“I’ll do social pleasantries first,” she said as we rode up. “That I’m paying my family’s respects etcetera.”
We’d talked on the phone about what she’d say. She’d tell them I was working for the hotel. She’d say there were concerns their jewelry might not have been safe. I wasn’t sure what I expected to learn, but at least it might help me eliminate one suspect, even one who seemed less and less likely. I needed to make sure the theory I’d worked out about Perry wasn’t blinding me to other possibilities.
The ride to the second floor was short. Rachel fluffed her dark hair just before we stepped out. Bartoz stood with arms crossed by the room where we were headed. He studied Rachel with interest. When we were a few steps away, he rapped on the door next to him. A word from the other side, and he opened it with a flourish. Count Szarenski stood before us without his cane.
Rachel trotted out a string of words and inclined her head to almost a half bow. The ramrod straight count nodded slightly. He didn’t reach for her hand to kiss it as he had the Frenchwoman’s. I heard something vaguely resembling my name, and the count looked at me. I rated a blink.
Speaking again, he gestured toward the blonde woman with him, whom I took to be his wife. Rachel jabbered and gave her the roses. The room service lad hustled up the back stairs in time to hold out a crystal vase. The door closed behind us. Bartoz was excluded.
The suite we entered, as Frances had hinted, made cramped living space for four people who spent little time downstairs. No personal items were in evidence, only a silk upholstered settee, small tables and a couple of chairs. Next to the room’s single window, which looked out on the alley, a pair of straight chairs flanked a table for two with a skirt that matched the draperies.
I couldn’t make heads or tails of the conversation around me. The dark haired woman and the girl who liked to glare took the flowers and vase to the table. Rachel seated herself across from the count and his wife while I took a chair out of their line of sight.
Talk ensued. All at once the blonde made a mewling sound and pressed a hand to her mouth. Count Szarenski’s erect bearing melted. His thumb stroked her cheek. He spoke softly, as if in reassurance.
Rachel’s words to me were as tight as her face.
“They had three stones changed out in Cuba on the way over. They needed the money.”
The twosome at the window had turned curiously at the unfolding drama. A word from the count sent them into a bedroom. His wife leaned into his shoulder. He kissed her hair. He made a shooing gesture at Rachel. We left.
“They didn’t know about the bracelet?” I said when we were in the hall again. There was no sign of Bartoz.
“No. They were counting on that and a third piece they brought to bankroll them if worse came to worse.” She jabbed the elevator button with a lacquered fingertip.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why would a thief steal only from Europeans and interventionists like Lena Shields?”
“Maybe he has political leanings.”
“Have you ever met a crook who cared about politics?”
“Only the ones who were politicians.” She jabbed the button again.
“Have we earned a drink?”
“Yes. No. I need to be alone, I think. I’m more affected by that man and his family than I anticipated. If I could find the s.o.b. who did this, I would kill him.”
* * *
I updated my clients and managed not to slug Joshua when he again refused to listen to reason and hire someone to watch the safe.
I drove to the Jenkins’ apartment where we all watched what Ione dubbed her ‘debut movie’. It seemed a lot shorter than when we’d walked around making it. Three times through it confirmed that a small portion of the lounge would be invisible to someone peeking from Tucker’s office to check if the coast was clear. As far as I was concerned, that was all it showed. No suspicious characters skulking around or doing anything odd. And, alas, no passing glimpse of Nick Perry that could prompt a witness to leap up and say, “That’s the man with the moles!”
At a quarter past nine, I made a slow circuit of the block with the flophouse. No ladies of the night were in evidence, or at least none in quest of clients. I went around again, zig-zagging onto an unpaved lane to finish the loop without backtracking. As I neared the spot where Sylvia was said to do business, I slowed. Two women in tight skirts and too much makeup, one of them leaning against the wall, were chatting. I pulled to the curb.
The one who wasn’t leaning looked up. I let the DeSoto’s engine idle. She sauntered over. When she reached the passenger side, I cranked down the window.
“Are you Sylvia?”
Startled I wasn’t a man, she jerked back. I waved a two-dollar bill.
“This is yours if you send her to me.”
“Get out. Sylvia’s not that kind.”
“I just want to talk—”
“Scram before I yell for Bartholomew!” Her voice had gone shrill. She stumbled backwards. “Nobody here does other women, you piece of filth. Scram!”
Stunned, I started to step from the car to show her just how scared I wasn’t of Bartholomew. Then reason told me that near as I was to getting answers about the missing man, and possibly his link to troubles at The Canterbury, I shouldn’t risk causing a ruckus which might draw attention.
Struggling to control my temper, I let out the clutch and drove on. At first my route was aimless. Soon thoughts as well as itinerary grew more orderly. I checked the second-hand bookshop. It was closed and dark. The dregs of society flowed through the streets around it.
The alley behind the bookshop was too narrow for cars. On the opposite side of the alley, its back facing that of the bookstore, an industrial laundry kept its sliding doors open to let out heat from the presses. The light and bustle there made chances of illegal activity through the rear of Rice’s shop just about zero.
