The long Saturday night Page 6

  “Thanks a lot, Ernie,” I said. “And don’t worry about the loan.”

  I carried the bag out front, mingled with a crowd of incoming passengers reclaiming their luggage, and took the airport bus downtown. At the first stop, I got off, took a taxi to a cheap hotel off the lower end of Canal Street, and registered as James D. Weaver, of Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was twenty after seven, still two hours before the banks opened. The room was on the second floor, overlooking a dreary alley filled with utility poles and trash barrels. I left a call for nine-thirty, and lay down. The bed rocked as if I were still driving, and the instant I closed my eyes the pulpy and battered mass of her face was burned into the backs of the lids down to the last projecting shard of bone, and I sat up shaking and sick, my mouth locked against the outcry welling up inside me.

  Sleep was out of the question. I shaved and took a shower, and sat on the side of the bed, chain-smoking cigarettes until almost nine, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle into some recognizable pattern. It was hopeless. I didn’t have enough of them. Taking the folder from the suitcase, I walked uptown through chill sunlight and the early morning traffic to a bank where one of the officers knew me, and turned in the bonds. It was a routine procedure until they asked whether I wanted a cashier’s check or a draft and I explained I wanted it in cash. It was obvious they disapproved and thought I had a screw loose somewhere, but they had to give it to me. I made some lame excuse about a business deal, stowed the 180 one hundred-dollar bills and some change in my wallet and the inside pockets of my jacket, and went out. It was ten-ten A.M. now, and I had to work fast.

  I always ate breakfast at Fuller’s, even when Frances was home, because she never got up before ten. I was usually in the office by eight-fifteen. At least six mornings of the week Mulholland was there having his breakfast at the same time, and even if he missed today he’d probably ask if anybody had seen me. At any rate, by this time Scanlon would have learned that I hadn’t shown up in town. He’d call the office, and the house, while the air around the courthouse became incandescent with profanity, and within a few minutes somebody was going to be checking the garage at home to see if my car was gone. When they found it missing, but the Mercedes there, and still could get no answer, they’d break in a door, and within an hour the police all the way from Texas to South Carolina were going to have the description and license number of that Chevrolet. Ernie might call and tell him I was in New Orleans, as soon as the story got around town, but whether he did or not, by sometime this afternoon he’d have found out where I cashed the bonds and they’d have located the car abandoned at the airport. I had four or five hours at the most. I headed for a phone booth, and began flipping through the yellow pages of the directory. Dentists . . . Derricks . . . Desks . . .

  * * *

  Louis Norman of the Norman Detective Agency had a lean and thoughtful face, the attentive gaze of a born listener, and some quality of ageless disillusion about the eyes which seemed to promise that if you hoped to tell him anything that would surprise him you were out of luck. He leaned back in his chair with a ruler balanced between his fingertips and surveyed me across the top of it. “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

  “Warren.” I passed over one of my business cards. “John D. Warren, Carthage, Alabama. First, have you got enough men to handle a rush job that’ll probably take a lot of legwork?”

  He nodded. “Three, beside myself, and I can get a couple more if necessary. That kind of crash job can run into money, though, if it takes very long.”

  “I know.” I slid six one hundred-dollar bills from the overstuffed wallet and dropped them on the desk in front of him. “Use your own judgment as to how many men you need. If it runs more, bill me. I want some information, and I want it fast.”

  “That’s the business we’re in. What is it you need?”

  While I had the wallet out, I removed the photograph of Frances and dropped it beside the money. “That’s my wife. She was in New Orleans from December 30th until yesterday. I want to know the places she went, whom she was seeing, and what she was doing.”

  “You say until yesterday. Then she’s not here now?”

  “No. She’s at home.”

  He pursed his lips. “It won’t be easy. Tailing is one thing; backtrailing—”

  “If it were easy, I wouldn’t need professionals,” I said. “Can you do it?”

  “Probably. How old is the picture?”

  “Eighteen months. It’s a good likeness.”

