. Is this on the level?" His voice was low and hurried, as though he had one eye on the door.

"I have the key and the address. She told you the price."

"I can take the heat off immediately. It may take a couple of days to get you the fifty."

"I have your personal guarantee?"

"Sure, sure."

"Okay, it's a deal. How fast can you get the heat off me?"

"As soon as I can get some men from the papers here. I'll give you a clean bill of health." He chuckled. 'That Sprite girl's story can be shot full of holes, and it looks like there's evidence that Richmond and Gold are tied into this. I'll get it on the police ticker immediately."

"Okay, I'll give the key and address to Diane."

"Fine. Let me talk to her again."

I sat down and listened to the soft, happy laughter in her voice as she murmured: "Hello, hon..."

When she finished, I tossed the key to her. Then I gave her the address and left.

I STEPPED out of the Crilton and into the arms of Richmond. Figuratively, that is. Actually, what happened is this: I left the Crilton in a mental fog, thinking about Giselle Kent and Trottmann. Before I was aware of what was happening, Richmond moved in and grabbed my right arm and one of his boys poked a hard object against my left hip. It took little imagination to identify the hard object. I glanced over my shoulder at the boy and it was Sport Shirt, looking as though he hoped I'd break and run.

"Smile and behave," Richmond warned softly. "Walk to the blue Caddy over there."

I obeyed. It was Leo Gold's car. Gold, wearing a snappy gray number for a change, was behind the wheel. Richmond opened the rear door and got in. The gun jabbed my back. I got in, too, rather quickly. Sport Shirt climbed in after me and slammed the door. Gold eased the clutch in and swung the car away from the curb. He headed south.

"What's the idea?" I asked.

"We're going to have a talk," Richmond said. By the tone of his voice, I gathered that the talking was to be done by me. He sounded angry and dangerous.

"About what?"

"Mostly about you, wise guy," Sport Shirt growled.

"Shut up, Max," Richmond snapped. "I'll do the talking."

Max shut up. Gold turned west on Grand Avenue and settled the car to a steady pace. "I've done enough talking," I said.

"You've done too damned much," Richmond agreed. "That's one of the things we want to talk about. Exactly how much have you blabbed?"

"Enough to get you guys the chair."

"You wish!" Richmond retorted. "If anybody burns, it'll be you. For a guy who's supposed to know which side is up, you've been acting like an idiot."

"I'm making money," I said gently. "Are you?"

"You're making a hole in the ground," Richmond snapped. "All you've done is stir up trouble."

Gold drove straight west to Halsted Street, turned north, abruptly swung the car into a lumber yard. He tooled the car cautiously along a well-worn rut, apparently heading for a low frame shack at the rear. He parked beside the shack and got out. Richmond grunted, heaved himself up, and opened the door on his side. Max nudged me with the gun. I followed close on Richmond's heels and looked around. We were in an unused section of the yard, cut off from the street by high piles of yellow boards.

The inside of the shack was littered with mill ends and sawdust. At one time, obviously, it had been used for trimming, but the patina of grime on everything was evidence that it had long been in disuse. Gold blew dust from the upper surface of a crate and sat down. Keeping his eyes on me, he peeled a cigar and lit it. Richmond, as though preparing for warm activity, removed his serge jacket and hung it on a nail which jutted from a wall. Max leaned his back against the closed door.

"I've been thinking about you, Forbes," Gold began in a friendly lawyer-to-client tone. "I'm afraid we made the mistake of underestimating you. Perhaps I should say that I made the mistake of underestimating you, for Richmond knew you were dangerous and wanted to kill you, thereby removing you from our necks once and for all. But I dislike murder, and I dissuaded him. Now you are making a hell of a nuisance of yourself. Obviously, that has got to stop."

"I'm trembling." I held my hands where we could both see them; as a matter of fact, there was a discernible tremor.

"I'm speaking very seriously," Gold warned. "We could, of course, deliver you to the police. They're very anxious to lay hands on you. In case you don't know it, you've been tagged with a couple of killings which occurred early this morning and a shoot-on-sight order is being issued for you."

"Sam and Dominick?" I laughed, but it sounded forced— and it was. "Trottmann knows better than that."

"On the contrary," Gold demurred. "Trottmann found the gun you used. Ballistics have identified it as the murder weapon and it has been established that they were killed by the same gun and at approximately the same time."

"He found the gun, of course, in a blue Cadillac sedan, the one I usually use only on Sundays and holidays."

"I believe the gun was found in your office."

