Then he straightened, went back out into the corridor, opened the fire door and stepped out onto a steel landing.
Another fire door was to his left. Anyone on this side could open it and take stairs down to the first floor, but when the door was shut a heavy bar prevented anyone from opening it on the other side.
To his right a flight of steel stairs led to a fire door in the penthouse. The sign on that one said ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE.
He climbed the stairs, put his ear to the door and heard nothing. He tried the knob and pushed. It wouldn’t give. He pushed harder, even put his shoulder to it. Damn, it was also barred from the other side. It would take a stick of dynamite to open that door. If he couldn’t find another way up, he might have to try to bluff the security guard at the elevator.
In frustration he pounded the door once with his fist.
And from behind it a woman asked, “Who’s out there?”
“The painter, ma’am.”
“Painter? Buddy, can’t you read? When Mr. Maxwell hears about this…”
He stepped back as the door swung out.
Staring down at him was Saralee.
She was dressed primly in a gray suit with a skirt that ended just above her knees. Scowling, she put a hand to her hip, opened her mouth to say something else and then stopped, recognition flickering in her eyes.
Julian folded his arms. “Nice seeing you again, Mrs. Hemingway. Or should I say, Mrs. O’Bradovitch.”
“Forbes! My God, you mean you got this far without being spotted?”
“I think so. And before you holler for someone to throw me out, I suggest it would be very much in your self-interest to—”
“Never mind that.” She reached down and grabbed his wrist. “Come on!”
He followed her up into a small study. The outer wall was glass and looked out on a balcony that ran the entire length of the penthouse.
“You can’t stay here,” she said. “Morris and some of the others will be out there any minute now, they’ll see you. This way.”
Saralee led him down a hall and into a small bedroom. Hers, apparently. The bedspread was pink, the dresser top a clutter of vials and bottles.
“Okay,” Forbes said after she had closed the door. “You’re showing good sense. Much more than anyone else I’ve tried to question about Iris Dean. And I apologize for barging in this way, it’s not how I usually do things. Now suppose you tell me—”
“No.” She opened a purse and pulled out a key ring. “Just wait here. Morris wants to talk to you.”
“He does?”
“You bet your damn britches he does.” She locked the door through which they’d entered and walked to a second door.
“I’ve always been in the book.”
“It’s not that simple. I’ll bring him as soon as I can. And for Christ’s sake, don’t make any noise.”
She locked that door from the outside.
He prowled around. The closet was full of dresses and gowns, the drawers were loaded with miscellaneous female junk. Finding nothing of interest, he peeked through the keyhole in the second door, glimpsing carpeted stairs leading down into what seemed to be a sunken living room.
It would have been easy enough to trip the lock, but he decided to trust her. She hadn’t been hostile. In fact, when he thought back on it she’d seemed relieved, hardly the reaction he’d expected.
He waited quite a while. Finally a door in the apartment opened, steps neared, and a key turned in the lock.
“This,” Saralee said, “is Morris Maxwell.”
The merchandiser was shorter and looked older than Forbes would have guessed from newspaper photographs. Round-shouldered and thin to the point of frailness, he wore a vested blue suit. His face was pale and lean, almost birdlike, and his sparse hair was gray.
He nodded and said, “Hello, Forbes. Care for a drink?”
Forbes hadn’t expected that reaction either. It was to be an afternoon of surprises then. Curley should wind up with quite a tape.
“All right. Bourbon neat’ll do.”
Vaguely Maxwell seemed pleased at Forbes’s assent. They went into the living room. A bar was set up near a floor-to-ceiling window which, ironically, afforded a view of Curley’s car across the street.
Maxwell splashed bourbon into a glass, handed it to Forbes, and said, “I won’t ask what you’re supposed to be painting. I’ll just ask that you leave as unobtrusively as you came. I won’t even ask who gave you my name, although I think I can guess. I understand you’ve seen a young man named Wojac.”
“What happened?” Forbes wondered. “Someone follow me to his place from Powell’s?”
