Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 15

According to his own story, Pleschette had left his native North Dakota at the tender age of fifteen. He was sixty-two now. Of the forty-seven years, since reaching his “maturity” of fifteen, he had served twenty-six years in prison! More than half his adult life.

Alder put the dossier back into its manila envelope. There was only one important fact in it. Pleschette had been in. Atlanta Federal Prison from June, 1935, to June, 1940. He could not possibly have had any connection with the Doris Delaney case.

Yet he had said to Alder: “One knows people, one hears things.”

He had made a positive statement that “the woman,” in this case, Doris Delaney, had committed a crime. Had it been an unwitting remark — or had it been based on assurance he had retained in his memory from something he had heard? From a fellow inmate in one of his prisons?

The clamor of the telephone at his elbow startled him. For long moments he had forgotten — Linda Foster.

The operator said: “We have a long distance call for you, Mr. Alder. Chicago.”

Chicago!

Perhaps!

But it wasn’t. It was Linda.

Her first words jolted Alder. “Tom, I’m worried sick. I’m in Chicago. I didn’t tell you last night, but when Nikki telephoned me she asked me to come to Chicago. She... she made it sound terribly important.”

“Something’s happened to her?” exclaimed Alder.

“I don’t know. That’s what’s wrong. I can’t find her. She told me to come to the Palmer House. I’m there now. She isn’t here — hasn’t even been registered.”

“Linda, wait,” interrupted Alder. “Give it to me from the beginning. You told me last night she telephoned her husband at the Brown Derby. That was when you talked to her.”

“The first time. She called me later. She said she — she had to do something and would I come to Chicago? She didn’t want me to tell Walter. Something — about her family.”

“Her family? You’re sure?”

“N-no, not exactly. But her family lives in Chicago — somewhere in the Middle West. That’s why she was going there, to visit them.”

“She told you she was staying at the Palmer House? Those were her exact words?”

“Darling, you’re confusing me now. I don’t know. I mean, if those were the exact words she used. She said — What did she say—? Yes, for me to come to the Palmer House.”

“But she didn’t say she was staying there?”

“Now that you ask me, no. I... I gathered the impression, however!”

“Linda, please — think. People do not always say things specifically. They say things by inference. Frequently the listener infers that something was said. Try to remember her exact words — not what you inferred she said. She told you specifically that she was in trouble?”

“I didn’t say trouble. I said she said it was important.”

“Important to whom? Her — or you?”

“Her, naturally. I’m not in trouble.”

“You said there was no trouble. Let’s try it again. She said it was important. What was the tone of her voice?”

“You just said not to pay any attention to that. Just repeat her exact words, not the infer—”

“Linda, will you listen for one minute?”

“Not if you shout at me, darling. I can’t think of anything when you yell.”

“All right, Linda — listen! She knew when you were arriving in Chicago?”

“Of course. I told her what plane I was taking. It got here at seven o’clock this morning. I went directly to the hotel. I asked for her and they told me she hadn’t registered. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I knew she had relatives here and I assumed she was spending the night with them and would check into the hotel during the morning. But it’s noon now. I haven’t heard a word from her. It isn’t like Nikki. She knows that I... I worry, and she’s the most considerate person in all the world. Always thinking of the other person, instead of herself.”

“I know,” said Alder.

“How would you know, Tom? You’ve only met her the once.”

“It was a platitude, Linda, that’s all. A comment of agreement.”

“I never can tell with you. You... you didn’t make love to her?”

“On the plane? With sixty other passengers?”

“I was only teasing, darling. But I’m really worried about Nikki. What... what should I do?”

“What can you do? Wait, that’s all. She may arrive at any moment.”

“I have a strange feeling about that, Tom. An intuition.”

Alder said, “I don’t believe in intuitions. I’m in New York — you’re in Chicago. I can’t help you.”

“I thought perhaps you could.”

“How?”

“Is your business in New York so terribly important, dear? Couldn’t... couldn’t you come to Chicago?”

Alder had to restrain a sudden impulse to slam the telephone back on the receiver. He said, “My business is important, Linda. I think you’re overly alarmed. Nikki is a sensible woman. She’ll show up.”

“But if she doesn’t?”

“Call her husband.”

“She told me not to — to tell him I was coming to her in Chicago.”

“Call him, Linda. Wait until evening, and if she doesn’t show up, telephone him. He has a right to know if something has really happened to her.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll phone Harris first, have him talk to Walt.”

“Goodbye,” said Alder and hung up.

Harris Toomey. So she was still turning to him.

There was a light knocking on Alder’s door. He called, “Yes?”

The tapping was repeated. Alder realized that the door was locked. It had not bothered Jacques Pleschette, but it would someone else, He went to the door and opened it. Two men were in the doorway, a tall dark man and a heavier-set older man.

The taller, younger man was the one Alder had seen in the corridor — the one who had shadowed him that morning.

It was the older man who spoke. “Mr. Alder, my name is Mark Stanley.”

“Our appointment was for four o’clock.”

“Right, but I prefer my appointments not to be that, ah, that exact. Gives the other man an opportunity to set the stage.” He smiled. “You weren’t expecting me here, or so early, so you probably haven’t bugged the room.”

