The Chinese Doll

Chapter 2

  Boone, Ill.

  Wednesday, very A.M.

Dear Louise:

Last night, at dusk: it was a fairly new Studebaker and it carried a supercharger attachment on the hood. But it wasn’t a sedan. It was a coupe — I looked twice for assurance.

The young woman driving it pulled up to the traffic light on the corner where I was standing, threw open the door nearest me, and motioned with her hand in an unmistakable gesture.

I suppose I gaped at her like a damned fool, Louise, but I couldn’t help it. The spectacle caught me completely off guard.

It was just dusk. I had gone into Milkshake Mike’s for my supper and to pass a few words with Mike. You’ve never met him. Mike is a rotund, jovial Greek and his real name is Thaddeus something-or-other.

He hadn’t heard of the day’s occurrence nor did the dead man’s name mean anything to him. Mike has a wealth of unusual information at his fingertips if you can pry it out of him. Sometimes I can.

After eating, I had gone outside and walked the short distance to the corner of Main and Lincoln, stopping there to watch the red and green neon lights playing on the snow. I remembered you once telling me that the green wasn’t neon but some other gas, although I’ve already forgotten the name of it. Light snow was falling and the air was getting colder.

Then, out of the snow and the silence of my thoughts, this coupe had slid up to the red light and the door was pushed open.

The woman behind the wheel waved to me again.

“Please hurry!” Her voice came through the gathering darkness, elfin and insistent. “Quickly, before the lights change.”

Put it down as foolishness, or even curiosity. The woman and her gesture had startled me; her Studebaker and its supercharger aroused something else. I trotted off the curb and climbed into the coupe just as the red light changed to amber and the driver shifted gears. She turned the corner onto Main Street and shot the car forward while I pulled the door closed, wrapped my overcoat about me, and tried to find room for my legs down around the heater. It was then that I looked at her.

A Chinese picture.

With the exception of that dancing troupe you and I once saw in Chicago (the trip we intended for a honeymoon, remember?), my driver was the prettiest Chinese girl I have ever had the good fortune to see. And I’m eliminating the showgirls because their faces were artificial, whereas this one was natural. There was a bit of make-up, just a bit. Only enough to accent the natural beauty of the girl.

She looked to be little more than a kid, possibly fifteen or sixteen years old, but I realized that to be a patently false impression; not only because Chinese girls’ appearances are usually deceptive as to age, but because she had to be older than that to get a driver’s license. She was probably twenty, possibly more. And she was a honey.

The coupe nimbly skirted a red-white-and-blue painted streetcar and roared west on Main Street. She hadn’t spoken a word to me beyond the invitational demand at the traffic signal.

“You’re new here,” I opened the conversation, meaning that I hadn’t seen her around town before. It struck me that I was meeting a lot of strangers in Boone.

“Yes sir.” She didn’t remove her eyes from the street. “My second trip.”

Some other things were on the tip of my tongue, idle things to break the ice and pry a measure of information from her. Instead, I shut my mouth with a snap and thought about that queer answer. And no matter which way I turned it, it remained uncooked on all sides. I simply couldn’t read sense into it.

To make matters worse she offered no amplification whatever. The best I could grasp was that I was supposed to know where we were going, who (or at least what) she was, and why. A flash of white caught my eye in the rear vision mirror. It was a prowl car crossing an intersection behind us, traveling south. She had seen it, too.

Frankly, Louise, I hadn’t time to become worried about what I had stepped into. I felt that I could hold my own with this doll, and somehow, this didn’t have the feel of a ride — if you know what I mean. Not that I’m an authority on rides. But all this was too... too gentle, so taken-for-granted.

I was pretty certain I could and would come back on my feet; but where the hell was I going, and why? And how did I expect to tie in Evans’ death with another car that had a supercharger? Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I didn’t then and I don’t now.

“Bad driving?” I asked, after the slick snow threw the rear wheels around a trifle.

“No sir.” The pretty face remained in fixed position.

“Have you been driving long?”

“Yes sir.”

“This heater is getting damned hot on my legs. Mind if I turn it off?”

“No sir.”

She refused to bite on anything. Wouldn’t even nibble at the hook. The coupe jounced suddenly and I peered out the window.

We were crossing the Illinois Central tracks and would soon be leaving the city behind. After that there would be maybe a half-mile of frame houses and ramshackle buildings and then the wide open spaces. I tried to remember what lay out this way.

To the best of my knowledge there were only some truck farms, one or two second-rate roadhouses, an occupied red brick building which people called “the long distance office,” and a small lake. Adjoining the lake there were a bath house, an open-air dance pavilion, a postage-stamp size picnic park, and a bandstand. All these latter establishments had long ago shut down for the winter, and their utility services turned off. For a higher tax rate, Boone furnishes them with electricity, drinking water and fire protection.

