The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins
lines aren’t really necessary,” she replied as she turned her attention back to the road. “You already have me in your car and that gun pretty much dictates I’ll have to do whatever you want me to do.” Suddenly feeling a bit bolder she added, “But whatever you do, please don’t call me a doll. I’ve got a college degree and I can put together sentences in both print and verbal fashion. Dolls can’t do that.”
If she’d touched a nerve, it didn’t show. He cocked his head and barked, “Take off your gloves.”
“It’s cold and I’m driving the car,” she snapped, “it would be dangerous for me to let go of the steering wheel. Besides, my hands aren’t my best features.”
“Okay,” he replied, “I’ll make this easy; just use those full red lips to answer a question. Are you wearing your jade ring?”
“Listen,” she cracked, “on what I make each week the only piece of jewelry I can afford is a cheap watch. Why don’t you use that cash we brought tonight and buy your own jade ring? I don’t have one.”
He was quiet for a moment before he began spitting out words that chilled her even more than the hard December weather. “I’ve been paid big bucks to get rid of you, and that jade ring you claim you don’t have is the key to my not getting rubbed out, too.”
She considered his words and, as she did, a plan quickly came together in her mind. The guy needed a jade ring to seal the deal. He obviously figured she’d be wearing it. If she played things right, the mere fact she wasn’t might just buy her some time.
“The ring’s at my apartment,” she lied.
“But I was told you always wear it.”
“Well,” she stalled, “I do, except when it’s this cold. My gloves don’t fit right when I have it on. So tonight, I left it home. Why’s it so important to you?”
She waited for his response, but it didn’t come quickly. It was a full three miles later when he finally posed a question. “How far is your place from where we are now?”
“With the streets the way they are,” she explained, “maybe half an hour.”
“Let’s go,” he suggested. “You’re no good to me without that ring.”
Tiffany turned right, drove around a block, and pointed the car back toward downtown. She’d successfully and unexpectedly bought a little time, but would that really matter when they got to the apartment? When she had to admit there was no ring, then what would the guy do? That was something she didn’t want to consider and thanks to his breaking in with a question, she didn’t have to dwell on it either.
“What do you have on Richard Delono?” he demanded.
This was interesting. Just the mention of the gangster’s name proved that Elrod had been on the right track with his investigation. But what did a blonde woman have to do with it? Why was she so important to finishing this equation? It was time to find out and perhaps the best way to get that information was to play dumb.
“What makes you think I know anything about . . .” she paused for effect, then added, “what did you say the guy’s name was?”
He leaned against the passenger door and studied her for several seconds before asking, “How much farther?”
“About ten minutes, unless we hit a patch of ice.”
He smiled grimly. “Elrod turned you over to me or at least he used Walker to do that. That’s how badly he wanted those files. On top of that, Delono paid me to make sure you didn’t talk. So what is it that you know?”
She was getting someplace now. The blonde was valuable, at least to the crime boss, maybe what the mystery woman knew might even bring him down. But if that were the case, why would Elrod turn her over to the very man he was trying to expose and stop? Or was he? Maybe Elrod had been playing both sides of the street and the blonde and cash were meant to assure Delono that they were on the same team. As she rolled the theory over in her head, she turned to her captor, “What was in the files?”
“What difference does it make?” he asked.
“If those files are worth more than my life,” she shot back, “then I want to know why.”
He nodded, “That’s fair. There was supposed to be pages of information in those files on the man Elrod has in his sights, but it was all a scam. Those files are filled with nothing more than blank sheets of paper.”
She could barely believe what she’d been told. She’d put her life on the line for nothing. Swallowing hard she whispered, “You’re serious?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I looked through them. I don’t know what Elrod was expecting, but when he opens those files he’s going to be very disappointed. So, I guess your life is not worth the paper that absolutely nothing is written on.”
She nodded and frowned. Now that was a sobering thought. Lane had sold the reporter out for a long story with absolutely no copy. Well, at least the cop could read and comprehend what he’d been given.
Chapter 8
8
Thursday, December 19, 1946
2:01 A.m.
Lane Walker was frantic. The house was empty, there was no obvious clue as to who had been using it, and he had no idea what kind of car the mystery man was driving when he spirited Tiffany away. Worse yet, he didn’t know where the gunman had taken the reporter. Thus, the cop was completely lost.
Walking over to the phone, he picked up the receiver and dialed four numbers before shaking his head and hanging up. What good would it do to put out an alarm when he had only a vague description of the man and no guess as to where he’d taken the reporter? Besides, the last thing he wanted to admit was that he’d been so stupid. After all, this guy had anticipated every move the cop had planned. In fact, his opponent had won the game in one move and kidnapped The Chicago Star’s top reporter. The chief was going to eat Lane alive when he found out.
Flipping on all the lights, the detective began to search and then re-search the house room by room. Except for the furniture, there was nothing in the place. There were no clothes in the closets, no dirty dishes, the trash cans were empty, and nothing was written on notepads. There wasn’t even a toothbrush or a bar of soap in the bathroom.
Frustrated, Lane hurried next door and pounded on the door to find out what the neighbors knew. A man in his forties was not pleased about having a person, even one with a badge, rouse him from bed in the middle of the night. Neither were the folks in the other homes on the street. Worse yet, no one had ever seen the big man. About all they could tell the cop was that Olivia Allbright, an elderly widow, had lived in the small house at 1014 Elmwood until three months ago when she’d died. After her children removed her personal belongings, a real estate company finished cleaning the place and was now getting ready to sell it. As it was fully furnished, the company expected it to move quickly.
With no concrete information to work with, Lane returned to the house, picked up the phone, and began digging into what little he had gleaned from his nocturnal wanderings. A series of calls finally put the cop in touch with a real estate agent who knew something about the house. James Cantrell informed the policeman that the property had not been leased, that he’d never met the man Lane described, and that his company would not officially put a “For Sale” sign in the yard until after Christmas. The call ended with the angry real estate agent shooting out a number of off-color descriptions of policemen that made even Lane blush. After setting the phone back down on the receiver, the exasperated cop came to the conclusion that the home had been chosen for only one reason: it was empty and furnished. Thus, the man had simply picked the lock or found an open window, waited for Lane and Tiffany to arrive, and after he had gotten his hands on the money and the woman, he’d likely driven to his real residence. But where was that?
The clock was ticking and if Lane couldn’t find out who the man was perhaps