Sergeant Detective Marilyn Alongi clucked her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “And to think, I nearly went to the prom with that guy.”
“Looks pretty dark in there.”
I said, “Lieutenant, he keeps it pretty dark.”
Murphy turned to me, then spoke to Alongi. “Side door?”
“I knocked. No answer.”
As Murphy said, “Batting a thousand,” I thought I caught something move in the dim light inside, near Tommy’s desk. Then I saw the movement again and identified it.
“Lieutenant, there’s somebody down in there.”
“Where?”
I pointed. “Bare legs, rolling a little on the floor.”
Alongi said, “Side door’d be easier to force.”
Murphy said, “Let’s hit it.”
When we arrived at the door, I looked to Murphy, and he nodded. I cocked my right foot over the door knob and kicked out, just below the lock. The jamb splintered enough for me to shoulder through it.
“All right,” said Murphy. “I’m in first, Alongi behind me. Cuddy, you wait till tomorrow. Got it?”
We both nodded as Alongi drew her Glock and Murphy unholstered his own.
I followed them, close enough to Alongi to touch her shoulder blades. Even without having smelled it within the hour, there was no mistaking the cordite pong still hanging in the air. The smell got stronger as we reached Tommy’s office up front.
Dim light spilling from the doorway to the couple’s second-floor apartment showed us an image I still can’t shake.
Tommy Flaherty, on his knees, cradling Hildy’s head in his lap and stroking her hair. He’s keening softly, almost to himself. There are irregular blotches on her robe and flesh, like somebody’s slapped a brush — saturated with red paint — four or five times against her. On the floor to Tommy’s right lies his Smith & Wesson four-inch; on the floor to Hildy’s left, her cordless hair dryer.
Since the revolver was within Tommy’s reach, Murphy edged over to it, Alongi covering him. With his foot, the lieutenant slid the gun away like a soccer player in slow motion. Then Murphy let his own weapon slump down against the outside of his thigh.
He said, “What happened here?”
Tommy clenched his jaw, then managed, “I was over... by the safe... Closed a policy, putting the cash inside... A door opened, and I looked up, and it was DuPage, against the wall there.”
My eyes went up above the safe. Jesus.
Tommy howled like a dog locked in a shed. “Only it wasn’t DuPage, it was his shadow... And after I turned with the revolver and fired, it wasn’t even his shadow, jeez, it was Hildy’s, with her robe like his coat — the belt and all — and her hair dryer like a machine gun, and... and...”
Tommy Flaherty just stroked the hair of his dead wife, the style fresh from the salon, her probably just wanting his take on it after shampooing. Only the style she’d chosen from among the photos I’d seen was the two-inch all-around perm.
A lot like an Afro, at least in silhouette.
Sergeant Detective Marilyn Alongi said, “Mother of God.”
I thought, “And if he sees his shadow...” but kept it to myself.
Valentino’s Valediction
by Amy Myers
Much of author Amy Myers’s work can be categorized as series historical mystery. Her best-known amateur detective, Auguste Didier, is an 1890s chef reluctantly turned sleuth; a second series features mid-Victorian chimney sweep Tom Wasp. With this new story Ms. Myers steps into the twentieth century and the world of early movie fandom. One of her Didier stories is scheduled for the June EQMM. Don’t miss it!
Until the Sheik galloped into her dreams, Ruby Smart had been happy enough with her husband Harold. After that, life at 12 The Cedars was never quite the same. A romp with Harold on Saturday night, however jolly, bore no comparison with Rudolph Valentino’s dark smouldering eyes as he threw her across his horse, grating out: “Lie still, you little fool.”
She could tell his voice was deep and sensuous, even though all you saw at the pictures was his lips moving and the words flashing up afterwards on the screen. The very thought of his being near her, bare-chested, nostrils flaring, made her shiver in anticipation. His hypnotic eyes seared right through her, doing odd things to her body.
She had been a little taken aback when she found out that they were doing the same odd things to Gladys Perkins, her chum at No. 16, but consoled herself that it was nice to have someone with whom she could pore over Picturegoer, dissect every sentence of Rudolph’s autobiography, wallow in his book of poetry, swap photographs, and queue up at the Picturedrome when Harold refused to go. Which was all the time now. And he refused to wear sideboards like Rudolph, so how could he blame her for going with Gladys, even if it was three times a week?
Last year she and Gladys had actually seen Rudolph, when he came to London for the first night of The Eagle. She and Gladys had taken the train to Charing Cross and walked all the way to the Marble Arch Pavilion — they’d had to, because the traffic was at a standstill. The newspaper next day said there were 5,000 people gathered outside, and she was one of them. She and Gladys had fought their way almost to the front, and Rudolph had looked right at her. Gladys said it was her he looked at, but Ruby knew different. After all, Gladys was a blonde and it was obvious Rudolph preferred dark-haired women like Ruby. Ruby had fainted dead away, and when she got home Harold hadn’t been in the least sympathetic. It had been a comedown returning home to Harold with her fish and chips making her gloves all greasy, but in her soul she was still with Rudolph being rescued from her runaway carriage by the handsome Cossack lieutenant, and this comforted her a lot.
“If only Harold had a chest like Rudolph instead of being all flabby and hairy,” Ruby had wailed to Gladys.
“I’ll tell you someone who has.” Gladys giggled.
“Frank?” Ruby couldn’t believe that of Gladys’s meek and mild husband. He was even plumper than Harold. He and Frank were chums, in a way, because they were both commercial travellers. Harold reckoned he had more style than Frank owing to the fact that Frank only dealt in kitchen goods, but Harold travelled in ladies’ stockings. It sounded funny to Ruby, the way he put it, travelling in ladies’ stockings, but when Harold got red in the face she stopped laughing. He did not like his pride hurt.
“No. Cyril Tucker,” Gladys said.
“Who’s he?” Ruby asked blankly, not being able to remember any film stars of that name.
“Keep a secret?”
“Of course,” Ruby breathed, leaning closer.
“Our milkman.”
Ruby was an innocent in such matters. “How do you know, Glad?”
“He obliges.”
“Obliges what?”
“When he comes for his money on a Friday, he — well, you know.”
Ruby didn’t.
“He doesn’t mind doing a Valentino for me,” Gladys amplified.
“Glad!” Ruby was overawed. “You mean he takes off his shirt for you?”
“More than that, Rube.”
Ruby’s bow-shaped mouth opened wide in shock. “Oh, Glad!” And when Gladys sniggered, she continued with dignity, “I’m going right home now and pretend you never told me that.” She’d never taken much notice of their milkman. He wore the usual blue-and-white striped apron over his clothes and a cap, and she’d not looked at him much otherwise. When she began to think, though, she supposed he was quite good-looking. How Gladys could, however. She decided not to see Glad for at least a day.