Blonde Bait

date to meet her outside this club. Told me her name is Jane and...”

     “Where's she staying?”

     I gave out with a silly grin. “I don't know, we didn't have time to reach that plateau.”

     “Where do you come from?”

     “Me? I told you I don't want any trouble. I know from nothing. Officer, I'm a married man. I've told you all I know about the dame. You want to talk about me, I insist upon calling my lawyer first.”

     Big boy hesitated; he didn't quite believe me. Then with a shrug he snapped, “Get the hell out of here! Mister, you don't begin to know how lucky you are. I could put you in jail for assault, for... Get out!”

     As I walked toward the door the cop pulled out his notebook. “I'd better take your name and hotel for my report.”

     Big boy jumped ahead of me, still limping, whispered something to the cop. He had one hand on the policeman's shoulder, the other opened the door for me. Walking out I saw the cop put his notebook away as he said, “Okay, if that's the way you want it....”

     I stood in the night club lobby, looking around—as if waiting for Rose. The manager came over and when I asked what I owed, he told me to forget it—on my way out. Taking my coat from the hat check gal, I asked if she'd please go into the ladies room and see if “Jane” was there. She was a young kid with a doll face and too much make-up. She said, “If you're talking about the big woman, she never went in. She went right out to the street.”

     “Are you certain?”

     “As I told that detective, I don't keep track of the patrons going to the ladies room. Only I remember her because she was so big and because she left without her coat. That's all I know.”

     I dropped a ten buck bill on the counter. “Any idea which way she went?”

     “Mister, my eyes ain't periscopes. I'm way inside here, how could I possibly know which way?” She glanced down at the ten spot. “I could have lied and given you a line about she went toward the boardwalk, or away from it But I play it straight.”

     “Okay, keep it and the sermon too.”

     It was damp and chilly outside. Without her coat Rose would... Where was she? Where could she have gone to? There were a couple of cabs at the curb but I figured it would be a waste of time asking them. Certainly big boy had. Glancing around like a ham actor I strode to the corner, walked a block, and turned down a dark quiet sidestreet full of silent houses. I waited in the middle of the block. I didn't seem to be followed. Turning into various sidestreets I went back to the hotel. I was feeling rather cocky about the cool way I'd handled Mr. Washington. Almost as good as the way I felt on bringing the Sea Princess through the storm. I had to find Rose and get her safely away... and then she was going to tell me the real story behind this cops and robbers deal.

     The key was at the desk but I went up to our room expecting Rose to pop out of a doorway in the hall any minute. The empty silence of the room was a letdown. I sat on the bed and lit a cigar. The only thing for me to do was wait. Rose would either come to the hotel or phone. But it was nasty outside and her minus a coat.

     I took off my coat and tie and turned on the radio.

     But I was far too restless to merely sit and wait. I told myself that whatever mess we were in was her fault—if she'd told me the truth at the start, we never would have left Ansel's island. Or did what had happened at the night club prove Rose had told me the truth? But for crying out loud, if all that stuff she'd given me was true —it made less sense than before. A Fed, a government man who hasn't seen her in at least two years and couldn't have been positive she was Rose, goes after her with his gun ready! What could Rose possibly have done to get that kind of treatment? Would he have gunned her down if I hadn't clobbered him? Or was it an act? Then he let me bluff him with the mere mention of calling a lawyer, and he wouldn't let the local badge make a report. Why? Another thing, he told me Rose wasn't wanted. I'd hate to see this joker in action if she was wanted!

     The whole thing didn't make a bit of sense. This Fed knew damn well I hadn't kneed him by “accident.” He could have hustled me down to the nearest jail and beat my brains out—yet he'd been almost polite to me. Why?

     I kept chewing it around in my mind and all I came up with was a headache. Even my cigar tasted bad. The radio disc jockey said it was 2:00 A.M. I had to do something beside sitting on my rusty. Suppose Rose was hiding someplace on the beach, waiting for me—and freezing for almost two hours now? But if I left the hotel, how could she contact me? What if I went to the police, loud-talked them—or the Federal agent here, into giving me the whole story of why this joker had gone for his gun on Rose? Or would that bring the house down on us?

     Hell, I was wasting time sitting here like a silly jerk.

