Blondes' Requiem

III

I came out of the bathroom to find two men in my room. One of them lolled against the door. The other sat on my bed.

The one against the door was a big man, rather paunchy, wearing a black and white striped suit. He would be about forty years of age.

Below his eyes across the top of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose there was a wide path of freckles. His mouth was tight and mean.

The one on the bed was short, fat and chunky. He had big shoulders and no peck. His face was red and puffy and his square jaw looked like it had been tacked on as an afterthought. A flat-crowned panama hat rested on the back of his head and his pale-grey suit was well cut and fitted him in spite of his bulges.

I looked at them, said “Hello,” and propped myself up against the bathroom door. I had a feeling they didn’t like me and nothing I could ever do would make them change their minds.

The man on the bed eyed me without interest. He put a fat white hand inside coat and took out a cigar. He lit it with care and tossed the match on the carpet.

“Who let you two in?” I said. “I may be living in a hotel, but my bedroom isn’t a lobby.”

“You Spewack?” The man on the bed pointed his cigar at me so I should know he was talking to me.

I nodded. “I was coming to see you this morning,” I said, “but I overslept.”

His eyes opened a trifle. “Know who I am?”

I nodded again. “Chief of Police Macey.”

He looked across at the man at the door. “Hear that? He knows who I am.” A half-wit child couldn’t have missed the sneer in his voice.

The man at the door didn’t say anything. He was unpeeling paper from a package of chewing-gum. He fed a strip of gum into his mouth and began to chew.

“So you were coming to see me — what about?” Macey asked, thrusting his square jaw at me and bullying me with his eyes.

“I’m a licensed investigator,” I told him. “I want cooperation.”

He looked at me fixedly and rolled his cigar wetly between his lips. “You do? Well, I ain’t interested. We don’t like private dicks. Do we, Beyfield?”

The man at the door agreed with him. “We hate ’em,” he said. His voice sounded like it came from his ankles.

I shrugged and walked over to the dressing table. As I picked up a packet of Lucky Strike and shook out a cigarette, I glanced in the mirror.

Beyfield had sunk a hand in his coat pocket. It might have been his finger or a gun that he was pointing at me through the cloth of his coat.

“That’s too bad,” I said, lighting up. “But I still want cooperation.” I turned and leaned against the wall.

Macey picked his nose. “What sort of cooperation?” He wasn’t looking at me now, but down his feet. I noticed he was wearing buckskin shoes and powder-blue socks.

“Four girls have disappeared from this town and nothing’s been done about it,” I said. “I’ve been hired to find them.”

“Four girls?” His voice was soft, but his jowls and where his neck ought to have been turned red. “Who told you?”

“Never mind who told me,” I said. “I hear things. You’re going to get a pain where you won’t like it if something isn’t done.”

He touched off ash before saying: “Who told you about Mary Drake?”

“You don’t have to bother with that angle,” I returned, wandering over to the armchair and sitting down. “You’re not making a secret of it, are you? You’d better tell Starkey to lay off. He’s overplaying his hand.”

Macey’s mouth pursed and he raised his eyebrows at Beyfield. “Hear that?” he said sourly.

“Maybe we’d better bounce him a little,” Beyfield said. “The guy’s hysterical.”

“Don’t give me that stuff,” I said, looking from one to the other. “I’ve got enough evidence to stick the Feds on Starkey. How would you like that?”

Macey didn’t seem to think much of the idea. “What evidence?”

I shook my head. “You’re not acting like a policeman,” I said, “and I don’t trust you. Everything I’ve found I’m turning over to the Feds.”

He blew smoke in a thick cloud at his feet, reached inside his coat and pulled a blunt-nosed automatic. He pointed it at me and said to Beyfield: “Take a look around.”

Beyfield went through the room methodically. He didn’t miss anything and he didn’t make a mess. He put everything back as he found it. After ten minutes he was through.

I sat watching him. “Don’t miss the bathroom,” I said. He grunted and went into the bathroom.

“Smart guy, huh?” Macey’s face was congested. “I could book you and make you talk.”

“Wolf wouldn’t like that,” I returned. “Be your age, Macey. You can’t afford to act the copper so long as you’re backing Starkey. I’m not scared of you or of any of your boys. Take me down to headquarters and see where it gets you. Wolf would raise such a squawk the Governor would hear him.”

Beyfield came out of the bathroom. He was still chewing placidly. “Nothing,” he said, and went back to loll up against the wall.

Macey jerked his head at my suit that was lying on the chair. As he did so I remembered Mary Drake’s handkerchief. If they found that I’d be in a hell of a jam. They might even try to pin the kidnapping on me.

“I’ve had enough of this,” I said angrily. “You leave my personal things alone or come back with a warrant.”

The automatic came up slowly so the barrel pointed right between my eyes. “At this distance,” Macey said, showing his yellow teeth, “I’m a pip of a shot. If you don’t believe it, start something and see where it gets you.”

Beyfield went through my suit with practised hands. I watched him with forced calm, but I didn’t feel so good. When he came to the pocket where I had put the handkerchief I had a hard time not to start something. I was so surprised when his hand came out empty that I nearly gave myself away.

