No Pockets in a Shroud [Short Story]

Chapter Five Blackmail Union

I found Fausta alone behind the bar mixing herself a rum and coke. “Make mine rye and water,” I said. She deftly pulled a cork from a new bottle and measured out a portion by eye.

“Very professional,” I admired. “Got a, union card?”

“I only pretend like Joe, the bar keep. That’s probably too strong.”

“Better than too weak.” I sampled it and it almost curled my hair. When I recovered my breath, I asked: “Where’s Gloria?”

“Upstairs in Louie’s bed — she is taking nap.”

“How romantic. Who gets Bagnell’s dough, Fausta?”

“They not yet read the will.”

“I know. But you’re a smart little girl. Who gets the dough?”

She screwed up her nose at me. “You take me out tonight?”

I looked up at her, exasperated, then laughed. “Make it tomorrow, blackmailer. What’s the dope?”

“His sister get everything except $100,000 and El Patio. The race wires nobody get, because the syndicate lease to whoever they want now.”

I frowned over this. “That means Byron Wade steps in and ties up every bookshop in town, unless someone in Louie’s mob is smart enough to wear his pants.”

“No one smart enough. Greene the smartest of lot, and he a jolt.”

“You mean a jerk,” I said. “Who gets this place?”

“Me. And $100,000 for a bank.”

I whistled. “Nice business to inherit.” Then I thought of something. “How come he was so nice to you?”

I must have been scowling, because she laughed suddenly. “You jealous,” she accused.

“I am not. I’m just trying to solve a murder.” I tried to relax the woodenness of my face and added stiffly: “Your relations with Bagnell are your own business.”

A secret grin, as though at some remembered inner thought, hovered on her lips.

“All-right,” I snapped. “Why’d the old roué cut you in?”

“Four year ago, when I begin deal for Louie, he want very much make love to me.”

She stopped to sip her drink and her eyes danced at the increasing color I couldn’t keep out of my face.

“It’s this drink,” I growled. “You left out the water.”

She went on, her eyes still dancing. “I say no, and he give me many fine clothes and pretty jewels. I say thanks, but I still say no and he change his will like it is now and show it to me.”

“All this,” I broke in, “was while I was overseas crawling around in the mud!”

Her head went up high. “And what, Meester Moon, have you in the mud got to do with something?”

“You were engaged to me!”

“And who breaked it up?”

Our hands gripping the bar edge on either side, we glared at each other like angry kids. I recovered first and realized we were acting juvenile.

I forced a grin. “We both did. You moved out of my class, and I moved out of your way.”

“You never asked do I want you move.”

“Let’s not revive dead issues, Fausta. You were telling about the will.”

Her eyes stayed violent and she raised her glass to gulp her drink with an offended flourish. I continued to grin at her until her expression turned to a pout, then a penitent smile.

“O.K.,” she conceded. “We friends again. After Louie show me the will, I still say no and he say what do I want — to marry him? I say it is nothing I want from him but to deal his cards for my very good salary. He grumble a while and finally leave me alone, but I know he never change back the will.”

I got another unpleasant idea and blurted it out before I thought. “He wasn’t intending to change it soon, was he?”

“Not that I know.” Then the meaning of my question struck her. “What you mean, Manny?”

“Just what I asked.”

“You mean do I kill Louie?” Her eyes were still and disbelieving and her lips unnaturally straight.

I retreated fast. “Of course not, baby. I just asked a question.”

The hurt went out of her eyes at “baby”, a special word I hadn’t used since she stopped being my special girl, and some of the tautness left her face. “You looked so like a detective, Manny. For a minute I feel strange to you. Why you call me ‘baby’?”

I said, “Pour in more water,” and pushed my half empty glass at her.

She held it under the faucet for a moment, then set it back on the bar.

“Why you call me baby?” she repeated.

I tasted my drink and said: “Much less poisonous. You know, Fausta, a hundred thousand is lots of dollars, but not much to back a place with this class clientele. A bad run the first night could wipe you out.”

She watched irritably while I poured down the rest of my drink. “You change the subject,” she accused.

I summoned up an insincere expression of innocence. “I mean it. A hundred thousand is no bank for this place.”

She shrugged resignedly. “I shall close the casino and make into it a cocktail lounge. Less money I make this way, but I sure of what I make. You like going in nightclub business, Manny?”