"A very shrewd touch," I said sarcastically. "I was reluctant to throw it into the river or the lake, I suppose, because it is a very valuable gun."

"Perhaps you had a sentimental attachment to the weapon," Gold suggested. He shrugged. "Anyway, the police have it, and, as I said, are very anxious to get their hands on you."

"For chrissake, Leo, why are we yakking like this?" Richmond interrupted. "Let's beat some of the crap out of him and get what we came after—"

"In a moment, Arnold." Gold studied his cigar. "What do you think, Forbes? What would you do if you were in my place?"

"I'd start thinking about my own skin," I said bluntly. "You and Richmond have got your eyes on the almighty buck, and you've been crooks so long that you've forgotten how to think any other way. But you're thinking like smalltime crooks, the ones who are dopey enough to believe that there's honor among thieves—and right now, when you're on the skids, you're so eager to be sharp and smart that you can't see it."

"Listen to Saint Forbes," Richmond smirked. "I suppose we're going to get a lecture on—"

"Shut up," Gold interposed quietly. "What do you mean, Forbes?"

"You had a sweet little racket. But it wasn't enough. You wanted more money, you wanted to be in the big time, so you expanded. Now you've got a big racket and you've been playing with big dough, but the big dough attracted attention and you had to take in a cop as a partner in order to get protection. How big a bite is Trottmann taking—and has it ever occurred to you that Trottmann's bite would be bigger if you guys weren't in the picture?"

The question hung in the air a moment, like a smoke-ring cautiously blown, then gradually disintegrated. Gold frowned and looked thoughtful. Richmond grunted disgustedly. Max shifted his gun and flexed his legs as though his circulation were bad.

"You guys think I've been stupid," I went on, "but you guys have been blind. You don't think I actually broke out of jail, do you? Trottmann handed that story to you and to the newspapers, but actually I walked out of there with his blessing. He wanted me in circulation. If you're real strong in the head this morning, maybe you can guess why."

"He's lying," Richmond snapped. "He's trying to scare up trouble."

"Who's trying to scare up trouble?" I retorted. "Trottmann vacuumed my clothes, searching for fibers from the rope you used on me. Has he said anything to you about it? He went to your apartment and took samples of cleanings from the vacuuming machine you used. Because he wanted to add it to his collection of belly-button lint, maybe? He hasn't released Fia Sprite, either, has he? He's keeping her where he can get at her whenever he wants, so he can put her through the mill, squeeze the facts out of her. No woman can hold out when a cop makes up his mind to pressure her. And when she starts talking, it'll be the kind of talk Trottmann wants—and you don't."

"You sonuvabitch," Richmond said softly. He stepped toward me and his hand cut across my face. Instinctively, I stepped back and brought my fists up, getting ready to lean into him. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Max start to grin and glimpsed his gun begin to rise. I dropped my hands.

"Stop it, Arnold," Gold ordered. "Some of this makes sense. Keep talking, Forbes."

"The hell with you. Ask your friend on the Journal for the latest news." I spat on the floor. "Maybe he can tell you what's going on."

"I said you were making sense." Gold drew on his cigar. "I appreciate cooperation. No more interruptions, Arnold—understand?"

Richmond cursed, but he moved away from me.

"All right, Forbes. What do you think Trottmann plans to do?"

"Hell, it's obvious. You guys are going to get the ax for Sands' murder, probably for Giselle Kent's, too. I'll be surprised if the gun used on Sam and Dominick wasn't discovered in your office instead of mine, because quite a few things have happened since you last talked to him."

"Like what?" I had to admire his self-control. I knew the pressure was building up fast within him, but, outwardly, he managed to remain detached and poised.

"For one thing, the Feds are wise to the Poljako Garage. The stuff you had cached there can be scratched off your list of assets. They're probably there right now, checking everything from A to Z. You know how thorough those boys are."

"Jesus." Max stiffened apprehensively. "What if they get my prints?"

"If they do, kid, you're dead," I told him, "and they'd have to be blind not to. You left prints all over those cartons. The Feds won't even have to dust them; they'll stand out as though painted. And before they get through, they'll have Sam and Dominick spotted there, and there'll be a couple of murders hanging around your neck."

"You dirty—!" Max's face reddened angrily and the gun arced upward.

"Hold it, Max!" Gold snapped. "Goddamn it, control yourself." He puffed on the cigar, the shortness of the puffs betraying his inner nervousness. He eyed me calculatingly: "So you hollered cop. You tipped the Feds. That means you tailed me out there and did the rescue act for Ginny Evans."

