obviously hiring... uh... private detectives, I suppose, to do this.”
“When do you leave the house every day? Any set time?”
She waved her cigarette as if it was a baton. “No special time. Usually in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Depends upon when I get up.”
“Miss Henderson, you're saying they have at least one man, and most likely two, shadowing you all day, not to mention a guy working nights on your phone and doorbell. An all-day shadow job costs about seventy-five bucks per man, which means somebody is spending over two hundred dollars a day to make you—nervous. You claim this has been going on for a week and a half, ten days, over two grand. Lot of money for a—”
She crushed her butt with an angry gesture. “Are you implying this is all my imagination?”
“Yes and no,” I said carefully, thinking it would be exciting to see her breathe fire, and she looked like she could do it easily. “Let's examine your statement calmly. Those sexy phone calls may not mean a thing; it's fairly common for perverts to get their kicks by picking a woman's name out of the phone book, telling her things they'd never have nerve enough to say to her face. Then you say people have been around here asking about you. Could be you applied for a job some weeks ago, or opened a charge account, and they're simply making a routine check on —”
“But I haven't applied for a job or opened any accounts recently. And they ask if I'm a whore, a dope addict!”
“As for being shadowed on the street,” I went on, “many people say that. They see the same man or woman a few times during the course of the day and become convinced they're being followed. And being pushed about, jostled, that happens all the time too—a guy is rushing for a bus and bunks into—”
“Are you supposed to protect my rights or explain them away!”
“Miss Henderson, I have to look at things objectively. I'm not calling you a liar, merely trying to show you there might be other explanations for the things you complain about. For example, let's get back to a boy friend who could be sore enough to phone—'
“Will you stop jabbering about a boy friend!” she snapped, jumping to her feet.” “I haven't been on a date in months, I've been too busy. I told you I was working as a stenographer and in the evenings I did my writing. Matter of fact while I was working I finished a children's book. I don't understand your attitude, why don't you believe me?”
“I haven't said I didn't, only I can't quite see anybody spending a couple of thousand bucks a week to upset you. Suppose you finish this article and the magazine runs it, what happens?”
“Let me give you a picture of these firms. They aren't the biggest, like General Electric, but they do a good business manufacturing small electrical devices— doorbells, buzzers, switches. For the last year there have been rumors of something revolutionary in the business, what might be termed a liquid wire that can be painted on. This would cut the production cost of thousands of gadgets by at least half—do away with wiring, screws and wireholders, as a small example. A patent has already been issued to a California scientist on this. However, a certain type of crushed metal is needed to make the paint conductive and the four companies I mentioned have cornered the market on this metal. In brief, they constitute a monopoly, plan to squeeze everybody else out.”
“I still don't see why they should get so excited about your article.”
“It should bring Washington down on them for violating the antitrust laws. The least it will do is force them to open up the field to others, and thus the public will benefit from the low cost.”
“A bunch of doorbell manufacturers are spending, two grand a week to stop your article? Hardly seems worth all—”
“This 'bunch of doorbell manufacturers' figure not only to split some three millions in profit in the first two years, but there are untold uses for this wire paint. When perfected it might do away with all wiring in cars, for example. Don't you understand, once they control this, they'll be in a position to drive competitors out and in time send prices sky-high.”
“And the magazine, this Spectator, what are they doing about your troubles?”
“At the moment I'm not involving them. They can only do what I've done—call in the police. After all, I'm just a free-lancer and the magazine hasn't the money to fight these companies. The Spectator is lucky to break even each month.”
“What are you getting for the article?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Why don't these outfits spend a few grand in advertising and buy off the magazine?”
“Because it isn't that type of magazine. Any more questions?”
“You're not getting much pay for all the work you're doing on this. What's in it for you?”
“Partly I do it because they're breaking the law, rooking the public, and I'm part of the public. Also I'll benefit in other ways. The publicity if the article makes enough noise will get me other assignments. Now, do you think I might get some protection from the police instead of a grilling?”