“Does it matter?” Maxwell began mixing martinis. “But enough of that. If you want to continue this conversation, it’ll have to be on my terms. And those are: no more questions. I don’t ask you any more, and you don’t ask me any more.”
He poured a few ounces of martini into a cocktail glass and handed the glass to Saralee. Then he dumped a big slug into a tumbler for himself and sipped from it immediately, his hand shaking slightly.
“I’m not sure,” Forbes said, settling in a leather chair, “that’ll leave much to discuss.”
“There’ll be enough.” Maxwell moved around and sat on a sofa, one leg crossed over the other. Saralee took a place beside him. “I know you’re looking for Iris Dean. I know you haven’t found her yet, or you wouldn’t be here. We both know other people are looking for Iris too. And I also know who your client is.”
“You’re well informed.”
“I try to be.”
Again the tumbler went to Maxwell’s lips. Maxwell an alcoholic? Very possibly. He’d made a dive for the bottle right after his big meeting. He’d gone to work on his drink before anyone else had touched theirs. His tremor, his pale complexion—it all added up. But how could an alcoholic run a multimillion-dollar enterprise like Giveaway Stores?
Fascinated, Forbes stared at the man.
“Most of all,” Maxwell continued, “I’d like to find Iris Dean myself. Talk to her before anyone else does. But barring that, I want to talk to your client, so I’ll ask you to convey a message. We needn’t mention his name, we both know his identity. Just tell your client I want to see him. A private discussion, the two of us. Tell him I’m as concerned about Iris Dean as he is. He’ll understand. And tell him that if he agrees to see me, I’ll make it worth his while financially.”
Saralee said, “He means it. You set it up. But tell that old man he’s got to see Morris.”
“I’ll give you a number,” Maxwell added. “If you don’t get a response, keep calling. Sooner or later one of us will answer.”
“Very well.” Forbes sipped from his own drink. “But I’m not sure I’ll advise my client to meet you. In fact, I’ll advise him against it.”
“For God’s sake, why?”
“My secretary Helen was looking for Iris too. And the way this case is shaping up, I’m beginning to think that’s why she was killed—and that you might know something about her murder.”
“No, no.” Emphatically Maxwell shook his head. “I can assure you, to the best of my knowledge there’s absolutely no connection between Iris Dean and…” He looked up, lips curving in a humorless smile. “That’s clever. Trying to panic me into telling you why I want to talk to your client. A disguised way of asking questions. Clever, and reprehensible, using your secretary’s unfortunate murder that way. For the last time, your Helen’s murder has nothing to do with this. I’ve given you the message. Finish your drink and get out.”
* * * *
Curley picked him up in front of the store. Forbes had returned the painting gear to Hardware, and before leaving he’d bought a sackful of sundries. The stuff was priced ridiculously low.
“Get it all?” Forbes asked.
“Yeah. Wh
at do you make of it?”
“I don’t know. He seemed sincere, but he could have been acting. And a man who won the medals he did, even if he seems a shambles on the outside, deep down he’s got a tough streak. Backed in a corner he’d be capable of anything.”
They turned onto a highway that would take them back to the city.
“Frankly,” Curley said, “I don’t think St. Clair’d agree to meet him anyhow.”
“We won’t tell St. Clair. If we can pull it off, we’ll spring it as a surprise. Throw him and Maxwell together and see what develops. And we’ll set it up so we can listen in on the conversation. What we overhear might explain a lot we don’t understand now.”
“You meant it, didn’t you, when you said anything goes?” Behind the horn-rimmed glasses, Curley’s eyes narrowed. “Julian, I’m still with you. But I get the feeling the situation is getting out of hand. I think—”
“Just think about how to bug the meeting. When’s the last time you ate?”
“Last night. The bar on Morse Avenue had a hot-dog machine.”
“I thought so. Stop at the next restaurant.”
