crossed them at the knee.
“It’s the South View Bank and Trust on West Sixth and Fairfax,” she said as I got in the car. I slipped cautiously under the wheel but still got enough of a kickback from my sprained ribs to grimace a little.
“Is something wrong?” she asked with concern.
“Nothing serious. A confused cop tried to use me as a punching bag.”
I let it drop there, although I could see her look of anxiety and curiosity. She lit two of her gold-tipped butts and handed one to me. Then she kissed two fingers and laid them on my cheek.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a quick look her way. She was staring at me with obvious affection, her mouth slightly open.
“You can get in a lot of trouble with a look like that,” I said.
“I hope so,” she answered.
I drove down Western, grabbed a right on Sixth, and headed west to Fairfax. The bank was in the center of an upper-middle-class neighborhood. It was a one-story, yellow brick building boxed in by a women’s clothing store and a pet store. Patty North was a tiny, well-groomed strawberry blonde in her mid forties, with bright eyes and a perpetually cheery smile. She was head teller and had a little cubicle in the rear of the bank. After introductions, we sat facing her and she took out a file, placed it on her desk, and laid one hand on top of it.
“This isn’t quite kosher,” she said. “But Millicent assures me it’s for a good cause.”
I didn’t mention murder at this point. I didn’t have to. She started right in.
“The gentleman came in a little after noon on a Monday, which was the first,” she began. “He was five-eight or five-nine; about forty, give or take a year or two; trim, with a little tummy. Very tan, dark brown hair with some gray in it, and one of those skinny mustaches like William Powell’s. He wore a wedding ring on the usual finger and a Masonic ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. He had a kind of cocky smile and he dressed with flash. A cream jacket with a thin red check, tan slacks, two-tone brown and white shoes, a brown fedora, and he was wearing aviator sunglasses, which he did not remove. He didn’t say much. He put five one-hundred-dollar bills on the desk and spread them out like you would spread out a pinochle hand, and he put a twenty-five-cent piece on top. That’s what we charge for a bank check. He didn’t look at me straightaway but kind of kept his head down. He said, ‘I require,’-I remember because he said it that way, require — ’a five-hundred-dollar cashier’s check made out to this person.’ He had the name Verna Hicks written on a sheet of paper, which he slid across the desk to me. I said to him, ‘Who is the issuer?’ And he said, ‘Is that necessary?’ And I said, ‘No, but it’s customary.’ And he said, ‘Nix it, just give me a receipt.’ That’s the way he said it, Nix it. So I typed out the check and signed it, and he put it in a brown, letter-sized manila envelope. It was already addressed and stamped. He said thank you and left. The entire transaction took about five minutes. I did notice he had a jaunty kind of step to his walk.”
As she spoke, a face flashed in my memory; a face I had seen in Howland’s basement on one of the framed front pages. A flashy dresser, thin mustache.
“You have an amazing memory for details,” I said.
“Photography is my hobby, particularly portraiture,” she said. “There was just something about him. The flashy clothes, the little mustache, the sunglasses, and his voice. There was a harsh quality to it, kind of tough. He was distant but not unfriendly, just seemed to want to get the transaction done and get out of here. It was one of those faces you’d love to capture on film, although I could tell from his attitude that was the last thing he would have been interested in.”
I thought for a minute or so and then asked Patty if she had a copy of the phone book. She reached in a large, lower drawer and got it. I flicked through it to the yellow pages and found what I was looking for. A quarter-page ad listed under private investigations. The ad told me that Eddie Woods was an experienced private investigator with eighteen years know-how, was bonded, and had references. His office was on the mezzanine floor of the Olympic Tower, on West Olympic and Almont. I jotted the phone number down.
I knew the place, a prestigious office building with a marble lobby only slightly smaller than the lobby of the city hall. It was known simply as the Olympic. Eddie Woods was in high cotton for a private eye. Jerry Geisert was a divorce lawyer for the stars, and probably one of Woods’s clients, since he was located in the same building and on the same floor.
An idea was gnawing on my brain. There was a sprightly little restaurant across the street from the Olympic called Francine’s, which specialized in excellent home cooking. I closed the book and suggested all three of us go there for lunch.
Millicent looked at me out of the side of her eye, obviously disappointed that I had asked a third party to join us.
“I have an idea,” I said by way of explanation.
It took fifteen minutes to drive to Francine’s. I parked on the side of the building, went in, and found a table in front, facing the Olympic Tower. The place was just beginning to fill up with the lunchtime trade. The decor was as simple as the bill of fare. White-and-red-checkered tablecloths, menus printed up that day, paper napkins.
“Millie, order for me, will you? I want the turkey pancakes, and corn fritters with lots of maple syrup, and an iced tea. I’m going across the street. I shouldn’t be more than ten, fifteen minutes. Patty, watch for me to come out and pay special attention to the person who’s with me, if there is anybody with me.”
“Is this detective work?” she asked, bright-eyed.
“You betcha,” I answered.
CHAPTER 20
The lobby was all marble, bronze, and teak. Twin circular staircases curved up from each side of the room to the mezzanine where, the directory told me, Woods was located in rooms 106 and 107. I took the stairs up.
There was a doctor’s office in the corner suite. Attorney Jerry Geisert’s suite of offices took up about half the floor and Woods was located in the two offices next to Geisert.
The lettering on the pebbled glass door said edward woods, confidential inquiries and it was locked. The door to the adjoining office was open. I walked down to it and stood in the entrance. The lettering on this door said “Private.”
The office was neither flashy nor drab, small nor large. When I looked in, I faced a mahogany desk of average proportions. Against the right wall was a red leather sofa, beginning to show its age, as were the two matching leather chairs that bracketed it. Somebody had told Woods leather impressed people. They forgot to tell him less is better than more. There was a dark wooden hat tree in the corner near the door, and on the desk, a large glass ashtray that could have qualified as a deadly weapon, a leather-wrapped Ronson table lighter, a familiar green package of Luckies, and two phones, one a conventional black job with a handset, the other an old-time stand-up, which Woods was whispering into.
I stood in the entranceway and lightly tapped the glass in the door. He held up a finger without looking at me. A moment later he hung up, waved me in, stood up, and offered me his hand. Twenty years had changed him very little. He still looked younger than his age, still sported the pencil mustache, still had a full head of hair as well as a bronze beach tan and bit of a paunch. His jacket was hanging on the tree. He was wearing a white silk shirt with a thin, pale blue stripe, and an inoffensive tie, red suspenders, and no belt.
“Edward Woods,” he said with a practiced smile. “My secretary’s gone to lunch.”
“My name’s Bannon,” I said.
“Have a seat.”
I dropped my hat on his desk, and as I sat down he looked straight into my eyes. His memory was getting a nibble.
“I’m about to go to lunch, too,” he said.
“Nice fish,” I said, nodding toward a six-foot marlin mounted on the wall.
“Two hundred and sixty pounds and every ounce a fighter. Took me seven hours to land that baby. I quit going after game fish after that. Anything that will fight that hard to stay alive deserves to die of old age.”
“That’s an admirable philosophy.”
“Thanks. What can I do for you?”
“Ever heard of a woman named Verna Hicks? Or Verna Wilensky, which was her married name?”