Next I checked Rice’s rooming house. His Chevy was outside. The light in his room was on. I sat and watched for a while, but impatience to come up with a way to talk to the hooker named Sylvia made me fidget.
I needed to swallow my pride and ask a man to help me. Not Connelly. Running to him every time I needed something would make me feel weak. Pearlie would help, but having him ask about someone would more likely send the person he asked about into hiding. Pearlie wasn’t bad looking, but something in his manner told you what he was. Or had been before Rachel hired him. Besides, I didn’t have a way to reach him except through Rachel.
The light in Rice’s room went out. I waited. He didn’t emerge. It was too late for him to be heading out to the bar where he’d met Nick Perry, and hours early for him to catch any bundles dropped from The Canterbury.
That was when I thought of the perfect recruit for my new hunt for Sylvia.
FORTY-THREE
Bartoz was in his stocking feet when he opened his door. He seemed startled to see me.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late,” I said softly. Mrs. Avery across the hall might be sleeping by now. The Szarenskis might be as well.
“No, it’s fine.” He hesitated. “Will you come in?”
I did, and gestured to close the door. His bed was neatly made, so he hadn’t been sleeping. It wasn’t completely unlikely he slept on the floor to listen for hall noises.
“I need your help for an hour or so if you’re willing. If you think it’s safe to leave the count.”
He hesitated. “Yes. He needs to feel he can protect his family. Inside the hotel is safe, as you said yesterday. Help how?”
“I need you to help me find a hooker.”
Bartoz stared, sure he’d misunderstood.
“Hooker,” he repeated. I could practically see him turning the word over, double-checking that he had the right meaning. “You mean a woman who, ah....”
“Yes. I need to talk to her.”
“Ah.”
“I asked another girl to send her over, but that girl got the wrong idea. Told me if I didn’t lea
ve she’d make a fuss.”
“Let me put on my shoes,” said Bartoz. “Will you wait?” He gestured toward the room’s upholstered chair.
“Downstairs.”
It would give him privacy to use the loo and tell the count he was going out, if he wanted to. Five minutes later we were walking toward my car.
“The count wishes that I tell you he didn’t send you and the lady with roses away because he was angry,” said Bartoz as we left the parking lot. “He did it because his wife was—”
“I understand. Neither one of us liked upsetting her.”
I wasn’t sure how much he knew about what we’d discussed.
“Much of it was her shame, you see. That people would know they have so little money.”
“Is that why you go to the bank and the post office every day? The count’s expecting some sort of payment?”
“Yes.” Bartoz lowered his window halfway and lighted a cigarette. He flicked the match out the window. “I think he waits in vain.”
I looked at him sharply.
“When Poland started to crumble, Count Szarenski sent some of his funds to Lyons. There was a trustworthy man, a banker, so circumspect it seemed unlikely the Nazis would notice him. He was to send a bank draft here, but....”
“You think he put the money in his own pocket?”
“No,” said Bartoz flatly. “I think he’s dead.”
We were on Third now, headed to Ludlow, from which we’d make our way to the warren of streets that led to the flophouse. We didn’t speak again until we were almost there. Then I told him what I wanted, and left it to him how to handle it.
When I began to pull over, he rolled the window down and hung his elbow out. Almost at once, a woman appeared from the alley, if the darkened footpath between the hotel and its neighbor deserved such a name. She was harder looking than the one who’d sent me packing. Her hips swayed as she came to the car.
“Are you Sylvia?” asked Bartoz, leaning out. “I’m told Sylvia’s very kind with men who are unattractive.” His voice projected unexpected charm.
“She’s with a customer. I can be real kind too.”
“A lovely invitation, but Sylvia was recommended to me. I’ll wait. Perhaps you could let her know?”
The hooker noticed me now. Bartoz waved a hand in dismissal.
“My driver. She’s unimportant.”
A man came up the sidewalk, jingling the change in his pocket. The hooker lost interest in Bartoz. She nodded toward the flophouse.
“Sylvia went in there. She could be awhile.” She set course for the jingling man.
“How will I recognize her?” called Bartoz.
“Yellow sweater,” she answered over her shoulder.
There wasn’t much traffic where we were. Few in this neighborhood could afford cars. I pulled the DeSoto to the curb and parked. Staring at the flophouse, I wondered whether Sylvia liked going inside better than servicing men in the alley, or if she simply went along with her customers’ wishes.
“That place is a pigsty,” I said.
Bartoz nodded. “I’ve been in similar places. When I was young.” He probably wasn’t much older than I was. He looked moodily out the window. “I suppose I’ll have to resort to that again, though in nicer surroundings, if I want female companionship now. With this.”
He flicked a finger toward his disfigurement. I managed to hold my tongue for a minute.
“Actually, Bartoz, if you’d trade the patch you wear now for a black one, I’ll bet you’d have all kinds of women flirting with you.”
He turned to me in disbelief.
“Flirting! But—”
“It will make you look mysterious. Dashing. Like men they’ve seen in the movies. Duels. Pirates—”
He gave a bark of amusement.
“Pirates.”
We could be waiting a long time. I switched to easier subjects.
“Why does the Szarenski girl keep scowling at me?”
