Send Along a Wreath

Chapter II

The girl’s hotel was the Metropolitan, about a half dozen blocks from O’Neill’s office. They drove there in a cab.

The girl got her key from the desk and they rode up to her room, which was on the eleventh floor. They were alone in the car.

The elevator operator, a fresh faced young kid, in a neat blue and gold uniform with a discharge button on the lapel glanced down at the girl’s black, ankle-strap sandals and let his gaze wander slowly up to her blonde hair. His eyes stopped there briefly, then went on innocently to the ceiling. He began to whistle soundlessly.

The car came to a soft stop at eleven, the doors opened silently.

The elevator boy grinned at O’Neill, a we’re-a-couple-of-men-of-the-world grin.

O’Neill said, “Control your imagination. I’m going to help her put down a rug.”

He followed the girl down a quiet carpeted hallway to room 1124. The girl opened the door with her key, went in and snapped on the light. 1124 was a suite, with a small living room, a bedroom and bath.

“Mind if I look around?” O’Neill asked.

“Please go ahead. I’ll fix a drink. Do you like it with or without?”

“Without,” O’Neill said. “And a little of the with on the side.”

He took off his hat and walked into the bedroom. There were two windows, opening on a fire escape. There were tan curtains, wooly looking drapes. Both windows were locked. The vanity was three-mirrored and on its top were several bottles of perfume, a nail kit in a leather case with the initials E. M. stamped on it in gold, a jar of cold cream and a long silver compact.

He looked at himself in the mirror, caught a glimpse of his profile and decided he didn’t like it. He smoothed his hair down and went into the bathroom.

There was a shower there, inclosed in a glass closet, a small radiator that wasn’t turned on, and no window. A pair of nylon stockings hung on a rack behind the door.

He went back to the living room. It was carpeted in gray and the furniture had the smooth, unused look of most hotel furniture. There were two windows from which he got a good look at the Loop. They were also locked.

He took off his coat, tossed it on a chair.

“Sit over here,” Estelle Moran said.

She was sitting on a small sofa before the fireplace. The sofa was covered with something that looked stiff and there was no fire. She had poured two drinks and set them on a shiny coffee table in front of the sofa.

O’Neill sat down beside her and twisted sideways enough to look at her. It was worth the effort. She had taken off the hat and veil. Her face was oval but the way her hair swept back from her temples gave it a pointed, interesting look. The hair was dramatic and while the blonde luster was phony, it was the kind of phoniness that took about eight hours of somebody’s time to create. It swept back in a kind of winged effect from her temples and then curled into a thick long pageboy. Her eyes were light blue with startlingly clear irises. The purple shadows under them, O’Neill decided, was half make-up and half worry. Or something else.

She had crossed her beautiful legs in a way that displayed them to the best advantage. And the slight twist of her body did a lot of interesting things to her hips and waist and breasts. O’Neill wondered if the room was getting a little warmer. He looked at her again and decided it wasn’t the room.

She was looking at him, her crimson mouth parted a little.

“Bernie told me about you,” she said, “but he didn’t mention those shoulders.”

“Yous are nice too,” O’Neill said. “But let’s leave sex out of this. Who do you think is trying to kill you?”

“It doesn’t seem important now that you’re here,” she said. “I don’t mean just that. I mean I feel safe. I know you’ll take care of me.”

She picked up one of the drinks, a stiff one, and handed it to O’Neill. Their finger touched briefly. It might have been accidentally.

O’Neill drank his drink. It tasted almost as good as the liquor ads claimed. Strong, smooth and smoky. The girl took the glass, refilled it and handed it back.

“You’re not drinking,” he said.

She picked up her drink, smiled slowly. “Now I am.”

“Then let’s talk,” O’Neill said. “You like my shoulders, I like your liquor. We’re doing fine. Let’s try again. Who’s trying to kill you?”

