Finish the Hardboiled Detective story: "A Beautiful Corpse"

Cafe Society
1

Control thread here: http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?t=422990&highlight=hardboiled
Adams City wasn’t the kind of place that tourists visited, not unless they had a thing for two-bit seaport towns with nothing to offer but crime, decay, corruption and despair.

But on the morning of Sunday, July 5, 1936, it was still my city. I’m Joe Maynard, private eye.

I awoke early to find myself sprawled over my desk with a hangover, a bad one, as I’d been doing more and more often lately. Too much Independence Day celebrating the day before, I guess. An empty bottle of Old Rotgut rattled against my feet as I stood. The floor was sticky. I rubbed my forehead, groaning, and knew that I wouldn’t be going to Mass that morning. The ceiling fan of my flyspecked office futilely beat against the heat and humidity that already made me feel like I was drowning in a sauna.

I staggered to the window and threw it open. The pigeons on the outside ledge flew off, angry at me for disturbing their repose. To hell with them. The street below was mostly empty. A bus wheezed past, and a pair of men in fedoras stepped idly out of the way. In the distance, just beyond the dockyards, the brown waters of the Opal River flowed sluggishly down to Signorino Bay and the ocean beyond.

I gave up hope of catching even the trace of a cool breeze, got a drink of water from the rust-stained sink in the corner and sat back down at my desk. The Depression had hit the city hard, and I realized all over again just how little work I actually had to do. The Schachter divorce case. The Jenkins burglary. The Rodgers Department Store job. An insurance-fraud investigation for those shysters at Hendorff, Kaplan, Mallory & Marple.

None of which were going to pay me nearly enough for the time it’d take to close them.

I was reaching for a cigarette and deciding whether or not I could afford a little breakfast when my phone rang.

2

That was when I realized the inside of my mouth felt like the outside of a peach. It was like someone had gagged me with a wool sock, so I downed some city juice then grabbed the horn. “Maynard.”

“Hey, Joe.”

It was Vince d’Abruzzo; things were looking up. “Bruiser! What’s the word?”

“Can’t say, not on the blower.”

“Usual place?”

“Yep.”

“You buyin’?”

“’Course.”

Well, that solved the breakfast problem. Vince took the green he won with his fists and put it into a greasy spoon.

3

I hung up the phone and went out through what was laughingly called the reception area in my little corner of Stockton Tower. Four stories, and they call it a tower. Ha.

My secretary, Linda St. James, was just coming in. She was wearing that red dress I like so much and carrying a purse as big as a suitcase.

“You’re late,” I growled.

“No, you’re early,” she snapped back. “I see you slept in your clothes. Again.” She sighed and pulled a clean jacket out of the closet. “At least put this on and let me run that one to the cleaners.”

As I shrugged out of the jacket (Linda had a point, it was a bit on the ripe side) the phone jangled again. This time Linda grabbed it.

“Joe Maynard, Private Investigations,” she said, stowing her purse in her desk.

“Mr. d’Abruzzo? He’s right here…”

“I already told him I’m on my way,” I hissed at her, tightening my tie. “Can’t he give me two seconds to get out the door?”

Linda waved her hand at me in a shushing gesture and said, “Yes sir” and hung up. She grabbed her purse again.

“He said not to meet at Lou’s. Something’s come up. He wants to meet you at the docks, and I’m supposed to come with you.”

4

Not a good sign. A guy like Bruiser didn’t involve a frill in anything, other than the obvious. And at the docks? The only members of the fairer sex we’d seen at the docks in the past year were either painted red or floating dead. The Depression was a wonderful thing. Business was brisk if you worked at the morgue or had a share of the vice squad. Bruiser knew both sides of the law, and I could never be sure which side he was dancing on. For that matter, I’d occasionally strayed myself, and enjoyed a taste of the other side. But right now, what I wanted to taste was breakfast.

“Let’s go, darling,” I said, “our friend waits for no man.”

“But he’d wait for me,” she said. “He has a crush on me.” She was admiring her lipstick in a little pocket mirror.

“Well, well, well,” I laughed, “I thought you were saving yourself for me. Tell me, if he’s so sweet on you, why all the ‘Mr. d’Abruzzo’, and ‘Yes sir, Mr. d’Abruzzo’?”

