Upstairs I dumped my coat on the rack and blew between my fingers so I could dial Viner’s office again. Before the receptionist finished saying I’d reached Montgomery Security I cut her off.
“It’s Maggie Sullivan. Is he back?”
“No. I thought–”
“He said to ask you if I needed anything. Do you happen to know if your company does alarms for any banks?”
“Yes, I think so. I think.... Oh!”
“If he calls or comes there before he comes here, tell him to double check them.”
“Yes. I will. Oh, dear!”
“It’s just a hunch. Keep it under your hat.”
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The haul from warehouse burglaries and such wouldn’t be great by Beale’s standards, but if he could get into a bank without an alarm going off, and he had a good safecracker.... Since I hadn’t sat down I was already in position for pacing again. Maybe the earlier burglaries were test runs, or meant to have the cops chasing their tails before Beale hit the big target. Or maybe banks used a different kind of alarm. Viner had pointed out to me this morning that he installed several other models besides the ones on the page I’d found, and one of the comments scribbled on that page had mentioned a model that needed a key.
I crossed my arms and pinned my hands under my elbows so I wouldn’t be tempted to dial his office again. His girl Edith would let me know if she heard from her boss. The minute hand on my clock crawled to five, and then half past, and then toward six.
I’d just given in and perched on the edge of my chair with my pencil ready to dial when my door burst open.
But it wasn’t Edward Viner who stood there.
It was Flora Throckmorton. Wild eyed. Holding a gun.
Pointed directly at me.
Forty-one
“Where’s Peter?”
It was a dinky little excuse for a gun, but at this close range and keyed up as she was, it could still cause damage. Her question made no sense. I shook my head.
“I thought–”
“They’re not here, are they?”
Her eyes had scoured the room. She slumped. The gun hung limply at her side.
I didn’t know what she was talking about, but it sounded like trouble.
“Sit down before you keel over.” I pushed a chair toward her.
She blinked and seemed to realize she still blocked my doorway. With a grimace she dropped the gun into her pocket, closed the door and came to sit in the offered chair. The abruptness with which she sank down made me wonder if her knees had gone wobbly.
“What’s going on? I thought Peter was in St. Louis.”
She shook her head. “He called yesterday. Father told him about the fire.”
I took out my bottle of gin and poured a finger into an extra glass which I slid across to her. She knocked back half of it, hitching her breath in ever so slightly. By the time I’d splashed some gin into my own glass, a trace of color was returning to her cheeks.
“Look, I’m awfully sorry about – I’ve never threatened anyone–”
“It’s okay. Catch your breath a minute and then tell me what’s going on. Is Peter back?”
She nodded and took a very small sip of her gin. It wasn’t going down as easily now so I brought out my bottle of tonic and raised my eyebrows. Seeing her nod I gave us both a splash.
“He called and Father told him about the fire. Did I already say? The idiot must have walked right out and caught the next train back. He came in just before lunch today, straight from the station. Hadn’t shaved, didn’t even have a bag. He was crazy with worry. Insists the fire’s his fault.”
Seeing a smart dame like her so undone made me want to give her cousin a good shaking. In a way he was to blame for the fire. But only because he’d been helpless as a rabbit destined for a hawk’s dinner when Al swept down on him. Now I had a bad feeling he’d mucked things up even worse.
“Has somebody snatched Peter?”
“I think – I think so–”
“What made you think they’d come here?”
“Because....” She tried futilely to organize thoughts.
“Start with Peter coming back. Right before lunch, you said?”
She nodded and took a healthy swig from the glass in her hand.
* * *
It was the ripple that alerted her something was up. That undefinable office ripple you sense rather than see. Something that spreads, though you seldom glimpse anyone raising their head from their work or leaning to the person the next desk over. One girl sprang up and ran to the ladies room dabbing at tears.
And then, with no warning, there was Peter coming grimly up the stairs. He looked ghastly. Exhausted. Miserable.
“What are you doing here!” She caught his arm.
“Putting an end to this disaster. Where’s Uncle Lou?”
“At the insurance agent’s. Don’t let’s stand out here.”
He hadn’t resisted when she led him into her office.
“Pete, you’ve got to get out of town until this is over–”
“No! I’m done hiding. If I hadn’t been such a coward there wouldn’t have been any fire.” He paced. He refused to sit down. “I’m going to the cops. I’ll tell them everything. I’ll tell them I was the only one involved, that you and Uncle Lou were in the dark. I’ll make them promise to keep the business out of it if I testify against Al.”
“You’ll make a hash of it if you go like this. You’re barely coherent.”
That brought him up short.
“For God’s sake, Pete, you’re on the verge of collapse. You look like you belong in a strait jacket. Stretch out on the cot in the sick room ‘til Father gets back.”
“Like a girl with female complaint? That’s about what I am, I suppose.” He drove the side of his fist against the wall.
Flora jumped. She’d never seen her cousin slug anything.
“That’s a rotten thing to say about women. It’s beneath you, Pete. Do you want to make a fool of yourself with the police or do you want to rest and have a shave so they’ll take you seriously?”
