“The room clerk.” I kept my voice down.
The door opened a foot. I put my shoulder against it and shoved. A big, apish-looking man started back, off balance. He stared at me in startled surprise.
He wasn’t the kind of party you’d want to meet up a dark alley. He was bow-legged and the length and thickness of his arms and the flatness of his face reminded me of an orangutan.
I wasn’t sure, now that I was face to face with him, if he was the guy who had followed us.
He eyed me narrowly.
“What’s the idea?”
“That’s what I came to see you about,” I said, closing the door and leaning against it.
“What do you want?”
“You’ve been tailing me,” I said. “Why?”
He shifted his eyes to the floor and then back to me. “I haven’t been following anyone,” he snarled.
“Nuts,” I said, smiling at him. “And you’ve been writing me notes.”
He shook his head woodenly. All the time I was speaking he was ready to start something if I made a move. I could tell that by the way he held his long arms loosely at his side. “If you don’t get out I’ll call the operator,” he threatened.
I pretended to be convinced. “Maybe I made a mistake,” I said, “but you look like the guy who’s been tailing me.”
He began to relax. “I can’t help that,” he said. “Why the hell should I want to tail you, anyway?”
“That’s what I wanted to find out,” I said. “Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” I turned to go. There was a phone book on the dresser, and as I passed I picked it up and slung it at him all in one movement.
The book caught him on the side of his head and he reeled back. Before he could recover his balance I jumped him.
My fist sank into the side of his neck and he went down. I let him sit up and then I kicked his face. The kick stunned him. He lay flat on his back, the whites of his eyes showing and breath bubbling out of his open mouth.
I knelt at his side and started to go through his pockets. I found nothing of interest in his trouser pockets, and I was beginning on his coat when he came to.
He swung at me, but I saw it coming and dropped flat on top of him. I socked him twice in the belly before he threw me off. He was strong all right, and I slammed against the wall. Before he had time to get to his feet I dived at him. He kicked my stomach with both feet. I hit hard on the floor, most of my breath knocked out of me.
He scrambled up, his flat face alight with vicious fury. I couldn’t move. My muscles had gone back on me and I wanted to vomit.
As he came at me I pulled my gun and showed it to him.
He stopped suddenly like he had run up against a brick wall.
I struggled to get my breath and fought down the sickness, but I didn’t lower the gun or take my eyes off him.
He stood watching me sullenly.
“Sit on the bed,” I managed to jerk out at last.
He sat on the bed, his hands on his knees, glaring at me.
I remained on the floor for three or four minutes until I got my wind back, then, still watching him, I climbed to my feet. My legs felt shaky and I had to lean against the wall.
“Now we’ll talk, you louse,” I said, keeping the gun pointed at his face.
He just snarled at me.
“You’re one of Starkey’s boys, aren’t you?”
He shifted his eyes and I knew I’d guessed right.
Keeping him covered, I took out the note that had been pushed under my door and let him see it.
I laughed. “You don’t think chat, kid’s stuff scared me, do you?”
He looked at his feet and shifted restlessly.
I gave him time to say something and then went on: “I don’t like guys following me around. It makes me nervous. When I get nervous my heater’s likely to go off. Tell Starkey that. While you’re at it, tell him I don’t think he’ll be mayor, and you might add I’ll be along to see him tomorrow.”
He stared at me, his small eyes blank with surprise.
I nodded to the door. “And now dust. Get the hell out of here and stay out. I’ll see you around here again, or tagging along behind me, I’ll slap you down so hard you’ll bounce for a week.”
He stood up, picked up a slouch hat that was lying on a chair nearby, and put it on his head I knew when I saw him in that hat, that he was the party who’d been tailing us.
“Beat it,” I said.
He went to the door, opened it and then turned to look at me. His eyes were glassy with hate.
“You small-town toughs are a dime a dozen,” I said. “Scram!”
He spat on the floor by my feet and went out. I followed him into the passage and watched him walk stiff-legged to the stairs. He didn’t look back.
I awoke with a start. For a brief moment I had the fuddled idea I was in my New York apartment, but the white bureau I could see in the moonlight put me right. I was still in the Eastern Hotel, Cranville.
There was a continuous, gentle tapping on my door. It was a furtive sound. It could have been a rat gnawing on wood. But I knew it wasn’t. I groped for the lamp by my bed and turned it on. Then I sat up and ran my fingers through my hair.
I felt like hell.
The urgent tapping continued.
I glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was ten minutes past two. My eyelids weighed a ton and the room was stifling, although I had drawn back the curtains and opened the windows wide before going to bed.
I slipped out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown and reached for the .38 which was under my pillow.
The tapping went on all the time I was shaking the sleep out of my brain and getting fixed. Whoever wanted me was making sure no one else would be disturbed.
I went to the door. “Who is it?” I said, speaking against the panel.
The tapping stopped. “It’s Esslingen” I recognized his voice. I turned the key and opened up.
Ted Esslinger came in quickly and closed the door, His necktie was still under his right ear, and his face was white and pinched.
I gave him a hard look, went back to the bed and sat down. I shoved the gun under the pillow and massaged the back of my neck.
