Joe swallowed, rubbed his hand over his face, seemed about to speak, then seemed to change his mind, and sat down again.
"What's the motive?"
"Maybe he left her," said Joe, lamely. "Maybe he cut off the money. Maybe they got into a jealous fight. How do I know? But I'm telling you straight-she did it."
Roy got up, nodded. "All right. Thanks, Mr. Sert. I'll look into this. You don't mind if we have a talk later if necessary?"
"No," said Joe. "But no publicity-please."
"You'll never be mentioned if I can help it. Come on, Len."
They turned to go. Tootsie opened the inner door and came in, smiling, gay, very tight. "By, by, boys," she cried, waving her empty glass. "It's been nice seeing you." She singled Creel out. "By, by, cutie."
"Goodby, Mrs. Sert," said Creel, politely.
"Oh, God!" cried Tootsie. "I'm always forgetting. You see, we just got married. That's me. Mrs. Joseph Sert, Esquire. How do you like them apples!"
"That's you, baby," said Joe with a weary, indulgent smile.
6
Chad Bayliss did not want to discuss anything as important as the ramifications of the Hobart case over his apartment house phone. The Administration had enemies. Two years back there had been a rash of wire-tapping, and an expert electrician, caught at it and refusing to name his bosses, had been handed a stiff sentence by an Administration judge.
Chad drove to meet Hargis outside the Rollerdrome. The place was closed at this hour and in a part of town that was almost deserted at night. All about loomed gas tanks, warehouses, junk yards. It was past four thirty a.m. The rain had stopped and a brisk east wind was blowing thick, dark cloud-masses across the sky. There was a smell of fall in the air. Far to the eastward, a few stars were showing.
Chad's wife had insisted on coming with him. She sat huddled into a corner of the back seat, wrapped in a big fur coat. She was wearing a dark beret. Her face looked pale and strained.
Creel stayed in the other car. Roy and Chad walked up and down the deserted sidewalk, which was shadowed by the huge, arcaded porch of the Rollerdrome. Once a tough-looking bum stepped out from no place and asked for money to buy himself a drink. Roy was going to collar him and kick the impudence out of him, but Chad intervened and gave the bum a fifty-cent piece.
Roy shrugged it off, but didn't like it. "I should have vagged him," he explained. "Next thing, he'll drag a girl up some alley. He's a bad one."
"Stop being a policeman," Chad said mildly. "We've got serious business. All right now, Roy. I've got the picture. But what's the matter with Old Joe Sert-blowing his top?"
"Joe's letting his emotions run away with him. But the girl's a mighty fine pigeon for our purposes. If you don't mind a little scandal in regard to Frank Hobart's name, that is."
"His wife's been dead for years. One thing a man's got to have is women. Wouldn't be much of a scandal. Besides, he's got no kids, nobody. Just keep this in mind. As you know, Frank was my best friend. But I'm not worrying about Frank. I'm worrying about the Administration."
"Did you ever see this girl?"
"No. I guess he left her home when he called on us."
"Was he drinking heavily the last few months or so?"
"Yes, he was, and it worried the hell out of me. He got lushed up at the apartment one night and got out of line for the first time since I've known him. I couldn't believe it. He was abusive as hell. Merle went to bed in tears. Charley Prell was there. I thought he was going to pass away he was so surprised. You see, Frank was a real gentleman, from a fine old family-the last of 'em. Might've been what Joe Sert said-the drinking, I mean. Sometimes bad dames get the whip hand over the unlikeliest guys. Of course, that doesn't mean she killed him. We know who killed him, Roy, and why." There was a brief pause, then Chad went on. "Actually, this is a real break for us. Okay, Roy. Go to it. It'll make the headlines. It'll be a big one. Meanwhile, in the background, we'll figure out how to handle our little difficulty with the out-of-town boys. I've already had a feeler. There will be a conference this week sometime, I think. But that's not your worry. Get on the ball."
"Okay, Chad. Couple more things. I know Joe Sert's been legitimate for a long time now. I think he's straight. But I don't like to pass up any possibilities. Could he be fronting for this outside mob? Trying to pin it on the girl?"
"Not a chance," said Chad, emphatically.
