Kiss and Kill

Kiss and Kill

Ellery Queen

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

WHERE THE HELL IS LIZ?

1

The thing began on a cool and windy April evening in Chicago, in a basement apartment on the North Side.

It began with Edward Tollman, the footsteps, and the loaf of bread.

Ed was sketching a cabinet design for a combination radiophonograph at his worktable when he heard the street door open, faintly, and the sound of footsteps growing louder as they crossed the foyer and paused outside the apartment door. He paid no attention, but worked on, the cuffs of his white shirt turned back from his furry forearms.

By the watch on his wrist it was 7:05.

At seven-fifteen he leaned back. He flexed his fingers and shook a cigarette out of the pack on his drawing board, unconsciously imitating the he-men of the TV commercials.

“How long till supper?” he called out. Liz did not answer, and he slewed about on his chair. “Liz?”

All he heard now was silence.

He slid off the chair, looked into the kitchen, the bathroom. They were empty. He walked back through the living room, where he had been working, and glanced into the bedroom. She was not there, either. She was not in the apartment at all.

He went back to the living room. It was sunken three steps down from a tiny foyer at the apartment door, and he went up the steps, opened the door, and looked into the vestibule. No one. But leaning against the wall to the side of the apartment door there was a paper bag. He knew what it contained before he stooped to pick it up; he could smell it. It contained a loaf of freshly baked bread, still warm.

But where was Liz?

Ed Tollman frowned and crossed the small vestibule to the street door and opened it and stepped outside, carrying the bread. He could see well enough in the twilight: the street was empty except for the inevitable Chicago newspapers playing tag in the wind. The wind cut through his shirt and he shivered and returned to the apartment.

In the kitchen, he turned the gas off under the stewpot and set the pot over the pilot light, where it would stay warm. He checked the oven's timer and found it set to go off in half an hour. He returned to his drawing board.

He picked up his lighter and lit the cigarette. Liz must have forgotten something and gone to get it.

Ed smoked slowly, tilting his head to study the sketch. Then he picked up an art-gum eraser, rubbed out a line, returned the eraser to the stand beside the table, took a brush, and dusted the eraser crumbs off the drawing. The crumbs he brushed into his palm and dumped into a metal wastebasket beside the drawing board. His movements were slow and precise.

He sharpened a drafting pencil on a pad of sandpaper and gently drew a line. He worked with absolute absorption, his black hair hanging down over his eyes, making him squint. From overhead came occasional footsteps and the thunk of steam pipes. An el train clattered by not far away.

When the bell rang on the stove, he slid off the stool impatiently, went into the kitchen, and turned off the oven. The paper bag on the table caught his eye. He looked at it for a full thirty seconds, scratching the hollow below his right cheekbone.

Where the hell
was
Liz?

Abruptly he got his topcoat out of the foyer closet and left the apartment. It was nearly dark now in the narrow side street; the only light came from the glow of the business district two blocks away. He walked to the bakery on the corner. A woman was slicing noodles behind the counter. She was fat, with flour smudges on her powerful arms.

“Not long ago my wife came in here and bought a loaf of salt-rising bread. I wondered if she came back for anything?”

The woman said, “Salt-rising bread?”

“She had a dog with her. A miniature French poodle.”

The woman kept slicing the yellow dough, shaking her head.

“She was in just once, for the bread.”

Ed left the bakery and walked half a block to the supermarket. A man and two women were pushing carts about the aisles, two checkers buffed their nails, a bald head glistened through the bars of the cashier's window.

He left and, farther down the street, peered into a delicatessen, his breath staining the plate-glass window. Only a clerk was inside. So he crossed the street and went into a barroom named Kirch's Korner. In a rear booth a dark-haired woman in a black mouton jacket sat over a beer. She glared at him.

“Excuse me,” Ed said. “I thought you were my wife.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He turned and started out past the bar. The bartender eyed him. Ed stopped.

“I'm looking for my wife,” he explained.

“So?”

“She had a white dog with her. Wore a black fur jacket, overshoes, green skirt. Here.” He drew out his wallet and opened the photo compartment. A deep-breasted young woman looked through the plastic window, her thick hair bunched loosely. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing.

“She ain't been in,” said the bartender forgivingly.

Ed went back into the street, frowning deeply now. He glanced anxiously into a diner full of men eating with their hats on, prowled through a seafood café, inspected a Chinese restaurant. He explored two side streets, his feet splashing in the slush. At the end of the business district he stopped. A diffusion of light marked the next business district, eight blocks away; between lay darkened furniture stores, used-car lots, loan offices, real-estate offices, garages. No point in looking there.

Or was there? He walked quickly to the el station.