     Two hours gone. Rose could be dead by now or.... No point in losing my head. Rose would figure I'd had to give them the phony Anderson handle and this hotel... and that the place was probably crawling with dicks. But at least she could phone me and say... Say what? I was a fool: if they were watching the joint they were certainly keeping an ear on the switchboard.

     I lifted the phone from its cradle to see if it was working. It was. Did a tapped phone sound any different? I saw several phonebooks and it suddenly came to me we'd been so smug we hadn't even checked the Atlantic City book for those names. I went through the book. Nothing. There was a Philly book and a thick New York City one, too.

     For lack of anything better to do I checked the Philly book. No William Sour or Gootsrat. Or in the New York directory either. To kill time I went through all the G's and S's in both books. In New York there was a William Saure on West 113th Street and a Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue. I felt excited for a moment—either of them might be our boy and a lead to Rose. But the lonely hotel room gave me the blues again. The devil with whether Rose's story was true or not—where was Rose! Had big boy picked her up? Could she be waiting for me near the night club?

     The thing sticking in my mind was—why had Rose told me she was going to the ladies room and skipped out instead? Leaving her coat didn't make sense. If she was going to run, why didn't she tell me so? Didn't Rose trust me any longer? Had she really been using me all this time? Or had she been on her way to the powder room when she saw big boy come after her, and decided to flee on the spur of the moment? But she'd told me to say I'd just picked her up. And one thing I couldn't doubt: Rose had been terrified.

     At 3:00 A. M. I couldn't sit any longer. I slipped the desk clerk a five buck bill as I told him, “If Mrs. Anderson phones, or when she returns, tell her I'll either call or be back within an hour. She's to wait or leave a message.”

     I knew how it sounded. He let me have a small, understanding smile, as he said, “Of course, Mr. Anderson.”

     I was so edgy I wanted to smack the smirk off his thin face. But playing the great detective I returned his jerky grin, added, “I... er... got a big bagged tonight and she turned huffy.”

     “She'll get over it,” Mr. Lonelyheart said smugly.

     “I'm going out for some fresh air. Give her message, if she phones.”

     I walked through the deserted streets to the night club. It was closed and through the glass door I saw a young fellow in old army fatigue clothes starting to clean up. By twisting my neck I could also see the manager at the bar, checking the cash with the bouncer and barkeep. I circled the block slowly, looking for any place where Rose might be hiding. I also kept looking over my shoulder to see if I was being tailed. I tried thinking of a story in case I ran into the local cop, but my mind wouldn't come up with anything. There was a big old house with a glass enclosed porch and a TOURIST sign over the doorway, around the corner from the club. The place was completely dark. I rang the bell a few times.

     After a couple of minutes a light snapped on inside and a moment later a guy in an old-fashioned nightgown came to the door. He was about thirty-five and still half-asleep. Long, stringy dark hair seemed to be sticking straight up from his head and the bony legs at the other end of the nightgown were shaking with cold. He was an odd looking guy with a drawn face and a long lantern jaw. He asked, “You ring my bell?”

     “Did a tall woman check in here around midnight?”

     He blinked and rubbed his arms against his sides. “Nobody has checked in here all month, officer.”

     “I'm not a cop. Are you sure...?”

     “Geez. You got me out of my bed to ask that? I ought to bust you one on your nose!”

     “Skip the tough chatter, you're not built for it,” I said, waving another five dollar bill. “Here, buy yourself some salt water taffy. Nobody checked in at any time tonight?”

     He opened the door wide enough to take the money. “I don't know if this is worth getting up for. We ain't had a guest in months. Summertime is when we get people.” He held the bill up to his face, saw it was a five spot. “Anything else?”

     “Forget it and sleep warm,” I said, turning away. One thing: in “detective” work, flashing money was better than showing a badge.

     I went around the block in the opposite direction and even poked under the boardwalk. I sat on some stone steps and shook the sand out of my shoes, watching the waves breaking, the crests foamy clean and white in the darkness. Away out I saw the dim lights of a ship, a big one. The ocean seemed so safe. I cursed myself for ever being stupid enough to leave the islands, for not realizing we had life in the bag.

     I walked back to the club. There was only a single light deep inside the place. I banged on the glass door with a coin. It made an awful racket. After a moment the porter in the army fatigues came up and asked through the door what I wanted. I said I'd lost something in the club. He told me to come back tomorrow afternoon. Pressing two ten