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Chapter 9

9

Thursday, December 19, 1946

2:22 A.m.

Tiffany’s bluff worked, at least temporarily. She’d actually managed to lure her captor into her third-floor, three-room apartment. Now the man was intently watching her, with gun in hand, as she pretended to look through her dressing table for a ring she didn’t have. When she moved over to her dresser, it dawned on her that her plan would have worked much better if she’d had a much bigger place with a lot more furniture.

“Surely you know where you put it,” he barked at the five-minute mark of her little charade. “Or you’re the most scatterbrained person I’ve ever met.”

“I thought it was in a drawer,” she stalled. “Maybe I left it in the bathroom.” As she hurried from her bedroom into the tiny connecting bath, he followed her step by step.

“Can’t you at least give me some privacy?” she pleaded. “I have dainty things hanging over the showerhead to dry.”

“I know what bras and stockings look like,” he sarcastically replied. “I also know when a woman is looking for an exit.”

Tiffany pointed to the eight-by-four-foot room’s only window located five feet over the tub and noted, “A small house cat could barely climb through that window; so I’m not going anywhere. Just let me look for the ring in peace. Your hovering around me like a mother hen is making me so nervous I can’t think straight.”

Leaning against the sink, he shook his head and chuckled, “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never a mother hen. As far as my thinking goes, it seems your mind works pretty well. In fact, it’s coming up with more crazy notions with each passing second.” He took a deep breath before adding, “I don’t like being played a fool, so either produce the ring or admit you don’t have it.”

Tiffany pushed her blonde hair away from her face and frowned. The jig was up; she couldn’t bluff anymore. It was time to cave and give out with some bad news. But that didn’t mean she had to tell the truth. There was still one way to keep the con going.

“Listen,” she paused, “what’s your name anyway? I mean we are sharing a bathroom, I think I should at least know your name.”

“McCoy,” he stoically replied.

“What’s your first name?” Tiffany demanded. “I hate calling folks by their last name.”

“That is my first name.”

“McCoy?” she laughed. “You’re the first real McCoy I’ve ever met.”

“That line’s hardly original.”

“Okay, McCoy,” Tiffany coyly replied, “let me level with you. The jade ring is not here.”

“Where is it?” he impatiently demanded as he waved his gun toward her face.

“Well,” she explained, her eyes following the moving barrel, “it’s Christmas, and things have not been going real well in my world.” She smiled nervously and then continued her story. “I have not been able to find a steady job, I needed to buy some presents for friends and family, and I have a really big family, fourteen brothers and sisters, so I pawned it last week.”

“So, there’s no ring?”

“Well,” Tiffany quickly explained, “not tonight. But we can take some of that money you’ve got in that attaché case and retrieve it tomorrow. I can buy it back for two hundred dollars.”

His smirk clearly proved he was not really buying her latest story. Keeping his gun pointed at her face, he pulled a dime from his pocket, tossed it in the air, caught it, and glanced at his palm. He continued the little exercise nine more times.

“The flip of a coin sometimes produces all the direction any of us need,” he explained. “You know, when I was in the Marines that’s how we decided who was going to volunteer for a dangerous mission.”

Her blue eyes followed his hand as he dropped the dime back into his pants pocket. What did this have to do with anything? After all, the only thing she’d volunteered for was to be a part of Lane’s plan. She silently laughed as she realized that decision had made her a sucker. Yep, going along with anything that flatfoot suggested was always a bad idea.

As Tiffany continued to rehash her stupidity by reliving a series of horrible experiences with Lane, the gunman raised his eyebrows and noted, “You don’t get it, do you?”

Forgetting about the cop and dates that went bad, the reporter shook her head and admitted, “I’m not following what a dime has to do with this.”

“Heads, you’re lying,” he explained, “tails, you’re not.”

“What did the dime tell you?”

“Doesn’t matter what the dime said,” McCoy calmly explained, “my gut tells me all I need to know.”

As she waited for him to explain, Tiffany studied the man who evidently held her life in his hands. His hair was dark, his eyes green, and his chin strong. Not only were his shoulders as wide as an axe handle, but his chest was broad and his waist thin. In a different time and place, she would have been attracted to the handsome stranger, but it was hard to warm up to man with a gun in his hand.

“What’s your name?” McCoy demanded, his question reminding her she really was in a tough spot that was getting tougher by the moment.

She licked her lips, searching for a suitable response that didn’t blow her cover while also trying to latch onto a name that seemed real. She almost opted to use Brenda Strong, but that sounded too much like a comic page heroine. The next handle she landed on, Madge Wooley, seemed too old. Janie was a nice name, but what last name worked well with it? She’d just about decided on McCall when McCoy waved his left hand and frowned.

“You’re not the blonde that was supposed to come to the house. By now that’s pretty obvious, so who are you and what happened to her? You might want to give out with the truth and not try to dream up another fairy tale. I outgrew those a long time ago.”

“I have to be the blonde,” she continued to build on her lie. “Otherwise, how would I have known when and where to meet you? I mean, that Lane person sold me out. You see, he assured me I was going to meet a rich guy who had a great job for me. You might have problems believing this, but I sing a bit. So, I naturally bought into what Lane was selling. After all, I told you I had to pawn the ring. I need the money.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I can imagine you onstage, after all, I’ve been listening to your song-and-dance routine for an hour now.” He shook his head, “Just quit playing games and admit you’re not the real blonde.”

“That’s not true,” she shot back. “I’ve never dyed my hair. I’ve been a real blonde since the day I was born.”

