Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (12 page)

He accelerated the taxi as he circled the park and drove past the
Randolph home. Marjorie peered out the back window of the cab to
see Jameson and Creighton emerging from the front door. She had a
hunch that Robert might try to sneak away to see Murphy while she
was out of the house, thus the reason for the subterfuge. The only
thing she hadn’t anticipated was that Creighton would accompany
him. She was certain he would have remained with Vanessa to hash
over the more personal details of their relationship. What the nature
of that relationship was, she hadn’t a clue, but it was apparent from
the silence in the drawing room that their bond went beyond that of
mere friendship.

Had they been lovers some time long ago? Marjorie had intended
to ask that question the afternoon they had driven back from Dr.
Heller’s laboratory, but she found the notion of a romantic connection between Creighton and Vanessa so oddly unsettling, that she
decided she’d rather not know the answer. Even now, the thought
grated upon her.

However, she had no time to dwell on such matters. Right now,
there were bigger fish to fry. “Could you hurry it up, please?” she
urged the driver.

“Someone chasing you?”

“No,” she watched as the figures of the two men faded into the
distance, “at least, not yet.”

After several minutes, the taxi dropped her off at Columbia Road,
a few blocks away from her final destination. “Want I should stay
here and wait for you?”

Marjorie handed him the money for the fare and exited the cab.
“No thanks. I have some friends who will meet me here later.”

“Have it your way;” the cabbie shrugged again before driving off
down the road.

She took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, and proceeded
along the sidewalk in the direction of The Rusty Anchor Bar. Columbia Road was, as the driver described it, a less than savory neighborhood. Running parallel to the shore, the street afforded a view
of Massachusetts Bay and the various maritime industries that had
cropped up around it, shipyards, freight companies, and fisheries,
along with the unpleasant melange of the odors associated with
them.

Marjorie, trying hard not to inhale, hurried along until she
reached The Rusty Anchor. Waiting outside the door stood two
men of enormous stature. She smiled sweetly as she breezed past
them and into the building’s interior.

After a few seconds, during which her eyes acclimated themselves
to the dim lighting, she was able to discern certain details about her
surroundings. The Rusty Anchor was a rough-and-tumble establishment with sawdust on the floors and nautical prints lining the walls.
One could easily picture a tattooed seaman using the Anchor as a
hangout. Right now there were no seamen present, just two landlub bing patrons dressed in suits and ties. One was seated at a round table
near the back of the saloon, the other stood behind him protectively.

Marjorie made her way to the bar, behind which hung the tavern’s namesake. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as she hoisted
herself onto a stool.

“A Singapore sling,” she replied, recalling the name of an exotic
beverage Bette Davis had ordered in the picture she had seen last
week. The bartender nodded and then set about his work, leaving
Marjorie to wait in nervous silence.

She could feel the men watching her, but watching from a distance wasn’t enough. If the man seated at the table was Murphy, she
needed to do something to catch his attention. Pulling her skirt up
an inch or two, she crossed her legs and shot a come-hither glance
over her shoulder.

No sooner did she turn around than she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The bartender placed a glass filled with an unusual reddish concoction on the counter in front of her. “One Singapore sling for the lady.”

“Put it on Murph’s tab,” came a voice from behind her. It was
the man who had been standing guard at the back of the room.

“Thanks,” she said appreciatively.

“Don’t thank me, thank Murph,” he gestured toward the table
where, in the shadows, the second man sat.

Marjorie, drink in hand, slid down off her barstool and walked
over to Murphy’s table, while his friend stayed behind at the bar.
Murph was a slightly overweight, middle-aged man, with dark hair
and traditional Irish features. “Thanks for the drink,” she acknowledged.

“Pleasure’s mine.” He pushed a chair away from the table with
his foot. “Take a load off.”

Resisting the urge to first wipe off the seat, she sat down and
leaned an elbow on the shellacked wooden table.

