Authors: Michael Murphy
I gave the office another once-over. Laura might not be telling me everything, but she hadn’t tossed Mickey’s files around. Whoever ransacked the place was no friend of Mickey’s. Desperate, and no doubt dangerous, they were in a hurry to find something. The key Mickey talked about with his dying breath?
Laura gently touched my arm. I’d missed the batting of her eyes. “You’re here because you’re going after Mickey’s killer, aren’t you?”
Her perfume reminded me of the countless times I held her close. Why had she agreed to marry Dalrymple after rejecting my proposals? Four times or was it five? “Any reason I shouldn’t?”
“Plenty.” She dropped her hand from my arm. “You’re not a detective anymore, and the city’s changed. You’re a mystery writer … from Florida.” A hint of resentment came through her voice. “And it’s been awhile since you—”
“Since I what?”
“Since you put your life on the line for something.”
Her words stung worse than getting shot in the leg, but she’d hit the bull’s-eye. I let out a sigh. “We need to talk.”
“We’ve nothing to talk about.” Avoiding my eyes, she yanked open a drawer in Mickey’s
desk. She pulled out a calendar of a red-lipstick blonde wearing only a pink silk sheet. She dropped it in the trash can beside the desk. “I’m … engaged.”
“You’re right.” Talking never did us much good anyway.
“Jake, don’t be angry with me.”
I couldn’t let her presence or my feelings interfere with what I came to do. I propped the cane against the desk and slid the ashtray closer. I snatched a pen from my pocket and dug through the ashes and cigarette butts.
Laura wrinkled her nose. “What are you looking for?”
“A key.”
“A key to what?”
“I haven’t a clue.” Sifting through the ashtray, I told her about Mickey’s last words. No key. I studied the contents as I poured the ashes into a trash can beside the desk. I set the heavy glass ashtray beside the phone. I brushed the ashes from my hands and tried to understand what I might’ve missed. “Damn.”
“Maybe whoever ransacked the office discovered the key. Cops?”
“Or Mickey’s killer.”
Laura shivered, reminding me she was a Broadway actress not another gumshoe.
“You shouldn’t have come here alone.”
“You’re sweet.”
I limped around the room, pushing aside papers with my cane. I scanned the folders and scattered files, looking for anything that would lead me to discover what Mickey had been working on. The gun cabinet in the closet lay open. “Whoever did this took Mickey’s guns.” Laura could be in danger just being near me. “Maybe you should go.”
“Maybe you should let me make my own decisions.” Headstrong as ever, Laura watched my every move.
Perhaps she’d taken the key, but I had no reason to believe she’d come searching for something Mickey might’ve been involved in. Suspecting Laura of anything secretive was silly. Wasn’t it? “Where’s the box?”
“Box? What box?”
“You said you came to box up Mickey’s personal items.”
Laura grabbed an empty box from the top shelf of the closet and set it on the desk. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing. I’m just being a detective.”
“You’re not doing a very good job of it.”
I didn’t need or want Laura’s help to find out who killed Mickey. Her presence brought back painful memories and distracted me from what I had to do. “Don’t you have a play to get
ready for?”
“I’m not expected at the theater for hours.” In the next drawer she removed the publicity photo of herself that had hung on the wall for so many years.
I glanced at the empty place on the wall next to the other three photos. Why had Mickey really stashed the photo in his desk?
Laura removed more personal items while I stepped back and studied the desktop like I had in the old days when I was a real detective. The notepad caught my eye. Something Dashiell Hammett taught me during my Pinkerton days came to mind.
With a pencil from the top desk drawer, I lightly rubbed the edge of the lead on the top sheet of the pad. Seconds later, white numbers began to appear through the gray lead.
“Magic.” Laura leaned closer to the paper. “Looks like a phone number.”
I nodded. The last note Mickey had written on the pad was a local phone number.
“Who did he call?”
One way to find out. I sat in Mickey’s chair, picked up the phone and dialed the number.
After two rings, a woman’s voice answered. “Peggy Greenwoody.”
I nearly dropped the phone. Criminal investigations often followed surprising twists. Mickey’s secret case apparently involved Oliver Greenwoody, the famous war hero. “Hello, Mrs. Greenwoody. This is Jake Donovan.” I scribbled her name on the blank notepad and pointed out the name to Laura who nodded. She knew the Greenwoodys?