“Finished?” I said, wanting to search the pocket myself. I knew he couldn’t have missed the handkerchief and that meant it was no longer in my pocket. It also meant that the female jiu-jitsu had got it, and that made me mad.

Beyfield worked his jaws around the gum before saying: “He’s bluffing.”

“Do you think I’m crazy enough to keep anything in this room?” I said. “Whatever I’ve got is somewhere safe. And now if you’ve finished, suppose we get down to business. What are you going to do about Mary Drake?”

Macey put the automatic away. He pulled at his underlip and stared at me thoughtfully. I could see he didn’t know what to make of me.

“We’re looking for her,” he said at last. “We’ll find her all in good time.”

“Luce McArthur disappeared a month ago,” I said. “You haven’t found her.”

Beyfield shifted restlessly, but Macey scowled at him. “A month’s not such a long time,” he said. “We’ll find ’em all before long.”

“Starkey could find them today.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It sticks out a mile,” I told him. “He’s kidnapped them to put Wolf and Esslinger on the spot.”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong.” He chewed the butt of his cigar reflectively and added: “Starkey wouldn’t like that line from you.”

“He’s going to get it all the same,” I said, “unless you can suggest something better.”

“Me?” He looked almost hurt. “We’re working on it, but we don’t know nothing yet. These kids don’t amount to much. We’ll get around to ’em when we’re ready.”

“Dixon says they were murdered,” I said, watching him. “Mass murder doesn’t sound so good.”

“He’s crazy. Besides, he’s dead.”

“Dead?” I repeated, acting surprised. “What do you mean — dead?”

He nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Like I said — dead. I’ve known him years. He was crazy, but I got used to him.”

“But I was talking to him yesterday,” I said, sitting forward in my chair.

“You know how it is. Here today, gone tomorrow. He had a seizure or something. The doctor said his heart had been bad for years. Went suddenly. They found him this morning.”

“Who found him?”

“We did, didn’t we, Beyfield?”

Beyfield grunted.

“They couldn’t open the office and we were passing.” Macey touched off more ash, sighed and wagged his head. “He was working late last night. Must have popped off around two o’clock. That’s what the croaker said. Well, we’ve all got to go.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s true.” I sat staring at the floor. I wanted to get rid of these guys so I could turn things over in my mind. “I’ve got things to do,” I went on after a long pause. “If there isn’t anything else...”

Macey got to his feet. “We just looked in,” he said. “We don’t like private dicks, so we thought we’d tell you. Kind of let you know how you stand.”

“Sure,” I said, not moving.

“The sensible thing for you to do would be to take the first train out. That’d be the sensible thing to do, wouldn’t it, Beyfield?”

Beyfield grunted.

“And another thing,” Macey said, at the door, “keep out of Starkey’s way. He doesn’t like private dicks either.”

“I’m seeing Starkey this afternoon,” I said, stubbing out my cigarette. “I want to tell him about the Federal Bureau of Investigation. It’s a swell story, and it’ll interest him.”

“He doesn’t like stories,” Macey said, his lower lip jutting. “I’d beat it if I were you. My department can’t give protection to private dicks. We’re too busy.”

Beyfield cleared his throat. “And a dummy like you’ll need plenty of protection if you stick around,” he told me in his basement voice. They went out and left me alone.

I wrote:

I was signing this when the telephone rang It was Ted Esslinger.

“Hullo there,” I said.

“Did you find anything?” His voice sounded thin and far away.

“No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.” I wasn’t sure, but I had a feeling someone was listening in. “Don’t talk now,” I went on, “I’ll call you sometime today. There’s one thing you can tell me. Is there a dame in this town who practises jiu-jitsu?”

“What?” His voice sounded startled. “What did you say?”

I repeated what I had said.

“Jiu-jitsu?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Why, yes. Audrey Sheridan used to do it. Her father taught her. But I don’t know if she can do it now. Why do you ask that?”

“Never mind,” I said, and hung up.

I walked across the fine green lawn and rang the bell in the brick portico under the peaked roof.

The same noiseless, sharp-eyed manservant came to the door.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “Mr. Wolf is in.”

I followed him into the lobby.

“If you will wait a moment.” He went on and walked off down the passage.

I could hear the tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Miss Wilson’s typewriting coming through the closed door of her office. There was a fresh, pleasant scent of flowers in the lobby. At the end of the passage double glass doors opened onto the garden.

The manservant came back. “This way, if you please,” he said.

I followed him into Wolf’s study.

He said, “Mr. Spewack, sir,” softly, and closed the door behind me.

Wolf was sitting by the open window. His thin lips were clamped round a green dapple cigar. A small table at his side was covered with legal-looking documents and he was holding other papers in his fat hand.

“Have you found ’em?” he barked as soon as the door closed.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. “Let’s get this straight,” I said shortly. “You may be hiring me, but I don’t have to take anything from you or anyone else.”

He took the cigar out of his mouth and stared at me with hot and angry eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t act tough,” I said, flicking my thumbnail under a package of Lucky Strike. “If you want me to work for you, treat me right.” I took the cigarette that popped up from the package and set, fire to it.

