by Zelda Popkin
"But you loved the girl?" Detective Reese asked bluntly. "You're sure of that?"
Saxon Rorke bit his lips. He said stiffly: "That's rather personal. I'd prefer not to discuss it." He walked toward the French windows, stood looking out, his hands behind him. The cigar in his fingers had an inch long ash, before he wheeled around again and said: "That's all, fellows. That's all I can tell you."
"Thanks. You've told us plenty," the reporters chorused. "You've been swell." They crushed their cigarettes, drank the cold dregs of their highballs, got up, ready to leave. One of their number came forward. He seemed embarrassed. "One more question, Mister Rorke," he said. "I know it has no bearing. Just to satisfy own curiosity." His tone was apologetic. "Didn't I see you in Magistrates Court the day Rockey Nardello was arraigned?"
Rorke wrinkled his forehead and his nose. "Nardello?" He spoke the name with distaste.
The reporter backed away. "I thought you looked familiar. That's all. I thought I'd seen you in the court-room that day."
"What day was it?"
"In September. Right after Labor Day. I could check the date for you. Call my office." The man bent down for the telephone on a coffee table nearby.
"Don't trouble." Rorke intercepted his hand. "It's not important. But now I begin to understand what the commotion was that day. I did have to go to a Magistrates Court back in September. No, gentlemen, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Nothing interesting. It was about the dogs. New York's no place to keep dogs. They had just returned from the country. Li took them to the Park. They couldn't seem to accustom themselves to the leash. Li thought it would do no harm if he let them run for a few moments. But it seems there's a law against that. It cost me two dollars per dog and a day in a steamy court-room to find that out. It's altogether possible it was I you saw. Sitting on a hard bench, stewing in my own juice."
"Didn't try to fix the summons, eh, Mister Rorke?"
Rorke smiled: "Now, boys. Interfere with justice? I?"
"Excuse it, Mister Rorke."
"Don't mention it."
"O.K, break it up," a photographer interrupted. "I got work to do. How about a picture with your dogs?"
"Like this?" Rorke ran his hands down his robe. "I should say not. You've got plenty of pictures of me in your offices."
"Sure. But a new one. You waiting for news of Miss Knight. You know. The old heart interest."
"You're a callous lot," Saxon Rorke began. But abruptly, he changed his tone and said: "I'll be glad to oblige if you wait until I change."
"Stick around," Johnny Reese whispered to Mary.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen."
The press relaxed into the chairs and sofas, lighted up again.
A reporter wandered over to the radio that was built into a bookcase against the wall. He turned the dials. A symphony orchestra gave him the rippling brook of Beethoven's Sixth. He clicked it off, spun another knob.
Voluble Spanish poured from the short wave band, the whine of trans-Atlantic static, and the disembodied gayety of a rhumba band.
"Hey, cut that," one of his colleagues called. "This is a house of mourning."
The reporter twirled another knob. The rasp of the police radio filled the room. "Cars 81 and 126. Go immediately to Columbus Avenue and Ninety-first Street. Man lying on the pavement."
"Even on Sunday," the reporter said mournfully. "Never give the booze a rest. . . Tck…. Tck. Anybody got a scotch and soda that isn't working?"
"Shut the damn thing off," Johnny Reese suggested peevishly. "One crime at a time."
"One crime at a time, eh?" A newspaper girl jumped at Johnny's words. "Do you think a crime's been committed, officer?"
Johnny Reese caught himself. He folded his lips. "I didn't say a word. Not one word."
"Seriously, officer." The girl hung on Johnny Reese's coat lapel. "Are you working on the theory that there's been foul play?"
"Sister," Johnny pushed her away, "your guess is as good as mine on Sundays. I'm gathering facts. I'm getting information. Same as you. And I ain't making statements. If you want a quote, go ask the Commissioner."
Mary had wandered over to the French windows. She turned the casement handles. They were locked. She peered through the glass. "It's a handsome setup," she stated to the room behind her. "This would have been a nice change for Phyllis after that gloomy old house."
Saxon Rorke's voice said over her shoulder. "And Phyllis never even saw it."
Rorke had changed to a lounge suit of dark blue, with a faint red pin stripe, whose color was echoed by the tint of his striped shirt, his tie. In street clothes, he was even better looking than in negligee. A definitely impressive male.
Mary said: "I've been admiring your place. The terrace is beautiful."
"Would you like to see more of it?"
"I'd love to." The reporters' faces verified her enthusiasm. "We all would."
"There's nothing I'd like better," said Detective Reese.
"To make sure I've not got Phyllis hidden in a closet, eh?" Rorke punched Johnny Reese playfully in the stomach. "I know you lads. Come on." He waved to the photographer. "You, too. The pictures can wait. I'm rather proud of this place. No, not on the terrace today, please, the wind's sharp. All right, if you don't mind the cold. I've no secrets. There." He pressed a safety catch in a handle, held the French windows open for them. "Mind if I don't go out with you? My throat's a bit scratchy."
