Silken Whispers: Casefile: The Vault

Silken Whispers

Casefile: The Vault

by LC Schwartz

By LC Schwartz

Smashwords Edition

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Published by: LC Schwartz on Smashwords

Cover art by: LC Schwartz

Silken Whispers — Casefile: The Vault

Copyright © 2015 by LC Schwartz

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This book is a work of fiction. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter I — The Flapper Affair

Chapter II — Stalk and Prey

Chapter III — The Venus Operation

Chapter IV — Down in the Bullpen

Chapter V — Jail Birds

Chapter VI — The Lone Wolf

Chapter VII — A Fledgling Truce

Chapter VIII — Revelations of Revelations

Chapter IX — Down on the Farm

Chapter X — Blown back to the Windy City

Chapter XI — The Vault

Chapter XII — The Great Escape

Chapter XIII — It's a Wonderful Life

Epilogue — The Mystery of Al Capone's Vault

Chapter I

The Flapper Affair

Interviewer: Hello, Ms. Havenwood

Sylvia: Oh, hello again, my darling.

Interviewer: How would you like to proceed this week?

Sylvia: Well, you always seem so doubtful of our recounts...

Interviewer: Merely a healthy impassiveness, Ms. Havenwood, I assure you.

Sylvia: Of course, of course.

Interviewer: How about how you two met?

Sylvia: How we met? Oh, my. Now that is a tale.

Interviewer: Please. Indulge me, I am all ears.

Sylvia: Your ‘impassiveness’ is charming, my darling.

Monday, 12 November, 1928 – 21:06

Lexington Hotel, Chicago, United States

1928.

The cusp of the cultural heyday that dominates the Chicago scene.

Next year financial ruin would tear through the world, ruining families, and bringing entire nations to their knees.

But for now nobody cares; and nobody sees the end of the glory days. Prohibition has been trying to quell the joyous celebrations for nearly a decade — but has done little except make anybody who had the guts to defy national law very rich — including a great many small-time thugs.

The Lexington Hotel, a blocky 10-storey nineteenth century structure in the South Loop of Chicago’s downtown has become a center of vice and disobedience against national law. A luxurious affair of pre-war elegance, the hotel’s cavernous halls hide the decadence of the vibrant Twenties’ lifestyles behind the shroud of normalcy.

In one such tavern, a raucous band belts out popular jazz amidst the gathered party-goers in loose dresses and dignified tuxedos. One patron, a woman of shorter stature and a blood-red bob cut, foregoes the fashion of the flapper ladies and adopts the boyish style popularized by the Parisienne designer, Coco Chanel. She has attired herself in a dark feminine pantsuit of a tuxedo style, and happily chats up a taller round-faced gentleman in his mid-forties.

Whether it is from the copious amounts of Canadian rum or a mutual attraction, the pair chat it up quite brightly — and the casual touches of her hand on his arm have not gone unnoticed. She could be described as cute, with large emerald eyes, and a small perky nose. Her lips are full and can threaten a pout in such a way that would break hearts.

Under the tuxedo, her body is shorter than most of the other women here, strong, and compact. Her waist is trim, with heavy breasts held in check by the tight jacket; and the muscled, shaped legs of an athletic woman. She caught the eye of this local snorky suit shortly after she first arrived, and been chatting him up since.

It is seemingly innocent chatter between the pair, yet an astute observer would note how her bright emerald eyes remain aware of the room, watching and roaming.

He is just about to suggest that the two of them retire to the quieter lounge upstairs when one of the dancers bouncing about on the floor loses balance on her heeled Mary-Janes, and crashes into the redhead. The imported rum in the dancer’s hand is knocked askew and spills down the front of the bobbed woman’s jacket.

Oi, what the Hell? the redhead growls as she jumps back from the splash of liquor. But she is too slow and gets doused in the bathtub booze.

Oh, clumsy me! I am so sorry, the dancing woman exclaims with feigned shock. Dressed in current French haute couture, the exotic dusky-skinned woman gives the shorter one an attempted look of apology. She is almost sincere; save for the slight upturning at the corners of her painted lips that don’t slip passed the redhead’s sharp eyes.

