Business at the Tanner Detective Agency was slow at the moment. During the Depression year of 1934, folks weren’t able to or willing to spend what some called “disposable income” on a private investigator except under the direst of circumstances. The only dire circumstances on the horizon were mine. Things had gotten better overall since the darkest days of 1930 and 1931, but they were nowhere close to being back to the freewheeling days of the late 20s. Maybe, on a certain level, that was a good thing.
The memory of my last private investigation work, locating an heir for a medium-sized insurance company, was fading fast. The money from that job ebbed just as quickly. It had long since dwindled to a mere shadow of the coin of the realm. I was tossing playing cards at my hat, which sat upside down on my desk in the primary office of my agency. In truth, it was the business’ only office, unless you count Harry’s Paradise Tavern as my annex, which I do.
My throwing effort was being done absentmindedly and with little success. Just as I gave out of cards again, there came a rattling of the office doorknob, followed by a heavy-handed knock. I realized I must have locked the door without realizing it when I came in. Keeping business at arm’s length was not in my game plan. I called out a few delaying words to the person in the hall and scurried to slide the playing cards atop my desk into the belly drawer. The ones I gathered from the floor joined them. No cards were in the fedora. I tossed the lid onto a hook on the hat rack nearby. I’d had more practice at that than the playing cards bit.
I opened the door to a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged man standing in the hall. He impatiently shot past me into the office. I’d seen this kind of bird before: all shouts and gunpowder until time to pay the tab. Turning as I closed the door, I took a second to get a better look at the fellow. He had something of a broad, scarlet face. Whether it was booze or excitement that caused the condition was unclear. The touch of gray showing at his temples on both sides of his large head ran along the bottom fringes of his hair and met in the back. That and a pencil-thin mustache gave him a distinguished appearance. The graying hadn’t yet touched the mustache.
Before I could speak, he dropped his hat onto a chair and extended his hand. “Mr. Tanner, my name is James Bumgarner.” We shook hands as he continued, “A business associate, for whom you recently worked, recommended you to me. You came highly endorsed as someone who operates quickly and, most of all, discreetly.”
Although I appreciated the kind expressions, that last word was the key. The term is most often what brings the suckers, uh, customers to my door. I gestured toward a visitor’s chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Bumgarner, and tell me who recommended me to you.” While he took a seat, I retrieved his Borsalino from the chair. When I walked it across the office to the hat rack, I noticed his hat was several sizes larger than mine. I found myself wishing I’d had it earlier during my card-tossing game.
The man sat nervously straightening the creases on the trousers of his bespoke suit. Bumgarner said nothing, but his eyes followed me as I made my way back to my desk chair. I pulled a Chesterfield from a pack and set fire to it. Relaxed somewhat, he followed suit with a cigarette from a deck of his own. As he waved the match out, he dragged in a lungful of smoke and let it trickle out of his nostrils. I pushed the desk ashtray in his direction.
Sometimes, even when business is slow, I shy away from people who just happen to be window shopping for a private investigator. They’re most often the ones who take a powder when I hand out the bills for services rendered. Besides, some folks will claim someone referred them. In reality, they happened on my name on the building directory in the lobby downstairs while randomly looking for a private detective. While a client wants me motivated to handle their case, I want a client inspired to hire and to pay me. That required me to see whether this guy fit into any of those pigeonholes. With a wry smile, I again asked, “Now, who did you say sent you my way?”
The man across the desk pulled another long drag on his Old Gold and leaned forward. The nicotine appeared to be having a calming effect. “I didn’t say, but it was Nathaniel Brubaker.” Brubaker was the man who’d hired me for the job I mentioned earlier, the memory of which was ebbing. In my line of work, you can’t beat word-of-mouth advertising. I nodded, acknowledging the name. “As I said, you came highly recommended by Mr. Brubaker.”
“Mr. Brubaker is a swell fella, and I’m glad I could resolve his problem,” I said reservedly, as I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Now, Mr. Bumgarner, what I can do for you?” When he hesitated, I sat back in my chair and tried to relieve any remaining uneasiness he might have. “Come, come, Mr. Bumgarner, what you tell me stays within these four walls. I have a confidentiality oath, after all,” I lied.
He maintained his rigid demeanor. “Well, I’m the regional president for a nationwide insurance company.” I shot him a meaningful gaze. He got the message. He blew air. “Hanover Mutual Insurance.” He paused as if searching for the right words. “See here, Mr. Tanner, this entire episode is embarrassing and can lead to extremely serious trouble for me and for the company if it should become public knowledge.”
I knew of Hanover Mutual. The business was a stuffy, old-monied firm located downtown in one of those airless old buildings which predated Teddy Roosevelt’s administration. “As your business associate told you, Mr. Bumgarner, I’m discreet, even without the confidentiality vow. And please call me Gil. ‘Mr. Tanner’ was my old man.”
He smiled weakly and said, “I understand discretion, uh, Gil, but this is both a business and a personal matter, requiring absolute confidentiality.” I decided I’d not repeat myself, so I just looked hard into his face. After a moment, he continued, “A while back I hired a young lady to be my personal assistant. My previous assistant, who’d been with me for many years, had died unexpectedly. The young lady might not necessarily have been my first choice under normal circumstances. Although well spoken, she appeared somewhat rough around the edges, if you know what I mean,” he chuckled nervously.
Bumgarner’s anxiety was returning and becoming more visible by the minute. I smiled, “I’m not certain that I do, but you keep explaining your situation, and I’ll do my best to keep up.”
He shrugged off my comment and continued, “Well, there were business issues which were coming to a head. I needed someone to help out at once.” He looked at the hands fidgeting in his lap. “My thoughts at the time ran to two potential scenarios. The young lady could serve a purpose in the brief time required to get through the business crisis I was facing before I let her go. Or she could work out fine, and I could spend time later smoothing her rough edges to make her a fine assistant.”
Bumgarner’s words seemed carefully chosen and restrained. I estimated he wasn’t showing all his cards. So, I waited him out. “Anyway,” he finally continued, “I decided to keep her on. I intended to develop her into an assistant who would be of great value to me and to Hanover Mutual. She’d been with me for a year and a half until last week.”
“From what you’ve told me so far, Mr. Bumgarner, I’m assuming this young lady is at the center of what brings you here today. What happened last week? By the way, what’s the young lady’s name?”
My visitor’s face reddened even more. He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Her name is Faye Jensen.” His uncertain hands grabbed the arms of his chair. His knuckles turned white with the grip. “Last week, Miss Jensen disappeared with the cash from our safe. The money was our quarterly proceeds from the region’s business.”
“How much money are we talking about, Mr. Bumgarner?”
“Forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-two dollars. There were a number of checks, too, but she left them behind. I–we were just before putting it into Hanover’s corporate account. She knew exactly how much there was and when we planned to make the deposit.” Bumgarner’s chin dropped to his chest and his close-set eyes watered. “I’m ruined unless I get that money back.”
The amount stolen gave me pause. When the average annual salary–for those who could find work–hovered somewhere just under fifteen hundred dollars, it was a lot of swag. It hurt, you know, to learn folks would rather spend their money on insurance during hard times than on hiring a private gumshoe. So it goes. But I returned to the problem at hand. “Why not just go to the police?”
“I cannot do that, Mr. Tanner.” His return to the formal mode of address let me know there was more to come in the story. I’m not always good at reading women, but I’ve got my fellow man down to a science. I just looked at him and waited. He appeared to be studying the tops of his shoes. Finally, he shot me an up-from-under look. “I’ve acted extremely foolishly, Mr. Tanner.” An embarrassed silence followed.
Here it comes, I told myself.
“Miss Jensen and I …. Well, we became … intimate during the course of our working together. I wrote her notes … letters.” He wrung his hands. “I’m a happily married man, Mr. Tanner, with two beautiful children,” he moaned. “I cannot bear the scandal this matter will cause me. And losing the money, especially under these circumstances, will ruin me professionally. No one knows a thing about … the loss of the money or the affair.” Bumgarner regained his composure. A determined expression crossed his face. “I intend to keep it that way whatever it costs.”
There it was! He’d been creasing the sheets with the hired help, who’d had larcenous intentions, and now he needed help to right the “wrong.” This Jensen dame knew full well Bumgarner couldn’t go to the authorities, given his position with Hanover and his marital status. My guess was, after enough time playing “slap and tickle” to catch her gullible boss with his guard down, the sticky-fingered lady swooped in. She’d glommed the money and did the big flit, at least far enough away Bumgarner couldn’t find her. In short, she’d played him for a chump. This was a big city. Perhaps she’d left it, maybe she hadn’t. But it was his utterance of those last three words, “whatever it costs,” that really grabbed my attention. Music to my ears.
We spent the next hour in my office talking over what Bumgarner knew of Faye Jensen: her habits, where she lived, what little he knew of her background. He knew of no friends or family here in the city and had no idea what she did or where she went when they weren’t together.
