“Then I can talk confidentially to you,” she decided.
“Absolutely. My only interest in the matter is Henderson. Tm sweating myself skinny to get him out of it. Your wrangle with her doesn’t mean anything to me, from either party’s side. It’s just that it happens to lie across my own path of investigation.”
She nodded. She glanced at the door to make sure it was discreetly closed. “Very well, then. Here’s something that I wouldn’t admit to Mendoza for the world, that I can’t afford to, understand? There must have been a leak around here some place. The copying did originate here. But not officially; on the sly, by some member of the organization. Now I’m telling you this, but I don’t want it to go any further. I’d have to deny it, of course, if it was ever brought out publicly. My designer, the girl that does the sketches, is in the clear; I know it wasn’t she who sold us out. She’s been with me ever since I first opened my own place, she’s bought into it. It wouldn’t pay her, for a measly fifty, seventy-five, or whatever it was, to peddle around her own ideas like that. She’d be competing against herself. The two of us, she and I, investigated on the q.t. after Mendoza was down here raising an uproar that day, and we found that particular sketch gone from her album, missing, when we went to look. Somebody had deliberately swiped it, to use over again. We figured it for the seamstress, the girl who did the actual needlework on that number in the shop. She denied it naturally, and we had no evidence to prove it. She must have run the thing up at home on her own time. I suppose we caught her before she’d had time to slip the borrowed sketch back into the album again. Well, to be on the safe side, to make sure we didn’t get into hot water like that again, we shipped her.” She thumbed over her shoulder.
“So you see, Lombard — that your name, again? — as far as the sales records here in the office go, there never was any second buyer for that particular hat. That’s dead on the level. I couldn’t help you there if I wanted to. All I can suggest is, if you want that woman, your best bet is to tackle that former sewing apprentice of ours. As I say, I can’t guarantee that she actually does know anything about it. All I know is we ourselves felt strongly enough convinced that she did, at the time, to dismiss her. If you want to take the chance, it’s up to you.”
Again it had jumped a lap ahead of him, just when he thought he was safely up to it at last. “I have to, I haven’t any choice,” he said dismally.
“Maybe I can give you a hand with it,” she said helpfully. She snapped on her desk speaker. “Miss Lewis, look up the name of that girl we discharged right after we had all that trouble with Mendoza. Address too.”
He leaned his head sideward, elbow to desk, while they were waiting. She must have seen something in his attitude. “You think quite a lot of him, I guess,” she said, almost gently. It was a seldom used inflection with her; she had to clear her throat to get it to transmit in the right key.
He didn’t answer. That was one of those things that didn’t need answering.
She shot a drawer, pulled out a squat bottle of Irish whisky. “The hell with that sissy champagne they serve downstairs. A nip of this is what’s in order when you’re up against something that needs tall bucking. It’s an example I learned from my old man, rest his bones—”
The speaker signaled back. A girl’s voice said, “That was Madge Peyton. The address on record for her when she worked here is four-nine-eight Fourteenth Street.”
“Yeah, but which Fourteenth Street.”
“That’s all it says here: Fourteenth Street.”
“Never mind,” he said, “there’s only two to choose from, east and west.” He took it down, went over and reclaimed his hat, buttoned up with renewed purpose, the brief rest period over.
She was sitting there shading her eyes lengthwise. “Let me see if I can give you an angle on her. She won’t come through willingly, you know.” She dropped her hand, looked up. “Yeah, I’ve got her now. She was one of these quiet mousy little things. Shirtwaist and skirt type, know what I mean? They’re the kind that are always apt to pull a stunt like that for money, quicker than the good-lookers are, because money don’t come as easy to them. You’ll find they’re usually scared of guys, and don’t give themselves a chance to get to know them; then when they do get in with one, it’s always the wrong kind, because they haven’t had any previous sampling experience.”
She was a shrewd woman, he had to admit. That was why she probably wasn’t Kitty Shaw in some backstreet tenement at this very moment.
“We soaked Mendoza a hundred for it originally. She probably didn’t get more than fifty for repeating on it. There’s an angle for you, right there. Try her with another fifty, that ought to get it out of her — if you can find her.”
“If I can find her,” he agreed, plodding dispiritedly down the stairs.
A rooming-house keeper opened a door painted black to resemble ebony, with a square of glass set into the upper half and a tawny roller shade backing that. “Un?” she said.
“I’m looking for a Madge Peyton.”
She just shook her head to conserve energy.
“A girl that... well, a sort of plain-looking mousy girl.”
“Yeah, I know who you mean. No, she’s not here any more. Used to be, but she’s gone quite some time now.” She kept scanning the street while she was talking to him. As if, now that she’d taken the trouble of coming to the door, she might as well get something out of it before she went back inside again. That was probably why she continued to stand there as long as she did, and not because of any interest in his problem.
“Any idea where she moved to?”
“Just left, that’s all I can tell you. I don’t keep strings on ’em.”
“But there must be some sort of a trace. People don’t just go up in smoke. What took her things away?”
“One arm and both her feet.” She jerked a thumb. “Down that way, if it’s any good to you.”
It wasn’t very much. There were three more intersecting avenues “down that way.” And then a marginal thoroughfare. And then a river. And then fifteen to twenty states. And then an ocean.
She’d had enough air and sightseeing now. “I can make something up, if you want me to,” she offered. “But if it’s facts you’re after—” She bunched fingers to her lips, blew them apart, to denote emptiness.
She started to close the door, added, “What’s the matter, mister? You look kind of white.”
“I feel kind of white,” he assented. “Mind if I sit on your doorstep here a minute?”
“Help yourself, as long as you don’t get in the way of anyone coming in or going out.”
Slam.
16
The Eighth Day Before the Execution
17
The Seventh Day Before the Execution
18
The Sixth Day Before the Execution
He got off the train at the end of a three-hour ride from the city, looked around him doubtfully as soon as it had taken itself out of the way. This was one of those small outlying hamlets close to a large center that, for some reason or other, often give an impression of far greater sleepiness and rusticity than places that are actually much farther out. Possibly because the contrast is too sudden, the eye hasn’t become conditioned to the change yet. It was still close enough in to have certain typical features of the metropolitan scene; a well-known five and ten cent store, an A and P, a familiar chain orange-juice concession. But they only seemed to emphasize its remoteness from the originals, instead of tempering it.