by Robert Colby
“Mr. Daniels, it would take a bit of time, quite a bit without the last name.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you. It never occurred to me. But — ”
“You’d better have a seat,” said Wilkins, smiling. “Right over there. I’ll put a girl on it and call you.”
“Thanks,” said Scott. “It’s all terribly far-fetched. I can’t explain just now. But keep it to yourself, will you?”
Wilkins gave him a wink.
Daniels could not sit still. He went out into the building corridors and looked around. He made a study of the exits, the streets they emptied upon, the outside entrance to the bank. The police must have covered all this ground and a lot more. With all skill and every possible aid. And yet it was not ridiculous to suppose that he had a better chance. They had not a single clue while he had the one big one. Valerie the hub, with spokes of knowledge leading from her.
He had been seated a good half-hour when he saw Wilkins beckoning him. He went to the window.
“We found two more besides Mrs. Hobson,” he said. “One in checking and one in saving. If you’re looking for a younger woman, you can forget the one in checking. The one in savings was a very small account which was closed out three weeks after it was opened. The lady appears to be twenty-six. There’s an address, no phone. The name is Miss Valerie McLean. I’ve written it down for you.” He gave Scott a slip of paper. The address was an apartment building in the southwest section.
“Can’t thank you enough, Mr. Wilkins. This is nothing more than a rather silly hunch of mine I have to follow through. Very little hope that anything will come of it.”
Wilkins smiled indulgently. “Glad to be of service,” he said.
But Daniels did have a very big hope that Valerie McLean, aged twenty-six, would be a most attractive brunette who no longer kept her money in savings but in a great tan suitcase.
TEN
The girl who opened the door to apartment seven at the address written on the slip of paper was certainly a brunette. She could also have been twenty-six. But here any similarity ended.
The hair was close cropped, a boyish bob crowning a tiny heart of a face containing huge and glistening dark eyes with that peculiar combination of bold-shy watchfulness associated with children. Small nose and mouth, the latter slightly spread to a smile that looked more habitual than personal.
Costume of the day appeared to be lounging pajamas of pale blue.
“Yes?” she said. The word fell from her mouth without the slightest lip movement.
“I hope I have the right address. I’m looking for Valerie.”
“Valerie McLean?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t you come in a moment?”
The living room was a walk-in closet furnished in period anonymous. A portable ironing board draped with a pink slip was fixed by the window.
She indicated a chair opposite as she fell upon a daybed and drew up her legs. The same diminutive smile hovered about her face.
“You know the old saying?” she opened. “Valerie doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Oh? Then where does Valerie live?”
She shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” Her look said it was a dull subject which should be dispatched quickly for the purpose of probing this new-found relationship.
“I take it,” said Scott, “that at one time she was your roommate.”
“For less than two weeks. I imagine she found something more to her liking. Valerie is kind of a snob, you know. Or don’t you?” She reached for cigarettes and waited for him to make the light, cupping her hands around the flame so that her fingers rested across his wrist. He withdrew discreetly.
“Yes, I suppose Valerie is something of a snob,” he said. “But then, I don’t know her very well. We met at a party and she gave me this address.” He searched frantically for some way to match the identity. “She reminded me so much of a girl I used to know in New York — tall and dark-haired with that haughty way she carries herself. And that voice — the Park Avenue sound, you know, my dear.”
“That’s Valerie, all right,” she said, the words pushing smoke puffs ahead of them. “I don’t like to be catty but I used to think that she was a phony. See what I mean?”
“Of course. She’s not really my type. But I’m connected with television and she’s tall and slender enough to be perfect for a modeling bit on a show we’re doing.”
“My name is Shirley D’Amico,” she said. “I’m not tall, but terribly, terribly talented. Must you have tall girls, Mr….”
“Daniels. Scott. And yes, I’m afraid I must. But I’ll keep you in mind for something else. And now I hate to harp on the same old subject, but I’ve got to find Valerie right away. Can you help?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she said. “You could write what I know about Valerie on your thumb. She answered an ad I put in the paper for a roommate to share expenses. She had nice clothes and Emily Post was her best friend. She had everything — everything but the expenses. And a job. I took her in because she promised to pay her share on the first, out of a trust fund check she said was coming to her. I tried to get her some kind of work, but nothing suited her highness. Then she just bolted into the blue.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I work nights. Cashier at a movie house. I came in on a Thursday around midnight and she was gone. She didn’t leave so much as a hair in the sink. Gone.”
“A note?”
“Yes. She left a note. Dear Shirley. Please forgive me, darling. But I had a rare opportunity that will take me out of town for awhile. Hope this will soften the blow.
“And get this, pinned to the note was a fifty dollar bill. Rare opportunity, indeed!”
“Did she ever get in touch?”
“Never. I never heard from her again. The hell with roommates! I’m a loner from now on.”
“Did she have any friends who came here?”
Shirley raised her eyebrows. “My dear man. Of course. But they were always gone when I came home. Nothing but a few tattered cigarette butts, a chewed sandwich and whiskey rings in glasses. She said nothing and I asked no questions. Live it up and let live.”