The insurance man provided me with a photograph of her. Looking at the sweet smile of the gorgeous blonde, I could see how she’d led him astray. She was a looker and could have been a stand-in for the actress Thelma Todd. Any red-blooded man in his right mind would have gone for her in a big way. After glancing at the snapshot, I gave him a knowing smirk. He looked away from me. Then, Bumgarner said he’d pay above my usual rate to keep me focused on his circumstances. For the money he forked over, I could have focused on it through the First Battle of the Marnes. Bumgarner left my office still shaken but somewhat reassured.
* * *
My first stop after Bumgarner’s departure was my bank, where I deposited most of the sizable retainer he’d paid me. I kept an amount out to pay the rent, eat, and grease any palms necessary during my search for Jensen. And, more important, I held back enough to patronize Harry’s Paradise Tavern when the opportunity presented itself. In the past, that occasion had usually only arisen on days of the week ending in d-a-y.
The second destination on my agenda was Jensen’s last known address, although I was certain she’d no longer be living there. The woman had resided in a stately rooming house on the north side of town. Sure enough, after the long drive, I learned the object of my search had checked out a week earlier. The lady I spoke with knew nothing of her former tenant, aside from the fact she was quiet and always paid her rent on time. She checked what passed for the establishment’s records and found Jensen had left no forwarding address. That was a dead end. By the late afternoon, the day was winding down like a worn-out clock. I headed back south for Harry’s tavern to relax before grabbing a bite at Cappacino’s.
* * *
Harry’s was swarming with the customary before-supper crowd. As I plopped onto my favorite barstool, Harry was pouring my usual. The gents on either side of me lifted their glasses and bid me a greeting. I’d seen the pair in Harry’s before, but neither one was what I’d call a regular. While the barkeep hustled away to take care of another thirsty soul, the three of us made small talk and I sipped my drink. In a few minutes, Harry returned. He leaned forward wearily with his arms stretched out to the bar and grinned around the dead cigar screwed into his face. “I thought you’d be in here earlier this afternoon since business is so slow.” Harry and I were close enough he knew what was shaking in my world.
I smiled and shook a cigarette loose from a pack. “No. I got a new gig this afternoon. A good-paying one, too.” Harry smiled. I wondered whether the grin was because he was just happy for me or whether it was because he knew I wouldn’t be drinking on the cuff that week. It didn’t matter. I chuckled as I lit a match with my thumbnail and drew hard on the butt. Then I leaned across the bar and offered the fire to Harry for his cigar. He just shook his head friendly like and worked the stump around his mouth. Suddenly, it occurred to me to take a shot at something. “That reminds me,” I said, reaching into a coat side pocket, “have you ever seen this girl in here, Harry?” I slid Jensen’s photograph across the bar’s surface.
Harry picked the picture up and gave it a good gander. He was never one to pass up ogling a cute tomato. He dropped the snapshot back on the bar. “Nope. Never seen her in here. Who is she?” he asked as he eased the picture back toward me.
Before I could answer, the mug sitting on my right piped up, “Say, can I see that?” At the moment, the last thing I wanted was a degenerate drooling over Jensen’s picture, but I moved it to him, anyway. He hoisted his bushy eyebrows. “Some dish!” I nodded agreement with his assessment and reached for the snap. “I think this doll used to dance at a joint on the north side of town.” He had my attention as he tapped his forehead, trying to recall something. “Yeah, she was in the chorus line or something at … at … the … The Three O’clock Club! Yeah, that’s it! She worked at The Three O’clock Club!” He leaned back and smiled broadly, proud of his recollection. “When she wasn’t dancing, she was hustling the customers to spend their money on drinks. Name’s Johnson, I think.”
I knew of The Three O’clock Club, but had never been in it. It had a rough reputation. I glanced sideways at Harry, who appeared to pout at the idea a customer could ever set foot in another establishment besides his. When he saw me looking his way, he smirked. My eyes moved back to the guy who’d recognized the girl in the photograph. “You sure, friend?”
“Oh, yeah. Who could forget that face? Great gams, too! And her voice was like moonlight through the pines.” His thought trailed off as his eyes looked to some faraway place.
“Damn, mister! You gonna write a love song or have another drink?” Harry snorted with contempt.
I couldn’t believe my luck and slapped the man on the back. “He’ll have another drink, Harry, on me!” The man thanked me and Harry set him up. The Three O’clock Club would have to wait until the next day, though. I was too tired to make the trek back to the north side that night. Besides, I wanted to learn more about the joint before I paid it a visit.
Under the guise of looking for a north side watering hole, I spent the next half hour casually pumping the man for information regarding the nightclub. To ease the process, I continued buying him drinks. He told me he’d been a regular there until his factory closed and he moved to the south side of town and a new job. The guy gave me the lowdown on the layout of the joint. He said he always figured the rackets ran the place because of the rough characters he saw there. When we finished talking, I forgot my notion of getting any grub, called it a night, and headed for the relative comfort of my Murphy bed.
* * *
The next morning came too damned early. The sunlight streaming through a window in my apartment forced me to acknowledge what I wanted to ignore. My head ached like Jack Dempsey had used it for a punching bag. But the throbbing was attributable to another Jack, of the Daniels variety, which I’d liberated from a Canadian pal. I’d divvied up part of the stash to Harry to keep for my consumption.
Against my will, two feet hit the floor. I leaned forward from the edge of my bed with my hands dropped between my knees and clasped together. A stranger might have thought me praying for relief. Nope. I’m a longtime veteran of these hangover episodes. So, I refuse to beg for a reprieve from a self-inflicted “wound.” In reality, the only thing on my mind was finding the woman, Faye Jensen, I’d started searching for the day before.
After scraping my face with a razor, showering, and getting dressed for the day, I folded my Murphy bed into the wall and closed the doors on it. Then I hit the bricks in search of the larcenous lady. Having not eaten supper the night before, I was ravenous. So, I wandered into an eatery, called the Wayside Café, down the street from my apartment building for coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. While eating, I tried to formulate a plan to locate the Jensen woman. Most times when you want to find somebody, you have to work smart, not hard.
No matter what other ideas crossed my mind, The Three O’clock Club had to be my starting point. And that prospect was at least ten hours away. I spent the interim in my office. Among other things, I called Mr. Bumgarner to give him an update on my efforts. Despite his insistence he know everything, I didn’t mention the nightclub. Clients who interfered never helped any of my jobs. Like my old man used to tell my brother and me, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
* * *
A little after nine thirty that evening, I strolled into The Three O’clock Club. A gray pall of smoke drifted through the lively nightclub, which had large, gold-colored musical notes and treble clefs decorating the walls here and there. I snagged a small table on the outer edge of the gathering, but with an unobstructed view of the floor show. I furtively glanced around at the patrons. If first impressions meant anything, the guy from Harry’s, who’d given me the dope on the joint, was right. A number of pretty rough-looking eggs populated the place. They looked coarse even in formal evening clothes.
What passed for a chorus line was doing a dance number and singing their version of the popular Duke Ellington song “It Don’t Mean a Thing.” They formed a line on the semicircular dance floor in front of the bandstand through their vocalization of the “ba-ba-doo-dah-doo” segment. I scanned the girls as they bent over with hands on their knees. Faye Jensen was not among them. Although not perfectly harmonized, they weren’t bad. And, by and large, they weren’t tough on the eyes either. Finally, they danced their way single-file off the stage through a beaded curtain with the tassels of their skimpy outfits swaying seductively behind them. The audience gave them a great round of applause. At the same time, the band also took a short break while the stage set was being changed.
A few minutes later the girls started reappearing and working the tables. One of them sauntered over to my spot. After I accepted her offer to let me buy her a champagne cocktail, she sat next to me at the table. I ordered another round for me while I was at it. The doll, who had blonde hair with eyebrows a shade darker, took the cigarette I offered her. She bent toward my lighted match, inhaled, and threw her head back, releasing a pale gray tendril of smoke toward the ceiling. She smiled briefly, then spent the time awaiting her drink scanning club with her large, hungry eyes. My thought was she hated to be seen with possibly the homeliest mug in the joint.
When our concoctions arrived, she, nonetheless, raised her drink to me. Then, she downed her cocktail like it was an aspirin tablet and stared at the empty glass. I obligingly ordered her another. She looked in my direction as if seeing me for the first time and leaned over the table. “Say, I don’t think I ever seen you in here before.” Her voice had a boozy edge to it. “What’s your name.” Her effort at small talk was painful.
“Hal. Hal Cooper.” She nodded. “No,” I elaborated, “probably not. I haven’t been in here in a while. What’s your name?”
“Crystal. Crystal Montague.”
I returned the acknowledging nod. The moniker sounded like what the Hollywood types called a stage name. “Pretty name. You been at the club long?”
“Eight months. On my way to Broadway,” she boasted proudly.