I grinned at her crookedly. “Thanks, Fausta, but I’m a lousy chef. Who was mad at Bagnell aside from Wade and his mob?”

“No one. Unless Amos Horne.”

“Got any ideas at all about this thing?”

“No.”

I straightened away from the bar. “Then I’ll see you around, Fausta.”

She scurried around the bar and caught my coat-tail. “Not so quick, my one. Tomorrow night you come what time?”

I snapped my fingers. “Oh yes. Tomorrow night. How about eleven?”

“Manny Moon!” She stamped both small feet like a child preparing for a tantrum. “I know your one hour dates! You get me eleven, take me home midnight. You come eight o’clock.”

“Nine,” I temporized.

Her eyes snapped. “O. K. But you one minute late, I cut out your heart.”

It was 5:45 when a taxi let me out at 1418 Newberry. I rang the bell of apartment C, but nothing happened, so I pushed it again and kept my finger on it until I heard footsteps. The door abruptly jerked wide.

Although the man outweighed me, I had to look down to see his face. His head, like an upright pear, set the design for his body, which coned outward from narrow shoulders to thick hips and horseshoe legs. The last time I had seen a figure like his, it had been in a cage and I threw peanuts at it. He was in his undershirt and could have used on the top of his head some of the excess hair which matted his arms and shoulders. I guessed his age as forty-five.

“Amos Horne?” I asked.

“What you want?”

Putting one hand against his chest, I pushed him back into the room and kicked the door shut behind me.

“I’m Moon. Your wife sent me.”

His fists clenched, but he left them dangling at his sides. His eyes narrowed scornfully. “Where is the dumb tramp?”

I said: “Sit down and we’ll talk about things.”

“Listen, you got a lousy nerve busting in here and telling me to sit down. If you got a message from my wife, spill it and scram.”

I said: “Sit down.”

His face reddened and he started to raise one fist. I didn’t move, and when his hand got shoulder high the fist unclenched, his expression turned uncertain and he used the hand to scratch the fuzz over his ear. He sat down.

“What you want?” he asked.

I unfolded onto a sofa next to his chair. “I’m a private investigator, and I want some answers. You don’t have to give any, but if you don’t, I’ll put a bug in the ear of Inspector Day at Homicide, and then you will have to give answers.”

“Homicide! I ain’t killed nobody.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind questions. Where were you last night?”

“Wait a minute. What’s this all about?”

“About a murder. Louis Bagnell was killed last night. Don’t you read papers?”

He looked startled, then a wary expression grew in his eyes. “I ain’t seen the papers. I work nights and haven’t been out all day. What’s Bagnell got to do with me?”

“Nothing. Except he was playing your wife and you threatened to kill them both.”

His mouth opened in what could have been honest amazement. “Did that fool wife of mine say that?”

“She did.”

“To the cops?”

“Not yet. But she probably will if they ask her.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Look, Mister... What you say your name was?”

“Moon.”

“Moon,” he repeated with a thoughtful frown. Then half-recognition dawned in his eyes. “Yeah. I’ve heard of you. Look, Moon, my wife is a moron. I never said I’d kill nobody.”

“What did you say?”

“I don’t know. I was mad when I found out about her and Bagnell and just spouted off a lot of stuff. But I never said I’d kill nobody. It was something general, like you say when you’re mad. Like I’d beat both their brains in, or wring their necks or something. But, cripes, I didn’t mean I really would!”

I said: “Funny you use the term ‘wring their necks’. Did I tell you Bagnell was strangled?”

His jaw dropped. “I thought he was shot!”

“He was. Now tell me how you knew.”

His face changed from startlement to sullenness, then a begrudging grin spread across it. “Walked into that neat, didn’t I? It’s been on the radio all day. I figured I’d be smart and not know nothing. Guess I was too smart.”

“Let’s go back to my first question. Where were you last night?”

“I work from six-thirty to one-thirty in the morning.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I was at work.”

“Where’s that?”

“I run a bingo game at Eighth and Market.”

“Got a telephone here?”

He looked surprised. “Yeah. In the hall.”

“What’s the number of your bingo hall?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head back and forth, “Sorry. It’s a private listing. We don’t give it out to everybody.”

“I can just as easily phone Homicide and have them check.”

