“Certainly, officer, right this way.” He steered me to the front room like a seeing-eye dog and opened up for me. “Any time we can be of service, officer,” he called to me as I left, “let us know. Glad to help.”
I drove back to the office in short order and walked into the reception room, pulling the book from my pocket. Velda stopped typing. “Mike.”
I turned around. I knew what was coming.
“What is it, honey?”
“Please don’t fool with me like that.”
I gave her a big grin. “I wasn’t fooling,” I said. “If you were on your toes I’d be an engaged man right now. Come on inside a minute.” She trailed in after me and sat down. I swung my feet up on the battered desk and riffled through the book. Velda was interested.
“What is it?” she asked curiously, leaning over to get a better look.
“A notebook of Jack’s. I swiped it from his room before the police could get it.”
“Anything in it?”
“Maybe. I haven’t looked yet.” Starting at the front was a list of names, all crossed out. Each page was dated, the earliest starting three years ago. Occasionally there were references to departmental cases with possible suspects and the action to take. These, too, were crossed out as having been completed.
About the middle of the book notes began to appear that apparently were still active or pending, for no black X’s marked them. I jotted these down on a list and Velda checked them against news clippings in my files. When she finished she laid down my notes with the word “solved” after each. Evidently the cases had been cleared up while Jack was still in the army.
I wasn’t getting much at all from this. Jack had inserted a single page with one word across it. “WHOOPIE!” It was dated the day of his discharge. The next page had a recipe for veal paprika, and at the bottom was a notation to put more salt in than the recipe called for.
There were two more pages of figures, an itemized account of what he had spent for clothes balanced against what he had in a bank account somewhere. Then came a brief remark: “Eileen Vickers. Family still in Poughkeepsie.”
She must have been a girl from home. Jack was born in Poughkeepsie and lived there until he went to college. The next few pages had some instructions from the insurance company. Then Eileen Vickers’ name cropped up again. This time it read: “Saw E. V. again. Call family.” The date was exactly two weeks before Jack had been killed.
She turned up again five pages further on. In heavy pencil Jack had: “R. H. Vickers, c/o Halper. Pough. 221. Call after 6.” Then below it: “E. V. al. Mary Wright. No address. Get it later.”
I tried to puzzle out what it meant. To me it looked like Jack had met a girl from home and had talked to her. She had told him that her family was still in Poughkeepsie. Evidently he tried to call them and found that they were staying with Halper, and in order to get them, called at supper time. Then the next part. E. V., Eileen Vickers, all right, but she was traveling under an alias of Mary Wright and gave no address.
I thumbed through the pages quickly, and there she was again. “E. V. Call family. Bad shape. Trace and raid 36904 the 29th.” And today was the 29th. There was one page left. It was an afterthought, a memo to himself: “Ask C. M. what she can do” . . .
C. M., Charlotte Manning. He had reference to what Charlotte told me about. He wanted her to stop back during the week, but never got the chance to see her.
I reached for the phone and dialed operator. When she cut in I asked for the Poughkeepsie number. There were some clicks as the connection was completed, then a timid voice answered.
“Hello,” I said. “Is this Mr. Vickers?”
“No,” the voice replied, “this is Mr. Halper. Mr. Vickers is still at work. Can you leave a message?”
“Well, I wanted to find out if he had a daughter in the city. Do you know . . .”
The voice interrupted me. “I’m sorry, but it would be better if you didn’t mention that to Mr. Vickers. Who is calling, please?”
“This is Michael Hammer, investigator. I’m working with the police on a murder and I’m trying to run down what might be a lead. Now, can you tell me what the story is here?”
Halper hesitated a moment, then said, “Very well. Mr. Vickers hasn’t seen his daughter since she went to college. She became enmeshed in a sinful life with a young man. Mr. Vickers is a very stern gentleman, and as far as he is concerned, she might as well be dead. He’ll have nothing to do with her.”
“I see, thank you.” I hung up and turned to Velda. She was staring at the number I had jotted down. 36904.
“Mike.”
“What?”
“Do you know what this is?” I looked at the number. It could have been a reference to a police file, but when I glanced at it a third time, I felt as though I had seen it before.
“Uh-uh. I should know it, I think. Something vaguely familiar about it.”
Velda took a pencil from her pocket and swung the pad around. “Suppose you write it this way,” she said. She put the numbers down to read: XX3-6904.
“Well, I’ll be damned! A phone number.”
“Roger, pal. Now fill in the first two letters of an exchange for the X’s and you’ll have it.”
I jumped to my feet and went to the files. Now I remembered where I had seen that number before. It was on the back of a card I had taken from a pimp. The little runt had tried to sell me a deal and I slapped him silly for it. I came back with a folder of note paper, cards, and numbers, scratched on the back of menus.
I picked one out of the file. “LEARN TO DANCE” it read, “TWENTY BEAUTIFUL GIRLS.” On the back of it was a number. I compared it to the one from Jack’s book. The same. Only this one had an exchange, LO, for Loellen. That was the number, all right, LO3-6904. Velda took it from my hand and read it.
“What is it, Mike?”
“It’s the telephone number of a call house. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where I’m going to find the Vickers girl.” I reached for the phone, but Velda put her hand out to stop me.
“You’re not actually going there, are you?”
“Why not?”
“Mike!” Her voice was indignant, hurt.
“For Pete’s sake, honey, do I look like a dope? I’m not going to buy anything. After all those pictures the army showed me of what happens to good little boys who go out with bad little girls, I’m even afraid to kiss my own mother.”
“Okay, go ahead, but watch your step, by damn, or you’re going to have to get a new secretary.” I ran my fingers through her hair and dialed the number.
The voice I got this time had a little life in it. Behind the “hello” I could see a frowsy blonde about fifty in a gaudy dress dangling a butt from her lips.
“Hello,” I said, “you booked for the night?”
“Who is this?”
“Pete Sterling. Got your number from a little guy downtown.”
“All right. Come up before nine or you won’t make the beginning of the entertainment. Want to stay all night?”
“Maybe. I’ll know better then. Book me for the night anyway. Guess I can get away from home.” I winked at Velda when I said it, but she didn’t wink back.
“You’re down. Bring cash. Ring three longs and a short when you come.”
“I got it.” I cradled the phone.
There were tears in Velda’s eyes. She was trying to remain grim, but she couldn’t hold them back.
I put my arms around her and hugged her gently. “Aw, look, honey,” I whispered, “I have to take a realistic approach to this case. Otherwise, how the hell am I going to get anywhere?”
“You don’t have to go that far,” she sniffled.
“But I told you I wouldn’t. For crying out loud, I’m not that bad off that I have to patronize those places. There’s lots of dames I could park with if I felt like it.”
She put her hands against my chest and shoved. “And don’t I know it,” she practically yelled. “I wouldn’t trust