A big smile and another head waggle from me went her way. “That’s swell!” The time frame fit my take on the situation. By my estimations, Jensen had stopped dancing at the club at least a year and a half back. From Bumgarner’s explanation of the time they’d spent together, the woman couldn’t possibly have worked for him, been his paramour, and had time to perform at the club, too. I also struggled for something to say to fill the void. “Have you lived here all your life?”
“Not yet,” came Crystal’s earnest answer. I gave up on the idea of small talk altogether.
By this time, the band had returned and started playing again. The noise level increased. I had to lean closer so Crystal could hear me. “Well, it was before your time when I used to come here, gorgeous. Used to come when a few different girls were in the chorus line. You girls are a great improvement,” I submitted.
She smiled. “Really? Thanks.” She had a nice smile.
“Oh, yeah. You’re a big step up from the time when a girl, Jensen was her name, was dancing here.”
“Oh yeah? Faye Jensen? I heard of her.” She looked around the club briefly. “A few of the girls from her time are still here.” She jerked her head toward a dancer sitting at a nearby table. “Madeleine over there was a best friend of Faye’s. Yeah, they were real close.” She puffed smoke with each word she spoke. I followed Crystal’s gaze. The woman she called Madeleine, a moderately attractive, bottle redhead, was holding up her end of the champagne cocktail trade.
“Yeah, I remember her. Madeleine Bottomley, right?” I offered, invoking the last name of the Cincinnati Reds’ first baseman.
“No,” the hoofer giggled, “it’s Denny. Madeleine Denny.” Crystal finished her drink. “Well, I gotta head backstage for the next number. Thanks for the drinks. Will I see you later?” As hard as she tried, Crystal’s words lacked sincerity.
“Nah, I’ve got an early day tomorrow. So, I’ll probably watch your next set, then go. It was swell of you to sit and talk with me.” As she moved away, her abandoned cigarette was still wisping a tiny thread of smoke into the air. Watching her retreating, tassel-adorned figure, I fired up a fresh cigarette and reflected on just what Broadway was missing at the moment. Yeah, sarcasm is one of my talents.
In a few minutes, the chorus reappeared and started a raucous rendition of “Puttin’ On the Ritz,” complete with top hats and canes. Tucking my drink away, stabbing out my cigarette, and watching their gyrations, I stood to leave. Crystal’s eyes met mine briefly. We acknowledged each other with a slight nod. My Murphy bed was calling my name.
* * *
Over java and cigarettes the next morning, I tried to devise a plan to get a handle on Jensen’s whereabouts through her good pal, Madeleine Denny. Before setting any play in motion, though, I had to learn more about the lovely and talented Miss Denny. To change my appearance at least a little, I started a William Powell mustache that morning and pulled a pair of plain-glass cheaters from a desk drawer. I’m not much on disguises, but, as the man said, every little bit helps.
That night, or more correctly, the next morning at three o’clock, when the nightclub closed, I was waiting in my LaSalle roadster across the street from the joint. From my vantage point, I had a good view of The Three O’clock Club’s stage door in an alley which ran beside it. Eventually, Denny came out of the door with a gaggle of other chorines. The girls dispersed randomly.
When it became clear no car was waiting for her and she wasn’t grabbing a hack, I bailed out of my heap and discreetly shadowed Denny. I tailed her several blocks to a rooming house one street over from where Jensen had lived. The darb wasn’t easy to follow. Streetlamps lit the way every so often, but, being a woman alone at that time of the night, the dancer was cautious and reacted to any and every sound. Following the same routine the next two nights led me to believe Denny was a creature of habit, my favorite kind of person to deal with.
I contacted a lowlife associate of mine, who’d do anything for the money to feed his muggles habit and who answered to the dubious nickname of “The Crawler.” He was ready, willing, and able to help for a double sawbuck. The twenty was coming out of Bumgarner’s pocket on my expense tab, so it didn’t matter to me. The Crawler was whipsaw lean, but carried enough weight to scare the hell out of a woman walking alone in the dark. That was what mattered to me on his end. Getting paid was what counted to The Crawler.
* * *
On the fourth night, I was ready to make my play. My mustache had come in just fine. I picked up The Crawler just before two a.m. As we drove north, I described Madeleine and explained what his role in the scheme was and what he was to do. I dropped him off along the route Denny always followed and gave him half the agreed-to cash, plus money to catch a taxi home. Knowing his ways with money, I figured he was likely to walk all the way back to his dump and save the fare money for jujus. I parked the LaSalle nearby and walked back toward the club, stopping two blocks away.
A short time after three o’clock, Denny walked past where I hid in the shadows between streetlamps. After a time, I followed her. A block from her boardinghouse, The Crawler sprang from a dark alley and feigned an attempted mugging. As instructed, he grabbed her just hard enough to scare her and long enough for me to make my entrance.
I pulled the mug off Denny and spun him around. For appearances’ sake, I clipped him gently on the side of the head. In the dark, I was sure Denny couldn’t tell the difference. Nonetheless, The Crawler howled in surprise and took a legit swing at me. I slid inside the roundhouse swipe and countered with a serious punch to his midsection while growling he’d better run. I didn’t intend this scene to turn in to the last Sharkey-Schmeling fight. After my blow, The Crawler took the hint and ran away. Who knew he could run like Gallant Fox? With the speed he showed, I wondered how he ever got the moniker The Crawler.
I straightened my eyeglasses and turned to help the shapely redhead off the sidewalk where she’d fallen during the struggle. “Are you all right?” Then, I picked up my jeff cap from the sidewalk, slapped the dirt off it on my pant leg, and put it on.
“Yeah, I think so,” she gasped, smoothing the front of her blue and white print dress. She checked her gams and arms for scrapes, as best she could in the dim light.
I looked back in the direction The Crawler had run. “Who was that guy?”
“I dunno, mister! Never seen him before!”
“I thought he was an angry ex-boyfriend or something.”
“No, my boyfriend’s …. I don’t have a boyfriend.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at me hard. “I’m lucky you came along, brother.” Her eyes held uncertainty. “Say, what’re you doing out this late?”
“Me? Oh, I just dropped a friend off after work and a few beers. My buddy’d had a bit too much to drink, so I had to help him to his door.” I turned slightly and jerked a thumb toward the LaSalle. “I’m headed back to my chariot when I happened to see your scrape. What about you? Kinda late for taking a stroll, isn’t it?”
“Nah, I just got off work and was headed home. I dance at a club a few blocks from here.” She looked down at her legs again. “Lucky for me I didn’t get any scrapes. I wouldn’t look so hot dancing with my gams bandaged,” she chuckled. After a second, her face changed. “Say, I don’t want to call the coppers, okay? That’s a headache I don’t need.” I gave the woman a shrug and nodded, telling her earnestly I didn’t want any part of the law, either. She threw me a strange glance, followed by a knowing smile, before she started to turn. “Well, thanks, mister. Thanks a lot. Glad you were around.”
I reached out to touch her elbow and offered, “Maybe I oughta walk you the rest of the way home. I mean, in case that jasper comes back.” She jerked her arm away. My hands shot up slightly in mock surrender. “Hey, look, sister, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m just offering to help. Period. I’m too damned tired from working a long shift to get fresh with you. I got a bed at home with my name on it. If you want to take your chances from here, it’s all the same to me. I’ll fade.” As I spoke, I took a slow, short step back, as if to leave.
Madeleine scanned the street hard in both directions. When she turned back to me, she maintained a reserved attitude but relented, “Okay, mister, you can walk me the rest of the way to my place. But don’t go gettin’ no crazy notions just because I’m a dancer in a club.”
“Hey, everybody’s gotta turn a buck,” I laughed, as we turned and moved toward Denny’s rooming house. So I didn’t lose the “fish” before I could sink the hook, I kept an appropriate distance between us, my hands deep in my trouser pockets. “My name’s Joe Daly. What’s yours?” I asked casually, as if it didn’t matter much. In the dim light, I could see the suspicion in her eyes as they crawled to my face. Again, I raised my hands in submission. “Keep your chemise on, gorgeous! I’m just makin’ conversation!”
“Madeleine,” she conceded, hesitantly. Her stand-offish attitude kept me from offering to shake hands, even as a friendly gesture. We continued our walk to her front porch, where a small sign proclaiming, “Mrs. Huddleston’s Boardinghouse for Women” hung beside the front door. Under the light there, Madeleine Denny got her first proper look at my face. Although I’m not necessarily butt-ugly, you won’t see my pan in leading roles on the silver screen anytime soon. Doug Fairbanks, Jr., has nothing to fear from me. Denny was clearly disappointed but sweet. “Hey, I want to say thanks again, Joe, for your help back there.” She paused in thought. “That’s about all I can do to say thank you.”
