Strip For Violence - Ed Lacy

6

I stood there, my hand still up in the air, near the hat-rack, my eyes glued to the desk. If I had a hunch I was on the right track with my diamond-bullet theory, I knew my luck was riding now for sure... for at that very moment I located Marion Lodge. “Bobo! Who is this?” I pointed to the snapshot on my desk.

He tried to push the newspaper clipping off the picture, but I caught his heavy hand. “Leave it—the clipping has hidden the tip of her nose. With blonde hair—who is this?”

“Looks like somebody I've seen in the movies or...”

“It's Margrita! I'd better enroll in that mail-order badge school Anita was attending, get the rust out of my brains. She bobbed her nose, dyed her hair, changed her name— to get away from her call-gal past. Damn, should have figured that from the start This is going to be my lucky day.”

“Don't overplay yourself. You've found the gal, but you still got nothing that will convict Franklin, Go to court with that bullet business and they'll stick you in a padded cell.”

“I haven't even got the diamond sliver any more, but at least I know what I'm looking for, and that's half the case.”

Bobo waved a strong hand, as though clearing the air. “Hal, that beating you got last night must of kayoed your common sense. All you need now is a motive. And if you find that, then all you got to do is hang a conviction on one of the most powerful monkeys in the country—'Cat' Franklin.”

“I got... something else waiting for the 'Cat',” I said, getting the telegraph office on the phone, wiring Guy Moore in St. Louis that I'd found Marion Lodge.

7

The newspaper stories on the killings carried the home addresses of Shelton and Brody—they both lived in Will's neighborhood, within walking distance of the bank.

Brody's was a modest brownstone, the kind of a house he picked up cheap in 1931-32, when the banks were foreclosing and trying to sell houses for the balance due on the mortgage. He could have managed it on the sixty a week the bank probably paid him, even made a few bucks if he took in roomers. They had roomers: there were three bells in the doorway—Mrs. Ralph Brody had the basement. A plain, faded woman of about fifty-five, answered my ring. “Mrs. Ralph Brody?”

She said yes and I had a sinking feeling I was on the wrong track, Franklin would only kill for money, big money, and she looked like she'd never seen anything larger than a ten-buck bill in her life. I showed her my badge, identification card, told her, “In handling a matter for a client, I've stumbled across something that may throw some light on your husband's death. Can I talk to you?”

She fumbled in her old print dress for her glasses, gave me the once-over. For once in my life I was grateful for my half-pint size, harmless-looking baby-puss.

“Why, yes. Come in.” She had a mild, dull voice that went with her personality. Bobo was sitting in the car, just in case I never came out of the house, and I nodded to him with my noggin, followed her inside.

It was a neat little apartment, everything old and spotless. There was an ancient, bulky radio, but no TV set, and there wasn't a piece of furniture newer than ten years. It was obviously the home of a couple just getting by on a weekly salary. She motioned toward a cane chair, sat down opposite me.

Choosing my words with care, I said, “Mrs. Brody, I may be off on a wild-goose chase, so until I'm... a... positive of my suspicions, I can't give you the name of my client, tell you much. But if you'll answer a few questions, I might be able to find your husband's killer.”

“I don't mind talking. Don't have much chance any more. I'm sure Ralph was killed by a youngster. Children are so wild these days, no security, and all this violence in the world tempts them to try anything. Even rob and kill for a few dollars.”

“You have any children?”

“Mr. Brody and I were never blessed with any.”

“Know this is personal, but did Mr. Brody bet the horses, gamble... play around?”

She gave me a flat, timid smile. “For the last twenty-three years Mr. Brody left this house at exactly 8:25 every morning to go to the bank, returned at noon for lunch, returned again at a quarter to five in the afternoon to putter around our back yard, have supper. In the evening he either read, played cards with me, or worked at his hobby —soap sculpturing. Sometimes on a Friday night we went out to a movie, or on Sundays we might visit an art museum. Does that answer your question, young man?”

Completely. One thing more, shortly before his death, did your husband mention anything about coming into any money? Perhaps a stock market deal, or a relation leaving him an estate?”

Every Friday Mr. Brody handed me his pay envelope and I gave him an allowance of eight dollars. That's all the money he ever had, ever needed.”

I looked at this dull woman, thought of her mild uneventful life, wondered if she'd ever been young and passionate looking, if she'd been happy. Yet in her dull way, she'd probably been happier than a Louise, or an Anita, or even Margrita. I wondered if a marriage like that was boring, or was this contentment, the real thing?

