Murder at the Racetrack (18 page)

He found a smile. “Well, not tonight, anyway, sweetheart. They let me call your aunt—she’s on her way. Do you want to wait
in your room?”

“No. No, I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right.”

Vinicky, the girl still in his arms, looked past her for permission, his pudgy face streaked with tears, his eyes webbed red.

Mullaney and Cullen nodded, and a uniformed man walked her out. The father took a seat at the kitchen table. So did Mullaney.
So did I.

Seeming to notice me for the first time, Vinicky looked at me, confusion finding its way past the heartbreak. “What… what’re
you doing here, Mr. Heller?”

“I was watching the house, Mr. Vinicky,” I said, and told him the circumstances as delicately as possible.

“I take it… I take it you told these gentleman why I hired you.”

“I did.”

“Did you see anyone go in, Mr. Heller? Did you see that bastard Miller?”

“I didn’t.” I hadn’t reported to him yet. “Mr. Vinicky, I spent four days watching Miller, and he always went to the track—that’s
why I came here. I don’t believe he was seeing your wife.”

But Vinicky was shaking his head, emphatically. “He did it. I know he did it. You people have
to Jind himl”

Cullen said, “We’re already on that, Mr. Vinicky.”

I asked the captain, “Do you need his address? He’s in a residential hotel over on—”

“We know. We sent a detective over there already—next-door neighbor says this guy Miller used to hang around here a lot. Only
now Miller’s nowhere to be seen—his flop is empty. Ran out on a week’s rent.”

Vinicky slammed a fist on the table. “I told you! I told you!”

Mullaney said, “We need you to calm down, sir, and tell us about your day.”

“My day! Tell you about, what…
this?
The worst day of my life! Worst goddamn day of my life. I loved Rose. She was the best wife any man ever had.”

Neither cop was nasty enough to mention that the bed-room dick this weeping husband had hired was sitting at the table with
them.

Vinicky’s story was unremarkable: He’d got up around eight, dressed for the court appearance, stopped at the office first
(where he was seen by various employees) and then took breakfast at a restaurant on Halsted. From there he’d gone to the post
office, picked up a parcel, and headed downtown by car to Municipal Court. He had littered the South Side and the Loop alike
with witnesses who could support his alibi.

“You’re being sued, we understand,” Mullaney said.

“Yeah—but that’s nothing. Kind of standard with us. Rose is… was… a hard-nosed businesswoman, God love her. She insisted on
a full day’s work for a full day’s pay.”

Mullaney was making notes again. “Did Miller ever complain about getting shorted?”

“Yeah. That’s probably why he was… so friendly with Rose. Trying to get on her good side. Sweet-talk her into giving him the
benefit of the doubt on his hours. I was a son of a bitch to ever suspect—”

Cullen asked, “Could you give us a list of employees who’ve made these complaints, over the last two years?”

“Sure. No problem. I can give you some off the top of my head, then check the records at the office tomorrow for any I missed.”

Mullaney wrote down the names.

When that was done, I asked, “Did your wife have a wedding ring?”

“Yes. Of course. Why—wasn’t it on her…
on
her?”

“No rings.”

Vinicky thought about that. “She might’ve taken it off to do housework. Was it on her dresser? There’s a tray on her dresser…”

“No. What was the ring worth?”

“It was a nice-size diamond—three hundred bucks, I paid. Did the bastard steal it?”

Mullaney said, “Apparently. The money in her wallet was missing, too.”

“Hell you say! That was a small fortune—Rose was going to buy train tickets with that, and cover hotel and other expenses.
She was treating her sister to a trip to California, and Sally was going along… It was robbery, then?”

“We’re exploring that,” Mullaney said.

Vinicky’s eyes tightened to slits. “One of these S.O.B.s who claimed they were shorted, you think?”

The inspector closed his notebook. “We’re exploring that, too. This list should be very helpful, Mr. Vinicky.”

I gave Mullaney the eye, nodding toward the backdoor, and he and I stepped out there for a word away from both the husband
and Captain Cullen.

“How long will you boys be here?” I asked.

“Another hour, maybe. Why, Nate?”

“I have a hunch to play.”

“You want company?”

“No. But I should be back before you’ve wrapped up, here.”