“What’s your name, doll face?” he leered.

“Marjorie”

“Marjorie what?”

She struggled to think of the name of someone she knew, but
all she could remember was that of her pet cat. “Sam,” she blurted,
then quickly added, “son. Marjorie Samson. And yours?”

“Murphy. Just Murphy.”

“Just Murphy. That’s a strange first name-Just,” she quipped
in an effort to ease the tension.

Murphy cracked a smile. “I like my women sassy. Why haven’t I
seen you around here before?”

Marjorie took a long sip of her drink and found, quite happily,
that it was fizzy, cherry-flavored, and extremely smooth. “I’m from
out of town,” she replied coolly.

“Yeah, that so? Need someone to show you around?”

“I’m not much into sightseeing.” She raised a shapely eyebrow.
“If you know what I mean.”

“I hear ya.”

“Besides,” Marjorie continued, “this isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m helping a friend of mine make funeral arrangements for her old man.”

“Too bad,” he remarked.

“Not really. The guy was bad news.” She shook her head. “I
warned her about getting mixed up with that low-life Nussbaum.”

Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “You say Nussbaum?”

“Yeah, Alfred Nussbaum. You know him?”

“Maybe,” he answered evasively.

Marjorie winced ever so slightly at Murphy’s response. If Murphy was going to tell her anything about Nussbaum’s death, he had
to trust her. She took another sip of her drink and plotted her next
move. In her twenty-odd years, she had learned a great deal about
the opposite sex. One of the more important discoveries she had
made was that, no matter how resistible a man may be, when an attractive young woman tells him he’s irresistible, he’s bound to think
her the most truthful creature he has ever encountered. Adhering
to this theory, she reached over and placed her hand on his. “You’re
awfully cute, you know.”

He leaned in closer. “You ain’t too bad yourself, sister.”

“It’s surprising we haven’t gotten together sooner, considering
we both know the same people.”

“We do?”

“Mmm-hmm. The Nussbaums.”
“

I don’t remember saying I knew them,” he contended.

“You did. Indirectly.”

Murphy grinned. “Cute and sassy,” he noted aloud. “Yeah, I knew
Alfred Nussbaum. He and I did business together.” He gnashed his
teeth together. “The crumb owed me $5,000.”

Marjorie struggled to hide her surprise; for most people she
knew, $5,000 was the equivalent of five years’ salary. “Puts you in
a tight spot then, doesn’t it? With Nussbaum dead, you’ll never get
your money.

“When a chump owes you that much money, you know you ain’t
gonna get paid. You’re better off with him outta the way.”

“Oh,” she drew her hand back in fear.

Murphy put an arm around the back of her chair. “Settle down,
sweetheart. I’ve got no beef with you. Ain’t your fault your friend’s
husband was a deadbeat. Ain’t no need to go spoiling the beginning
of a beautiful friendship.”

Marjorie relaxed and put her hand back on his. “How true.”

“So, how long you known Nussbaum’s old lady?” he asked in a
conversational tone.

“Oh, Josie and I go way back,” she lied. “I remember-”

“Hold on a minute,” Murphy interrupted. “Who’s Josie?”

“Josie Nussbaum.”

“Tall, good-looking redhead? Helluva dancer?”

“Yes”

“Then you mean Josie Saporito,” he corrected.

“Josie Nussbaum now. She and Alfred got married a couple
months back.”

“You say married? I thought she was still hitched to Mateo
Saporito, the owner of the Svengali. You know, that club where she
dances.”

“Oh, she threw him over for Alfred,” Marjorie explained as though
she were an authority on Josie Nussbaum’s love life.

“Really?” Murphy pulled a face. “That’s strange. Mattie never
said nothing about Josie dumping him. I saw her at the club last
week, and she and Mattie still seemed pretty friendly. If you catch
my drift.”