“Julitta?” He took out his cigarettes and rocked the pack between his fingers so long the silence became heavy. “She’s a sweet girl, really. One who’s been forced to see — and do — terrible things. She frowns to protect herself, I think. To keep people away. I think, too, she’s jealous of you. Your car. Your independence. How you look. And...” He sighed. “She crushes on me.”
“Crushes? Has a crush on you, you mean? Is smitten?”
“Yes. She— Is that sweater yellow?”
He threw the pack of cigarettes onto the seat.
Before I could look he was out of the car, leaving the door ajar and approaching a woman who’d just emerged from the flophouse. I’d given him greenbacks. Bartoz dangled them from his fingertips as he spoke to her. When they drew abreast of the car and he started to steer her toward it, Sylvia dug in her heels.
“Hey, are you crazy? I’m not getting in a car. The lane or the hotel. That’s it. Period.”
Bartoz caught her arm. I leaned across the seat and pushed the door wider, hoping she could see me.
“Sylvia. All you have to do for your money is tell me about the man who died in the hotel there — what you saw that night.”
She was struggling and the sight of me didn’t help much.
“I didn’t see—”
“Yeah, you did.”
Her brown hair was curled and fluffed and tangled, with a black bow holding it up on one side. Her yellow sweater was tight. The neckline wouldn’t protect her from chest colds.
“I was at the hotel today. I’m a private detective. The guy who runs it doesn’t know I know about you. I’m not here to make trouble. Talk to me for ten minutes and you get your usual fee now...” I nodded at Bartoz, who held it out invitingly. “...and the same again when we’re finished.
“If that arrangement doesn’t suit you, I’ll have to talk to the cops. They’ll make your life awfully unpleasant.”
She swallowed.
“Sylvia?” A man stepped out of the alley. He was thickset and not much more than a shape, the street was so meagerly lighted. “What’s going on there?”
“I’m negotiating,” she snapped, whirling as much as possible with Bartoz holding her arm. “Keep your nose out.” She turned back to me. “Not here. Somebody might put two and two together.”
“What about if I buy you lunch tomorrow?”
“The Woman’s Club?” Her laugh was harsh.
“Anyplace you want.”
“How about Pixies? One o’clock.”
She all but ran toward the alley.
* * *
Bartoz and I didn’t talk much on our way back to the hotel. We hadn’t taken half a dozen steps into the lobby when something in my peripheral vision jerked me from thoughts about whether Sylvia would keep our appointment.
Light from Tucker’s office outlined the door, which was open a crack. It was after midnight, time for it to be locked and dark. I stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“I need to talk to Mr. Tucker a minute. Thanks for helping tonight, Bartoz.”
Snapping as erect as the count, he gave me the same half-bow the count had bestowed on Rachel. When he was partway up the stairs, I moved toward the door with the safe. With the light on I didn’t expect to find a robbery in progress. What worried me was the possibility something else had gone missing.
Instead, as I reached the door, I heard laughter. Knocking softly, I nudged the door open, then stopped in surprise. Frances, Eulahbelle Avery, Veronica Page and one of the male dancers sat at a table arrayed with cards and poker chips.
“Maggie!” Frances greeted me with a Cheshire Cat smile. “Come in. Shall I deal you in?”
“You’ll lose your shirt and be here til breakfast trying to get it back,” Veronica cautioned. “I’ve played with her before.”
“I was fool enough to once in London,” chimed in Eulahbelle. “Four o’clock, five in the morning before it ended.”
Glasses and liquor bottles were contributing to the merriment. Frances’ eyes me
t mine.
“I don’t play often, but when I get started, I’m one hell of a poker player.”
FORTY-FOUR
Frances’ ploy of staging a poker game to make sure no one got into the safe was dazzling. I was out and about too early the next day to congratulate her. I took the borrowed pictures back to the coroner, along with muffins from The Canterbury to sweeten him up for future favors. I picked up the prints of the photographs I’d taken at the hotel. The morning could still pass as young when I arrived at Skip’s theatrical shop.
“That’s him. He’s the one.”
Skip tapped one of the photographs I’d spread before him on his display case. It was easier finding pictures of live people than of dead ones, so I’d given him half a dozen.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Before we started this place, I spent enough years helping actors put on makeup to know how a face looks with and without additions. Add a couple of moles and a mustache, and that’s the man who came in.”
He’d picked out the picture of Nick Perry.
“Then what I want you to do is draw those in on one of these.”
Rummaging until he found a pencil that suited him better than the one on his counter top, Skip added the details of Perry’s disguise so subtly it took several looks to recognize they weren’t part of the original. I now had two copies of the identical photo, showing the same man. In one he appeared as described by Skip and the clerk from Lagarde Jewelers; in the other as he looked at The Canterbury.
“You’re some artist,” I said in admiration.
Ship hooked thumbs under his red suspenders and tried not to show he was pleased. I put the pictures away.
“May I use your phone?”
* * *
Freeze was in some kind of meeting. It should be over in forty minutes or so, I was informed. Meantime, there was another phone call I wanted to make, one better made where I had more privacy. I thanked Skip and left, with the glorious feeling I was finally making progress.
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