“Just be damn sure you're at my office by three. All I've found is one of us sure has rocks—in the head!”
I got into my car, headed downtown. In a million years I couldn't see a slob like Will mixed up in a murder. For that matter, I still couldn't believe Anita was dead. And I felt like a dope, the lack of clues, of motives, lack of something to start on. Hell, maybe I was playing this all wrong, should give everything to Saltz. I was only a small- time operator, this might be over my head. That would be my out....
But there wasn't going to be any out—I, and I alone, had to find the killer because Anita was working for me, because I'd robbed her of a chance to save her life when I took the gun away.
I looked like hell, so I drove to the yacht basin, took a shower and a shave, changed my clothes and felt better— but still half asleep. I put on an old pair of shoes—the kind with a metal shield over the toes—used to prevent industrial accidents, and as good as brass knuckles for kicking.
It was a little before noon when I returned to the office. Shirley and Bobo had done a good job, things almost looked normal again. Bobo had the afternoon papers for me—they had a picture and a one-column story on Anita. Shirley said, “You've had quite a few calls. All requested you phone them back.”
She handed me a list of every dance hall I was working for. Bobo said, “What's the pitch? Odd they should all call.
“Beats me,” I said, reaching for the phone.
I made exactly eighteen calls—they were all the same, nearly word for word. Soon as I'd say, “Hello, this is Hal Darling,” a frightened voice at the other end would say, “Darling? I'm canceling our contract—at once!” I'd ask “Why?” and the hall owner would say nervously, “Can't say why, Hal, but everything's off. Sorry.” And they would hang up. Some of them skipped the “Sorry” finish.
When I was done I told Shirley, “Don't buy anything on the installment plan....”
She tried to smile. “Knew this job came too easily.”
“Well, I have enough in the till to keep us going for a few months, but I sure as hell can't understand this. Bobo, you stick around the office, I'm going to have a chat with a few of these characters.”
I drove up to see Eddie Logan and when he saw me he got pale, wouldn't explain a thing except, “Hal, leave me alone. Somebody big is pressuring me.”
“Who?”
“You expect me to risk my life by telling you. Maybe I told you too much as is...”
“Stop this movie dialogue... risking your life. Don't make sense or...”
“Hal, I like you, all I can say is I was surprised myself at the pressure. I mean, all this trouble for a lousy thing like a policing job. Now do me a favor—get out of here!”
I didn't bother calling on the others. I still had the dizzy feeling I was running around in circles. I had to stop, sit back and wait for a break, something that made sense would give me direction. But there was one more chore to handle.
4
I drove to 60th Street and First Avenue. There were two bars near the corners. The first joint didn't look like a place where you'd eat supper—and Anita had said she had a supper date. I showed the barkeep her picture in the Paper, asked, “What time was this girl here last night?”
“Wasn't here last night, or any other night.”
“Who's on at night?”
“Me. This is my place, run it myself. Who are you?” I flashed my badge too fast for him to read it, said, “I know she was here last night, she was to meet me. I couldn't make it.”
“Not here, bud. Maybe she stood you up too. I'd remember her if she'd been in.”
“Why would you remember her?”
“Because she looks under age and I wouldn't have served her.”
The minute I walked into the other bar I had a feeling this was the one... it was a big place, with tables and a waiter, couple men eating lunch. The barkeep was a well-built lean fellow. When I asked if he was on last night about six, he kept on washing shot glasses, finally asked, “What you selling?”
I flashed my badge but he grabbed my hand, said, “A private copper,” and didn't seem much impressed. “Spill it, what's on your mind, snooper?”
“Who was on at supper time last night?”
“Let's say I was on.”
“Work long hours, don't you?”
He started drying the glasses—this was a high-class bar. “I'm not kicking.”
I put the paper on the bar, pointed to Anita's picture. He didn't blink an eye. “Ever see this girl before?”
“No.”
I slid a folded ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Sure?”
He grinned. “Save your green, mac. You asked me and I told you—I never seen her, except in the paper.” He walked down to the other end of the bar, started slicing oranges and lemons.
I stepped into the phone booth, checked on the liquor license. It was owned by a corporation that was a front for “Cat” Franklin, but the “Cat” owned plenty of bars.
Stopping at the bar on my way out, I said, “Tell the 'Cat' hello.”