“You know how fickle women can be,” she shrugged, keeping her
composure despite her excitement. Wait until Robert and Creighton
hear about this, she thought. Then it dawned on her: Robert and
Creighton. They would be here any minute. She couldn’t let them
blow her cover.

“You seem jumpy, doll face. Anything the matter?”

“Two cops have been on my tail since I came into town. They
think I might know something about Nussbaum’s murder. It could
spell trouble for you if they find me here,” she explained, trying to
make her leave.

Murphy was unfazed. “I can handle trouble.” He snapped his
fingers and the man from the bar approached the table. “Two cops
will be showing up here. Wait outside and keep a lookout. If they
ask for me, tell ‘em I’m not here,” he instructed. “That should get
rid of ‘em for now.”

The other man nodded. “How will I know ‘em?”

“One is average height, dark hair, looks like a young Douglas
Fairbanks,” Marjorie described. “The other’s tall, light brown hair,
well-dressed and has an accent. Southern. New Orleans, I think.”

“You heard the lady.” Murphy dispatched his lackey and then
turned his attention back to Marjorie. “Where were we?”

“I was just about to leave,” she answered in an attempt to escape
the bookie’s clutches.

“Not without giving me your phone number,” he stipulated.

“Of course,” Marjorie smiled demurely. “Got a pen?”

Murphy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a goldplated fountain pen.

The bookmaking racket must be very lucrative, Marjorie thought
as she took the pen and etched three characters onto her beverage napkin: 2L8. It was a trick she had learned to rid herself of unwanted suitors, and it usually worked, provided the would-be lover
did not read the number aloud immediately upon receipt. To avoid
this happening, she folded the napkin and slipped it into his pocket along with the pen. “I’d better go,” she excused herself as she rose
from her chair.

“How’s about we get together tonight?” Murphy asked. “I’ll call
you later.”

“I’ll be waiting;” Marjorie purred. Then, with a wink in the bookmaker’s direction, she picked her way between the tables and through
the door to the street.

Outside, she skipped past Murphy’s entourage with a friendly
wave goodbye and headed down the block, all the time her heart
racing. Hurry! Hurry! she urged herself. She had to get out of there
before he looked at that number. Keeping her eye out for a cab, she
turned the corner.

Suddenly, she felt an arm grab her by the waist and a hand clamp
over her mouth.

MARJORIE BEGAN FLAILING HER arms and kicking wildly, but the
man’s grip only tightened.

“Shh,” Creighton hushed. “It’s me.” He shoved her into the back
of the waiting police car and climbed in after her. As soon as he
slammed his door shut, Jameson, positioned behind the steering
wheel of the automobile, accelerated down the street, away from
The Rusty Anchor.

Marjorie, meanwhile, was incensed. “What do you think you’re
doing, scaring me like that? And how did you know I was here? I
left my car at Vanessa’s.”

Jameson glanced at Marjorie in his rearview mirror. “I didn’t
know at first, but when those two thugs wouldn’t let us in to see Murphy, it dawned on me that someone must have tipped them off.”

“Why did you assume it was me? Anyone could have told Murphy you were coming. I wouldn’t precisely call this a clandestine
operation. After all, you’re driving a marked car.”

“I can’t speak for Jameson,” Creighton spoke up, “but for me, the
alarm went up when those gentlemen advised me to give up police
work, return to my native New Orleans and take up cotton picking.”
He glared at the young woman next to him. “There’s only one person I know who’s crazy enough to try passing an Englishman off as
a Southerner.”

“Sorry,” she apologized, “but I had to do something.”

“You should be sorry. New Orleans,” he harrumphed. “They eat
things like opossum and squirrel down there, don’t they?”

“I’m not sure,” Marjorie faltered. “All I know is I didn’t want
you two barging in on Murphy and me after I had worked so hard
to win his trust.”

Jameson glared into the rearview mirror. “How exactly did you
win his trust?”

“Through the only means at my disposal: feminine wiles.”

Creighton burst out laughing.