and how she loves money!’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘She was working at the club at the same time as Fay was,’ Bernie said, passing his hand across his eyes. ‘Is the floor moving up and down or am I drunker than I imagine I am?’
‘There’s a heavy sea running tonight,’ I said sarcastically. ‘Get out with it!’
‘Dawn tells me none of the girls knew much about Fay. It wasn’t that she was high hat, but she had her own dressing room and she kept to it. The girls wondered about her, as girls do. The third night after Fay had first come to the club, Dawn saw her talking to the driver of a car parked at the far end of the alley at the back of the club. Dawn couldn’t see much of the driver. He had his hat pulled down low and he wore dark glasses which Dawn thought was odd as it was dark. It was a good car. A Cadillac convertible: green and cream.’
‘He could have been asking the way, you dope!’
‘I thought of that.’ Bernie opened his eyes and looked suspiciously at the floor. ‘I may not show it, but I have a natural talent for detection. Dawn saw this guy again two nights later. He was talking to Farmer in the stage door office, and she got a good look at him. When he had gone she asked Farmer who he was and he said he didn’t know, but he was waiting for Fay. I have his description written down in case I forgot it.’
‘It’s a marvel to me you didn’t forget to write it down, and it beats me how you ever got back here in the condition you’re in.’
Bernie smirked as he took out his wallet and produced a sheet of paper.
‘Dawn brought me back. That’s the kind of girl she is. She says she always looks after her investments. She calls me her goose that lays her golden eggs. Cute, isn’t it?’
‘Get on with it, you drunken lug!’ I snarled. ‘Let’s have the guy’s description.’
Bernie peered at the paper, frowned, then said, ‘That’s funny. I seem to have written this in Chinese.’
‘You have it upside down, you dope!’
Bernie turned the page up the other way.
‘So I have. I thought for a moment liquor was giving me some culture. This guy’s over six foot, lean, suntanned with an eyebrow moustache. He wears dark glasses, even at night. He had on a camel hair coat, a white nylon shirt and a polka dot bow tie. He wore a gold link bracelet on one wrist and a gold strap watch on the other. Trust Dawn to spot the gold fitments. At a guess he’s around thirty-five. That’s not a bad description, is it?’
I took the paper from Bernie’s unsteady hand, folded it and placed it on the bedside table.
‘It’s good. Well, we’re certainly getting places. The cops didn’t turn this guy up. Did you find out anything else?’
‘Isn’t that enough for one night? Besides, after she’d told me that, she started to tell me how much she liked money, and once she starts on that subject nothing on earth can stop her.’
‘Well, okay. You’d better go to bed. Your room is next to mine on the left in case you don’t remember.’
‘What about you? Didn’t you find out anything?’ Bernie said, peering at me. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’
‘I’ve been doing plenty, but you’re in no condition to concentrate. Go to bed. I’ll tell you in the morning.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Bernie said, getting to his feet. ‘I could do with some sleep. Don’t start work too early. I have an idea I’m going to have a hangover.’
‘Go to bed!’ I said and turned out the light.
II
At nine-thirty the following morning, I opened Bernie’s bedroom door and looked at him as he lay on the bed, still dressed, his mouth hanging open, dead to the world. I decided there was no point in waking him. He wouldn’t be in a fit state to work. I shut the door softly and went down to the lobby. I told Larson not to disturb him, then went over to the garage, collected the Buick and drove over to Joan Nichols’s apartment house.
The house was in a quiet street on the other side of the town: a tall, grey building with faded green curtains at the windows and a flight of stone steps to the front door.
Leaving the Buick, I mounted the steps and paused to examine the row of mailboxes in the lobby. Failing to find Joan Nichols’s card on any of them, I crossed the lobby to the janitor’s office and rapped on the door.
A fat man in shirtsleeves, a dead cigar clamped between his teeth, opened the door and looked at me without interest.
‘Full up,’ he said curtly and began to shut the door.
‘I’m not looking for a room,’ I said, wedging my foot in the door. ‘I’m looking for Miss Nichols. I understand she lives here.’
‘Joan Nichols, do you mean?’ he asked, staring at me.
‘That’s right. I couldn’t find her name on any of the mailboxes.’
‘You won’t. You won’t find her here either. If you really want to find her you’ll have to go out to the Welden graveyard. That’s where she lives now.’
A chill crawled up my spine.
‘Are you telling me she’s dead?’
‘Well, I hope for her sake she is. They put her in a coffin and buried her.’ He frowned. ‘She gypped me out of a month’s rent. She didn’t have a nickel and the cops took her luggage.’
‘Did she get sick or something?’
‘She fell downstairs.’ The janitor jerked his head to the steep flight of stairs that faced him. ‘Those stairs. I guess she was drunk although the cops said, she wasn’t, but they don’t know everything. She certainly fit hard. I thought the house was coming down.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last August.’
‘Do you remember the date?’
The janitor moved restlessly. I could see the conversation was boring him.
‘Why should I? I’m not that interested. The cops will tell you if you must know.’ He began to close the door. ‘I’ve got to get on.’
I was too shaken to think of anything else to ask him and I let him shut the door in my face. I walked slowly back to the car, got in and lit a cigarette. I stared through the windshield at the dingy street ahead, my mind busy.
Was this a coincidence? Two people connected with Fay Benson were now dead: both of them had died soon after the girl had disappeared; both of them apparently had met accidental deaths.
‘Very, very fishy,’ I said, half aloud, then treading on the starter I drove back to Main Street, and getting my bearings from a cop, I headed for Bay Street. No. 27 turned out to be a delicatessen store. I assumed Jake Hesson had a room above, but as there was no street door at the side, I went into the store.
A dark, heavily built girl in a grubby white overall looked at me over a mountain of cooked food, sandwiches and bowls of gherkins.
‘What’s yours?’ she asked as I came to rest before her.
‘I’m looking for Jake Hesson,’ I said, giving her my boyish smile. ‘I was told he hangs out here.’
She gave me a quick, appraising stare.
‘What do you want him for?’
‘I’ll get him to tell you if he wants you to know,’ I said, smiling to take the curse off it. ‘Is he still in bed?’
‘No. Are you from the cops?’
‘Do I look like a cop?’ I asked indignantly. ‘What’s it to you who I’m from? Are you Jake’s pal or something?’
She made a face.
‘I’m not all that hard up for pals.’ She suddenly smiled. ‘I can see you’re not a cop. Jake’s gone.’
‘You mean he’s gone to work?’
‘No, I don’t. He’s skipped; packed and scrammed. Don’t you understand English? He went late last night. I guess he’s in some kind of trouble. It won’t be the first time.’