I tooled the Buick over to 63 rd Street, a lively commercial district with all the charm of a junkyard. Not far from here,
Englewood’s big claim to fame—the multiple murderer H.H. Holmes—had set up his so-called Murder Castle in the late 1880s.
The Vinicky case could never hope to compete, so maybe I could make it go away quickly.

In the four days I’d kept an eye on Rich Miller, I’d learned a handful of useful things about the guy, including that when
he wasn’t betting at Washington Park, he was doing so with a guy in a back booth at a bar called the Lucky Horseshoe (whose
only distinction was its lack of a neon horseshoe in the window).

The joint was dim and dreary even for a South Side gin mill, and business was slow, midafternoon. But I still had to wait
for a couple of customers to finish up with the friendly bookie in the back booth before I could slide in across from him.

“Do I know you?” he asked, not in a threatening way. He was a small sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, sharp-chinned sharpie wearing
a derby and a bow tie but no jacket—it was warm in the Horseshoe. He was smoking a cigarillo and his sleeves were rolled up,
like he was preparing to deal cards. But no cards were laid out on the booth’s table.

I laid mine out, anyway: “My name is Heller, Nate Heller. Maybe you’ve heard of me.”

The mouth smiled enough to reveal a glint of gold tooth; the dark blue eyes weren’t smiling, though.

“I’m gonna take a wild stab,” I said, “and guess they call you Goldie.”

“Some do. You the… ’Frank Nitti’ Heller?”

By that he meant, was I the mobbed-up private eye who had been tight with Capone’s late heir, and remained tight with certain
of the Outfit hierarchy.

“Yes.”

“You wanna place a bet, Nate? My bet is… not.”

“Your bet is right. I’m not here to muscle you. I’m here to do you a favor.”

“What favor would that be?”

“There’s a murder a few blocks away—Inspector Mullaney’s on it.”

“Oh. Shit.”

And by that he meant, imagine the luck: one of the
honest
Chicago cops.

“But, Nate,” he said, and I got the full benefit of a suspiciously white smile interrupted by that gold eyetooth, “why would
Goldie give a damn? I have nothin’ to do with murder.
Any
murder. I’m in the entertainment business.”

“You help people play the horses.”

The tiny shrug conveyed big self-confidence. “It’s a noble sport, both the racing and the betting.”

I leaned toward him. “One of your clients is shaping up as a suspect. The favor I’m doing you is:
I’m
talking to you, rather than just giving you over to the inspector.”

Eyelids fluttered. “Ah. Well, I do appreciate that. What’s the client’s name?”

“Rich Miller.”

The upper lip peeled back and again showed gold, but this was no smile. “That fucking fourflusher. He’s into me for five C’s!”

“Really. And he’s made no move to pay you off? Today, maybe?”

His laughter cut like a blade. “Are you kidding? One of my… associates… went around to his flop. Miller pulled outa there,
owin’ a week’s back rent.”

Which, of course, I already knew.

Goldie was shaking his head, his tone turning philosophical. “You never can tell about people, can you? Miller always paid
up on time, before this, whereas that pal of his, who I wouldn’t trust far as I could throw him,
that
crumb pays up, just when I was ready to call the legbreakers in.”

“What pal of Miller’s?”

He gave me a name, but it meant nothing to me. I wondered if it might be the guy Miller had met at Washington Park two of
the days, and ran a description by Goldie.

“That sounds like him. Big guy. Six four, easy. Not somebody I could talk to myself.”

“Hence the legbreakers.”

“Hence. Nate, if you can keep that goody-two-shoes Mullaney off my ass, it would be appreciated. He’ll come around, make it
an excuse to make my life miserable, and what did I ever do to that fat slob?”

I was already out of the booth. “See what I can do, Goldie.”

“And if you ever wanna place a bet, you know where my office is.”

When I got back to the brown-brick house on South Elizabeth Street, the Catholic school girl was hugging a tall slender woman,
who might have been her mother come to life. On closer look, this gal was younger, and a little less pretty, though that may
not have been fair, considering her features were taut with grief.

Sally and the woman who I took to be her aunt were beneath the same shady tree where Mullaney and I had stood with the girl,
questioning her, earlier.

I went up and introduced myself, keeping vague about the “investigative job” I’d been doing for Mr. Vinicky.

