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Kiss and Kill
By Ellery Queen MysteriousPress.com
Copyright © 1969 Ellery Queen
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1912-5
CHAPTER 1
The thing began on a cool and windy April evening in Chicago, in a basement apartment on the North Side.
It began with Edward Tollman, the footsteps, and the loaf of bread.
Ed was sketching a cabinet design for a combination radiophonograph at his worktable when he heard the street door open, faintly, and the sound of footsteps growing louder as they crossed the foyer and paused outside the apartment door. He paid no attention, but worked on, the cuffs of his white shirt turned back from his furry forearms.
By the watch on his wrist it was 7:05.
At seven-fifteen he leaned back. He flexed his fingers and shook a cigarette out of the pack on his drawing board, unconsciously imitating the he-men of the TV commercials.
"How long till supper?" he called out. Liz did not answer, and he slewed about on his chair. "Liz?"
All he heard now was silence.
He slid off the chair, looked into the kitchen, the bathroom. They were empty. He walked back through the living room, where he had been working, and glanced into the bedroom. She was not there, either. She was not in the apartment at all.
He went back to the living room. It was sunken three steps down from a tiny foyer at the apartment door, and he went up the steps, opened the door, and looked into the vestibule. No one. But leaning against the wall to the side of the apartment door there was a paper bag. He knew what it contained before he stooped to pick it up; he could smell it. It contained a loaf of freshly baked bread, still warm.
But where was Liz?
Ed Tollman frowned and crossed the small vestibule to the street door and opened it and stepped outside, carrying the bread. He could see well enough in the twilight: the street was empty except for the inevitable Chicago newspapers playing tag in the wind. The wind cut through his shirt and he shivered and returned to the apartment.
In the kitchen, he turned the gas off under the stewpot and set the pot over the pilot light, where it would stay warm. He checked the oven's timer and found it set to go off in half an hour. He returned to his drawing board.
He picked up his lighter and lit the cigarette. Liz must have forgotten something and gone to get it.
Ed smoked slowly, tilting his head to study the sketch. Then he picked up an art-gum eraser, rubbed out a line, returned the eraser to the stand beside the table, took a brush, and dusted the eraser crumbs off the drawing. The crumbs he brushed into his palm and dumped into a metal wastebasket beside the drawing board. His movements were slow and precise.
He sharpened a drafting pencil on a pad of sandpaper and gently drew a line. He worked with absolute absorption, his black hair hanging down over his eyes, making him squint. From overhead came occasional footsteps and the thunk of steam pipes. An el train clattered by not far away.
When the bell rang on the stove, he slid off the stool impatiently, went into the kitchen, and turned off the oven. The paper bag on the table caught his eye. He looked at it for a full thirty seconds, scratching the hollow below his right cheekbone.
Where the hell was Liz?
Abruptly he got his topcoat out of the foyer closet and left the apartment. It was nearly dark now in the narrow side street; the only light came from the glow of the business district two blocks away. He walked to the bakery on the corner. A woman was slicing noodles behind the counter. She was fat, with flour smudges on her powerful arms.
"Not long ago my wife came in here and bought a loaf of salt-rising bread. I wondered if she came back for anything?"
The woman said, "Salt-rising bread?"
"She had a dog with her. A miniature French poodle."
The woman kept slicing the yellow dough, shaking her head.
"She was in just once, for the bread."
Ed left the bakery and walked half a block to the supermarket. A man and two women were pushing carts about the aisles, two checkers buffed their nails, a bald head glistened through the bars of the cashier's window.
He left and, farther down the street, peered into a delicatessen, his breath staining the plate-glass window. Only a clerk was inside. So he crossed the street and went into a barroom named Kirch's Korner. In a rear booth a dark-haired woman in a black mouton jacket sat over a beer. She glared at him.
"Excuse me," Ed said. "I thought you were my wife."
"Oh, yeah?"
He turned and started out past the bar. The bartender eyed him. Ed stopped.
"I'm looking for my wife," he explained.
"So?"
"She had a white dog with her. Wore a black fur jacket, overshoes, green skirt. Here." He drew out his wallet and opened the photo compartment. A deep-breasted young woman looked through the plastic window, her thick hair bunched loosely. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing.
"She ain't been in," said the bartender forgivingly.
Ed went back into the street, frowning deeply now. He glanced anxiously into a diner full of men eating with their hats on, prowled through a seafood café, inspected a Chinese restaurant. He explored two side streets, his feet splashing in the slush. At the end of the business district he stopped. A diffusion of light marked the next business district, eight blocks away; between lay darkened furniture stores, used-car lots, loan offices, real-estate offices, garages. No point in looking there.
Or was there? He walked quickly to the el station.
It was deserted except for the woman in the wire cage who sold tokens. Ed held the snapshot up to the window.
"Did this woman get on a train in the last hour? She had a little white poodle with her."
