The acquisition of friends never seemed to come easily for me. Good friends, I mean. My brother Marty always said it was owing to my personality. From my perspective, the blame lay on the racket I was in. My craft is that of private detective, and I don’t play at it. Regardless, I guess I’m not a lovable character.
Over time, my chosen profession caused me to lose faith in my fellow man. For example, people toss the word “friend” around too quickly. A genuine friend is somebody you can call for help at two in the morning. That person won’t remind you what time it is, ask you to ring back later, or hang up on you outright. They’ll be there for you, for whatever reason. Such a creature is extremely hard to find.
…people toss the word “friend” around too quickly.
Nonetheless, during my work as a private investigator, I developed a number of contacts I’d label as “associates.” I found these folks in hotels, rooming houses, restaurants, soup kitchens, gyms, pool halls, barrooms, night spots, flophouses, can houses, and opium and juju dens. Except for the last three “establishments” on that list, many reliable people frequented most of these places. And most of them will part with information. Much of the time, they required hard cash in exchange for the dope. And the reliability of the info was on a sliding scale, depending on the amount of cabbage involved. But it was there for a seeker with the dough. These acquaintances frequently came in handy. One such investigation comes to mind.
* * *
The year was 1931. The world continued to bounce gingerly along history’s highway, potholes and all. Horrific memories of the blood and mud of “The Great War” still haunted a generation. With the U. S. unemployment rate hovering around twenty percent and climbing, the Depression, now in its second full year, was killing folks, figuratively and literally. Many were looking for a change in Washington that could get a handle on our financial doldrums.
Despite the fiscal downturn, they completed construction of the Empire State Building in May. The “Race to the Sky,” as the dailies had termed it, between Walter P. Chrysler with his Chrysler Building and John J. Raskob with the Empire State erection, had finally ended. Ended, that is, between those two and for the time being. Much speculation surrounded the ability to fill the massive new office edifice in the then-current economic climate. A local wag suggested using it to house some of the thousands who’d lost their homes and farms to the Depression.
In March, President Hoover had signed a congressional resolution, making The Star-Spangled Banner our national anthem. In late June-early July, Wiley Post and the Australian navigator Harold Gatty made the first around-the-world flight in a single-engine airplane named the Winnie Mae. Their time of eight days, fifteen hours, and fifty-one minutes shattered the record set by the Graf Zeppelin the year before.
On a personal note, and much to the relief of most of the population, the authorities had formed The National Committee for Modification of the Volstead Act in January. The group was to work for the repeal of Prohibition. Not everyone followed the constraints of the Act, but its nullification was well overdue. In Chicago, Al Capone was facing a court battle over his alleged income tax evasion and for several thousand violations of the National Prohibition Act.
Regarding the baseball front, my Cincinnati Reds had stumbled out of the gate, losing twelve of their first thirteen games and falling into last place in the league. The current season wasn’t looking any better than the one before. Meanwhile, the Cardinals, my buddy Harry’s favorite team, were tearing up the diamond yet again. A bright spot for me in the sporting world was the chunk of dough I’d won on Twenty Grand in the Kentucky Derby in May. The stallion had set a new Derby record in bringing me a bit of much-needed cash.
* * *
Tuesday, the 28th
On to the tale at hand. One July morning, word came that Murray Hertz, a bail bondsman friend, wanted to see me at his office. When he couldn’t find me at my normal place of business, Murray often tracked me to my office annex, known to most as Harry’s Paradise Tavern. I figured business was pretty brisk for the man. As with many major metropolitan areas, our city was having a run of relatively minor lawlessness, owing to the hard-economic times. The illicit activity kept the city’s various bondsmen and the local law busy.
When he couldn’t find me at my normal place of business, Murray often tracked me to my office annex, known to most as Harry’s Paradise Tavern.
The Hertz Bail Bond Company was “conveniently located,” as Murray’s advertisements touted, “in the Kenworthy Building on Market Street only three short blocks from city jail and the courthouse.” What his ads didn’t tell potential clients was it was in the third-floor, walk-up offices in the old Kenworthy Building. Old, as in the structure was bereft of elevators.
* * *
Dora Kotler, Murray’s secretary, tossed me a sweet smile when I entered the outer office. On her side of the short wooden railing separating her from the customers, she cordially checked people in and answered the telephones. A motley, anxious-looking group of individuals waiting for the bondsman to grant a favor for a loved-one, a relative, or an employee filled the public part of the room. Because no seats were available, I moved to stand by a large half-moon window overlooking the intersection of New Castle Avenue and Market Street while I waited. The midday traffic was building, and the saps behind the wheels were turning the crossroads into what folks nowadays were calling a parking lot.
From time to time, I’d get a slant at the lovely Miss Kotler. Rumor had it she’d set her cap for Marty when he’d returned to the city. They ran around together for a while until he met Donna. Now, she was the center of my brother’s universe. Dora still appeared to carry a torch for the big lug. Some guys have all the luck with skirts. Undeniably, every one of my ex-twists carried a torch for me, too. Of course, they also carry pitchforks, if you get my drift.
Miss Kotler finally rung off the telephone call she’d been on when I’d come in. She lifted the earpiece from a communication contraption on her desk, flipped a switch, and, in an instant, was talking to Murray in his office. She threw me a big smile and told me her boss could see me now. Yeah, I thought, I needed to hire a secretary and move my operation into the twentieth century.
When I ambled to Hertz’s door, it opened and my pal ushered a distraught woman out. “You need not worry about a thing, Melba. It’ll be fine.” Murray rocked his head grimly as she walked away. His face lit up when he saw me. He closed the door behind us, and we shook hands. “It was swell of you to come, Gil. I appreciate it.”
Taking a seat, I said, “I’ll be glad to help you if I can.” I jerked my head toward the departed woman and joked, “Looks as though you can’t please everybody who comes to see you, Murray.”