It was deserted except for the woman in the wire cage who sold tokens. Ed held the snapshot up to the window.

“Did this woman get on a train in the last hour? She had a little white poodle with her.”

The woman's wrinkled skin glowed blue in the fluorescent light. Her eyes ignored the photo in favor of his face. “You the police?” she asked in an interested tone.

“I'm her husband.”

She began shaking her head even before she looked at the photo. “I don't remember her or the dog. A lot of people go through here. Stand aside, mister.”

Ed returned to the deserted apartment. It was eight-thirty; the roast was still warm. He took it out of the oven, cut off the end piece, and placed it between two slices of bread. He sat at the table and chewed tastelessly, eyes on the door. At last he laid the sandwich down, only half-eaten, and lit a cigarette. He smoked and watched the door. His thoughts were whirling around in little eddies of panic. He kept telling himself, She's all right.

At nine o'clock he put the roast in the refrigerator and the loaf in the bread box and went to the telephone, recessed in the kitchen wall. He ran his finger down a typewritten list headed “Frequently Called Numbers” until he reached the name Connie. He dialed. The phone rang six times before an annoyed female voice said, “Who is it?”

“Ed Tollman.”

“Who?
Don't
, Ray! Who is this again?”

“Ed Tollman. Elizabeth's husband.”

“Oh, Liz! Is she there?”

“No. That's why I'm calling.”

“You're looking for Liz?”

Ed opened his mouth and took a long breath before he said, “Yes.”

“Well, you're out of luck, lover. I haven't seen her since she left the agency at five.”

“I know that, Connie. She came home on the train as usual, started supper, then went to the bakery for a loaf of bread. She must have come back, because I found the bread outside our door. And I haven't seen or heard from her since. I thought maybe she went back to the agency. I don't know what to think.”

“What time was all this?”

“Seven o'clock.”

“Well.” A man's voice interrupted in the background and the woman said: “Liz, a copywriter at the agency. Her husband's looking for her.” The man's voice said something and the girl laughed.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Ed. She hasn't been back here.”

“Did she mention having any plans for tonight? Somebody she intended to meet?”

“Nothing like that—”

“Has she been especially friendly with anyone lately?”

“A man?”

“Anybody.”

“Ed, Liz never
looked
at another man.”

“I said anybody.”

“You should be ashamed, spying on a doll like Liz.”

“She's been gone two hours, Connie.”

“I know how you men work. I went through it with two husbands—”

Ed replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. Nine-thirty.

He made another tour of the neighborhood, peering down alleys and into vestibules. When he returned to the apartment it was ten-forty.

He dialed Operator, said, “Get me the police,” and waited. After a long wait, a man's voice said, “Eighteenth Precinct. Corporal Towns.”

“I'm calling about my wife. She came home—”

“Who's calling?”

“Edward Tollman. She came home—”

“Address?”

“3215 West Pine.”

“Wife's name?”

“Elizabeth. She went out three hours ago to buy a loaf of bread. She must have come back, because I found the bread outside the door. But I haven't laid eyes on my wife since she left for the bakery.”

“Hold on a minute.”

There was a buzz, a click, then a different voice. “Missing Persons. Sergeant Frannie.”

Ed's heart began to pound. “My name is Edward Tollman, 3215 West Pine. I'm calling about my wife, Elizabeth—”

“Spell your last name.”

“T-O-L-L-M-A-N.”

“T-O-L-L-M-A-N. Okay. Now what about your wife?”

“She came home three hours ago with a loaf of bread. She set it down outside the apartment door without coming in and apparently left again. I've searched the neighborhood and can't find her. To tell the truth, Sergeant, I'm beginning to worry.”

“Hold on.”

After a few minutes the voice said, “No report on her. Maybe she stopped in to see a relative, Mr. Tollman.”

“She has no relatives in Chicago.”

“Friend, then.”

“None in the neighborhood. Anyway, she'd have told me, or called.”

“Maybe. Did you two have a fight?”

“No.”

There was a pause. Then the police sergeant said, “Better give me a description.”

Ed took another deep breath. “She's twenty-five years old, has dark brown hair, hazel eyes—”

“Slow down.”

“Height five-seven.” Ed waited.

“Five-seven. Go on.”

“Weight a hundred and twenty.”

“What was she wearing?”

“A black fur jacket, mouton. Green skirt. Overshoes. She had a dog with her, a miniature French poodle, white.”

“The dog's name?”

“Bogus.”

“How's that again?”

“Bogus. It came with a pedigree, but it was a fake.”

“Oh, Bogus. Any scars or birthmarks? On your wife, I mean.”

“None visible.”

“I didn't ask if they were visible. I don't want to scare you, Mr. Tollman, but it happens.”