He passed his hand over his close-cropped head. “God damn it,” he said, “another girl’s disappeared. What the hell do you think I’m paying you for?” But his tone was a shade milder.

“You’re paying because you want the girls found. I can’t stop them disappearing, but I can find them.”

He put the papers he had in his hand on the table. “I don’t want a lot of talk,” he growled. “I told you to come here when you’ve found something.”

“How bad do you want to be mayor?” I asked.

He gave me a hard look. “I told you. I’m going to be mayor. When I say a thing, it happens.”

“Not with you sitting on your fanny all day,” I said. “The other guys are up and doing. You want to get wise. This is going to be a battle.”

“You thought of something?” There was eagerness in his voice.

“Who owns the Granville Gazette?”

“Elmer Shanks. Why?”

“What sort of a guy is he?”

“He’s an old fool. Worn out and useless,” Wolf growled. “Dixon runs the paper. He’s not much use either,”

“Would he sell?”

Wolf stared at me. Ash fell from his cigar and made a large splash of white on his coat. “Sell? Why the hell should he sell? He makes a living out of the paper and he leaves the headaches to Dixon. What are you talking about?”

“Dixon’s dead.”

Wolf went white and then red. “Dead?” he repeated. He looked suddenly old and a little idiotic.

“Don’t you read the papers? He died last night.” I struggled not very successfully with a yawn.

Wolf didn’t seem able to cope with the news. He sat staring at me, pulling at his beaky nose. I gave him time to recover and then went on: “The police say he died of heart failure, but he didn’t. He was murdered.”

Wolf flinched. “Murdered?”

I nodded.

“How do you know?”

“It’s my business to know things like that.”

He put the cigar in his mouth, chewed it, found it had gone out and mashed it in the ashtray at his side. His hand shook as he did this.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, he was murdered all right. Macey’s covering it up for his own reasons. I haven’t made a guess yet what they are.” I shifted forward in my chair. “With Dixon out of the way, you should be able to buy the Gazette if you act fast.”

He turned this over in his mind. When he looked at me again I could see interest and doubt in his eyes.

“Why should I buy the Gazette?” he asked.

I snapped my fingers impatiently. “You told me when you left the mine you were crazy with boredom. Take over the Gazette and you’ve got a full-time job on your hands. If you can’t control the town with the Gazette, you’ll never control it. With the right editorial policy you could crucify Starkey, Macey and anyone else who’s standing in your way.”

He stopped me by holding up his hand. “I know,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me.”

He got to his feet and moved across the room. His face was flushed and his eyes burned feverishly. Then he walked back to his desk.

“Wait,” I said, as his thumb was hovering over a bell push. “What are you doing?”

He shot me an angry, preoccupied look. “You leave this to me,” he said. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

“Well, talk to him,” I said, pointing to the telephone. “But don’t let anyone get his number for you. Get it yourself.”

“What the hell is all this?” he growled.

“How long have you had Miss Wilson?”

“Miss Wilson? She’s been my secretary for six months. What’s she got to do with it?”

“Only she’s had six months to work up a nice hate for you,” I said casually. “You’re not the kind of guy a girl falls for. You’d only be kidding yourself if you thought you were. If you want the Gazette you’ll have to act fast and secretly. Starkey might like the rag himself.”

“You’re either a rogue or a fool,” he said viciously. “There’s nothing wrong with Edna Wilson.”

“Get your lawyer yourself,” I said. “And don’t take chances. Let me know when you’ve got the rag. I’ll help shape its policy.” I got up and went to the door.

“Wait.” he said. “I want to hear what you’ve been doing. Come back and tell me.”

“I’m not ready yet to tell you anything,” I said. “Get the Gazette whatever it costs. With that you can crack this case and become mayor or any damn thing you want... if you last that long.”

I opened the door and stepped into the lobby. I heard him mutter something, then there was a faint ping from the telephone bell as he picked up the receiver.

I moved across to Miss Wilson’s office. I made a lot less noise than a feather makes when it settles on concrete. I put my hand on the doorknob, turned it gently and went in.

Miss Wilson sat at her desk, the extension telephone receiver glued to her ear. She was drinking in everything Wolf was saying to his lawyer.

I looked at her and she looked at me. Her pupils dilated, but otherwise she remained calm.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling at her. “You should be out in the garden. The sunshine would do you good.”

She frowned, shook her head and went on listening.

I leaned over the desk and pulled the receiver out of her hand. “You don’t want to listen to him,” I said. “Listen to me. I’m much more interesting.”

Making a claw out of her hand, she struck at me. I got my face away in time, but only just in time. She snatched at the telephone, but I caught her arm and pulled her over the desk towards me. She struggled, but I kept pulling and she slid over the desk, upsetting everything on her way.

I did all this with one hand while I put the telephone back with the other. Then I eased her to the floor and held her until she got her balance.

She pushed away from me and stood among the ruin, her eyes spiteful and wild. “How dare you!” she said.

“I didn’t want you to hear what he said,” I explained, sitting on the desk. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you packed up and went. I can’t let you kid Wolf any longer.”