The girl sipped her drink, then made a despairing little gesture with her hand. There was a frightened, tense look in back of her clear eyes.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “They tried twice. Once in New York, and then when I started here they tried again. A car tailed my cab in New York one night for almost a mile. I told the driver to lose him but he couldn’t. This was about two in the morning. We were on Riverside Drive, at about a hundred and seventeenth street when they pulled alongside. There were three men in the car, it was a black Packard. They swerved into us and the driver had to pull aside to avoid a collision. We crashed into a fire plug and tipped over. The Packard kept going.”

“Were you hurt?” O’Neill asked.

“No, I was lucky, I guess.”

“What happened the next time?”

The girl reached for O’Neill’s glass. He was mildly surprised to find it empty. She filled it, handed it back, then took a sip from her own.

“The next time was in Pittsburgh. I left New York for the Coast, but I thought a man was following me on the train. At Pittsburgh I got off. It was about two in the morning. I don’t think anyone saw me. But that morning about six someone tried to get into my hotel room. I heard someone at the door, trying the knob. I got up and turned the lights on. I hadn’t double-locked the door, but I did then. I snapped the second lock on and then stood at the door listening. A few minutes later I heard someone walk away from the door. I waited about five minutes, then I opened the door. The corridor was empty.”

“Did you talk to the elevator men?” O’Neill asked.

“Yes. One of them remembered bringing a man up to my floor around five thirty or a quarter to six. He described him to me, but it didn’t sound like anyone I ever knew.”

“Who has any reason to want you dead?” O’Neill asked.

“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Unless—” She stopped and looked at the glass in her hand. “How much do you know about Bernie, Mr. O’Neill?”

“Bernie Arhoff? Just the usual talk. That he’s got a stack of cash salted away somewhere. That he took the rap and didn’t drag anybody else into trouble. Why?”

“That’s about all there is to know. Naturally there are a lot of people interested in the money. One of them is Eddie Shapiro, Bernie’s partner. Do you know him?”

O’Neill said, “Just barely. I’ve met him, talked to him a few times, but I wouldn’t say I know him. Why? Do you think he’s trying to kill you?”

“Yes, I do,” the girl said. She said it quietly, without any particular emphasis.

“Why?” O’Neill asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m sure of it.” O’Neill tried to recall what he knew of Eddie Shapiro. Shapiro was a small dark man with a passion for gaudy clothes and a scarred face. He was reputed to be smart, hard and dangerous. He had been Arhoff’s partner for several years and it was generally understood that if Arhoff had talked Shapiro would have taken a trip also. But Arhoff hadn’t talked and Shapiro was still in business. And still smart, hard and dangerous. That was all O’Neill knew about him.

“Shapiro,” he said, “isn’t going to kill you without a pretty good reason. He’s not dumb enough to commit murder unless there’s money in it for him.”

“That’s just it,” the girl said. “I know where Bernie’s money is. I’m the only one who does.”

O’Neill found himself getting annoyed.

“Look,” he said, “I agreed to put you on the Chief tomorrow morning and I’ll do it. But I’m not getting mixed up in the rest of this deal. Arhoff’s money has probably all been claimed by the Treasury Department. It’s illegal, hot merchandise and it probably won’t ever do anybody any good. But I don’t give a damn about that. I’m not working for the Treasury Department so it’s none of my business. I’ll put you on the Chief but that’s all I’ll do.” He stood up, set his glass on the coffee table. “Anyway Shapiro won’t kill you if you’re the only one who knows where the money is. If he kills you he’ll never find it.”

She stood up then and she was very close to him. Her eyes looked enormous and frightened. “Please don’t talk about him killing me,” she whispered. She put her hands on his shoulders and came a little closer to him. “I just can’t stand the thought of that.”

“You’ll be all right,” O’Neil said. He wished he hadn’t had the third drink. He wished he hadn’t had any drink. The room was close and warm and he had trouble getting his thoughts on anything but the girl’s nearness.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“You’ll be all right,” O’Neill said again. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Please don’t leave me alone,” she said.

“You won’t be,” he said. “I know the house detective here pretty well. He’ll stay in the hall until I get back.”

