“Very well,” I said in cold anger. “I’m off the payroll. I’ll send you a bill. But you’re wrong about one thing, McGraw—and you can tell Earl from me—you can fire me, but you can’t get rid of me.”
I hung up. Beautiful, Vic: beautiful rhetoric. It had just been possible that Smeissen believed he’d cowed me into quitting. So why be so full of femalechismo and yell challenges into the phone? I ought to write, “Think before acting” a hundred times on the blackboard.
At least McGraw had agreed to knowing Earl, or at least to knowing who he was. That had been a shot—not totally in the dark, however, since the Knifegrinders knew most of the hoods in Chicago. The fact that he knew Earl didn’t mean he’d sikked him onto my apartment—or onto killing Peter Thayer—but it was sure a better connection than anything else I had.
I dialed Ralph’s number. He wasn’t home. I paced some more, but decided the time for action had arrived. I wasn’t going to get any further thinking about the case, or worrying about intercepting a bullet from Tony’s gun. I changed out of the green slacks into jeans and running shoes. I got out my collection of skeleton keys and put them in one pocket, car keys, driver’s license, private investigator license, and fifty dollars in the other. I fastened the shoulder holster over a loose, man-tailored shirt and practiced drawing the gun until it came out quickly and naturally.
Before leaving Lotty’s, I examined my face in the bathroom mirror. She was right—I did look better. The left side was still discolored—in fact it was showing some more yellow and green—but the swelling had gone down considerably. My left eye was completely open and not inflamed, even though the purple had spread farther. It cheered me up a bit; I switched on Lotty’s telephone answering machine, slipped on a jean jacket and left, carefully locking the doors behind me.
The Cubs were playing a doubleheader with St. Louis, and Addison was filled with people leaving the first game and those arriving for the second. I turned on WGN radio just in time to hear Dejesus lead off the bottom of the first inning with a hard drive to the shortstop. He was cut down easily at first, but at least he hadn’t hit into a double play.
Once clear of Wrigley Field traffic, it was a quick twenty-minute drive downtown. It being Sunday, I was able to park on the street outside my office. The police had left the area, but a patrolman came over as I entered the building.
“What’s your business here, miss?” he asked sharply but not unpleasantly.
“I’m V. I. Warshawski,” I told him. “I have an office here which was broken into earlier today and I’ve come to inspect the damage.”
“I’d like to see some identification, please.”
I pulled out my driver’s license and my private investigator photo-ID. He examined them, nodded, and gave them back to me. “Okay, you can go on up. Lieutenant Mallory told me to keep an eye out and not let anyone but tenants into the building. He told me you’d probably stop by.”
I thanked him and went inside. For once the elevator was working and I took it rather than the stairs—I could keep fit someday when I wasn’t feeling quite so terrible. The office door was closed, but its upper glass half had been shattered. When I went inside, though, the damage wasn’t as severe as to my apartment. True, all my files had been dumped onto the floor, but the furniture had been left intact. No safe is totally entry-proof: someone had been into the little one in back of the big one. But it must have taken five hours at least. No wonder they’d been so angry by the time they got to my apartment—all that effort for nothing. Fortunately I hadn’t had any money or sensitive papers in the place at the time.
I decided to leave the papers where they were: Tomorrow I’d get a Kelly Girl to come in and file them all for me again. But I’d better call a boarding service for the door, or the place would be ransacked by thieves. I’d lost one of Gabriella’s glasses; I didn’t want the Olivetti to go as well. I got a twenty-four-hour place to agree to send someone over, and went downstairs. The patrolman wasn’t too happy when I explained what I’d done, but he finally agreed to check it with the lieutenant. I left him at the phone and continued on my way to the South Side.
The bright, cool weather was continuing, and I had a pleasant drive south. The lake was dotted with sailboats along the horizon. Nearer the shore were a few swimmers. The game was in the bottom of the third, and Kingman struck out. 2-0, St. Louis. The Cubs had bad days, too—in fact, more than I did, probably.