She snapped the mirror closed. "Joe Maynard, you just don’t know anything about women, do you? Even with all your…acquaintances.”

I laughed again. “I guess I don’t, darling, I guess I don’t. And now, shall we?” I held open the door and out we swept.

5

At the streetcar stop, I checked my pockets for change for the fare. Empty. I opened my wallet. Also empty. My brain threw out a whisky-soaked memory of buying rounds for the house. Why? That I couldn’t recall to save me.

Linda shot me a look that managed somehow to reflect annoyance, humor and pity at the same time. She pulled a coin-purse from her handbag and removed the coins. Exact change, too.

I wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, why a such a dame would work for someone like me.

6

I had to have a car in my line of work. Sometimes a guy has to go where the cabs won’t. So I told myself that my '29 Ford Model A got me from here to there, and wasn’t impressive enough to stick out like a sore thumb when I did stakeouts on divorce cases.

So Linda and I rattled off in my old jalopy. She didn’t bother waiting for me to hold the door, but I did stand her to a quick breakfast at Marian’s Diner on the way down to the waterfront. Least I could do for her working the weekend.

It didn’t look good when I was pulling up. I could see Vince’s hulking form, side by side with Sal Garibaldi, a sometime bouncer for Vince and general all around side kick. Big as Vince was Sal was even bigger. Don’t ever get him peeved at you. Sal had a brain as small as his body was big, but he was reknowned for his devotion to “the boss”.

These two were huddled with several…cops? *“What gives?”, * I thought. They were standing near the opening of a narrow alleyway where two wharfside warehouses stood cheek by jowl. They didn’t see us at first, being more than a little hypnotized by whatever they were looking at on the ground. Off to one side a someone was huddled on the ground, wrapped in an old blanket in spite of the sticky morning heat.

Vince was first to eyeball us and broke the circle, with Sal trotting along behind. Vince’s squashed nose looked a little red, as did his eyes. His eyes lit on Linda and just for a second you could see him start to smile. But then he went all over serious again.

“Sorry about the change, Joe” he rasped out. “And Miss Linda, sorry to drag you down here on a Sunday morning. But I told the cops you were the only gal I could be sure would keep her mouth shut, at least for now” He waved vaguely at the small figure I’d eyeballed already. “We need a lady here for this I think.”

Linda’s eyes sparked in pleasure at being called a lady by this guy she was probably planning to sink her claws into. “I’d be only too happy to help, Mr. d’Abruzzo” she purred.

Oh heck, I took too long to write this and didn’t preview. Sorry, I guess we’ll have to ignore this post.

7

So what game was she playing, exactly? Linda wore many hats and fell in and out of character faster than an amateur theatre group, one minute purring like a newborn kitten and the next baring her claws like a Siamese that’s been swung by the tail. At least she didn’t give me grief over the mix-up about the car. It’d been impounded, but my ex-wife Angie had recently got it out for me. Angie was a doll – still carried a torch for me, and constantly tried to make amends for the betrayal I just couldn’t forget. My booze-addled brain had forgotten the car, though, until we stumbled across it near the streetcar stop. Linda had started to cuss me, but when she saw that Angie had left an envelope with a sawbuck and two little brothers named finn, sealed with a lipstick kiss, she brightened.

“Treat me to breakfast, Romeo.”

So I treated her, and now here we were, at the docks with the cops and Bruiser and Sal and the fog slowly lifting from my brain as the java worked its magic and soothed the nerves that were already starting to wonder where the next shot was coming from.

8

Bruiser called out, “Hey, Detective, that shamus I told you about is here.”

A slight, bespectacled guy who looked like an accountant detached himself from the cluster of blue-uniformed cops near the body, came over and shook my hand. His grip was about as strong as an asthmatic kitten’s. “Mr. Maynard? Detective Ronald Faraday, Homicide. Thanks for coming down on a Sunday morning.”

“No problem,” I said, and noticed him recoil slightly at the smell of my breath. Damn. I knew I should have brushed my teeth. “This is Miss St. James, my secretary.”

