by P. N. Elrod
The Boswell House was a cheap residence hotel in a tough neighborhood that hadn’t quite made it to being a full-fledged slum, but was trying all the same. No clerk at the desk challenged me when I walked into the dusty lobby and looked around. The stairs were on the right; ancient wooden things full of more creaks and pops than an old man’s joints. I double-checked the lobby to be safe, then went semitransparent and floated up over them, guiding myself along with a ghostly hand on the banister. In this form I could see and hear what was going on, but it could scare the willies out of anyone spotting me.
Either the timing was good or for once my luck was holding. I went solid just as a leggy gal in a bright kimono emerged from the room next door to McAlister’s. She had carroty hair and hard eyes and looked at me looking at her for exactly two seconds before spinning on her bare heel to go back into her lair. I must not have been the man of her dreams, after all.
A moment of listening at McAlister’s door confirmed that he wasn’t at home. The door was locked, but no problem.
The small room beyond wasn’t much: cheap, battered furniture at the edges, and a Murphy bed taking up most of the space in the middle. It hadn’t been made in a couple of weeks; that, or he was an incredibly restless sleeper. I figured he slept alone, since I couldn’t think of a woman born who would voluntarily lie down in those stale sheets. I lifted the end of the bed and closed it up into the wall to give myself a little working space.
Escott had taught me how to poke and pry without leaving signs, so I went through everything, taking my time. Chances were, McAlister would be back before I was finished, and then I could tackle him about the bracelet.
His clothes were still in the wardrobe and bureau, which was good news. A dented metal suitcase was tucked under the spindly legs of a washstand. Unless he had plans to buy clothes along the way, he hadn’t skipped town yet.
I’d just lowered the bed again to check under the mattress when the stairs outside warned me that someone was coming up, a man, by the sound of his shoes. He was going slow, but the old wood announced his progress like a brass band. I eased the bed down the rest of the way and vanished.
He took his time at the door and then opened it slowly, as though he expected a problem was waiting for him inside. He clicked on the light, waited another moment, then closed the door up again. He made a quick circuit of the room, brushing right past me. He stopped in his tracks.
“Jack? Are you here?”
A clipped English accent. Escott.
I materialized with some relief and squinted. After working in the dark for so long, the room lights seemed painfully bright to my sensitive eyes. “Yeah, I’m here. How’d you know?”
He looked relieved as well. “I felt a sudden cold spot cut right through my coat. When that happens I am inclined to think you must be lurking nearby. Have you been here long?” He pocketed a worn leather kit that held a number of lock picks and skeleton keys. It explained the excessive time he’d spent at the door.
“Long enough for a search.”
“Is it clean?” A fastidious man himself, he couldn’t help wrinkling his nose at the place.
“Figuratively speaking, yes, but we may have a problem. …” I told him about my little square dance at the Top Hat with Marian and Summers and Bobbi’s news on McAlister.
“Dear me, but Miss Pierce has thrown a spanner into the works by her misinterpretation of her father’s actions. If McAlister is the guilty party with the bracelet, he’ll have the wind up by now.”
“Which is why I got over here. Bobbi figured he’d stop long enough for his clothes.”
“I may put Miss Smythe on a retainer,” he murmured. “I’ve just come from a betting parlor McAlister frequents. It seems we’re not the only party looking for him.”
“He lose big?”
“Almost two thousand dollars—”
“Ouch.”
“—to a bookie anxious to take it from McAlister’s hide if the money is not immediately forthcoming.”
“Let’s hope he stops here first.”
“Indeed. If he’s carrying the bracelet with him it could be lost to our competition to cover his debt.”
“Want to wait here for him?”
“It’s much warmer than the street below, though we should shut off the light.” He relocked the door.
When he was settled in a wobbling chair, I hit the switch. The darkness washed comfortably over my eyes and they adjusted easily. The dim gray illumination coming from the room’s only window bounced off the mirror hanging over the bureau and caught the edge of Escort’s face.