“Well,” I said with deliberate hesitation, “you could let me take you out for a cup of coffee or maybe even dinner sometime.” Before she could crash through the door to get away, I went on with a lie. “Look, I’m new to this town, just startin’ a new job and all, and I don’t know anybody except the lugs I work with.” When she looked uncertain, I backed away a step and shot her as pitiful a face as I could muster. “Forget I even mentioned it, doll face. Take care.”
As I turned, she reached out and touched the sleeve of my whipcord jacket. “Sure, Joe. A cup of coffee sounds swell.” Denny’s voice was soft and honeyed. She dug through her purse and found a pencil and a scrap of paper, on which she wrote a phone number. “Give me a yell on the blower sometime.” She smiled sweetly, “But not too early, you hear? Remember, I’m a workin’ girl,” and handed me the piece of paper. “The phone’s in the hall, so let it ring. If I don’t answer, they’ll find me.”
“Sure, Madeleine.” I raised the paper toward her in gratitude. “Thanks.” With that, we parted company for the evening.
* * *
Just before two o’clock that afternoon, someone banged hard on my office door while barging in with one motion. It was The Crawler. The bug-eyed guy rushed across the office to the desk where I sat, a newspaper spread before me, still trying to wake up.
“You hit me!” he yelled, excitedly. The Crawler had one eyed that toed out, and his bad eye was drifting erratically. He was gowed up on something.
I immediately reached for the ten spot he still had coming to him for helping me. “Relax, Daisy! You lived!”
“Yeah, but you hit me! That wasn’t in the plan!”
“Look, I had to sell the bit to my mark, okay? Anyway, I pulled the punch. It wasn’t anything more than a slight slap to your noodle. Besides, what was the swing you made in my direction?” I pulled out an extra fin for his trouble. “Here, take this,” I said, tossing the cash on the desk. “Don’t be such a sob sister! If you don’t want the work, just say so, Crawler. Next time, I’ll find someone else who does.”
He grabbed the cabbage from the desk and stuffed it in a pocket. “No, Gil, I was only sayin’ that your move was kinda sudden-like, unexpected.” He paused. “Got something else in the works?”
“Not in the foreseeable future. Now, take it on the arches! I’ve got work to do.” The Crawler left my office more contrite than he’d entered. We both knew he needed the dough to keep his habit afloat, and he’d be there when I required him.
***
Late the next afternoon, I called Madeleine to invite her to join me for a cup of coffee. She must have been in a good mood, because we ended the conversation with plans for dinner. Taking her to Cappacino’s crossed my mind, but I nixed the idea for two reasons. For one thing, the place was on the south side, too far to drive for the occasion. Second, I didn’t want to chance Mama Cappacino or some other regular there calling me by my right name and gumming up my gambit with Denny. I picked her up, and we drove to an out-of-the-way chophouse she liked near her rooming house. The grease-soaked air of the eatery belied the great food it served. The early date ended with plans to get together again. Seemingly, this skirt was desperate for a social life.
As much as Bumgarner and I wanted to locate Faye Jensen and the money quickly, I knew the effort would take time. The redheaded dancer was the key at this point. Whatever else she was, Madeleine Denny was no fool and might balk at the first sign of pointed questions. To avoid running into Crystal again, I told Denny I couldn’t come to see her at The Three O’clock Club because of my night job. But I promised that would change when I finally got a night off.
Digging around, I learned Denny had had a boyfriend, a goon named Eddie “Bumper” Haskell. Most hoods had colorful nicknames, depending on their “professional” specialties, their appearance, or their habits. In Haskell’s case, it was his profession. He was a hatchet man for the mob controlling the north side of our fair metropolis. The man was currently doing a dime in prison upstate for a rubout that had gone wrong and only resulted in an attempted murder charge. Eddie was another reason I didn’t want people to see me chinning Madeleine up at the nightclub. Too many of Haskell’s nefarious associates were present to see and report the new mug moving in on Bumper’s “territory.” One of them might even take it into his head to do something about it for her boyfriend.
Meanwhile, I kept the impatient James Bumgarner apprised of my progress but only as much as I felt comfortable telling him. During one of his irritated outbursts, I reminded my client Miss Jensen had “worked” him for a year and a half. Although I didn’t need that amount of time, I told him sharply, I couldn’t successfully complete the job overnight.
On our second “date,” Denny and I returned to the same chophouse, apparently her favorite eating place. During the meal, I told her I’d mentioned her to the fellas I work with. I casually added one guy used to be a regular at The Three O’clock Club a while back.
My story was the mug had had a crush on one a dancer by the name of Jensen. He’d kept it to himself and maintained his distance. He did so because of the reputation the joint had as the stomping ground for some mean thugs connected to the north side mob. My pal figured, I elaborated, the same gang had connections to the place. I finished by adding he didn’t think the dame was dancing at the club anymore. And I’d only mentioned it because my buddy had asked me to find out.
Madeleine’s face grew serious as she warned me not to talk too much about her or seeing her. Too many folks might not take kindly to it, she cautioned. She grew quiet. Then, her mood lightened. She laughed and told me my friend had been smart to keep away from Jensen. Denny added the first name Faye to her telling. Leaning close and speaking low, my date told me a couple of the up-and-comers in the north side organization owned the nightclub. She further explained Faye Jensen had quit dancing when she’d taken up with one of the club’s owners, a fella known as The Turk. His was a name and a face I knew. Last I heard, he was serving a three-year stretch upstate.
Jensen’s playmate was a vicious, unforgiving loan shark, who also worked as muscle for the syndicate. When the big bosses needed heavy lifting, he was one of the first gorillas they called. The gang seemingly ran amok on the north side of our fair municipality, owing to greasing the palms of more than a few prominent politicians. That was according to my brother Marty, a city copper. Once I was aware of who Jensen’s boyfriend was, I spent the rest of my meal mulling over my approach to the investigation. I decided to make my effort at finding Jensen and the money more circumspect.
I’ll take chances, but crazy and stupid stack up as somebody else’s racket. You see, in the boxing world, The Turk rated the heavyweight division. He could give this new fighter everybody was talking about, Primo Carnera, the pug they’d nicknamed the Ambling Alp due to his size, a run for his money. Meanwhile, I’d weigh in just under the heavyweight division minimum with a height of just under six feet. Sort of a heavier version of Maxie Rosenbloom. Yeah, that’s me. And yeah, I follow the prizefight game closely, because a portion of my income frequently leaves me to follow it even closer. But my luck there was better than I’d had with the bangtails.
Anyway, the big man and I had nearly traded potshots back during the Prohibition days. There’d be no face-to-face encounters with Jensen’s boyfriend during this job if I could help it. I’m not suicidal.
Over after-dinner java and cigarettes, I chuckled over how lucky the Jensen woman was to “retire” to a life of leisure with her huge boyfriend watching over her. Denny’s hazel eyes flashed at me over her coffee cup. Her face darkened. Again, she leaned toward me and lowered her voice, “Her ‘retirement,’ as you call it, didn’t last too long.”
“Why? What happened?”
“The Turk got pinched on an old, trumped-up assault beef, and they sent him up for three years. That was something over a year ago. The poor girl had to go out and find a job when she lost the support from her man,” Madeleine moaned.
“Wow. That’s tough. Why didn’t Jensen just go back to the club and start dancing again? I mean, if Faye’s beau owns part of the club, she shouldn’t have any problem. Right?”
Madeleine glanced around before responding. “Well, that’s the rub. The other guy who has a piece of the club said Faye got a swelled head when she took up with The Turk. He wouldn’t let her dance there no more. Rossini–that’s the bum’s name–treated her just awful.”
“But–”
“But nothing! The Turk was upstate and couldn’t do anything. And Rossini’s pretty well fixed in the organization. He married some boss’ daughter or niece, I think.” She leaned back in her chair. “So, off to the salt mines Faye went. It’s caused a lot of bad blood. I can tell ya that. Funny thing is Faye was tryin’ to get her man to ditch this burg, head to the West Coast, and get a fresh start there. That was before he got sent to stir. Faye thinks Los Angeles is wide open for his sort of operation. She says he could be king of the mountain, a big shot in the city.” While I tried to appear suitably interested in this palaver, she chinned and sipped her coffee. Suddenly, she looked sullen. No one had to tell me she was thinking of her man, Bumper.
After a minute of silence, she snapped out of it. “Now the real showdown is brewing. The Turk just got the news of his parole and is headed back this way soon. Word is, he’s very unhappy with Rossini. Over the way he treated Faye and over money he says Rossini owes him. Them that knows say Rossini is just as anxious to get rid of the big man. Most folks are guessing the syndicate’s bosses are gonna let the chips fall where they will.
“As luck would have it, Faye just got a fat inheritance from an uncle or some relative. So, she quit her job and is ready to pull the big flit more than ever. The girl’s just waiting for The Turk. She hasn’t told him about her windfall yet. Faye’s a pretty independent broad,” Denny snickered. A hint of envy lingered in her voice. “Sometimes, she talks like she’s moving on with or without him now that she’s got a pile of cash of her own.”