Anger went out of her eyes and she looked dismayed and frightened. “I wasn’t doing anything,” she said, her lips beginning to tremble. “Please don’t tell him. I don’t want to lose this job.”

I shook my head. “I bet you don’t. Who are you spying for? Esslinger or Starkey? Or is it someone else?”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her eyes became wide and dark in a tense, white face, I thought she was going to take another swing at me, and I got ready to duck. Then she controlled herself.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said evenly. “I’ve worked for Mr. Wolf for six months. He’s never complained.”

“It’s six months too long. Pack up and get out. A change of air will do you good, but not half as much good as it will do Wolf.”

“I take my orders from Mr. Wolf,” she said coldly. “If he wants me to go, then I’ll go.”

“Let’s ask him,” I said, turning to the door.

Her eyes became dark and wide again. “No.”

I went across the lobby, tapped once on Wolf’s door and went in. Wolf was just putting down the telephone.

I told him about Miss Wilson.

“Get rid of her,” I said. “Everything you do is being handed to Starkey or Esslinger on a plate.”

His face sagged a little. “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “I don’t want to get rid of her yet. We don’t know she’s telling things... I mean you’re only guessing...”

I stared at him blankly. “But she was listening—”

“I know, I know.” He began to bluster. “Leave it to me. When I want advice about my staff I’ll ask for it.”

I nodded and went out.

Edna Wilson was standing in the doorway of her office. She smiled spitefully and triumphantly at me.

I smiled right back at her. “Why didn’t you say he slept with you?” I said. “I wouldn’t have bothered him.”

Her smile went like a fist when you open your hand.

She went back into her office and slammed the door.

I turned the knob and went into the small, narrow room with the two windows, the battered typewriter desk, the filing cases and the threadbare carpet.

The thin, frowzy woman was sitting at the desk, her head in her hands. She looked at me out of red, swollen eyes.

I tipped my hat. “Who’s running the Gazette?” I asked.

She waved to the further office. “He is,” she said, and put her head back in her hands.

I walked to the door, tapped and went in.

Sitting behind Dixon’s desk was a youth who eyed me inquiringly. He was undersized, his features small, in keeping with his stature, and regular. His skin was very fair. His clothing was neither new nor of more than ordinary quality, but it, and his manner of wearing it, was marked by a hard masculine neatness.

“What do you want?” he said in a voice as composed as his young face.

I hooked a chair towards me with my foot, sat down and took out my identity card. I gave it to him.

While he was examining it I studied him. He seemed certainly less than twenty years old and he didn’t look like he had ever shaved. He got through examining the identity card and handed it back. He looked with large hazel eyes under long, curling lashes at my chest.

“I often wanted to be a private dick,” he said in a confiding sort of voice. “It must be fun.”

I took out the package of Lucky Strikes, tapped a couple on to the desk, rolled one to him and picked up the other.

“Thanks,” he said, putting it between his over-full lips.

I set fire to the cigarettes and relaxed in the chair. “The old girl seems knocked up,” I said, jerking my head to the outer office.

He nodded. “She’s worked with him for years,” he explained. “He wasn’t such a bad old geezer, not when you got to know him.” He looked round the office as if he’d lost something and then said: “Did you say what you wanted?”

“You the guy Dixon was telling me about? The guy who thought up the mass-murder idea?”

He nodded. “That’s me.” He spoke with quiet pride. “I told the old geezer it’d double our circulation. Did he tell you that?”

“Yeah.” I stretched out my legs. “It was only to build circulation?”

“That’s what I told him, but believe it myself.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Reg Phipps. I may look a kid but I’ve been on the Gazette three years now.”

“So you think these girls were murdered?”

He nodded. “Sure do. It’s exciting, isn’t it?” His eyes glowed. “Can’t think what he’s done with the bodies.”

“He? Who?”

Phipps frowned. “The murderer, of course.”

“You’re guessing, aren’t you? You don’t know it’s murder.”

“I don’t know it’s murder,” he repeated, “but I’ll bet it is.”

I changed the subject. “Never mind that. Who’s the new editor?”

His face clouded. “Not me,” he said bitterly. “Shanks doesn’t believe in giving youth a chance... He’ll dig out some old deadbeat.”

“Could you do it?”

“Run this rag?” He laughed. “I could do it with an abscess in my ear.”

I told him he might not have to wait for the abscess.

“That right?” His eyes brightened, then he shook his head. “Aw, you’re kidding.”

“I told Wolf to buy the rag,” I said. “If Wolf gets it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t run it.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and put the butt carefully in a tin box full of butts. “I give ’em to an old guy I know,” he explained as he caught my eye. He put the box away and brooded for a moment. “It might be hell to work for Wolf,” he said finally.

I shook my head. “I’ll take care of him. What I want to be sure of is whether you can handle it or whether you’re just saying so.”

“I’m not kidding,” he said seriously. “I wrote all the stuff. Dixon handled the policy. I could do that or maybe Wolf could do it.”

I grunted. “What about her?” I nodded to the door.