“For the love of Mike,” I said, “can’t you let me sleep?”
“Mary Drake hasn’t been home,” he said. His teeth chattered with nerves.
I yawned, stretched, and went on massaging the back of my neck. “Another of your pals?”
“Don’t you understand?” he said, speaking in a low, tense voice.
“She went to work this morning and she hasn’t come back. Drake’s over with my father now.”
“Aw, hell,” I said, leaning back on my elbows. “What can I do about it? I don’t work twenty-four hours a day.”
He began to pace up and down. “Something’s happened to her,” he said, driving his fist into the palm of his hand. “As soon as Drake came around, I slipped out to tell you. No one else knows but Drake and father. You must do something.”
I was beginning to feel better. “When was she last seen?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“She left her office at five o’clock and she was going on to a dance. Roger Kirk, the boy she was meeting, says she didn’t show up. He thought she wasn’t well, so he went home. It was only when Drake phoned him at eleven o’clock that we began to think something was wrong.”
I fumbled in my coat pocket, found a packet of Lucky Strike and shook a couple onto the quilt. “Have a smoke and sit down,” I said, lighting up.
He sat down but he wouldn’t smoke.
I brooded for a minute or so while he watched me anxiously. Then I said: “Has Drake told the cops?”
“Not yet. He came to father because he thought—”
“I bet he did,” I broke in. “What’s your father done?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “He won’t do anything until the morning. That’s why I came he
re. We’ve at least seven hours’ start over any of them.”
“Yeah,” I said without much enthusiasm, “but there isn’t much we can do.” I flicked ash on the floor, stifled another yawn and went on: “You know the girl?”
He nodded. “She was a friend of Luce McArthur,” he told me. “Roger Kirk and I went to the same school. We four used to go out together.”
I got up and wandered over to the chair where I had dumped my clothes. It took me three minutes to dress and then I went into the bathroom to sponge my face and fix my hair. I came back into the bedroom and poured myself a small Scotch.
“Drink?” I said, waving the bottle at him.
He shook his head. “What are you going to do?” His eyes were bright with speculation.
“I’m playing a hunch,” I said soberly. “I bet it’s a no-good hunch, but I’ll take a chance. How far is this Street-Camera joint?”
He drew in a sharp breath. “On Murray Street. About five minutes in the car.”
“Have you got the car?”
“It’s outside.”
“Okay, let’s go.” I picked up my hat, yawned some more and turned to the door. “This is a hell of a game for sleep,” I said, moving out into the passage “Don’t you ever take it up as a profession.”
As he followed me out of the room, Marian French’s door opened and she propped herself up against the doorpost. “Sleep-walking?” she asked, with reasonable curiosity.
She looked hot in the powder-blue silk wrap she was wearing. Her long, silky fair hair hung to her shoulders and her face was flushed and sleepy.
“Hullo, there,” I said in a whisper; “if you listen hard enough in a minute or so you’ll hear the day break. I’m the guy who breaks it.”
She glanced at Ted Esslinger and then back at me. “Is he your assistant?” she asked, trying not to gape.
“Miss French, meet Mr. Ted Esslinger,” I said, waving my hands. “Now will you be a nice girl and go back to bed? Mr. Esslinger and I are going on a practice run.”
“Has something happened?” she asked, first smiling at Esslinger and then turning back to me.
I shook my head. “I do this sort of thing every day of my life. It keeps me fit.” I tipped my bat at her and jerked my head at Esslinger. “Let’s go,” I said.
He gave Marian a quick, shy smile and followed me downstairs. I heard Marian heave an exasperated sigh and then her door closed.
“Nice, isn’t she?” I said, walking as quietly as I could.
“Yes,” he said, “but this isn’t the time—”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I returned, entering the lobby, “Any time’s right with me.”
The night clerk, a fat little man with a heavy moustache, stared at us blankly, but I didn’t stop. I crossed the lobby and the verandah and got into the Pontiac that was standing at the kerb.
Esslinger ran around and slid under the steering wheel.
“Make it snappy,” I said, huddling down into my seat. “I want some sleep sometime tonight.”
He drove fast. There was no traffic around and we had the streets to ourselves.
“What do you expect to find?” he asked, as he turned into Main Street.
“I don’t know,” I returned, lighting a cigarette. “It’s just an idea I’ve got at the back of my mind. I’m willing to bet there’s nothing to it.”
He gave me a quick glance, shrugged and drove on. We didn’t say anything until we reached Murray Street.
He slowed down and peered out or the window. “It’s somewhere along here,” he muttered.
I made no attempt to help him. It was his town and it was up to him to find the place. He swung into the kerb suddenly and stopped the car.
“This is it,” he said.
I got out of the car and looked at the small plate-glass window that was stacked with photographs. I stepped back to read the sign overhead. It was picked out in heavy chromium lettering that glittered in the moonlight: “The Street-Camera.” This was the joint all right.
I took a flashlight from my hip pocket and threw the beam on the window.
Ted was standing at my side. “What’s the idea?” he said, following the beam as I Worked it over the postcard-sized photographs pinned to the back of the window, the sides, and on a sloping board on the floor of the window.
