‘I’ll show you.’
He took me past the stage door office, opened the stage door and pointed across the alley. ‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, crossed the alley and pushed open the bar door.
There were three men, sitting at a table drinking beer; another man lolled up against the bar, a whisky in front of him. The barman, a beefy looking man with a red humorous face, was fiddling with a radio set. I entered and going to the far end of the bar away from the four men, waited for the barman to come to me.
‘I’ll have a double Scotch and water,’ I said, ‘and if you have nothing better to do, have one yourself.’
He grinned.
‘Glad to, mister, and thanks.’
When he came back with the drinks, I said, ‘I haven’t been in Welden for over a year. I used to know Joe Farmer. I hear he’s dead.’
The barman nodded.
‘That’s right. He got killed by a hit and run artist. The driver was never found. The cops in this town couldn’t find their own names in a telephone book.’
‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘No. I’m new here. He died a couple of days before I came here. But I heard about it.’
‘What happened to the barman who used to serve Joe?’ I asked, suddenly interested.
‘Jake Hesson? He left; got himself a better job.’
‘Know where?’
‘Some hotel. I forget the name.’
I had a sudden inspiration.
‘Was it the Shad Hotel?’
The barman nodded.
‘That’s right. The Shad Hotel.’
‘Go on, drink up,’ I said, beaming at him, ‘and have another.’
I knew now I was making progress.
CHAPTER TWO
I
When I went back to collect Bernie, the captain of waiters at the Florian told me he had left twenty minutes ago.
‘Was he alone?’ I asked suspiciously.
The captain of waiters shook his head.
‘He had one of our hostesses with him,’ he told me, obviously disapproving.
Knowing Bernie’s little ways, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t see him until the following morning so I returned to the Shad Hotel. I wanted another talk with Jake Hesson the barman, but I found the bar closed.
I concentrated my attention on the reception clerk who was idly thumbing through a magazine.
‘I didn’t get your name,’ I said, leaning up against the desk and offering him a cigarette.
‘My name’s Larson. I don’t smoke, thank you.’
‘Haven’t I seen your barman before somewhere? What’s his name?’
‘Jake Hesson.’
‘I have an idea he used to work at Mike’s bar at the back of the Florian club. That right?’
‘Yes,’ Larson said, staring blankly at me. ‘He came to us about a year ago.’
‘Remember exactly when?’
‘Last September. Why the interest?’
‘So he wasn’t here when Miss Benson was here?’
‘Miss Benson?’ Larson pushed aside his magazine. I could see he didn’t know whether to be interested or suspicious. ‘You mean the girl who disappeared?’
‘That’s the one. Hesson wasn’t working here when she stayed here?’
‘No.’
‘That’s funny. He told me he knew her.’
‘Are you interested in Miss Benson?’ Larson asked.
‘Yeah; I’m covering the case for Crime Facts. How long did she stay here?’
‘You mean they’re reopening the case?’
‘It was never closed. How long did she stay here?’
Larson pulled the big leather bound register towards him, and began thumbing over the pages. After a while he said, ‘She booked in on August 9th and disappeared on August 17th.’
‘Did she pay her bill before she left?’
‘No; she owes us thirty bucks. I don’t reckon we’ll ever see it.’
‘What happened to her luggage?’
‘The cops took it. There wasn’t much: a suitcase and a small handbag.’
‘She didn’t have any visitors?’
‘No, nor any mail either.’
‘Any telephone calls?’
Larson shook his head.
‘Three days after her disappearance some girl asked for her. But no one asked for her while she was staying here.’
‘What girl was that?’
‘I don’t know. She came in and asked if Miss Benson had been found. I told her she hadn’t, and she asked me to call her if Miss Benson did turn up.’
‘Did you tell the cops?’
‘About this girl? Why should I? It was bad enough to have them tramping around here in the first place. Nothing like a flock of buttons to drive away trade. The way things are with this hotel, we can’t afford to upset our customers.’
‘Do you remember who the girl was?’
Larson turned to the last page of the register, removed a card that was clipped to the page and handed it to me.
I looked at the card.
Joan Nichols.
Apartment B.
76, Lincoln Avenue. Welden. W. 75600
‘Thanks,’ I said and slipped the card into my pocket. ‘Is Hesson around? I want a word with him.’
‘He doesn’t live here. He has a room on Bay Street.’
‘Do you remember the number?’
‘27: what’s the idea?’
‘No idea. I pick up information the way a magpie picks up anything that glitters. My mother was frightened by a magpie before I was born. Well, I guess I’ll turn in. See you in the morning.’
I left him gaping and went up to my room.
I hadn’t been asleep for more than half an hour when my door burst open and the light turned on. I sat up blinking to see Bernie standing in the doorway.
‘For the love of Mike! Can’t you let a guy sleep?’ I growled.
‘You ought to be up and working like me,’ Bernie said, coming unsteadily over to the bed. ‘Brother! Do I feel cockeyed.’ He flopped heavily on the bed and blew out his cheeks. ‘I’ve got news for you. Fay had a boyfriend.’
‘What?’ I sat bolt upright. ‘Have you found him?’
‘I haven’t found him, but I’ve got a swell description of him. I knew a girl like this Benson frill couldn’t have gone through life without a boyfriend: it was against nature. I got friendly with that redhead. She calls herself Dawn, but I bet her name’s Beulah or Dagmar or something awful. But what a girl! No inhibitions, no repressions,