As he walked around his desk, the bondsman glanced at the door before returning his eyes to me. “Oh, old lady Beverly isn’t sore at me. I’m giving her the bond she wanted. She’s just upset the coppers caught her little ‘angel,’ Johnny, driving someone else’s crate without permission.” Hertz waggled his noggin again. “Not the first time, either.” He broke into a wide grin as he added, “She shoulda named the ganef ‘Jimmy,’ as in ‘pry open to steal.’” He leaned back in his chair and exhaled audibly. After offering me a fag, which I waved off, he fired up. I preferred my brand of gaspers, Chesterfields. I lit one. “Anyway,” he went on, as he fanned out the match and tossed in an ashtray, “I asked you to come here because I’m swamped. I need you to do a bit of business for me.”
Dropping my lid on the man’s enormous desk, I told him, “I appreciate any work you can throw my way.”
He leaned across the desk toward me. “I think I’ve mentioned my brother Abe, who’s in the same trade as me in Chicago.” I nodded as he continued, “Well, he bailed a mug out of jail there. Now the meshuggener’s on the lam. Name’s Rawles. Goes by the moniker ‘Spider.’ He’s gangly, has long arms and legs. Word is our fair city was his destination. If Rawles is here, he’s probably been here several weeks. I’ll pay you to find him so I can get him back to The Windy City. Oh, his first name’s Marion.”
“Well, Abe bailed a mug out of jail there. Now the meshuggener’s on the lam.”
“No wonder,” I chuckled, “he goes by Spider. Got a description for me?”
“Better than that,” the bondman assured me, opening a folder. “Abe airmailed me a photograph from the police files there.” He skimmed a snap to me. “His details are on the back.”
I picked it up and saw a smug, swarthy-looking fella with a thin mustache. A somewhat floppy fedora sat cocked jauntily on his head. He may have been trying to imitate William Powell with the lip hair, but his effort lacked the actor’s sophistication. On the reverse of the picture was a physical description–hair and eye colors, height, and weight. “What’s his racket? Anything heavy? Murder? Armed robbery?”
“Nah, he doesn’t have a record of any serious offenses, such as those. According to my brother, he’s a petty grifter, yegg, and a bunco artist of sorts, who worked independently of the mobs in Chicago. Apparently, since he was small time, it was copacetic with them as long as he didn’t step on their toes. Unfortunately for him, he tried his hand at a soup job to open a box in a dive no one was aware the Italian rackets ran.”
“What did he steal?”
“That’s just it. Abe’s understanding is he didn’t take a thing. Something in the safe’s contents told Spider right away the horrible mistake he’d made. But the explosion attracted the unwanted attention of the law to the mob’s establishment. With Capone already on center stage pending a trial, the outfit was furious with the thief. Even though he backed off the caper empty-handed, Rawles suddenly had the feeling Chicago was too hot for him. He got lucky and dusted before the mob made him pay for his, shall we say, indiscrete behavior by roughing him up or worse. Word is, he decided to lie low here while he figured out what to do, where to go next. Oh, and as far as we can tell, he worked alone.”
It always pained me to ask a question which might divert work in another direction, but I did it anyway. “Why not let the local fugitive squad handle it? Just turn it over to them.”
“You may not have heard, but Dan Dugan is heading up the squad now.”
“Oh, jeez.” Dan “Iron Balls” Dugan was an older plainclothes bull on the verge of retirement. The story handed down was the flatfoot had started out as a solid, no-nonsense cop. After putting in time on the force, he’d made detective. Then he changed for the worse in many respects. He’d long since earned a reputation as a goon with a badge who’d just as soon beat the hell out of a suspect as eat when he was hungry. I guess Dan was our city’s answer to Johnny Broderick of New York City. Iron Balls Dugan was tougher than a nickel steak.
Dan “Iron Balls” Dugan was an older plainclothes bull on the verge of retirement.
Still, other than his penchant for violence among the criminal element, folks considered him a reliable, tough lawman. But not one you wanted to arrest you. I understand enforcing the law, and that includes taking a few smart, off-the-record steps occasionally to get at the truth. But, in my book, the ruthless, unnecessary rough stuff wasn’t part of police work. Yeah, he had been a good sleuth. Leading the fugitive squad was our city law enforcement’s last stop for a soon-to-be-retired investigator. The officer would be safe behind a desk, polishing his chair with his ass, drinking coffee, and counting the days until he bailed. In any event, nothing ever really got done in the squad under a mug like Dugan.
“So, you get my quandary?”
“Yeah. Are you aware of any other aliases Spider’s used?” My pal shook his head. Another thought grabbed me. “Say, is the mob chasing this Spider guy? I don’t want to be in a footrace with a hatchet man who may start throwing lead at any minute.”
“Nah. Well, the word is the Chicago outfit figured Rawles leaving town was good enough. Again, he was lucky.”
“Yeah. He’s due some bad luck. You figure he knows the mob’s not looking for him?”
Murray snickered, “No. Abe says he left the city in too big a hurry to catch any idea of their true intentions. But he heard the yegg thinks there’s a contract out on him. Plus, you understand how it is when you’re caught red-handed doing something wrong. You think your entire world turns into a fishbowl and everybody’s watching you. Makes you kind of paranoid. So, he’s probably moving around looking over his shoulder.”
“I wouldn’t know, Murray,” I laughed. He just smiled and waggled his head in disbelief. “Say, Abe seems to have a pretty good inside scoop on the workings of the Chicago outfit.”
“Well, he’s a shrewd businessman. Let’s face it. If you’re going to be a successful bail bondsman in Chicago, you have to do business with the mob. They know him, and he knows them. And they trust him. He hears a lot of things.” The bondsman hesitated, then added, “I’ll pay you your usual rate, plus any reasonable expenses you may incur. I say ‘reasonable’ because I’m sure you’ll need to spread a little dough around to pick up information. But listen, Gil, I don’t care to support the burg’s sordid population for the next month.”
I nodded my understanding. “And just so you’re aware, my brother is throwing in a tidy sum as a bonus for Rawles’s apprehension and return. This should get you started,” Murray offered, sliding a check to me. Then he paused, shot me a hard look, and heaved another sigh. “As I said, this jerk doesn’t have a reputation for rough stuff or gunplay, but he might feel cornered now. His mindset could have changed. Just be careful. I have enough guilt on my head from my Jewish upbringing. I don’t need you getting hurt or worse to add to it.”