“So you can’t tell me one little thing by which I could trace her?”
“Not one. But don’t take it so hard. Little old Shirley stands ready to comfort. Valerie would have been expensive. And I’m the homey type.”
He looked around. “I’m sure. But come now, Shirley. You must have some clue to her, however vague. Didn’t she mention the name of a single friend? I have a special reason.”
“She owes you money?”
He looked down.
“That’s tough. In which case, I’ll try to think.” Small fingers touched brow. “Think, think,” she said. “A tiny name dawns. But it wouldn’t do you a bit of good.”
“Please?”
“Well … I had a broken watch. Dropped it on the bathroom floor. Valerie said she had a friend who was in the watch repair business and she would get it fixed for nothing. She mentioned someone by the name of Marty. No last name. She took the watch and had it back in a couple of days. That won’t help, will it?”
“Hardly,” he said dejectedly, already guessing that the name when connected with watchmaking was more than worth the trip.
He stood. Tried to keep impatience from crowding his face. “Well, it wasn’t too important, Shirley. Chalk it up to experience. And thanks, anyway.”
“Would you like to celebrate the loss with a drink?” It came out urgently casual.
Lonely, he thought. So many like her. “Love to. But I’m on company time and late. Got to run.” He went to the door. She came after him on puppet strings, a doll dancing over the floor.
“You’re a very pretty man, Scotty. Won’t you come back — soon?” She placed hands behind head and arched toward him. “Remember — I’m terribly, terribly talented.”
He opened the door. “Yes,” he said. “But I
’m terribly, terribly married. Goodbye, Shirley.”
He slipped out and went down the hall with a fixed image of Shirley D’Amico’s face — the dark, wounded eyes of a fawn, mouth gaping.
Just as though she had been stabbed.
* * * *
It was ten minutes after one. He hadn’t eaten and he wasn’t hungry. He stood in the lobby of the Commerce Exchange Building, consulting the directory of offices. He had just called Myra and she had read from the newpaper: “… was identified as Martin Bates, who died this morning from injuries sustained in a puzzling two-car accident on Route 27. Mr. Bates, a watchmaker and proprietor of a one-man shop housed in the Commerce Exchange Building, was driving north to….”
But that was enough. Martin. Marty. A friend of Valerie’s. In the same accident.
Barnes … Bassett … Bates, Martin. Rm 406.
He hurried to the elevator.
406 was a small opaque glass door, one of several in a hallway.
MARTIN BATES, WATCH SHOP
Watch and clock repairing, all makes.
Electronic, precision timing.
Fast Service.
And just below this was a hand-printed sign:
CLOSED FOR SUMMER VACATION
Scott Daniels returned to the main floor, all the while thinking, not coincidence. Not at all. An impossible sequence for coincidence. Marty Bates of the accident. Marty mentioned as a friend of Valerie’s. Marty of the watch shop. Where? In the same building as the Second National. Then why not Marty involved in the robbery? Marty and friend. And after the robbery, where would Marty and friend go with the loot for quick escape? Where else? To the Martin Bates Watch Shop.
He was bursting with excitement. And yet, Marty is dead. You have a modus and that’s all. Where, where is Valerie?
He went back into the bank and sat down for time to think. It came to him finally. If Valerie opened an account, someone must have talked with her at the time. You fill out the card and the nice man or woman takes your money.
Mr. Scofield was quite a nice man behind one of many desks in a row. He was also a vice president. Why was it that vice presidents in banks never seemed to have their own offices? Anyway, Mr. Scofield had the appropriate dignity and he held the card in his hand.
He smiled pleasantly. “Yes,” he said. “I see that this is my signature and so I must have opened the account. It’s one of a dozen things that I do in a busy day. But it was some time ago and there are so many. I’m afraid I don’t remember the lady. Now, if it had been a large amount….”
“Well, of course,” said Scott, “the amount was small. But the lady from almost any view, largely attractive. A tall brunette with a striking figure. Would that help?”
Mr. Scofield allowed himself a polite chuckle. “It should help,” he said. “And the point is well taken. But, on the other hand, more often than you might think, we have reasonably attractive young ladies making deposits.”
“I think this one is unreasonably attractive, sir.”
Mr. Scofield continued to smile tolerantly. “If you know her, Mr…. Daniels, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, if you know her, Mr. Daniels, what’s the problem?”
“I’ve lost her. Temporarily, I hope. And I thought if you could remember her, then you might also remember something she told you which would help me to find her.”
Mr. Scofield frowned. “I’m rather confused,” he said. “Our head teller, Mr. Wilkins, dug this card out of the files. And he said that you were connected with one of the television stations gathering background for a crime series. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“And that the first program on the schedule concerns the recent robbery of this bank. Now, what does that have to do with this Valerie …” he looked down at the card, “Valerie McLean?”
“Nothing, really,” Scott lied. “It’s a personal matter which I thought I would straighten out while I was here.”