“She won’t stay.” Phipps seemed sure of that. “I’d like a dame here like Ginger Rogers, or maybe Rita Hayworth.” He turned it over in his mind and added: “Betty Grable would be a snap, but I don’t suppose she’d come.”

I said I didn’t think any of them would.

He said he thought I was right.

“If Wolf got the paper, we’d bust this town wide open,” I said. “We’d go after Macey and Starkey and nail ’em to the cross. Would you like that?”

He got excited. “I wrote one leader about Starkey once. Dixon had a fit. It never got printed. I think Macey and Starkey are a couple of bums.”

“They wouldn’t take it lying down.”

He ran inky lingers through his thick, sandy hair. “What could they do? We don’t have to be scared of them.” He looked hard at me and added: “Or do we?”

“They knocked Dixon off,” I said gently.

His large hazel eyes popped. “The old geezer had a tired ticker,” he said. “That’s what the copper said.”

“But you don’t believe all you hear, do you?”

He sat forward, his arms on the desk. I noticed his cuffs were frayed. “You wouldn’t kid me?”

“Someone tied a cord around Dixon’s neck and forgot to take it off. He was murdered all right. Macey’s playing it as heart failure. I don’t know why, but that’s the way it is.”

The boy took a long, deep breath. His face had gone a little pale, but his eyes hadn’t lost their brightness. “You mean they might knock me off too?”

“And me or Wolf.” I gave him another cigarette.

He thought about this. “If you can stand it, I can,” he said at last.

I stood up. “That’s swell. The moment Wolf tells me he’s got the paper I’ll be down to talk to you again. In the meantime, stick around and say nothing. Don’t say anything about Dixon.”

He went with me to the door. “Do you really think Wolf will let me...?”

“I’ll talk him into it,” I promised, then asked: “Know where I can find Audrey Sheridan?”

“She’s got an office on Sinclair Street. I forget the number, but it’s a big building with a big theatre ad in lights crawling all over it. You can’t miss it.”

“Where does she live?”

“Laurel Street. It’s an apartment building. You’ll find it halfway down on your right. It’s got a roof garden.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t mind living in it myself.”

“Maybe you will one day,” I said. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“So long,” he said, and I went into the outer office. Then I remembered something and came back.

“Does the name Edna Wilson mean anything to you?”

Phipps scowled. “Sounds familiar,” then he gave me a quick look. “What’s the idea? She’s Wolf’s secretary, ain’t she?”

I nodded. “Who else does she run around with?”

“You’re not serious? I thought she was too homey to run around with anyone.”

“Wolf doesn’t think so.”

“At his age he can’t afford to choose.”

“So there’s no one else?”

“Blackley. I saw her with him once, but he’s as bad as Wolf. Bald, old, wrinkles and the rest.”

“Who’s Blackley?”

“The District Attorney. He’s no good. You don’t think there’s anything to it, do you?”

I was thinking hard. “To it? What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You’re talking in riddles. What’s Edna Wilson to you?”

“Listen, son,” I said, patting his shoulder, “the whole goddamn thing’s a riddle.”

Out in the street, I signalled a cab and told the driver to take me to Laurel Street. It took twelve minutes to get there and I told him to put me down at the corner.

I found the building with the roof garden halfway up the street on my right. It was a nice-looking joint and I agreed with Phipps that it would be all Tight to live in.

I walked into the lobby and went to the desk. “Mr. Selby,” I said.

The girl frowned. “No Mr. Selby here, sir.”

I said Mr. Selby was an old friend of mine and I had come two hundred miles to see him and this is where he lived. I said if she didn’t know the names of her clients she’d better call the manager.

She produced the register to prove I was wrong. Audrey Sheridan’s room was number 853. I said I must have made a mistake, that I was sorry and could I use the phone? She showed me where the phones were and I thanked her.

I put a call through to room 853 but there was no answer. The phone was out of sight of the girl at the desk and the elevator was right by me. I rode up to the eighth floor, walked down a long deserted corridor until I came to 853. I rapped, waited and then took out my pocketknife. I was inside in thirty seconds.

The red and cream sitting room was pleasant and livened by flowers in squat pottery vases. A faint smell of lilac gave the right feminine touch.

I put my hat on the walnut settee and searched the room from wall to wall. I opened every drawer, cupboard, box, trunk and subjected its contents to examination by eyes and fingers. I tested every piece of clothing for telltale bulges or for the sound of crinkling paper. I looked under rugs and furniture. I pulled down blinds to see that nothing had been rolled up in them for concealment. I examined dishes and pans and food and food-containers. I opened the flush-box in the bathroom and looked out of windows to see that nothing was hung below them on the outside. I took the apartment to pieces systematically, but I didn’t find the three photographs nor Mary Drake’s handkerchief.

I hadn’t made more mess than necessary, but I had made a mess. I stood looking around the room, a little tired and depressed. Although I hadn’t found what I had come for I had managed to create a picture of Audrey Sheridan by her possessions. Her clothes for one thing. A woman’s clothes can be an indication of her character — especially her underwear. Audrey Sheridan’s underwear was spartan in its severity — no lace, no colours, no fancy cut. Her clothes were-ultra smart. Tailored suits, three or four pairs of flannel trousers in various shades, high-neck jumpers, bright-coloured shirts. All smart and all carefully chosen.