The woman's wrinkled skin glowed blue in the fluorescent light. Her eyes ignored the photo in favor of his face. "You the police?" she asked in an interested tone.
"I'm her husband."
She began shaking her head even before she looked at the photo. "I don't remember her or the dog. A lot of people go through here. Stand aside, mister."
Ed returned to the deserted apartment. It was eight-thirty; the roast was still warm. He took it out of the oven, cut off the end piece, and placed it between two slices of bread. He sat at the table and chewed tastelessly, eyes on the door. At last he laid the sandwich down, only half-eaten, and lit a cigarette. He smoked and watched the door. His thoughts were whirling around in little eddies of panic. He kept telling himself, She's all right.
At nine o'clock he put the roast in the refrigerator and the loaf in the bread box and went to the telephone, recessed in the kitchen wall. He ran his finger down a typewritten list headed "Frequently Called Numbers" until he reached the name Connie. He dialed. The phone rang six times before an annoyed female voice said, "Who is it?"
"Ed Tollman."
"Who? Don't, Ray! Who is this again?"
"Ed Tollman. Elizabeth's husband."
"Oh, Liz! Is she there?"
"No. That's why I'm calling."
"You're looking for Liz?"
Ed opened his mouth and took a long breath before he said, "Yes."
"Well, you're out of luck, lover. I haven't seen her since she left the agency at five."
"I know that, Connie. She came home on the train as usual, started supper, then went to the bakery for a loaf of bread. She must have come back, because I found the bread outside our door. And I haven't seen or heard from her since. I thought maybe she went back to the agency. I don't know what to think."
"What time was all this?"
"Seven o'clock."
"Well." A man's voice interrupted in the background and the woman said: "Liz, a copywriter at the agency. Her husband's looking for her." The man's voice said something and the girl laughed.
"I'm afraid I can't help you, Ed. She hasn't been back here."
"Did she mention having any plans for tonight? Somebody she intended to meet?"
"Nothing like that —"
"Has she been especially friendly with anyone lately?"
"A man?"
"Anybody."
"Ed, Liz never looked at another man."
"I said anybody."
"You should be ashamed, spying on a doll like Liz."
"She's been gone two hours, Connie."
"I know how you men work. I went through it with two husbands —"
Ed replaced the receiver and looked at his watch. Nine-thirty.
He made another tour of the neighborhood, peering down alleys and into vestibules. When he returned to the apartment it was ten-forty.
He dialed Operator, said, "Get me the police," and waited. After a long wait, a man's voice said, "Eighteenth Precinct. Corporal Towns."
"I'm calling about my wife. She came home —"
"Who's calling?"
"Edward Tollman. She came home —"
"Address?"
"3215 West Pine."
"Wife's name?"
"Elizabeth. She went out three hours ago to buy a loaf of bread. She must have come back, because I found the bread outside the door. But I haven't laid eyes on my wife since she left for the bakery."
"Hold on a minute."
There was a buzz, a click, then a different voice. "Missing Persons. Sergeant Frannie."
Ed's heart began to pound. "My name is Edward Tollman, 3215 West Pine. I'm calling about my wife, Elizabeth —"
"Spell your last name."
"T-O-L-L-M-A-N."
"T-O-L-L-M-A-N. Okay. Now what about your wife?"
"She came home three hours ago with a loaf of bread. She set it down outside the apartment door without coming in and apparently left again. I've searched the neighborhood and can't find her. To tell the truth, Sergeant, I'm beginning to worry."
"Hold on."
After a few minutes the voice said, "No report on her. Maybe she stopped in to see a relative, Mr. Tollman."
"She has no relatives in Chicago."
"Friend, then."
"None in the neighborhood. Anyway, she'd have told me, or called."
"Maybe. Did you two have a fight?"
"No."
There was a pause. Then the police sergeant said, "Better give me a description."
Ed took another deep breath. "She's twenty-five years old, has dark brown hair, hazel eyes —"
"Slow down."
"Height five-seven." Ed waited.
"Five-seven. Go on."
"Weight a hundred and twenty."
"What was she wearing?"
"A black fur jacket, mouton. Green skirt. Overshoes. She had a dog with her, a miniature French poodle, white."
"The dog's name?"
"Bogus."
"How's that again?"
"Bogus. It came with a pedigree, but it was a fake."
"Oh, Bogus. Any scars or birthmarks? On your wife, I mean."
"None visible."
"I didn't ask if they were visible. I don't want to scare you, Mr. Tollman, but it happens."
Ed wet his lips. "She has an appendicitis scar. That's all."
"Okay. We'll send this out. If she hasn't shown up by morning, bring a photo down to the station."
"Wait — could she have been in an accident?"
"I just checked. She hasn't been reported."
"But it's possible?"
"Sure. Somebody could have run over her and dumped her in a hospital without reporting it."
"I'll check."
Ed opened the phone book to the yellow pages and began calling hospitals.
