Howard placed his ear to the box; he detected no ticking. That didnât mean that the box wasnât booby trapped. Howard had an enemies list as long as his arm. Carefully, he pierced the butcherâs paper wrapping. It was a shoebox. Atlas Shoes Menâs Oxfords. That could mean something. It could also mean nothing. Gently, he lifted the lid from the box. A scent he recognized immediately filled his nostrils. Betty-Louâs perfume! The expensive bottle he had bought her for Christmas.
Inside the box was Betty-Louâs dress. Not just her dress but her nylons, her slip, her brassiere, her step-ins, garter belt. shoes, watch and jewelry. Howardâs breath froze in his lungs. Taped inside the boxâs lid was a carefully typed note, all in capital letters:
YOUR LITTLE ONION HAS BEEN PEELED. UNLESS YOU WANT THE NEXT DELIVERY FROM US TO CONTAIN HER SKIN YOU WILL DROP ALL INTEREST IN THE ONION MOTORS CASE. YOU HAVE TWENTY-FOUR HOURS TO SHIP US ALL THE EVIDENCE YOU HAVE SO FAR COMPILED. EXPRESS DELIVERY SERVICE WILL HANDLE DISCREET SHIPPING. TELL THEM YOU HAVE A PACKAGE FOR RALPH SMITH
Howard let out a breath. He checked the wrapping. No return address. Poor Betty-Lou! The thought of that sweet, petite, blonde kid forced to strip down for some lotharios made his stomach churn. If only he had come to work on time! It was next to impossible to break off the case as he was working on the downlow at the behest of the feds! His head filled involuntarily of the image of Betty-Lou, her trim, petite body bared like an alabaster statue of a goddess. He could just see her fighting back tears, biting her tremulous lips as she stripped down. Those gams! Designed for nylons by God Himself fully revealed to those brutes! An active imagination is all Howard had. The closet thing her and Betty Lou had had to a romantic relationship was a chaste kiss under the mistletoe in December. This massage was as personal and painful as possible.
He took a close look at the clothes, spilled them out on the desk. He laid out her shoes, her nylons, her dress, her step-ins, he picked up the slip. Something dropped out of it. A dental bridge? Howard had no idea that Betty-Lou was missing a chopper.
âHold it!â he said, addressing himself. âBetty-Lou had to put that there for a reason.â Howard thought and thought before he realized the nearest bridge was the Deacon Crossing Bridge on the waterfront. The waterfront had lots of abandoned warehouses where a gang could hide out or a dame be stashed. His hands ran over the silky slip. Howard read the label. It was from a downtown dressmaker, âThe Flashy Quaker.â Howardâs jaw dropped. âQuaker! The pier abutting Penn Street!â Howard exclaimed. He grabbed his hat off the rack and headed out the door.
âBetty-Lou! You are a better detective than I am! Once I rescue you, I going to give you a big kiss and a raise! He raced out into the city street and rushed to his car parked across the street