“I wasn't grilling you, we have to check all sides of a story. I'll report this back to my boss, Lieutenant Reed. We've been busy on a murder and I doubt if he can spare a man to guard you twenty-four hours a day. But he might put a tap on your phone, try and trace those calls. I'll let you know what we can do,” I told her, getting up, heading for the door, a little high from her perfume.
“When will you let me know what will be done?”
“Probably late this afternoon. I'm not sure: I don't run the department.”
She shrugged and everything that moved was a boot to watch. “At least you still don't think there's some love-struck idiot after me.”
“I haven't ruled that out.”
“What?” she said loudly. “Can't you see that these—”
“Sure, I can see and I don't rule out a nutty boy friend because... Miss Henderson, let's not fence for compliments, every time you look into a mirror you see an exciting young woman. You certainly know that.” I tried to sound casual but I blurted the words like a schoolboy.
Her face was a slow blush, then came this warm, almost tickling laughter. “I suppose I should say thank you. Thank you, Mr....”
“Wintino, Dave Wintino.” I took out an assignment slip, wrote my name and precinct phone number on it. “Next time you're pushed around on the street, if you're sure it was deliberate, tell the nearest cop to hold the man and have the cop call me. Show him this card.”
“Thanks. I won't leave the house till I hear from you.”
“Miss Henderson, the Police Department is understaffed so I can't promise we'll give you an escort, but even reporting this, having it on the precinct record, is some protection. And don't worry, well keep an eye on you, perhaps have the beat cop stop by now and then.”
We said good-day and I walked down to the basement, keeping an eye out for mutts, and found the super. He was an old mousey duck in dirty overalls and I asked, “Been any men around inquiring about Miss Henderson up in 3C?”
“You another one? I'm too busy to be answering questions all the time.” He had a weak voice and some kind of mild accent. Eating would be a problem for him, he only had a couple of mossy teeth in his mouth.
“Another one? How many men have been here asking about her?”
“Don't rightly recall. I'd say five, six. They come late at night or early in the morning, get me out of my bed to ask about her. And I need my sleep, I work hard.”
“What do they ask?”
“All kinds of things. One asked did I know she was Spanish, a greasy Spick he called her. Guess you saw her name, Hondura, on the mailbox. She's Puerto Rican, and uses the name Henderson to write under. Does she entertain men, these men ask, does she have meetings in her flat, is she a Red? Was one creepy old man yesterday about scared the living life out of me just to see him, he wanted to know if I thought she was selling dope. I understand they been asking some of the tenants too, getting them out of bed. I told them I knew was she was a quiet girl who kept to herself and paid her rent on time.”
“Any of these men give you their names, say what they were?”
“Nope, They just fired questions at me.”
“Can you describe them, would you recognize any of them again?”
“Nope. Except for the creepy one they was all well-dressed, classy-looking men. I told you I ain't got time to be answering a lot of questions.”
“But you have time to shoot your big mouth off. Why didn't you ask who I was before you talked to me?”
“See here, don't you raise your voice to me, young man. Well, who are you?”
I showed him my badge. “Detective Wintino, 201st Squad.”
“A cop. Say, Miss Henderson done anything crooked?”
“No. She complained about some jerks annoying her.” I took out my notebook. “What's your name? How long you been employed here?”
“Heitman. Teddy's the first name. Been here going on fourteen years this August. What you writing me down for? I don't want no trouble.”
“Relax, Mr. Heitman. Have a phone here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here's my name and police phone number on this slip. Keep it handy. Next time anybody comes asking around about Miss Henderson before you tell them a thing, ask to see their credentials, write down their name and address. Even if they say they're police or government men ask for—'”
“You'll get me into trouble.”
“You can get into trouble by talking too damn much. Know who you're talking to before you run your gums. I want you to do me a favor, phone me as soon as anybody asks about Miss Henderson. Leave your name if I'm not in and I'll call you back. Don't make a fuss about it but try to get the name of whoever asks about her, ask to see their credentials or badge, then phone me. Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, clutching my card. “I never had no run-in with the police, never. I