“Ma’am,” Faraday said, tipping his hat. “Our thanks to you, as well. This is a… well, kind of a sensitive case. The deceased over there, a young lady named Violet Collins, worked as a cigarette girl at the Owl Club, which I understand is owned by a friend of Mr. d’Abruzzo’s.”

Jeez, I wondered, just how sheltered a life does this Faraday guy lead? Everyone knew that the Owl Club was run by Herman Strauss, one of the best-connected and most-feared men in Adams City. Anyone who was anyone would kill for a reserved table at the Owl Club, and some probably had. I’d just been there once, at the invitation of a client. Great food, beautiful girls, the best cigars and hoo boy, prices to match.

“I see,” said I, not really seeing. I mopped my brow with a worn handkerchief and felt a trickle of sweat run down my back. God, not even ten o’clock and already it was scorching. “And just why, exactly, do you need Miss St. James’s and my help?”

9

“We found your business card in her purse,” Faraday said, handing it to me. I took it with no hope of recognition. I handed out lots of these things, fat lot of good it did me.

Linda pulled the card from my hand and turned it over. Her face drained as color as fast as I was draining those glasses of booze last night.

She shot a quick look at the detective and then at Vince.

“What is it, doll?” I asked. She showed me what was written on the back of the business card. I felt a chill go through me. Who the hell said it was hot in July in Adams City? They didn’t know what they were talking about.

“Oh, holy Mother of God,” I muttered.

10

In bold, confident strokes, the note on the back read :

LSJ daughter, 2 p.m., HMS James Thompson
JM – father?

My mind raced and my throat closed so tight I nearly blacked out. Father? Daughter? Linda? Me? Preposterous. It was a joke, a bad one at that. And the James Thompson was a big boat, the kind that hardly ever docked at Adams City anymore, with a total capacity around 1280.

I looked at Faraday. “Is the James Tho-”

“Two p.m., just like the note says.”

“The passenger list?”

“We’re working on it. You two have anything you wa-” He stopped short, his eyes wide.

Linda’s hand was coming out of her purse, fast.

11

Thank the Lord I saw her before the goons and the cop! I grabbed her hand and hissed urgently, "Not here. Not now. "

Linda shot me a look that would have cut through the deck plating on the James Thompson , but slowly withdrew her hand from the purse.

I was the only one who knew about the little revolver in her bag. Hell, I gave it to her after some punk attacked her on her way home from my bad neighborhood. If the “gentlemen” on the dock knew she she was packing, it would only make her look guilty. Or was that *more * guilty?

Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have thought that Linda St. James, my sweet secretary, would kill a cigarette girl to avoid blackmail. But then, I wouldn’t have figured her for a gangster’s moll either.

12

The others seemed not to have noticed what Linda had been about to do. My mind raced. “Y’know, I hand out an awful lot of those cards, Detective. No telling how that poor girl might have gotten one.”

Faraday just looked at me. I should have played it cool, I guess, but instead I plunged ahead. “And the James Thompson isn’t a British battleship, right? So it wouldn’t be an ‘HMS’. It’d be, what, an 'RMS,” am I right?"

“What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” Faraday was looking at me even harder. I caught Linda out of the corner of my eye, shifting uncomfortably, and it wasn’t just from the heat.

OK, so this wasn’t going well. “I’m just saying, whoever jotted that down on the back of the card didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”

“Or she,” Bruiser said helpfully.

What a guy! I nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Right, or she.”

“Uh huh,” said Faraday. Maybe I’d underestimated the detective. Now he was definitely looking at me all squirrelly. “So tell me, did you know the late Miss Collins?”

“Never saw her before in my life,” I lied. “Did you, Linda?”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. It was good to see her following my lead with equal veracity… which is to say, none at all.

13

One of the beat cops came up to whisper something to Faraday, and I took that chance to drag Linda and Vince a few steps away. Vince was smoking those huge Cuban cigars he likes so much. Sal stood there like a statue, his eyes darting everywhere.

“What gives, Bruiser?” I asked. “We were going to meet for breakfast, then before I can even leave my office you’re changing plans. What happened?”

Vince sniffed and wiped his eyes with his snotrag. “The second, the very second I hung up with you my housekeeper comes running in. She shoves this envelope at me and faints.”

I glanced over at Faraday. The beat cop was still talking to him but Faraday had this look in his eyes, like he was done with that conversation and wanted to horn in on ours.

