Vanishing Ladies

by Ed McBain

  “I don’t know who you met. I suppose so.”

  “Who’s Joe Carlisle?”

  “Who?”

  “Joe Carlisle. He’s from Davistown.”

  “Oh. He’s nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He comes around now and then, does handy work for Mike. Mike pays him by … by … you know. Hez is the real handy man, though.” She looked up into my face. “Hezekiah Hawkins. He lives near the motel, out at the Point. Got his own place on South Hunter Road.”

  “What about his wife?”

  Fear darted momentarily into Blanche’s eyes. “Who … whose wife?” she asked.

  “Carlisle’s.”

  “He’s not married.”

  “There was a blonde with him last night. In the cabin my girl originally had. Her name is Stephanie. Do you know her?”

  “No,” Blanche said quickly.

  “Did you see anyone enter my girl’s cabin?”

  “What girl?” Blanche said.

  “Listen …”

  “I didn’t see any girl.”

  We stared at each other across the miles of tablecloth.

  “What made the blood in cabin eleven?” I asked.

  “What blood? I didn’t see any blood.”

  “End of interview?” I asked.

  “End of interview. I don’t want trouble. There was enough trouble last night. Enough to last me a lifetime.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Screaming and yelling and cars. I don’t know.”

  “Screaming from where?”

  “Some place in the motel.”

  “Where in the motel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where, Blanche?”

  “Cabin … cabin number eleven.”

  “Who was in that cabin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do, Blanche. It’s in your eyes. You do know.”

  “I can’t tell you any more.” Her eyes were pleading with me now. The phone in the booth began ringing. I shoved back my chair. Blanche reached for my hand suddenly. I turned to her.

  “Your girl,” she said. “She’s … she’s safe.”

  “What?” The phone kept ringing. The counterman came from behind the counter and headed for it. Quickly, I moved into the booth and lifted the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Colby, this is Lieutenant DeMorra.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any new developments?”

  “Just that I think Ann is safe, sir. I don’t know how long she will be, though.”

  “All right. I’m sending Tony.”

  “Mitchell?”

  “Yes. You know this is highly irregular, Colby, and you know it has to be unofficial. We don’t want out-of-state police coming down on our necks with protests. I’m giving Tony sick leave. He’s coming on his own. Where can he meet you?”

  “How about right here?”

  “What’s the name of the place?”

  “I don’t know. It’s the coffee pot right alongside the only bank in town.”

  “All right. He’s starting now. Give him three or four hours. Make it six sharp, all right?”

  “Fine.” I paused. “Sir, my gun was taken from me.”

  “Tony’ll bring you one.” DeMorra paused. “Why? Do you think you’ll need it?”

  “I might.”

  “All right. Good luck, Colby.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I hung up.

  When I walked out of the booth, Blanche was gone.

  11

  There was no sense in taking off after Blanche. Even if I’d have found her, she’d done all the talking she was going to do. I sat down at the table and knocked off the remaining two hamburgers. When the counterman saw I’d finished the main course, he brought me my chocolate cream pie.

  I was beginning to feel a little better. I’m the kind of fellow who likes to eat. You know, there are those who eat to live, and those who live to eat. I’m not exactly a live-to-eater, but I do like food. Also, when I’ve gone for any amount of time without stuffing something into my mouth, I get so I can’t even think too straight. I was beginning to think a little straighter, or at least as straight as I’d ever thought. And I had to admit that things looked a little better. Ann was safe. Or at any rate Blanche had said so. Mitchell was on his way, and there wasn’t a better cop in the 23rd. There were also a few other things I now knew which, while not entirely clearing up the picture, at least helped in that direction.

  For one, there had been trouble in cabin 11 last night. Blanche had heard yelling and screaming and cars. Maybe the blood was a result of that trouble.

  For another, I was fairly certain that no matter what else Mike Barter ran, he also ran a good-sized brothel.

  That didn’t put me any closer to finding Ann.

  I paid my check and then went out to the street. I figured I’d better head back to Barter’s motel if for no other reason than to pick up my bag and my car. I didn’t know what ideas Mitchell would have when he arrived, but I wanted to be ready for whatever he suggested. Even if he didn’t have an idea in his head, I felt a lot better just knowing he was on his way.

  I caught a cab outside the bank and told the driver I wanted to go to Mike Barter’s motel.

  “At the Point?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Got to give you a flat rate on that.”

  “What’s the rate?”

  “Two bucks,” he said.

  “That sounds appropriate.”

  We drove out to the motel. The Caddy with the SB license tag was still in front of the office. A little Ford was parked alongside it. Barter was nowhere in sight. My own car was parked just a little to the right of and behind the Ford. I got out of the cab and went straight to cabin 12. I wasn’t surprised to find that the bloodstain along the wall had been scrubbed clean. I changed my clothes, packed whatever was hanging around, and then carried my bag to the car. As I passed the office, I heard voices. I stoppped.

