I called again the next morning, and, this time, used a smoke screen that put less strain on my histrionic abilities.
“Police headquarters,” I announced gruffly. “Inspector Gavigan speaking. The 1941 maroon Buick Miss Kathryn Wolff reported stolen two weeks ago has been found. May I speak with her, please?”
This approach should certainly confound Phillips. The facts were all true enough; her car had been stolen. But I had taken the Inspector’s name in vain.
“Miss Wolff,” Phillips said, “is out of town.”
I blinked. I was sure he hadn’t caught on that quickly. On the other hand, I didn’t see why he would want to mislead the police department. I couldn’t very well stay in character, however, and express my doubts.
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Where can I reach her? It’s very important.”
My luck hadn’t improved any overnight. The Phillips voice was glacial. “I have no authority to give out that information. Besides, the police found and returned Miss Wolff’s car three days ago. Good day, Mr. Harte.”
The click of the phone as he broke the connection sounded as final as the trump of doom. But I was certain now that he was giving me the run-around. Having guessed who I was, he had reason for wanting me to think that Kay was out of reach. I put through a call to Peggy Shields whose daily column in the Press annotates the comings and goings of the uppercrust.
She promised to look into the matter. Fifteen minutes later she called back. There was disillusion in her voice.
“I thought I had a way with butlers,” she complained, “but the rock-ribbed specimen who answers the Wolff phone doesn’t third-degree very well. He insists that Mr. and Mrs. Wolff and daughter, Kathryn, are out of town but he won’t go into details. He refuses politely but firmly to say where they’ve gone, when they went, why they went, or when they’ll be back. It looks odd. I guess I’ll have to give up my Sunday morning nap and run out there for a personal appearance.”
“Look, sweetheart,” I warned. “Phillips can’t be had. Even if you took Hedy Lamarr, Gypsy Rose Lee, and Carmen Miranda, he’d still make noises like a clam. I know him.”
“But,” she said, “don’t clams have sex?”
“It’s possible, but I’m not so sure about Phillips. Work your wiles on someone else, but get going. Those senators are snapping at Wolff’s heels. He might be taking it on the lam.”
“Oh,” she said. “That would be interesting. I’ll let you know.”
Actually I didn’t think that running out was Dudley Wolff’s style. But I knew that baiting the hook with possible headlines would keep Peggy on her toes. I made a few calls myself, mostly to friends of the Wolffs’. I couldn’t turn up anything on them that dated later than press time the day before. No one seemed to be aware that they had had any intention of leaving town. A few persons who had engagements with one or the other of them within the next few days went so far as to think it all highly unlikely. I was beginning to feel sure that Phillips was perjuring himself in the line of duty when Peggy called back with the answer.
“They’ve gone all right,” she reported. “I checked the air lines. Ten-thirty plane for Miami. Unless they’re headed for South America I expect to find them registered at the Lido Club Hotel where they always stay. But it doesn’t look very suspicious from here. And, if it was, it wouldn’t make headlines in this man’s paper. A little bird at the office just told me that we have a new publisher. Somebody named Dudley T. Wolff, of all things. Is that why you’re interested in Kay?”
“No. It’s the other way around. And you’re only half right. You’re working for him, but I quit last night when he fired me. Thanks for the answers. I’ll stop in some day and treat you to lunch. And, by the way, don’t talk back to your new boss unless you just don’t care what happens. He isn’t used to it.”
I hung up quickly before the conversation could develop into an interview, called Western Union, and sent Kay a wire addressed to the Lido Club Hotel. I wrote a letter too and sent it out air-mail special. I stayed at home all evening waiting for an answer to the wire. None came. At eleven I put through a long-distance call. I got Dunning.
My subtle Machiavellian attempts at deception had all panned out so badly that, this time, I tried a simple direct approach. I told him frankly who was calling and asked politely to speak to Kay. I think he was a bit surprised at having been traced so quickly, but the shock was in no way fatal.
“Miss Wolff isn’t in,” he said promptly. “May I take a message?”
I trusted him about half as much as I did Phillips. “Yes, you might tell her I called.” I hung up, adding to myself, “But I doubt it.”
I tried a night letter then, and asked Western Union to sit tight and try to get an answer. I shouldn’t have bothered. A wire came through less than an hour later. Time magazine never ran anything as curt, clear, complete, or half as upsetting. It read:
Don’t squander precious bank account on wires and phone calls. Useless.
If you know of any better excuse for getting tight, I don’t want to hear it. I spent a couple of hours in a bar on Lexington Avenue and managed to forget my troubles temporarily. But they were all back again the next morning, along with some new ones. Item one was the headache I had when I awoke. Item two was the fact that, having failed to set my alarm, I didn’t wake until nearly eleven. The time specified on that court summons was 9:00 a.m.
It was, consequently, noon when I arrived again in Mamaroneck. The judge, a strict disciplinarian, was in no mood to listen to excuses even if I had had any. I pled guilty and let nature takes its course. It added up to twenty-five bucks on each count, plus a few unminced words and some caustic advice from His Honor.
Sergeant Lovejoy, seeing the glum look on my face as I went out, said, “Great Scott, young man, what happened? You look as if he gave you the chair!”
“Well,” I said smiling half-heartedly, “he didn’t exactly kiss me on both cheeks. I’ve got other worries. See you again some time.”
He grinned. “I hope not.”
I could put something in here about coming events casting their shadows, but, not wanting to be tagged as a had-I-but-known writer, I’ll leave it lay, saying merely that the sergeant’s wish did not come true. I saw him again all too soon and under circumstances that gave me even greater reason for looking down at the mouth.
His remarks did serve to call my attention to the fact that I was going to have to do something about my state of mind before I started out to hunt a new job. As I drove back to town I tried hard to push Kay and thoughts of her down into my subconscious and file them under Postponed Business. But the going was tough. I think I managed to erase the expression the sergeant had commented on. I may even have deceived a few of the editors I approached into thinking that I was bright and cheerful. But I didn’t fool myself.
I tried arguing, telling myself that, if Kay could call it all off as easily as she had and for as little reason, perhaps it was just as well. Logically that was sensible enough. I told myself that, too. But it didn’t make me feel any better. Then, on Saturday, I made a withdrawal at the bank that was all-inclusive in its scope, and did what I had known I would do all along. I packed a bag and took the next train out.
I had twenty-tour hours en route in which to think. And I argued myself, more successfully this time, into believing that perhaps Dudley Wolff, being the sort of totalitarian dictator that he was, might be censoring his daughter’s mail before she saw it, and confiscating all notes from foreign powers. And I had, furthermore, no good evidence that the telegram I’d received had really been sent by Kay herself. Dunning could have held back the fact of my long-distance call and, under orders from his employer, been responsible for the wire. The more I considered the theory, the better I liked it. I felt better too. Not a lot, but some.