They had dinner and a few drinks. Thanks to Forbes’s painter’s costume their table was isolated and remote and they could talk freely. Over coffee Curley proposed getting Maxwell and St. Clair together on the shore of the Lincoln Park Lagoon. Even if they walked around, Curley felt sure he could pick up the conversation with a shotgun microphone. The device had a range of several hundred feet, and Curley just happened to know a man who would rent him one at any hour of the day or night.
“Fine,” Forbes said. “We’ll give it a try.”
From a booth in the restaurant he dialed Maxwell’s number. The merchandiser answered almost immediately.
“Mr. Maxwell? I’ve just seen my client. Against my advice he’s agreed to meet you. In fact he seems very anxious to, as soon as possible. How about tonight?”
“Tonight?” There was a slur in Maxwell’s voice. “No, not tonight. Got a big dinner with a big supplier.”
“When, then?”
“Tomorrow. But I’ll call you. In the morning. We’ll make arrangements then. What time you get in?”
“Call any time. I’ll alert my answering service. To identify yourself use the code name ‘Astro.’ Got that? You’ll have top priority. Whoever answers, you’ll be told where I can be reached. And if that’s not practical…”
But Maxwell had hung up on him.
“I suspect,” Curley said a minute later, “that you’ve been had. And Maxwell made that offer just to get rid of you.”
“Perhaps. But he had easier ways to get rid of me. We’ll give him one more chance.”
“The guys who followed you from St. Clair’s—I guess from now on we’ll have to be more careful about that sort of thing.”
“And how. I don’t want my cover at the Dijon busted yet. I intend to tackle the hotel employees next. You’d better take me straight there from here. They may be staked out at my car or my apartment. On the way we’ll stop at a store, I’ll change into an appropriate costume. And when you get home, call Rose. Supposedly to fill her in on what’s up, but actually to make sure she got home all right herself.”
“About Helen—suppose Maxwell’s right? That despite all the monkeyshines, there is no connection between Iris Dean’s disappearance and Helen’s murder?”
“Impossible.”
“Improbable, yes. Impossible, no. Forgive me for bringing it up. I fully appreciate your position. And I hope what I’m about to say isn’t going to cost me a partnership. But before we go further, don’t you think we should try to check Eric’s story? At least to the extent of giving him a private lie test? I’ve had some experience operating those machines, and I know where I can—”
“No,” Forbes said. “He’s my son. If I can’t take my son’s word, I can’t take anyone’s word. And besides there isn’t time.”
CHAPTER 9
Oscar, the Dijon’s ancient bellboy, fingered the two twenty-dollar bills. He sat on the edge of the bed in Forbes’s room while Forbes sipped thoughtfully at the bottle of beer Oscar had delivered a few minutes earlier. It was a little before nine, and Oscar had just taken Forbes on another great leap forward. Harry Houser, it seemed, was exactly what Forbes had always suspected he’d been—a nobody controlled by forces of which he had no understanding.
“Confidentially,” Oscar said, putting the bills into a pocket, “I knew who you were this morning. Harry showed me your picture in a newspaper. Said if I saw you I should tell him immediately.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“When you checked in you tipped good. I never liked Harry nohow. And I figured we might be able to do business. Not that any of us knew much about Iris Dean.”
“Forget Iris. What interests me now is the man who questioned you about her. You say he came to the hotel Thursday morning, two days after Iris checked out?”
“Yeah. Some guys were with him. They talked to Harry in his office. When they came out, Harry was shakin’ like a leaf. One guy went up to Iris’s old room to look around. The others got Iris’s stuff out of the storeroom and put it in a car. I couldn’t understand why they’d do that.”
“They’d go over every item,” Forbes mused. “List clothes labels, look in every pocket, and so on. Anything that might help them find her. But the man who questioned you—”
“He did it in Harry’s office. Talked to me and everyone else who works at the hotel, one at a time. What did we know about Iris? Who were her friends, all that jazz. The same stuff you asked. Harry said the man’s name was Mr. Brown and he was from a collection agency, but he didn’t look like no collection agency to me. He was a big guy. Fat face, funny mustache. German type.”