And I had heard vague rumors that somebody was running a gambling den out here, and that there was — or would be in the very near future — a girly house, in defiance of the ladies armed with tomahawks who had previously run them out of town.

I turned and shot a look at the Chinese doll.

No.

She no more looked the part of an inmate than you do, Louise. But I had a hunch in another direction and fired a trial rocket.

“Is there ice on the lake yet?”

“Oh — yes sir.”

She hesitated over the three words and I watched her reserve crumble. She reflected upon herself for some minutes and then added the first real bit of conversation.

“Perhaps by tomorrow it will be safe enough for skating, sir.”

That was a good opening. I followed up with, “Do you like to skate, too?”

She turned her eyes on me, rather shy and warm eyes that cause men to manufacture dreams. There were little fires burning in them, small glowing coals a man delights to look into across the breakfast table.

“I skate as often as I may,” she told me. “I would have liked to skate tonight, but—”

“But what?” I prompted patiently.

“It is too thin,” she finished lamely. The girl was obviously lying; it embarrassed her to know that I realized it. She hadn’t intended to say that at all. Even her voice refused to underwrite the answer. She recovered herself and directed attention away from the lie by a direct question.

“Do you, sir?”

“Roller skating,” I backed out hastily. “I have to have wheels under me; I’ve never been on ice skates in my life. Perhaps I could learn?” But she didn’t accept the suggestion.

“The ice is wonderful. You’d like it.” And with that her attention went back to her driving and stayed there. She seemed to feel somewhat guilty about it.

I tried to say: “My name is—” but she cut it off.

“Don’t. It’s better I didn’t know, sir.”

“Excuse me,” I protested. “I’m not getting smart. I only wanted to get acquainted with you.”

She smiled softly as though she were pleased. The smile would wear well, too, across a breakfast table.

“Perhaps I’ll be driving again some night soon, sir.”

“Perhaps.”

I had been thinking for some minutes that I was already skating, and on very thin ice. The Chinese doll supposed I had been ‘there’ before, and that I would return again. I realized then I would have to maintain that illusion, not only for her but for whatever might follow. Which could be difficult, at best. The doll’s particular job was plain enough: she was operating a regular and scheduled commuting service from some unknown point to some equally unknown point.

Well — in all fairness, perhaps neither point was wholly unknown. I had climbed in the car at one point, and I was beginning to entertain suspicions as to the second point. If my suspicions proved true, I was going to be awfully disappointed in my judgment and the doll.

We were leaving the houses behind and passing a few boarded-up gas stations. I was peering out the window again when the girl abruptly whipped the car around in a tight twist to enter a narrow, rutted lane. The sudden movement threw me against the side of the car.

She spoke briefly, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Okay,” I returned. “Should have remembered it.”

She accepted it as a right answer. Reaching out with one hand, she snapped off the headlights. The coupe continued to bounce slowly along, partly guided by the ruts. Outside my window I caught an astonishingly near glimpse of the lake. The lake was just beyond the fender tips.

“You’re a damned good driver,” I said admiringly.

“Thank you, sir.” And then she added, “You’re a good sport, sir.”

“Meaning what?”

There was a minute silence. Finally, “Usually men start something when we turn out the lights here.”

It was my turn to be embarrassed, and I used a non-committal throat-clearing to cover my reaction to the information she had just given me. “Usually men...” and “when we turn out the lights...” Especially the use of “We.”

Much to my relief we left the lake behind, passed the snow-covered bandstand and picnic tables, and headed towards an old, unpainted barn standing gloomily in the far corner of the field. A fisherman’s cabin stood in darkness off to the right, near the lake’s edge. It was much too dark to look for previous tire marks but the Chinese doll was supremely sure of herself.

The gun holster under my armpit began to itch and I had the first faint qualms over the foolhardiness of my act. I mentally apologized to the girl for my half-formed suspicions.

She drove the coupe up to one corner of the barn.

There was a small, shack-like structure adjoining it on the side nearest us. This was the end of the line, the second point on the commuting schedule and every passing second found me more and more convinced the barn did not house the girls from Croyden.

Partly pushing open the door of the car, I turned to the girl and slid my hand into my trouser pocket.

“I’d like to—”

“No sir,” she cut me off quickly and politely, all the friendliness of a few minutes ago vanished into the darkness around us. “I cannot accept money, sir.”

What was I to do? I did it. I got out, said “Thank you,” and “Good night,” and closed the car door. She drove off at once, retracing the lakeside route we had just traveled. I stood there and watched the dark blotch of the coupe until she again switched on the lights as she neared the highway.

At that moment the little guy who sits behind my eyes and watches over me said, “Do something, Charles Home. Somebody is looking at you.”

A lot could depend on what I did next. I was an outsider, unaware and unprepared for the next step — or what was expected of the next step.

