Too Darn Hot

by Sandra Scoppettone

  She shook her head.

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I don’t care what your rates are. I gotta do this. I’ve been savin up.”

  “For what?”

  “My trousseau.”

  “You and Ladd are gonna tie the knot?”

  “I hope so.”

  “But he hasn’t popped the question yet?”

  “No. But I know he will.”

  Not if he’s dead, I thought. Instead, I said, “So about my rates.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Ya sure?”

  “I said it was okay.”

  “If it gets too tough on yer piggy bank tell me and we’ll work somethin out.”

  She let out a big sigh of relief.

  “You have a picture of Private Ladd?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I have it?”

  “Forever?” She stuck out her lower lip and looked like a big baby.

  “Forever what?”

  “Will you keep the picture forever?”

  It seemed a cockeyed kind of question to me. “Nah. I’ll give it back when the case is over.”

  “That means when you find him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  I was beginning to think this was one wacky tomato. “Ya think he’s dead, Miss Turner?”

  “No. At least, I hope not.”

  “Ya have any reason to believe someone mighta killed him?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “You’re the one said dead or alive?”

  “I’m tryin to be realistic, that’s all. I’m not a babe in the woods, you know.”

  “Course not. So could I have the photo?”

  She went digging in her handbag again and came out with a wallet. She unsnapped it and took a photo from the group of picture holders, stared at it like she wanted to burn the image into her brain, then handed it to me.

  The picture looked like it was taken from a mile away. I could make out a guy in uniform, but that was it.

  “Miss Turner, ya can’t expect me to know what he looks like from this, can ya?”

  “You didn’t ask me if it was a good picture or not.”

  “That’s true. I didn’t. Wanna tell me what color his eyes and hair are?”

  “Brown. They’re both brown. And he’s six feet tall.”

  “Any distinguishin marks on his body?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She sounded insulted.

  “Yeah. Well, I’ll ask his mother.”

  “That would make more sense.”

  I was getting the impression Claire Turner was trying to make me think she was as innocent as Shirley Temple. I wasn’t buying.

  “How about a better picture? Ya got one?”

  “At my apartment. It’s too big to fit in my wallet.”

  “Think ya could let me have it for a while?”

  “Okay. Should I bring it here?”

  “You gonna be home tonight, I’ll swing by and get it, that’s okay with you.”

  “I’ll be home waitin for Charlie to call. Sure, you can come over.”

  “Swell.”

  “What happens now?” she asked.

  “I have to interview people, see what they know or don’t know. Usually one person leads to the next.” I stood up to show her we were done.

  “Is that it then?”

  “For now.”

  “Shouldn’t I give you some money?”

  Funny, I always forgot that part. “Yeah. That’d be good. For the first week. If I find him sooner, I’ll refund whatever’s left over.”

  She dove into that pocketbook again and took out a yellow envelope. “Take this.”

  “But—”

  She interrupted to tell me how much was in the envelope and ask if it was enough. I told her it was far too much and tried to give some back, but she said she trusted me and we’d work it out when the case was over.

  “I’ll call you later about gettin that photo.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  “By the way, can I call ya at work?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Wanna gimme that number?” She did. “What department are ya in?”

  “Shoes.” She shrugged. “Usually they have a man doing shoes, but, well, you know.”

  “Yeah. I guess we’re all doin things we wouldn’t be doin if there wasn’t a war goin on.”

  “I guess.”

  I wanted to track down Ladd’s army buddy at the hotel so I asked her one more question. “By the way, where was Charlie on leave from? Where’s his base?”

  “In Georgia. Fort Benning.”

  “And you’re sure there’s no other friend of Charlie’s in the area besides George Cummings, who ya never met?”

  “I’m sure.”

  We didn’t shake hands again and she left.

  Why did they always tell at least one lie?

  TWO

  After Claire Turner left I shouted for Birdie to come into my office. I kept meaning to get one of those things two people can talk through, but I kept forgetting.

  “Yeah, Faye?”

  “I need some addresses and phone numbers.” I lit a cig and looked at my notes. “Ladd in Rhode Island, don’t know what city.”

  “Lad? Is that like Lassie’s boyfriend or somethin?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Yer not givin me much to go on here, Faye. Lad. Is that a name?”

  “Whaddya mean, is that a name?”

  “So I call information in Rhode Island and say, I’d like the phone number of a lad, please?”

  “Wait a minute. How’re ya spellin that?”

  “I’m not spellin it. I’m sayin it.”

  “You said a lad. You mean l-a-d?”

  “Yeah. L-a-d. Ain’t that how ya spell lad ?”

  “That’s not the kinda lad it is. It’s L-a-d-d.”

  “Ohhh. A double D. Makes all the difference. Hello, operator, will ya give me the phone number of Ladd, L-a-d-d? No first name, no city. Yer givin me a hard row to hoe here, Faye.”

  I shoulda asked Claire for Mr. Ladd’s first name. Still, I had to defend myself. “That’s what I pay ya for.”

  “You pay me to go crazy callin information with only a last name in every city in the whole state?”