Standing up, I said, “Well, thank you, Mrs. Brody. I'll let you know when I have something definite about the shootings. By the by, was Mr. Brody friendly with Mr. Shelton?”

“Indeed he was. Mr. Shelton and his daughter often came here for Christmas and Thanksgiving.”

“Aha. Did Mr. Brody have any brothers or sisters who might have been involved in gambling or...?”

“We were both only children.” She got to her feet with an effortless motion that somehow seemed to reflect the whole pattern of her life. “Would you care to see his statues? Ralph was really very talented, always meant to give more time and effort to his hobby. But the bank took up most of his time, became a rut for us—a comfortable rut. Here, let me show you. Would you care for some lemonade?”

“Have anything stronger?”

“I'm sorry, but we never touched liquor.”

“Lemonade will be fine.”

She smiled at me, showing even white teeth. “That last question was a trap, wasn't it? Wanted to know if we drank, didn't you?”

“Yeah, I'm a clumsy detective.”

“We never drank anything except some wine at Christmas,” she said as I followed her into a short hallway, through a large, scrubbed kitchen, then into a glass-enclosed porch that opened on a back yard full of flowers. The porch held a showcase that had a number of small models of ships and dogs, a few heads of famous people—I recognized FDR as one—all carved out of cakes of soap. There was an old-fashioned icebox, with a pan under it to catch the dripping, near the door, and Mrs. Brody took a pitcher of lemonade out of the box, poured out two glasses.

It wasn't bad, either.

Pointing to the statues she said, “These mean so much to me. And those certificates on the wall—prizes Ralph won in contests. He once won a toaster, too. Yes, these little figures are all I have left of him. When two people live close lives and one of them suddenly... departs... at first the loneliness is unbearable. The bank had given Ralph, all its employees, a small insurance policy. I thought I'd sell the house, move to California. But somehow, I'm as busy as ever every day, doing the same things I've always done. Time passes and I'm still here. Probably never move, this house is my world.”

“How big was that policy?” I asked, bending to get a closer look at the soap figures. I'm not the artistic kind— soap was ringing a different kind of bell in my mind.

Mrs. Brody gave me a tight smile again. “Imagine being brash is part of your work. The policy was for $1,500. But you're not nearly as crude as that other detective. Mr. Brody was furious...”

I straightened up like I was goosed. “Mr. Brody...? You mean a detective was here before the shootings?”

“Oh yes, and a rather nasty man. Let me see that was... oh, about three weeks before the... Ralph's accident. I mean the hold-up. This man rang the bell one morning, waved a badge and practically forced his way into the house. Said he was from the banking department, I believe. He searched the apartment very thoroughly. I was afraid of that man, why, he hardly put things back in the drawers. Left before Ralph came home for lunch and when I told Ralph, well, never did see him so mad.”

“What happened when Mr. Brody reported this to the bank, the police?”

“I don't think he did. Mr. Brody wasn't one to look for trouble. I thought he should have told the police. Way that man threw things around—even on the floor.”

“Why didn't you call the police when he left?”

“He had a badge and...”

“Mrs. Brody, a couple of cereal tops will get you a badge! Didn't you think it odd Mr. Brody didn't do a thing about this, not even report it to the bank?”

“It did worry me for a few days, but I left such matters up to him. He thought it best to ignore the whole thing.”

“Did you tell the police about this—when they talked to you after Mr. Brody was killed?”

“Why—no. I didn't attach any importance to it And they never asked me.”

There wasn't anything more to say or ask. I thanked her again and she showed me to the door, said, “If you... you find the killer, well, I'd like to see that... beast.” Her voice shook slightly. I wondered if she'd ever got steamed about anything in her life. And what would she do to the killer, hit him over the head with an umbrella, scold him? I had a pretty clear picture of Brody: one of these guys that when his friends were told he was dead, they asked, “How can you tell?”

8

When I climbed into the car, Bobo asked what I'd learned and I said, “That marriage is a funny thing. Bobo, you find marriage dull?”

“What? Lack of dough makes it rugged at times, but not dull. I... What we talking about marriage for?”

“Just a thought. Ralph Brody liked to make statues out of soap... Interesting?”

“As a vault man he handled keys, could have used soap to make an impression, a duplicate key!” Bobo said like a school-boy reciting his lesson.

“You and me—two minds with a single criminal thought,” I said, starting the car. “Before we drop in on the Shelton family, want to look the bank over.”

