There Is Something About a Dame Page 9

  “Cap, I got out an APB on the girl and the car as soon as it happened. I told them not to relay it to you until I saw you myself. It’s a bum break all around. Don’t blame the guys too much. You gotta admit a snatch of a shot-up guy in the hospital is pretty incredible, don’t you?”

  That did it. Monks had been holding back on either my account or the strength of Sanderson’s fine record with the Department. But copping a plea was the straw that broke the captain’s back.

  He pounded the top of his cluttered desk so hard that an inkwell spouted like Old Faithful and some of the sheets fluttered like paper airplanes.

  “Dammit, don’t hand me that incredible bull! You oughta be damn glad kidnaping is all they had in mind. Don’t you realize they could have killed your man right under your nose? Fine thing. Six top men to hold the hand of a dying man and two other people get in and take him away from you. Just get the hell out of here and keep on this until I send for you again.”

  “Cap—” Sanderson faltered.

  “Beat it, Jimmy. You and your boys haven’t heard the last of this.”

  The big, helpless detective didn’t say another word. He knew when to quit. He turned stiffly and started thinking about whether his necktie was crooked or not. The silence in the office after he closed the door softly behind him got unbearable. Monks kept his eyes focused on a point of the wall where there was no calendar, no painting. Not even a cockroach out for an afternoon stroll. Outside the window, street noises suddenly invaded the room.

  “Crazy, isn’t it?” I said. “First they do everything in their power to kill him. Then they snatch him like they want to keep him alive or something.”

  “Huh?” Monks’ eyes came down from the fascinating blank spot on the wall. “What did you say?”

  “Mike, Mike. Forget about what you’re going to say to the bad little boys. Mistakes happen. Why do you think Memo was snatched when the accent before was on killing him?”

  He rubbed his eyes again. He was really tired now.

  “Insanity is your department. I don’t know and right now I don’t care.”

  I picked a ruler off his desk and swished it experimentally as if it were a rapier. “Savannah Gage has a red ’63 Dodge,” I offered.

  He nodded. “So I remember. Is she brunette, pregnant and five feet two or so? You didn’t say.”

  “No,” I admitted. “She’s almost the reverse. Which means another lady is in the pudding somewhere. The Voice couldn’t have worked this snatch. He was breaking his neck trying to kill Morgan. Wow—this one’s a dilly. And all because Bill Shakespeare may or may not have buried a play manuscript in a cave on the white cliffs of Dover.”

  Monks was himself again. He cursed and sat erect.

  “Look, Ed. I’m working backwards. As soon as you can arrange it, bring the limey to see me. I want to hear this from the horse’s mouth.”

  I grinned. “He’s not a limey or a horse. He happens to be a Sir, knighted by the Queen of England, and maybe the greatest actor in the world.”

  “No doubt,” Monks agreed drily. “But he also would buy the Brooklyn Bridge if it were offered to him. Shakespeare. This can’t be on the level. Anyway, you bring him here. I’ll stay on Morgan and this Zwick guy too until something breaks. Snatch or no, I’m afraid the memory man may wind up in the East River. If he’s got information that somebody wants, once they get it, they don’t need him anymore. It’s as simple as that. So don’t be surprised what turns up.”

  I headed for the door. His next comment stopped me.

  “You’ll be at your office, I suppose?”

  “Fact is, Sir Stewart invited me to see his play tonight. I’ll be at the Broadhurst from eight to eleven-thirty or thereabouts.”

  He grunted and made a notation with a pencil stub somewhere on a sheet from the pile on his desk. I kept on going through the door, down the steps, past Millican and out through the entrance until I was safe on the sidewalk. I saw Sanderson standing across the street talking to a man in a squad car. I waved to him but he turned his back as if he hadn’t noticed. James T. would never forgive me for being on deck while Monks had him on the carpet. That’s life and not a very nice arrangement of circumstances either.