I let him think it over for a minute. He said: “Fairmont 2103.”

I found the phone in the hall, dialed the number, and after a long time a male voice answered.

“Amos Horne there?” I asked.

“Naw. We ain’t open yet.”

“This is a friend of his. When’s the best time to catch him?”

“He gets here about six-thirty.”

“That’s too early. How late’s he stay?”

“Till closing. One-thirty.”

“He wasn’t there last night,” I objected. “I was in about eight.”

The voice on the other end grew impatient. “He went out for a while last night. He’ll be here tonight.”

I said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

When I returned to the living room, the begrudging grin was back on Horne’s face.

“All right,” he said. “I was gone from the hall from seven to nine. Does that prove I bumped Bagnell?”

“It might. What’s your story?”

“I was just riding around. Couldn’t keep my mind on business for thinking about Gloria, so I put one of the guys in charge and took a drive.”

“Where?”

“Just around.”

“For two whole hours?”

“Yeah.”

“Go near El Patio?”

His mouth quirked insolently. “Yeah. Drove out the highway right past it. Didn’t stop.”

“Stop here?”

His eyebrows were built straight across his forehead, undivided, like a hairy rope. Now one raised, forming a startling broken stair design.

“Why should I stop here?” he asked.

“To see if Gloria were home. Did you?”

“Suppose I did? So what?”

“So you did.” I rose. “Get your shirt on.”

He rose also. “Now wait a minute. You’re no cop. You got no right to arrest me.”

“Relax. I’m not arresting you. Get your shirt on.”

He watched my face undecidedly, scratched his ear fuzz again, then went into the bedroom. In a few minutes he came out fully dressed.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Where do you keep your car?”

“Garage in back.”

“Let’s go.”

I followed him down some back stairs and across the rear yard to the alley. Lifting the center of three identical sliding doors, he exposed a 1938 Ford coach. Without stirring from the alley, I could see his tires were new synthetics and treaded with a V-thread.

“Got any other cars?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I ain’t a millionaire.”

“O. K. You can close it again.”

His left eyebrow made its queer twisting jump again. For a moment he looked at me curiously, then reached up, caught the door’s bottom edge and slammed it against the concrete floor.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“I just like to look at cars. It’s a fetish. What shall I tell your wife?”

“Tell the blamed fool to come home.”

“And get her ears knocked down?”

“Aw, I wouldn’t slam her.”

“I’ll tell her,” I said. “And I’ll see you around.”

I walked down the alley until it met a side street.

From a drugstore booth I phoned Warren Day at his home.

“Find out who the dame with the slave bracelet was?” I asked.

“No.” He sounded tired. “We had Mrs. Wade down to look at the girl’s body. She didn’t know her. She said her first husband had a cousin in Belleville, but couldn’t remember her first name and wasn’t even sure the last was O’Conner. We’re checking Belleville. Mrs. Wade said her first husband had no other relatives, far as she knows.”

“How about the other name on the bracelet?”

“Gerald Foster? Nothing yet. But the story’ll be in tomorrow’s papers. We’re hoping Gerald can read.”

I asked: “Any other progress?”

“Listen,” Day said, “I run Homicide, not the information bureau. Go out and dig up your own dope.”

His receiver slammed in my ear.

Early the following evening, just as I finished a painful second shave before my date with Fausta, the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Wade, an unnecessarily hot fur collar haloing her cool face. Glancing beyond her, I saw she was alone and stepped aside for her to enter.

“I’ve come for my report,” she announced, arranging herself in the center of my living room sofa. “Isn’t that how it’s done? I mean, aren’t I supposed to come after a progress report periodically? I never hired a detective before.” A mocking light twinkled deep in her eyes as she shrugged out of her fur jacket.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked. I began to mix two drinks.

Her brows raised. “I told you. A progress report.”

I handed her one of the glasses and leaned back next to her with my own. I didn’t say anything.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I want a progress report.”

“Get your gun back from Inspector Day?” I asked.

“Of course. Before I came here yesterday.”

“Got it with you?”

Her forehead puckered and her tone doubted the necessity of my question. “I only carry it when I play. Why?”

“Just wondered. Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

Setting her drink on the end table, she turned sidewise to face me. “I’m angry about that. Why did you tell the inspector I was married before?”

“Is it a secret?”