Both men came in. Stanley stood with his back against the door, while his companion made a swift circuit of the room, looking behind the two pictures on the walls, inside the floor lamps, behind the radiators.

“You’re some kinda private cop, Alder,” said Stanley. “A frienda mine’s gettin’ a rundown on you in L.A., but I ain’t heard from him yet. I thought I’d better have a talk with you first. This isn’t your town, Alder.”

“It’s yours?”

“I was born here. Well, mebbe not exactly born here, but I’ve lived here mosta my life. I’ve got connections.”

The tall one finished his survey of the room, then moved up on Alder, frisked him quickly, thoroughly, clapping his hands under his armpits, his hips, his waist.

“Clean,” he said, and moved to the door.

Stanley came forward and seated himself in the chair occupied so long and so heavily by Jacques Pleschette.

“What do you want, Alder? You’re snoopin’ around, askin’ questions.”

“You’ve a good source of information.”

“Don’t get cute with me. I told you I’ve got friends. You talked to an old sousepot last night — a broken-down newspaperman. You hadn’t even left the tavern before I knew about it. You’ve got Honsinger snoopin’ for you. He comes expensive. I happen to know.”

“You’ve got a man on his payroll?”

“I don’t have to have. His punks snoop around, I know it. This mornin’ you called on the Delaney dame.”

The muscles in Alder’s throat twitched.

“I got my sources of information,” Stanley went on warmly. “Nothin’ happens that’s important, I don’t get it. Things ain’t good, I told you that on the phone. The goddam committees, they’re pokin’ into everything. Labor, rackets. Hell! rackets went out with prohibition. Legit businesses ain’t rackets. People insist on gamblin’, we give them the action.”

“And if somebody wants somebody killed, you kill them!”

“You a wise guy, Alder? You write for the movies or somethin’? Yeah, I heard about Murder, Incorporated. I saw it in a movie.” He took out a cigar and put it into his mouth, but made no move to light it. “Lay it on the line, Alder. What’re you after?”

“Information.”

“Ask. Maybe you’ll get it, maybe you won’t. Ask.”

“I’m looking for Doris Delaney.”

“Next question.”

“You haven’t answered the first.”

“You’re kiddin’? What the hell do I know about the Doris Delaney caper? What does anybody know about it?”

“She disappeared twenty-two years ago.”

“Look, Mister, I don’t know how you boys operate in California, but I know about things in New York. We don’t go in for kidnapin’ here. Kidnapin’s Federal business and it brings you a lot of G-boys into town.”

“Doris Delaney wasn’t kidnaped.”

“All right, she wasn’t, but there’re other things that ain’t done in this town. Like foolin’ around with people who’ve got ten million dollars and who’ll spend every dollar of it if they have to. The Delaney business was twenty-two years ago and some of us still remember it. We got a roustin’ like roustin’ was something the cops’d just invented. Hadn’t been for the war, the heat’d still be on. It ain’t somethin’ we like to remember. Understand? Don’t kick a dog when he’s taking a nap. Forget Delaney. Don’t kick it. That’s all.”

“I’d like to ask you just one question, Mr. Stanley. What do you think happened to Doris Delaney?”

“I said, forget it!”

“I’m not asking for information — just an opinion. Your opinion. You said kidnaping—”

“It brought in the F.B.I.”

“You think it was kidnaping?”

Stanley sent an ominous look to the tall man who was leaning carelessly against the door. “I got the word, Alder. Talk to him, tell him to go home and mind his own business. I’ve passed it on. Now, why don’t you be a good boy and do that little thing, huh? Go home.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long, huh?” He suddenly indicated the tall man at the door. “He doesn’t talk much. In fact, he hardly ever says a word, on account of he don’t get paid to talk. He gets paid — to do things.”

“All right, Stanley. You’ve delivered the message.”

“What they say in the movies? ‘Mission accomplished!’ I can pass the word along, huh?”

“You can tell them you delivered the message.”

“Just one more thing, Alder. That telephone number I gave to call me. It’s no good. And my name ain’t Mark Stanley.”

The heavy-set man smirked and started for the door. The tall one opened it for him.

And then Alder said, “What is your name — Danny Koenig?”

The man who had called himself Stanley stopped. It was a moment before he turned. He looked at Alder with sober eyes. “What was that name?”

“Danny Koenig.”

The tip of the heavy-set man’s tongue came out, flicked his lips sidewards. He said, “Never heard of him,” and went out.

The tall man moved sidewards through the door after him and closed it carefully, firmly.

Alder shuddered. He suddenly felt the need of fresh air, but he waited a good three minutes before he left his room.

In the lobby, Alder located the hotel switchboard. There was a battery of booths just outside of it. He went into the one closest to the switchboard, where he could see the three hotel operators.

He put through his call and a moment later had Jim Honsinger on the line. “Jim, I’ve just had a couple of visitors. One of them was around fifty, two-ten or two-twenty. Five feet eight or nine. He wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe suit. He knew a lot of things, such as what you are doing for me.”