Now I knew how Jensen planned to explain the money, The Turk was probably in the dark about it, and Jensen was still somewhere around town. As important, I knew Jensen’s squeeze was moving in this direction with a meaner-than-ever attitude. I’d seen the big goon in action. How he could ever have a nastier outlook was a mystery to me. The trick for me would be to get Jensen separated from her beau and the money separated from her, if possible.
The rain that had doused the city earlier in the day had moved out and given way to a colder temperature by the time we left the restaurant. The days were still short as late winter struggled to hold us in its grip. I parked my heap in a spot down the block from Madeleine’s place and walked her to her door. We said goodnight, and that was it. Denny and I’d agreed our relationship, such as it was, would always be as just pals. “Platonic” was what the highbrows called it. Or, as it’s referred to in my love life, “business as usual.”
I skipped down the steps, well satisfied with the information I’d gleaned during the evening. Out on the sidewalk at the edge of the dim glare of the porch’s light, I turned toward the LaSalle. Suddenly, a large man stepped from the darkness of the boardinghouse’s driveway into my path, waving a cigarette. “Got a light, mister?”
Without thinking, I stopped and patted my pockets for a match. Then it happened. There came to me a sound over my shoulder. Before I could turn to meet the threat, someone grabbed me from behind and pulled my jacket partway down my back, restraining my arms. The thug behind me then grabbed me in a bear hug. I struggled and tried to kick the goon in front of me with little success.
The guy facing me gave me two hard body shots, then two terrific blows to the head. His first slug knocked my glasses off. The second punch nearly knocked me out. The goon behind me let me drop to the ground where the pair applied several powerful kicks to my body and head. One guy drew his leg back for the last strike to my mug. As he did, he snarled a warning to stay away from Denny or I wouldn’t walk away from our next meeting. With the kick, my world faded to black.
* * *
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was Madeleine. She was sitting beside me on the edge of the divan where they’d laid me. The second thing I noticed was just how damn much it hurt to breathe because of my ribs. Then, I realized how damned sore I was everywhere. Even my teeth ached. I touched my head and drew back a hand smeared with blood. “Take it easy, Joe.” An older woman, the landlady, appeared carrying a bowl of a steaming liquid, which she sat on a nearby table next to my eyeglasses someone had rescued. She dipped a cloth in the liquid, squeezed it out, and handed it to her tenant.
“Thank you, Mrs. Huddleston.” My pal started dabbing my face and head. “We heard the ruckus, but by the time we got outside your ‘friends’ left. They drove off in a dark-colored Ford Coupe.” Great! Only a thousand of those around the city. She jerked her head toward the older lady standing beside her. “Mrs. Huddleston insisted we bring you inside. She also insisted we not call the coppers.”
The stout, matronly lady, bedecked in a shapeless print housedress, folded her hands in front of her and stiffened. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, mister, but it ain’t got nothin’ to do with my roomin’ house, and I don’t need that kinda publicity. Sorry.” I nodded my thanks and my understanding.
“What was it about, Joe?”
I started say her boyfriend’s pals play rough. “I dunno, Maddie,” I replied instead, using the nickname I’d given her. “The goons just jumped me,” I lied. My play to learn Faye Jensen’s whereabouts was not finished. I had a few hands to deal yet. I paused, gently massaged my ribcage, and sighed in pain. Trying to sit up, I groaned, “I gotta get outta here. I think I may need to see a doctor.” The sitting up part didn’t work so well. I fell back on the couch, feeling as if I could’ve used the long count Tunney got against Dempsey in 1927.
“Just lie still for a minute more, Joe. There’s a receiving hospital ten blocks from here on Madison. Do you want me to drive you there?”
I gestured with my hand as much as my soreness allowed. “No. I’ll be fine.” A thought occurred to me. I glanced at my strap watch. It was almost one thirty in the morning. Evidently, time passes quickly when you’re out cold. I looked at Maddie. “Shouldn’t you be at the club?”
“It’s okay. I called the manager and told him I couldn’t come in tonight. Told him it was a personal emergency.”
“Aren’t you risking your job?”
“Are you kidding me? I got more experience dancin’ in my sleep than most of those girls have on stage! He can’t afford to lose me! I’m the one teachin’ ‘em the new routines!” Her voice was low but full of self-assurance and determination.
“Okay then.” I conceded and started to lift myself from the sofa. This time, my effort at sitting up was a success, but I was moving gingerly.
“Shouldn’t I drive you to see a doctor, Joe?” she begged. “You don’t look so hot.”
“Nah. I’m jake,” I lied. “Thanks, though, kiddo. You get some sleep.” I looked past Maddie to the door Mrs. Huddleston had walked through when she’d left the room. “Thank you, Mrs. Huddleston!” I received a faint response of acknowledgment. Denny walked me to the front door.
Outside, I more or less staggered to my LaSalle and crawled inside. As I pulled away from the curb, an automobile parked somewhere behind me started up and moved in the same direction. At first, it meant nothing to me. But, as I slowly made my way toward the hospital on Madison, the other car matched my every turn. Feeling antsy after the night’s events, I reached to the floorboard beneath me to make certain my gun was still there and within quick reach.
I parked as close to the hospital as possible. The car which had been following me stopped nearby. I made my way into the hospital’s receiving area. A short time later, a doctor had treated my cuts and scrapes and sewed up a cut over my left eye. He then said I had at least a few cracked ribs, possibly a few broken, suggesting he could tell better with x-rays. After I declined, the doc taped my rib cage. Returning to my car, I noticed the heap trailing me was still where it’d parked when I’d arrived.
The faint glow of a cigarette tip coming from the driver’s seat showed me at least one goon was sitting in it. Whether there were any more than the one, I couldn’t tell because of the shadows. I didn’t like the setup. It wasn’t the coppers. They’d’ve braced me by now whether they’d had cause or not. If it were the two goons who’d given me the Broderick earlier, what was the point? The pair had delivered the message in spades. Who then? It wasn’t my imagination. That was for damned sure.
I climbed behind the wheel and started my car. The other car’s engine turned over. I cut my motor, got out, and moved to the sidewalk. The other crate went silent. My first impulse was to confront whoever was in the car. Unfortunately, I was in no condition to do so. I still wasn’t able to breathe deeply and pain racked my entire body. I got back into the LaSalle, cranked her up, and sped away, with the other car close on my tail. Ideas raced through my mind as I drove.
Going home wasn’t an option. There was no sense telling the mug where I lived if they didn’t already know it. Finding a police station was out. What could I tell them about a car possibly following me that amounted to a crime or didn’t make me sound like a raving paranoid? I drove around until I saw the lights of a local bar and a cheerful crowd inside through its front windows. Maybe I could wait out my mystery stalker. Booze was in order at this point, anyway. I grabbed my .45 from the floorboard and tucked in my waistband where my jacket hid it.
* * *
Inside the joint, I found an empty stool at the bar and ordered a drink. When it came, it tasted like the nectar of the gods. I kept watching the front door, waiting for my mysterious shadow to make an entry. After a time, I glanced in the big mirror behind the bar and saw an enormous man with a familiar face approaching. He stood behind the small guy sitting on the stool next to me and waited. Shortly, my neighbor looked into the mirror’s image and saw the big man’s stern face glaring menacingly over his shoulder. The timid little fellow swallowed hard, grabbed what remained of his cocktail, and hurried to a nearby booth. Then, The Turk sat down next to me.
The big mobster ordered a drink and set fire to a butt, dropping his lighter onto the bar. The thing had his nickname engraved on it. I watched his reflection carefully. His mug carried the around-the-clock shadow I remembered. His eyes half closed against the smoke of his cigarette, The Turk looked at the mirror but spoke to me. “I understand you’ve taken an interest in my girl.” Another drag on his cigarette. “What’s your game, mister?” His voice was calm and cold. The four years since we’d last encountered one another appeared to have dulled his memory of my face. Of course, the bandages and bruises I wore may have hindered his recollection. Either way, he gave no hint of recognition.
“No game, Turk. Your skirt stole over forty-two thousand dollars from my client. I aim to get it back for him.”
“Bushwah! Never happened, bub!”
“Sure, it did. She stole it from the guy she worked for when you got sent up.” I stirred the pot. “You know, when Rossini wouldn’t let her back in The Three O’clock Club to dance while you were away. That’s the nightclub you’re part owner in, right?” His face darkened, and he exhaled hard, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “I’m small potatoes, Turk. I thought you might settle up with Rossini before you paid me a visit.”
He turned his head my way and gave me the once-over with angry eyes, as if he were measuring me for a coffin. I tried to look calm. “You plow too close to the cotton, Mac.” They must have housed him with a farmer while in stir. The turn of such a phrase from a city slicker struck me as almost laughable. Under the circumstances, I managed to refrain.