Mr. Scofield began to tap the card thoughtfully on his thumbnail. “You know, Mr. Daniels,” he said, “sometimes a person like yourself nosing around on perfectly legitimate business, comes across a fact or two that might have entirely escaped the police. To say nothing of the uh … bank officials. I do think it would be a grave mistake in judgement not to pass on to us immediately the smallest detail, however seemingly unimportant.”
“I agree with that, Mr. Scofield. In principle. And if I had something concrete or resolved, I would take it to the police.”
“It need not be anything resolved at all, just the merest hint,” said Mr. Scofield doggedly and with a countenance that was becoming increasingly stern.
Scott was silent.
“I assure you,” said Mr. Scofield after a moment and in a more placating tone, “that anything you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. In fact, I’ll go out on a limb and say that at least for the time being, I would be willing to keep any information entirely to myself.”
Scott was tempted. But having come so far alone …
“I realize,” continued Mr. Scofield with a man-to-man smile, “that there is a substantial reward. It might influence your decision if you knew that as an official of the bank, I am not eligible. On the other hand, I would be glad to work with you and help you evaluate in secrecy for a reasonable period.”
Somehow, in a very remote sense, Mr. Scofield reminded Scott of Milt Lundberg. It was an executive attitude, pseudofriendly double talk laced with a condescension born of years behind fat desks of authority. Scott felt himself being persuaded with an invisible club and his response was a rising irritation.
“Really, Mr. Scofield,” he said, “I think you’re making much of nothing, if I may say so. I’m just another guy earning a living and my knowledge of crime and criminals is just about what I read in the newspapers. So getting back to my girl friend on the card there — Valerie McLean — have you been able to remember her?”
Mr. Scofield knew that he was being signed off and after a moment in which his big jaw resisted, acceptance came to his face. He looked again at the card.
“Have you checked this address?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. She moved. Not a trace.”
“You’re not acquainted with any of her friends?”
“I met her just once at a party.”
“And the person who invited her, the one who gave the party?”
That was a tough one but it flashed just as he was going to fumble for a cigarette in what might have been an obvious stall.
“Nothing doing,” he said. “She wasn’t known — except by the man who brought her. And he was a stranger to me.”
“Well,” said Mr. Scofield dubiously, “it looks pretty hopeless. I can’t seem to bring her up out of my mental file. I must talk to twenty or more people a day. Tell you what.” He slid paper and pencil across the desk. “Just write your name, address and phone number here for me. Then I’ll give it some thought. If and when I can remember, I’ll give you a call. However, it’s very unlikely that she would have told me anything you could use to trace her. We don’t ask for personal details and they’re seldom volunteered.”
Scott wrote the information and they stood together, shaking hands. “Much obliged, Mr. Scofield.”
“Not at all. And, Daniels. Remember my advice. Don’t take it too lightly. Anytime you….”
“Sure, sure. I’ll do that. The minute I have anything that would interest you. ‘Bye, sir.”
Scott Daniels moved briskly toward the exit into the building. There was within him a need for tremendous haste. Yet in the corridor he paused. Hurry! he thought. But to where?
ELEVEN
The minute Daniel’s back disappeared out the door, Clay Scofield wrenched the phone across the desk to call Valerie. He dialed furiously. The ringing went on and on, a drill boring into the side of his head.
He looked at his watch, then hung up. She had driven into town with him for another of her intermina
ble shopping sprees. And he had forgotten that at noon she had an appointment at the hair-dresser’s. Probably she wouldn’t reach home for another hour.
Daniels. Daniels…. It sounded familiar. He grabbed the paper and looked at the scrawled name and address. Scott Daniels. Unless he was mistaken, for he had paid little attention at the time, this was the man who had given Valerie the lift from that joint on 27, then picked up the suitcase.
God, God. Oh, Christ almighty! Even if he wasn’t the one, (and he must be, or where did he get the name Valerie?), he was onto some part of it, moving closer. Hadn’t he told Valerie to be careful, careful, careful! How could she be so stupid as to drop even her first name? The trouble with women, the whole trouble with any bitch alive was that their intelligence went just so far — and the emotion took over. Except in the case of his wife, Mavis (former wife? Not yet.) who in her whole life probably never had an honest emotion.
And he had slipped, too. He should never have allowed Valerie’s card with his own signature on it to remain in the files. The day after the account was closed he could have sneaked it out. But how could he know that it would ever be of the least importance?
Something had to be done about Daniels. And fast! But what? In God’s name, what? And on top of it there was Roy
Whalen to deal with — determined, absolutely convinced, relentless.
If he, Clay Scofield, were some goddam criminal, it would be much simpler. He could just disappear with Valerie and the money, right out of the country. But as it was, if even a mop boy, let alone a vice president quit the bank, the whole police force might be right behind him, handcuffs ready. So now the entire, clever, beautifully planned scheme was falling apart. He should have been content with his small share. He should not have been so greedy. But after Mavis got her pound of flesh for the divorce and the loans were paid off, there wasn’t enough left to exist on any permanent level that would satisfy him — or the spoiled, hungry tastes of Valerie McLean.
No, the trouble was Mavis, not Valerie. The trouble was first, last and always, Mavis. She had been a wound in his side that he had finally closed with money, money and more money.