  “That’ll help. But a lot would still depend on what kind of starting point you can give us.” He reached for a pad and undipped his pen.

  “Full name, Frances Warren,” I said. “Maiden name, Frances Kinnan. Twenty-seven years old, five-feet-seven, about 120 pounds, black hair, blue-green eyes. Always expensively dressed, in good taste, and in daytime she favors dark tailored suits. When she came down here she had a light-colored mink coat, but sometime in the seven days it apparently disappeared—along with about seven thousand dollars in cash. She was driving a dark blue Mercedes-Benz 220 sedan with blue upholstery and Alabama license plates, but the chances are she didn’t use it getting around the city because she doesn’t like driving in heavy traffic and trying to outguess these one-way streets. So she would have been using taxis, because she never walks anywhere if she can help it and wouldn’t be found dead on a bus or streetcar. Any taxi driver would remember her, because of the legs if nothing else, and the fact she’s a lousy tipper and arrogant enough to take back the dime if he got unhappy about it. She was registered at the Devore Hotel, and checked out yesterday around seven P.M.

  “She came down originally to go to the Sugar Bowl game with some New Orleans friends, the Harold L. Dickinsons of 2770 Stilwell Drive. She and Mrs. Dickinson were supposed to have gone to a series of concerts during the past week, and some cocktail parties, but as to how much she actually saw of the Dickinsons I don’t know. You might be able to find out something more, without mentioning me. I do know she was at the hotel at least part of the time, because I talked to her there on the nights of January 2nd and 3rd—”

  He interrupted. “Did you call her, or she call you?”

  “I called her,” I said. “She was at the hotel, all right.”

  “Just what makes you suspect her?”

  I explained about the call from the pay station when she said she was at the hotel. “And there’s the money, of course. Nobody could run through $7000 in a week going to a football game and a couple of concerts. Or even buying clothes—unless she was in Paris. And, also, what happened to the coat?”

  “Was it insured?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even so, it might have been lost or stolen and she was afraid to tell you. But with all the other money she seems to have got rid of, it seems more likely she sold it or hocked it. I’ll have a man hit the pawn shops and check back through the classified ads. But how did she get hold of $7000? You don’t carry that much in a checking account, do you?”

  I explained about the stocks she’d sold, and gave him the name of the broker.

  He nodded. “Then if it was hers, it’s not the money you’re interested in?”

  “No,” I said. “Only what she was doing with it.”

  “You believe it’s another man?”

  “Sure. I can’t think of any other reason she’d lie about where she was. And she must have given that money to somebody.”

  “This is professional,” he said, “so don’t take offense. Strictly off that photograph, she’d never have to buy any men, so there must be another answer. Has she ever, to your knowledge, been in any kind of trouble? Anything she could be blackmailed for?”

  “No,” I said. “She was no gangster or gun moll. Before we were married, she owned a dress shop in Carthage. And before that, she ran one in Miami.”

  “Does she have family connections of any kind in Carthage?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Friends? I mean, before she came there?”


  “No.”

  “Hmmm. Did she ever say why she gave up a business in a city the size of Miami to open one in a small town where she didn’t even know anybody?”

  “Sure. It was a divorce. She and her husband owned the place jointly, and when they split up they sold it and divided the proceeds.” I explained how she was on her way to the Coast when she stopped overnight in Carthage and became interested in its possibilities.

  “I see,” he said, though it was obvious he wasn’t completely satisfied, any more than I was now. “Where can I get in touch with you here?”

  “You can’t. I’m just in town for the day, and haven’t got a hotel room. But I’ll call you this afternoon, and after that you can reach me at my office in Carthage. The number’s on the card. If I’m not in, you can give the information to my secretary, Mrs. Barbara Ryan.”

  He gave a shake of the head. “We don’t like to pass confidential information to a third person.”

  “It’s all right in this case,” I said. “I authorize it.”