Her cosmetics comprised cold cream, lipsticks and lilac scent. The apartment was full of books. Even books in the kitchen and bathroom. There was a radio on the table by the window and a big library of gramophone records in a cabinet by the door.

One look at the titles of the books and the records convinced me that Audrey Sheridan had a serious mind. I have always distrusted serious-minded women; but a serious-minded woman who took the trouble to learn jiu-jitsu and who didn’t hesitate to steal evidence from a fellow dick looked like poison to me.

I set fire to a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace and dragged down a lungful of smoke.

I decided it was time for Audrey Sheridan and me to have a little talk.

With one last glance around the disordered room, I went out, closing the door behind me.

At the far end of a light, airy passage was a door lettered in bright gilt on pebbled glass: “The Alert Agency.”

I turned the doorknob and went in.

The room was small. Two windows covered by cream net curtains faced me.

Three armchairs stood against the apple-green painted walls and on a light oak table under the windows were scattered copies of Saturday Evening Post, Harpers and the New Yorker. Bowls of bright flowers made pools of colour around the room and a thick Turkey carpet, thick enough to tickle my ankles, covered the floor. As an outer office of a detective agency it was something to see.

I was just recovering from the shock when I ran into another. The door leading into the main office jerked open and Jeff Gordan slid out. He had a gun in his hand and he pointed it at me. The muzzle of the gun looked to me as big and as steady as a tunnel.

“For God’s sake,” Jeff said, showing yellow teeth, “look who’s here.”

“Well, well,” I countered, “if it isn’t Jeff! You do get around, don’t you?”

He threatened me with the gun. “Grab some cloud, you son of a bitch, and don’t start anything you can’t finish.”

I raised my hands to my shoulders. “The Warner Brothers have a lot to answer for,” I said, with feeling. “Can’t you cut this Bogart stuff out?”

Jeff called through the open door: “Hey, look what’s blown in.”

A man’s voice said sharply: “Who is it?” The voice was high-pitched and staccato; the same voice that had threatened Dixon over the telephone.

“The New York dick,” Jeff said, grinning evilly at me.

“Bring him in here,” the high-pitched voice said.

Jeff jerked his head at the door. “Get in, you.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said hurriedly. “I came to see Miss Sheridan. If she’s all tied up, I’ll come back.”

Jeff sniggered. “She’s tied up all right,” he said, “but that ain’t going to trouble you.” His face changed to purple viciousness. “Get in, you louse!”

I shrugged and, keeping my hands up, walked into the other room.

The room was as big as the outer office was small. Another fitted Turkey carpet covered the floor. A big mahogany desk stood by the open window, and two armchairs, filing cases, and other office equipment completed the furnishing.

The room had none of the ordered neatness of the outer office. It looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered all over the floor, filing cabinets spilled their contents on the carpet.

There were three people in the room. A girl and two men.

The girl was, of course, Audrey Sheridan. I was about to give her a cursory glance, but I changed my mind. I stared plenty. She was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. Her hands were tied behind the chair. For the moment I dismissed that as unimportant. I concentrated on her as a person. As a person, Audrey Sheridan was something to see. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips and a figure that Varga likes to draw. Her eyes were large, blue in colour, with long, silky eyelashes. Her mouth was large, full-lipped and scarlet. Her hair, red shot with gold, fell to her shoulders in long, thick waves. If you can’t imagine her from this, then think of Joan Crawford and you’ll be near enough.

She was wearing a smart white and blue checked coat, powder-blue trousers, brown buckskin shoes and a high-necked cashmere sweater in blue.

One of the men sat on the desk opposite her, one foot on the desk and his hands clasping his knee. The other man stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes watching the man sitting on the desk.

I guessed the man on the desk was Rube Starkey. I looked at him with interest. He was small; small-boned but sinewy. His face was pockmarked, his eyes flat and black, his mouth lipless. He was dressed in a white flannel suit, and a white slouch hat was pulled well over one eye, giving him a racy, jaunty look. But there was nothing jaunty about his expression.

The man behind Audrey Sheridan was in the same class as Jeff Gordan — big, brainless, apish and tough.

“Spewack,” Jeff said to Starkey, and jerking his head at me.

“What do you want?” Starkey said, looking at me with hard, calculating eyes.

I eyed him back. “What goes on?” I said. “You’re not mayor yet, Starkey; you’d better cut this stuff out. Let her go!”

Jeff pulled me round by grabbing my shoulder. I saw his fist coming up from his ankles and I swayed my body to the right. I felt the draught of wind as his fist whistled past my ear, then I hit him in the belly, and as he came forward I socked him in the jaw.

The gun fell from his hand and I made a dive at it. Starkey got there first. He must have moved with the speed of a lizard. His hand whipped it up as I reached him. He tried to turn, but I was on top of him. I socked him in the body, grabbed him by his belt and arm and tossed him at the other thug who was pounding across the room to get at me. They went down in a heap, upsetting Audrey Sheridan. They all sprawled on the floor together.