“As I said, this jerk doesn’t have a reputation for rough stuff or gunplay, but he might feel cornered now.”
“Thanks for the thought, Murray,” I chortled. “I’ve already considered the possibility of Rawles’s new outlook on life.”
I don’t mind taking calculated risks for money. That’s part of the territory my racket encompasses. Folding the retainer check and slipping it into a coat pocket, I promised, “I’ll keep you informed if I learn something. But your hiring me has to stay strictly between us if I’m going to locate Rawles.” The bail bondsman nodded.
As I passed through the outer office, Dora stopped me. I knew what was coming. It was the same thing every time she saw me. “How’s Marty, Gil?” she asked softly. When I told her he was jake, she sweetly requested I give him her best. My guess was he’d already had that, but I said I would.
* * *
The day was still young yet. After checking my agency for any signs of life and finding none, I hit the bricks, looking for my mob contacts. Two gangs–the Italians on the north and The League on the south side–controlled virtually every criminal element in our asphalt jungle. I reckoned Rawles was smart enough not to snuggle up to either of them. He’d be taking too much of a chance they’d turn him back over to the Chicago mobsters for a marker they could call in later.
But, out of an abundance of caution, I figured to eliminate the possibility he was a boob after all. It meant face-to-face conversations. This wasn’t a situation where I could just put the word out on the street. A long afternoon of pounding the pavement and questioning suspicious hoodlums brought nothing but goose eggs. Efforts with members of both racketeer organizations proved to be dead ends. Nobody connected with them had any dope on my chinch.
Back in my office, I made a quick call to my contact in the city’s detective division, Rob Waddell. The copper hadn’t heard of Rawles or of anyone using the nickname Spider. In addition, no one fitting Spider’s description had come to his attention. My gumshoe pal didn’t ask questions. We’d been friends too long for any such awkwardness.
By this time, the day was shot. On to Plan B tomorrow.
* * *
Wednesday, July 29th
Early the next morning, after breakfast at The Wayside Café, a hash house down the street from my apartment building, I set my second method of attack into motion.
My first step was a visit to a lowlife snitch of mine, known as The Crawler. He spent most of his time gowed up on one illicit substance or another. I found him where I’d expected: lying outside a south side dive haunted by mesca merchants and their customers. When I explained I was looking for someone on the lam, my informant expressed his desire to help–for a price. I gave the crumb a little money with a promise of more if he learned something definite concerning Spider Rawles. The Crawler peered at me with glazed eyes. It led me to believe I may not have gotten through to his drug-addled brain when I stressed the need to make his inquiries on the q. t. He promised to check the opium dens and the other muggles houses he frequented. All I could do was try.
I found him where I’d expected: lying outside a south side dive haunted by mesca merchants and their customers.
Later, driving to a flophouse patronized by another informant of mine, I caught sight of him standing outside his regular soup kitchen downtown. I eased my crate to the curb, slid out from under the wheel, and made my way back to him.
“Digger Murphy,” as folks referred to him, was always good for the buzz on the streets. His was a different angle on such criminal newsflashes from that of The Crawler. Murphy and I had become acquainted during a case I’d worked on two years earlier. A story for another time. He was one of the more amiable characters in my orbit.
We spoke briefly in hushed tones. Unfortunately, the man knew nothing relating to Rawles. But a five-spot brought a promise he’d keep his ear to the ground and contact me if he heard anything about the fugitive or where he might be hiding.
* * *
The second part of Plan B was to make the rounds of the city’s seedier hostels, assuming two things. My first supposition was Rawles didn’t have the cash to plunk down on the rental for a house or an apartment. My other notion was the man couldn’t afford or want to spend the money on one of our classier lodging establishments. Experience had shown folks on the run rarely have cabbage to burn. So, although the muggings had occurred across the city, the hotels he’d likely be holed up in were in a several-square-block area on the southeast side of our municipality. These were cheaper and would keep him near the Union Station and the main bus terminal in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat out of town.
Right or wrong in my suppositions, I set out to find Spider Rawls. The first two stops on this “tour” brought no results. But, with a fin in the hands of those reliable “associates” I mentioned earlier, I received promises to keep an eye out for my target.
My third destination was productive, though I didn’t realize it right away. At The Coach and Six Hotel, more commonly referred to around town as the “Cockroach and Six,” a desk clerk named Emmett Yates let me have a glom at the registry. Now, joints such as The Coach weren’t particularly meticulous in their record keeping. And I wouldn’t expect Rawles to use his proper name, but it was worth a look. In scanning the guest book, I had to take into consideration the fact the place was a rendezvous point for nefarious characters and lovers on the cheap.
Yates, worried I might leave with no dough-re-me creasing his palm, hovered as I ran my finger up the pages of guests’ names for the previous fourteen days. Other than several obviously phony monikers and a few folks who couldn’t even spell their supposed home state’s name, nothing on the registry jumped out at me. One entry in the book, however, kept tickling the back of my brain. It didn’t register at first, no pun intended.
…I ran my finger up the pages of guests’ names for the previous fourteen days.
The clerk didn’t think he recognized the photo of Rawles, but promised to watch out for the fugitive. I laid a fin on him and started for the next location on my list.
A half a block from The Coach’s front door, the nickel dropped. I suddenly recalled where I’d previously read a name on their registration book. Two weeks earlier, a local rag reported the armed robbery of a Fred Marshall, a greengrocer, as he made his way home from his store. I couldn’t recall the details of the incident, but the account had caught my eye because Marshall’s Market was near my office building. I passed it nearly every day. However, the man’s name and the grocery’s owner hadn’t connected with me right away. His wasn’t the rarest of names, so I had to check it out.
I made a side trip to the Carnegie Library to research the newspapers for the past two weeks. In the reading room, I pored over a broadsheet from fifteen days earlier. On page three, I found the brief article I’d was looking for. The news piece stated a masked bandit held up the local grocer in an alley near his market the night before. Police said the victim told them the culprit robbed him of his wallet, identification papers, and some cash.