The dogs leaped over the sill, frisked along the redtiled walk, raised hind legs against the boxwood.
The wind was bitter. Hedge and reporters shivered. The dry stalks of geraniums huddled, brown with frost, in their boxes. The furled, striped awnings, the chaises longues of chromium and leather, the little tables, pushed back against the house wall, spoke poignantly of the vanished charms of summer. Only the row of evergreens, before a bean pole fence at the far end of the roof, seemed bright and alive. There was a door in the fence, locked with heavy padlocks Its top was sharply spiked, its poles wired together.
It was so cold that they came in quickly. "I'm sorry I couldn't go out with you," Rorke said. "Point things out. The fence you saw is the end of my little oasis. Other people live in the house, you know. They had an unpleasant habit of dropping in, until I put up the fence. One does want privacy. Now, let's go."
Shoes sank ankle-deep into the gray carpets of a dining room, walled with glass brick and ice-blue paper, furnished with white table and white chairs, flame red leather upholstered.
"A very simple place," Saxon Rorke apologized.
"Just a shack," Johnny Reese suggested. "But it's home and you like it."
The reporters merely gaped. Dumb with awe, they trailed Rorke into a bedroom which was a decorator's dream: smooth wallpaper of softest gray, mauve gauze at the windows, a spread of royal purple velvet on a colossal bed, striking slashes of magenta and chartreuse in upholstery and overdrapes.
"Mister Rorke." Detective Reese turned from the window curtain which he had been studying with frowning intentness. "Do you find you need double windows up here?"
Rorke answered: "Of course. Unbreakable. And locks. Not for the wind. For the insurance companies. Li's not so young. His kitchen's a distance. Those beasts of mine. They're no watch-dogs. Just playmates. Make friends with everyone." He shook a finger at them.
"Hm. You'd ought to get yourself a - what's the word?" Johnny Reese flicked the leaves of his notebook.
"A Cerberus," Miss Carner helped.
Rorke opened a closet door. Stacked on hangers, like a clothing store display, hung business suits, of infinite variety and pattern, sports attire, dinner jackets and tail coats.
"Gees," Johnny Reese whistled. "Me with this and one other home in the closet. It's swell to be rich."
Rorke laughed. "You haven't seen anything yet. Here's my bathroom."
The room was a mirror, walls and ceiling of shimmering glass, reflecting a tub like a Roman bath and the gawking figures of the visiting press.
"I can't
stand it," a reporter moaned. "I thought they only did this in Hollywood."
Rorke's laughter was pleasant. It was obvious that their admiration gratified him. "I can't take it with me. I might as well spend it…. All right, boys and girls, now you've seen it all. Take your pictures and let's call it a day."
"We'll run along." Detective Reese drew Miss Carner's arm in his. "We've taken up enough of your time."
Rorke extended his hand. "Glad to have met you. Hope I've been of some assistance. Please keep in touch with me. Let me know any developments. Please do. May I have your name? Your shield number? You, too, young lady. Oh, you're not at headquarters? A private investigator? I'd like your phone number so that I can keep in touch with you. Have you my phone number? Better take it down. It's not listed. Let me know the minute you hear anything. You can call me any hour of the day or night."
"Thank you, sir. I hope we'll find her alive."
Saxon Rorke passed his hand over his forehead. He seemed for the first time very weary. "That is almost too much to hope."
Back in the detective's car, Mary Carner asked: "How does anybody get that rich?"
"How would I know?" Detective Reese frowned. "Not by chasing crooks. Must of had the right papa. Got dough. Spends dough. An office in Wall Street. If he's getting rich out of that then those guys that are hollering about Roosevelt are just plain liars. All I know is his mug is always in the papers and he plays in the big time. Even the Commissioner once had his picture took with him."
"Then what would he want with Phyllis? She's not his speed. She has family and some money. But no flash. Unless she was the one who did the pursuing."
"Her blotter says that, don't it?"
"He said he never got that letter."
"That's O.K. Just because she wrote it, doesn't mean she mailed it."
"She may have been ashamed to mail it. It wasn't like Phyllis to write that letter. When she fell for a man, she dropped like a ton of bricks."
"Ain't it the truth?" sighed Detective Reese. "Ain't it?"
"I don't blame her. He's something. I suppose you'd call him a man's man - big, athletic."
"And likes dogs. Don't forget that. A man that likes dogs is O.K., ain't he?"
"So they tell me. A man's man…. No. A lady's man. Very definitely…. Don't scowl like that, Johnny. And he's no fool, either."
"Fool? He's smart as they come. Your girl friend was picking them good while she picked 'em."
"Johnny," Mary said, "you got yourself on a spot for a minute there. Are you thinking a crime's been committed?"
"What do you think?" he parried.
"You won't talk, but you want me to. O.K. I will. I'm very much impressed with Rorke. I think he's told us a straight-forward and useful story. I think he's convinced, though he hesitates to admit he believes it, that Phyllis has committed suicide. But back in his mind is the same suspicion that there is in ours - that papa Knight and his housekeeper know a good deal more than they've told."