The question made her pause. “No... But I’m your client and if you hadn’t told him about Arthur, I wouldn’t have had to visit that cold morgue to look at bodies. Aren’t you supposed to protect clients from things like that?”

I grinned at her. “Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

“I don’t know. I never saw her except at the morgue.” She shivered in recollection. “What has she to do with Louis’ death, anyway?”

“Nothing, probably, except in a negative sense. If she’s related to your ex-husband, it might tend to eliminate your present spouse as a suspect in the Bagnell case.”

She looked puzzled.

“It reasons like this,” I explained. “Only two things point to your husband as engineering Bagnell’s death: the general belief that they were gunning for each other and the fact that Byron obviously built himself an alibi for that night. The jealousy motive isn’t very strong, because there’s nothing to show he knew Bagnell was one of your interesting friends, and even if he did, you say he isn’t jealous.

“On the other hand, one thing definitely points away from your husband planning the killing. He knew you always played at El Patio on Monday and Wednesday. You say he still loves you and with five other nights to pick, he’d certainly not choose a night when you were there.”

She frowned, started to comment and changed her mind. I went on with my line of reasoning.

“So when it develops that a gal wearing the same name as your first husband fell in the river at almost the same time Bagnell got shot, there’s a strong possibility that Byron’s prepared alibi was to cover himself for her death, and Bagnell’s simultaneous assassination was coincidence.”

“But why would Byron have her killed?”

“You suspect he killed your first husband. Ever hear of blackmail?”

Her face lighted in comprehension. “But that would mean Byron had nothing to do with Louis.”

“I’ve been saying that for five minutes.”

She began to chew her lower lip and frown again, almost in disappointment.

“You don’t have to be mad,” I said. “I can’t help it that your husband doesn’t commit the crimes you’d like him, to.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly, then added: “I still want my progress report.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Her lips thrust forward in a pout. “I want to see if you’re working and earning all that money I gave you.”

I gave her a quick look, but she seemed serious. Her eyes were wide and determined and she leaned forward as though preparing to hang on my every word. I shrugged, set down my drink and recited rapidly:

“El Patio is built so the logical way for the murderer to get on the grounds was from the highway through a grove of trees. If he came any other way, he was nuts, because he’d have to climb a ten foot fence. There are fresh tire marks where a car parked half off the highway next to the grove of trees.

“Bagnell was playing with a blonde every Tuesday and Thursday.” I paused to give her a malicious grin, but her expression remained only interested. “The blonde’s husband found it out. He admits he was mad at both Bagnell and his wife and that he drove past El Patio about the time Bagnell was killed. But he says he didn’t stop and his tire treads don’t match the marks I found. Temporarily I’ve ruled him out as the killer. That’s as far as I got before I grew sleepy. Now what’s the real reason you’re here?”

She yawned and arched her body against the sofa back, causing the cloth to tauten across her overdeveloped bust. “I got lonesome.”

“Sure,” I said. “And you can’t resist me.”

“I don’t try. You resist me.”

She inclined her head slightly and dark hair rippled against my shoulder. When I looked down, her eyes were mocking.

“You’re the ugliest man I ever kissed,” she said.

I couldn’t see that this required any comment.

“But you’ve got a nice body,” she continued. “And something even more important. Something women notice.”

“Yeah?” I was conscious that my conversation definitely lacked drawing room brilliance.

“You have a virile look.”

I considered this, not exactly liking it, and gave her a puzzled frown. She laughed, and twisting toward me, placed a palm on either side of my face. Her lips came up, enveloped mine and suddenly turned greedy. She lifted her body toward me, clamped her arms around my neck and hung on as though she were drowning. I cooperated in the kiss, more out of curiosity than desire.

Eventually she drew back her head and looked up into my face. Her pupils had grown large and dark, her face wore a strained expression and smeared lipstick, mixed with perspiration, covered her upper lip. Almost inaudibly she asked: “What are you thinking?”

I said: “I’m thinking that I have a date in thirty minutes.”

Instantly she straightened away from me, her eyes suddenly furious.

“You dead lump!”

Rising, she flounced out of the room and I heard the bathroom door slam. I shrugged, went over to the mirror above my mantle, and used a handkerchief to remove lipstick from my face. In less than two minutes she was back with her makeup again in order.

Smiling as though nothing had happened, she said: “I’ll drop you off at your date.”