“See anyone you know?” I said, keeping the light moving.
He got it then. “You don’t think he began,” but I shushed him.
Right bang in the middle of the sloping board was a photograph of a blonde girl who laughed up at me. The background of Main Street showed behind her head. The photograph was four times the size of any of the other photographs in the window. Underneath it was a small notice. Special enlargements $1.50 extra.
“That her?” I said to Esslinger.
“Yes.” He was holding onto my arm and shivering.
“When I get a hunch I play it right on the nose,” I said, snapping off the flashlight.
“You know what this means,” Esslinger said unsteadily. “They have been kidnapped, and kidnapped from here. Mary might even be hare still.”
I walked round him to the shop door. It was of plate glass and chromium.
The only way to force an entrance would be to smash the window and I didn’t want to do that. It would make too much noise, “Can we get in around the back?” I asked.
“Get in?” he repeated. His face told me he was scared. “You’re not going to. . .?”
“Sure, but you’re not in this,” I said. “You get off home.”
He hesitated, then said stubbornly: “If you’re going in, I’m coming with you.”
“Forget it,” I said sharply. “I’m paid to stick my neck out. If we get caught, your father’ll know you’re helping me. I don’t want it that way. You’re useful to me as long as no one knows what you’re doing. You’ve done enough already. Get off home and leave this to me.”
He hesitated, then nodded his head. “I guess you’re right,” he said reluctantly. “They don’t even know I’m out. Do you want the car?”
“I could use it,” I said, “but someone might recognize it. No, you take it and get off.”
“I don’t like leaving you . . .” he began, but I wasn’t going to spend the rest of the night arguing with him.
“Be a good guy and beat it,” I said, and leaving him by the car I walked off down the street. A hundred yards further on I came to an alley. As I peered into the darkness, wondering if it led to the back of the building, I heard his engine start up and then the Pontiac swept past at high speed. I watched the tail light disappear before I entered the alley.
I was relieved to see him go. An amateur at this game could easily step out of turn, and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I liked to work alone. If anything went wrong I had only myself to blame.
The alley was narrow and smelly. It brought me eventually to the back of the Street-Camera building. The place was in darkness. The back door didn’t seem particularly strong, so I put my shoulder against it and shoved. It creaked. I shoved again hard. There was a snapping sound and the door swung open. I stepped back and listened. The building and alley remained silent. Shielding my flashlight with my hand, I peered through the open doorway and then stepped into a narrow passage. Ahead of me was a door leading to the shop. Another door on my right was half-open.
I went down the passage and opened the door leading to the shop. There was no blind to the window, but the moon gave enough light for me to see. I had a quick look around, saw nothing to excite me and stepped back into the passage again. I didn’t want any passing cop to spot me through the window.
I retraced my steps and pushed open the other door. I entered a large room which obviously was used as a workshop. The floor was littered with strips of paper from trimmed photographs. Mounts and photographs were piled high on the two tables in the centre of the room. I let the beam of my flashlight crawl around the room and over the floor
. I examined the fireplace, which was full of burnt paper, but I found nothing to connect the place with the missing girls.
I pushed my hat to the back of my head and scowled out of the window. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I had hoped for something better than this.
I went to the back door and glanced into the alley. It wouldn’t be possible to park a car out there. That puzzled me. I couldn’t make out how the girls were taken from the shop, if they had been kidnapped from this building.
As I stood brooding about this I heard a car coming at high speed. A moment later there was a squeal of brakes as the car slid to a standstill. I stepped quickly into the passage and closed the door. Moving fast, I reached the door that led into the shop and opened it a few inches.
I could see the street through the shop window. A big tourer stood outside the shop, and as I watched three men spilled from it. One stood by the car looking up and down the street. The other two crossed the sidewalk and one of them pushed a key into the shop door lock and snapped it back.
It happened so quickly had no chance to duck back along the passage. I pulled the door to and waited, my hand on my gun.
I heard the two men enter the shop.
“Snap into it,” one of them said. “The patrol’ll be around in five minutes.”
His voice was harsh and I could hear him breathing heavily.
“Okay, keep your shirt on,” the other said hoarsely. “Give me that picture over there.”
I heard something heavy drop on the floor and I opened the door a few inches, but I couldn’t see what was going on.
“I can’t reach the damn thing,” the man with the hoarse voice said. “Watch what you’re doing, you dope,” the harsh-voiced man snarled. “You’ll wreck the whole display.”
There were more mutterings and then the harsh-voiced man said: “Okay. Let’s get outa here.”
I heard them cross the shop, open the door and lock it behind them. I peered cautiously into the shop. They were climbing into the tourer. I couldn’t see what they looked like, except they were all big and broad-shouldered. One of them might have been Jeff Gordan, but I couldn’t be sure.
The tourer drove away fast.
If the police patrol was due in five minutes, it was time for me to get out of here. I took a quick look round the shop, but there was nothing to show what the men had been doing. Then I went back down the passage towards the back door.
1945 - Blonde's Requiem Page 5