Detective Reese seemed not to be listening. He had taken his notebook out, was checking back over his scrawled notes. "That fellow in Troy," he mumbled. "Him being in town that day. That'll be the next thing. I'll have headquarters get Troy on the wire right away." He snapped the book shut. "Now, Rorke might be right about that suicide. Her being down in the mouth. The letter sure sounded that way, didn't it?"
"Rorke thinks it was because of her father that she was despondent, not on account of his coldness."
"Oh well," Detective Reese grimaced. "You know how fellows are. They don't want you to think they been giving a lady a stand-off or a run-around. That ain't chivalry, even if she's making a pest of herself. Lots of times, girls get ideas. Just because a fellow's nice to them, it don't mean he's nuts about them. Say, you ain't married?"
Mary said, "Don't worry about me. I'll never want to be more than a sister."
"O.K., O.K." He threw the car into gear with an unnecessary amount of noise. "Where do you want to go now?"
"Back to headquarters with you to talk to Troy."
"And have the boys riding me for going to work with a dame? Oh no, you don't."
"Not if they knew it was me."
"Listen, sister, I'm taking you to your home and no place else. I'll call you up if I got something to spill. You call me up. That's how it stands. And you stay away from Rorke's apartment. Get me?"
"Can't I even call him up?
"Nope. You gals can't keep your heads with a fellow like that. Maybe you're different. But I doubt it. I doubt it." He swung the car out into the traffic stream. "First I call up Troy," he muttered, half to himself, half to Mary. "Then first thing in the morning, I see that Struthers. And I talk to the Chief about tossing the Knight place."
"When do you sleep, Johnny?"
"Never, lady. I never sleep. Not with the college boys taking the police exams. No, sir. Where do you live and what's your phone number?"
During the middle of the Sunday night Winchell broadcast, Mary Carner's telephone rang.
"Hello."
"Hello, Detective Reese speaking."
"Hello, Johnny."
"Say, Van Arsdale's in town."
"I know it."
"You do, do you? How do you know it?"
"I just heard it on the Winchell broadcast."
"Say, that guy knows everything, don't he? What did be say?"
"Oh, just that Wilfred Van Arsdale, the big collar man from Troy, had come to New York to help the police search for his missing fiancee."
"That's right. That's exactly what he did. And say, he's a nice guy. Fat, middleaged, eye glasses. Maybe some girls wouldn't think he's so hot. But he's an awful nice guy. Regular Boy Scout. He hopped a train the minute he read the news in the papers. What we heard is the McCoy. He had lunch with her Wednesday, all right. She told him she had somebody else on her mind and would he please stay in Troy and forget about her. She didn't tell him the other guy's name. Just said she was nuts about whoever it was. He wished her luck. What could he do?" Detective Reese's sympathetic sigh floated over the wire. "He said she looked bad. Pale and worried. And when he mentioned it, she said yes, the flu'd gotten her down and she was working hard besides. He said he walked back to the office with her and that was all. He says it's too bad her and the old man had a fight about him because he don't want to antagonize nobody. He says he never thought he stood very good with the old man. He says he always thought it was on account of the old man Phyllis had held off marrying him long before she met the other guy. He says the old man always had kittens whenever Phyllis mentioned getting married."
"That's interesting. Both men complained the old man stood in the way of Phyllis getting married. But papa acted as though it was all right with him. Either one. Somebody's maligning papa."
"Maybe Phyllis had her old man doped wrong."
"Maybe. Van Arsdale know anything about her going to the movies?"
"Never heard of it."
"Did she ever mention suicide to him?"
"Nope. He said maybe yes, maybe no, to that one. He thought she was too sensible for that. But you can't tell. She didn't look too good when he saw her. Nervous."
"Did he have any ideas where Phyllis might've gone? Any relatives, any places to which she might have gone for a rest - to think things over?"
"He thinks she'll turn up. He thinks she'll be back."
"Hope he's right. Has he gone back yet? I'd like to meet him."
"What do you need him for? You got me, ain't you? Ain't you never satisfied?"
Chapter V
The disappearance of the blonde Portia crowded the prosecution of racketeer Rockey Nardello off Monday morning's front pages. The revelation of her unannounced betrothal to the wealthy sportsman, Saxon Rorke, the surmise of her suicide, the interviews with Lyman Knight, the photographs of the house on Washington Square, of Knight in his parlor, of Wilfred Van Arsdale of Troy, of Rorke with the dogs, and Rorke in sports attire and masquerade costume, spread over nearly an entire in
side page of the papers. Nardello got half a column next to the obituaries.
Noon editions of the Monday afternoon papers, however, brought Social Registerite Knight and Racketeer Nardello together on page one, when the District Attorney's office issued a statement that the vanished attorney had been co-operating with them in securing information relative to the illicit activities of Mr. Nardello.