The Fred Marshall I knew was well into his sixties and married to sweet little old Edna, who helped in the place on occasion. So, the idea of a local merchant, if it were our grocer, shacking up in the dump such as The Coach, for whatever reason, just didn’t sound kosher to me. By this time, the afternoon had edged into evening. The store would be closed before I could get there. I planned a stop by the grocery first thing in the morning. After a quick bite at Mama Cappacino’s restaurant, I toddled back to my apartment and drank myself to sleep.
* * *
Thursday, July 30th
Early the next morning, I caught Mr. Marshall as he was opening his store. He confirmed he’d been nowhere near The Coach and Six on the date in question or at any other time. It upset the elderly man that there might even be a suggestion of his presence at the hotel. I tried to calm him by saying I was helping the management find someone who’d left something behind and a name similar to his had been entered in the guest book. Fred seemed satisfied with my explanation.
Initially, the victim was unable to tell me anything concerning the holdup other than what had been in the papers. The robber, wearing a bandana over his face and a hat pulled low, appeared out of Kenny’s Alley with what looked to be a handgun in a coat pocket. The grocer maintained, while he never saw a gun, the thief held a hand in the pocket as if he had one and he said he’d use it. Considering the heat wave we’d been suffering through, Fred stated he thought the mugger’s coat was odd but was in no position to ask questions.
Under the circumstances facing him, Marshall explained he couldn’t fight the thug who dragged him into the black mouth of the back street and robbed him. When he mentioned the person was shorter than him, my ears perked up. That hadn’t been in the newspaper account of the incident. The store owner was a wiry, austere old man, just under six feet tall. The information given me by Hertz listed Spider’s height at a couple of inches over six feet. Then I recalled the alley dipped downward from its edges toward the center where storm drains were located. Maybe the victim had been standing on a higher section of the backstreet, which made the holdup artist seem smaller.
Under the circumstances facing him, Marshall explained he couldn’t fight the thug who dragged him into the black mouth of the back street and robbed him.
Before I departed, I bought a small bag of apples as thanks for his time. They’d probably sit in my LaSalle for a bit, but I’d get around to eating a few of them on a stakeout.
Perhaps the heist and Marshall’s name showing up in the registry the next day was just a weird coincidence. But, then, they are always peculiar–that’s why they’re coincidences. I don’t like them much. A screwy notion was spinning in the back of my mind. I decided to play a hunch. But my first destination was the Cockroach and Six. I knew Emmett wasn’t the only lug who worked the front desk, and I was curious to have him examine Rawles’s snapshot again. Then, I’d run the photo past anyone else who manned the registration book.
* * *
At the Coach and Six, Yates was still behind the counter. Again, the fugitive’s photograph didn’t ring any bells with the man. He finally admitted he’d been in jail around the fourteenth of the month when this “Fred Marshall” checked in and the eighteenth when he departed the hotel. Emmett related he’d gone on a bender, gotten into a fight in a gin mill, and spent several nights as a guest of the city. When I asked about the others who worked at the registration desk, the clerk told me, owing to the tightfistedness of the joint’s owners, there was only one other guy hired to handle the job. He’d left the city for the West coast a few days earlier and wasn’t coming back. It was a setback to my hunch, but not a dead end. I thanked Yates and set off to see a friend.
* * *
Detective Rob Waddell was just returning to the headquarters building as I arrived. When I told him I needed to speak with him, he invited me to his office. As the lanky copper settled behind his desk, we lighted gaspers and chinned for a few minutes. Following a pause, Rob inquired why I wanted to see him.
“I’m working a bond-skip case for Murray Hertz. It’s that Spider Rawles fella I called you about several days ago. He’s a small-time grifter on the lam out of Chicago. Murray thinks the hooligan’s in the city. It’s too soon to tell, but something’s come up, which may lead me to the slug.”
“Isn’t this something the department should handle?”
“No, I don’t think so. Not yet, anyhow. First, he may not even be here. Second, he’s small potatoes compared to what Dugan’s squad is usually running down.
Waddell’s eyebrows furrowed at the sound of his fellow flatfoot’s name. My pal was a tough cop, but he was a more by-the-book gumshoe than Iron Balls. I reckoned the bull didn’t approve of the man’s approach. After a long drag on his cigarette, Rob let the smoke trickle out of his nostrils while knocking ash off the end of his fag. “And I can help how?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve got the nugget of an idea stuck in my head. It may or may not be something worthwhile. I want to look at a department case file.” When the he said nothing, I continued, “It was a theft two weeks ago. The victim’s name was Marshall. Fred Marshall.”
“Yeah, I recall it. The old man who owns the market up on Washington Boulevard, right? A punk pulled him into Kenny’s Alley and robbed him one night. Not much to go on. They haven’t pinched anybody for it yet, as far as I know.” He rubbed his stubbled chin in thought for a long minute, eyeing me. Then he ground out his cigarette and rose. “I’ll be right back.” I liked that about Rob. He trusted me enough not to ask too many questions. He knew I operated on the up-and-up. Most of the time, anyway. And he understood that, if I came across any info that could help the department, I’d turn it over to him. Depending on the circumstances. A few minutes later, Waddell returned and dropped a file in my lap. “So, what are you looking for, Gil?”
He rubbed his stubbled chin in thought for a long minute, eyeing me. Then he ground out his cigarette and rose.
“To be honest, I’m not exactly sure. It’s just an idea. Gimme a minute.” My friend lit another coffin nail and waited. The report on the case was pretty basic. A masked culprit, “probably” with a handgun, accosted the old-timer and demanded his wallet. Of note, the victim told the cops the thief looked through the billfold before running off with it. It was a fact that meshed with my theory. I laid the file on Waddell’s desk. “Thanks, Rob.”
“Any help?”
“I think so. Possibly,” I shrugged. “How much trouble would it be for me to see the files on any similar stickups since the greengrocers?” I could tell the question set his teeth on edge. So, before he could respond, I offered, “I’m searching for unsolved street robberies by a masked hoodlum involving individual victims. And, if I’m right, it may crack a few open cases you guys are sitting on. I can go through them myself to weed out the ones which don’t fit the modus operandi I’m looking for. I just want to take notes on any matching the Marshall case.”