I had no time to jump them as Jeff came at me. His face was congested and his eyes bloodshot. I stepped inside a haymaker he sent over, socked him with a left and a right and stopped a bang in the ribs that shook me to the toes.

I backed away as the other thug scrambled to his feet. Both of them came at me. I pushed a chair in Jeff’s way, took a punch on the shoulder from the other thug and socked him between the eyes.

I saw Starkey had got to his feet, and as the other two started on me again he called them off. They drew back and we all eyed each other.

Starkey had a flat automatic in his hand. “Stay where you are,” he said, in a furious hissing voice.

“You can’t use that heater here,” I said. “If you want me, you’ll damn well have to come and get me.” Whipping round, I snatched up a bowl of flowers and threw it at him. He only saved himself by falling flat on his face.

The other two nearly fell over themselves trying to get at me. I dodged round the desk, snatched up the telephone and hit Jeff across his face with it as he rushed me. He blundered back with a howl of pain and cannoned into the other thug. I picked up a chair and stood by the window.

“Now listen, you swine,” I yelled at them. “Make one move and the chair’ll go through the window. That’ll bring a cop, and I’ll pin an assault charge on you that even Macey won’t be able to lift.”

Growling like an animal, Jeff prepared to charge me, but Starkey shouted: “Hold it!”

Once again we all eyed each other.

“Tell those jerks to get the hell outa here,” I said to Starkey. “I want to talk to you and talk to you alone.”

His white pockmarked face was expressionless. After staring at me for a long minute he suddenly said, “Beat it,” to the others.

When they had gone, I put down the chair: “Someone’s trying to frame you for murder,” I said. “Even Macey can’t help you if the frame’s good enough.”

Starkey said nothing. He straightened his coat, put on his hat again and went over and sat in a chair. He nodded his head at the girl lying on her side, still tied to the chair.

I went over to her and fiddled at the knots.

“Watch him and don’t bother about me,” she whispered.

That advice came about a split second too late. Starkey, reaching forward with the speed of a striking snake, kicked at my temple. His hard pointed shoe crashed against my head and I fell flat on Audrey Sheridan.

Dimly I heard Starkey’s voice, high-pitched with excitement, shout: “Nail him, you lugs!”

Then hands seized me, dragged me to my feet, and before I could clear my head something exploded on my jaw and I crashed against the wall. I slithered to the floor, peered up at the savagely grinning face of Jeff Gordan and blocked his foot with my arm as he kicked at me.

I grabbed his leg before he could get out of the way and shoved it hard in his direction. He waved his arms, cursed and went over backwards. I was nearly on my feet when the other thug drove at me. He tackled me, his shoulder catching me in the belly, his arms around my hips. I crashed to the floor, slammed hard at his face, and saw Starkey, holding his automatic by the barrel, running at me. I tried to twist away, but the butt of the gun caught me on the top of my head. Lights flashed before my eyes and then I slipped off into darkness.

I couldn’t have been out for more than five minutes. I became aware of someone tying my hands behind my back and of the burning pain that crawled up my arms as the cord bit into my flesh.

A hand came out of the mist, fastened onto my shirtfront and dragged me to my feet. My legs bent, but the hand kept me from falling. I shook my head and Jeff Gordan came into my vision. lie shook me gently backwards and forwards, then his hand came up and he slapped my face three times. They were hard, heavy slaps and they made my eyes water.

I mumbled curses at him and he slapped me some more, dragged me to a chair and slammed me down into it. Then he went out of my vision.

I sat slumped in the chair, a curtain of red before my eyes. I wanted only to get at Gordan and hammer him until there was nothing left of him. I wanted to take Starkey and beat his head on the corner of the desk and see the white mess of his brain spew out on the carpet. Even though I was dazed and pain crawled through my body, I was conscious of hating these men as I had never hated anyone before.

A sudden sharp cry snapped me out of my rage. I looked up, screwed up my eyes in an effort to focus, saw figures in a mist which suddenly cleared away.

Gordan and the other tough had got Audrey Sheridan pinned across the desk.

Her coat was off and Starkey was holding a lighted cigarette on her arm.

The two of them had all they could do to hold her. One pulled down on her legs while the other held her arms. Her back was arched over the desk and her body squirmed as the glowing end of the cigarette burnt her.

I drew a deep breath, kicked away the chair and reeled over to them. My shoulder caught Starkey and sent him staggering back. He turned viciously, sidestepped the kick I aimed at him and his sharp, bony knuckles thudded into my face. I went over and hit the carpet. Almost before I lit, I caught his legs between mine and shoved on a lock. He came down close to me, hissing like an angry snake. He tried to reach my face with his fists but he was just out of range. I put more pressure on the lock and his face turned green. Then he began to beat on the carpet, squealing to Jeff for help.

Jeff let go of Audrey and came at me. I gave one more squeeze to the lock, heard Starkey catch his breath and tried to twist away from Gordan’s foot that whistled at my head. I only got a quarter of the steam in the kick but it was enough to stun me. I relaxed limply on the carpet.

