| |
Avoid staring down the barrel of a gun. It’s just good practice.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
––––––––
MOTHER OF GOD! A TOMMY Gun!
Proctor took no less than three bullets in the back, saving me from the slugs. The spray of metal was frantic and destructive.
If it weren’t for the door and distance from the shooter, those slugs would have shredded me for sure.
I seized Proctor by the collar and pulled him down to the floor. He was dead weight on me. The bullets kept ripping everything apart. The door flew open after its lock had been destroyed.
I waited. Heater in hand — heart in mouth.
Proctor wasn’t breathing or moving. He was leaking.
The horizontal hail of bullets stopped.
Footsteps ran to a car.
I leaned my head to see out the open door. The shadow was blurry, but I thought I made out a big figure, distinctive gun shape, and the possibility he caught me looking at him.
Heater up, I fired three shots at him. The Savage was a good weapon. I heard a car window break, another slug hit metal, and — hell, I didn’t know what happened to the third slug. The shooter didn’t cry out, I still might have hit him. I was sure I’d hit him.
My ears were ringing now, and the shadowy shape sped away. Gravel spit out from under the car’s tires.
All I thought of was getting Proctor off of me. I needed to see if he needed my help. I needed to see if he was still alive. I needed his weight off me.
Like the latest from that Hammett writer-guy, my best clue was partially served to me by Lady Luck, interrupted by gun-play, and the meal killed. Damn it. I double checked. Proctor might still be alive.
Not a chance. The first two shots went straight through his heart. Or damn close. He’d taken more hits before we’d hit the dirt. No pulse, wrist or neck. His eyes didn’t blink, despite all the dust tossed up by the ruckus.
Right about that moment, I felt my left shoulder ache, then sting, then scream at me. I reached up and found blood trickling down my arm.
I don’t remember much of the next half hour.
Rollins and a uniformed officer looked me over. I wasn't a pretty sight. Blood was all over me, mostly Proctor’s, but some of it was mine. The officer had a first aid kit, which made me laugh. What was he planning to do with that? Surgery?
"Hey, Doll. Welcome back.” Rollins crouched down by me.
“Back?”
“Yeah, you’ve been ducking in and out of consciousness.”
“I fainted,” I asked sheepishly.
“You got shot. People pass out usually. And, you didn’t exactly faint. You got goofy and lost a couple of seconds.”
“Shot? No.” Brilliant communication on my part, but then, I hurt like hell.
“True. More like grazed. Pretty bad, but there’s no slug in you.” The officer smiled, pulling a gauze pad and linen bandage out of his box. “You may want to get stitches and some happy pills. You paid your pound of flesh this time.” Nice Shakespearean reference.
“Oh, she will,” Rollins said, interrupting my protest.
I let out my breath. I wanted a cigarette and I wanted it now. “There goes the strapless look for me,” I mouthed off. I don’t know why. They say sarcasm was the response of people who ran out of things to say. I had plenty to say, but sarcasm was keeping me from getting cited for indecent language.
Somerset stood behind Rollins, forcing me to look up at him. “They don’t let you wear dinner gowns in prison. I told you I’d arrest you if you showed up again.” He had the nerve to pull out handcuffs.
For a lovely moment, I thought Rollins might slap him. And yeah, I should have kept my mouth shut, but pain and disorientation don’t encourage wise decisions. “Look, Detective. I was talking to a guy. What law did I break in making conversation with a guy?”
“The guy’s now a stiff. Murder is a crime.”
“Well, I sure as hell didn’t shoot him. This splendid change in the décor was the work of a Chicago Typewriter, not a revolver.”
“Says you.”
We all glared incredulously at Somerset. There were holes in the holes, in the walls and doors. The window glass lay on the floor, shattered into total oblivion. Plaster and wall paper were lying in shredded chaos on the floor.
“Maybe you killed this guy after the attack? Did he owe you money? Were you here to maybe blackmail him. Or do it for your client — whoever that is? You got a permit for that thing,” he pointed at the Savage.
“Yes.”
