The lack of identification was striking. Too striking, Stan decided. Fowler was covering up. The average man, spending the winter in Miami, can easily be identified with his home. There are letters and bills coming to his hotel, or apartment. His wallet contains business cards, and membership cards. His clothes bear the label of his tailor, or home-town store. Edward Fowler had a definite reason for keeping his past in obscurity. He had done such a thorough job the police were at a loss whom to notify about his death.
Yet, with all this thoroughness, the dead man had left Tolliver Farraday’s torn-up check in his room. It had an ugly appearance. Those four pieces of paper were good for one thing alone. Blackmail. Stan went inside again, snapping his long fingers. The phone was ringing, and he had never liked blackmail.
“She’s in the files, all right,” LeRoy reported. “But not much. She was Zorrio’s gal at the time we ran him out of Miami four years ago. Her real name is Mildred Loomis. She was in the Casino chorus. Nothing against her except keeping late hours in bad company.”
“Where’s the boy friend, Zorrio?”
“On the ‘Rock.’ They moved him from Atlanta to Alcatraz last year. He has ten to go. What’s on your mind?”
“The sixty grand Eckhardt claims Fowler owed Dave Button. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. I’m dated with the Farradays tonight.”
Stan went to the upstairs porch to tell Doris and Donald he would not be home for supper. Sunday supper in the Buchanan home was tasteless and cold. Stan usually sought the solace of an Italian restaurant in Miami, where he could let himself go berserk over a pound of spaghetti.
The Sunday afternoon traffic was heavy, but Stan’s handling of his sports Buick coupe was always a feat worth watching. He made good time across the Venetian Way, and turned north. Millie LaFrance had an apartment on North East 22nd Street. It was Millie he wanted to see.
She occupied the upper floor of a trim two-story house, and Stan’s appearance aided him in gaining admittance. Millie’s Sunday morning rest had been rudely disturbed by the probing questions of Detective Hogue. She was in a vile pet, and had settled herself on the upstairs porch to catch up on sleep when she saw Stan’s Buick pull up to the curb. Temperamentally Millie LaFrance was unable to bar the door to any personable male caller. A combination of shiny coupe, six feet three of bronzed yellow-haired stranger, and sixty dollars worth of white flannel suit threw her into a dither.
When she opened the door, she had donned a pair of white satin pajamas built to cover but not to hide. Stan reminded himself, firmly, that nature was a wonderful thing, and tried to keep his roving eyes fixed on a Chinese joss in the corner. She stood in the doorway, smiling politely, but it was apparent she was curious about the visit.
The joss was poor competition for Millie. Stan’s fixed gaze skidded badly. A clever introductory speech he had formulated in the car slipped his memory entirely. “I hate to intrude,” he began, “but I’m most anxious to get some information about Edward Fowler. I thought you might help me.”
Millie quit smiling and evaluated her caller with a glance keen beyond her years. “Another flatty—so help me Gawd!” She shook an artistically curled head of golden locks into disarray. “The graft must be good this season. Come in, Copper, and rest your weary feet. Baby will tell all.”
Stan winced. He was proud of his feet, and the term “flatty” hinted of broken arches. He followed her inside, his mind divided between approval of the callipygian attractions of his guide, and an unrelated feeling that Millie was relieved to find him a representative of the law. He refused a seat on a soft divan, which caution told him was too low, and too comfortable, for Miles Standish Rice. He wanted to remain on his feet so he could look around the room—and keep a discreet distance from his involuntary hostess.
“Maybe I gave you a wrong impression, Miss LaFrance. I’m on a private investigation connected with Fowler’s death. I’ve been retained by Mr. Bruce Farraday—who was at the club last night. My name is Miles Standish Rice, I’m really not a regular copper.”
“No?” Millie wore a speculative look. Stan wondered if he had overdone the charming manner. She stretched out on the divan and lit a cigarette. One glimpse of her would have driven a Franciscan Friar into forty days of penance. “What do you want to know?”
“How well did you know Edward Fowler?”
There was tension in the room as soon as he asked the question. Millie’s laugh was strained. “You have a lot of nerve, Mister. What do you mean by ‘how well’?”
“Perhaps I should have said ‘how long’?”
“I hardly knew the louse. I played bridge with him a couple of times. He cost me plenty. I told that to the dicks who were here this morning.”
Stan began to walk slowly about the luxurious room, picking up small objects, turning them over in his hand and replacing them. He turned toward the girl. “Ben Eckhardt said that Fowler owed a gambler named Button sixty thousand dollars. Did you ever hear that?”
“He probably did. Fowler was a louse.”
“Did you ever hear he did?” Stan persisted.
“Yes, I heard it. I heard it the same place Ben Eckhardt heard it. Button said so at the card table last night—just after Fowler left.”
Stan was leafing through a small photo-album. He replaced it on the table. There was a drop-leaf writing desk in the corner. He pulled out the chair and
