So I went out into the hot July sunlight again. Next was Albee’s pad, and his landlady. On a short street called Seneca, near the lake. Only a ten minute walk this time; he’d picked a place conveniently near to where he had worked. Handy to the beach, too, if he swam or sun-bathed.
It was an old stone front, three stories, that had probably been a one-family residence in its day but had now been divided into a dozen rooms. That’s how many mailboxes there were and there was a buzzer button under each. Nielson was the name on No. 9, and I pushed the buzzer button under it. Even took hold of the doorknob in case an answering buzz should indicate that the lock was being temporarily released. But I got just what I expected to get, no answering buzz. Well, that was good in one way; if Albee had been home and had let me come up to see him, we’d have had to give Floyd Nielson most of his hundred and fifty bucks. We couldn’t have charged more than half a day’s time, and expenses so far had run to zero.
I went back and looked through the glass of Nielson’s mailbox. There was something in it that looked like it was a bill, but I couldn’t read the return address. The lock was one of those simple little ones that open with a tiny flat key; if I’d thought to bring our picklock along I could have had it open in thirty seconds, but one can’t think of everything.
I looked over the other mailboxes for a Mrs. Radcliffe; Chudakoff had said she was the landlady. Sure enough, it was No. I, and had “Landlady” written under the name in the slot. I pushed her button and put my hand on the knob of the door; this time it buzzed and released itself and I went on through.
Mrs. Radcliffe had the door of No. 1 opened and was waiting for me in the doorway. She was about fifty and was small and wiry. Chicago rooming house landladies come in all sizes but most of them have two things in common, hard eyes and a tough look. Mrs. Radcliffe wasn’t one of the exceptions, and I was sure, too, that she hadn’t named herself after a college she’d been graduated from.
I gave her a business card and the song and dance about Albee’s poor old father being worried about him, but it didn’t soften her eyes any. Finally I got to questions.
“When did you last see Albee, Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“Don’t remember exactly, but it was over a week ago. Then, just seeing him come in or go out. Last time I talked to him was on the first. Paid me a month’s rent then; it’s still his place till the end of the month, whether he comes back to it or not.”
“Have you been in it, since then?”
“No. I rent ‘em as is, and people do their own cleaning. I don’t go in, till after they’ve left, to get it cleaned up for the next tenant.”
“Are they rented furnished or unfurnished?”
“Unfurnished, except for stove and refrigerator; there’s a kitchenette in each for them who want to do light housekeeping. And each one has its own bathroom. Couples live in a few of ‘em, but they’re fine for one person.”
“Would you mind letting me look inside Albee’s?”
“Yes. It’s his till his rent’s up.”
“But you let Lieutenant Chudakoff go up and look around. We’re working the same side of the fence. In fact, he’s a friend of mine.”
“But he’s a real cop and you’re not. Bring him with you and I’ll let you go up with him.”
I sighed. “He’s a busy man, Mrs. Radcliffe. If I get him to write you a letter, on police stationery, asking you to let me borrow a key, will that do?”
“Guess so. Or even if he tells me over the phone.”
I wondered how I’d been so stupid as not to think of that short cut. The phone, I’d already noticed, was a pay one, on the wall behind me. I got a dime out of my pocket and started for it.
But she said, “Wait a minute. How do I know you’d dial the right number? You could call any number and have somebody there to say his name is Chudakoff. He gave me his card. I’ll dial it.” Apparently she’d put the card on a stand right beside the door; she was able to get it without leaving the doorway. She held out a hand. “I’ll use your dime, though.”
While she dialed, I grinned to myself at how suspicious she was—and how right. I could have set it up with Uncle Am to have answered “Missing Persons. Chudakoff speaking.”
She finished dialing and I heard her say, “Mr. Chudakoff please.” She listened a few seconds and then hung up.
“He’s out of the office, won’t be back till tomorrow morning. You can try again then, if you’ve got another dime.”
I sighed and decided to give up till tomorrow. Well, at least that’s run the investigation into a second day.
I said, “All right, I’ll be back then. Mrs. Radcliffe, do you know any of Albee’s friends?”
“A few by sight, none by name. And, like I told Mr. Chudakoff, I wouldn’t have an idea where he might of gone to, if he’s really gone. Unless to see his father near Kenosha, and you say it’s him that’s looking for Albee.”
I tried a new tack, not that I expected it to get me anywhere. “Has Albee been a good tenant?”
“Except a couple of things. Played his phonograph too loud a time or two and others on the third floor complained and I told him about it. And something I don’t hold with personally—he’s brought a girl here. But that’s his business, the way I look at it.”
Well, I didn’t pursue that. I had the girl’s name on my list. I thanked Mrs. Radcliffe, and left. I’d be back tomorrow, I decided, but first I’d make sure Chudakoff would be in his office ready for the call.
Next on my list was a Jerry Score, identified by Chudakoff as Albee’s closest friend. Chudakoff hadn’t got anything helpful out of him, but I could try. Especially as he lived only two blocks away, on Walton Place.
It turned out to be a rooming house building pretty much like the one in which Albee had his pad, except with four stories and more rooms. Again I got silence in answer to buzzing the room, and again I tried a landlady, whose name turned out to be Mrs. Proust, although this one labeled herself “Proprietor.” This one was big, fat and sloppy, and the heat was getting her down.
But she gave me the score on Jerry Score. He wouldn’t be home; he was out of town for the day. She didn’t know where, but he’d said he’d be back tomorrow. And she was sure he would be, because he was playing the second lead in a play for the Near Northers, a little theater group, and was having to rehearse almost every afternoon and evening. She told me where they were rehearsing and would be playing, an old theater on Clark Street that had once been a burlesque house and was now used only by little theater groups. And yes, she was sure he’d be there tomorrow afternoon because that was the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal.
She was panting by then and invited me in for a cold lemonade, probably because she wanted one herself, and the lemonade tasted good and she was bottled up with talk. Yes, she knew Jerry pretty well, he’d been with her for years. His job? He was a door-to-door canvasser, vacuum cleaners, and did pretty well at it. He liked that kind of work because he could set his own hours and that let him go in for amateur theatricals. He’d wanted to be a pro and had once made a try at Hollywood, but had given up and came back. He gave her duckets and she’d seen him act and thought he was pretty good. She was show people herself; back when, she’d been a pony in a chorus line, with a traveling troupe that had once played the very theater Jerry was now acting in.
Yes, she knew Albee Nielson. Not real well, but she’d met him a few times, and had seen him act too. Yes, he’d been with the Near Northers, but not in the current play, and Jerry had told her, she thought about a week ago, that Albee had left town.