"All right. Now here's a matter of policy. The girl lives at the Terrace. I don't want to go busting in there. It's strictly four hundred. Why put them on the spot? What do I do?"
Chad whistled briefly. "The Terrace, eh? Okay. I'm going right home. I know the manager. I'll phone him, get him out of bed. You stall around for, say, half an hour, then go over. The manager, or somebody, will be at the desk. No guests will be around at this hour. The whole thing will be nice, polite, and quiet."
"Unless some newspaper bird-dog gets wind of it. Then there will be hell to pay."
"There'll be hell to pay later. We can only do so much for the Terrace. They shouldn't take in dames like that."
"All right, Chad."
"Goodnight," said Chad, then as he started back to his car he turned: "Look at the sky. It's getting gray. I didn't know it was that late. Goodnight."
In a moment the car moved off. Roy walked slowly over to his own car, looking at the sky. Eastward, over the tall buildings, a gray light was spreading; the stars which had just begun to show were already paling. Creel was sitting at the wheel, smoking a cigarette. Roy got in.
"I just happened to think of something," he said. "I haven't eaten since lunch."
"All night joint right down the street. I could stand a cup of coffee myself."
***
The place was deserted except for a tired-looking counterman in a dirty chef's hat. They sat down and ordered. There was a nickel slot-machine in the corner, and Creel went over and began to play it, cursing his luck.
Just as the counterman came with their orders, a fat man in a raincoat entered and sat down at the counter. It was Wesson. Roy started slightly, then ignored him.
"Ever sing, Hargis?" he called.
"What do you mean?" asked Roy, without looking at him.
"Sing. You know. You open your mouth and music comes out. Not sing as in county jail, or even Sing Sing."
Now Roy glanced at him. "You got a snootful, Wesson. Why don't you go home?"
"Home is where the heart is. And right now my heart's with some bacon and eggs-turn 'em over. Buttered toast. Coffee, with cream and sugar. So, I get fat!"
The counterman gave him a sour look, then went for his order.
"What do you mean-get? You're fat as a pig," said Roy.
"Let's get back to singing. There's an old song-Waltzing Matilda. Australian soldiers sing it." He hummed the air for Roy who ignored him and began to eat. "Cute, eh? But I can't remember the words. Only one wonderful phrase I'll never forget. Something about 'jumbuck the billabong.' Great, eh? 'Jumbuck the billabong.' Can't get it out of my head."
He began to sing Waltzing Matilda, faking the words he couldn't remember and using 'jumbuck the billabong' every line or two.
Finally Roy said: "Look, Wesson. You've got a voice like a rusty saw. Would you mind jumbucking your billabong some place else?"
Wesson roared with laughter and almost fell off the stool, then he sobered and said: "Well, if you guys insist on playing games, and keeping me up late…"
Roy stopped eating. "What was that?"
"Funny place for you and Chad to take a walk-down by the 'Drome. That's where the fags hang out."
Roy pushed his plate away. "You want me to hand you a newsbeat?"
"Is there an echo in here? I'm going mad. News-beat, newsbeat, newsbeat!" Wesson gave a loud scream and gripped the counter.
"Look, buster," said the counterman, wearily.
"I mean it," said Roy. "Just let me alone till tomorrow. Then call me early. You got my hand on it." He offered to shake hands.
Wesson looked at his
hand for a moment. "And your word of honor, too?"
"Yes," said Roy. "My word of honor."
Wesson took a quarter out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter. "Two-bits is two-bits," he said. "Even in these times. But what's your word of honor worth?"
Roy hit Wesson with the back of his band, knocking him off the stool.
"Here. Wait a minute," said the counterman, reaching for a piece of hose under the counter.
Wesson rose slowly, then, suddenly, moving with the speed and agility of a boxer, he grabbed up the ketchup bottle and aimed it at Roy. The counterman calmly hit him with the hose and he fell again.
Roy got off the stool and stood looking down at Wesson, who was a little groggy.
"The deal still goes, billabong. I mean it. Come on, Len."
Roy went out. Creel paid and followed him. Wesson got slowly to his feet. The counterman stood eyeing him mistrustfully.
"You suppose he means it?" Wesson asked the counterman.