The big lug continued, snickering, “I’m takin’ care of my light work, first. Looks like someone beat me to you. But, just so’s you know, Rossini’s my next stop. He’ll get what’s comin’ to him when I settle his hash.” He took another long draw on his gasper. His eyebrows furrowed. “But gettin’ back to my girl, why wouldn’t she tell me if she’d pulled this caper?” The Turk chuckled, probably at the thought of Faye pulling off such a gambit and the easy money just waiting for him.
“That’s something you’re gonna have to ask your twist.”
The big fella turned more serious again. Still staring hard at me by way of the mirror, he said ominously, “Well, whether she did or she didn’t do it, mister, you need to back off. Whatever your client’s payin’ you, it ain’t worth your life. You get me? If I see–”
Looking straight ahead and listening to The Turk’s threats, I suddenly saw dark red spatter on the cash register behind the bar and on the mirror behind it. I looked to my companion’s reflection. His face was twisted, savage. His cigarette dropped from his mouth to the bar. Blood ran from the cavity his left eye had occupied a minute earlier. It’s true the mind can often play tricks on you, but, in that second, it seemed my brain was trickier than Houdini’s giant milk can escape. In the same instant, I saw an average-sized man standing right behind The Turk, his arm raised toward the gangster’s head. The man’s broad face had a nose like a twisted rope and a maniacal grin.
I didn’t hear the blasts. It had to have been a smaller caliber handgun. But it didn’t have to be a cannon for effectiveness at that range. Three contact gunshots to the back of The Turk’s head were enough. As I tried to retrieve my gat and dodge any other potshots, I tumbled off the barstool. By the time I’d righted myself and pulled my rod, I’d lost the shooter in the bar’s chaotic crowd. The big man slumped on the floor in front of the bar. At this point, he was nothing more than a loose bag of clothes. Something made me pick up the dead man’s lighter and drop it in my side pocket.
As eager as I was to get out of the joint, I knew leaving before the coppers showed would just bring more heat down on me. Better to stay, let them ask their questions, and deduce for themselves I was an innocent bystander in this fatal melodrama. Soon, a rotund, hard number named Donovan, Detective Gus Donovan, to be exact, appeared and took charge of the investigation. This big mug and I had history. He’d been the investigator into a car-theft allegation against Mama Cappacino’s kid Geno a while back. Perfectly satisfied and smug with his half-assed investigation, Donovan hadn’t been happy when I’d presented him with concrete evidence of Geno’s innocence. I wasn’t on his Christmas-card list.
An hour later, the detective had finished his investigation at the scene. Oh, yeah, Donovan braced me, all right. He’d given me a rough going over and checked my gun to make certain it hadn’t been fired. Then he confirmed my private investigator’s license allowed me to carry the iron. As I told him and he learned for himself, I hadn’t discharged my piece since it was last cleaned. Another reason to take good care of a weapon. In taking my statement, Donovan questioned me about my facial injuries. Without going into any detail, I told him they were from an unrelated incident earlier in the evening. He’d also gotten my contact information, though I was sure it was on file at headquarters.
Apparently, the detective didn’t like coincidences any more than I did. I hadn’t convinced him there wasn’t a connection between my presence and The Turk’s murder. Nevertheless, he reluctantly released me with a warning not to leave town. While still inside the bar, I noticed blood on the left shoulder of my jacket and on my cheaters. Some blood on the coat was there from the beating I’d taken earlier, but it hadn’t been there in such quantity before the shooting. Now, The Turk’s blood mixed with mine. I cleaned the glasses with my handkerchief as I moved outside. Well, The Turk’s death resolved at least one of my obstacles to getting Hanover’s money back, I thought, smiling.
As I headed for my car, the press boys started arriving. Then it hit me the murder of Jensen’s lover would be front-page news in the next editions of the local rags. Fortunately for me, the story was too late for the morning editions, though. So, I had time on my side. But only a little time, by my estimation. It occurred to me I needed to make the best use of that time before the afternoon or special editions hit the streets.
Things were moving faster now than I’d expected in this investigation. My big brother, Marty, used to box in smokers when he was in the Coast Guard. He told me once every boxer has a plan going into a match. Until he gets hit in the face the first time, that is. Then he improvises. My time to improvise had come. I hustled into my bucket and drove as quickly as the early morning traffic allowed to Mrs. Huddleston’s Boardinghouse for Women.
* * *
It was just after four forty-five a.m. when I pushed the button beside the rooming house’s massive front door. After two attempts on the buzzer, I banged on the door hard. A walk to the edge of the covered front porch revealed lights had started coming on in the upstairs windows. One of the second-floor windows opened, and a woman stuck her head out and ducked back in before I could tell whether the face was familiar.
I returned to the front door and peered through the its window. A light on the stairs snapped on, followed by a female figure laboriously making her way to the foyer. Then, the entryway light came on and a wary eye peeked from behind the sheer curtain in the window. From the eye, my brain registered a face. “Mrs. Huddleston, it’s me! Joe Daly! I need to see Madeleine! It’s an emergency, Mrs. Huddleston!” I raised my voice, but only as far as my aching ribs let me.
The door opened a crack and an unfriendly voice responded, “Do you know what time it is, young man? You have no call to be rousting folks from their beds this time of the morning. I won’t have it! I don’t care who you are! You git–”
“Mrs. Huddleston, I have to see Madeleine now! It’s an emergency!” I shoved my foot into the opened door as far as the limited space permitted. The old lady pushed back hard.
Thankfully, I heard Maddie’s forceful voice behind the proprietor. “Mrs. Huddleston! Please let me handle this!” When the landlady relented slightly, the redhead’s voice softened, and she told her to go back to bed. “Everything will be fine. Just give me a minute in private, ma’am. I’ll get rid of Joe. I promise.”
The matronly landlady loosened a loud harrumph. She followed it with an admonition directed at both of us. “Well, see that you do! If this man is still here in five minutes, I’m calling the police!” With that, the woman stomped back up the stairs.
Madeleine opened the door and let me in. I followed her to the parlor I’d awakened in earlier that evening. She turned on a large floor lamp with a tasseled, red shade, which struck me as more suited for a cathouse than a rooming house parlor. We sat on the divan. Concern etched her face. “I see you’ve gotten medical attention,” she reasoned, looking at my bandages and stitches. “What’s going on, Joe? What is it?”
“Maddie, something has had me worried sick since I left here earlier,” I said gravely. She stared at me intently. “I didn’t tell you everything about the two hooligans who jumped me outside here tonight. The more I’ve thought it over, though, the more anxious I am.”
“What, Joe? What?” Her voice rose with her anxiety level.
“Well, the whole time they were beating me they kept asking me where Faye Jensen was.”
Maddie’s hand went to her mouth in shock. “Oh, no! Why? What did you tell them?”
“Don’t ask me why they’re trying to find her! Or why they thought I’d have an answer. But what the hell could I tell them? I don’t know where she is! And, after tonight, I don’t want to! They didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t. They just poured the beating on more.” Maddie got quiet for a minute. She glanced at the blood on the shoulder of my jacket. I could tell from her face several concerns were running through her mind. To help her thought process, I added, “They were furious and even more determined to find your friend. Sounds to me as if maybe she’s caught in the middle of this beef between Rossini and the Turk. And I don’t think they’re the kind to let her boyfriend stand in their way. I thought I ought to tell you, Maddie.”
“Oh, I wished you’d told me this earlier, Joe. When ….” her voice drifted off.
“I’m sorry. I guess I was still in shock. Is there anything I can do to help, Maddie?”
After another minute, she looked hard into my eyes. “Yeah, Joe, you can help. I think Faye’s in danger. I need a ride to go see Faye and warn her. Your car will be quicker than calling a hack at this time of the morning. Will you drive me?”
“Sure I will! But can’t you just call her?” I offered, hoping for a negative answer.
“Can’t. She doesn’t have a phone.” Maddie stood suddenly. “Just let me get dressed and we’ll go. Give me fifteen minutes, Joe.”
At this point, I had to make a play. The worse thing Madeleine could say was no. “Fifteen minutes? If she’s in that kind of danger, do we have that much time? I might be able to reach her in fifteen minutes! Remember, they beat me up pretty bad looking for her eight hours ago! Why not let me go? Just write a note to her so she’ll know I’m a right gee. I’ll get the word to her. Plus, I can deliver her in my car wherever she might want to or need to go.”
When Denny’s hazel eyes flashed back and forth and she hesitated, I further argued my position. “Look, Maddie, I’m no hero, but I think I’ve earned your trust with everything that’s happened tonight.” As I spoke, I made a vague gesture, reminding her of my injuries from the thrashing. “Besides, if there is a danger in it, you’ll be safer here than going with me.”
After a minute’s hesitation, she said, “Wait here! I’ll be right back!” After she disappeared up the stairs, I could hear a raised but muffled discussion between the redhead and her landlady. No doubt, the old lady was keeping track of the time on her threat to call the police. Shortly, Madeleine returned and pushed a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Here, Joe. Give this to Faye. She’ll be copacetic with you after she reads it. Do you know what she looks like? How will you recognize her?”
