Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 16

It was almost five o’clock when Alder entered the Palmer House and picked up the house phone.

“Miss Linda Foster of Los Angeles,” he said.

She answered the phone instantly with a breathless, “Yes?”

“I’m downstairs, Linda.”

“Tom!” she cried. “I’m so glad! Come up.”

“What room?”

“Twenty-one thirty-two, South.”

Her door was open and as he entered, she came into his arms. She was wearing lounging pajamas. She kissed him and she clung to him.

“I missed you so much, darling,” she cried. “I’m never going to let you go again. Not for Nikki, for — anything — or anyone.”

He disengaged himself gently. “The door’s open.”

“The hell with the door!”

But she permitted him to close it. As he turned, she caught him in her arms. “Say it, Tom,” she whispered. “Say that you love me.”

He kissed her warmly. “There’s a time for everything, Linda. Have you heard from Nikki?”

“No, and I don’t — say it, Tom!”

“I love you.”

“Damn you!”

He threw himself on the couch. She stood looking down at him. “If your business in New York was so important—”

“I decided that it wasn’t that important.”

“Nikki? You’ve got a crush on her! I wouldn’t blame you, Tom. She’s beautiful, but — she’s cold. And you haven’t got Walt Collinson’s money.”

“I haven’t got Harris Toomey’s—”

“Now you’re trying to be nasty. I told you what I thought of Harris’ money.”

“No, you didn’t. You told me what you thought of Harris, not his money.”

She crossed swiftly to him, sat down beside him, and took his hand. “You’ve been here one minute and we’re at each other’s throats. We... we mustn’t — we mustn’t quarrel.”

“You called me, Linda. I came here because you wanted me to. All right, let’s talk about it. She hasn’t called. But have you done anything about it? I mean, have you called Collinson?”

She started to shake her head, then stopped. “Yes, Tom, I telephoned. I couldn’t stand it until evening. I... I called at one o’clock.”

“You talked to Collinson?”

“To Harris. Then he... he called me. After Harris talked to him. He’s going to come here. He has a private plane, you know.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Walt? He was very excited. We almost quarreled. He seemed to think I had something to do with it. I mean, her visit here. I gathered that it was a sudden decision, one of those spur-of-the moment decisions. She suddenly decided to leave yesterday morning.”

“Did you ask him about her family? Their address?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“What?”

“That’s what he told me. He’s never met any of her relatives. I think Nikki’s always been a bit ashamed of them. They... they’re foreigners. Nikki’s not one to talk about herself, but once when I asked her, she said that her father was a Czechoslovak, or maybe it’s Yugoslav. Her mother’s Hungarian.”

“Nikki told you her maiden name?”

“If she did, I can’t remember it.”

“Collinson must know it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. A man marrying a woman without knowing her maiden name.”

“I was talking about her real name. Walt knows the one she changed to, of course. She Americanized her name, she told me once.”

“To what?”

“Kovich, Kovacs, something like that.” She suddenly tittered. “I’m not much help to you, am I? You’re so precise about everything, and me — I can’t even get a name straight. I won’t be much good in your — your detective work, will I?”

“No,” he said, “you won’t.”

He got up.

“Where are you going?” she asked in surprise.

“Check in. Get a room.”

“Why?”

“I left my luggage in New York. I haven’t even got a toothbrush. I want to buy some things, clothes. Get a shave. And a room.”

“What’s the matter with this one?”

“No,” he said.

She regarded him steadily. Then suddenly she shrugged. “It might be better. But — you won’t be long? Try to get a room on this floor, will you?”

“I’ll try.”

“Call me as soon as you’ve changed. We can have dinner here, at least. I don’t think we ought to go out. Nikki might call.”

He kissed her and went out.

Alder stepped out of the elevator at the lobby floor and was moving toward the registration desk when he became aware of a surge of people in the direction of the elevators. It was a veritable mob, girls, women, chattering, squealing, semi-hysterical females.

A bellboy grinned at Alder. “They sure go for lover boy.”

“Lover boy?”

“The moom-pitcher star. Hisself, in person, not a picture. The one and only Leroy Dane!”

Alder wheeled. The tide of feminine humanity had swept up to the elevators. But the object of their pursuit had escaped, leaving behind him a hundred disappointed females — teenagers, women who sought his autograph, a touch of his hand, a grab at his clothing, or at the very least, a look at their idol.

Alder shook his head. “What’s he doing here?” he asked of the bellboy.

“We get ’em all the time. Plugging a picture, personal appearances. Who knows? That’s the life for you — babes throwin’ themselves at you. Ain’t nothing they wouldn’t do, those dames.” He winked meaningfully at Alder.

Alder went on to the desk and registered. “I’ve no luggage,” he told the clerk. “I left New York on the spur of the moment and I’ll have to pick up some things here.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance.”

“That’s quite all right. I know the rules. I don’t expect to be here more than a couple of days, so I’ll pay for two days in advance.”

The key that he received had the number 1424-S. He had not asked for a room on Linda Foster’s floor.

