The gun didn’t look to me as though anyone had fired it in twenty years. I walked slowly to the only chair and sat down. He watched me with rising impatience.
“Listen, I told you——”
“Art, Art.” I remonstrated sadly. “That’s all foolish talk, and you know it. There are some people, not many, who can shoot a stranger down in cold blood. You’re not one of those people, so why don’t you stop clowning around, and let’s talk?”
He lowered the gun, but didn’t put it down.
“I got nothing to say,” he said sullenly.
“Sure you have. You’re going to tell me where I find her. And then you’re going to pick up those.”
I tossed two tens on the office table and he licked his lips. But he shook his head firmly.
“No can do. Go ask the cops. You got any business with the girl, maybe they’ll tell you.”
“But I don’t want to go to the cops,” I pointed out. “They might ask who sent me. And then I’d have to say it was you, and when they asked about you I’d have to tell them you were a guy who supplied girls for parties. Why, I might even have to tell them you offered to promote one just for me alone. You wouldn’t want me to do that?”
“That’s a lotta hooey,” he scoffed. “They wouldn’t take just your word.”
“Right. But they’d come around and ask questions. You got all the answers, Art? About the parties, and where the money goes, stuff like that? You keep a nice set of books for the Internal Revenue boys? They like books you know. And maybe there’s a little blackmail going for you too, on the side. No, you’re right. They may not take my word, but they’d certainly want a nice long talk with you.”
He dropped the gun on the bed and passed a weary hand over the blue stubble.
“I knew I should never have answered that door,” he groaned. “What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing,” I assured him. “Nothing at all. Now, why don’t we keep it that way? Just come up with what I want, keep the money, you may never see me again.”
“I should be so lucky,” he grumbled. “All right, suppose I do tell you, what do you do then?”
“I go away. That’s all you need to know.”
“Maybe that’s the best thing for me. Look, I’m taking an awful chance for twenty lousy bucks.”
“What kind of a chance?”
He hesitated, as though he were afraid of something.
“You see this dame, this O’Connor, she has a guy kind of looking out for her. He told me to keep my mouth shut about where she lives.
“So? You already told the police and every newspaper in town.”
He shook his head in denial.
“No. Cops, yes. I hadda tell them. When those guys ask, you tell if you got any brains. This feller, he understands that. The reporters just followed the fuzz. But you’re different.”
“And what’s this terrible chance you’re taking? You mean this guy will come visiting?”
“Could be. He has an awful mean temper.”
Somewhere at the back of my mind a name sounded, but it was probably too much to hope for.
“Well all right Art, tell you what we do. You say I got rough with you, and you had to tell me. Would it sound more convincing if I laid one or two on you?”
He jumped.
“No, that won’t be necessary. But thanks for the offer. Yeah that oughta keep him off me.”
“Then how about the address?”
He went to the table and tore yesterday’s date off the calendar. On the back he quickly scribbled with a stub of pencil. As he handed the paper over he scooped up the two bills and stuffed them in a pocket. I put the address away and got up.
“Nice to do business with you, Art.”
“Likewise. Only do me a favor and forget to come back, willya?”
I smiled at him pleasantly and left him to get on with all his big deals.
CHAPTER TEN
THE PALM BEACH APARTMENTS are not everything the name would lead you to suppose. There wasn’t very much of Florida grandslam about the place, in fact there wasn’t much of anything at all. Despite the high faluting title it was tucked away in a fairly respectable street in the residential section. It wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills, and then again it wasn’t Crane Street. Just an ordinary middle price kind of place, with the anonymous look that betokened traffic in, traffic out, nothing permanent. Shiralee O’Connor, according to my information, was to be found on the sixth floor, apartment 614. With relief, I found the elevator was in working order today, and rattled my way up to six. There was nothing about the door to say who was on the other side, and I wondered whether Art Green’s bad-tempered friend was around.
The bell made musical sounds inside, and I straightened my tie, recalling the photograph in the Globe. The door opened and I looked at a young tired woman wrapped in a flannel robe. She waited.
“Miss O’Connor?”
“Another reporter,” she said disgustedly. “I already said all there is to say.”
“No, not this time. I’m making a few enquiries and you may be able to help. I’d be glad to pay for your time.”
“Yeah?” she didn’t believe it. “My time is worth twenty bucks an hour.”
I produced a ten and wagged it.
“How’s for about thirty minutes? Maybe less.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “You could be some kind of crum. Those pictures in the newspapers.”
I flashed my sticker and she nodded.
“Cop huh? Well I guess it’s all right.”
I followed her inside and she closed the door.
“Just making some coffee,” she invited.
“Thanks. Black.”
I sat on a cane chair while she went through a door and banged cups carefully. The coffee smelled good.
“Brother, what a night,” she wailed.
“Work late?”
“Late?” she shrugged. “What’s late? So long since I went to bed in the dark I forgot what the word means.