“Not here, you fool,” I whispered. That dumb Bruiser was actually reaching into his pocket. “Let’s head over to the Owl Club. You can show me the envelope there and explain why you didn’t give it to the cops.”

“Does Mr. Strauss know yet?” Linda asked. Faraday was nodding his dismissal to the beat cop and walking over to us.

“No,” Sal grunted. “He’s still in Vegas. He’ll be back tonight.”

“Mr. Maynard?” Faraday called. I plastered a helpful smile on my face and turned around. “If you can think of anything, I’ll want you to call me immediately.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded. Faraday glared at each of us. I didn’t like it too much. It seemed like he knew we were holding out on him. He nodded to us and waved as the meat wagon pulled up. He motioned them close to Violet’s body.

“Let’s go,” I said, and followed Sal and Vince to Vince’s car.

14

“Hold on a second!” shouted one of the beat cops. “We’ve got the dope on the James Thompson!” He was running up to Farady, holding a sheet of teletype paper in his hand. “Seems Thompson was one of those hoity-toity Brits with about a dozen names. His full name was Horatio Michael Stephen James Thompson. Made millions in the horse glue industry. His friends always called him HMS James, so that’s why they named the passenger liner that way.” He looked pleased as punch with himself, and I saw that Linda’s hand was twitching. I needed to get her out of there fast. We both needed a belt and there were I had a few questions I had to ask her.

15

Bruiser & Sal sped off in Bruiser’s Dodge, followed by me & Linda in my jalopy. After some sharp turns to lose any tail Faraday tried to plant, we met up at the Owl Club, where Bruiser opened the outer door for us. Actually, he opened it for Linda and held it until all of us went through. We were met by a guy who looked a bit like that boss fuzz we just left.

“Sorry, folks, we’re not open yet,” said the little guy.

“Don’t give me that static,” said Bruiser. “I’m a friend of Mr. Strauss and these are my guests.”

“That’s what they all say.”

The little guy tried to close the inside door but Sal got in the way. “You want I should rough him up, boss?”

Bruiser looked over the little guy and a flicker of recognition crossed his mug. “Sure.” Then he elbowed me in the ribs and whispered, “This ought to be good.” Sal went at the stranger and almost immediately ended up on the floor. He got up, brushed himself off, and charged again, with similar results. After the third try, Bruiser grabbed Sal’s shoulder. “Cool it. You might break something flying through the air like that.” Sal shrugged, brushing himself off once more. Then Bruiser turned to the pipsqueak: “You must be the new head bouncer Mr. Strauss sent from Vegas. I’m Vince d’Abruzzo; most folks call me ‘Bruiser’.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. d’Abruzzo. Mickey Chambers, my friends call me ‘Mouse’.” Mickey turned to the others. “Mr. Garibaldi, I presume?”

“Yeah,” Sal grunted.

“And you are…?”

“Joe Maynard.”

“Linda St. James.”

“My apologies for the brush off. This way, please.”

As we were being seated, I asked, “Hey, where’d you learn to throw other people’s weight around like that?”

“It’s called ‘Judo’. One of the few things I learned while at USC.”

“If anyone asks,” declared Bruiser, “we’re not here.”

“Of course,” winked Mickey. “We’re not open yet, remember?”

16

Although the club was not officially open, Mickey poured us all some hot fresh coffee. He disappeared into the back.

I really wanted a stiff belt, but the hot joe went down as smooth as Linda’s silk stockings. We all sat for a minute, enjoying the fresh brew.

I jumped about two feet when Bruiser suddenly burst into tears. Holy cow, I thought, just what I need.

We let him work through the waterworks for a bit, then Sal silently handed his boss a handkerchief the size of a Buick. After a rather disgusting nose blow (at which Sal silently took back the now sodden snotrag) Vince pulled out the envelope from his pocket.

“Here,” he sniffled. “That’s what got her killed. And sure as Strauss owns half of Adams City, I’m next.”

17

I should have known better. I should have just kept my nose out of it; Mrs. Maynard didn’t raise no chumps. And yet, before I knew it, I was holding out my hand and Bruiser had put the envelope in it. I unfolded the paper as Linda leaned in and read it over my shoulder.