“Well,” the detective divulged, leaning across his desk, “fortunately for you, I don’t think there’ve been that many in the last two weeks. You can use my office to sort through them. I’ve got to meet with the captain, anyway. I’ll get a uniform to round the files up for you. You and me need to have another little chat before you leave. And, Gil, this had better not be a wild goose chase.”
“I’m gonna follow up on a hunch, ‘cause that’s all I have. Give me a couple of days. I may have something for you, Rob.”
An hour later, I’d completed my research and had that “little chat” with Waddell. My pal “officially” reminded me I wasn’t to get involved with open police investigations. As he figured, I nodded my understanding. Also, he expected I’d go around doing the job I was being paid to do.
In my hand, as I left the department, was the info I hoped could resolve my search and possibly a few of the department’s unsolved heists. There were only two cases since the Marshall holdup that fit my thesis. The names I would pursue on the guest registrations were Daniel Fielder and Joseph Dorce. Someone had robbed the guys on the nights of the seventeenth and the twenty-second of the month. If my hunch was right, I’d find their handles in the registries on the next respective days. Dorce was the more recent of the two victims, so he was my primary quest. However, he was a traveling salesman for a lady’s garment manufacturer, according to the newspaper account of the mugging. That complicated things. He was likely to have stayed at a hotel in the city, though presumably not one of the dives on my schedule.
As I ambled to my LaSalle, I set my mind on starting back at the top of my list of seedier places. If my theory proved correct, I figured to find a pattern leading to my target.
Now don’t get the idea our metropolis consisted only of run-down joints, but, as with any large city, we had high-class, middle-grade, and fleabag guesthouses.
* * *
Breakfast hadn’t been on my schedule that morning. And my body was starting to complain. I rarely bite an egg on an empty stomach, but there wasn’t time for a stop by Harry’s and for something to eat. After grabbing a quick hamburger sandwich platter at the Wayside Café, I stopped by my agency to make a telephone call before I started canvassing. A lot of PI work is a game of imperfect information. Learning where Dorce had made his stopover could help perfect my pursuit. A little detective effort produced the phone number for the salesman’s regional headquarters.
I rarely bite an egg on an empty stomach, but there wasn’t time for a stop by Harry’s and for something to eat.
The long-distance operator eventually connected me to their district office. A woman who answered at the other end checked and told me their employee had stayed at the Sumner Arms Inn. The hotel was more respectable and expensive than where I expected to find Spider Rawles. As I was hanging up, she added Joseph was still in our city. When I expressed surprise he’d been here a week, she explained he’d encountered some sort of car trouble and was waiting for a repair. I thanked her and rang off.
Because the Sumner Arms was only a half dozen blocks from my office, I resolved to stop and interview the man. Perhaps he, like Mr. Marshall, could give me something he’d forgotten to tell the law or the newspapers. I was seeking any bulge I could get on Rawles, especially if he’s suddenly decided to carry a rod.
* * *
At the Sumner Arms, I asked to see Joseph Dorce. The clerk checked the numbered pigeonholes behind the desk and advised me his room key was there. He wasn’t in. When I muttered he was probably looking into the status of his car repair, the fellow shot me an odd glance. I let it drift. Bigger issues were on my mind.
* * *
My next stop was the Hotel Capitol, where I’d started my search the day before. A different desk clerk was on duty than had been there during my earlier visit. He was unknown to me. When I asked to take a gander at the registry, he refused and turned into a ceremonious little jerk. I offered him five bucks for the privilege. “We consider our guests’ privacy a very serious matter here, sir,” he assured me with an attempt at haughtiness. When he realized he hadn’t pulled it off, he finished, “So, take some air, bub.”
I surveyed the worse-for-wear lobby and chuckled. “Yeah, I can see where the high-class clientele you attract here might want their confidentiality protected.” My “associate,” who’d assisted me before, wasn’t in sight. “Is Joel Woodard around?”
“What’s it to you, mister?”
“It was just a question, buster. Look, you don’t have to get sore. I’m only trying to do a job. Joel’s a pal who helped me yesterday. I figured you might be in the market for a little easy cash, too.” Pulling a fiver out of a pocket, I waved it in his face.
His beady eyes followed the bill as he shifted from one foot to the other. At the sight of the dough, his demeanor changed. “Five bucks, huh? And you only need to look at the guest book?” I nodded. “Don’t want no trouble, mister.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He snatched the fin and slid the registration book across the counter. I leaned over the desk on the flat of my hands, studying the entries. “You know, your tough-guy manner gets old pretty quick,” I said without looking at him. “Besides, I don’t think you can back it up.” I straightened and smiled. “Your attitude cost you five bucks. I gave Woodard a sawbuck,” I lied. Grinning at his flustered face, I turned and left.
My theory was sounding like a safe bet. Someone had checked into the Capitol the day after they robbed Fielder. The visitors had registered as “Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Fielder.” As I said, these joints weren’t particular when it came to their record keeping. They likely didn’t notice whether there was a “Mrs. Fielder.” And sure as hell, they couldn’t care less. So, unless Spider had picked up a moll along the way, he was still flying solo. Rawles had left the Hotel Capitol on the twenty-third.
Two stops later, I hit pay dirt again. A party had checked into the Pontchartrain Hotel under the tag of “Mr. Dorce and wife” the day following his robbery. Unfortunately, he’d departed earlier that morning, according to the desk clerk. Luckily, the man recognized the snap of Marion Rawles as the lug calling himself Joseph Dorce. It meant, if my suspicion held water, Spider had robbed someone last night and had a new name to register somewhere. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. But I hadn’t seen anything in the early editions concerning a recent stickup.
Two stops later, I hit pay dirt again.
Before leaving the Pontchartrain, I used the front desk telephone to call Detective Waddell. He wasn’t in the office. I don’t favor wasting a minute when I’m on somebody’s trail. My philosophy on that count is, “If you’re gonna kill time, work it to death.” I returned to the Sumner Arms Inn for another try at contacting the traveling salesman.
* * *
The same registration clerk at the Sumner Arms was ringing Dorce’s room when something behind me caught his eye. He cradled the receiver and gave me a wry smile. “That’s Mr. Dorce coming in now, Mr. Tanner.”