He reddened at her censure. Sheepish, he let her take his sleeve and steer him to a tiny room with a cot. When Hèlene called Flora to say her father was back, she collected Peter and waited while he washed his face. The shave could wait.
* * *
“Then what?” I asked.
“He went down to see Father. So did I. This whole mess affects me too, and I decided if Father didn’t like me being there it was too damn bad.” Flora’s chin went up but she blushed.
“It was already half past two by then, and I felt rather sorry for both of them, actually. They both looked frazzled. The insurance man had told Father it could be months before we’ll see a penny for repairs because the fire looked suspicious. He’d come back despondent. But when he saw Peter his spirits rose and he started saying they’d find a way out of this, but then Peter said the only way out was going to the police, which was where he was headed.
“They argued forever, with Father saying Peter couldn’t throw away his whole future, and Pete saying he’d go somewhere else and start over. Finally he practically shouted that he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life selling office products. It’s the first time he’s ever stood up to Father. After badgering him some more and then coaxing, Father sort of deflated. He said if Peter was determined to throw himself on the mercy of the police, at least would he wait while Father called our lawyer to accompany him.” Flora sighed. “Father’s a terrible stinker at times, but he truly cares about Peter – more than he does protecting the business.”
At least this was passing the time while I waited for Ed Viner. What I still didn’t understand was why Flora thought her cousin might have come here.
“Did the lawyer spook him?” I asked.
She shook her head.
* * *
She and Peter were on their way back to the third floor to wait for the lawyer. Their should
ers bumped in mutual reassurance just as in childhood when one or both were in trouble. The secretary she and Peter shared came racing down the stairs toward them.
“Mr. Stowe has a phone call! Someone from California. He said Mr. Stowe wouldn’t want to miss it.”
Peter leaped the stairs two at a time. Hampered by her skirt, Flora lagged behind. By the time she reached his office he was shouting.
“She has nothing to do with this!” His face was ashen. “Leave her out of this, you bastard – No! You son-of-a-bitch!”
She’d never heard him like that. Not just the profanity. He was hoarse. Beside himself. It frightened her. He banged down the phone.
As he charged out she made a futile attempt to grab his sleeve. He shoved her aside. She tried again, conscious of curious faces turning to watch. There was no stopping him.
“Peter!”
He was at the stairs again, skidding down so precipitously she was sure he’d break his neck.
“Peter! Slow down! What’s going on?”
“Go back, dammit! I’ve got to put an end to this!”
But she’d known from the moment she’d heard his tight, strained voice on the phone that the call was from the men who were after him. As she knew without being told he was going to meet them. Icy fear drove her after him, her pace almost as reckless as his own. Nevertheless, by the time she reached the street he’d disappeared.
* * *
“I thought when he said ‘leave her out of this’ that it must be you he was talking about,” Flora concluded. “Since you were helping.”
So she’d charged over here with her dinky gun knowing those goons could be waiting. The lapse in her usual level-headedness could have gotten her killed. But she had spunk.
Where the hell was Ed Viner?
“You know how to use that popgun?” I asked while I thought what to do.
“Oh yes.” She sounded embarrassed. “Paolo insisted I have it. Made me promise to keep it beside my bed. He had me shoot at bottles out in a field until I could hit them rather well. I feel awfully foolish–”
I waved away what I was sure would be an apology. She brushed despairing fingertips across her forehead.
“I know I shouldn’t ask it after Father sacked you, but please – will you help? I’ll pay, of course.”
I nodded. “I’ve got no beef with you.”
Peter Stowe had charged off into a trap and probably knew it and probably also knew his rashness had a good chance of getting him killed. Adding that up gave me an unpleasant hunch who they’d used as bait.
“There’s a girl works on your floor. Her name’s Thelma. Pretty and about as innocent as a baby.”
“Thelma Taylor. One of my best account clerks.”
“She at work today?”
Flora frowned. “As a matter of fact she’s the girl I mentioned who burst into tears.”
“What about when you came up to wait for the lawyer – when Peter got the phone call? Was she there then?”
Her puzzlement deepened. “I - I’m not sure–”
“Would someone else know? She and your cousin are sweethearts. Head over heels. He broke things off right before he left for St. Louis out of some hair-brained notion it would protect her.”
Her fingers had flown to her mouth but she wasted no time. “Let me call–”
I whipped the phone around. She grabbed it and dialed without the least regard to her manicure.
“Dad? No time to explain. Peter’s in danger. So is one of the girls from the office. I need the number for Thelma Taylor. And the name of the girl at the next desk – the one who sniffles. Yes. That’s it. Yes....”
She didn’t hang up. She was waiting for something. I looked at the clock. Half past six. Throckmorton had gone somewhere to hunt for the numbers.
A minute later Flora thanked him. She jiggled the hook and dialed again. When she looked up I saw the bad news in her face.
“She hasn’t come home yet. Her mother’s worried.” Another quick call and she looked up again, confirming the worst. “Thelma got a call right after lunch. They told her it was the bank, that there was a problem with her account and she needed to come right down. She told her supervisor and left. She never came back.”