CHAPTER 2
Barney Burgess was one of the few private detectives who looked like what people thought private detectives ought to look like, from a vast experience with Late Shows and TV series. Most private detectives carry around a 46-inch waistline and a great deal of poundage, which is hard on their size-14 feet; they are married, have numerous progeny, struggle to keep up the mortgage and credit-loan payments, and have probably not handled a gun since their old days wearing the respectable blue of some police force. Their cases tend toward tracking down runaway husbands, or getting the goods, with photographs, on erring wives, or keeping an eye on some member of a well-to-do family afflicted with kleptomania, or indulging in a little harmless industrial espionage.
Barney was different. For one thing, he was licensed to carry a gun, he cleaned it regularly, and he had rather more frequent use for it than was healthy for a peace-loving society. This was because of his clientele, about most of whom the less said the better. He resembled his TV counterparts in other ways, too. He was thirty years old and a bachelor, he had an eye for pretty girls, and his sex life was more than satisfactory. In the sartorial department, he ran to crisp, natural-shoulder, specially cut suits, Sulka neckties, and hand-lasted shoes. Physically he might have stepped out of the nearest television color set: tall, shoulders padded by nature unaided, sleepy blue eyes that nevertheless managed to see everything, dark blond hair on the wavy side, a walnut complexion from much exposure to gymnasium sunlamps, and the kind of face made popular by cigarette commercials — handsome in an ugly sort of way. Humphrey Bogartish, in fact.
The truth was, Barney Burgess had modeled himself after Humphrey Bogart. As a teenager he had haunted the family boob tube; but where other striplings were persuaded by gung-ho movies to dedicate their lives to the United States Marine Corps, Barney went for the Bogart-type mysteries and determined to become a private eye. And he actually went out into the world and became one. It was just another case of life imitating art.
But the imitation was no empty one filled with straw. Barney was a really tough customer. He had been born that way, and no other life would have satisfied him. In certain respects he improved upon the screen. His office was in his apartment. He had no balloon-breasted girl Friday; girls were for leisure, and he was a businessman. He also had a sentimental streak that sometimes annoyed him.
Ed Tollman annoyed him. He was obviously not Barney's kind of case, but a hardworking schmo in deep trouble who probably thought a hundred dollars was a big fee. There was no profit in clients like Tollman.
Because he felt sorry for the guy, Barney said in a sarcastic tone, "So your wife's been gone six days and you're sore at the fuzz." He even talked like Bogart.
The schmo's shoulders shot up in a hedgehog attitude. "Detective Sergeant Frannie told me he couldn't put any regular officer on the case without evidence of a crime. He told me to hire a private detective and suggested you."
"Why me?" As if Barney didn't know. Frannie hated him; all the fuzz hated him, because he wouldn't play their little game of accommodation — you-scratch-me-and-I'll-scratch-you — and this was Frannie's mean little way of getting back at him, sending this wide-eyed cuckold to him on a two-timing wife caper.
"He said you're particularly good at finding people."
Brother, Barney said to himself as he lounged in his big overstuffed leather chair, you don't know how lucky you are to be shed of her. She's probably making herself accessible in some Casanova's pad right now, and loving every minute of it. Still, Ed Tollman wanted her back. Why? She was a cellular conglomerate of eyes, nose, mouth, hair, breasts, thighs — made out of the same stuff as any other broad.
"You want me to find her."
"Please."
Didn't the guy know? Or wouldn't he let himself know?
"Then what?" Barney asked.
"I don't understand, Mr. Burgess."
"Come home, Liz, all is forgiven?"
The remarkable part about it, Barney mused, was that the guy seemed for real. "You sound like the police," Ed Tollman said in an angry voice. "They told me she'd be back in the morning, like most missing wives. Well, she wasn't — not that first morning or the other five. There can be only one reason for that, Mr. Burgess. She couldn't come back."
It apparently never occurred to the schmo that she mightn't want to come back.
Still, that detail about the warm loaf of bread ...
The man looked exhausted. There were smudges under his eyes like fine ash. He smoked in spurts, lighting cigarettes, immediately jabbing them out in the tray, or forgetting all about them as they burned down to the filters — acting just the way a schmo acts when his wife takes a powder.
Suddenly a thought struck Barney Burgess: Or, acting how a smart operator would act if he'd done away with the little woman.
And just as suddenly Barney was interested. Hooked, was the way his mind put it. It was his damn curiosity, a failing he often deplored. He had found that there was no profit in curiosity, only trouble. Curiosity was unbusinesslike. He grinned to himself. Maybe I'm an artist, he thought; and he said to Tollman briskly, "Okay, you've had six days. What have you done?"
"Done?"
"You scouted the neighborhood, phoned her friends, her office, the hospitals, the police. And then what? Sat on your ass and waited?"
Ed Tollman's face flushed. "The police told me to stand by."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Kiss and Kill by Ellery Queen. Copyright © 1969 Ellery Queen. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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