I turned in time to see a middle-aged man, apparently in his cups even at this relatively early hour, staggering through the hotel’s revolving door. His trilby hat was carelessly pushed back on his head, giving the hint of a widow’s peak. What I imagined was his “car trouble” was hanging all over him. She was a redheaded speedster with a solid chassis, great lines, and fantastic “headlamps.” The dame was as inebriated as Dorce. They were engrossed in each other. As I started toward the couple, the clerk called over my shoulder, “Maybe that’s his mechanic with him now.” I passed on responding to the smart-aleck remark and intercepted them as they staggered across the lobby. They reeked of gin. Some speak in town had already broken even for the day.
“Mr. Joseph Dorce?” He nodded vaguely. “My name’s Tanner. I’m a detective looking into the mugging of you on the twenty-second,” I related, hedging the truth slightly. As I’d hoped, he was too stinko to ask for credentials. But he’d be sober enough, with a little help from the adjoining coffee shop, to answer a few questions. The redhead could barely keep her eyes open. She was attractive in a tawdry sort of way. “Let me buy you and the little lady a cup of joe and a sinker at the eatery next door.”
He glanced at his companion. My guess is he decided she’d gone too far over the edge with the rams to give him any action at the moment, even if he could hold up his end. His watery eyes drifted back to me. “Sure, pally,” he responded, flailing his free arm toward the front door. “But call me Joe.” As we walked, Dorce garbled good-time Charlie palaver. Like many a politician and salesman, he’d probably bought a joke book at the five-and-dime and set off on a career of glad-handing everybody he met.
Installed in a booth in the coffee shop a short time later, Dorce maintained his arm around the skirt and snuggled with her while I ordered for us. Her cheek leaned against his shoulder as she tried to look coquettishly up into his face. The effort was an alcohol-soaked failure. Our waitress glanced at the redhead, then glowered at Joe and me when she brought our coffees and sinkers. She grunted disapprovingly and moved away. A member of the temperance movement, no doubt.
Her cheek leaned against his shoulder as she tried to look coquettishly up into his face. The effort was an alcohol-soaked failure.
Dorce’s companion loudly slurped her way through a couple of cups of coffee before he released his hold on her. The doll slumped sloppily against the stall’s back corner. A few seconds later, she was snoring to beat the band, her mouth slung open. Joe ogled her with bleary, ruttish eyes. “Melba may not seem like much just now, but she will party, brother. She can raise some hell, I tell ya,” he slurred, rubbing one of her thighs. A brief, booming snort, followed by even louder grunting, answered his fumbling caress.
Sliding his refilled cup closer to the man, I asked, “Well, what can you tell me about the goon who robbed you? Anything will be helpful. Just go back over the incident.”
Dorce chugged his hot coffee and gaped at me with dull eyes. I eased Melba’s untouched cup to him and signaled the waitress for refills. “It’s pretty much what I told your officer. It was right before sundown. I was returning to the hotel after a bite to eat. This lug comes out of an alley at me. The person’s wearing a neckerchief over their mouth and nose with a hat pulled down over their eyes. So I didn’t get a good look at ‘em.” He paused thoughtfully and took a sip. The java seemed to ease him closer to sobriety. “The robber’s got a hand in a coat pocket, see, and shoved out at me as if they’re carrying heat. Who was I to argue? Cripes! I’d only gotten into town that afternoon.” He slugged down the coffee in Melba’s joe, just in time for a refill.
“What else are you able to say about the guy?”
His face twisted up unhappily. “Listen, I don’t want to be involved any more than I already have. It’s done. I didn’t get hurt.” His eyes drifted to the redhead longingly. “Let it rest.”
“Mr. Dorce, we need to catch this thug. And you can help us do it. You’re not his only victim, you know. Doubtless, not his last. You’d prefer this case be closed before you leave town, I’m sure. It’d be too bad if a copper had to come to your home or office down the road with more questions.” I purposefully glanced at his wedding ring, jut my jaw in Melba’s direction, then cut my eyes back to him. “I’m confident you don’t want the circumstances of our first meeting to become known. Maybe to the wife and kiddies or to your boss.”
“See here!” he whispered coarsely, leaning across the tabletop. The aroma of stale gin mixed with fresh coffee accompanied every word. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, just trying to jog your memory.”
“This is blackmail!”
“Not if a lawman does it! It’s called getting at the truth!” I fumed in a whisper. My time for playing nice was done. His shoulders drooped and his chin dropped to his chest. Beaten, he pushed away onto the booth’s seatback. Dead air hung between us for a minute.
Finally, he offered, “Well, the bastard was a couple of inches shorter than me. I–”
“Shorter than you?” Dorce was around my height, possibly an inch shorter. Spider Rawles was slightly taller than me. The man nodded over his fresh serving of coffee. “Are you sure?” Another affirmative head jerk.
Then, he set his cup on the table and looked at me with clearing eyes. “Something else. I didn’t tell the policeman because I figured he’d think I was haywire. When I recalled what I’d seen,” he chuckled loosely, “I thought maybe I was crazy.” He glanced at his companion before continuing. “The person who robbed me appeared more like a jane than a gee. At first, I figured it was just a Nance. But I realized it was a woman.” Responding, I’m sure, to my expression of shock, he nodded and added, “Yeah, a short, dumpy woman.”
His words stunned me. “What makes you think so?”
“Just something about the person.” He leaned toward me. “Listen, I have been selling women’s apparel for nearly twenty-two years now. In close contact with women all the time. Models, department store buyers, women’s department reps, and such,” he finished with a sideways glance at his companion. His eyes then drifted to me. “Despite her trying to hide it with the overcoat and working to disguise her voice, I tumbled to it being a woman. Plus, one article of clothing she was wearing was a dead giveaway.” He paused for more coffee.
“And?” I blurted impatiently. My brain was doing figure eights.
“Well, the robber was wearing slacks. Nothing special that I could tell. But it was the shirt the individual was wearing. Or I should say blouse. The light was fading, but it was definitely a woman’s top.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure! It buttoned on the wrong side to be a man’s shirt! And I don’t know any mugs who’ll go out in public, for whatever reason, wearing a dame’s blouse.”