“Says you. We’ll take it as evidence. We’ll need to get everything about your client, your whereabouts, and get your notes.”
“Not a chance,” I snapped. “You don’t have a warrant, do you?”
“Don’t I? Says you. I can go clean out your office just ‘cause I'm in the mood.”
Rollins started to protest, but Somerset shut him down with a look.
“Says you,” I quipped, urged on by the throbbing pain. “Want me to site you law and statute as to why you need a warrant? I don’t mind a cop that’s aggressive, but the law is made for all of us.”
I angrily waved him away and let the officer bandage up my arm. My dress was ruined. Oh well. At least I wasn’t dead.
Called away, Somerset walked off, but couldn’t step off until he’d given me the don’t-leave-town speech. I refused Rollins’s offer of help to get up. I was no shrinking violet, and I was damned if I was looking helpless in front of all these men. And, I wasn’t letting Somerset break the rules on my watch. Neither was Rollins, I gathered from his cramped expression and jerky movements. He was even grumbling under his breath. Bennie was one of those happy-go-lucky guys; he wasn’t a grumbler by nature.
They took out Proctor under a sheet. Me, I bumbled along after, clutching my shoulder. Pemberton’s doesn’t tell you how much being shot hurts. I imagined what it would feel like in a more tender place, or if the slug was still under my skin.
After inquiring if I was under arrest, to which Rollins laughed in a strained way and said no, I stopped to make a call. Had to borrow a nickel from the cop since they still had my purse.
I called Marley and had her go to my apartment and mail my notebook to me in the post. It was unlikely the police had my address. Yet, I couldn’t take a chance. My notebook was sacred property. It was the story of my journey plus every secret of my client's. Without a warrant, it wasn’t anyone’s business. I explained to Marley what she was allowed to answer and what she wasn't, if asked. She’d do alright for herself. When in doubt, tell the truth. Besides, if someone was taking odds on a confrontation between Marley and the cops, my money was solidly on Marley.
For the next five hours, I sat in a police department interrogation room, being asked and asked again, how did Proctor figure into my case, what did I want from him, did I shoot him, was I in love with him? I was pretty sure they were stalling while searching my office.
By midnight, they let me go home. Marley helped them locate my gun permit, copies of the paperwork for my P.I. license, and sighted client confidentiality when they produced no warrant. Figured they didn't have one. I love it when I am right. With a warrant, I had to turn over everything — that was how things work, properly. But every P.I. and cop can tell you, warrants take time. Rollins was sweet enough about keeping me in the loop. He even offered to drive me home. Of course, that would give him a chance to ask more questions, which he admitted.
“Don’t crowd me, Bennie,” I said with a slight laugh.
“You still need stitches. Maybe I should call you a doctor.” He handed me my purse — thoroughly worse for wear.
“At this hour? Nah, what I need is rest. If it still looks ugly in the morning, I promise to go see a doctor. Promise.” I shook his hand.
Bennie glowered. “Despite Somerset, you don’t have to prove anything. And if you think that,” he pointed to my bandaged shoulder, “is gonna' look alright in the morning, you’re higher than a kite.”
I must have burst out laughing, because I turned every head in the place. What a sight I must have been. “Bennie, I always have to prove myself. I always have to be twice as good and a hundred times tougher for you boys to think half as well of me. Always will.”
“That’s not true.”
I patted his arm. “Maybe not for you Bennie. You’re one in a million. It’s everyone else I have to be superhuman for. Look at how Somerset treats me. He hated my guts before I even said hello.”
“He hates my guts too. That’s just his way.”
“Not much fun for a partner.”
Rollins shrugged. “He’s not much of a partner, but we do our best.”
I waved goodbye, glad to be out of the madhouse.
Outside, Marley stood by a hack — a real hack. She kept him there for close to an hour. That was expensive, but God, it was welcome. She took one look at the primitive wrapping on my shoulder and ran to me.
“You’re going to a hospital, Slim.”
“No chance. People go to hospitals to die. At least take me home to die in my own bed.”
She scowled. “Emergency ward it is.”
