I decided too late. While I’d been poring over the Quentin file, Velvet had rustled himself up out of Tweet-Tweet Land and crawled behind the desk. By the time I spotted him, he’d already yanked the lever of a burglar alarm there. The atmosphere of the bookshop was suddenly filled with a loud whooping like seasick cranes sounding out a “May Day.”
In the din, Velvet cowered away from me, but the expression on his face was vindictive, to say the least. I wagged a finger at him disapprovingly, spotted a back door leading to an alley, and bounded away from the scene as fast as my $10.95 Thom McCanns could carry me. The cops were sure to come leapfrogging up at any minute, and I’d had enough of cops for one day. The police station may be an interesting place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
When I’d put enough distance between myself and the asthmatic howls of the burglar-alarm banshees, I slowed down and looked for a phone booth. I found one in a drugstore and dialed Putnam. His line was busy. I had a Coke at the counter, and then tried him again. This time he answered.
“American original,” I identified myself.
“You grow sloppier, Mr. Victor,” he said in a voice that showed the strain of being kept under control.
“That’s how it is with bad habits,” I told him. “They get worse.”
“Don’t be flip, Mr. Victor. Your latest escapade really distresses me. First an inept killing, and now a messy assault! I have just gotten off the telephone with the police, and they are most irate.”
“Word gets around fast.”
“I don’t really see why it should be necessary for you to persist in such behavior, Mr. Victor.”
“Look, if you’ll stop slapping my hand a minute, let me remind you that I didn’t kill Quentin. Also, I didn’t assault Velvet -- at least not the first time.”
“But you did attack him tonight,” Putnam pointed out.
“Nope. I only defended myself. He threw a few books at me. I threw a few back. My aim was better than his. That’s all.”
“And you rifled his office. Correct?”
“Correct,” I granted. “So give me two demerits. I’m a naughty spy. I never denied it.”
“Your conduct really does leave a lot to be desired,” Putnam admonished me.
“That’s because my upbringing was over-permissive. But what the hell, Mr. Putnam, you wouldn’t want to break my spirit, would you?”
“I don’t want to spoil you, either. After all, in our line of work, we must be prepared to cope with reality, to deal with society as it really is. You must learn to exercise a little tact in your escapades, Mr. Victor.”
“I’ll try,” I promised. “Now, to get down to the tacky brass, I would like the address of Knute Hajstrom. I wish to have words with the Scandinavian gentleman.”
“Oh? Why, Mr. Victor?”
“It would take too long to explain.”
“Very well.” Putnam gave me the address. “But please be careful how you conduct yourself with Mr. Hajstrom,” he cautioned me. “Our relations with the Swedes are very good. I shouldn’t like to see them jeopardized.”
“Kid gloves up to the elbows,” I assured him.
“Hands off altogether, if you don’t mind,” he said firmly. “You are not to use any kind of force with him.”
“Okay,” I promised. I hung up then and left the drugstore. I hopped a cab to the address Putnam had given me. It turned out to be a residence hotel. The desk clerk, a laconic type whose jaws were welded together by a huge wad of chewing gum, informed me through his teeth that Hajstrom had gone out.
“Do you know where he went?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Do you know where he went?” I repeated the question and passed a five-dollar bill over the counter. He tucked the bill neatly into his back pocket. “Nope,” he repeated in exactly the same toneless voice.
“Did he go out alone?”
“Nope.”
“Who’d he go out with?”
He popped his gum and looked significantly toward the breast pocket in which I’d replaced my wallet. I took out another five, but this time I held onto it. “Who’d he go out with?” I dangled the bill just out of reach.
“A dame. I don’t know her name.”
“Have you seen her before?”
“She’s been here a coupla times.”
“Describe her.” I moved the five a little closer, but not close enough for him to grab it.
“Young. Blonde. Snazzy. Boobies out to here.” He snapped his gum again. “Wears a wedding ring. Shows everything she got, which is plenty.”
It could be Ingrid, all right. “Anything else you can tell me?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“Okay.” I handed him the five. “Buy yourself a stick of chewing gum,” I told him.
“Never use it.” He popped his gum at my back insultingly as I left.
What now? I strolled idly up the street, mulling over the possibilities. Hortense and the Russian were whipping it up somewhere with Barry and Elsa. They might be on Cromwell’s trail -- or at least on his wife Carrie’s trail— but that didn’t help me any; I had no way of catching up with them. Likewise, Hajstrom and Ingrid might be someplace important, but again I’d come up against a dead end. Velvet? He was probably busy lying to the cops. But what about Phil? Ingrid’s husband? The only trouble was, I didn’t know his last name, or where they lived, either. Another blind alley.
Well, what did I know? I knew Helen Quentin, that’s what. And I knew her address. Of course, she thought I’d killed her husband, which might make getting her to cooperate a little difficult. Then again, that might work to my advantage. If she was scared enough of me, she might tell me what I wanted to know just to get rid of me. Well, some of what I wanted to know, anyway—-only some, because I sure wanted to know a helluva lot at this point.
There was a snazzy convertible parked in the Quentin driveway when the cab dropped me off. I perked up at the sight of it. I’d noticed it parked there the night before, too. It wasn’t the Quentins’ car. I could see both of their cars sticking out of the garage. So it had to belong to one of the couples I’d met the night before. That was good, because right now I’d settle to talk to either one of them.
I rang the bell. The door opened. It started to shut again right away. I stuck my foot in fast. Another foot cracked against my shinbone. Cursing, I slammed my shoulder against the door. The motion carried me into the house and smack up against my old playmate, Phil.
“Consoling the Widow?” I guessed as I slammed him up against the foyer wall.
“Who is it, Phil?” Helen Quentin’s voice coming from the living room didn’t sound as bereaved as it might have.
Something hard jabbed against my leg from Phil’s pocket. I cracked his wrist hard with a karate chop as he reached for the pocket, and then removed the object myself. It was a nice, shiny, little black revolver.
“Now what kind of thing is this for a baby photographer to be toting around?” I clucked as I backed off and pointed the gun at him. “You want to scare the tots?”
“I-—I only brought it along because Helen was nervous.” His voice quavered. “That’s why I’m here. Because she’s afraid.”
“Let’s see just how afraid she is.” I motioned him toward the living room and followed him inside.
“Oh, no!” Helen Quentin shot to her feet as we entered and backed away from me. She seemed genuinely frightened.
Under the circumstances, that might have been perfectly natural. Only there was one detail about the recent widow that wasn’t natural at all. She was wearing only a bra and panties, and nothing else!
“Naughty, naughty,” I told them. “And poor George hardly cold in his coffin yet.”