“And you’re certain what you saw?”
He nodded vigorously. “Absolutely! Not a doubt! I swear, Detective …”
“Tanner.”
“… Detective Tanner. That’s all I can tell you. I never saw enough of a face to identify her, but it was a woman. One with crazy eyes! She was mean medicine, I tell ya!”
After clarifying Dorce had been nowhere near the Pontchartrain this trip, even with Melba, I thanked him for his time and the information. Some mug was using the only pay station in the coffee shop. I left the traveling salesman and his stertorous date in the booth. Whipping back into the Sumner Arms, I made a quick call to police headquarters from one of the lobby phone booths. Waddell was not in his office. I gave the desk sergeant a message for him, asking him to telephone me and giving the number where he could reach me. Frustrated at facing more downtime, I’d decided Harry’s Paradise Tavern seemed the logical place to spend it.
Whipping back into the Sumner Arms, I made a quick call to police headquarters from one of the lobby phone booths.
* * *
Thanks to the Volstead Act still being the law of the land, my friend was serving hooch in the guise of coffee and tea in cups or glasses. Business was slow just before closing time. Harry stood behind the bar, perusing an afternoon daily and chomping on the ubiquitous dead cigar clamped between his teeth. He smiled. “How’s tricks, you old keyhole peeper?”
I ignored his questionable greeting and called for a mug of his “special coffee.” Slapping two bits on the counter, I shrugged and inquired, “Anything worth a damn in the news?”
“Nah,” he sighed heavily, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Same crap, different day.” He served me and started wiping the bar absentmindedly, eyeing me. “You look like Hoover must be feelin’.”
“Oh,” I sighed, “I’m running up blind alleys looking for a fugitive for Murray Hertz. I have a lead, but it’s going as well as Herbert’s re-election prospects.”
“Wanna talk it over?”
“Why not?” I shrugged. Harry was always good with the logic. And I was at a dead-end with the additional complication Dorce had shoved at me. “See, I figure this fella is robbing individuals to get their identification papers and cash. He uses the swag to shift from hotel to hotel here in the city.” The bartender shot me a questioning gaze. “He thinks the Chicago mob is looking for him. So, he feels the need to move around, check in under aliases.” Finishing my drink, I pushed the coffee cup over the bar for a refill. Harry graciously replenished my refreshment. I dug out another quarter and dropped it on the counter.
“Going through the police files, I came across three victims in the past two weeks that fit the pattern.” My buddy nodded his way through my explanation. “And I’ve found where Spider–that’s the moniker he goes by–has registered at fleabag joints using the names. But the last incident was a week ago. The victim was a traveling salesman named Dorce. My target registered at the Pontchartrain Hotel under that name, but checked out this morning. I don’t know what name to search for now. And a short while ago, this mug told me he thinks the person who robbed him was a broad!”
“What? Is that a gag or what?” A pensive look crossed Harry’s puss. “Say, when did you last check the cops’ reports? Because I ….”
“This morning. I–”
“… just read about another robbery last night.”
I grabbed the newspaper and started tearing through it. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I read some poor slob got mugged on the street last night. It’s in here somewhere.” By this time, we were bent over, side by side, scanning the pages.
On the front page of the paper’s second section, below the fold, was a blurb regarding one Carlton Sanborn being robbed at gunpoint the night before. Sanborn, according to the paper, was a local shopkeeper. The theft occurred on a street two blocks from the Pontchartrain Hotel. As with the first three stickup victims, a masked thief held up the merchant for his wallet, identification papers, and cash. But this incident turned more serious as the culprit struck Sanborn across the face with the gun for no apparent reason, requiring several stitches. I looked up at my pal. “Harry, I could kiss you!”
My buddy stood as erect as his short, heavyset frame allowed, eyeing me. With the lifeless cigar moving slowly across his mouth, he deadpanned, “I don’t know where this is going, Gil, but I just wanna be friends.” We busted out laughing as I slapped Harry on the back.
I asked the barkeep to let Detective Waddell know I’d get in touch with him later if he called for me at the tavern. With Carlton Sanborn’s name in hand, I returned to my hunt for Rawles. Thursday night was bleeding into Friday morning, but the job couldn’t wait. I eliminated The Coach and Six, the Hotel Capitol, and the Pontchartrain from my chase. By this time, Spider was adding up to a fairly smart cookie. My hunch was he wouldn’t hit the same hotel twice for fear of being recognized as already having checked in under a different handle. In addition, if Dorce was right, he apparently had recruited a gun moll to do his heavy lifting–a dame who wasn’t afraid to sport a gat during a heist.
Thursday night was bleeding into Friday morning, but the job couldn’t wait.
* * *
Friday, July 31st
Shortly before one in the morning, I reached The Amber House, the last hotel remaining on my list. A dimly lighted, empty lobby, cluttered with worn, mismatched stuffed chairs and divans, greeted me. A harsh, gasping sound came to me from the area of the registration desk. I moved to it. An old man, who I assumed was supposed to be working the front counter, was flopped in a chair behind it. The codger had his feet propped up on a shelf below the room key rack. He was sawing logs with a noise level, which made me think he might be related to Melba somehow.
Rather than waking him from his slumber and parting with another five bucks, I quietly opened the guest book and perused it. Sure enough, a Carlton Sanborn had checked in the previous day. The hooligan had registered with a missus and resided in three-seventeen. From my side of the desk, I could see the key for that room was missing from the board. The happy couple was in.
Moving to a phone booth across the vestibule, I closed the door behind me and made a quiet call to summon the police. My estimation was they’d show up at close to the right time. Hopefully. I tiptoed back across the lobby and around the desk. Reaching gingerly over the sleeping clerk, I located and removed the labeled passkey for the hotel rooms. The old man grunted and shifted in his chair, but never knew a thing.
Like the Kenworthy Building, the owners of The Amber House hadn’t brought it far enough into the current century to boast an elevator. I moved to the stairs, running behind the reception counter, and made my way up. The stairway eventually emptied into the middle of the third floor. I prowled the hall in one direction until I caught the sequence of the room numbers, then doubled back to Spider’s accommodations.