It was a single page, on the letterhead of Dr. Simon Wells. I exchanged a glance with Linda; we both knew Wells. Everyone did. He was probably the best-known sawbones downtown. Less well-known, however, he was also the abortionist of choice for what passed for Adams City’s high society.

The letter read:

*June 30, 1936

My dear Miss Collins:

This is to confirm what I told you during your visit yesterday. You have made a complete medical recovery from the procedure, and your future ability to bear children should be unaffected. However, neither you nor your “patron” have, as yet, seen fit to pay me for services rendered. As you are well aware, I do not run a charity. Either I am paid, fully and soon, or certain information may find its way to those in a position to do his reputation and public image no small injury. I trust that will not be necessary.

Very truly yours,

 SIMON WELLS, M.D.*

The lower-left corner of the letter was torn off. A dark stain - blood? - nearly obscured the doctor’s signature. I whistled slowly. “Is this legit?”

Bruiser nodded. “Every word, as far as I know.”

“Where’s Wells now?” Linda asked. She looked scared, too.

Mickey had just emerged from the back. He said, “That’s a good question. I was kinda hoping you could tell me…”

18

“Were you listening, Mickey?” Vince growled. Mickey smiled and shrugged.

“It’s quiet, I couldn’t help it. So, you knocked her up?” Mickey raised an eyebrow.

Vince shook his head. “That’s the thing, I didn’t. Mr. Strauss asked me to take her to to doctor.”

“So, Strauss…” I began.

“Nope. Mr. Strauss don’t screw where he eats, excuse my French, ma’am,” he nodded at Linda. “He said his son had gotten the young lady in trouble, and I needed to take her to see Wells.”

I groaned. David Strauss was a jumped-up wannabe, riding on his father’s hardworking coattails. Problem was, Strauss pere’ thought the kid hung the moon, and he had the money to get his son out of continual scrapes, excuse the godawful pun.

“Didn’t he give you any money to pay the doctor?” Linda asked. Vince shook his head.

“All I did was drop her off and pick her up a few hours later. She must have given my name to Wells. Mr. Strauss told me how important it was to keep this quiet…you know his son is due to marry that debutante, Lily Dalton, next week. This gets out and Strauss’ dream of buying the other half of Adams City goes out the window.”

“It may be okay,” Mickey said. “Wells was supposed to meet Mr. Strauss for lunch for last Wednesday. He didn’t show, and his office has been closed since then.”

“You think Wells took a powder?” Vince asked.

“I don’t know. But it’s very odd, don’t you think?”

19

“Very,” agreed Bruiser.

I took a sip of coffee and nearly gagged.

“Something wrong with your Joe, Mr. Maynard?”

I held up a hand and swallowed. “Nuh-uh. Something just hit me, and hard. Malcolm Hendorff hired me to look into a bit of insurance fraud involving Dr. Benjamin Abbott.”

“Oof,” exhaled Linda.

“I’m not familiar with that name,” said Mickey.

Bruiser explained, “Abbott and Wells used to be partners.”

“Right,” I said. “Seems they had a falling out a while back; that’s when Wells opened his office down here.”

“And it looks like he pulled a Houdini,” added Linda.

“You think this Abbott might know something about Wells being missing?”

“Abbott may even be involved.”

20

“Well, I gotta go back home and catch some shuteye before the Owl Club opens up,” Bruiser said. “Keep me up to date, will ya, Joe?”

I nodded. “Anything you want us to do? We’ll come back here when Strauss comes home tonight.”

“Let’s swing by Abbot’s,” Linda suggested. “You still have his address from Mr. Hendorff, don’t you?”

I pulled out my trusty notebook and thumbed back a few pages. “Yes, I still have it, over on Elmwood.”

“After you stop by there, stop by Wells’ office, why don’t you?” Mickey asked. “I know it’s Sunday, but you never know. You might find something.”

“You’ll both be back here tonight?” I asked, standing up. Mickey nodded.

“Mr. Strauss is due back at 8.”

“See you then.” Linda and I made our departure. We glanced at the sky with mixed feelings…the gathering storm clouds would make it cooler, but July rainstorms in Adams City were notoriously spectacular.