  I looked at my watch. Going on three but I had time to burn before going to see the play. Savannah Gage and her red Dodge could be taken care of by the cops. Something else was on my mind and burning a hole in my pocket. The small white business card that said V. Devlin Private Investigations. I had an odd sensation that he might know all about a pregnant brunette in a fur coat and slacks. The girl sounded like his speed. Besides, I had to find out what his angle was and whose side of the street he was working on. Memory of his threats didn’t bother me.

  Something else was ringing off more bells in my head. Like Memo Morgan, I had a memory too. Not as good maybe but just as spongey. I could still hear Memo’s voice on the floor of the Ritz. Something about a blasted devil who kept deviling him. At the time I’d thought it was a funny way to put a beating. But that wasn’t it at all. Memo had given me the name of the man who had beaten him so badly. Whether he was the same man who had belly-shot him with a .45 was something else again. But I was going to have the answer to that one before this day died. Even if I had to slam Mr. V. Devlin all around his office to prove it.

  On the sunny sidewalk in front of Police Headquarters I looked at the card again. No phone number or address. Just the name and the profession. I thought about Headquarters and debated the advisability of getting the dope on Devlin. If he was legit, they’d have a record of his license, permit and bond. Of course, he didn’t have to be a New York eye. He could be K.C., Los Angeles, Chicago or a lot of other big towns. But I decided to skip the department for the answer to all my problems. Monks had enough headaches.

  As soon as I spotted a drug store, I walked in, picked out the nearest monument to Alexander Graham Bell and dialed 411. A crisp operator got me all the information I needed. There was a V. Devlin on West Forty-sixth Street and the phone number was a Circle exchange. I got my dime back, used it right away and drummed the phone box as I waited, thinking all the time how West Forty-sixth Street was within staggering distance of the lobby of the Ritz.

  I was a little stumped when a tense, worried, feminine voice answered the phone. For a second I thought I’d dialed incorrectly.

  “Devlin Agency,” the worried voice said. “Who’s calling?”

  I picked up my cue, knowing now exactly what I wanted to do.

  “This is H. P. Lovecraft,” I said. “May I speak with Mr. Devlin?”

  There was a slight stall while Miss Worry thought. Then she tried to come back with brisk authority but the worry was still in her voice.

  “Sorry, he isn’t in right now. But I’m expecting him. If you leave your name and number, I’ll have him call you right back. About an hour or so.”

  I pretended to be upset at this information.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, I’ve trailed my wife all the way from Providence to New York. She’s registered at the Hotel Taft with Ambrose Bierce. This is my chance to catch her cold and I thought Mr. Devlin could help me affect a raid. I have a camera and everything. You’re sure I couldn’t reach him somewhere—?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lovecraft. It’s out of the question. If you want to call back, that’s up to you. Mr. Devlin is a pretty busy man.”

  I sighed. “Very well, I’ll try again within an hour. They may stay at the hotel overnight. This is what I get for waiting until the last minute, I suppose. Uh—what was your name, Miss?”

  “Gates,” she said. “Linda Gates. You call back, okay, Mr. Lovecraft?” She was dying to get rid of me.

  “I certainly shall,” I said. “Goodbye, Miss Gates.” I hung up, feeling the scent of the chase strong in my nostrils. It had been easy. Too easy. But the possibilities were enormous.

  A girl who could answer the telephone and hear the names of two immortal weird tale writers like Lovecraft and Bi
erce without batting an eardrum could be all of two things. Not very well read and about twenty years old.

  If Devlin had a secretary that young, then West Forty-sixth Street was the place I wanted to be.

  I flagged down a passing yellow taxicab and hopped in. All the way over to Devlin’s office I wondered if Linda Gates would be brunette, five feet two and pregnant.

  I didn’t expect her to still be wearing a fur coat and slacks. That gag had already served its purpose.

  Nothing in the world makes a girl look more pregnant than slacks.

  “All the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten … ”

  SIXTEEN

  West Forty-sixth Street is easily the rattiest neighborhood in the world. At least, for one so close to the glitter and glamour of Times Square which is just a couple of blocks away. Devlin, the rival private eye, had certainly picked himself an oddball locale for his place of business. Bums, drunks and fading girls litter the hallways and doorways. The bars are hidden and low-lit to hide the low-class patronage. Peeling brownstones and impossibly drab furnished rooms comprise the rest of that West Forty-sixth Street world. Juvenile delinquents, out-of-work actors and aging bar girls make up the rest of one of New York’s tired chapters of society.