After a tense pause, listening at the door, I drew my gat and inserted the passkey. What I’d find on the other side was anybody’s guess. Unlocking the door and throwing it open, I desperately ran my hand across the wall beside me, searching for a switch to what I hoped was an overhead light. I found it. When the lightbulb came to life, a startled, naked Spider Rawles clamored out of the bed, on the side closest to me. The terrified punk threw up his hands and stepped back against the wall. His owl-like eyes were darting around, taking in everything that was happening. He regained his composure and was the first to speak, pleading with me not to shoot.
Simultaneously, an equally unclothed woman jumped from the bed on the side opposite me. Unlike her companion, she simply tossed me a deranged grin. Her eyes danced with wild merriment as she sized up the scene. With lips still curled in a tight smile, she made a quick move toward her pillow.
“You pull that thing and you’re gonna reach room temperature pretty damned fast, sister!” I screamed.
“No, Mavis! No!” Spider yelled over me.
The bim he called Mavis paused, glanced his way, then looked back at me. I couldn’t tell whether she was weighing her options. Suddenly, she chortled and reached under the pillow. I made the mistake of not shooting her when I had the chance. She quickly removed a .45 automatic, raised it in my direction, and fired. As much as I heard, I felt the round buzz past my head. For a reason even I will never understand, I squeezed off a shot with the intention of merely wounding her. My blast found its mark on her right shoulder. But instead of dropping the hardware, she laughed harder and pulled the trigger again. The gun jammed. I didn’t want to kill her, though she obviously had no such compunction toward me.
I made the mistake of not shooting her when I had the chance.
Making like a moll, the frill tried to clear the weapon. I grabbed a lamp from the dresser next to me and threw it at her with all the force I could muster. It struck her on the head, resulting in a wide gash at her hairline. The blow could have put light heavyweight Maxie Rosenbloom on the ropes. The woman merely swiped at the blood pouring from the cut and looked at it, grinning maniacally. Then she hurled her gun at me. It missed.
Tires screeched to a halt on the street in front of the hotel as sirens died in the early morning air. I welcomed their opportune arrival. “That’ll be your ride, sweetheart.”
At that, the moll let loose a banshee screech as she leaped onto the bed, charging me. I kicked the footboard hard. It did the trick. The bed’s sudden shift caused the woman to lose her balance and crash to the floor, a rumpled pile of bare limbs. Mine was a triumph of experience over hope. While keeping an eye on Spider, I knelt next to Mavis before she could move. I pressed a knee into her back and my rod through her titian-tinted hair to her temple. “Make a false move, and I’ll kill you, doll face!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she screamed.
I forced the gun harder against her skull. “Yeah, underestimate me, chippie. And you’ll have your gat in your dead hand before the coppers make the door,” I added maliciously. “You think your boyfriend will say a word?” She cut her eyes to a terrified Rawles, who continued to plead for his life, his hands high in the air. Mavis resigned herself to her fate. Her prone body went limp.
After retrieving and shoving the woman’s hardware into my waistband, I stood and placed a foot firmly between her shoulder blades to hold her on the floor before turning to Spider. “Take it easy, Rawles. I know your story, but I’m not from the Chicago mob. If I were, you’d be dead already.” Jerking my chin toward the frail on the floor, I added, “Your girlfriend would be, too.” Mavis screamed curses at me. She didn’t use any words I hadn’t heard before. But the combination of them was new to me. Perhaps the term “frail,” in its broadest definition, didn’t truly fit the woman. “Who is she?” I chuckled.
“Mavis. Mavis Dixon,” he stammered. “At least that’s the name she gave me. Picked her up between Chicago and here. I don’t know much about her, ‘cept she said she was a high school teacher. That and she’s crazy as a lousy bedbug. I found that out too late.”
Must have been a damned tough school, I thought.
After a pause, Spider snickered. “She’s served my purposes, though.” He glanced at the woman. An odd expression crossed his puss before finishing. “She robbed those people. I had nothin’ to with the holdups. I–”
“Nothing except use the proceeds to hide out from the mob and the law. And shack up with Mavis. I think that’s what the district attorney will call a co-conspirator and an accessory after the fact. As batty as she is, you’re lucky she didn’t kill somebody.” He could only nod, wide-eyed. Mavis continued cursing us both at the top of her lungs.
At that minute, the sounds of a commotion in the hallway came to me. A uniformed police officer came through the door, gun in hand. I laid my rod and Mavis’s on the dresser and showed him my raised hands. Another cop appeared right behind him, pushing aside a few gawking hotel guests and the old man from the front desk. The harnessed bull was Jack Lipscomb, a fella I knew through my brother Marty.
After I explained the situation, they hauled us to station house while they sorted out the facts.
* * *
Waddell listened as I was explaining, “… And Dorce put me onto the stickup artist being a woman.” It was around nine that same morning. We were standing in a darkened room at headquarters. In front of us was something called a two-way mirror. In the brightly lighted space opposite sat a calm and, by now, clothed Mavis Dixon. We could see the woman, but she couldn’t see us. The detectives had finished questioning Marion “Spider” Rawles and taken him to a cell. “By the way, you’ll want to get to the drummer before he pulls a big flit back home. The man is a little spooked. He’s at the Sumner Arms Inn.” I made a mental note to contact Murray.
We were standing in a darkened room at headquarters. In front of us was something called a two-way mirror.
“I’ll send a car for him.” The spindly sleuth moved for the door but stopped short, turned to me, and held out his hand. “Well, it looks as if you’ve helped us close four unsolved robberies. Thanks, Gil.”
As we shook hands, I laughed. “I think Spider Rawles is as glad as anybody that it’s over. He’s happy to be safe in a cell, away from Mavis Dixon.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I guess our boy created in his moll,” I assessed, nodding to the woman, “what my non-shellfish-eating friends might call a golem. She was a monster he couldn’t control. Along the lines of the mad doctor in a moving picture I understand their planning in Hollywood based on that English dame Shelley’s book.” I glanced back at the broad as I passed through the door. Dixon was serene and still grinning like a lunatic. Mavis had a smile that could light up an entire psych ward. ©