The Chinese Doll

Chapter 13

  Boone, Ill.

  Friday, P.M.

Dearest Louise:

Please excuse the interruption; I couldn’t help it. It seems they have regular and rigid rules around here as to when patients eat their meals and when they have rest periods. Hazel is a good nurse, but she is also damned infuriating.

To get back to Rothman and Liebscher:

Rothman said to me: “You don’t know what you’ve said? Don’t be stupid! You mentioned the one thing we’ve been trying to put our fingers on. Look, the gambler did handle the affair in a friendly, family way. Doesn’t that phrase make things click in your head?”

“There should be something—” I began doubtfully.

He kept on, “The gambler wanted to get rid of Evans. Because, maybe, Evans asked to be let out and that wouldn’t do. Not in their business, whatever it was and whatever else it embraced. The business was the kind where you simply don’t walk out. So Evans had to be taken out — safely. See?”

“No.”

“Don’t be dense, Horne. When you are mixed up in dirty things like that you simply can’t get bored and step out. You stay in until you go out the hard way... or to jail. This is a big-time gambling outfit. Suddenly Evans wanted to quit it. Probably because of Leonore. But you see, he knew all the ins and outs of the outfit. That don’t make for a long life.

“On the other hand, Evans may not have wanted to get out. He was making a good slice of dough out of it, why should he want to quit? But suppose the gambler wanted him out? Suppose they had fallen out of sorts a long time ago and the gambler was only waiting on an opportunity.

“So what? So one day he discovers that Leonore was — you know. A perfect, tailor-made opportunity.

“Build it this way: the night before the hit-and-run business this gambler got hold of Evans and pumped him full of stuff, pure stuff. He sold Evans some cock and bull story to the general effect that they were in for trouble in Boone. It doesn’t matter what it was. It could have been anything that sounded sincere, anything that sounded as though the cops were framing a rap on one or the both of them in order to hit at the gambling joint in the barn.”

“Keep going.” It sounded fairly good.

“The yarn was sincere enough to keep Evans over there all night with his ‘friend.’ Plotting all sorts of ways to beat the rap, who knows? Who cares? Point is, Evans was kept separated from Leonore.

“Meanwhile the friend sent Leonore a forged note and gave her the brush-off. He mentioned the bracelet not only because it would be the added insult to injury, but because it was the clincher. It made the note sound authentic. I have a hunch Evans gave that bracelet to Leonore as a sort of wedding ring. Now put yourself in her place. What would you do if the louse suddenly dropped you cold and demanded his ‘wedding ring’ back?”

“I’d shoot the stinker.”

“Damned right you would. You’d put a gun in your pocket, get in the car and start hunting for the guy. And if you found him in a nice position while you were behind the wheel of the car, you wouldn’t bother with the gun. Nor would you stop to ask ‘Darling, why did you do this to me?’ You’d do just what Leonore did. And you’d play right into the gambler’s hands. As Leonore did.

“She runs to him. And that evening he puts her to driving the taxi. Risky business sure, but it’s dark, and the customers probably expect to be picked up by a woman. Perhaps this sister, Eleanor, had been doing the driving but he also wanted to keep the two of them apart. So when Leonore comes to him he tells Eleanor to stay in Croyden. Leonore drives; she picks you up by mistake, and you, damned fool that you are, let the guy know she talked to you.”

I said very slowly: “That’s something that was beginning to seep in.” And I didn’t like the thought behind it.

“Don’t take it too hard, Chuck. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“How did you mean it?”

“You didn’t kill her by talking out of turn. You helped, because he couldn’t know what she had said to you, but you didn’t kill her. Look: she was a dead pigeon the minute she drove Evans’ car out to this barn, after running down Evans.

“See that? See how she upset his careful applecart? He had supposed she would come back to Croyden afterwards; or run away; or just disappear somewhere. He didn’t expect her to come running to him for a second time.”

“But if she had run away somewhere?”