“Can you see all right?” he asked.
“Just fine.”
“Then perhaps you might answer a question for me.”
“What?”
“Why do you need a light in your workroom if you can see so well in the dark?”
I’d wondered about that myself. “I think it’s because the place is so totally sealed up.”
“The darkness is absolute then?”
“Like a … cave.” I nearly said “tomb” and changed it at the last second. “In most places there’s always some kind of light available, like what’s here now. It’s more than enough for me to work with, but that room is the exception.”
“What about your hearing?”
“You talking about the car that just pulled up out front?”
He nodded. We waited and listened. I heard a lot more besides the slam of the car door outside. Some guy was snoring two rooms down, and above us a happy couple were having an athletic engagement. The showgirl in the kimono must have been reading. I concentrated on the lobby below and picked out the clack of a woman’s high heels quickly-coming up the stairs. She paused at the landing and again just outside, then a key slipped into the lock and turned. Escott hastily vacated the chair and was crowded next to me behind the door.
It opened slowly and she fumbled for the light. She surveyed the room only a moment, killed the light, and left. When the door was closed, I quietly told Escott I was going after her, and vanished. I swept past her down the stairs and out the building, then materialized. She was just coming out as I came in, and I made sure we bumped into each other.
She was tiny, not much over five feet even in her heels, and despite the bulky lines of her coat I could tell the rest of her was built along the same scale. She automatically looked up when we collided, and I had a pleasant view of big blue eyes limned with golden lashes and a fringe of golden hair escaping the edges of her hat. Sebastian Pierce had said she was a little doll and he’d been perfectly right.
I stopped her as she started past. “’Scuse me, but aren’t you Stan McAlister’s girl?”
“What?” She blinked at me, properly confused.
“Kitty Donovan?”
“Yes, what do you want?” She must have been concentrating heavily on something else. Her mind had to visibly shift gears to this new distraction.
“My name’s Jack, I know your boyfriend.” It was an exaggeration, not an outright lie, so I was able to get away with it.
“Oh … well … how nice,” she said, a little blankly. I could have told her I was Teddy Roosevelt and gotten the same response.
“Are you looking for him, too?”
At this, her big eyes went very round and she broke into a kind of frozen smile. “Looking for him? Why, yes, but he’s not here tonight.”
“He’s not? That’s too bad … I really needed to talk to him. Do you know where else he might be?”
She shook her head. “No, I just thought I’d drop in and see, but no one’s home.”
“Isn’t this kind of a rough place for a nice girl like you to—”
“I don’t think it’s really any of your business,” she told me brusquely. She started to duck past. I caught her arm. “Lemme go or I’ll scream my head off.”
“No, you won’t. You need to know why I’m looking for him.”
She was ready to question that, but let me lead her back into the
lobby. I kept a loose hold on her arm, as though to steady her. She unsuccessfully tried to shake my grip.
“You lug,” she grumbled. I didn’t argue with her.
Escott was just coming down the stairs. I nodded at him and he joined us, politely removing his hat when I introduced Kitty Donovan to him.
“A pleasure,” he said, bowing a little. She didn’t expect his accent or such a high polish on his manners; neither of them went with the neighborhood.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
“We’re friends of Stan and we’re looking for him,” I said.
Her lips curled in cynical disbelief. “I’ll just bet you are.”
Escott stepped in. “He was at the Top Hat Club earlier tonight, do you know where he might be now?”
Eyes guarded, she shook her head. I was pretty sure she was telling the truth, but Escott wasn’t satisfied. He cocked an eyebrow, indicating a lounge area off the lobby. It was just slightly more private and out of immediate line of sight from the door. We walked her in. I sat next to her on a couch and Escott took a chair in front of us.
She was scared now and trying not to show it. “Listen, if you are Stan’s friends, he won’t like what you’re doing.”
“We’re doing nothing, Miss Donovan, only waiting until such time as Mr. McAlister returns.”