The girl’s hands moved around to the back of his neck and her slender body pressed close to him. “Why can’t you stay here with me?” she said.

O’Neill pulled her hands away from his shoulders.

“You paid me fifty bucks,” he said. “It’s all I want. I don’t need a bonus.”

She turned away from him, picked up a pack of cigarettes and matches from the coffee table. “Are you angry?” Her voice didn’t tell him anything, but when she struck a match he saw two bright patches of color burning in her cheeks.

He grinned and walked to the phone. “No, I’m not,” he said. “But you are.”

“No woman likes that kind of brush-off,” she said. “What is it? Scruples or discrimination?”

O’Neill called the room clerk and asked him to send up the house detective. The room clerk said, “yes, sir,” in a discreetly alarmed voice and O’Neill hung up. The girl was standing before the fireplace, taking nervous drags on her cigarette.

He said, “the house detective is on his way up. You haven’t anything to worry about. He’ll stay until I get back.”

“Fine,” the girl said. “We can read the book section together. Or is chess your game?”

O’Neill grinned at her. “It wasn’t a question of discrimination. That’s what you want me to say. Does it make you happy?”

The girl smiled then, carelessly.

“I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’m sorry if I sounded bitchy. But women like to think that every man they meet it simply dying to go to bed with them. And when they meet one who doesn’t it hurts pretty hard.”

“I’m probably the one in a million who wouldn’t,” O’Neill said. “Don’t let it worry you.”

“Thanks for that much,” the girl said. “Bernie told me you were tough but maybe you’re nice too.”

There was a knock on the door then, a loud firm knock. It wasn’t the way a bell hop would knock.

“That’s Sam Spencer, the house detective,” O’Neill said. “You can tell by the knock he’s expecting to find Arsene Lupin in here going through your jewel case.”

He walked over and opened the door. A heavy-set, mild faced man stood in the doorway. He blinked in surprise when he saw O’Neill.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing serious,” O’Neill said. “There’s no trouble. But I’d like you to do me a favor. Come in.”

Sam Spencer came in, nodded at the girl, then said to O’Neill, “anything I can do I’ll be glad to.”

“Good,” O’Neill said. He knew he could trust Spencer. The house detective was a retired city patrolman, a solid, dependable man who always tried to take care of his friends. And O’Neill was one of his friends. Spencer was married, had two teen-aged kids and a home in the suburbs, where O’Neill had spent a number of pleasant evenings, drinking beer and admiring Spencer’s collection of foreign pistols. He was as normal as his job would let him be.

“It’s this,” O’Neill said. “Miss Moran here is in a little trouble; somebody’s been bothering her. I’d like you to keep an eye on her until I get back. I’ll just be gone a few hours.”

“Sure thing,” Sam said. “I’ll park right out in the corridor.” He nodded again at the girl and smiled. “You won’t be bothered, Miss, I’ll see to it.”

“I’m very much obliged,” she said.

“Now that’s settled,” O’Neill said. He picked up his hat and coat. “Don’t let anyone into the apartment, Sam, unless he gives you his name and Miss Moran says he’s okay.”

“Sure,” Sam said.

O’Neill turned to the girl. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll be back shortly.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said.

She bent to put out her cigarette and O’Neill saw the tense lines of worry in her face.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m right.”

Two hours later he was sitting in his office tying up the last of a few loose ends when the phone rang.

It rang shrilly, insistently.

He picked it up, said, “Yes?”

A voice said, “O’Neill? This is Logan.”

“What’s up, Inspector?”

“I want to talk to you. Can you get down to the Metropolitan in a hurry.”

The Metropolitan... the girl’s hotel. O’Neill’s fist tightened on the phone.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Sam Spencer got shot here about a half hour ago.” The Inspector’s voice was urgent. “I heard you talked to him just before it happened. Thought you might know something.”

“I’ll be right down,” O’Neill said. “Do you know who did it?”

“No. We got a girl here, Estelle Moran her name is, saw the whole thing. But the guy made a clean break.”

“I’ll be right down,” O’Neill said, and hung up.