  “It’s the smallest state in the Union.”

  “Oh, that makes all the difference. Why didn’t ya say that to start with. I don’t even know the names of the cities.”

  “Ya have to go out and buy a map.”

  “Now yer gettin bonkers, Faye. Who’d have a map of Rhode Island?”

  “Bird, I know you’ll find a way. I have complete faith in ya.”

  “Well, ya may be whistlin Dixie on this one, Faye.”

  “Try Charles Ladd first. Then any other Ladd ya can find.”

  “Who else ya want me to find?”

  “George Cummings. I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Oh, this is dynamite info.”

  “He went to Franklin and Marshall College.”

  “Where’s that?”

  We stared at each other.

  “You don’t know that either, huh?”

  I shook my head.

  “You ever think of a different line a work, Faye?”

  “Findin out where a college is won’t be hard.”

  She mimed holding a phone. “Hello, operator, can ya gimme the number for College Central?”

  “Call the main library.”

  “Big help. So you’re takin her case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “A missin boyfriend.”

  “Jeez, Louise. If I hired a PI every time Pete went missin, I’d be broke.”

  “I think it’s different, Birdie.”

  “So gimme the scoop.”

  I did.

  “You think he’s done an amscray or it’s somethin else?”

  “Unless Turner�
��s lyin, and I wouldn’t put it past her, then I think somethin bad has happened to this soldier.”

  “Bad like . . . bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatcha gonna do now?”

  “I’m goin to the Commodore.”

  “The soldiers’ hotel. He’s stayin there?”

  “She told me that’s where he was. So I’d better give it a once-over.”

  “Good thinkin, Faye.”

  I gave her a look but she missed it. “Thanks, Bird.”

  As she headed for the door, her back to me, she waved a hand in the air as if to say Think nothing of it. Birdie Ritter was a corker, all right.

  The Commodore Hotel wasn’t that far from my office, which was a good thing cause I hated going out in the heat. I grabbed my pocketbook, my summer hat, and left.

  On the street I felt like I was melting. I was wearing the coolest dress I owned, but it still felt like I was swaddled in a snowsuit.

  A few doors down from my building was a candy and cigar store where I got my cigs and papers when I didn’t get em in Greenwich Village where I lived.

  The owner was a mug who went by the moniker of Stork on account of his resemblance to one. And the regulars who hung out there were Blackshirt Bob, Fat Freddy, and Larry the Loser, better known as Loser. A trio of upstanding gents who spent their time in the craps game Stork ran in the back room, and betting on anything that struck their fancy. They even had a bet on me.

  When Woody went off to war and left me in charge, the bet was between whether I’d run the place into the ground before he came home or make a go of it. I knew this cause Stork spilled the beans to me one stormy afternoon when we were in the place alone. But I never let on I knew.

  When my first murder case hit the front pages, the boys were heartbroken. All except Stork who was betting I’d make it work.

  We said our hellos and Stork put a pack of Camels on the marble counter. I wasn’t picking up my papers now cause I didn’t want to carry them around. From the brown Bakelite radio on a shelf behind Stork came Rudy Vallee singing “As Time Goes By.” I ordered a Royal Crown.

  “So, Faye, any new cases?” Fat Freddy asked. Every day he was looking more like ten tons of flour in a five-pound bag.

  “Matter of fact, I just got a new one this mornin.”

  Stork said, “I hope it ain’t another big M.” He poured my RC into a glass with ice.

  “Don’t know yet. Right now it’s a missin person case.” That first swallow was swell.

  “Yeah? Who’s missin?” Loser asked. He was famous for picking the also-ran bangtails. I didn’t think he ever lost at that.

  “Per usual, I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “There she goes,” Blackshirt Bob said. “Like the FBI or somethin.”

  “Leave her alone,” Stork said. He was always trying to protect me, which was why he didn’t want my case to be a murder.

  “We’re just interested,” Freddy said.

  “Yeah, Faye’s our gal.”

  “Give it a rest,” Stork said. “Now, you be careful, Faye. No matter what kinda case it is, ya never know.”

  Bob said, “Ya never know what?”

  “Remember when she was conked on the head?”

  “Ah, Stork,” I said. “That’s not gonna happen again.”

  “How can ya be sure?”

  “I can’t. But I could walk outta this door right now and get beaned by a fallin flowerpot.” I took a big swig of my RC.

  “Yeah,” Loser said. “Who wants to make a bet on that?”

  “Shut yer trap, Loser. We ain’t bettin on Faye’s well-bein. Right now she’s in fine whack and that’s the way she’s stayin.”

  “Thanks, Stork.”

  Freddy said, “Ya got a will, Faye?”

  “Hey!”

  “What’s a matter wit you?”

  “Can it.”

  “I was just wonderin.”

  Freddy was always trying to tap me for a fin or so but this was going too far. “You wonderin if yer in it, Freddy?”

  “I’d never be so crude.”

  “Since when?” Blackshirt said.

  “So whaddaya askin her that for?”

  “I’m makin conversation is all.”

