“Approximately, yes.”
“Well, Arthur couldn’t have done it. I know where he was during that time.”
“And where was he?” Meyer asked.
He figured he knew just what the girl would say. He had heard the same words from an assortment of molls, mistresses, fiancées, girl friends and just plain acquaintances of men accused of everything from disorderly conduct to first-degree murder.
The girl would protest that Finch was with her during that time. After a bit of tooth-pulling, she would admit that — well — they were alone together. After a little more coaxing, the girl would reluctantly state, the reluctance adding credulity to her story, that — well — they were alone in intimate circumstances together. The alibi having been firmly established, she would then wait patiently for her man’s deliverance.
“And where was he?” Meyer asked, and waited patiently.
“From seven to eight,” Eleanor said, “he was with a man named Bret Loomis in a restaurant called The Gate, on Culver and South Third.”
“What?” Meyer was surprised.
“Yes. From there, Arthur went to see his sister in Riverhead. I can give you the address if you like. He got there at about eight-thirty and stayed a half-hour or so. Then he went straight home.”
“What time did he get home?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“He told us nine, nine-thirty.”
“He was mistaken. I know he got home at ten because he called me the minute he was in the house. It was ten o’clock.”
“I see. And he told you he’d just got home?”
“Yes.” Eleanor Fay nodded and uncrossed her legs. Willis, at the water cooler, did not miss the sudden revealing glimpse of nylon and thigh.
“Did he also tell you he’d spent all that time with Loomis first and then with his sister?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Then why didn’t he tell us?” Meyer asked.
“I don’t know why. Arthur is a person who respects family and friends. I suppose he didn’t want to involve them with the police.”
“That’s very considerate of him,” Meyer said drily, “especially since he’s being held on suspicion of murder. What’s his sister’s name?”
“Irene Granavan. Mrs. Carl Granavan.”
“And her address?”
“Nineteen-eleven Morris Road. In Riverhead.”
“Know where I can find this Bret Loomis?”
“He lives in a rooming house on Culver Avenue. The address is 3918. It’s near Fourth.”
“You came pretty well prepared, didn’t you, Miss Fay?” Meyer asked.
“If you don’t come prepared,” Eleanor answered, “why come at all?”
7
Bret Loomis was thirty-one years old, five feet six inches tall, bearded. When he admitted the detectives to the apartment, he was wearing a bulky black sweater and light-fitting dungarees. Standing next to Cotton Hawes, he looked like a little boy who had tried on a false beard in an attempt to get a laugh out of his father.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Loomis,’ Meyer said. “We know this is Easter, and —”
“Oh, yeah?” Loomis said. He seemed surprised. “Hey, that’s right, ain’t it? It’s Easter. I’ll be damned. Maybe I oughta go out and buy myself a pot of flowers.”
“You didn’t know it was Easter?” Hawes asked.
“Like, man, who ever reads the newspapers? Gloom, gloom! I’m fed up to here with it. Let’s have a beer, celebrate Easter. Okay?”
“Well, thanks,’ Meyer said, “but —”
“Come on, so it ain’t allowed. Who’s gonna know besides you, me and the bedpost? Three beers coming up.”
Meyer looked at Hawes and shrugged. Hawes shrugged back. Together, they watched Loomis as he went to the refrigerator in one corner of the room and took out three bottles of beer.
“Sit down,” he said. “You’ll have to drink from the bottle because I’m a little short of glasses. Sit down, sit down.”
The detectives glanced around the room, puzzled.
“Oh,” Loomis said, “you’d better sit on the floor. I’m a little short of chairs.”
The three men squatted around a low table which had obviously been made from a tree stump. Loomis put the bottles on the table top, lifted his own bottle, said “Cheers,” and took a long drag at it.
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Loomis?” Meyer asked.
“I live,” Loomis said.
“What?”
“I live for a living. That’s what I do.”
“I mean, how do you support yourself?”
“I get payment from my ex-wife.”
“You get payments?” Hawes asked.
“Yeah. She was so delighted to get rid of me that she made a settlement. A hundred bucks a week. That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
“That’s very good,” Meyer said.
“You think so?” Loomis seemed thoughtful. “I think I coulda boosted it to two hundred if I held out a little longer. The bitch was running around with another guy, you see, and was all hot to marry him. He’s got plenty of loot. I bet I coulda boosted it to two hundred.”
“How long do these payments continue?” Hawes asked, fascinated.
“Until I get married again — which I will never ever do as long as I live. Drink your beer. It’s good beer.” He took a drag at his bottle and said, “What’d you want to see me about?”
“Do you know a man named Arthur Finch?”
“Sure. He in trouble?”
“Yes.”
“What’d he do?”
“Well, let’s skip that for the moment, Mr. Loomis,” Hawes said. “We’d like you to tell us —”
“Where’d you get that white streak in your hair?” Loomis asked suddenly.
“Huh?” Hawes touched his left temple unconsciously. “Oh, I got knifed once. It grew back this way.”
“All you need is a blue streak on the other temple. Then you’ll look like the American flag,” Loomis said, and laughed.
“Yeah,” Hawes said. “Mr. Loomis, can you tell us where you were last night between seven and eight o’clock?”
“Oh, boy,” Loomis said, “this is like ‘Dragnet,’ ain’t it? ‘Where were you on the night of December twenty-first? All we want are the facts.’ “
“Just like ‘Dragnet,“ Meyer said drily. “Where were you, Mr. Loomis?”
“Last night? Seven o’clock?” He thought for a moment. “Oh, sure.”
“Where?”
“Olga’s pad.”
“Who?”
“Olga Trenovich. She’s like a sculptress. She does these crazy little statues in wax. Like she drips the wax all over everything. You dig?”
“And you were with her last night?”
“Yeah. She had like a little session up at her pad. A couple of colored guys on sax and drums and two other kids on trumpet and piano.”
“You got there at seven, Mr. Loomis?”
“No. I got there at six-thirty.”
“And what time did you leave?”
“Gosssshhhhh, who remembers?” Loomis said. “It was the wee, small hours.”
“After midnight, you mean?” Hawes asked.
“Oh, sure. Two, three in the morning,” Loomis said.
“You got there at six-thirty and left at two or three in the morning? Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
“Was Arthur Finch with you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Did you see him at all last night?”
“Nope. Haven’t seen him since — let me see — last month sometime.”
“You were not with Arthur Finch in a restaurant called The Gate?”
“When? Last night, you mean?”