“Mr. Donovan, what a pleasant surprise. The papers said you were shot. We were so worried.”
“My injuries were greatly exaggerated.” I wrote
How do you know the Greenwoodys?
on the pad.
Laura took the pencil and wrote
cast party
.
“Dorothy was frantic. She thought this might be the end for you and Blackie Doyle.”
“How is Dorothy?” I knew the question would pique Peggy’s interest.
“She’s enjoying New York. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”
Laura smirked and wrote
Dorothy’s ten years younger than you
.
I couldn’t help smiling. “I wanted to let Dorothy know I’ll be attending the last show of
Night Whispers
after all. I’ve even been invited to the cast party.”
“So have we!”
“Wonderful.”
“Dorothy will be so pleased.”
“Until then.” I wasn’t interested in Dorothy or her mother but the man Mickey had no doubt called, Oliver Greenwoody. I thanked her and hung up.
I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t recall meeting the Greenwoodys at previous cast
partys.”
“Things change in two years. Spencer likes to associate with powerful people—celebrities, politicians, war heroes. He introduced me to the Greenwoodys the night you were shot.” She sat on the edge of the desk, showing more leg than an engaged woman should. “How do you know them?”
“We shared coffee on the train. Dorothy thinks I’m really Blackie Doyle.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk next to her bare knee and tried to focus on the ashtray.
Smiling, Laura hopped off the desk. “Behind those big black glasses, Dorothy’s a real looker.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You noticed.” She resumed filling the box with personal items from the desk.
I thought back to Mickey’s final words—
the key … it’s … in the ashtray … in the ashtray
. I turned over the empty ashtray. Green felt covered the bottom to keep it from sliding on the wood desktop. With a letter opener, I removed the felt. A tarnished brass key fell out.
“The key was in the ashtray.” Laura leaned closer and laughed at the engraved number on the end of the key—B36. “Bingo.”
I rose from the desk and grabbed my cane. “I need to catch a cab. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I can take you. That’s my Packard out front.”
Laura had come a long way from our old neighborhood. She worked hard for what she’d accomplished and deserved Dalrymple’s money. He didn’t deserve her.
She carried the box to the door. “You need my help, or did you forget you’re recovering from a gunshot wound?”
Before she became a big-time actress, Laura often helped me with criminal investigations. She was good at it. Her acting came in handy, but she mostly worked two-bit cases. This case got me shot and Mickey killed.
I grabbed the cane, limped toward her, and snatched my hat from the coatrack.
She nodded toward the key in my hand and chuckled. “B36. Where are we going? A bingo parlor?”
“The bus station.”
I’d never ridden in a more luxurious automobile than Laura’s Packard. While she drove toward the bus station, I rubbed my throbbing leg. I reflected on what I’d learned and two questions I couldn’t answer. Was Mickey investigating one of the nation’s greatest heroes? Why had Mickey been killed?
A couple of blocks after we left, I glanced in the side mirror. A Model T I felt certain had
been parked across the street from Mickey’s office followed behind. By the time we reached the bus station, I knew we’d been followed, but I didn’t want to alarm Laura.
I climbed out and followed her to the front door then risked a quick glance back. The black car had parked across the street. I didn’t get a look at the driver. A cop following me, or someone more sinister?
The lockers along the far wall stood next to a shoe-shine stand. Laura had been in lots of bus stations, but her stylish clothes brought plenty of stares.
On a row of benches, waiting for a bus, a mother tried to control four hungry-looking children: a baby, two twin boys, and an older girl, all ten or younger.
Since the Depression spread, I struggled with guilt over my success. I learned to ignore the poverty all around. What could one person do?
I limped to the lockers. I just wanted to get what Mickey had hidden in the locker of the bus station then decide on the next move.
Laura tore her eyes from the family and followed me. She pointed to B36 on the second row from the bottom. I bent down, ignored a cry of protest from my throbbing leg, and inserted the key. I lifted the handle and the door swung open.
Laura’s face dropped. “It’s empty.”
The locker certainly appeared empty, but I’d taught Mickey plenty of tricks. I felt along the top of the locker and retrieved a single item, a thin manila envelope.
