I said, “Not much in his pockets, but I might as well tell you that too. A dark blue necktie with a Marshall Field label, a pair of gold-plated tweezers, several transparent envelopes about the size of a postage stamp, a pocket comb and some change . . .”
My voice began to run down. A. Cullinham Grandfils had his mouth open again, but this time there was the light of recognition in his eyes. He said crisply, “The coat was a gray flannel, Mr Pine?”
“Yeah?”
“Carlton weave?”
“Hunh?”
“Never mind. You wouldn’t know that. Quite new?”
“I thought so.”
He bent across the desk to move a key on an intercom. “Harry,” he snapped into the box. “That gray flannel lounge suit we made for Amos Spain. Was it sent out?”
“A week already,” the box said promptly. “Maybe ten days, even. You want I should check exactly?”
“Never mind.” Grandfils flipped back the key and leaned into the leather chair and went on tapping his knuckles with the knife. “Those tweezers and envelopes did it, sir. He’s an enthusiastic stamp collector. Less than a month ago I saw him sitting in the outer room lifting stamps delicately with those tweezers and putting them in such envelopes while waiting for a fitting.”
“Amos Spain is his name?”
“It is.”
“He fits the description I gave?”
“Physically, exactly. But not the frayed slacks and dirty shirt. Amos Spain wouldn’t be found dead in such clothes.”
“You want to bet?”
“. . . Oh. Of course. I simply can’t understand it!”
“How about an address on Spain, Mr Grandfils?”
He dug a silver-trimmed leather notebook out of a desk drawer and looked inside. “8789 South Shore Drive. Apartment 3C. It doesn’t show a telephone, although I’m confident he has one.”
“Married?”
He dropped the book back in the drawer and closed it with his foot. “We don’t inquire into the private lives of our people, Mr Pine. It seems to me Mrs Spain is dead, although I may be wrong. I do know Amos Spain is reasonably wealthy and, I think, retired.”
I took down the address and got up and put on my coat and said, “Thanks for your help, Mr Grandfils.” He nodded and I opened the door. As I started out, he said:
“You really should do something about your suits, Mr Pine.”
I looked back at him sitting there like one of those old Michelin tire ads. “How much,” I said, “would you charge me for one?”
“I think we could do something quite nice for you at three hundred.”
“For that price,” I said, “I would expect two pairs of pants.”
His chin began to bob and he made a sound like roosters fighting. He was laughing. I closed the door in the middle of it and went on down the hall.
The address on South Shore Drive was a long low yellow-brick apartment building of three floors and an English basement. A few cars were parked along a wide sweep of concrete running past the several entrances, and I angled the Plymouth into an open spot almost directly across from 8789.
The rain got in a few licks at me before I could reach the door. Inside was a small neat foyer, complete with bright brass mail boxes and an inner door. The card on the box for 3C showed the name Amos Spain.
I pressed the right button and after a longish moment a woman’s voice came down the tube. “Yes?”
That jarred me a little. I hadn’t actually expected an answer. I said, “Mrs Spain?”
“This is Mrs Monroe,” the voice said. “Mr Spain’s daughter. Are you from the post office?”
“Afraid not. I’m an officer, Mrs Monroe. Want to talk to you.”
“An officer? Why, I don’t believe . . . What about?”
“Not from down here, Mrs Monroe. Ring the buzzer.”
“I’ll do no such thing! How do I know you’re a policeman? For all I know you could be a – a—”
“On a day like this? Don’t be silly.”
There was some silence and then the lock began to stutter. I went through and on up carpeted steps to the third floor. Halfway along a wide cheerful hallway was a partially open door and a woman in a flowered housecoat looking out at me.
She was under thirty but not very far under. She had wicked eyes. Her hair was reddish brown and there was a lot of it. Her skin was flawless, her cheekbones high, her mouth an insolent curve. She was long and slender in the legs, small in the waist, high in the breasts. She was dynamite.
I was being stared at in a coolly impersonal way. “A policeman you said. I’m fascinated. What is it you want?”
I said, “Do I get invited in or do we entertain the neighbors?”
Her eyes wavered and she bit her lip. She started to look back over her shoulder, thought better of it, then said, “Oh, very well. If you’ll be brief.”
She stepped back and I followed her across a tiny reception hall and on into an immense living room, with a dinette at one end and the open door to a kitchen beyond that. The living room was paneled, with beautiful leather chairs, a chesterfield, lamps with drum shades, a loaded pipe rack, a Governor Winthrop secretary, a fireplace with a gas log. Not neat, not even overly clean, but the right place for a man who puts comfort ahead of everything else.
I dropped my coat on a hassock and sat down on one of the leather chairs. Her lips hardened. “Don’t get too comfortable,” she said icily. “I was about to leave when you rang.”
“It’s a little chilly out for a housecoat,” I said.
Her jaw hardened. “Just who do you think you are, busting in here and making smart remarks? You say you’re a cop. As far as manners go, I believe it. Now I think I’d like to see some real proof.”
I shrugged. “No proof, Mrs Monroe. I said officer, not policeman. A private detective can be called an officer without stretching too far.”
“Private—” Her teeth snapped shut and she swallowed almost convulsively. Her face seemed a little pale now but I could have imagined that. “What do you want?” she almost whispered.
“Where’s Amos Spain?” I said.
“My . . . father?”
“Uh-huh.”
“. . . I don’t know. He went out early this morning.”
“He say where?”
“No.” Whatever had shocked her was passing. “Tom and I were still sleeping when he went out.”
“Tom?”
“My husband.”
“Where’s he?”
“Still asleep. We got in late. Why do you want to know where my father is?”
I said, “I think it would be a good idea if you sat down, Mrs Monroe. I’m afraid I’ve brought some bad news.”
She didn’t move. Her eyes went on watching me. They were a little wild now and not at all wicked. She wet her lips and said, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Bad news about what?”
“About your father. He’s dead, Mrs Monroe. Murdered.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said quickly. Almost too quickly.
“He’s been identified. Not much chance for a mistake.”
She turned away abruptly and walked stiffly over to a lamp table and took a cigarette from a green cloisonné box. Her hand holding the match wavered noticeably but nothing showed in her face. She blew out a long streamer of smoke and came back and perched carelessly on an arm of the couch across from me. The housecoat slipped open slightly, letting me see most of the inner curve of a freshly powdered thigh. I managed to keep from chewing a hole in the rug.
“There’s been some mistake, Mr Pine. Dad never had an enemy in the world. What do you suggest I do?”
I thought back to be sure. Then I was sure. I said, “The body’s probably at the morgue by this time and already autopsied. Might be a good idea to send your husband over. Save you from a pretty unpleasant job.”