CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I
A girl in a grubby white sweater looked at me from over a portable typewriter and raised pencilled eyebrows.
‘If you want Mr. Andrews,’ she said distantly, ‘he isn’t in.’
The office was big enough to swing a cat in, but only just. Behind where the girl sat was a door marked Private. A fireproof filing cabinet stood by the window. An armchair for clients, its headrest greasy from the impact of hair oil spread over many years faced me.
‘I did want to see him,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Will he be long?’
She looked at the fly blown clock on the wall. It told her it was twenty minutes past ten.
‘He’s usually here by now.’
‘Then I’ll wait.’
I sat on the arm of the chair which creaked ominously under my weight and set fire to a cigarette. The girl looked doubtfully at me, decided I was no business of hers and turned her attention to the typewriter. Time drifted by, punctuated by the clicks of the typewriter keys. I mentally dozed.
I had got back to Tampa City around five-thirty this morning and had gone to ground in the hideout. I had slept until nine-thirty, then after a cup of coffee and a brief word with Benn, I had driven over to Murrow Street where Benn had told me Andrews had his office.
After seeing Andrews, I intended to talk to Irene Jarrard, Fay’s girlfriend, and if I could get any new information from her, to persuade her to see Creed. Then I thought a call on Vincent
Latimer, Van Blake’s ex-secretary, might pay dividends in spite of Captain Bradley’s warning that Latimer was no talker. The hands of the wall clock stood at ten forty-five when the outer office door jerked open and a lanky man in a light grey suit, much creased and spotted, entered hurriedly.
He looked sharply at me, and his small, close set eyes alerted. Then he smiled hopefully, revealing big plastic teeth. He looked exactly what he was: a man who had spent half a lifetime sneaking up and down hotel corridors, listening at keyholes and standing out in the cold and rain with stoic patience.
‘You wanted me?’ he asked, looked at the girl and then back to me.
‘Mr. Andrews?’
‘That’s right. Come on in.’
His long thin legs took him to the door marked Private. He produced a key, unlocked the door, turned and said to the girl, ‘As soon as this gentleman has gone, Miss Fairely, I’ll have my mail.’
She stared blankly at him.
‘There isn’t any,’ she said.
He tried not to show how much he would like to slap her, and waved me into the office.
I walked into a room the size of a cupboard and squeezed against the wall to let him get around the battered desk.
‘I didn’t get your name,’ he said, waving me to an upright chair.
I sat down. My knees touched the front of the desk.
‘I’m a staff writer on Crime Facts, and at the moment I am working with the Welden police.’
The fixed smile vanished like a rat down a hole, and the small green eyes turned stony.
‘What’s that to do with me?’ he asked, resting his elbows on the desk and cupping his bony chin between his not too clean hands.
‘Some time ago you were hired to watch a showgirl who worked at the Golden Apple club: Frances Bennett.’ I took out Fay’s photograph and laid it on the desk in front of him. ‘This girl.’
He looked down at the photograph, then up at me, and his lips turned down at the corners.
‘Look, Jack,’ he said, his voice suddenly tough, ‘you’re wasting your time. I don’t talk about my clients. If that’s all you have to say, pull up your anchor and steam out of here.’
‘Your client, Miss Forrest, is with the Welden police right now, giving them a statement. We want you to support her statement. I can put some money and a lot of publicity your way if you will go to Welden and see Police Captain Creed. You’ll be the first private dick to have his photograph in Crime Facts.’
He pushed his hat to the back of his head while he stared at me.
‘What is all this?’
‘Frances Bennett was murdered in Welden. You say Royce fingered her to Flemming, a Frisco killer. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know any Flemming.’
‘But you saw Royce finger the girl to a guy in a car, didn’t you?’
‘Suppose I did?’
‘I want you to sign a statement to that effect.’
Andrews moved his plastic teeth while he did some fast thinking.
‘What’s it worth?’ he asked at last.
‘Publicity and thirty a day expenses.’
He brooded some more then shook his head.
‘I’ve got to live here, pal. You’re after Royce, aren’t you? You’re kidding yourself. You won’t get him: he’s too smart. How long do you imagine I’d last if he found out I’d made a statement about him to the Welden police? Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, but not more. That guy’s dangerous. The cops in this town love him. No: you don’t get any statement from me.’
‘You don’t seem to cotton on,’ I said patiently. ‘The girl was murdered. If you withhold information from the police you become an accessory.’
He frowned down at his desk.
‘I don’t know she’s murdered. I don’t know anything.’
By now I was sick of him and sick of his dirty little office. I gave it to him without gloves.
‘You either go to Welden right now and give Creed a statement or I’ll print your refusal to cooperate in Crime Facts. If I do that you’ll lose your licence.’
That seemed to hit him where he lived.
‘Now, wait a minute,’ he said hastily. ‘If you did that I’d sue you and your rag.’
I laughed.
‘Go ahead and sue us. We’d love it.’
He sat staring at me for a long moment, then he shrugged his shoulders.
‘Yeah, I guess you would. Well, okay, I know when I’m beat. It serves me right. I should never have taken on that job. Watching Royce was asking for trouble. I’ll see Creed.’
I took out my billfold and put twelve five dollar bills on the desk.
‘That’s two days retainer. I’ll call Creed and tell him you’re on your way in.’
He snapped up the bills and put them out of sight as if he were scared I might change my mind.
‘How long did you watch Miss Bennett?’ I asked.
‘Three days and two nights.’
‘During that time she was mostly with Royce?’
‘The first day she wasn’t. She went out to the Van Blakes’ place in the morning.’
I stiffened to attention.
‘When was this?’
He thought for a moment, then opening a drawer in his desk he took out a thick notebook, flicked through the pages, studied an entry and put the book back.
‘The morning of July 27th.’
‘Did she go in a cab?’
‘No. Lennox Hartley, the magazine artist, called for her. They went together in his car.’
‘How long did they stay?’
‘I don’t know. There was a guard on the gate and I couldn’t hang around. I picked her up at her apartment again in the late evening.’