“Then that would have been the last of it until if and when she was caught. Of course he would have come forth with a lawyer — Ashley, probably — and put up a beautiful, anonymous legal battle for her. Anything to sell her the idea he was on her side. Out of loyalty she would have kept her mouth shut. And no one would ever know Evans hadn’t sent the note, and that would be the end of the unpleasant business. All very slick.”

“How about the guy who actually carried the note?”

“He was told it came from Evans. After all, Evans was probably at the barn all night.

“But as it happened, things didn’t go exactly as the gambler had planned. Instead, Leonore makes the fatal mistake of going to him for help once more. She drove Evans’ car, in broad daylight, to Evans’ partner and asks him to do something. Presto, she was a dead pigeon.

“The friend helped her. He puts her to bed. He has to. He can’t turn her over to the police as the hit-and-run driver because all she has to do is open her red mouth and his house of cards comes tumbling down.

“He can’t give her a roll of bills and say, ‘Get the devil out of here, you little fool,’ because that not only would make him an accessory after the fact when she was caught, it would also tell her he, too, had turned against her. His giving her get-away money would be the only tie to bind him to Evans’ death. And out of his sight and sound, she could be made to talk.

“No, Horne, when she came running to him that second time he had to protect her to protect himself. For the time being. Which, of course, meant silencing her. And then you come stumbling along. You may or may not have advanced the time of Leonore’s death; I personally doubt it. But that night she ‘drowned.’ ”

After a long five minutes Liebscher broke the silence that held the office.

“I think he’s right, chum.”

“I think so too, now,” I seconded. “It covers just about all the exposed points.”

“I’m willing to bet money on it,” Rothman rumbled.

Liebscher turned to me, “What are we going to do with your shadow?”

The man was still lounging in the doorway across the street. He watched the doorway where Liebscher tied his laces.

“My shadow!”

“Why not? He didn’t want to follow me when I went out. Rothman and me, we live here. You’re the stranger in town. And you have been busy — not us.”

I asked if either of them recognized the man. They said they did not.

Rothman wanted to know who knew I was in Croyden.

“Only Eleanor,” I replied. “And it’s a cinch she kept her mouth shut.”

“Agreed. It wouldn’t be healthy to admit she talked to you.” Rothman had picked his hat up from the floor and set it on his head. He speared me with a frown. “Home: who knows you’re here?”

I repeated, no one but Eleanor. And Ashley, of course, had never seen me before, so he didn’t count.

Rothman shook his head, dissatisfied. “Think again. Who did you tell you were coming over here? Who, in Boone?”

“Nobody. That is... nobody...”

“Go on,” he urged curiously. “Except who?”

“The... lady doctor I mentioned. Dr. Saari. You don’t think—? Aw, that’s a crazy notion.”

“How long have you known her?”

He certainly had me there. I said, “Two or three days.” And their silence was eloquent.

Liebscher asked, “Do you know anything about her, chum? Anything that doesn’t jibe?”

Did I know anything about Elizabeth Saari that didn’t jibe? Well, yes. She was waiting for me at the train when it pulled in from Chicago; she knew I had been to Chicago. She had shown more interest in my interest in the Chinese girl than is normally expected from a doctor who helped perform the autopsy.

And Elizabeth Saari had been rather pointed in her suggestion that I stay away from Croyden. And she had had ample opportunity to frisk my office; practically admitted as much. The looked-for “mother” from Chicago hadn’t appeared.

I told them those things. To boost my crumbling defenses, I said, “Maybe the shadow came from Eleanor after all.”

Liebscher said no. “We weren’t followed, chum.” And remembering his eye habit when driving, I had to agree.

“Are you sure Ashley doesn’t know you?”

“We never set eyes on each other before in our lives. And it’s difficult to recognize a voice you’ve heard only over a long distance telephone wire.”

Rothman turned to me. “Horne, if I were you, I’d watch my step. You’re in something and you don’t know who your friends are. I’d be particularly careful about this doctor. I’d watch for any funny moves on her part.”

“She’s turned up once where I hadn’t expected her.”

“I’d see to it that she doesn’t do it again. If she does... well, I’d ask for explanations if I were you. Check up on her, anyway. She new in town?”