  Devlin’s number was typical. Brownstone, four stories high, cracked six-step stone stoop and windows too wide for comfort. His place of business was a first floor affair. The big window facing the street bore his name and mysterious first initial in gilt lettering that looked new. I had a glimpse into the interior as I mounted the cracked steps. Filing cabinet, chairs, bookcases and a hanging light fixture right out of The Front Page. That and a girl bending over the desk, reaching for something. I couldn’t see her face but brunette and pregnant she was. Fanny would have been a good name for her instead of Linda Gates. She made me forget all about my Monroe calendar.

  The office door was just inside the entrance past a row of ancient mailboxes. Not the slot kind. There were six individual, rusty, worn boxes lined up on the wall like soldiers. I already knew something about V. Devlin. He wasn’t exactly doing a land office business and he wasn’t living there because he liked the neighborhood. The door had an easy-to-look at numeral one tacked on it with a nail on top and on bottom. The number was lucite—the kind you can buy in any hardware store. There was no bell so I knocked, shave-and-haircut rhythm.

  What answered the door wasn’t something you could find in a hardware store. Maybe the beach at Nice or in the cocktail lounge of the Royal Palms in Honolulu. She definitely was not West Forty-sixth Street. More like Sutton Place or Park Avenue. Her appearance threw me because it didn’t jibe with the ignorance that came over the telephone just twenty minutes ago.

  Her clothes didn’t help, either. No fur coat and slacks, of course. But she hadn’t bought the silver gown with the slash skirt and the choker and wristwatch at Ohrbach’s. Seven months’ worth—Sanderson had said—but she was carrying her coming child beautifully. She just looked like she had some stomach.

  “What do you want?” she asked, the door ajar but with one slender hand poised on the edge, ready to slam it shut. Her eyes were brilliant black like her hair—and worried. The face was a perfect cameo, made softer by priceless eyes, red mouth and a complexion she hadn’t bought in a drug store.

  I grinned, trying hard not to be the obnoxious salesman type.

  “This is a private detective agency, isn’t it? I’m looking for Mr. Devlin. Is he in?”

  “No.” Her worry relaxed slightly. “Come back—tomorrow. He’ll be back tomorrow—” She started to close the door but my shoe tip was already there. She noticed it and looked up quickly in alarm. I’ve still got white teeth. I showed them to her.

  “I’m Mr. Lovecraft,” I said. I had to know how ignorant she really was. “I called you a little while ago. I need help on this hotel thing right away. My wife and Mr. Bierce may check out and I’ll have lost a golden opportunity.”

  She was stupid but she didn’t believe me anymore. She’d made a rapid appraisal of my clothes and looks and leaped to the only conclusion possible for a girl with her equipment. I was a fresh guy who’d seen her from afar. Liked what he saw, and was trying to get next to her with the only trick he knew.

  Her expression got as cold and as sneering as a young girl’s can possibly get. She’d left her halo with her middy blouse and skipping-rope years. Even if she was only about twenty.

  “Scram, Buster. Peddle your papers somewhere else. Not interested.” She started to close the door again but I didn’t feel like arguing or pushing muscles at her. I simply showed her the nose of my .45. Her mouth fell open like a landed trout.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” I said. “You must be the first dame in years that I ever got the drop on. May I come in?”

  She couldn’t answer so I pushed past her, gently nudging her to one side. She closed the door behind us and stood with her back to it in bewilderment, hands flattened against the yellow panels.

  “Don’t look so disappointed, Linda. Sorry, I’m not here on account of your great charm.” I holstered the .45 again and sat down behind Devlin’s desk. Just like the mouse auditorium, he had a swivel and second hand equipment. It wasn’t a large office, either. I looked at Linda Gates. “Where is the big, bad wolf anyway?”

  “Who are you—?” she said hoarsely. “Some kind of cop—?”