“My buddy said she’s a dead ringer for moving picture star, um, Thelma Todd.”
Maddie laughed. “Close enough. You’ll find her in room two-seventeen at the Sumner Arms Hotel.” As she started me toward the door, the woman added, “Please hurry. Give her my love, Joe. She’s a wonderful kid. And call me when she’s safe.”
Despite my pain, I trotted back to the LaSalle in my excitement to locate Faye Jensen. The Sumner Arms Hotel was familiar to me, having dealt with a few cases where it had come into play. The place was an older but refined establishment, named, as I recalled, for a Spanish-American War hero. Driving there took more time than I’d hoped, due a temporary but lengthy halt for a long train moving slowly through the city.
The big clock over the registration desk read a little after six when I entered the lobby, filled with raucous conventioneers from a fraternal organization. They smelled violently of whiskey from a night of partying. After confirming Jensen had registered in room two-seventeen, I fought my way through the boisterous crowd to the elevator. The stoic operator, whose demeanor ran contrary to the gaiety of the hotel’s patrons, delivered me to the second floor. The hallway there was also littered with rowdy convention-goers.
When I knocked on the door to Jensen’s room, no one answered. That Jensen was not in her room at this early hour was somewhat disturbing. Those carousing in the crowded corridor thwarted my natural inclination to pick the lock and let myself in. They were not that inebriated. Besides which, since the night’s events unfolded in unexpected twists, I didn’t have my usual “tools” with me.
Instead, I left the hotel and hustled around to the alley I knew ran behind the hotel. Luckily, a fire escape ran to the window of the Jensen’s room. After a painful effort, I mounted a rickety trash can to reach the drop ladder giving me access to the emergency stairway. From the landing outside her room, I saw no light in the room. Both windows were locked. After looking around for any prying eyes and finding none, I removed my jeff cap and used it to cover my gun and muffle the sound of breaking glass. Quietly, I reached in and unlocked the window, raised it, and climbed into the darkness.
In short order, I found a small table lamp, turned it on, and ranged my eyes over the space. The room was orderly and held nothing unusual. I fanned the room and found a .32 caliber revolver with a black finish tucked under panties in the dresser’s top drawer. Beside it was the stack of Bumgarner’s letters and notes, tied together. I dropped the revolver and my client’s correspondence in my side pocket.
A corner chair gave me an unobstructed view of the door and the windows. Just to be on the safe side, I extinguished the lamp and made myself comfortable. The day had been long, and I was beat. The noisy partiers in the hall ensured I didn’t drift off to sleep, despite my weariness. Of course, no one else on the floor was getting any rest either. Sitting there, waiting, I resolved this play wouldn’t involve any rough stuff unless Jensen started acting up. I didn’t feel physically up to it, and it wasn’t my usual style when dealing with dames.
After a time, someone inserted a key in the door’s lock. It opened and Jensen’s shapely form stood silhouetted by the hallway lighting. Initially, she was too busy fending off drunken advances of two men in the corridor to come into the room. The liquored-up Lotharios eventually took the hint and moved on to more accommodating prey. The woman stepped into her room and hit the switch for the overhead light. Her back was to me as she closed the door and moved across the room to a dresser. She didn’t see me. When she turned, my presence gave her a rude start. The curvy blonde was as beautiful as her picture. Bumgarner’s misstep was easy to understand. Regaining her composure, she quickly turned back to the bureau and opened the drawer where I’d found her gat.
“Uh-uh. It’s not there.” I patted the bulge in my coat’s side pocket.
Hearing that, Faye turned to me in time to see my gesture. She leaned back against the dresser and calmly asked, “Who are you and just what the hell are you doin’ in my room, mister?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. I’m here to see you, Faye.” I threw her my best knowing smirk. “How’s life on the lam?”
Her mood shifted from surprise to anger. “You got some rough bark, bub, comin’ in here! Now, get out!” she shouted.
I didn’t stir. “Uh-uh. Not till I get what I came for, gorgeous.”
She smiled coyly. “Aside from the obvious, I got nothin’ you’d want. And that’s not gonna happen! So, make like a horse turd and hit the trail!”
“What about that forty-two-thousand dollars you liberated a short time back?”
Faye stiffened, but remained confident. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister. So, take some air,” she said, crossing her arms defiantly.
“Not without the money, Faye.”
“Well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave! My man’s comin’. He’ll be here any minute. And he’ll make hamburger meat outta you, buster!” When I merely smiled, she continued the threat, “My man’s The Turk. Ever heard of him? He’s big, and he’s mean as hell. I’m meetin’ him for breakfast downstairs this mornin’ and then we’re gonna blow this dump. My fella’s just late, that’s all. He’ll walk in here any second!” She glanced at the door.
“No. No, he won’t, Faye, ‘cause dead men don’t walk,” I responded matter-of-factly. Immediately recognizing the harshness of my words, I added, “Look, sweetheart, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but The Turk won’t be coming to get you. The syndicate killed him early this morning.”
The color drained from Jensen’s face. Her mouth dropped open in shock. A heavy silence fell on the room for a minute, during which Faye’s swimming eyes flashed around the room as she thought about what I’d said. Finally, she looked at me hard. “No, that can’t be! We just talked on the phone late last night! I don’t believe you!”
“Well, if you want to take the chance of hanging around and reading it in the afternoon papers, that’s up to you. Or you can call the city desk of the rags and ask. Maybe the morgue. Or call the coppers. They’ll fill you in on the gory details, I’m sure. But understand the mob’s after you. You’re next on their list, Faye.” She stiffened at those words. Turning the idea over in her mind did something to her face. I read her thoughts through that face and tried to make a calming gesture. “No, I’m not with them. If I were, you’d be dead by now. But you’re in a pretty tough spot.”
When she saw the serious expression on my face, Faye unfolded her arms, walked sluggishly to her bed, and let herself down onto it. The woman was now within arm’s reach. I retrieved The Turk’s lighter from my pocket and handed it to her. His blood was still on the thing. She looked longingly at it for a second, squeezed it tight in her hands, then stared into the distance at nothing. The blonde’s pale blue eyes, filling with tears, slowly met mine. She moaned, “I gave this to him.” With an expression which was uncomprehending, she cried, “I don’t understand.” Faye then shot me a questioning look and asked, “Why?”
Resting my elbows on my thighs, I leaned toward the woman who now sobbed into her hands. “It was because the mob bosses didn’t get their taste from the money you stole.”
She lifted her face off her hands and turned her head and looked at me. Her face went hard. “But it’s my money!” the distraught woman screamed. “Mine! It has no connection to the mob!” She stood and stormed around the room. “I haven’t spent a dime of it. It was gonna set him up in business in Los Angeles. I thought the dough might help him decide to leave here and start fresh there. He didn’t even know about it!”
I tried to calm her with a steady voice. “The problem is, the bosses didn’t believe Turk didn’t know. They want their piece, same as always, Faye.”
The blonde’s mouth suddenly twisted in anger. She approached where I sat, her fists clinched. “Did you kill him, mister?”
I rose and gently held her arms at her sides. “No, Faye. I didn’t do it. As I said, I’m not part of the mob. The Turk and I were having a drink together when he got it.” She looked at me with uncertainty. “We’d been in stir together, Faye,” I lied. “We were celebrating him getting out.” The woman’s face showed she was desperate to believe me.
She sat on the side of the bed again, wrapped in self-pity. “Now what?” After a pause, her face became excited. “I gotta get outta town!” She got up and moved to two locked suitcases and a small overnight case in a corner. “I’m mostly packed, so I just gotta follow the plan we had. I’ll just take the money and run!” Her eyes welled up again. “Just … alone,” she sighed.
I stepped to her side. “And go where, sister?” She gaped at me. “Do you think the bosses are just going to let you walk away with the forty-two-thousand dollars? They’ve already killed a good earner, an up-and-comer like The Turk over that money. Do you think somebody in the mob will hesitate for a second to kill you to get it? Taking it on the lam with the dough is a sucker’s play and you know it!”
Her eyes flickered in thought before returning to meet mine. She eyed me suspiciously. “So, what’s your angle in this, Mac? What’s in it for you?”
“My only interest is protecting you. You were one of the last things The Turk was talking about before he died. He loved you. But he knew Rossini was gunning for him. The big guy asked me to look out for you if anything happened. I want to keep you from harm at the hands of those bastards in the organization. After you’re safely out of town, I’ll take the money to them. That’ll satisfy them, I’m sure.” I sighed heavily for effect. “It’s the least I owe The Turk. I promised him.” There was a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. After a pause, I added, “I don’t want the money, Faye. Hell, the last thing I need is to have the mob after me.” Faye Jensen fell against my chest and started crying hard.