"I wouldn't know, buster. But don't start no more fights in my place. I got it busted up one night, dishes and all. I'm still in hock."
7
A faint, yellow hint of day was showing at the end of the wide, deserted, residential street when Creel stopped just beyond the big ornate marquee of the Ashton Terrace, and Roy got out.
"Better come in. I might need you," said Roy.
They climbed the wide stone steps which led up to the huge, terrace-like porch, and to the row of ten-foot high, bronze and glass doors.
Above them, the mammoth apartment house slept, with drawn Venetian blinds. If anybody was awake here at this hour it was from insomnia.
Charwomen were just finishing up in the lobby, which was small for the size of the building, elegant, solid-looking, almost like a bank.
The night clerk had been warned. Before Roy could speak, he said: "Mr. Hargis? Mr. Clemm is waiting for you. To your right. The door marked private."
Roy merely nodded, and he and Creel, who was looking about him with interest, walked down a short, marble-paved corridor to a black door with a brass plate.
Roy knocked, then getting no response pushed the door open and went in, followed by Creel. The door admitted them to a deserted ante-room. They heard voices. The main office door was open and a bald man wearing shell-rimmed glasses put his head round the jamb and looked out at them. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale.
"Hargis?" Roy nodded. "Mr. Bayliss called. Won't you come in? I'm Mr. Clemm, assistant manager. Mr. Dykes, the manager, is indisposed. Touch of summer flu."
Roy went into the office, followed by Creel. A big redheaded man with a red face was sitting beyond a huge glass-topped desk, smoking a cigar.
"This is Grant, our house detective," Mr. Clemm explained. Then: "I can't tell you how shocked I am to learn that a guest of ours is… well… that the police want to question her."
"Have you seen a morning paper?" asked Roy.
"Why, no; I haven't. I was roused from sleep, and so was Grant. Why? What has happened?"
"Do you know Mr. Frank Hobart?"
"Why, certainly. He…" Mr. Clemm paused, and studied Hargis.
"He… what?" Roy prodded.
"Well, I was going to say… Miss Vance was a sort of protegee of his. He came here often. And I might tell you, never went to Miss Vance's suite. He'd wait for her in the lobby. I'm sure that Mr. Hobart…"
"Well, somebody knocked him off tonight," said Roy, abruptly.
Mr. Clemm suddenly looked sick and reached back for the desk, needing support. Grant stood up as if somebody had built a fire under his chair.
"Killed Mr. Hobart?" asked Grant, incredulously. "That fine gentleman. But, who under the sun…?"
"That's what we're trying to find out. Clemm, how do you want me to handle this? You want to call the girl and ask her to come down here?"
"But that's impossible," said Clemm. "She's gone. Left last night, sometime." He turned. "Grant, I think we'd better… This is a serious matter."
Grant cleared his throat nervously. "Yes, Mr. Clemm. Well, she was out all evening, I think. Then she came in sometime around two-thirty. There was a young fellow with her, I never saw him before."
"What did he look like?"
"Handsome," said Grant. "Tall, slender, dark hair. Dressed careless. Didn't have any tie on. No hat. Kind of a young Cary Grant, like. Dark-complected, though. Kinda like maybe a refined Italian. No, that's not right, exactly. Maybe French. Although I have seen a few young Irishmen who looked like that."
"All right. Go on," said Roy, after a moment of thought.
"Well, he helped her check out. I thought it was kind of funny. Especially after…" He paused and looked at Mr. Clemm.
"Especially after what?" snapped Roy.
"This is no time to keep anything back, Grant," said Clemm, looking sicker than before, and getting himself a drink from a water-bottle on the desk, his hands shaking.
"Well, we had a funny thing here, Captain," said Grant. "A robbery which wasn't a robbery. I mean, well… I'll tell you. A couple of guys came in here with bonafide building inspector badges: plumbers. They had an order all written out proper to inspect the plumbing, heating pipes et cetera. Neither Mr. Dykes, nor Mr. Clemm was here. The young second assistant told them to go ahead. They were all over the place. They had a handtruck full of wrenches, pipes, and stuff. Finally a floorman let them into Miss Vance's suite: they said they'd traced some trouble to there. They worked for about an hour, then they left. All of a sudden, a maid comes running into my office. She said Miss Vance's suite had been looted. I went right up. Miss Vance had just got home. It was a darned funny situation. Miss Vance just asked me what I wanted. I didn't know what to say. I asked her if everything was all right. She said it was. All the same, one closet door was open and I could see that it was empty. It was where she kept her fur coats."