  “You’ll have to put that in writing. And there’s another thing—she’ll have to identify herself. Any woman on the phone could say her name was Barbara Ryan.”

  “Yes, I know. But you can give me a file number.”

  “All right,” he agreed reluctantly. He scribbled something on the pad. “The number is W-511.”

  “Right.” I made a note of it, scribbled the authorization on another sheet of his pad, and signed it. When I went out, he was already giving orders on the intercom.

  * * *

  I stopped at a bank, got twenty dollars worth of quarters and dimes, and took a taxi to the telephone company office. In the battery of out-of-town directories, I looked up detective agencies in Houston and Miami. One of the big nationwide outfits could have handled all three jobs, but I had to keep them separate.

  Selecting an outfit called Crosby Investigations in Miami and a man named Howard Cates in Houston, I wrote down the addresses and phone numbers and headed for a booth. I put in the call to Miami first, person-to-person to Crosby himself. He was in. I introduced myself, and asked, “Can you handle a rush job that’ll take a couple of men?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll mail you a cashier’s check for a retainer within the next half hour, airmail special, and you should have it this afternoon. Is $200 all right?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Warren. What is it you want?”

  “A confidential check on an employee who used to live in Miami. Her name’s Frances Kinnan.” I gave him a description. “She was born in Orlando, in 1934, went to high school there, and attended the University of Miami for two years, according to the information on her personnel card. Around 1953 she went to work as a salesgirl in the women’s-wear section of Burdine’s, and later became assistant to the head of the advertising department. In 1955 she married a man named Leon Dupre who’d been some kind of minor executive with one of the dress shop chains—Lerner’s, I think—and the two of them opened a shop on Flagler Street. It was called Leon’s, and specialized mostly in resort clothes. In 1958, she and Dupre were divorced, and they sold out. That should be enough information for you to pick up the trail, and what I want to know specifically is whether she’s ever been in any kind of trouble, if there actually was a divorce, where Dupre is now—if possible—and if she ever knew a man named Dan Roberts.” I gave him a description of Roberts. “Can you handle it?”

  “With that much to start on, it’ll be easy. How much time do we have, and how do you want the report? By mail?”

  “No. Wire it to me at my office in Carthage. By five P.M. Tomorrow at the latest.”

  “We’ll do it, or break a leg.”

  I hung up, dialed the long distance operator again, and put in the call to Houston. Cates’ line was busy and I had to wait five minutes and try again. This time I got him. I told him my name and address, made the same arrangement for payment I had with Crosby, and asked for a report on Roberts. “I don’t know where he lived in Houston,” I said, “or how long ago he moved away, but he still has a brother living there. The brother’s name is Clinton L. Roberts, and he should be in the book, for a place to start.”

  “That’ll do,” he said. “And just what is it you want to know?”

  “What business he was in there, whether he’s ever been in trouble with the police, why he left, whether he has any known enemies, and whether he’s ever lived in, or been in, Florida. Wire it to me at my office, not later than tomorrow afternoon if you can swing it. Okay?”

  “Right. We can do it.”

  I went out. At another bank I bought the two cashier’s checks, ducked into a drugstore for airmail envelopes, addressed them and marked them special delivery, and plastered on a bunch of stamps from the vending machine. Dropping them in a mailbox, I headed out Rampart, looking at cheap used cars on lots decorated with whirling orange-colored propellers. It was nearly one P.M. now, and I was beginning to feel naked on the street. Picking out an accessory-cluttered and fox-tailed old 1950 Olds, I gave my name as Homer Stites of Shreveport, paid cash for it, and drove it back uptown to a parking lot.

  I took a taxi back to the hotel, checked out, and carried the suitcase up the thronged sidewalks of Canal Street, cut over to the parking lot, and locked it in the trunk of the car. It was two-fifteen P.M. I couldn’t wait any longer; any time now the police would have men covering the bus station, railroad terminals, and the airport, and they’d know I couldn’t have got away after that. I ducked into a phone booth and called Norman.