Bobo held up his wrist watch. “It's noon, my belly would like to look over some chow.”

“You get a bite while I'm in the bank.” It was only a three-minute drive from the Brody house to the bank. Bobo stepped into a coffee shop across the street for lunch.

It was a small bank, half a dozen tellers' windows, and a bank guard who looked a gay seventy or eighty years old. His gun was so securely buttoned in its holster it would have taken him a week-end to draw it. You walked down a short flight to the vault, and a young fellow unlocked a steel gate for me when I said I was interested in renting a box. I cut his sales talk short by renting the cheapest one, seven-fifty a year, including the tax. As I was filling out signature cards, he opened a drawer, looked through a batch of numbered small envelopes till he found my box number, and handed me two keys. I took the box into a closet-like room, put in a few of my cards and an old letter, closed the box and gave it back to him.

I followed him into the cool vault where he first inserted my key, then a bank key he had on a long chain, shoved the box in, and locked the compartment, gave me back my key. On the way out I said, “Must get kind of lonely down here, doesn't it?”

“Not too. And it's the coolest spot in the bank. My partner is out to lunch now, but there's enough to keep us busy.”

Upstairs, I got into the car. Bobo was still feeding his face. Looking through the dashboard compartment I found a pipe I smoke now and then, a tobacco pouch, lit up. The picture was becoming as clear as the smoke puffing out of the pipe... Brody and Shelton down there alone, day after day, year after year, a couple of hard-working, respectable and low-paid slobs. And after they'd been working together for ten or fifteen years, one of them getting the smart idea. Brody would make a soap impression of all the keys to boxes that were for rent. He would make duplicate keys, or maybe Shelton did that. Then, after the boxes were rented, in their leisure time, the two of them opening the boxes— they had the bank key and a duplicate of the owner's key. Lot of black-market dough from the last war is hidden in vaults—it can't show up on a bank statement without getting the tax boys aroused.

Brody and Shelton would pick a box whose owner rarely came in, open it and examine the cash. They found a box stuffed with cash, “borrowed" a wad, played the horses, the market, returned the “loan” if they won. If they lost—it was an even-money bet that anybody stashing away a big chunk of dough isn't in position to call copper.

It was a nice, bright theory... and as full of holes as Swiss cheese.

I somehow believed Mrs. Brody—she was either telling the truth or the world's greatest actress. Ralph Brody wasn't a playboy, and if he had any loose cash around it was a few pennies. Supposing the “Cat” did have black-market green in various vault boxes, would he do a stupid thing like a killing if fifty or a hundred grand was missing? Offhand I couldn't picture Brody being anything but a petty crook, lifting a grand or two, and Franklin was hardly a wild punk, losing his head, getting boiled enough to murder, even over a hundred grand. And this was a carefully planned brace of murders, nothing done in the heat of a mad moment Yes, the theory had a lot of holes... but not too many to be plugged, maybe all at once.

Bobo walked across the street, a toothpick in his mouth, still plenty of cat-spring to his walk. He had on a thin summer shirt and when the hot wind pressed it against him, you could see all the big muscles. He got in beside me, said, “Better grab a bite. Food ain't too bad over there.”

I shook my head. The mention of food reminded me of the coffee and cream standing on a kitchen table.... Louise's bloody body.

“Learn anything in the bank?”

“Brody and Shelton would have had plenty of time to make duplicate keys, look the vault boxes over,” I said, turning the ignition key.

9

Shelton must have been poorer than Brody, for he lived in a small apartment house a few blocks west of Brody's place. It was almost a tenement, a walk-up with wooden stairs, the halls badly in need of paint and repairs. I rang the bell of his top floor flat—the cheapest rent—but didn't get any answer.

I went back down to the main floor, pressed the janitor's bell. She turned out to be a thin, elderly woman with a pleasant face, and like most janitors—full of gossip. I tipped my hat—and it touched the bump on the back of my head where I'd been sapped, and I damn near opened the conversation with a scream. I gulped, managed to say, “Good afternoon. Can you tell me when George Shelton will be home? Two months ago he ordered a...”

“Two months—oh my! The poor man was shot to death in a dirty hold-up last month!” she said, happy to find someone who didn't know the news.

I tried to look shocked. I didn't have to say a word for she went right on with, “Oh my, yes, it was a blow to all of us. I'm not one to speak harmful of the dead, and Mr. Shelton was a good man, I suppose, even though he did cause his poor wife's death and...”