  It’s impolite to eavesdrop unless you’re a cop.

  “I know she’s here,” a man’s voice said, “so don’t give me any of that crap.”

  The voice that answered him was low and throaty. “I prefer not to listen to profanity,” it said. “If you’re going to start swearing, you can leave right now.”

  “Where’s Lois? That’s all I want to know,” the man said.

  “And I told you. She left. This morning.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “To the railroad station. She said she was going back home.”

  “How come she didn’t tell me anything about it?”

  I could almost hear the woman shrugging. “How would I know? She made up her mind suddenly. She said she was leaving, and she left.”

  “Did she leave alone?”

  “No. I drove her in with one of the other girls. Walked her to the station, in fact.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A white dress,” the woman said.

  “This was at the railroad station in Sullivan’s Corners?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to check there,” the man said.

  “Go ahead, check. We stopped for coffee in town, too. At The Green Door. You can check there, too.”

  “I will. You can damn well bet I will.”

  “You have a foul mouth,” the woman said.

  “I’m leaving. Your story better be right, or I’ll be back.”

  The woman started to say something else, but I took off then and went to O’Hare’s car. I opened the trunk and threw the bag in. Then I got behind the wheel, backed out of the court, and headed up the road. I pulled into the first cutoff I came to, and I killed the engine, and then I waited.

  The Ford came along in about five minutes. I started the car and took off after it. If the driver knew about the twenty-five-mile spe
ed limit, he didn’t give a damn. He took the road’s bumps as if he were testing Goodyear rubber. I had a lot of respect for O’Hare and his Chewy, but I didn’t want to lose this guy, so I tested the tires too. We both rumbled into Sullivan’s Corners, and my young friend went straight to the railroad station. I got out of the car, went into the station to buy a magazine from the stand there, and watched him while he talked to the ticket seller.

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine, sort of short, but packed with muscle that came from hard manual labor. His hair was a bright red. He wore dark gray trousers and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the biceps. I paid for my magazine, and then went out to sit in the car. In a few moments, the redhead came out and piled into his Ford. He drove straight through the middle of town and then abruptly pulled to the curb. I didn’t have to pull in behind him. I cruised down the street until I found a parking spot, and then I got out quickly and doubled back. The Ford was parked in front of a doughnut and coffee joint called The Green Door. The redhead was inside talking to the cashier. I watched him for a few moments, and then went back to the car. I kept looking in the side mirror until I saw the Ford pull into the stream of traffic again. I edged out a little. When the Ford passed me, I pulled in right behind my redhead.

  He made a right turn at the corner, and then a left, and that took him to the traffic circle where the town began. He pulled up in front of the hotel. I pulled up two cars behind him. When he got out, I got out.

  By the time I entered the lobby, he had already got his key and was in the elevator. I went straight to the desk.

  “That red-headed fellow,” I said.

  “Yes?” the clerk answered, looking up.

  “George Bradley, isn’t he?”

  “No,” the clerk said, patiently correcting me. “That’s Mr. Simms.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, snapping my fingers. “How stupid of me.”

  “John Simms,” the clerk expanded, smiling.

  “He’s on the fourth floor, isn’t he?” I asked. This was no remarkable deductive feat since Simms had been alone in the elevator, and the elevator floor indicator was now stopped at the numeral four.

  “Yes, 407,” the clerk said.

  “Thank you.”

  I went to the elevator. I waited, watching the indicator. The door opened. “Four,” I said.

  “Two fours in a row,” the elevator boy said, grinning. “Tough to make Little Joe twice in a row.”

  “Tougher to make seven twice in a row,” I said.

  “Depends on the talent,” the elevator boy said. “You looking for action?”

  “Not with dice.”

  “With broads?”

  “You got some?”

  “You name it.”

  “A big blonde.”

  “You got it.”

  “A big blonde named Stephanie,” I said.

  The elevator boy studied me for a moment. “You familiar with the area?” he asked.

  “Not half as familiar as I’d like to be.”

  “Where’d you pick the name Stephanie?”

  “Ran into her in a bar. Lost her later. Know where I can find her?”

  “The Stephanie I’m thinking of ain’t for sale.”

  “Maybe we’re not thinking of the same girl,” I said.

  “I guess not, mister.” He paused. “There are other big blondes.”

  “I’m choosy.”

  “So be,” he said, and he shrugged and added, “Four.”

  He threw open the door, and I got out. I waited for the door to close, and then I looked for room 407. When I found it, I knocked.

  “Who is it?”

  “Phil Colby,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know me. Open up, Simms.”

  “Just a minute.”

  The door opened. Simms had green eyes and a suntanned face. The eyes were narrowed now. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Lois,” I said.