  I nodded. “Some kind. But just what kind I’m not saying.” I studied her. She had to be the girl in the hospital snatch. She looked soft but I knew she was hard enough and dumb enough to risk things for the green men. “Where’s Memo Morgan?”

  Some of her natural grit came back. Slowly, but it came back. Pink started to fill her cheeks.

  “Who’s he? Friend of yours?”

  I smiled. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it while we wait for your hero? Him I want to talk to. He needs help and a few words of advice. Maybe he doesn’t know that kidnaping carries the death penalty. He doesn’t look like the type that does much reading.”

  She was on his side. She rallied and came toward the desk, a smile twisting her beauty. The only soul this dame had was on her shoes.

  “You’d better clear out of here, wise guy. Vince eats guys like you alive. You’ve got some nerve pushing into here making insinuations. You better show me a badge or something before I scream for the cops.”

  “I’ll show you something,” I said grimly. “And you’ll have a tough time screaming wth a .45 in your gut. Now stop the play-acting. I’m on to this whoopup. You can clear yourself plenty by answering some questions.”

  “Big deal,” she sneered. “What have you got?”

  I sighed and rocked forward in the swivel until my feet braked the floor. I put my hands on the desk.

  “Okay, Linda. Play dumb. I’ll skip the missing Shakespeare folio because the details will bore you. But here’s the news of the day for you. From me to you. Memo Morgan, my friend whom you know nothing about, named Devlin as the man who gave him a going over while he was bleeding to death in my arms in the Ritz lobby. When Mr. Morgan was snatched from under the noses of the Police Department this afternoon, the cops with the red faces well remember a brunette, about twenty, who was also pretty pregnant. You don’t have to look in the mirror again to know that nails you with a capital N. Since you seem to be V. Devlin’s personal secretary too, there’s another nail for the cops to hammer into your coffin. Now why don’t you give up this life of crime, eat your oatmeal and tell the nice man everything? You know how fond the flatfoots are of defendants who turn state’s evidence. We’ll get to the niceties later but right now I want to know what happened to Memo Morgan. Where is he? He’s too sick to be traveling around away from medical care.”

  The nice complexion had lost some more color again. Her tongue stalled in her mouth.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean—please, leave me alone—” She averted her face and a tremor made her hips shiver pleasantly. I almost bought her upsetness until I remembere
d Memo.

  “Please sounds nice but it’s a little late for that. Come on, Linda. You’re too beautiful to fry and you are having a baby—”

  “Stop it!” she hissed, whirling toward me, her face contorted with fury. “Don’t hand me that bunk! You don’t fool me with this bluff! You’re making it all up as if I was some greenhorn from Brooklyn. Get the hell out of here, you cheap—”

  She told me where to go better than it’s ever been told before. I got directions, instructions and best wishes to speed me on my way. She had blown her top in a way that completely shattered her femininity. I let her run on till she had to stop to get her breath but I didn’t budge from my chair, which faced her and the door. I could be seen from the sidewalk but I wasn’t worried about that.

  “Why don’t you have a smoke and relax?” I suggested, digging out my open Camel pack and placing it on the desk pad between us. “We’re not going anyplace until your boss gets here or you tell me where I can find Memo Morgan.”

  Her eyes tried to drill holes through me.

  “If you’re not a cop, who the hell are you? Trying to cut in or something—?” She was beautiful but she had an ugly mouth that spewed unwomanly things.

  “The name is Noon, if that means anything to you. Ed Noon.”

  “Noon—?” She faltered suddenly.

  “Well—double jackpot time. Devlin mention my name?”

  “No—no—” she said hastily. “That’s not it. It’s well—it’s a funny name.”

  “Sure it is,” I admitted drily. “Twelve o’clock and all’s not well. Is there a back door to this place?”

  That threw her. “Why?”

  Before I could enlighten her, footsteps thumped in the hall outside the door. My hand flashed to my pistol butt. My eyes told Linda Gates that if she sneezed, coughed or yawned, she’d wind up in Bellevue. She got the message but her black eyes blinked like sixty with fear. Her breasts heaved so I knew she had a heart after all. I waited for the door to push open.