The Chinese doll had left me there because she believed I knew what to do. The somebody who was watching me was waiting for me to do it. There was only the barn, which was the lock, the key and the riddle. I knew from experience it was smarter to force the key for any lock to come to me. Much smarter than to display my ignorance by fussing with the lock. And safer. Like the old stall of escaping undue attention by inviting ordinary attention.

I put my hands in my pocket, turned towards the barn and took a single step, scraping the snow off a patch of ground with my shoe. At the same time I pulled one hand out of my pocket and deliberately dropped my keyring on the ground. The keys made a pleasing jangle as they struck the hard-packed earth. I swore at them softly and sincerely.

A door gently creaked and the lock began to open.

Dropping swiftly to one knee I pulled out a packet of matches and lit one, cupping my hands over the flame to hide the flare from my face and direct the light towards the ground.

Instantly a voice hissed from the shack doorway.

“Put out that light, Jack!”

I did, and could have gratefully kissed the owner of the voice.

I complained to it, “I’ve dropped my keys.”

“Wait a minute, Jack. Wait.”

This time the voice was milder, more natural. I waited. Someone was kneeling beside me. The someone flashed and just as carefully shielded from his face a narrow-beamed pen light onto the snow. He kept his other hand out of sight. It would be in his coat pocket, clutching something nasty.

“Where?” he asked me.

“Over here. Move your foot. There... there they are.” I snatched them up and the flashlight blacked out. We got up and he followed me into the shack. I stopped just inside the door while he closed it behind us and snapped on an overhead light.

The shack was light-tight and several degrees warmer. There was another door leading into the barn but it wasn’t open yet.

The man facing me, searching my face and my clothes, was a kindly appearing middle-aged gent with slowly silvering hair. He wore crinkles around pale blue eyes, the kind of crinkles you find on people who have lived in California or Florida; sun crinkles. A smile played just behind his lips. He was cleanly shaven and nicely dressed. He reminded me of the fatherly, benevolent characters you see playing judges and senators in the movies.

The nice old gentleman examined me all over. The smile hiding behind his lips deepened and almost showed itself. I wanted to grin back at him.

“Jack, Jack—” He shook his dignified head slowly and in a sad, reproving manner. “You know you can’t take that gun in there with you.”

He was good, that fellow. Tell that to a dozen people who might be carrying guns and ten of them will admit that they are, swallowing the accusation whole. This man wasn’t merely firing arrows into the air on the off-chance he might hit a duck. He knew where the duck was hiding. He was looking at my shoulder, looking through my overcoat.

“Sure thing, Judge,” I covered up with a ready grin. “But I couldn’t leave it at home, now could I? Want to give me a hat check?” I unbuttoned the coat and handed him the gun.

His blue eyes sparkled. He hefted it, examined it, balanced it, squinted along the barrel and turned an admiring eye on me.

“That’s a mighty fine item, Jack, a mighty fine item.”

“I take it you like guns.”

“Own a beautiful collection of them, Jack, beautiful. One of my items once belonged to William Bonny.”

“Bonny? Who’s he?”

“Billy the Kid, Jack. The Kid himself. I don’t believe Pat Garrett ever caught up with him, Jack. The biographer didn’t do the boy justice.” He balanced the gun again with a skilled hand. “A mighty fine item. Made in Sweden.”

“And a Christmas present,” I informed him.

“It’ll be here when you’re ready to go back downtown, Jack. I won’t forget you.”

“As you say, Judge.” I took off my overcoat and draped it over my arm. Acting on the following thought, I reached in and unbuckled the holster and handed that to him, too. The small bulge in the suit was gone.

The Judge gave out with a full smile and pushed open the inner door for me. I stepped into a well-lit, tastefully decorated gambling room about one-third filled with men. And completely apologized to the doll for my thoughts.

No one paid any attention to me.

The ceiling held great clusters of blue-white lights, while smaller and purely decorative lamps were placed about the walls. There was only the one big room occupying the full length and width of the barn. The moderately high ceiling, with probably another large room above, was laid across heavy beams ten or twelve feet above my head. Without having to ask I knew the barn was sound and light-proof.

Numbered wooden pegs for hats and coats ran along three sides of the room. A small bar, sparingly patronized, and a slim staircase occupied the fourth wall. Over everything was a pleasant drone of concentrated conversation.

I hung my hat and coat on a peg numbered 63 and looked around for a poker table.

There were several of them at the end opposite the bar. No one was using chips or silver money: all bills. The poker table nearest me had three players and two empty chairs. I stopped behind one of the chairs.

“Room for one more?”

The house man was a friendly-faced young guy dressed in a neat gray business suit and nothing to suggest the professional gambler. He glanced up at me and smiled a welcome.

“Sit in, sir. Always welcome. A dollar is the limit here. If you want to go higher, try the other tables.”