“Yeah. Just moved in from Chicago. Took an office across the hall from mine.”

The two detectives stared at each other across my shoulders. They were beginning to feel sorry for my lack of brightness and weren’t too careful in concealing it. Rothman jotted down her name and address on a scratch pad.

“We’ll check on her. All the way back to her school days, if necessary. And you keep your eyes open!”

“She’s a doctor,” Liebscher said idly, “and Leonore was going to have a baby.” He picked up the Croyden telephone book and leafed through it. Finally he said, “No, not here.”

“It occurs to me,” Rothman put in, “that pitting a man against his mistress, lover against lover, over a delicate thing like an unborn baby is a woman’s trick. It’s not something a gambling man would think of.”

“What’s her line of attack?” Liebscher inquired.

I could feel the burn beginning down inside my collar. It must have been higher than my collar. They saw it.

“Don’t answer that one, chum. You don’t have to.”

Rothman asked me, “Does she know about Louise?”

I said yes. Liebscher said, who’s Louise? I told him. Then he said, oh, one of those experiments, huh? Rothman suggested he shut up.

I changed the subject. “Ashley keeps bothering me. I can’t fit him into the picture.”

“Silent partner. Another one.” Rothman finally lit the chewed cigar. “You said he was scared one day and sitting pretty the next. He was scared because he suspected something like that might happen. He was sitting pretty the next day because the gambler assured him everything was taken care of. Say... just who the hell is this gambler, this mutual friend? Don’t you know his name?”

“Yeah; Eleanor told me. Didn’t I mention it? She said he is a Mr. Swisher.”

Liebscher had seated himself in a swivel chair. The chair suddenly went over backwards.

Rothman walked over to me, the cigar working furiously. He put up a brawny hand, index finger outstretched, and jammed it into my chest.

“Look, Horne, get out of this mess while the getting’s good. You’ve got your retainer fee. Now forget the business!”

“Why?” I asked in sweet innocence. “Who’s Swisher?”

Rothman pulled the cigar from his mouth and threw it on the floor. “I’m not kidding, Chuck. Get out of it!”

“But who is he?”

“Tell the dope,” Liebscher advised. “Maybe it’ll scare some sense into his skull.” He turned worriedly to the window to watch the shadow across the street.

Rothman did. Swisher was the man who “owned” Croyden. The upstairs poker rooms, the dice games, the bootleg liquor trade, the numbers and lottery rackets, the pony bookies, certain night clubs, the telegraph tickers direct from all race tracks, and the red light district.

“Yeah, chum, and some other places to boot. He’s probably starting in on Boone, right now. The gambling house first, the girl-houses later, and so on. That license of yours — that’s his warning to you. Keep your nose clean.”

“This town is his, bag and baggage, Home. You can’t buck him. Why, do you know he is the only lad ever to beat the federals?”

“How?”

Rothman shrugged. “Protection upstairs, mostly. And smart business management. It was an income tax rap. When they can’t pin anything else on a rat, they try the income tax approach. Swisher beat it. Now what do you think?”

“I think,” I thought slowly, out loud, “that I had better get to hell back to Boone and wait for another insurance case.”

“Smart boy! I think so, too. And we’re taking you to the station. Come on.”

Before we left the office, Rothman picked up the scratch sheet bearing Elizabeth Saari’s name, studied it a moment, and put a match to it. We watched it burn.

“Don’t want that on me,” he said without explanation.

“How does this Swisher get away with it?” I objected on the way down the stairs. “What holds the organization in one piece, safe from the police in Croyden and elsewhere?”

“Politics,” Rothman grunted. “How the hell do you think one party stayed in office for fifteen years? Ballotbox stuffing. And what is given in exchange for the stuffing? Protection. Some people say he runs the party, instead of the party running him. I dunno. It doesn’t make a lot of difference. He gives them the vote, they give him the city or the state on a platter.”

“I begin to see why I lost my license. And I thought the chief didn’t dare step out of line.”

“Mistake. Nobody’s okay until you look them over.”