“He’s not here. I was just up in his room, see?”
“Perhaps I do. I think you have us mixed up with two other fellows. My word of honor, we are not working for Leadfoot Sam.”
“Leadfoot Sam?” I echoed.
“Mr. McAlister’s annoyed bookie. I believe he earned his colorful appellation due to his driving style during Prohibition.”
Kitty was all anxious attention. “What about Leadfoot?”
Escott tried a reassuring smile that she wasn’t interested in. “Nothing about him—at least as far as I’m concerned. We are not his agents.”
“Then who are you working for?”
He pulled out his investigator’s license and she studied it for a long-rime. “We’re on an errand unconnected to Stan McAlister’s debts and only wish to obtain some information from him.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you, and I really have to go now.” She started to stand, but I gently pulled her back.
“We require but a few minutes of your time,” he continued.
“But I don’t want to be here. Now, let me go or I’ll scream the house down.”
“Kitty …” First I got her full attention, then stepped up the pressure. Her eyes seemed to get bigger and bluer as I held them with my own. She was on her way to slipping under when the entry door opened and a dapper-looking guy with straw blond hair walked in. He distracted me and, worst of all, he distracted Kitty. Her gaze shifted over and she gave out with a little gasp, then drew breath for a full shout.
“Run, Stan! They’re after you!”
He whirled in a flash and was out the door before she finished. Escott charged after him and I started to move, but Kitty made a tackling dive for my legs. She was tiny, but more than enough to trip me. I crashed backward into a chair and flipped up and over, feet flying in a clumsy somersault. The floor was wood and awfully damned hard to land on.
When the room stopped spinning, I slowly crawled upright. Kitty had recovered and stood facing me. She dug into her purse and brought out a gun, slipped off the safety, and leveled it on my heart.
“Aw, now, kid, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Her hand was shaking, but there was a grim set to her mouth. “Back. You stand right back.”
I raised my hands to show cooperation. She carried some kind of .22 automatic and knew how to use it or she might have forgotten about the safety. The live bullets it probably carried wouldn’t kill me, but getting shot hurt like hell, and my suit had been through enough rough stuff for one evening. There were other ways to take care of her.
“Kitty, we don’t want to hurt Stan. We just want to ask him a few questions.”
She shook her head and told me to move back. I could try hypnotizing her again, but she looked too nerved up to easily respond. It would also be necessary to get closer and she’d already made a firm decision to keep me at a distance.
“Gonna keep me here all night?” I asked. “What will the management think?”
“Wha’d’ya think I’ll think?” A middle-aged man who looked as tough as the rest of the place came around the check-in desk. His hair was sticking up in different directions and he wore a drab bathrobe over his shorts and undershirt. He carried a massive shotgun that made Kitty’s .22 look like a water pistol.
Before I could answer, Kitty cut in. “I’m Stan McAlister’s girl. This guy and his friend outside were trying to kidnap me.”
“Is that what all the noise is about?” His unfriendly eye caught sight of the overturned chair. From his expression, you’d have thought it was his grandma’s priceless antique.
“This is a misunderstanding,” I said. “My partner and I are—”
“Trying to kill Stan,” she blurted. “Please, mister, could you hold him here while I get away?” There were tears and a crack of fear in her voice. Whether they were real or not was anyone’s guess, but the man was willing to buy it.
“Sure, little girl. You take off. He won’t get out of here for a while.” He hefted both barrels in my direction and looked confident.
She whispered out her thanks and was gone.
“Look, mister, my partner and I are detectives.”
“Uh-huh. Got any proof?”
I hesitated. Technically I was just along for the ride; Escott was the only one with a valid license. The hesitation was enough to bolster any doubts and the man took a firmer grip on the stock. Outside I heard an engine gun and the whine of wheels as Kitty’s car tore down the street. I wondered what had happened to Escott.
“What I said was on the level.” I lowered my arms as though they were tired. It didn’t seem to bother him.