That would be Claude. Unmistakably.
“Harry say anything else about Mr. Brown?”
“Only that we shouldn’t mention him to nobody. Confidentially, Harry’s been a nervous wreck ever since.” Oscar got up and walked to the window. “But like I told you, one of ’em’s back tonight. Been in that coffee shop across the street since six, watchin’ everyone who goes in and out of the hotel. The tall, skinny guy. If you meet him close up, you’ll see he wears a big ring on his left hand. And I think it’s a weapon, not a decoration.”
Forbes peered over Oscar’s shoulder. The watcher in the coffee shop was the hawk-faced man who had climbed into the Impala near St. Clair’s apartment earlier in the day.
“Okay, Oscar. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” The bellboy picked up his tray. “But be careful. Your picture’s on the bulletin board. Someone’s sure to spot you sooner or later.”
Forbes pulled up a chair and watched Hawk Face, who signaled for another coffee. He would wait the man out. If Hawk Face got up to pay his check, Forbes was sure he could get downstairs before his man left the coffee shop. Unfortunately Forbes’s own car was still in his Loop garage. He couldn’t follow Hawk Face, but at least he could note the license number of whatever car the man drove off in, and perhaps get a closer look at his friends.
What was the man doing down there? Houser must have told Claude that Forbes had been seen in the hotel yesterday posing as a policeman. Now Claude hoped he would come back so they could follow him to St. Clair.
Two hours went by. Hawk Face got up once to visit the rest room. Stakeouts in coffee shops are hard on the kidneys. Forbes was yawning, about ready to give up the vigil and go to bed, when Hawk Face squirmed and peered to his left, obviously intrigued by something on Forbes’s side of the street.
Forbes rose and flattened against the wall, trying to glimpse whatever had caught the man’s attention. Down the block a girl strolled toward the hotel. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt and had a huge mop of black hair. At this distance Forbes couldn’t be sure, but she bore a remarkable resemblance to Astrid, the girl he’d seen in Pet
e Wojac’s apartment.
She vanished under the canopy of the hotel’s entrance.
Hawk Face slid out of his booth and bolted for the cashier.
Astrid?
Forbes hurried out into the hall and stationed himself under the elevator indicator. With agonizing slowness it crept down to “1” and stopped. When it began moving again, Forbes shoved the UP button.
This was the break he’d been waiting for, and it always happened this way—unexpectedly. Just when you thought all the other leads had been exhausted, something would hit you from your blind side and the whole case would start falling into your lap.
The elevator door opened. Astrid was alone in the cage.
Forbes stepped in, and as the door began to close she looked up, eyes widening.
He said, “Hello, Astrid.” The cage jerked into motion. “Funny, how neither you nor Wojac mentioned that you live here. Iris a friend of yours too?”
She backed away. “Leave me alone, you fink, you’re one of them!”
“One of them?”
“The men who beat Pete in his studio early this morning, for asking questions. I was there. Powell sent you to Pete, didn’t he? To test him, to see if he’d keep his mouth shut. Hell, Pete was in a hospital until a couple hours ago.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Screw you.” With a quick motion she unzipped her jeans. “Get off at the next floor, or I holler rape.”
“No you won’t. You don’t want to call that much attention to yourself. I’ve never seen a picture of Iris’s little sister. But except for the hair, you fit Carmelle’s general description.”
He reached up and tore the wig away. Long blond strands tumbled to her shoulders. It was Carmelle Dean, all right.
The elevator stopped. Behind him the door opened.
He yanked her into the hall. They were on the ninth floor. He shoved her against the wall and pinned her there.
“You damned fool,” he said as softly as he could. “Use your head. If I was testing Pete, the last thing I’d do would be to tell him Saralee was mixed up in this. The men who beat him—was one of ’em a skinny, balding guy? Big ring on his left hand?”
The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel Page 66