“Oh-oh,” said Honsinger. “Blue pinstripe suit, eh? Double-breasted. I think I know him. He’s pretty high up. Close to the top. Number three, some say number two.”

“What’s his name?”

“Hartwig, if it’s the man I think it is. Milton Hartwig.”

“I think I’ve seen his name in the papers. The recent congressional investigations.”

“He was in them. Took the Fifth nineteen times. The First, eleven.”

Alder said, “That photostat from Washington won’t reach you for another two or: three hours, will it?”

“Perhaps not until early evening. Is it that important?”

“I think so. In the meantime, Jim, can you put every available man on it? Danny Koenig — whose picture is in that photostat. He has a police record, according to the newspaper account below the picture. He was a minor hoodlum, but I’d like to know everything about him. His physical description, his background — that’s aside from the police record. His friends, associates — everything.”

“That’s a tall order for a hoodlum dead that long. They come and go in that business. Some of them are forgotten in two weeks. But we’ll do our best.”

“And do it with as little notice as possible. I... I wouldn’t want another visit from our friend. Not before I’m ready for him.”

“The kind of investigation you want can’t be made under a barrel, Tom. I’ll tell the boys to work as quietly as possible, but if you want fast results, it’s going to get around. I’ve been thinking, Tom — maybe you ought to have one of my boys go around with you.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard. Not yet.”

“I was only thinking of you. All right, Tom. We’ll get busy.”

Alder hung up, thought for a moment, then fished another coin out of his pocket. First, however, he brought up the Manhattan phone directory and looked up a number.

He dialed it then. “Miss Tubbs,” he said.

“Who?” asked a female voice.

“Miss Tabitha Tubbs.”

“Miss Tabitha Tubbs died twenty years ago,” was the reply.

“I didn’t know,” said Alder. “Who is this speaking?”

“The headmistress. My name is Agatha Ainsworth. Who is this, please?”

“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you, Miss Ainsworth. I’m from out of town, here on a visit. A relative of mine asked me to give his old friend, Miss Tubbs, a call and say hello for him. He says he went to school with her in Denver.”

“Miss Tubbs attended school in Boston. I’m afraid your friend is mistaken about having gone to school with her.”

“Are you certain, Miss Ainsworth? My uncle told me he met her once here in New York — at the time of the famous Doris Delaney case. He had a short visit with her.”

“That’s impossible. I knew Tabby intimately. We were together for many years. As a matter of fact, she willed the school to me. I don’t recall of Tabby having a school friend visit her, not then, or any other time.”

“But this is the school Doris Delaney attended?”

“I don’t believe I wish to—”

“You say you were a teacher at the school at the time? You knew the Delaney girl?”

“Yes, I knew her, but I don’t care to...”

“I quite understand your position, Miss Ainsworth. A student kidnaped practically from your doorstep...” Alder heard Miss Ainsworth gasp, but continued on inexorably. “The school received much unfavorable publicity as a result. Parents withdrew their children...”

“That’s a lie!” Miss Ainsworth practically screamed. “Not a single girl was taken out of the school. Doris was not kidnaped. She ran away! The school was not responsible. Oh...” The line suddenly went dead.

Alder grinned at the phone. He opened the door and stepping out quickly got a glimpse of Hartwig’s tall man as he moved behind one of the square pillars.

He left the hotel, moved to the curb. There were three taxicabs in line. He nodded to the doorman and the first cab moved up a few yards to the canopy.

The tall man left the shelter of the doorway and strode toward the second cab in line. Alder opened the door of his cab, started to step into it, then backed out.

“Never mind,” he said to the driver and tossed him a crumpled bill. He circled around the cab, raced swiftly across the street where a single cab was parked, facing downtown.

He tore open the door, scrambled inside, and looked out. The tall man had left his cab, started across the street and now, seeing that Alder was taking the only cab facing south, was wheeling — heading back for the cabs in front of the hotel. He would pile into one, try to persuade the driver to make a U-turn and follow Alder’s southbound cab.

“Around the corner,” Alder told his driver.

The driver shifted into gear, zoomed the car away from the curb. “What’s the trouble, Mac?” he called over his shoulder.

“I’m trying to lose a man.”

“Cops and robbers, huh? Sorry, Mac!” He slammed on the brakes. “I don’t play that game. No charge.”

The car had almost reached the corner. Alder opened the door, catapulted out. A car was making a U-turn in front of the hotel.

A subway kiosk was ahead. Alder made for it, got down the stairs and through the turnstiles as a train pulled in.

He waited until the last second and then stepped into a car. The doors closed. He had made it. The tall man was just coming through the turnstiles.

Alder got out at the next station, climbed to the street and flagged a passing taxicab.

“La Guardia Field,” he told the driver.

A half hour later he was paying for the flight to Chicago, which was scheduled to leave in twenty minutes. He had no luggage, but that was just as well.

Jacques Pleschette would have a nice long wait, should he call on Alder again and decide to wait for him in his room. He could amuse himself by reading the Honsinger agency report of his arrests and convictions.

Hartwig and his tall man could also stake out the hotel corridor.