«Well, along about 2 A.M. this Harry Matson happens by. He’s running a night-watchman service down there and that night he’s out making rounds himself. On the street where Austrian lives he hears a car engine running in a dark garage, and he goes in to investigate. He finds the blond frail on the floor on her back, in peekaboo pajamas and slippers, with soot from the exhaust all over her hair.»
M’Gee paused to sip a little more whisky and stare around my office again. I watched the last of the sunlight sneak over my windowsill and drop into the dark slit of the alley.
«So what does the chump do?» M’Gee said, wiping his lips on a silk handkerchief. «He decides the bim is dead, which maybe she is, but you can’t always be sure in a gas case, what with this new methylene-blue treatment —»
«For God’s sake,» I said. «What does he do?»
«He don’t call no law,» M’Gee said sternly. «He kills the car motor and douses his flash and beats it home to where he lives a few blocks away. He pages the doe from there and after a while they’re both back at the garage. The doe says she’s dead. He sends Matson in at a side door to call the local chief of police personal, at his home. Which Matson does, and after a while the chief buzzes over with a couple of stooges, and a little while after them the body snatcher from the undertaker, whose turn it is to be deputy coroner that week. They cart the stiff away and some lab man takes a blood sample and says it’s full of monoxide. The coroner gives a release and the dame is cremated and the case is closed.»
«Well, what’s the matter with it?» I asked.
M’Gee finished his second drink and thought about having a third. He decided to have a cigar first. I didn’t have any cigars and that annoyed him slightly, but he lit one of his own.
«I’m just a cop,» he said, blinking at me calmly through the smoke. «I wouldn’t know. All I know is, this Matson got bust loose from his licence and run out of town and he’s scared.»
«The hell with it,» I said. «The last time I muscled into a small-town setup I got a fractured skull. How do I contact Matson?»
«I give him your number. He’ll contact you.»
«How well do you know him?»
«Well enough to give him your name,» M’Gee said. «Of course, if anything comes up I should look into —»
«Sure,» I said. «I’ll put it on your desk. Bourbon or rye?»
«Go to hell,» M’Gee said. «Scotch.»
«What does Matson look like?»
«He’s medium heavy, five-seven, one-seventy, gray hair.»
He had another short, quick drink and left.
I sat there for an hour and smoked too many cigarettes. It got dark and my throat felt dry. Nobody called me up. I went over and switched the lights on, washed my hands, tucked away a small drink and locked the bottle up. It was time to eat.
I had my hat on and was going through the door when the Green Feather messenger boy came along the hallway looking at numbers. He wanted mine. I signed for a small irregularshaped parcel done up in the kind of flimsy yellowish paper laundries use. I put the parcel on my desk and cut the string. Inside there was tissue paper and an envelope with a sheet of paper and a flat key in it. The note began abruptly:
A friend in the sheriff’s office gave me your name as a man I could trust. I have been a heel and am in a jam and all I want now is to get clear. Please come after dark to 524 Tennyson Arms Apartments, Harvard near Sixth, and use key to enter if I am out. Look out for Pat Reel, the manager, as I don’t trust him. Please put the slipper in a safe place and keep it clean. P.S. They call him Violets, I never knew why.
I knew why. It was because he chewed violet-scented breath purifiers. The note was unsigned. It sounded a little jittery to me. I unwound the tissue paper. It contained a green velvet pump, size about 4A lined with white kid. The name Verschoyle was stamped in flowing gold script on the white kid insole. On the side a number was written very small in indelible ink — S465 — where a size number would be, but I knew it wasn’t a size number because Verschoyle, Inc., on Cherokee Street in Hollywood made only custom shoes from individual lasts, and theatrical footwear and riding boots.
I leaned back and lit a cigarette and thought about it for a while. Finally I reached for the phone book and looked up the number of Verschoyle, Inc., and dialed it. The phone rang several times before a chirpy voice said: «Hello? Yes?»
«Verschoyle — in person,» I said. «This is Peters, Identification Bureau.» I didn’t say what identification bureau.
«Oh, Mr. Verschoyle has gone home. We’re closed, you know. We close at five-thirty. I’m Mr. Pringle, the bookkeeper. Is there anything —»
«Yeah. We got a couple of your shoes in some stolen goods. The mark is S-Four-Six-Five. That mean anything to you?»
«Oh yes, of course. That’s a last number. Shall I look it up for you?»
«By all means,» I said.
He was back in no time at all. «Oh yes, indeed, that is Mrs. Leland Austrian’s number. Seven-thirty-six Altair Street, Bay City. We made all her shoes. Very sad. Yes. About two months ago we made her two pairs of emerald velvet pumps.»
«What do you mean, sad?»
«Oh, she’s dead, you know. Committed suicide.»
«The hell you say. Two pairs of pumps, huh?»
«Oh yes, both the same you know. People often order delicate colors in pairs like that. You know a spot or stain of any kind — and they might be made to match a certain dress —»
«Well, thanks a lot and take care of yourself,» I said, and gave the phone back to him.
I picked up the slipper again and looked it over carefully. It hadn’t been worn. There was no sign of rubbing on the buffed leather of the thin sole. I wondered what Harry Matson was doing with it. I put it in my office safe and went out to dinner.
TWO
MURDER ON THE CUFF
The Tennyson Arms was an old-fashioned dump, about eight stories high, faced with dark red brick. It had a wide center court with palm trees and a concrete fountain and some prissylooking flower beds. Lanterns hung beside the Gothic door and the lobby inside was paved with red plush. It was large and empty except for a bored canary in a gilt cage the size of a barrel. It looked like the sort of apartment house where widows would live on the life insurance — not very young widows. The elevator was the self-operating kind that opens both doors automatically when it stops.
I walked along the narrow maroon carpet of the fifth-floor hallway and didn’t see anybody, hear anybody, or smell anybody’s cooking. The place was as quiet as a minister’s study. Apartment 524 must have opened on the center court because a stained-glass window was right beside its door. I knocked, not loud, and nobody came to the door so I used the flat key and went in, and shut the door behind me.
A mirror glistened in a wall bed across the room. Two windows in the same wall as the entrance door were shut and dark drapes were drawn half across them, but enough light from some apartment across the court drifted in to show the dark bulk of heavy, overstuffed furniture, ten years out of date, and the shine of two brass doorknobs. I went over to the windows and pulled the drapes closed, then used my pocket flash to find my way back to the door. The light switch there set off a big cluster of flame-colored candles in the ceiling fixture. They made the room look like a funeral-chapel annex. I put the light on in a red standing lamp, doused the ceiling light and started to give the place the camera eye.