What was with people not listening to me? Well, she worried, and I had to appreciate that. And my bandage looked worse than I did.
Heck, even the cabbie worried and insisted on taking us to an all-night medical facility. There were only a couple in San Francisco and we, yeah all three of us, waited patiently for my turn. I expected to dip into that Allowance to tip this guy. Talk about above and beyond.
I made them promise me they wouldn’t leave me in the ward overnight. I was not dying in a germ-infested facility with no privacy and doctors pushing morphine.
According to the cabbie, one Skeeter Jones by name, while I was being damn-near squibbed off, the day produced some interesting news. President Roosevelt laid out his plan for economic recovery this year, Hitler held another rally and some famous American praised him for his exceptional army air corps, Amelia Earhart broke another record for being the first woman to do something. He didn’t quite remember what, and stocks in American Telephone and Telegraph went up. He had shares. So did his sister, but she had been reluctant to buy at first. Skeeter told Marley and me the whole story. Every. Single. Detail.
I have to say, this guy going on about this, that, or the other thing was oddly soothing. I should have been irritated or downright angry. But I wasn’t. Exhausted. That was the correct word. I was in pain. And pissed off someone tried to kill me. Of course, maybe this was nothing more than me accidentally being in the vicinity, and the killer was after Proctor the whole time. That made me collateral damage, and it felt even worse than being targeted.
The waiting room had a radio, and after a few songs by Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, and Edward Heyman, I was glad for the background noise. I still needed to get a radio for the office.
Every time Skeeter got up to check when we would be seen by a doctor, Marley brought me up to speed on what happened at the office. The bottom line was, it was damn good neither of us had too many personal or sensitive objects in there.
“I mailed off your notebook, like you asked. I'm surprised you left it at home in the first place.”
“And no one followed you there when you retrieved it?”
“Not a soul. They didn’t touch your apartment after all. There was one bright bit of luck. I wonder why they didn’t.”
“Because I leased under Lillian Collington-Tanner, not Lucille Tanner. I had to have the President of the rail company sign for me, since the landlord wouldn’t let a woman sign a contract on her own, and the less Cecil is involved with my life, the happier he is. He signed and didn’t look back.”
“So, they can’t find your address by your name. Clever girl.”
“Sure, they can, but not without doing some substantial leg work.” I shifted my seat. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see a doctor. “Are you okay after all of this?”
Marley waved me off. “Slim, I'm clear on what I’ve gotten into. Maybe not every detail of what to expect, but I expect to see a cop or two in your office. Don’t worry about me.”
Skeeter trotted over. I finally took a good look at him. He had to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Short and blocky, like Bennie Rollins, but somehow more huggable. Clean shaven, with a neatly pressed button-down shirt, bow tie, pressed slacks, and new-ish coat. Money down, he married well, and his wife took pride in his appearance. He pulled off his cap to reveal thin, white hair. He looked the way I thought my Dad might look at that age. “Just a couple more minutes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” I said, deeply impressed by his attentiveness.
“Skeeter. I’m just Skeeter.”
“Did you call Mrs. Skeeter to tell her you’ll be late?”
“Nah. The missus knows I work late. Not due home for another hour. Thanks to my job, we keep some odd hours. But then, we’re old, we don’t sleep as much as we used to.”
“All the same,” I said. “Please tell her thank you for letting us monopolize your evening and making you late for home. And I’m grateful for a late-night cabbie. You fellas are rare.”
He grinned in a tight-lipped way, and his eyes squished up. “For a pair of lovely young ladies with manners, the missus would kick my behind for not taking care of you.”
Skeeter hopped up, after valiantly restoring my faith in humanity, and checked one more time.
“Marley, I need more information about Skates Berk, Elliott Lockwood, and anything you can find on Harold Harrison, a VP at some downtown bank.”
“Easy. You, of course, will be bedridden, yes?”
It wasn’t a question.
“Let’s see what the doctor says.”
“It may depend on what the police say too.”
Yeah, there was that too.
Oh hell, I needed to meet Lockwood.