The rest of what happened was like a dream. I was only half-conscious of it, but enough to know what happened without being able to do anything about it.

When Gordan let go of Audrey’s hands, she sat up and did something to the other thug. He fell down on his knees, holding his hands to the back of his neck, making a whining sound. She slid off the desk.

I avoided Starkey’s rush, and tossed a heavy ashtray through the window. The crash of breaking glass was followed by a silence you could cut with a knife.

Then Starkey said: “You’ll be seeing me again.” The vicious anger in his voice came through the, mists that clogged my brain and chilled me. A boot crashed into my side and then a door slammed.

I settled myself more comfortably on the carpet and dissociated myself from further activities.

I must have lain there at least ten minutes before I was disturbed again. Someone shook me gently and I was conscious of a smell of lilac. I opened one eye cautiously and found Audrey Sheridan bending over me.

Her thick tresses almost touched my face.

I dug up a low groan and firmly closed my eye. She shook me again. “Don’t be a baby,” she said. “You’re not really hurt. It’s only because you’re a little soft and out of condition. Come on, sit up. I’ve driven them away and it’s quite safe now.”

This annoyed me. I opened my eyes and regarded her coldly. “Is that a nice thing to say?” I demanded heatedly. “I get kicked, trodden on, bashed on the head and beaten up by three great thugs and you’ve got the crust to say I’m not hurt.”

She sat back on her heels, her hands resting on her thighs, and smiled. “I thought New York detectives were made of iron,” she said.

I felt my scalp gingerly. ‘“You’ve got that out of a book,” I said, raising myself on my elbow and wincing as pain stabbed through my head. “I’m a mass of bruises and shattered bones. My back’s broken and my truss’s slipped. I’ll never be able to walk again.”

She continued to regard me with the half-mocking smile. Then I remembered how Starkey had burned her with the cigarette and I gazed at her with blank incredulity. She was pale but her smile was genuine all right.

“Talking about being made of iron,” I went on, “you’re not so bad yourself.”

She looked at the livid red circle on her arm and grimaced. “That hurt,” she said. “But it wasn’t that I minded so much as the way they did it.” Her violet eyes glittered angrily. “What filthy brutes some men are!”

I looked around the disordered office, with my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees. “You wouldn’t have any hard liquor in this joint, would you?” I asked. “I could do with a shot, and it wouldn’t poison you.”

She got to her feet and moved slowly and limply across the room. From a cupboard she produced a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. She came back and flopped on the floor again.

I took the bottle from her and poured out two stiff drinks. “Hair on your chest,” I said, nodding at her.

“Hair on yours,” she said, nodding back.

We drank.

“That’s better,” I sighed, sniffing the whisky. “What happened? Did the cops come?”

She nodded. “While you were swooning on the floor, I dealt with the cops,” she said. “Trust a man to leave all the dirty work for the woman to do. I told them the ashtray slipped out of my hands. They believed me. And after I’d said what big strong men they were and how grateful I was for their kindness, they went away as smug and happy as only men can be.”

I regarded her reproachfully. “Something tells me you’re a cynic,” I said. “In my present condition I’m not in a fit state to talk to cynics. Shall we patch ourselves up and go home? Perhaps we can meet again later when I’m feeling stronger and have a long intimate talk.”

“All right,” she said, setting down her drink. “We’ll do that. Do you think you’re strong enough to reach the bathroom, or would you like me to carry you?”

“Sarcasm in one so young reveals a sophistication I abhor,” I said, crawling painfully to my feet.

“Do you usually talk like a Walt Whitman fan or are you lightheaded?”

I balanced myself carefully on the flat of my feet and held onto the desk. “Lady, I’m lightheaded, but you want to hear me when I’m drunk.”

She showed me the bathroom and stood by as I bathed my bruised head. I felt a lot better when I was through, although my ribs gave me some pain.

“Would you like me to bandage your head?” she asked. “You’d look awfully sweet and people would think you’ve been using it to break coal with.”

“Never mind,” I returned, surveying myself in the mirror. I didn’t look any worse than if I’d been run over by a truck. “But if you’ll give me something to work with I’ll bandage your arm.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’ve always looked after myself and I won’t make a change now.”

We went across the devastated room to the door. “I’m sorry I’m not well enough to help you put all this straight,” I said, stopping and looking round. “But I think it would be a little too much for me.”

“That’s all right. You don’t have to act like a gentleman with me. I’m a detective myself.”

I sighed. “Stop ribbing me,” I complained. “And get that arm fixed. We ought to talk. How about tonight? I think I’ll be strong enough by then. Have dinner with me?”

She shook her head. “I don’t eat with detectives,” she said firmly. “I like to keep business and fun as far apart as possible.”

“Don’t be difficult,” I pleaded. “You could have an awful lot of fun with me.”

She regarded me with serious eyes. “I believe I could,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

“Okay, I won’t try to persuade you. Suppose I come out to your place sometime tonight? We have a lot to talk about.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll be in after nine o’clock. Goodbye now, and thanks for horning in. If you feel faint, get yourself some smelling-salts.”

I said I would and left her.