The Million-Dollar Wound

“The woman picked you out of our rogues’ gallery files yesterday. And today she picked you out of a five-man lineup.”

“I remember. I was there.”

“I was there, too, Sonny. I saw her pick you out; no question in her mind.”

Shrug. “A lot of people look like me.”

“You were in that apartment, Sonny.”

Shrug. “I was there before. Not Tuesday. I got twenty or thirty people who saw me elsewhere at the time of the crime.”

“Name one.”

“I’ll wait for the trial. Which there’s never going to be.”

“Did she talk, Sonny? Did she finally tell you where that million was?”

Smirk. “Why, Drury? You want to borrow some of it to buy some more fancy-ass suits?”

This is where a rubber hose comes in handy.

Drury, unfortunately, was not that kind of cop. Donahoe came in and tapped Drury on the shoulder and said, “Visitor’s here.”

He nodded toward Goldstone, saying to Donahoe, “Lock that fat bastard up.”

“You got nothing,” Goldstone said.

Drury pointed at him. “We got bloody fingerprints in that apartment. Think about that in your cell, wise guy.”

We stepped out in the hall.

“You really got fingerprints in blood?” I asked Drury.

“Yeah, from off a kitchen cabinet,” he said, walking toward his office. I followed along.

“You think Sonny’s your man?” I asked.

“Maybe. But he was right about one thing-he really does have a common sort of face. Another Nicky Dean associate, Thomas Stapleton, who we’re looking for now, could be Goldstone’s brother. Ditto for John Borgia, who was tight with Dago Mangano, one of Dean’s partners. As for the bloody fingerprints, they belong to a woman or a small man-not Sonny Goldstone. We’re in the process of pulling in no less than a dozen Colony Club male employees for questioning, and half again that many working girls associated with Estelle, plus her former roommate. And then there’s that Adonis-crowd hood Eddie McGrath being sought for us in New York. And a suspect in the North Side fur thefts we got a line on. That doesn’t touch the thirty-plus respectable gentlemen whose names and numbers were in Estelle’s little black book.”

“Jesus. Why don’t you just gather all the suspects in Chicago Stadium and turn off the lights. It works for Charlie Chan.”

He stopped just outside his office, the door of which was closed. “It gets worse. But I didn’t ask you down here just to hear Sonny Goldstone not talk. There’s somebody waiting inside here who might prove a little more interesting.”

I followed him inside his private office, which was just big enough to comfortably house his desk, a few files and a couple of chairs, one of which was occupied by a small, dark, attractive but rather frail-looking woman in her late thirties, facing his empty desk, waiting for him to fill it. He did, nodding to her, smiling.

“Mrs. Circella,” he said. “Thank you for coming in to see us voluntarily.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Nicky Dean’s wife said sweetly, with just the faintest hint of an Italian accent. “I’m not a criminal.”

She was smartly attired, wearing a black Persian lamb coat over a navy blue suit and a wide-brimmed navy felt hat. The effect of the dark apparel was almost one of mourning. Her oval face was pale, which made her sensual red-lipsticked mouth seem startling, and next to the full red lips nestled a beauty mark, which was enough to make you wonder if Nicky Dean had been crazy or something. Even with a dish as luscious as Estelle Carey, why cheat on this stunning creature?

Greed, of course. Something Nicky and Estelle had in common.

I just stood and listened, leaning against one wall. The police steno filed in and took her inconspicuous place in the corner, as Drury said, “You don’t mind going on the record with your statement, Mrs. Circella?”

“Of course not. I’m a good citizen. I always cooperate one hundred percent with the authorities.”

If there was any sarcasm in her words, I couldn’t find it.

“I came, at your request,” she said, “although I must admit I don’t understand why you would want to question me in regard to a murder. Particularly one committed while I was out of the city.”

“Where were you on February second?” Drury asked.

She batted long lashes, innocently; her eyes were wide and brown and lovely. “I was in New York City, of course. I was staying at the Alamac Hotel. To be close to my husband in his hour of need. Nicky and I learned of her death together, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She was twisting a lace hanky in her hands, nervously. “We were sitting outside of the grand jury room of the U.S. Courthouse in New York, and someone brought in a copy of a Chicago paper. The Herald- American, I think it was. There was a picture of Estelle on the front page, but at first I didn’t recognize it. I recognized the name, though. So I turned to Nicky and said, ‘Didn’t this girl work for you?’ And he looked at her picture and said, ‘Yes.’ Then he said, ‘Let me read that paper.’”

“What did he have to say?”

She lowered her eyes. “‘That poor girl,’ he said.”

“I see. Let’s start at the beginning. Did you know about Estelle Carey?”

She shook her head, no. “I didn’t know her. I knew who she was, but we never talked. I wouldn’t recognize the sound of her voice if I heard it today. Oh, I saw her from time to time-at the dice tables at the 101 Club and the Colony Club, which Nicky owned.”

Drury smiled, but his eyes and forehead frowned; this woman was either very naive or very crafty, and, either way, it was getting to him. “Mrs. Circella, I didn’t ask if you knew Estelle. I asked if you knew about her. By which I mean…”

She licked the lush lips. “I heard the rumors that she and Nicky were friendly. I could never verify them, though.”

“How hard did you try?”

She smiled slightly, regally. “I didn’t. I never tried. I’m a Catholic, Captain Drury. When I married I made a contract with God. None of us is infallible. I am not my husband’s judge. Nick has been a good husband to me for nineteen years.”

“Have you been aware of how he’s earned his living during that time?”

“Yes. Nightclubs. But they were no part of my life. I spent my time at home, with our two children. I won’t pretend I liked his business. It’s the one thing we’ve argued about. But when I’ve asked him to give up his nightclubs, his answer is always the same-that he had to do something for a living.”

Drury was drumming his fingers on the desk. “Were you aware that Nick was connected with the Stagehands Union?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I know Mr. Browne and Willie. But Nicky resigned from the union before all the trouble started.”

“You know nothing of a million-dollar slush fund then?”

She smiled again. “The FBI and the Internal Revenue Service have that same interest. I’m sure if we had a million dollars, I’d know about it.”

“And you don’t?”

“Of course not.”

Drury sighed. “You were in show business once yourself, weren’t you, Mrs. Circella?”

She sat up; she didn’t seem so frail, all of a sudden. “I met Nicky when I was appearing in a show at the Cort Theater. Each night he’d come and listen to my singing. Then he’d send roses. Finally we met through a mutual friend. That was in 1923; we were married the following year.” The past glory faded, and she settled back into the chair, frail again. “Now I can’t even sing the baby to sleep, since I had diphtheria. My vocal cords were affected, but