"I see," said Roy. "You think those plumbers stripped her suite, then she wouldn't admit it."
"I don't think. I know," said Grant.
"When was that?"
"Saturday. Two days ago."
"All right," said Roy. "Now what about Miss Vance?"
"About her? How do you mean?"
"What was your opinion of her?"
"Well, my opinion was," said Grant, slowly, "that she was a very smart girl who knew how to mind her own business. I don't think she had one visitor while she was here, except Mr. Hobart. Nobody in her suite-ever. Maids know around a place, and we are very strict here with single women. We only have a very few. All highly recommended-as Miss Vance was, by Mr. Hobart."
"You got anything to add?" asked Roy, turning to Clemm.
"No," said Clemm. "Nothing illuminating, I'm afraid. Miss Vance was one of the most beautiful young women I've ever seen, and very polite. She dressed plainly, and in excellent taste. She hardly spoke a word to any of us, but she was always friendly, and smiled. Am I right, Grant?"
The house detective nodded.
"Did she pay her bill?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, she didn't," said Mr. Clemm. "But of course that's no great matter. She only owes for a month and she's sending us a check. Quite all right. She's always been very scrupulous about settling her bill on the dot. And of course, she was vouched for by Mr. Hobart."
Roy took a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully, then he motioned Creel out into the anteroom. "Len," he said, "call Emmett. Two things I want him to do for me. First, find out where Robert Dumas lives. He's a piano player and no doubt belongs to the Musicians' Union. Tell him to get an official out of bed if necessary. Then I want him to come to the Terrace and go over the Vance dame's apartment with a fine-toothed comb. Got it? Okay. Call right there. I'll go back and shut the door."
Roy went back in the main office.
"Has Miss Vance's apartment been cleaned since she left?"
"No," said Clemm. "It will get a routine cleaning some time early this morning."
"Don't let anybody touch it. I'm sending an expert dow
n to give it a going-over."
"All right, Captain," said Grant, glancing at Clemm. "We want to cooperate in every way."
Roy noted the glance. "That suite's as good as sealed, you understand," he said harshly.
"Oh, naturally. Of course," said Clemm. Then after a nervous pause: "Captain-this is all most embarrassing for us. Nothing remotely approaching this has ever happened to us here at the Terrace before. We…"
"What are you worrying about? She checked out last night, didn't she? She's off your hands."
"Thank God for that," said Clemm with a sigh. "But the publicity, I mean. The newspapers. After all, she lived here, and…"
"I'll see what I can do," said Roy. "May not even be a line about it. Do my best."
"Oh, fine, fine, Captain," said Clemm. "And if there is ever anything we can do for you; anything, I mean… You know. Sky's the limit, as people say." Clemm laughed nervously. He was not used to trying to bribe police officers.
"I'll think it over," said Roy, smiling slightly. "There's always the pension fund. You can make the check out to me, of course. Care City Building. Providing I keep you out, that is. No hurry."
He turned and went out. Grant and Clemm looked at each other in consternation.
"Was he joking, Grant?"
"I doubt it," said Grant, wagging his head. "I doubt it very much."
8
It turned out that Bob Dumas lived at Melton Stairs, a Bohemian section of the town, north of Paxton Square and adjoining the worst slum in the city. It was full of musicians, painters, writers, whores, and drug-peddlers, and dotted with little Italian restaurants in basements, hole-in-the-wall cafes, and many rendezvous where men were women and women were glad of it.
Melton Stairs rose steeply from the west bank and climbed slowly to a height which overlooked a wide bend of the river and the big buildings of the downtown section beyond. In the Civil War days the Foot of the Stairs had been a steamboat landing, and now a brass tablet marked the spot where a few volunteer city militiamen had fought off a raid by a party of Confederate irregulars from down-river, who had tried to steal a wood-burning paddle-wheeler. This historic event was known as the Battle of Melton Stairs.
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