The redhead snarls. How about you watch where the fuck you’re going?

Her snorky beau for the night looks on with surprise at the exchange.

The exotic woman looks wounded. I do so apologize; I just became far too excited with the music and the drink. Here, let me help you! She grabs some cocktail napkins from a passing waitress and starts to pat and fondle at the smaller club-goer.

Oi! Get yer paws off me, you damn Tomato! she yells, knocking the taller woman’s hands off her.

I’m sorry, but that really should be seen to, the dancer says. If some bull smells rum on you, you’d be the slammer for certain!

The redhead narrows her eyes at the woman, clearly not buying the accident, but not certain exactly what her game is.

She considers for a moment that it truly was an accident, but it seemed far too calculated and convenient to be anything but deliberate. Obviously the snorky has no clue who the Tomato is, so they’re not rolling in the sheets.

But whatever the woman’s game is, she just botched up the redhead’s own plans with that display — something that gnaws in her gut more than a little bit.

Yeah. Whatever, the redhead says with a growl. She is weighing in the options thrust at her with this sudden inconvenience. Police raids are pretty damn common, and it’ll be hard to plead innocence smelling like a distillery. Given her own reasons for being in here at this time, being noticed by the cops is not something she is keen for.

She shoves the taller woman away, and storms off to find the washroom.

Fuckin’ tart… she mutters. She is vaguely aware of the dancer now saddling up into the vacant spot next to the handsome suit with the confused expression.

~ ~ ~ • ~ ~ ~

The redhead all but kicks open the wood-panelled door that leads into the women’s powder room. The slamming door startles the group of flappers into shrieks of surprise.

With a look of utter malice, the woman chases the bewildered gaggle out of the turn-of-the-century powder room. Knowing better than to tangle with an enraged Scot, they finish their business and quickly flee.

Once certain she is alone, she tosses off the liquored-up jacket. She checks the hour on a pocket watch, and swears under her breath once she notices how much time has been wasted — both in the useless banter with the snorky, and now the invasive tomato.

She chews on her lower lip, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Plots and schemes churn and broil inside her head.

Finally, a decision is made. She snaps loose the bowtie with a sharp tug on the loose end, and unbuttons her white blouse. She tosses the blouse on top of the discarded jacket, leaving herself standing in just a black silk chemise and brassiere. She takes out a pair of large tortoiseshell sunglasses from the outside pocket of the jacket and props them on her nose.

It is not much a disguise given her distinctive hair colour. But with the time limitations, she simply can’t care. She shoves the watch into her hip pocket. From a larger inside pocket on the jackets inside, she pulls free two small cases; one of them bearing the medical Caduceus emblem, the other a stiff leather pouch.

Leaving her liquor-soaked outer shells in the powder room, she sticks her head out of the door. The hallway is clear. She ducks out and hustles down the passage. The heels of her lace up ankle boots thump soundlessly against the rug covering over the aged wood parquet running the length of the grandiose hallway.

Unfettered from beneath the tight blouse, her black chemise shimmers and bounces in the passing lights with her hurried gait — garnering her more than one appreciative passing glance from the sparse male hotel staff working the late night as her frantic walking forces her breasts into playful jiggles and sways.

She ignores them all, focusing intently on her secret task.

She stews in barely contained rage of the idiocy of the Dumb Dora that has screwed over her plans something fierce. Her rage is self-evident, and the fire in her eyes waylays any would be amorous advances by lonely hotel patrons. She might as well be holding a sign over her head with burning words saying bother me and die.

She lights up a cigarette in a vain effort to calm herself, but that minor pause makes her even more conscious of the minutes ticking passed than any soothing effects the narcotic might give her.

She was so close to getting the digs on what needed, but now has to find out the secrets on her own — and doesn’t have the time to do so neatly. The thought burns in the back of her throat like bile.

She ponders the thought of storming back into the speakeasy and kicking the stupid fool in the gut. But the display would waste even more time, and be completely counterproductive.

She fantasizes on finding the Tomato after the job and giving her a dunking in the Chicago River.