“It’s pretty obvious he knew,” I put in. “Jet Chard was looking for Henry.”
“I’ll put out a pickup order on this Jet Chard,” the inspector said. “Also on Gerald Patton, on the off chance he’s in town too.”
Day took Nina’s address, and when he learned it was the Sennett Hotel, he asked if she had any idea why England had registered under an assumed name at the same place she was staying, but made no attempt to contact her.
Nina shook her head. “Maybe he knew Jet was after him, and didn’t want me involved. But then I should think he’d have picked a different hotel.”
The inspector told her not to leave town.
Before we left, I got some details of the killing from the inspector. Henry England’s room had been on the floor below Nina’s. A chambermaid had discovered the body just before noon. He was lying on the bed in his undershorts with the six inch blade of a clasp knife in his heart. The knife apparently was his own and there was no sign of a struggle, but the medical examiner had ruled out suicide because of the angle of the thrust and because the knife haft had been wiped clear of fingerprints. Time of death was estimated at sometime between eight and eleven that morning.
There had been signs that the room had been thoroughly ransacked.
At the Sennett we learned a room adjoining Nina’s on the fourth floor was vacant, and I registered. I was pleasantly surprised to find my room, while hardly luxurious, was both comfortable and clean.
When I had dumped my bag, I went next door to Nina’s room. By now it was nearly seven, and I asked if she was ready to eat.
“When I change my dress,” she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.
While waiting, I glanced about the room and noted on the floor under the window what I took to be a small suitcase. Then I saw the folding crank sticking from its side and realized it was a portable phonograph.
Idly I lifted the lid, the underside of which had a compartment holding a dozen records. Choosing one at random, I wound the machine and a moment later was treated to the tinny strains of Stardust.
Nina came out of the bathroom like an arrow shot from a bow. She had changed to a shoulderless dinner dress of blue, but she had not quite completed the change, for the zipper at her side gaped wide, exposing a foot long strip of milk white flesh.
Rapidly she crossed to the phonograph, glanced from it to me in a worried manner, then recovered her aplomb and carefully closed her zipper.
I said, “Don’t you like people to touch your music box?”
“It’s a little temperamental,” she explained. “Unless you set the needle just right, it can ruin a record. I wouldn’t care except I need the thing. I have to practice my dance act an hour every day or my muscles get flabby and I lose control.”
Moving to the dresser, she began to brush her hair. When Stardust ended, the phonograph automatically shut off, and I made no move to start another record. Nina lay down her brush, put the disk back in its slot, and shut the machine’s lid.
“Maybe later tonight I’ll let you watch me practice,” she said.
It was an hour and a half before we returned from dinner. Nina unlocked the door, pushed it half open, then abruptly stepped backward and planted a sharp heel down heavily on the instep of my only good foot.
I started to say, Ouch, but couldn’t when I looked into the glittering bore of a thirty-eight revolver. The man pointing it opened the door wide and gestured us in.
He was a tall, good-looking fellow with an athletic build and hair nearly as jet black as Nina’s. His face was square and almost good-natured except for his eyes, which looked as though they would emit sparks if you struck them with a piece of flint.
When we had obeyed his gesture and he had closed the door, Nina belatedly squeaked, “Gerald!”
“Yeah, baby,” Gerald said. “Your loving ex-meal ticket.”
Across the room. Jet Chard had stopped rummaging through one of Nina’s suitcases in order to examine us without expression.
I said to the man with the gun, “You must be Gerald Patton. I’ve already met your partner. You boys know the cops want you on suspicion of homicide?”
Ignoring me, Gerald said, “Where is it, baby? You got about ten seconds to tell, if you don’t want a slug between those pretty eyes.”
Nina was dead white. “I don’t know what you mean, Gerald. Why did you kill Henry?”
I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but Gerald’s eyes became even harder. “We heard on the radio Henry was dead. That’s why we’re here. Quit stalling. We’ve turned this joint inside out without finding it, but we know it’s here. Now you got about five seconds.”
“What is it you’re looking for?” I asked.
His eyes briefly swept my face, then returned to Nina. “Three seconds.”
“Maybe I’ve got it,” I said.
Abruptly his head turned to me. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Maybe you bumped Henry. Okay, I’ll give you three seconds.”
“Go ahead and shoot,” I said cheerfully. “I’ve got it hidden where you’d never find it, and even Nina doesn’t know where it is.”
Gerald glanced back at Nina, who wet her lips and whispered, “He’s telling the truth, Gerald.”
Jet Chard said tonelessly, “Maybe I can get it out of him.” He drew a shiny set of brass knuckles from his pocket.
“Maybe we both can,” Gerald remarked, drawing his gun back to his left ear and swiping it viciously at my face.
Unfortunately, for Gerald, this required momentarily not aiming it at me, and gave me time to employ a dirty trick taught me by a Paris apache during the war. Leaning away from him, I brought up my aluminum foot and planted it solidly beneath his handsome jaw.
He decided to lie down and take a rest without even bothering to uncross his eyes.
With his fingers laced through the holes of a knuckle duster, Jet was in no position to make a pass for his gun. Instead he swung his fist.
Moving my head just enough to avoid the brass studs, I flattened his nose with a right cross. When he took an involuntary step backward, I kicked him in the groin.
He sat on the floor and began to make whimpering sounds.
Nina had picked up the gun dropped by Gerald. Dipping under Jet’s coat, I acquired his and dropped it in my pocket. Then I crossed to the phone.
“What are you going to do?” Nina asked.
“Call the cops.”
“No!” she said, and her voice was so tinged with hysteria, I glanced at her in surprise.
She was pointing the thirty-eight straight at me.
I took my hand away from the phone.
“Let them go,” she said. “Get them out of here, but don’t call the police.”
“Why?” I asked reasonably.
“Gerald would kill me if I turned him in.”
“Looks like he intends to anyway. Put down that gun.”
She shook her head. “If I have to, I’ll shoot you in the leg. The good one.”
Short of suddenly dropping to the floor, drawing my gun and attempting to out-shoot her, I couldn’t think of much I could do. And since I have an aversion to shooting beautiful women, particularly when I have been engaged professionally to prevent their being shot, I simply did nothing.
It was ten minutes before Jet could navigate, and another ten before Gerald could make it, but eventually both were able to walk somewhat unsteadily. I took no further part in activities during this time, contenting myself with leaning against the dresser and eyeing Nina’s gun with disapproval.
Before they left, Nina made it clear to them she was allowing them to escape only because Gerald once meant so much to her. But she warned them the police wanted them for murder, and she was letting them go only in the expectation they would return to Chicago at once.