Top of the Heap

We prowled the place and found nothing except a couple of bobby pins. Then when I pulled a bureau drawer all the way out I found a piece of paper that had slipped into a crack in the back of the drawer.

“What’s that?” Elsie asked.

I said, “That seems to be the gummed label that has slipped off a prescription box. It’s a San Francisco prescription made to Miss Sylvia Tucker. It says, ‘Take one capsule for sleeplessness. Do not repeat within four hours,’ and it’s a prescription that can’t be refilled.”

“With the name of a San Francisco drugstore on it,” Elsie said.

“And,” I pointed out, “a prescription number and the name of a doctor.”

“And Sylvia from San Francisco is one of the women we want?”

“That’s right.”

“How fortunate,” Elsie said.

“How very, very, very fortunate,” I observed.

She looked at me.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that it’s very, very fortunate.”

“Well, what about it? The girl was here. She gave John Billings a little shot of sleepy-by medicine. When she did, the label came off the box with the prescription number on it.”

I said, “Sylvia was the girl he liked. It was the other one who gave him the by-by.”

“That’s what he thinks. John Carver Billings the Second may not be such a knockout as he thinks he is. Anyway, the other gal could have borrowed a capsule from Sylvia without her knowing it.”

I stood there, studying the label.

“What do we do now?” Elsie asked.

“Now,” I said, “we go back to the office. Then I take a plane to San Francisco.”

“This was a short honeymoon,” she told me. “Are you going to tell the manager she can have the apartment?”

“No. We’ll keep her guessing,” I said. “Come on, let’s go.”

I saw the puzzled eyes of the woman who managed the place looking at us as we drove out.

Back in the office I put through a phone call for a correspondent in San Francisco who checked with the drug- store and had the information for me within an hour and twenty minutes.

Sylvia Tucker lived in the Truckee Apartments out on Post Street. The apartment number was 608, and the prescription had been for sodium amytal. She was employed as a manicurist in a barbershop on Post Street.

Elsie got me a plane reservation and I stopped in to tell Bertha I was headed for San Francisco.

“How are you doing, Donald, lover?” she asked with her best cooing manner.

“As well as was expected.”

“Well, what the hell does that mean? Are we going to get that five-hundred-dollar bonus?”

“Probably.”

“Well, don’t go running up a lot of expenses.”

“He’s paying them, isn’t he?”

“Sure. But if it’s going to be a long-drawn-out job, he’ll—”

“It isn’t going to be too long-drawn-out.”

“Don’t solve it too fast, Donald.”

“That’s why he offered the bonus. He didn’t want us stalling in order to get more per diems.”

“Who the hell said anything about stalling?”

“You didn’t.”

She glared at me.

“Did you look up John Carver Billings the First?”

“Now that was a swell idea of yours, Donald, dear,” she said. “I have to hand it to you for that one. It gives us background.”

“Who is he?”

“Some banking buzzard from San Francisco. President of half a dozen companies, fifty-two years old, a rich, eligible widower, commodore of a yachting club, lousy with dough. Does that mean anything to you?”

“It means a lot to me,” I told her. “It means the son came by it honestly.”

“The money?” she asked complacently.

“The sport coat,” I told her.

Bertha’s face darkened, then she laughed. “You have to have your smart crack, don’t you, Donald? But just remember, lover, that it takes money to make the wheels go round.”

“And while the wheels are going round and round,” I warned her, “be careful you don’t get a finger caught in the machinery.”

“Fry me for an oyster,” she blazed. “You’d think I was some simple, naive amateur. You just keep your own nose clean, Donald Lam, and I’ll take care of mine. When Bertha reaches for anything she gets what she reaches for. You’re the one to be careful. You almost dropped a monkey wrench in those wheels that are now spinning around so nicely.”

And Bertha’s complacency puckered into a reproving frown.

“They’re spinning around like crazy,” I admitted. “Personally, I’d like to see what the machine is manufacturing.”

“You can roast me for a duck,” she snapped, “if you aren’t the most gift-horse-in-the-mouth-looking bastard I ever saw. I’ll tell you what the little wheels are manufacturing, Donald. It’s money!”

And Bertha once more gloated over the page of Who’s Who in California.

I eased out of the office and left her to her thoughts.

Chapter Three

It was late afternoon when I disembarked at the San Francisco airport. I got into the barbershop on Post Street just before it was closing.

It didn’t take more than two seconds to pick out Sylvia. There were three manicurists in the place but Sylvia was the pick of the lot, and with the description I had of her it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

She was busy when I walked in, but when I asked her if she’d have time for one more before closing, she looked at the clock, nodded, and started making her fingers really fly over the nails of a big lug who glared at me resentfully.

I went over to the shoe-shining stand and let the boy work on my shoes while I was waiting.

The head barber came over to me. “You waiting for a manicure?”

“Right.”

“There’s a girl ready for you now.”

“I want Sylvia.”

“This other girl’s just as good — in fact a little better than Sylvia.”

“Thanks, I’ll wait.”

He went back to his chair.

“Sounds a little unfriendly to Sylvia,” I told the bootblack.

He grinned, glanced cautiously over his shoulder, said, “She’s sure in the doghouse.”

“What’s the matter?”

“They don’t pay me to gossip.”

“Perhaps they don’t, but I will.”

He thought that over, bent low over my shoes, said guardedly, “He’s jealous. He’s been making a big play for her. Tuesday she phoned she had a headache and couldn’t work; then she never showed up again until this morning. He thinks she was out with a boyfriend. Don’t think she’s going to be here long.”

I slid two dollars down to him. “Thanks,” I said. “I was just curious, that’s all.”

The man Sylvia had been working on got up and put on his coat. Sylvia nodded to me. The boy finished my shoes, and I went over to Sylvia’s table.

The head barber kept his face averted.