“Yeah, yeah.”
“She just got a little nervous, is all.”
He shook his head in patronizing disbelief.
“Now, I don’t happen to have my license with me …” 1 started to reach inside my coat.
He dropped the disbelief for a scowl, renewing his grip on the gun.
“But I do have my wallet … so maybe we can make a deal?” I opened one side of my coat so he could see where I was reaching.
He licked his lips. “Okay. Double sawbuck.”
“Single.”
“Double or nothing, buddy.”
“Okay, okay.” I pulled out the wallet and fumbled around with it, walking toward him. The change in my posture and attitude worked. His hold on the shotgun went slack as he came forward. His attention was on the money, but at one point he looked up at me.
His mistake.
A few minutes later he was peacefully snoring back in his office and I was outside looking for Escott and McAlister. Kitty was long gone, of course, and there was no sign of her fleet-footed boyfriend. The street was empty and black and the infrequent glare of tall lamps only deepened the shadows they were meant to relieve. It looked cold and was beginning to feel cold, even to me.
A distinct gasp and cough caught my attention and drew me to the alley running between the hotel and a closed coffee shop. The bundle of clothes lying in the middle of it was Escott, curled on his side, trying to remember how to breathe.
He stifled a groan as I helped him sit up. The only visible damage was a cut above one eye.
“I almost had him,” he complained.
“What stopped you?”
“His blackjack.”
It seemed like a good excuse to me.
“He thumped me and broke for his car.”
“Round one to Stan, then.” I got him out of the alley and folded into my Buick. He groaned again at this, since Stan had also booted him in the stomach for good measure.
“If this keeps up, I shall certainly consider raising my
basic retainer,” he said, hugging the damaged area.
“You go right ahead. Kitty got away, too. She had a gun and the manager’s sympathy.”
He didn’t seem too upset. “Straight on, then. There’s still a chance we can salvage things.”
“How so?”
“I’m speculating she will head directly for her own home.”
“Yeah? You got a crystal ball?”
“Hardly, but seeking a place of safety after receiving a bad fright is a very strong instinct. If she should follow that pattern, then we’ll have the opportunity to question her without interruptions.”
Escott gave me the address from Pierce’s notes. I got the car in gear and we took off.
Kitty’s home was in a nice block of modern apartments in a nice part of town. We parked on the curb out front next to a has-been of a car. I’d hardly stopped when Escott was out and pulling off one of his gloves. He put one hand on the old car’s hood to see if it had been running recently, and his lips thinned with satisfaction.
“Stan’s?” I asked.
He opened the door and checked the registration, then nodded. While I nervously watched the street for beat cops, he did something under the hood to make sure it wouldn’t start.
The apartment entrance required either a key or that visitors buzz. I saved us some trouble and slipped through to open the door for Escott. Kitty lived on the second floor at the end of a carpeted hallway. After trying her door and finding it locked, I did the same thing again, but slowly. Still invisible, I checked the room beyond to ascertain that no one was there. It was very small, probably no more than an entry with a coat closet. I reformed and spent a moment listening, but picked up nothing. I clicked the lock back as softly as possible and let Escott inside.
He already knew to be quiet and his manner was calm enough, but I could hear his heart thumping like a drum. He enjoyed this sort of work.
The living room was new looking, the furniture comfortably plump, but not fussy. A low table displayed drawing pencils, a battered sketch pad, and a stack of fashion magazines. Escott flipped a few pages of the sketchbook. It was full of stylized drawings of heads, all tilted to show off the crazy hats they wore.
The first bedroom was a work area. A couple of card tables in the middle were covered with a colorful scatter of ribbons, feathers, netting, Lice, velvet, and similar junk. In the corner stood a small black sewing machine, and stacked next to it were different kinds of hat blocks. A wall hill of shelves held samples of the finished product. Most of them looked awfully strange to me, but were probably just the thing for Bobbi to go crazy over.