"Even as you hollered cop," I retorted, "but with a better purpose: I'll collect ten percent of the insured value of the stuff recovered. When you did your hollering last night, you did it out of spite. It shows your thinking has been weak, that you've been concentrating on petty things—and letting your organization go to hell."

"Sam and Dominick were expendable," Gold said. "We're better off without them. All the Feds will pick up is a lot of film and stuff which we weren't able to sell, anyway."

"What about Max?" I asked gently. "Is he expendable? They'll have his prints. If he has any kind of a record at all, they'll have his name, address—and him—before tonight."

"Yeah, how about that?" Max demanded. "What if—"

"Shut up," Gold said coldly. "If anything happens, I'll defend you—and I've got the right connections. You know that."

"You had connections," I corrected. "Once you're in the soup, your political friends won't touch you for fear of contamination."

"A change in Fia Sprite's story won't bother me," Gold said sharply. "She can blab from now until New Year's, and she'll never tie me to that frame. All she can give them is guesses and hearsay, none of it admissible."

"But how about Richmond?" I asked. "He was there. He was front man. They'll have him cold."

"The little bitch, if they pressure her, she might blow her stack," Richmond muttered. He eyed Gold. "We'll both be in it, Leo—"

"Not me, Arnold. Maybe you, but not me," Gold said tightly. For the first time, he acted as though he were getting hotter than a water heater on Saturday night. "You daren't drag my name into this, Arnold. I can't defend you from jail."

"I'm not taking a rap for—" Richmond began angrily.

"Gold's going to keep you company," I said consolingly. "You don't think Trottmann's going to let him get away, do you?"

"Trottmann, Trottmann, Trottmann," Gold repeated irritably. "You keep talking about Trottmann. Why?"

"Because he's the boss now," I said. I grinned. "After all, he's got those DuMorell sets in his pocket."

Gold stiffened. Richmond bent forward slightly, like a loose-jawed clown beginning a mocking bow. Max sagged against the door.

"How do you know?" Gold asked thickly.

"I told him—for various considerations."

"When?"

"Early this morning," I lied.

"Leo, you just got through talking to him, didn't you?" Richmond snarled. "Did he say anything to you about having them?"

"No." Gold appeared several shades whiter. "He didn't say a damned thing."

"Probably because he was getting ready to put Fia Sprite through the wringer," I said. "Figure it out: now that he's got the sets, all he has to do is nail you with a couple of murders—and Discount Sales will have clear sailing. You've got a radio in your car," I suggested. "There's probably a flash on the air by now."

"That's an idea," Gold agreed.

With Max and his gun bringing up the rear, we filed out of the shack and got into the Caddy again. Gold turned on the radio. The beat of a recorded dance tune seeped into the car. Gold adjusted the volume, then, slowly and delicately, like a man fiddling with his own fate, he began searching the dial for a newscast. The professionally hurried voice of an announcer addressed us:

... an upset in crime occurred this morning, when F.B.I. agents raided a west side garage and uncovered $500,000 in stolen merchandise. It has been revealed that the agents acted on a tip received from Russell Forbes, the private investigator police have wanted to question about the murder of Eddie Sands. A few minutes after the raid, Lieutenant Ben Trottmann, speaking for the Chicago police, exonerated Forbes as far as his participation in the Sands murder is concerned. He stated that Fia Sprite, the dancer who implicated Forbes, has been questioned again and has changed her story, admitting that she was paid to frame Forbes, who was investigating an undercover racket of vast proportions. Trottmann revealed that new evidence uncovered by his office may lead to the solution of at least four recent murders and the dissolution of a gang dealing in stolen merchandise. Warrants are being issued for the arrest of Arnold J. Richmond and Attorney Leo Gold, both believed to be leaders in the racket... From Kansas City comes another story of racketeering and violence. Geraldine Ritter, a nurse, revealed that a man—

Gold snapped the set off. "The dirty louse," he whispered. "The dirty double-crossing louse..."

"He's snagging those sets for himself!" Richmond cried hoarsely. He looked as though his tongue had slipped down his neck and was choking him. "He's going to try to railroad us and—"

"Like hell," Gold said with an intensity I hadn't suspected him capable of. "No one is pulling a double-cross on me and getting away with it. If I have to kill him with my own hands, the bastard's going to get what's coming to him." He glared at me. "How much did you collect, Forbes?"

"A clean bill of health and a promise of fifty grand."