“I’m Doris Stemmer,” she said, Sally easing out of the woman’s embrace. The woman wore a pale yellow dress with white flowers
that almost didn’t show. “I’m Rose’s sister.”

She extended her hand and I shook it. Sally stayed close to her aunt.

“Sorry for your grief, Mrs. Stemmer,” I told her. “Have you spoken to Inspector Mullaney yet?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“But you’re a
private
detective, aren’t you? What were you doing for Sylvester?”

“Looking into some of the complaints from his employees.”

Her eyes tightened and ice came into her voice. “Those men were a bunch of lazy good-for-nothing whiners. Doris was a good
person, fair and with a great heart, wonderful heart. Why, just last year, she loaned Ray three hundred dollars, so we didn’t
have to wait to get married.”

“Ray?”

“Yes, my husband.”

“What does he do, if I might ask?”

“He started a new job just last week, at an electrical assembly plant, here on the South Side.”

“New job? What was his old one?”

Her strained smile was a signal that I was pushing it. “He worked for Sylvester in the moving business. You can ask him yourself
if Rose wasn’t an angel. Ask him yourself if she wasn’t fair about paying their people.”

“But he
did
quit…”

“Working as a mover was just temporary, till Ray could get a job in his chosen field.” Her expression bordered on glare. “Mr.
Heller—if you want to talk to Ray, he’s waiting by the car, right over there.”

She pointed and I glanced over at a blue Ford coupe parked just behind a squad car. A big, rugged-looking dark-haired guy,
leaning against the vehicle, nodded to us. He was in a short-sleeve green sportshirt and brown pants. His tight expression
said he was wondering what the hell I was bothering his wife about.

Gently as I could, I said, “I might have a couple questions for him, at that, Mrs. Stemmer. Would you and Sally wait here,
just a moment? Don’t go anywhere, please…”

I went inside and found Mullaney and Cullen in the living room, contemplating the tape outline. Things were obviously winding
down; the crime scene boys were packing up their gear, and most of the detectives were already gone.

“Button, button,” I said to them. “Who’s got the button?”

Cullen glared at me, but Mullaney only smiled. “The brown button, you mean? Cullen, didn’t you collect that?”

The captain reached a hand into his suitcoat and came back with the brown button and held out the blood-caked item in his
palm.

“You want this, Heller?”

“Yeah,” I said, marveling at the evidence-collecting protocol of the Chicago Police Department, “just for a minute…”

I returned to Mrs. Stemmer, under the tree, an arm around her niece.

“Couple questions about your husband,” I said.

“Why don’t you just
talk
to him?” she asked, clearly exasperated.

“I will. I’m sorry. Please be patient. Does your husband have a coat that matches those pants he’s wearing?”

“Well… yes. Maybe. Why?”

“Isn’t wearing it today, though.”

“It’s warm. Why would he wear it… ?”

“Could this button have come off that jacket?”

She looked at it. “I don’t know… maybe. I guess. That button’s filthy, though—what’s that caked on there?”

Quietly, I said, “When did you say your husband started his new job?”

“Last week.”

“But he didn’t have to go to work today?”

“No… no. He had some things to do.”

“Does he normally get Fridays off?”

“I don’t know. He just started, I told you.”

“So it’s unlikely he’d be given a day off…”

“Why don’t you ask
him
”

“Mrs. Stemmer, forgive me, but… does your husband have a gambling problem?”

She drew in breath, but said nothing. And spoke volumes.

I ambled over to the tall, broad-shouldered man leaning against the Ford.

“Mr. Stemmer? My name’s Heller.”

He stood straight now, folded his arms, looked at me suspiciously through sleepy eyes. He’d been out of earshot when I spoke
to his wife, but could tell I’d been asking her unpleasant questions.

“Why were you bothering my wife? Are you one of these detectives?”

“Yeah. Private detective.”

He batted the air with a big paw. “You’re nobody! I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Private detective,” I picked up, “who followed Rich Miller to the track most of this week.”

“… What for?”

“For Rose’s husband—he thought she and Miller were playing around.”

He snorted a laugh. “Only thing Richie Miller plays is the nags.”

“And you’d know, right, Ray? See, I saw you and your buddy Richie hanging out together at Washington Park. You were betting
pretty solid, yourself. Not big dough, but you were game, all right.”