He did not go up to the room immediately, but descended to the street level floor where there was an extensive arcade of shops and stores. A half hour’s brisk shopping filled his arms with parcels of various shapes and sizes. He carried them to his room.

He dropped the purchases on the bed and reached for the telephone.

“I want to make a person-to-person call to New York,” he gave a number. “I want Mr. James Honsinger, personally. The number’s an office, but there’ll be somebody there and they’ll know where to reach Mr. Honsinger if he’s gone for the day. Just tell whoever answers the phone that it’s Mr. Alder calling.”

He had less than a minute to wait. Honsinger was still at the office. His voice boomed in Alder’s ear.

“For the love of St. Patrick, Tom! You can’t be in Chicago!”

“I am, Jim. Your friend, Mr. Hartwig, was breathing down my neck. I was afraid there might not be a second warning — just the cement overshoes.”

“Don’t talk like that, Tom. But I’m glad you called. I stayed here just because I’ve been trying to get you since four o’clock. I’ve got some pay dirt for you.”

“I hope it’s about Danny Koenig.”

“You win the cigar! This Koenig was a sweet little guy. Best thing happened was when he got rubbed out. Saved the state an electric bill, if you know what I mean. But that isn’t the news — it’s Koenig’s chum, the lad the police tabbed for killing Koenig. Guess his name?”

“Pleschette?”

Honsinger exclaimed in chagrin. “That was my bomb! This Pleschette lad was made from the same mold as Koenig. Numbers collector, strong-arm stuff, panderer.”

“Panderer?”

“Him and Koenig both. Two nice boys. Only they had a falling out and the police figured it was Pleschette knocked him off. Funny thing, though, they never got him. He took it on the lam, disappeared. They expected to nail him without any trouble, but they never did. Pleschette — he never used the same name twice. Some of the boys called him Little Frenchy, on account of his brother, Big Frenchy, but on the police blotter they’ve got him Nick Fanchon, Johnny Adana, Charles White — half a dozen other names. That reminds me, the photostat from Washington came a half hour ago. It’s a bust — just a snap of Koenig. Only shows about half of his face. Looks like it was taken at the scene of a raid, the crooks coming out, being piled into the Black Maria and the guy trying to hide his face with his hat. He’s handcuffed to someone, but you only see the other man’s arm.”

“Wait, Jim,” cut in Alder. “Somebody thought that picture was recognizable enough so that he went to the Bulletin morgue and cut it out of both the file copies they have there.”

“Oh, it’s recognizable,” said Honsinger. “You can make out the face well enough. But it’s twenty, twenty-five years old. Shows a young punk with slicked-down hair. Looks just like fifty punks who’re picked up every week. Fella’d know himself from the picture. Maybe his friends would, too. You stop to think the pictures in the papers might have been cut out twenty years ago?”

“It’s possible,” said Alder. “You dig up any pictures of Pleschette? Little Frenchy, not his big brother?”

“We’re working on it. Shall I send the photostat of Koenig to Chicago?”

“No,” said Alder. “I’m not even going to give you my address here. I don’t trust your people, Jim—”

“Whoa, now!” cried Honsinger.

“I mean it, Jim. Your boys can be bought. I’m almost certain one of them got Hartwig on my neck. I’ll call you and I’ll do it from a pay phone.”

He hung up abruptly. He thought for a moment, frowning, then picked up the telephone again. “I want to put in a call to Major General Charles Mattock, at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. If he’s not there, try his home in Chevy Chase, Maryland.”

It was ten minutes before the call came through.

“Tom,” cried the general. “I thought you were going to New York. Your plane crash in Chicago?”

“I’ve been to New York, Chuck. I may return in a day or two. I’m calling again about the service record of—”

“Oh, no!” wailed General Mattock. “You’re making more trouble for me now than you did when we were in the South Pacific.”

“I’m the godfather of your Number One son,” said Alder. “That gives me privileges. Pleschette — P-L-E-S-C-H-E-T-T-E, Auguste, with an ‘e’ at the end. His service record.”

“That’s Leroy Dane under his real name?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I merely want Pleschette’s service record, and another for Daniel Koenig, last known address, New York. Both men have police records.”

“Then they may not have been in the service.”

“Small stuff, Chuck. I don’t think it amounted to enough to keep them out of the army. Not in the last war-to-end-wars. They took everything that could move — even me.”

“All right, Tom, I’ll get at it. But you’re sure going to have to come through with something for your godson. He’s twelve now. Few more years and I’ll send him out to Hollywood and you can fix him up with one of those young starlets.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“One thing more, Tom. Gladys knows that you’re digging up things on Dane. She says you harm one hair of his head you’ll have to answer to her. She loves him madly.”

“So do about a thousand women who just mobbed him down in the hotel lobby. He’s here.”

“Get his autograph, Tom. Get it and Gladys’ll love you for life.”

“I’ll try, General.”

“Very well, Major. On the double!”

“Thank you, Colonel, I mean General, sir.”

General Mattock said a four-letter word and hung up.