  “Lemme take ya outta yer misery, Freddy. I don’t have a will. I have nothin to leave. But when I do, I’ll be sure to put ya in it.”

  His round face lit up. “Yeah?”

  “You bet.” I finished my RC. “Gotta go now, fellas.” I paid for my Camels and drink, waved to the boys, and went out into the Arabian desert.

  The sun pounded on me with no letup right through my white hat. I went down a block to Forty-second Street and turned east. Everybody I passed looked beat down to the ankles and I knew it was the weather. Rich people got outta town for the summer, but us working stiffs didn’t have that luxury.

  The Commodore Hotel was connected by a walkway to Grand Central Station. The hotel was pretty tall, not high like the Empire State, but for where it was you could say it was impressive—if you felt the need.

  The doorman opened up for me and I went into the huge lobby of gilt and marble. There were velvet club chairs located around the joint so people could sit and wait or read their newspapers. Potted plants were placed near columns, and bellhops flitted everywhere.

  I went up to the main desk. Three women stood behind it. And a guy, maybe fifty, in a blue uniform with gold piping around his lapels who came over to me. He had a face as interesting as a piece of gefilte fish.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  “Could ya please ring Private Ladd’s room?”

  “Do you know the number?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’ll look it up.”

  He turned to a large ledger and ran a thumbnail down a page. Then he smiled at me. “I’ll ring him now.”

  I watched while he listened with an earpiece. After a bit he hung up, then looked in a cubbyhole on the back wall. Shaking his head, he came back to me.

  “I’m afraid he doesn’t answer and his key isn’t here so he’s probably out.”

  “But he could be in?”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  “I’m a private investigator and . . .”

  He stifled a laugh, which I was used to when people heard my occupation.

  “. . . and the soldier is missin. I’d like to look at his room.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. We can’t have that.”

  The three women turned to look at him because his voice had risen a pitch.

  “Could I see the manager, please?”

  “He’ll tell you the same thing. We don’t allow anyone in our patrons’ rooms.” He pulled at his jacket lapels, then flattened them.

  I could see this guy was in a flusteration.

  “Manager.”

  “Miss, I don’t think you understand. It’s a matter of our guests’ privacy.”

  “Manager.”

  His brown eyes grew wider, and the gefilte complexion was turning red. I thought I saw some white foam at the corners of his mouth.

  One of the clerks came over to him. She was tall and had crossed eyes. “What’s the matter, Mr. Stanwyck?”

  “This girl, who claims to be some kind of investigator, wants to go into a guest’s room when the guest is out.”

  “You can’t do that, miss,” she said.

  “I’d like to see the manager.”

  “Mr. Duff is very busy.”

  “So am I. If ya don’t get him for me, I’ll have to get the police in here and I don’t think ya’d like that.”

  “All right. Mr. Stanwyck, buzz Mr. Duff.”

  “Why don’t you do it, Miss Hayden?”

  “One, I’m your boss, and two, this is your pickle,” she said, and walked away.

  Stanwyck, looking embarrassed, turned on his heel and went to a phone. He kept his back to me so I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then he replaced the rece
iver and returned.

  “Mr. Duff will be out in a moment.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  He pressed his lips together so hard a white halo formed around them. “You’re welcome.” He left me there waiting for Duff while he swanned off, as far from me as he could get.

  A bellhop called over and over for a Mrs. Massey. Either she wasn’t there or she didn’t want to be discovered.

  I spotted Duff before he looked my way. Stu fed shirt didn’t begin to describe him. He held his head tilted back so that he led with his pointed chin. Maybe that was so his pince-nez didn’t fall off. His eyes seemed to be looking down his cheeks. He had ears like croquettes, and a fringe of hair ringed his head. He wore a black suit and tie. I guessed he was in his sixties.

  “May I be of service to you?”

  I explained what I wanted.

  “But I can’t possibly let you into a guest’s room when the guest isn’t there. Surely you see my point.”

  “I do.” I took out my PI license and showed it to him.

  “That won’t change my mind, Miss . . .” He looked down at my license again. “Miss Quick.”

  “Should I get the police here with a warrant?” I couldn’t really do this but he didn’t hafta know that.

  Duff frantically looked around as though he might find the answer from one of the old gents sitting in the lobby. “If only our house detective were here, it would be different. But he’s out sick.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Now I’d like to go to Private Ladd’s room.”

  “So the guest is one of our brave boys in the service?”

  “That’s right, and he’s been missin for two days.”

  He leaned toward me and in a whisper laced with garlic he said, “These boys are full of fun and games when they get to New York, dear girl. And you can’t blame them after what they’ve been through. But on leave they have a high old time. Your private could be almost anywhere.” He wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

  “First off, Mr. Duff, he’s not my private. I’m workin on a case and I’ve been hired to find the soldier.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “I don’t think ya do.” I started to move away. “I guess I’ll get that warrant.”

  “No need for that, Miss Quick. We’ll go to his room together. This is highly unusual and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Duff.”

  “I have to get the passkey. I’ll meet you at the elevators.”