  6

  “Oh,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”

  “I won’t be able to stay in town as long as I’d thought,” I explained. “Have you come up with anything yet?”

  “Not much. The man working the hock shops hasn’t got any lead on the coat so far, but I had a call about twenty minutes ago from Snyder, who’s covering the Devore Hotel. So far, of course, all he’s been able to talk to is the day-shift crew, but he has uncovered one or two items. Several bellmen and the doorman remember seeing her in the coat from time to time when she first checked in, but nobody recalls seeing it in the last two or three days. If it was lost or stolen, though, she never reported it to anybody in the hotel or to the police, as far as we can find out. According to the housekeeper on her floor, she stayed in her room every night, and if she ever had a man there nobody ever saw him and he didn’t leave any tracks. She apparently had no visitors at all, and the only phone calls anybody can remember were from a woman, probably Mrs. Dickinson. There is one funny thing, though; she was never in the hotel in the afternoon. She always left a call for ten-thirty A.M., had breakfast and the newspapers sent up to her room, and then went out about a quarter of one. The doorman always got her a cab, but he never heard what she told the driver. We’ve had the picture copied, and at shift-changing time at four P.M. we’ll cover the garages of all three leading cab companies to catch as many of the day-shift jockeys as we can at one time. There’s a good chance we’ll find somebody who remembers her and where he took her.”

  “Good,” I said. “And thanks a lot. I’ll be in touch.”

  “We’ll have something definitely tomorrow morning, I’m pretty sure.” He hesitated, and then went on, “Look, Mr. Warren, it’s your business, and you don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, but it’ll make it a lot easier if you level with us. Were you having her tailed at any time when she was down here?”

  I frowned. “No. Of course not. Why?”

  “Well, I’ve got a hunch somebody else was interested in what she was doing.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, these bellmen are a pretty wise bunch, and they don’t miss much. One of ‘em hinted he knew something, and when Snyder primed him with an extra fin, he said there was a guy he was pretty sure followed her away from the hotel three or four times. He’d come in around noon and stooge around the lobby chewing a cigar and pretending to read a paper, and when she’d come out of the elev
ator he’d drift out after her and take the next cab off the stand.”

  “You suppose the kid just made it up, for the five bucks?”

  “There’s a chance, of course, but I don’t think so. From the way he described this joker, I think I know who he is. He’s in the business.”

  “Could you find out who hired him?”

  “Not a chance. If it’s the guy I think it is, he wouldn’t tell his mother the way to a fire exit.”

  “Could the police make him talk?”

  “Sure, or make him wish he had. But you’ve got nothing to take to the police, at least so far. There’s no law against her spending her own money—or even yours, for that matter.”

  “Yeah,” I said. I wondered what his face would look like when he saw the evening papers. “Well, keep digging.”

  I hung up, dug in my pocket for another handful of change, and dialed long distance. “I want to put in a person-to-person call to L. S. MacKnight, of the Mac-Knight Construction Co., El Paso, Texas.”

  “Thank you. Will you hold on, please?”

  Mac was an old friend. We’d gone to the same military school in Pennsylvania and later were classmates at Texas A. and M. We hunted quail together somewhere every year. I hoped he was in the office now. Luck was with me.

  “Duke? Why, you crazy devil, where are you?”

  “New Orleans.”

  “Well, grab some airplane. Let’s go huntin’.”

  “I wish I could, but at the moment I’m working the other side of the street.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in a jam, and I need a little help.”

  “Name it, pal.”

  “Well, look, I’d better tell you first—you could get your tail in a sling, if they ever proved it—”

  He cut me off. “I said name it, knucklehead. Never mind the fine print.”

  “I want you to send a telegram for me.”

  “Hell, is that all?”

  “It’s enough. Let’s see—you’re on Mountain Time there, so send it about eight tomorrow morning, straight wire. Phone it in from a pay phone, so there’s no way they can trace it back to you. Got a pencil handy?”