“A dollar is good enough.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. The green cloth covering on the table was smooth under my fingers. “Break a twenty?”

He counted out the singles while I was giving the two other players casual glances. They were both unknown to me although I might have seen them here or there downtown. Strictly local talent and a good deal of chump in their make-up. Their interest in me went as far as a glance into my face and into my wallet.

The house man was dealing when I sat in. He gave me a pair of sixes and three unrelated stinkers. I tossed the stinkers away, followed the opener’s example by putting a dollar into the pot, and called for three cards. This time I drew a pair of nines and a trey. I said nuts, but hung on.

It cost me four dollars more to discover one of the local chumps held a full house, and I wondered who was the chump. A half hour later I was still wondering, but in a different direction. The game wasn’t proceeding in the expected direction.

For some reason the house man wasn’t plying his trade. By that I mean he apparently had no policy, or the establishment was one hundred percent on the level — which wasn’t believable. Some of these places let you win until you have a sizeable stack in front of you plus a devil-may-care, “hell, I’m winning!” attitude in your thick skull, and then they promptly and efficiently take you to the cleaners before you can realize your mistake and get out.

The other breed prefer to play it easy, winning a hand and losing a hand, but in the course of an evening always managing to win twice for every loss. You never know what a chump you are until the night is over and your bankroll has dwindled to the point where you have just enough money left to ride a streetcar home — maybe.

This easygoing young man was practicing neither. He stayed right along with us; if anyone had an edge it was the yokel who had won the first pot. I sat on the front of my chair waiting for the tide to turn in favor of the house but it never did. And after three hours I quit, five dollars the richer. The house man said good-bye and invited me to drop back whenever I felt like it.

I said thanks.

After that I wandered around the room, just looking. I had one drink at the bar; they served good rum but asked a fancy price. The place was nearly full and a few women had appeared, mostly middle-aged and jaded creatures who had money to throw away and did it for the hell of things.

By and by I tumbled to the fact that a character was behind me. I suddenly recalled that he had been behind me for a long time but I hadn’t so pointedly noticed him.

The easiest way out was to confront him.

“Want to see me?” I asked him pleasantly.

He took it in his stride without so much as moving a facial muscle. Not that his face was any too pleasant to look it. It wasn’t; it had a knife scar from ear to lips. There was no hint of a threat and he kept his hands out of his pockets. He stood, however, between me and the door where I had parked my “item.”

“Will you step upstairs with me, sir?”

“Upstairs?”

“Yes sir. The manager’s office.”

“Trouble?”

“Oh no, sir. The manager is merely — curious.”

There was nothing to do but go up. Some doubt existed in my mind as to my being able to go anywhere else. Here and there a house man was “disinterestedly” watching us. I turned for the stairs and he followed along behind. The door at the top was standing open when we reached it. I walked through it but the knife-scarred character remained outside, pulling the door shut behind me.

A tall, robustly-built and devilishly handsome gent attired in an impeccable tuxedo arose from behind a polished, ornate desk. The desk seemed a mile wide. The devilish gentleman was all smiles and cheerfulness and actually put out a hand to shake mine.

I thought I recognized him, was certain I had seen him somewhere before. Put him in an office building downtown and he could pass for a prosperous doctor, lawyer or insurance salesman.

“Nice evening?” he asked when we were seated.

I said that it was, and mentioned the five dollars.

“That’s fine,” he agreed. “We like our guests to enjoy themselves. We want them to come back.”

“Indeed?” I put faint irony into it.

“Yes, yes indeed.” He chose to ignore the irony. “We have many regular guests here, ladies and gentlemen who come in several evenings a week.”

“That’s most interesting. And profitable.” I wondered when he was going to pop the question. He was merely prefacing now.

“Oh, very. We like to take the best of care of these customers, sir. A businesslike administration, you know. We like to treat them as our guests because they wish to feel that they are our guests. Mutual protection, you understand. We’ve even assigned our regular guests numbers by which they are known. Naturally, no names are ever mentioned. Each guest has his own number, his own peg. You follow me?”

I was away ahead of him. He had popped.

“Yes, indeed,” I said. “I can appreciate such thoughtfulness. It protects your regular customers from... uh, possible uncouth strangers, interlopers.”

“I perceive you anticipate my very thought, yes sir, my very thought. You can easily understand our position, of course. Why, only this evening one of our regular guests complained to me. It seems that someone very thoughtlessly used his clothing peg. Number 63. He was perturbed.”

I grinned but it was a totally mirthless grin.

“Yes — I can understand the poor man’s chagrin. I’m afraid I used his peg. I have none of my own.”

The doctor-lawyer-insurance salesman leaned over his mighty desk and smiled coolly at me.

“That, Charles Horne, is the distressing point in question.”