Time Off for Murder (8 page)

  "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?"

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 inside 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.

  The nature of the information could not be divulged because of the obvious fact that it might be part of the state's case against Nardello. The statement added further that the racketeer had been questioned by detectives in his cell in the Tombs and had convinced the police, that whatever Miss Knight might have known about him, he on his part, had not only never seen the woman but hadn't even heard of her.

  The newspapers, however, supplemented the D.A.'s announcement by reminding the two-and-two adding public that Nardello had been out on bail on the Wednesday of Miss Knight's disappearance and had surrendered to the court Thursday morning for trial.

  In lieu of personal interviews with the racketeer, who was denied to the press, Eugene Vigo, his attorney, maintained resolutely that his client had been with him at his apartment all Wednesday evening, discussing matters relative to his trial.

  At one o'clock, Johnny Reese phoned Mary Carner at Blankfort's to ask: "What do you think of the Nardello angle?"

  "I think it's fantastic."

  "So do I. But when a lady goes looking for trouble . . ."

  "Anything's possible." She finished his sentence.

  "That's it. Rockey was sore as a pup. 'What are you guys trying to pin on me, now?' he says. 'Ain't I got enough troubles without worrying about a dizzy dame? Whyn't you go out and find her?'"

  "That's an idea, too. Why don't you?"

  "We will, sister. And, believe me, we got plenty of help. The whole United States. You'd ought to see the mail. One guy sold her gas in New Mexico, week ago Friday, and same day a girl in a jook joint in Florida served her a hamburger. She stayed over night Saturday week in the Ethan Allen tourist camp up near Rutland, Vermont that is. And yesterday they fished a body out of a river in Ohio that they were sure was her, till somebody showed them it was a man. The dopes. And say, want to hear a good one? A guy in Bemidiji, Minnesota, calls up long distance, says he's just been talking to her at the bus station and she tells him she's running away from New York gangsters, and if we wire him the money for expenses, he'll bring her back to New York. And we better hurry up, say yes, because from where he's phoning he can see her standing, waiting for the bus and the bus is due in ten minutes and when we say: 'What's the girl look like?' he says: 'She weighs about a hundred-thirty and she's tall and skinny, and has black hair bobbed."'

  "Don't tell me any more, Johnny. I can't bear it."

  "Oh, that's nothing. You ain't heard the best ones. A dame that runs a rooming house in Baltimore sends us a night letter, collect. She wants us to pay a week's room rent for a woman who skipped out on her Saturday. She's sure the woman was Phyllis Knight and the stories in the paper scared her away. Somebody's got to pay for the room, and the New York police is rich. She says we owe it to her for the tip and we can collect it back from Phyllis when we catch her. Or else she'll sue us. And there's a pow-pow woman in Pennsylvania - place called Bird-inHand, ever hear of it? I think it's a gag, myself - says if we bring her to New York and put her up at a hotel she'll trot out her hex and find the girl for us. We got the whole country seeing blondes. All of them wants to know is there a reward and who do they write to about it."

  "Is there a reward?"

  "Who'd give it?"

  "Papa or Rorke or the collar man. They've all got money."

  "Well, they ain't offered it yet. Looks like the lady ain't worth any cash to any of 'em. We had five sets of bloodhounds offered this morning, and a Boy Scout troop on Long Island called up to ask do we want them for a posse."

  Mary laughed. "I can't help it, Johnny. It's too silly. But one of them may find her for us at that."

  "That's the idea. No matter how screwy, we gotta follow through. Most of them guys just wants their names in the papers and a free ride to New York. I'm letting Headquarters worry about it. I got enough to do. Guess where I am now?"

  "Can't imagine."

  "At the office."

  "What office?"

  "The Knight woman's. And say, you had Struthers all wrong. He's a good guy. Me and him are getting along fine."

  "Wait for me there. I'll be right down."

  She hung up the receiver, slipped into her topcoat. "I'll only be gone an hour, Chris. An hour or so . . .Oh please, Chris, don't be that way."

  "I want you to stay out of this, Mary. You've enough to do here at the store. And who's this Johnny guy?"

  "So that's what's worrying you? He's Detective Reese. Missing Persons. I met him yesterday."

  "And he's Johnny to you today?"

  "He was Johnny yesterday, too. He's that kind. Oh silly, he's only a kid, an awfully nice kid, who needs a lot of help."

  But Johnny Reese at Miss Knight's office, seemed to be doing very well, thank you, without too much help. He occupied Miss Knight's chair, comfortably tilted back, his feet on an open desk drawer, papers and documents spread fan-wise before him, the ecru Struthers opposite, obsequious as a puppy.

  The office had a bleak, deserted look. The receptionist was missing from her desk outside. The cubby-hole where Miss Knight's clerk had toiled was empty.

  Struthers greeted Mary with a glance that was half welcome, half plea for commiseration. It was plain that he was having an uncomfortable time with Detective Reese.

  The young detective pushed a leather bound diary toward Miss Carner. It was open at the page for the nineteenth of October.

  Mary's eyes ran swiftly down the record of a busy day: 9-9:30: Br. Hartsell v. American Widget; 9:30-9:45: mail; 10: First Municipal, Arens v. Maxine Realty; 12:30: lunch W.V.A.; 2: Sophie D; 2:30: N. Peterson; 2:45: Lake and Tauber; 3: Title closing. Greenstreet; 4: Ray Winock; 4:30: Dictate Bill particulars, Rosensweig; Pet. Bank. O'Neil, Wasey; Appeal: People v. Nexo.

  "Phwee," Mary gasped. "One half the world has no idea the other half lives by litigation."

  "Miss Knight had a large practice," Struthers said primly. "Miss Getch - that's the clerk - I let her go, the receptionist, too, till Miss Knight comes back - and I helped her all we could. We got the citations looked up, all the materials ready for her."

  "Are you a lawyer, too?" Mary asked.

  Struthers' complexion seemed a shade paler. He said: "I am not a practicing attorney. I have studied law," and went on quickly to add: "That of course is not all. The mail, the telephone, they took a great deal of time, too."

  "Have you a record of the phone calls Miss Knight received on Wednesday?"

  "I have." Struthers plodded to his little office. His back looked tired. He placed a long sheet on top of the papers on the desk.