“She’s getting nowhere?”
Dixon shook his head and smiled. “I don’t think anyone expected her to,” he said, underlining the “anyone.”
“That go for Esslinger, too?” I said, watching him closely.
He nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“And yet Esslinger has hired her.”
“And he doesn’t think she’ll break the case? That does not make sense.”
Dixon picked up his pencil and began another cube.
“I can only suggest an idea here and there,” he said apologetically. “You mustn’t expect me to do your work for you, Mr. Spewack.”
I leaned back in my chair and looked at him thoughtfully. We sat for a few minutes in silence. I knew he wasn’t going to elaborate, so I tried another angle.
“What do you know about the missing girls?”
He pulled open a drawer and took out three photographs, the kind that are taken by street cameramen. He gave them to me. “I assure you, Mr. Spewack, they are ordinary working-class girls with no secrets and with nothing extraordinary about them.”
Looking at the photographs, I believed him. They were the type you could see in any street, any day, in any town.
“Have they anything in common besides being all blondes?” I asked, handing the photographs back.
He opened his mouth to say something, when the telephone rang. He stared at the telephone with a blank, surprised look in his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, picking up the receiver. He held it gingerly against his ear.
I sat back, watching him absently.
He said, “Are you there?” and listened.
Faintly I could hear a voice talking over the line. It was a sharp, high-pitched staccato voice, but I couldn’t understand what it was saying.
Dixon suddenly huddled into his clothes. “I understand,” he mumbled into the mouthpiece of the telephone. “Yes, of course. Yes... naturally.” He listened some more, then I heard a click as the caller hung up on him. He very slowly put the receiver hack on its cradle and stared down at his blotter. I saw a little cluster of sweat beads on his forehead which hadn’t been there before.
“Have they anything in common besides being all blondes?” I repeated after a long pause.
He started, then stared at me as if he’d forgotten was still there. “I’m afraid I can’t spare any more of my time, Mr. Spewack,” he said, looking hurriedly away. “It’s been very interesting to meet you.” He got up and offered me a damp, limp hand. His face was the colour of white mutton fat and high up near his right eye a nerve twitched. “I don’t think you’d better come here again, Mr. Spewack. Your time’s valuable and I wouldn’t like to waste it.”
“Don’t worry about my time,” I said. “I’ll take care of that.” I took out my pocket book and let him see the twenty-five dollar bills I had in it. “And I’ll buy your time, so you don’t have to worry about that either.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” he said. There was no interest in his voice or his eyes. “But I have nothing to sell. Do you understand, Mr. Spewack? Nothing to sell.”
I put the pocket book away and stared at him thoughtfully. “Who was that on the telephone?” I said.
“No one you’d know,” he returned, sitting limply in his chair. “Good day, Mr. Spewack, I’m sure you can find your own way out.”
I put my hands on the desk and leaned over him. “I bet it was Macey or maybe Starkey,” I said, watching him. “I bet you were told to keep your trap shut or else. Wasn’t that it?”
He huddled deeper into his clothes and shut his eyes. “Good day, Mr. Spewack,” he said softly.
“So long,” I said, and went out.
The vinegar-faced woman looked up as I passed.
“The old guy’s got cold feet,” I said. “You’d better light him a fire.”
I felt her eyes on my back, but I didn’t look round. I shut the outer office door behind me and walked slowly down the four flights of stairs. I found myself whistling in an absent-minded way Chopin’s “Funeral March.”
The Eastern Hotel was a rambling three-storey brick building with metal fire escapes on the front. There were a dozen or so rocking chairs on the porch.
I went up the steps and across the verandah and into the lobby. I saw potted palms and heavy mahogany furniture and brass spittoons.
The clerk at the reception desk was fussing with the register. A girl stood at the desk. She was tall; gold hair rested on the collar of her grey-and-blue check dress. On her arm she carried a light grey dust-coat and at her feet stood a bag, covered with hotel labels.
I came up to the desk and waited.
The clerk said to the girclass="underline" “Have you a reservation?”
She said she hadn’t.
He looked doubtfully at her and I had a feeling he was going to refuse her.
“Why should anyone need a reservation?” I said to him. “You’ve more vacant rooms than a dog’s got fleas.”
He gave me a cold, impersonal stare, but shoved the register at the girl. She gave me a quick glance and then signed her name. She was pretty in a sensible way. Her skin was good and her features small and regular.
The clerk gave me my key and I went across to the lift. A negro porter picked up the girl’s bag and joined me. The girl came over a moment later and we all travelled up to the third floor together.
The negro porter unlocked a door opposite mine and showed her in while I was unlocking my door. I turned before I went into my room to look at her. She was already looking at me.
“Thanks,” she said, and gave me a nice smile.
“Maybe it would have been better if you’d’ve tried elsewhere,” I said. “This is a pretty lousy hotel.”
“It’s a lot better than some,” she said, smiled again and went into the room.
I closed my door.
The room wasn’t anything to shout about. It had a small bed by the window. A bureau with a white stain where some gin had been spilled and a couple of big chairs. On the table by the bed was an old-fashioned telephone with an unpainted metal base and a transparent celluloid mouthpiece. Beyond the clothes cupboard was a bathroom.
I took off my hat and sat down in one of the chairs. Streetcars rattled past the hotel and the whine of the lift as it crawled between floors indicated that there wasn’t going to be a lot of peace for me in this room.
I lit a cigarette and decided I could do with a drink. I went over to the telephone and told the clerk to send up some Scotch and Whiterock. Then I went back to the chair again and thought about Wolf and Dixon and Esslinger. After turning it all over in my mind, I came to the conclusion that before long I would run into trouble. I didn’t mind that so much, because I’d run into trouble before. But I thought I’d better let Colonel Forsberg know as he had special rates which he charged if his operators ran into trouble.
I was beginning to compose the report I intended to send Colonel Forsberg without actually writing it down when a knock came on the door.
Thinking it was the Scotch and Whiterock, I called, “Come in,” without getting up.
A girl’s voice said: “I’ve done such a silly thing. I’ve lost the key to my bag.”
I turned and stood up.
She had taken off her hat and she looked even nicer without it. She stood in the doorway, holding the doorknob in her hand, looking at me hopefully. I noticed that she had long thighs and nice legs.
“How did you know I’ve been picking locks since I left school?” I said. “I thought I was concealing it from even my best friends.”
She laughed. “Oh, I didn’t know,” she said. “I thought you’d be able to do something because you are big and intelligent-looking.”
“Won’t you come in?” I said, waving to the other armchair. “There’s some Scotch and Whiterock on their way up. My mother doesn’t like me to drink alone.”