The Chinese Doll полностью

“Remember my saying she was giving a lousy skating performance? She acted sort of funny on the ice. Not too sure of herself. I thought maybe she had been doped and sent out there.”

“No, it wasn’t that. Something else must have contributed to the poor skating.”

“Yeah. And that something else, whatever it was, pushed her into the lake, too.”

She didn’t have an answer to that one, and swung her gaze out the window.

I reached in the desk drawer for the telephone and put in a call for Rothman in Croyden. In a few minutes the operator informed me that Mr. Rothman couldn’t be reached at that number, but that a Mr. Liebscher of the same firm would talk to me if I so desired. Did I?

I did.

Liebscher greeted me, “It’s your nickel, chum.”

“Doesn’t Rothman ever work? And can’t you think of a new way to open a conversation?”

“Ah — it’s Charley-boy. How are you, chum?”

“Never mind my health. Look: I’m mailing you a clipping about a Chinese girl who drowned... what?”

“I said, skip it. We’ve got newspapers, too.”

“All right, here’s the story: remember what I told you earlier about Evans? That’s right. It turns out that this Chinese girl is connected with him. Or was, rather. His mistress. No — never mind how I found out. I want you to dig up some details for me, fast. I’m coming over there late this afternoon. Don’t hang up — there’s more.”

Beth had swung back from the window to watch me, a troubled expression in her eyes. I ignored the eyes.

“Liebscher: I think that lawyer — yeah, Ashley — is in on this, too. Take a quick look into his private affairs. Try to find out who some of his clients are; we might work through them. Anything that’ll give us a line on him.

“That isn’t all. I’ll want information on the big-time gambling outfits over there. Can you do it? Fine. I’ll see you sometime this afternoon. So long, now.”

I hung up.

The troubled expression in Elizabeth’s eyes had changed to worried concern and flooded over into her face.

“Chuck — do you think you ought to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Pry into this thing? It might be dangerous for you. After all, you’ve done as much as you can.”

“Elizabeth, you say you’re a doctor. Would you run out on a patient because he was dying of a disease that might kill you, too? After you had done everything humanly possible there was to do for him?”

“N...o.”

“Well, I’m not a doctor. I like to think I’m a detective. I swore no oath and I don’t have to go through with it if I don’t want to. But I won’t run out on a case just because there might be some danger in it.”

“Chuck, it isn’t a question of might be, it is. A man and a woman have been brutally murdered because of something you don’t fully understand. And yet you blindly insist upon putting your head into the bag to see if you can understand what’s inside.”

“Thank you for your interest, Elizabeth.”

She stood up and reached for her purse. “I expected something better than this, Chuck.”

“Sorry, Elizabeth.”

She opened my office door and paused on the threshold, waiting for me to say something more. I said nothing.

Finally she half turned and said slowly, “I hope you never regret the rejecting of my advice, Charles.”

The door closed and she was gone.

What the hell — was that a threat?

  Boone, Ill.

  Friday, noon

Dear Louise:

I have a very nice nurse named Hazel; she’s competent, starched, and more than a little cynical. She provided me with a tilting-top table, some stationery, and loaned me her pen.

I hope the telegram didn’t frighten you. Hazel telephoned it in for me. They were very nice roses, and thank you again.

It all happened, Louise, because I didn’t have enough sense to take Dr. Saari’s advice. It’s all somewhat hectic, and rough, and more than a little puzzling. It went like this:

Liebscher rammed his thin, sharp elbow into my unprotected ribs and pointed a blunt finger through the dirty windshield.

“That’s her, chum,” he said casually.

I looked first at her attractive, long legs mounted on spiked heels and the handsome, expensive fur coat she was wearing as she moved swiftly towards our car along the snow-blown sidewalk. And then I looked up, up the legs and fur coat, into the face of the Chinese doll. The newspaper fell from my fingers.

Croyden is a murky, grey vestpocket edition of Chicago. The smoke begins at the river’s edge, belching from a score of chimneys, and sweeps west across the waterfront and up the hill to Adams Street. The air is sooty and discouraging and clings to the skin like an unhealthy blanket. My handkerchief was soiled from several swipes across my face, and my throat tasted as if the smoke had seeped into my mouth.