When her sobs subsided, the woman pushed back from me. “So, now what, …? Say, who are you anyway? Are you a copper?”
“No, I’m not the law. My name’s Hal Cooper. Like I said, your boyfriend and I were on the same cell block upstate. And the answer to your first question is we get you out of town.”
“But, if I just give them the money, they won’t mess with me, will they?”
“Can you be sure, Faye? If they get the money and you’ve left for a destination unknown, they’ll leave it at that. You’ll be safe.” I shrugged, “Otherwise ….”
The pretty blonde mulled her situation over for a minute. “I’ve got the two train tickets for the coast he told me to get last night,” she said, nodding toward the dresser. “He thinks … thought they were for a little vacation,” she sighed heavily. “It leaves at ten thirty-five this morning.”
“Then, we need to see you get on it.”
“But I won’t have any money if I give up the forty-two thousand.”
“Cash in the other ticket to see you through to the coast.”
“Just how far do you think that’ll get me?”
I needed to put out an option good enough for the doll to jump at it. “Okay. Look, say you take two thousand of the swag for a stake when you get to the coast. That should hold you until you find something out there. Hell, with your looks, you might even end up in the motion pictures, Faye.” She smiled sadly and nodded her agreement with the plan.
After counting the money and giving Jensen her two thousand, she finished packing. Then, we headed for the Union Station.
* * *
Around ten thirty-five, I stood on a platform at the Union Station, waving goodbye to Faye Jensen. I was holding the overnight case containing Hanover Mutual’s money, less the two thousand leaving town with the blonde. Besides giving Jensen the two grand, I returned her handgun. From what I’d read about the two-legged wolves prowling Los Angeles, I figured it might come in handy. When the train had moved out an appropriate distance, I hurried toward my car.
Before I could get out of the station, I ran into Detective Rob Waddell, a tough, lanky lug I knew from the police department. He laughed when he saw my injuries and shook his head. “Hey, Gil, you look like hell. Did you get the decision in that bout?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaned in toward me. “Say, I heard at headquarters you were a witness to The Turk’s murder last night in a bar on the north side. What’s the matter? You and Harry have a lover’s quarrel?” Everyone who knew me was aware of my reputation for patronizing Harry’s Paradise Tavern. Waddell glanced at the overnight bag in my hand. “So, I know you didn’t just get into town.” The detective cocked his chin at the luggage. “A little dainty for you, ain’t it, Tanner?”
“Carrying it for a friend. It might come as a surprise to you, flatfoot, but I do keep company with skirts once in a while. And no, I’m still a regular at Harry’s. I was working an investigation when the unfortunate event occurred. What brings you out from behind your desk?”
“Unfortunate event? In whose book? Donovan says the word on the street is Rossini was behind his rival being rubbed out. Just one vermin ridding the city of another. Donovan’s not sure whether the motive was money or a personal grudge. Ballsy move either way. Whatever the excuse, we know why. Rossini knew The Turk was dangerous enough, if you didn’t get him first, he’d sure as hell kill you. The department had gotten the word a showdown was brewing. We were just waiting it out, hoping no citizens got caught in the crossfire. Now, Donovan’ll be trying his damnedest to pin the killing on Rossini and rid the city of another blight. Anyway, I’m just waiting for a train bringing in a miscreant who’s being extradited on a murder charge.”
“Well, I have to run, detective. I’ve got an appointment.” I turned and started for the doors.
He chuckled and called after me, “If it’s with the babe who owns the case, give her a kiss for me, Tanner!”
* * *
The building housing the Hanover Mutual Insurance Company offices was a short drive from the train station. In one of the building’s elevators, a gaunt old man sat stone-faced on the low stool, staring straight ahead in utter boredom, his fist on the lever. They’d outfitted him in a brass-buttoned tunic and pillbox hat. He’d probably worn it since Teddy Roosevelt was in the White House. When he delivered me to the eighth floor, my parting words were unanswered by the sphinxlike figure. Oh, well.
In Hanover’s offices, I asked to speak to Mr. Bumgarner, explaining to the young lady I didn’t have an appointment. But I was certain the man would see me. I hadn’t taken the time to call ahead. As I sat and waited, I rubbed my sore neck and looked forward to being able to take a deep breath again without pain in my rib cage. Shortly, a seemingly surprised, possibly embarrassed James Bumgarner came out to greet me and escort me to his office.
The regional president’s office was a thing to make FDR envious. Beautiful paneling, rich furnishings and large windows gave the expansive office a palatial feel. I asked Bumgarner what time the next floor show started. Still slightly dumbfounded by my sudden appearance, he mumbled he didn’t understand. Grinning, I tossed my fedora into a visitor’s chair, set the overnight case beside it, and told him it was a joke. He blushed and chuckled.
Then, the piece of luggage caught his attention. Bumgarner looked at it expectantly. “Is that what I think it is?”
I smiled. “I dunno, Mr. Bumgarner. What do you think it is?”
“I can only hope it’s forty-two-thousand-three-hundred-two dollars.”
“Well, what say we settle up our accounts before we get to the contents of the bag.” He appeared reluctant. As an incentive, I tossed his love letters to Jensen on the desk. Relieved at the sight of them, he agreed. I gave him a figure based on the time and expenses I’d exhausted on his behalf and at the rate he’d agreed to pay, over and above his initial retainer. I included the cost of my visit to the doctor after the beating.
When he pulled a checkbook from a desk drawer, I told him I’d prefer cash owing to matters I couldn’t go into at the moment. I didn’t want to be walking around with nothing but Bumgarner’s check in my pocket after he learned not all the forty-two-plus-thousand dollars was in the overnight bag. Bumgarner opened a safe hidden in a bookcase and counted out the amount I’d quoted.
I pocketed the money and placed the overnight bag on his desk. He beamed as he opened it. “Let me give you a warning, Mr. Bumgarner. Not all the stolen money is in there.”
James looked crestfallen but quickly recovered. He tugged on the coat of his superbly tailored suit and shot his cuffs. “Well, I guess one might expect Miss Jensen to spend a small amount of money over the past week or so.”
My time for lying in this matter had passed. “Massaging” the truth, as my brother termed it, was part of the racket I’d chosen. But I’d stretched it more in the last several days than I could remember in some time. Enough, I thought. “No, Mr. Bumgarner, Faye Jensen hadn’t spent a dime of the money when I caught up with her.”
“So, it’s all here.”
“No. I didn’t say that. There’s forty-thousand-three-hundred-two dollars in the bag. And I’d appreciate it if you’d count it while I’m still here.”
“But … but what happened to the other two thousand dollars?” he stammered. “See here, I have paid you in full, Mr. Tanner!” He looked at me defiantly and started around the desk toward me.
We were back to him addressing me formally. I squared up to him. He stopped short. “Yes, you have, thank you. But Miss Jensen required traveling money to get out of town, way out of town, to save you the scandalous embarrassment of her ever showing up here again. She’ll happily settle somewhere on the West Coast shortly. You’ll never hear from her again.” I smiled, “And your wife and children will never have to meet her. It seemed a small price to pay to rid yourself of her and to get the vast majority of Hanover’s money back.”
“But where will the rest of the money come fr–?” He stopped partway through his demanding question when he saw my nasty grin. In my book, Bumgarner was due to pay the piper in one form or another. “See here, Mr. Tanner. I said I’d pay generously for your help, not foolishly.”
I tugged on my earlobe with my right hand to keep from punching this guy’s lights out. Nodding, I said, “Yes, you did, Mr. Bumgarner. But, then, you’ve already paid foolishly, haven’t you?” I turned and left the Hanover offices.
From Gil Tanner’s case notes: For those interested, Faye Jensen made it to LA. On the train trip there, so the story went, she ran into a talent agent who talked up a movie career to her. Once in the City of Angels, Faye used part of the two thousand dollars to hire the agent. He changed her name and got her bit parts in a few films. A studio mogul saw Jensen and started grooming the blonde as the “next Thelma Todd but with even more sexual allure.” Faye was on her way. That is until she declined the movie tycoon’s invitation for a visit to the casting couch before taking the lead in a major motion picture. As with many others reconciled to the same fate, fame and fortune eluded Faye. She spent the rest of her time in Tinsel town playing bit parts in totally forgettable films.
—————————
Tom Woodward is a retired Coast Guard Commander, having served twenty-six-plus years in a combined Navy and Coast Guard career. Upon retirement, he moved to the Atlanta, Georgia, area where he worked for over twenty years as a prosecutor, retiring from his position as a senior assistant district attorney. He has published two books. Loose Ends is a collection of short story mysteries interlaced with humor and romance. His novel, Shortening Shadows, is a murder mystery set in 1935 Atlanta. It weaves historical and fictional characters into a story exposing the seedy underbelly of the city’s criminal element while exploring the underlying racial tensions of the time. He now devoted his time to volunteer work and writing short stories.