Forty-two
We split up the tasks at hand. Flora paced while I called the police. No agitated young man had come in wanting to talk to them. That meant Peter hadn’t gone there.
We switched roles. Flora called the cops while I wore out the linoleum. In a businesslike tone which discouraged a run-around, she told who she was and said that one of the girls who worked for her had gone missing. She mentioned the hinky phone call and that someone had seen the girl being pushed roughly into a dark green Packard. The last part was an embellishment I’d suggested. We both thought it justified since it might spur them to take a look at Beale and his boys.
“Now what?” asked Flora, her face tense with worry.
“Is Paolo still at your building?”
“Yes. I was too set on catching Peter to get–”
“Let me make some quick calls. Then you have Paolo come over and meet you downstairs.”
Nobody answered at Montgomery Security. I looked up Viner’s number at home, but his wife said he hadn’t come in yet. While Flora called Paolo I got out the blackprint of the page that Benny Norris had hidden. I stuffed it into an envelope and used a wax pencil to write Matt Jenkins’ name on the front in big letters. I was sealing the envelope just as Flora finished.
“You and Paolo take this over to the Daily News. Give it to the night clerk.”
She nodded. For several seconds I contemplated telling her to go from there to the police station and talk to Connelly, who should be coming on soon if he’d pulled extra duty tonight. But my new evidence on the robberies took some explaining. On top of which we had no proof except our own certainty that Thelma and Peter were in danger. Even if Connelly believed what she told him, convincing the powers that be to do anything would be another story.
While I was weighing those facts, I took out my .38. I checked the cylinder even though I knew it was ready. I tossed extra rounds in my pocket. Flora watched somberly.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find Pete and Thelma.” My words held more conviction than I felt.
I watched at the front door with Flora until Paolo’s formidable bulk arrived and they were safe in his truck. After a run to the ladies, I made one more futile attempt to reach Viner. I wasn’t worried he was in any sort of jam; his rounds were just taking as long as he’d warned me. Finding Thelma and Peter was a matter of life and death. Waiting for Viner wasn’t. I’d leave him a note, but I couldn’t say too much in case the wrong eyes saw it. After thinking a minute I licked my pencil and wrote:
Sorry–
A girl who’s 40% a friend needs help.
My fingers were crossed that Viner would remember telling me his company installed about forty percent of the local alarm systems. Maybe he’d make the leap that I’d left for some reason having to do with the burglaries. In any case, it was the best I could do.
I shrugged into my coat and took a blue hat with a stiff spot at the edge of the brim from the coat rack. Not a stylish number, but maybe a good choice tonight.
* * *
I didn’t have time to play games with Beale’s goons so I went out the front door. No one followed me to my car, and after a dozen blocks or so plus a couple of loops I felt confident I didn’t have a tail. Now the question was where to look for the pair that Beale or someone working for him had snatched. Thelma would have been easy to hustle into a car while she was too startled to scream. Snatching Peter off the street would have been harder. He’d have made a stink, and Beale was too slick for that. So was Al.
Okay, then. Whoever called Peter that afternoon had suggested a meeting place. Or Peter had blundered off to hunt for Al at some spot where they’d met in the past.
Doubling back downtown I tried Ollie’s Barber Shop. From
the street it looked closed and dark on a Monday night just like its neighbors. I pulled in the alley and parked a few trash bins away but the back looked as dark as the front. When I crept close and listened and waited and finally used my crochet hook, the inside proved as empty as the outside promised.
I tried Al’s place with no better luck. No Buick outside, and when I got in there was nothing that hinted the kidnaped pair might have been there. All I saw was a closet full of hand-tailored suits, furniture that made me envious and a three-foot marble nude whose arm held a discarded necktie.
“Crime pays fine for some,” I grumbled to the DeSoto as I slid back under the wheel. When I turned the key her six cylinders purred commiseration.
Next I tried Beale’s clubs, first the glossy ones I’d watched with Calvin, then the one across the river in the Negro section, where I leaned out the window and got directions from a smartly-dressed couple. There was no sign of Al’s car there, or Beale’s or any matching the license numbers I’d copied. All three nightspots were busy, with people coming and going, but I’d have as much chance getting inside and snooping around for prisoners as a mouse would of leaving a cat convention.
It was after ten now. Had Ed Viner been to my office? Had he understood my message? Were Thelma and her well-meaning hero still alive?
Indifferent to my questions the city around me kept its routine. From the Third Street bridge the Art Institute glowed white and temple-like on its hill. Near the downtown end of the bridge, men with no other place to go were lining up at a shelter. What looked like a family with plenty of kids curled together under blankets by the steps of Sacred Heart.
Time was running out. Once Beale snatched somebody he wouldn’t dawdle. He’d get them out of the way for keeps tonight. Meanwhile, where would he stash them? Someplace he knew of that wasn’t connected to him. Someplace where they wouldn’t be noticed. But where? Where else could I look?
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