Howdy, folks, and welcome back for Part 3 of Music to Murder By. If it’s your first time with this story, you may wish to begin with Part 1. Otherwise, enjoy!
Micki Marteau
I couldn't just stand around on the street corner. That'd get the wrong kind of attention altogether. Lucky for me, there was an all-night diner between a couple of rowhouses, on the other side of the street. I waited for a break in the traffic, then ran for it.
I was glad to see there were all kinds inside, not just steelworkers or stevedores, or any other one group. That made it easier.
I smiled at the counter girl, and asked for kuh-woffee, in my best Philly.
"Anything else, doll?"
"Toast, with cream cheese and jam." I realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and it was pushing ten.
"Shore. Just take a seat."
They had another counter across the window, perfect to watch the street. I nabbed a copy of Thrilling Detective Magazine someone had left, and made believe to read.
Nearly an hour went by. 'Thrilling' my poor tired feet. I was starting to think I'd need to hire a second detective to go in after the first, when Slade slid onto the stool next to me. I must have missed him coming out the door. That'd teach me to watch the clock.
"Did you find him?"
He'd picked up my handbag to clear the stool. "What've you got in here, sister, lead?"
"Got it in one," I said coolly. "What about my engineer?"
"Oh, he was there, all right. You wouldn't believe that place. Regular Sodom and Gomorrah."
"And…"
"Your boy had two 'encounters.' Young man would approach, they'd get up, disappear for a while, and come back. This sort of thing was happening all around. I had to pretend I was a clueless bumpkin to avoid them myself."
"I hope that wasn't too hard."
"Very funny." He took a drink of my coffee, not noticing the lipstick smear.
To hide a grin, I shoved some toast in my face. Before it got there he grabbed my arm, and practically yanked me off the stool.
"Come on! There they are!"
I threw some green on the counter, and ran after.
***
Micki Marteau
"So who is the other?" I muttered into Slade's ear. We were 'being a couple,' arms entwined and his ear just an inch from my lips.
"Fred Wise. At least that's what he called himself."
"You don't think so?"
"More like Friedrich Weiss. Say..." Slade's hands ran up my back, feeling the shoulder harness straps there. They traced down my sides. Since he was faced away from our targets, he found other ways to amuse himself. I think he was more interested in the two pistols holstered there than he was in me. A girl could get a complex in this town. "That's some serious iron… doesn't show at all, in that jacket."
"A wasp waist is good for something, I guess." I bit his ear. "Focus. What else?"
"Wise apparently arranges your boy's lovely young companions. He keeps it quiet—"
"But he doesn't have to."
"Exactly. He was trying to get something out of the engineer. Seemed like something big. That was his squeeze."
"I guess now we know. I can have the regulars pick him up—"
"You might not want to wait. I couldn't hear everything, but one thing ol' Friedrich did say, over and over again was 'We'll get you out.'"
I watched the two on the other side of the street. I wished now that we'd managed to get closer before we went into this courting couple routine. They were arguing, I noticed my engineer waving his briefcase around. "He's got his briefcase with him."
My breakfast did somersaults. What if he'd actually brought papers out? Not just word of mouth like DC thought, but plans, papers, blueprints?
"What did you say he was working on, anyway?"
I broke the clinch, and we moved toward the other two. We gained maybe a dozen yards. Friedrich seemed to look at us, so I pulled Slade in again.
"He's one of the designers of the new super-battleships. Big enough to blow anything Jerry or the—"
Just then, the engineer made a break. He slung his bag into the presumed German's face, then started running. He didn't make it ten feet before a hail of bullets cut him down.
Slade almost dropped me as he jogged down the sidewalk as fast as a bad leg would allow. I spotted the muzzle flashes, and drew.
The muzzle of a Thompson stuck out the window of a Ford sedan parked not far from the window. I steadied, sighted, squeezed. Six shots rolled out, as I stroked the trigger smoothly and the Thompson went silent. I grinned. Another flash further up the street said Tommy hadn't been alone. I reached for the second Webley, and fired. This one only took two rounds to silence. I swung to cover the German, beating fleet feet, but Slade's lumbering back protected him like no car door could.
Slade stood puffing over the body when I came up. "The nancy died game," he muttered.
"Some people can only be pushed so far. Last gasp of patriotism?"
"Maybe the offer was too low?"
"Or it could have been a lover's quarrel. I doubt we'll ever know."
He looked at me. "Your Daddy teach you to shoot like that?"
"He tried, but couldn't. He sent me to stay with some cousins—the Butlers—that summer down in Greenville."
He grunted.
"Where'd you learn to block a bullet like that?" I asked.
"France. Got some practice there, anyhow."
We stood there, considering. "Battleship plans?"
"Yep."
"That ain't good."
"Nope."
"Well, come on. Let's see who those gunners were."
I broke both revolvers, which kicked out the empties. I caught and pocketed them, then reached in my handbag for a couple of fresh six-packs. The moonclips dropped neatly into the big chambers, and I swiveled the barrels up to lock as I walked over to the first car.
Broken glass and blood had sprayed everywhere. I didn't recognize the dead muscle, but I hadn't expected to.
Slade did, though. "Johnny Campinelli."
"You know him?"
"Knew. Not that he didn't have it coming. Yeah, he was one of the Outfit boys."
"You think the German had these guys working for him?"
"Hitler and Mussolini are pals, they tell us. Maybe."
"Does that tell us anything else?" I asked.
