When Pat put his book away he said, “That’s one reason why I’m here. We’re going to see what we can get on Howie Green. These officers have been working on it already and have come up with something that might get us started.”
“Like what?”
“The real estate agency Howie Green operated went into the hands of his partner after his death. The guy’s name was Quincy Malek. About a year later he contracted T.B. and died in six months. Now from a nephew we gather that Malek was damn near broke when he kicked off. He had sold out everything and his family picked over what was left. The original records left over from his partnership with Green went into storage somewhere, either private or commercial.
“Right now I have one bunch checking all the warehouses to see what they can dig up. The nephew does remember Malek asking that the records be kept so it’s likely that they were. It wouldn’t take up much room and a few hundred bucks would cover a storage bill on a small package for a long, long time.
“Now that’s a supposition, the commercial angle. Malek and Green had a few other properties still in existence and we’ll go through them too. Until everything is checked out you can’t tell what we’ll find. Meanwhile, we’re taking another angle. We’re checking all property transactions carried out by Green within a certain time of his death. If you’re right something will show up. We’ll check every damn one of them if we have to.”
“You know how long it will take, Pat?”
“That’s what I want to know. You got a better idea in that screwy mind of yours?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Oh no, not you, boy. If you got anything you have it now. You just aren’t the prolonged-thinking type. You got something going this minute and I want to know what it is.”
“Stow it.”
“Like that?”
“Like that. If it proves out I’ll get it to you right away. The only reason I’m slamming it to you like this is because you’re in deep enough as it is. Let me try my way. If there’s trouble I’ll take it alone.”
“Mike . . . I don’t like it. We have a killer running loose.”
“Then let me be the target.”
His eyes drifted to Velda beside me.
I said, “She’ll stay safe. I went through that once before.”
“Watch her,” Pat said softly, and I knew he was never going to change about the way he felt for her.
“How many men you going to put through the files?”
“As many as I can spare.”
“Suppose you get to it first?” I queried.
He smiled crookedly. “Well, with your official status I imagine I can pass on a tip to you. Just make sure it works both ways.”
“Deal. How will we make contact?”
“Keep in touch with my office. If anything looks promising I’ll leave word.”
He got up to go and I reached for my coat. I picked the letter out and handed it to him. “It was in Sue’s teddy bear. It puts a lock on Sim all the way. I don’t advise showing it to the kid though.”
Pat read it through once, shook his head, and put it in his inside coat pocket. “You’re a card, man, a real card. What kind of luck have you got?”
“The best kind.”
“Don’t pull that kind of stunt on Grebb, buddy.”
“You know me.”
“Sure I know you.”
I let them out and went back and stretched out on the couch. Velda made me some coffee and had one with me. I drank mine staring at the ceiling while I tried to visualize the picture from front to back. It was all there except the face. Blackie Conley’s face. I knew I was going to see it soon. It was a feeling I had.
“Mike . . . where are we going?”
“You’re thinking ahead of me, kiddo.”
“Sometimes I have to.”
“You’re not going anyway.”
“Don’t cut me out, Mike.” Her hand touched the side of my jaw, then traced a tingling line down my chin.
“Okay, doll.”
“Want to tell me what you have in your mind?”
“A thought. The only thing that’s wrong with the picture.”
“Oh? What?”
“Why Blackie Conley would want to kill Sim.”
“Mike . . .” She was looking past me, deep in thought. “Since it was Torrence who engineered that robbery and not Conley as you first thought, perhaps Conley suspected what was going to come off. Supposing he outguessed Torrence. In that case, he would have had the whole bundle to himself. He would have made his own getaway plans and broken out at the right time. Don’t forget, Conley was older than Sonny and he was no patsy. There was no love between the pair either. In fact, Conley might even have guessed who the brain was behind the whole thing and had reasons for revenge.”
“You might have something there, kitten.”
“The first try was for Sue,” she went on. “That really was an indirect blow at Sim. The next try was for them both.”
“There’s a possible flaw in your picture too, but I can supply an answer.”
She waited. I said, “It’s hard to picture a guy in his eighties going up that trellis. He’d have to hire it done . . . but that’s why the hoods are in town.”
“I don’t know, Mike. Remember Bernarr Macfadden making his first parachute jump into the river when he was about the same age?”
“Uh-huh. It could be done.”
“Then the answer is still to find Blackie Conley.”
“That’s right.”
“How?”
“If we can restore another old man’s memory we might get the answer.”
“Sonny Motley?”
“Yup.”
“Tonight? ”
“Right now, sugar.”
CHAPTER 10
Finding Sonny Motley’s apartment wasn’t easy. Nobody in the gin mills knew where he lived; the cop on the beat around his store knew him but not his address. I checked the few newsstands that were open and they gave me a negative. It was at the last one that a hackie standing by heard me mention the name and said, “You mean that old con?”
“Yeah, the one who has the shoe shop.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. We need some information about a missing person and he might be able to help us.”
“Ha, I’d like to see those old cons talk. They won’t give nobody the right time.”
“You know where he lives?”
“Sure. Took him home plenty of times. Hop in.”
We climbed in the cab, went angling up to a shoddy section that bordered on the edge of Harlem, and the cabbie pointed out the place. “He’s downstairs there on this side. Probably in bed by now.”
“I’ll get him up.” I gave him a buck tip for his trouble and led the way down the sandstone steps to the iron