“Don’t gloat. It’s not becoming.” Laura helped me up.
I lifted the back of my suit coat and stuffed the envelope in the hip pocket of my trousers.
Laura followed me toward the door. “At least your detective skills have improved in the past hour since you thought you caught me trashing Mickey’s office.”
“Like riding a bicycle, my dear.”
As we passed the rows of chairs for departing passengers, Laura stopped behind the woman and her children. She took a deep breath, reached into her purse, and pulled out several bills. She held her palm to me. “You have any extra cash?”
I pulled out my wallet. “Define
extra
.”
“Booze and dames money.”
I chuckled. “I don’t spend dough on dames.”
“I only meant buying a woman dinner from time to time.” She cocked her head and grinned. “What did you think I meant?”
I opened my wallet and gave her half my cash, a twenty and a Lincoln.
She counted the money. “Ninety, darling.” She batted her eyes, rested her hand against my arm, and smiled.
I handed her a sawbuck. “A few bucks won’t make a difference in this depression.”
“It might to her and those kids.”
Laura sat beside the woman. Careful not to display the dough in front of the other passengers, she stuffed the bills into the woman’s hand.
The woman’s eyes widened and teared up. “Why would you do this?”
“Because I’ve been where you are.”
The woman squeezed Laura’s hand. “Must have been a long time ago.”
The ten-year-old girl peeked around her mother and stared at Laura. “Are you a princess?”
“No I’m not.” Laura hugged the girl. “You are, sweetie.”
Laura’s smile reminded me of the sweet innocence she had in high school. Her eyes glistened as we headed for the exit. Her generosity and compassion toward the little girl and her mother reminded me why I always thought she’d make a wonderful mother.
Outside, I got a good look at the man in the black Model T. Tall, wearing a gray suit, he leaned against the car reading the newspaper. Must be either a cop or someone working with Jimmy Vales.
As we drove away, the Model T followed. Who was this guy?
Laura checked her watch. “I need to get ready for the theater. Can I drop you somewhere? Like the train station back to Florida maybe?”
“The Diamond House.”
She peered at me over the top of her glasses. “A little early for booze, isn’t it?”
“Scotch has well-known medicinal properties.” I grabbed the envelope and opened it. Nearly two dozen newspaper clippings were inside. One name in the articles stopped me cold. “Giuseppe Zangara.”
“Isn’t that the guy in Miami who shot and killed the mayor of Chicago a few months ago?” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Jake, what’s wrong?”
Mickey had been in over his head. Hell, I’d have been in over my head. “A lot of people think his real target was Roosevelt, who was delivering a speech at the time.”
“What do you think?”
“I think Mickey was investigating the attempted assassination of Roosevelt.”
“Assassination? Even more reason to walk away from this.” Laura gripped the wheel and gritted her teeth. We drove several blocks in silence.
I unlocked the handle of the cane and removed the dagger.
Laura managed a smile. “I’m guessing Gino gave you that.”
I rolled each article tightly and slipped the cylinders inside the hollow cane. A blank sheet from a notepad sat behind the last of the articles. I stuffed the paper into my suit coat pocket.
While Laura drove through the busy mid-morning traffic, I kept an eye on our tail. “What do you know about Oliver Greenwoody?”
“He’s a war hero.” She smiled. “Like you.”
“I wasn’t a hero.”
“You were mine.”
The minute the words left her mouth, her face showed regret at talking about her past feelings for me. Our arrival at The Diamond House saved her further embarrassment. “You should leave the investigation of an assassination attempt to the cops or the feds.”
The Model T parked halfway down the block.
“I can’t do that.”
“I had to try.”
Why was she trying to get me to return to Florida? I thought she understood why I wanted to find Mickey’s killer. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
For a moment, I thought she might level with me. The moment vanished with a smile.
“A lady always keeps some secrets from a gentleman.” She shifted gears and waved as she drove off.
Her words sounded like a line in one of her plays. I limped toward the front door of The Diamond House. Would the man in the Model T follow me inside or wait in his car? He pulled away from the curb, and a cold chill shot up my spine. He sped past without giving me a glance. He hadn’t been following me. He was following Laura.