  Simms studied me. “Come in,” he said. I followed him into the room. It was furnished with a brass bed, a dresser, and an easy chair. A Gideon Bible was on the dresser. Alongside that was a bottle of cheap rye.

  “You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll have one,” Simms said. He poured half a water glass full, and then drank half of that. He made a sighing, rasping sound and then said, “What do you know about Lois?”

  “Only that she’s missing.”

  “Where is she?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What is this?” Simms asked.

  “Was she at the station this morning?”

  “Yes. Station guy says he saw her.”

  “How does he remember?”

  “Three good-looking dames come in together, you’d remember, too.”

  “Three?”

  “Blonde, redhead, brunette. Must have set the town on its ass. The cashier remembered them, too.”

  “What’s Lois?”

  “Huh? Oh. The brunette.”

  “Pretty?”

  “I’m gonna marry her.”

  “Still. Is she pretty?”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “What was she doing at Mike Barter’s place?”

  Simms looked at me again. “How come you’re so interested?”

  “I lost something there, too.”

  “What’d you lose?”

  “A girl.”

  “Is she a—” Simms stopped himself. “What was she doing there?”

  “She was in a cabin. She vanished—clothes, luggage, everything.”

  “Yeah,” Simms said, as if he were confirming the facts of his own situation. “It ain’t like Lois. She woulda told me. She would of at least called. I know she would of called.”

  “What was she doing at Barter’s place?” I asked.

  Simms studied me. “She … had a job there.”

  “What kind of a job?”

  “A job.”

  “That doesn’t answer me.”

  “It’s not supposed to,” Simms said indignantly. “Listen, I’m gonna marry that girl.”

  “What’s that got to do with her job?”

  “A lot. Listen, I took enough baloney about Lois. I don’t happen to care what she done. I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “About what a girl done or she didn’t do. She loves me now, so what difference does it make? We’re gonna get married. She’ll make a good wife.”

  “She probably will.”

  “I know she will. She’s the sweetest kid in the world. And she pleases me. I know, ’cause I been to bed with her.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “I’m telling you, anyway,” Simms paused. “I been to bed with her.” He paused again. “Now you’re supposed to say, ‘You and a thousand other guys.’”

  “But I didn’t say it,” I said.

  Simms seemed surprised. “No, you didn’t,” he said. He poured himself another drink. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  “Too early in the day for me.”

  “I thought maybe you was one of these guys who don’t touch it.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, I thought maybe you was.” He looked at me. “Cheers.” And he threw off the hooker. “You want to know how I feel?” he asked.

  “About what?”

  “Dames.”

  “Sure.”

  “I don’t buy this stuff.”

  “Which stuff?”

  “What they done and what they didn’t do. You know what’s wrong with people?”

  “No, what?”

  “We all the time forget we’re animals. We got minds, but we’re also animals. So everything we do, we try to disguise we’re animals. A guy meets a dame, something happens. In the songs, they say chemistry. It ain’t chemistry. It’s biology. Animals. Like when two dogs meet on the street, he don’
t ask her she wants a martini or she wants to see his etchings. They know what it’s all about. They don’t have love stories to read, and love movies to see. They don’t get mixed up. The mutt knows, and the bitch knows, and they make it. Period.”

  “What line of work are you in, Simms?”

  “I drive a truck. For a beer company.”

  “I thought you might be a vet.”

  “I am. I was a Marine in World War II.”

  “I meant a veterinarian.”

  “That I ain’t.” Simms thought about it. “You mean because of the animals? I get a lot of time to think when I’m driving. You know what it is people hate to do most?”

  “What?”

  “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “I’ll have another, if you don’t mind. I tell you the truth, this thing has me kind of puzzled. A few drinks usually set me straight.” He poured and drank. “What was I saying?”

  “About what people hate to do most.”

  “Oh. Yeah. They hate to touch other people.”

  “They do?”

  “They don’t really. I mean, I think what they’d like to do most is touch other people. But they’re afraid to. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because then it gets animal. Instead, they reach out with their minds. Mister, you can only reach so far with your head.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “How do you tell another guy you’re his friend?”

  “I don’t know. How?”

  “You shake hands with him. You touch him.”

  “That has a medieval origin,” I said. “Men shook hands so they’d know the other man wasn’t carrying a dagger in his hand.”

  “Origin, shmorigin. They touch hands, and for a second they’re saying we’re animals. Then they pull the hand back. With a man and a woman, it’s the same. Listen, don’t you see this is all horse manure?”

  “What is?”

  “You can sit down with another guy’s wife for three hours. You can talk all around what you really want to do, you can talk it inside out and backwards, upside down and right side up, so long as you got a drink in your hands, and so long as you keep smiling at each other. A big game. Everybody plays it. But put your hand on her knee, or put your arm around her shoulder, bang! Her husband comes in and starts yelling you’re seducing his wife! For Christ’s sake, you been seducing her for the past three hours, anyway! It don’t make sense.”