“Listen lady,” a now noticeably frustrated McCoy complained, “I’ve had about as much of this as I can stomach. Quit with the jokes and give me the real story. After all, I’ve got the gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Though she didn’t want to abort her performance and though she feared shelling out the truth would mean the end of her life, what other choice did she have? The real story had to be written and she might as well be the author who decided the words to employ. Shrugging, she silently marched past her captor, his eyes and gun following her every step, through the bedroom and into the ten-by-ten-foot living room. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she pointed to a chair. “McCoy, if you’ll keep your hand off that trigger, I’ll shoot straight with you. So take a load off, open up your ears, and I’ll give you the real unvarnished scoop.”

The man eased down into a second-hand Victorian reading chair and crossed his right foot over his left knee. Though he didn’t aim his weapon directly at her, he kept his finger on the trigger as he balanced the revolver on the arm of the red chair.

“Okay, McCoy, I’m not only not the blonde, I don’t even know the blonde. I just happened to be at Elrod’s when you called. And you might as well know this: Elrod’s dead. He was dead when I arrived.”

“So that’s why you were with Lane Walker. You’re a lady cop.”

“Not really,” she explained, “I don’t work with the guy. In fact, I usually try to avoid him. But I had an appointment with Elrod, and Lane was there when I knocked on the door. He’s in charge of the murder investigation.”

“Did Lane answer the phone when I called?”

“Yeah.”

“Then,” McCoy said, his expression and tone softening a bit, “the quiz-club final question becomes, who are you?”

She smiled. There was no longer any reason to continue the charade. If she was going to die she might as well do it under her real identity. “I’m a reporter for The Chicago Star. My name is Tiffany Clayton.”

“That’s just great,” McCoy grumbled, “I was paid to kill a blonde wearing a jade ring. If I don’t mail a photo of the dead girl along with that ring back to the man who hired the hit, then he’s going to kill me. So it looks like you and Walker signed my death warrant.”

“Well, excuse me,” Tiffany quipped, “I’m sorry I’m not the woman you need to murder.”

“Them’s the breaks,” he grumbled. “If I just had the jade ring I’ll bet I could pass you off as the dame.”

“Well,” she snidely replied. “I just seem to be a big disappointment to you. How tragic it must be to meet a woman who simply can’t deliver what you need before you blow her brains out.”

McCoy pushed out of the chair and walked over to the window. He peeked through the curtain and noted, “Well, it has quit snowing.”

As he continued to study the empty street three floors below, Tiffany quietly rose and took two steps toward the front door.

“I can see your reflection in the glass,” he noted, “so why don’t you sit down and let me figure a way out of this mess.”

As she dejectedly moved back to her seat, collapsed on the couch, and crossed her legs, McCoy turned, walked into the apartment’s kitchen, retrieved a glass, and turned on the tap. After taking a drink of water, he marched back into the room and studied the woman for a few minutes before finally revealing his thoughts. “If I just knew what the ring looked like maybe I could come up with a duplicate and still pass you off as her. That’d keep me alive for a while.”

“But that would seal the deal for me,” she noted. Forcing a grim smile she added, “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, but I realize your time is limited and you have another blonde to find, so why don’t you just let yourself out and I’ll get ready for bed.”

“It’s not that simple,” he explained. “And, if I might be so bold, you’re being a little selfish here. If I don’t follow through on this hit, then I die.”

“I get that,” she quickly explained. “And I wish it wasn’t that way, but there’s not much I can do about that. So, as your killing me really won’t do you any good, I think it might be wise for you to hop in your car and go and find the real blonde. Check with Santa, he is supposed to know where everyone is all the time. Maybe he can help you.”

He nodded, “You might just be onto something.” Moving back to the chair he took a seat and glanced back at his unwilling host. His expression revealed a cool detachment and, as both of their lives were on the line, that either made him the coolest cat since author Dashiell Hammett invented Sam Spade or a person resigned to his own fate. His next question, delivered in a monotone, echoed the man’s matter-of-fact manner. “So you were at Elrod’s earlier tonight?”

“We’ve already established that,” she impatiently admitted. “You’re as bad about going over the same thing again and again as Lane Walker is.” She suddenly smiled and snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute. A brilliant thought just hit me.”

“I doubt the brilliant part,” McCoy countered.

“No,” she begged, “give me a chance. Here’s my idea, and I think you’ll see the logic in it. Lane and I probably beat the blonde there. If we had waited around, we would have surely run into her. I mean, think about this. I had a nine-thirty appointment with Elrod. He wouldn’t have asked the blonde to come until he was sure I was gone.” She looked back at McCoy and quizzed, “Did he have any idea what time you were going to want to get the money and the woman?”

The man nodded, “He always did business with the guy I replaced between one and five in the morning. He knew I was going to call last night.”

“Then,” Tiffany suggested, “maybe the woman is not there yet or is waiting for Elrod to join her.”

“That’s a long shot,” he noted.

“I think this one is worth playing,” she added. “I mean, you need the woman and the ring, and I can’t give you that. At least not the ring part.”

“Okay,” he admitted, “what have I got lose? Your hunch is better than anything I can come up with. Put your coat on, you’re driving me to Elrod’s.”

“I really need to wrap some presents,” she explained. “And you really don’t need me there. I promise I won’t tell anybody about what happened tonight.”

“Yeah, I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

“As big as you are,” Tiffany quickly pointed out, “that might be a considerable distance.”

“Come on, Miss Clayton, let’s move.”

“I’m guessing there’s no way to talk you out of this?”

“Nope. If we can’t find the real blonde, I might still be able to figure a way to use your body.”

“Wonderful,” she sighed. Taking a deep breath, Tiffany got up, retrieved her coat from where she’d earlier hung it on hall tree by the front door, and slipped it on. After wrapping her scarf around her neck, she marched out the door and silently vowed that if she somehow lived through this adventure she was going to tear Lane Walker to pieces.