“I also begin to see why the Boone police didn’t do everything they should have done about Evans’ death. Do you suppose the whole department...?”

“Maybe,” he grunted, “maybe not. I doubt it. Too many noses in the know isn’t a good policy. One, sometimes two men at the top can handle everything in good order. Watch the chief, don’t trust the mayor. But above all, drop this and stay clear of the matter.”

I would have, too, Louise, if I’d been given time.

The shadow left us at the railroad station. Rothman and Liebscher stayed with me until I climbed the coach steps.

“It looks good, Horne. It looks as though they wanted to see what you were up to, here. Now that you are leaving, they might be satisfied and forget it. And Home, keep clear of that woman doctor.”

My train pulled out.

There were only a few people in the coach. I flipped over the back rest of the seat in front of me and put my feet up on the opposite seat. A several days’ old newspaper was stuck between the seat and the wall. I tore out the crossword puzzle, put it in my pocket, and tried to read the daily short story.

It was called “Point of View” and told about a pair of monkeys sitting on a limb, in their cage, watching the crowd. They are watching the people and wondering what people are thinking about, while the people are wondering what they are thinking of. The author had something there.

I wondered what the conductor was thinking about as he punched tickets, and what the people were thinking as they handed him the tickets to be punched.

I wondered what Leonore had been thinking about when she got the note supposedly from Evans? Other than hatred and anger of course. What had she thought when she read the demand to return the bracelet that meant so much to her?

What was she thinking about that night on the lake, skating? What torturing thoughts had so completely blinded her that she had not seen the looming danger of the hole?

Hold on a minute. Louise, I’m not so sure that was Leonore on the lake that night.

The person I saw on the lake appeared to be a girl. The girl appeared to be a very poor skater. She might have been doped. And Leonore was not doped if I could believe Dr. Elizabeth Saari. On this particular point I could believe Dr. Elizabeth Saari because the complete autopsy report was down in black and white if I cared to read it. Therefore, the person on the ice was a poor skater, and, therefore, it was not Leonore.

Leonore may have been under the ice at that moment.

The guy who had driven me back to town had steered rather slowly along that rutted lake road. I had thought at the time he was being careful. But now, as I mentioned to Rothman earlier, I think it was because he wanted me to see the skater. He was coolly manufacturing a witness who could testify later to having seen a girl skating on the lake at midnight. When the body of Leonore turns up, the witness will naturally jump to the conclusion it had been Leonore skating.

Very clever. On another man it would have worked. On me it almost worked. Swisher’s error was that he didn’t know Leonore had previously convinced me she could skate.

What kind of a stinking rat must this Swisher be to manipulate a nasty thing like that? What kind of a man can deliberately use an unborn child as a wedge to force a couple apart, force the woman to murder the man she loves, and then casually eliminate the woman when she comes to him for help?

After a while the train stopped with a series of jerks at some way-side station. I watched a bearded old man dressed in faded overalls push a little cart alongside the train, heading for the mail car up ahead. Pretty soon he came back with one limp, dirty sack and a bundle of tightly wrapped newspapers in the cart. A few people climbed on and the train started up with a repetition of the jerks and wheezes. I went back to my newspaper.

Somebody standing in the aisle nudged my feet and said, “Give the lady the seat, fella.”

I said sure and put my feet on the floor. The man who had spoken sat down beside me. When I looked up at him he smiled in a greasy way and rammed something hard into my side, just above the hip bone.

It wasn’t hard to guess what the hard thing might be. He continued to smile and spoke in a very low voice.

“We’re getting off at the next stop, fella.”

“You’ve got the wrong man,” was my answer.

He wagged his head ever so gently.

“No we haven’t. We’re getting off at the next stop.”

The gun was in his pocket. He casually kept both hands in his pockets. Anyone sitting across the aisle couldn’t see a thing. But I could feel it. He pushed it into my side so far it actually hurt.

He had said, “Give the lady your seat, fella.”

I looked across at the lady.

Eleanor sat there, cold, hard eyes boring into mine.

I wasn’t given time to get out of the mess, Louise.