“Please, Mrs. Bokker. Give me three minutes — well, five. I will not be offensive, I will leave whenever you ask me.”
The smoldering in her eyes seemed to fade. She looked him over carefully, then made a gesture to an overstuffed chair. “You’d think I had no life of my own. I’m famous, because, once upon a time, I was Doris Delaney’s best friend, the girl who knew her better than any living person. I hardly remember her. It was so long ago!”
“Yes, it was, Mrs. Bokker. But you were her best friend, weren’t you?”
“We roomed together. You get to know a girl when you live with her five days a week.”
“For how long? I mean, how long did you room together?”
“From September until — well, when it happened.”
“Happened, Mrs. Bokker? You used that word as if it meant something. Wasn’t it rather the lack of something happening? She just went out — disappeared. Never came back.”
Mrs. Bokker was not happy about this. “You — you’re talking like those G-men. They tried to trick me every time. Questioned me over and over. Looked me up and down and jumped on me every time I used the wrong word, or said something they couldn’t understand. Half the time I didn’t know what was happening. You — you’re not one of them, are you?”
“No, Mrs. Bokker. And I’ll try not to talk like that again. I’ll simplify my questions. Did you know — did Doris tell you anything about — well, a boy?”
“You mean did I know she was pregnant?”
Alder nodded. “Was she pregnant?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t. Somebody brought that up and — well, Mrs. Delaney, Doris’ mother, got me alone one time. She asked me, but I really didn’t know. If she was pregnant, she never let on, and I was her best friend.”
“Do you have any children, Mrs. Bokker?”
“I don’t see what—” She shook her head. “No, I don’t. Not that I couldn’t have — it’s just, well, my health has never been too good. I had a miscarriage a year after we were married and the doctor said—”
“One thing in the reports has always bothered me, Mrs. Bokker,” Alder said. “Why didn’t you go with Doris to the malt shop?”
“We weren’t allowed to. It was against the rules. Mrs. Tubbs’d give us — I mean, she’d make us do all sorts of things, if she caught us breaking the rules.”
“Doris Delaney broke them apparently.”
“She didn’t care. She’d just as soon be sent home as not.”
“Any of the other girls break the rules — the rule about leaving the school, going to the malt shop?”
“Most of them did, at one time or another. I did, too, only I got caught once and after that — besides, I was on a diet at the time. Doris didn’t have to worry about that. She had the kind of a figure — well, she could eat anything and it didn’t show on her. She ate more than I did, but it didn’t bother her.”
“You did go to the malt shop, however. Did you — did you meet any boys there?”
“What do you mean, meet? Sure, there were fellows there sometimes. Lots of time. A good-looking girl like Doris—”
“She was good-looking?”
“You must have seen pictures of her. Yes — she was good-looking in a, well, rather a skinny kind of a way.”
“So there were boys at the malt shop. You talked to them sometimes?”
“Kidded around. Teen-age stuff. We weren’t any worse than the kids today. Probably a lot better.”
“Was there anyone, well, any one boy that Doris seemed to have a preference for — at the malt shop, I mean?”
“I answered that question a thousand times, if it was once. I didn’t go across the street that often. I don’t remember anyone any more than any other Doris wasn’t a bad girl — not bad, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“I’m afraid I was. It was that — the doctor who tentatively identified her once—”
“Bosh! He was trying to get his name in the papers. So was everybody else. For months people kept calling the newspapers, the police. They’d seen Doris here, they’d seen her there. Her father sent detectives to all the places. They showed pictures, and it wasn’t ever Doris the people’d seen — just a blonde girl, that’s all.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bokker. I won’t keep you longer. Just one more question, and I wish you’d think a moment before you answer it. It’s about Doris — her manner, her attitude those last days before she went out and failed to return. Was she — despondent? Worried?”
“I don’t have to take time to think about that one. I answered it before. Doris wasn’t the worrying kind. I was the quiet one then. Not Doris. She talked a blue streak. Her father was a rich man. She didn’t have a worry in the world. She wasn’t afraid of anything. She was rich, she was good-looking and she had a figure.”
“Figure?”
“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Bokker spread out her hands, made a rounding gesture.
“Awhile ago you referred to her as a thin girl. Skinny was the word you used.”
“At first. When we started rooming together. Her — she began developing then and by the time — well, by the time she ran away, she wasn’t skinny. Not that way, anyhow.”
“Her — breasts had developed?”
There was a sudden sting to Mrs. Bokker’s reply. “That’s not exactly a fit subject of conversation between mixed company, Mr. Adler, or Alder.”
“I’m sorry. I meant it as an impersonal thing. Thank you, Mrs. Bokker. Thank you for the time you’ve given me. You’ve been most kind.”
“It’s all right. You — you’ve been polite up to — well, most of the time. But you forgot to mention something. Who are you? I mean, who are you working for — the police?”
“No. I’m not working for anyone, really. It’s just that I’m very much interested in mysteries. Thank you, and goodbye.”
She was frowning, but she let him go. He looked back at her as the maid let him out. She was sitting upright on the sofa looking at him.
Chapter 12
The apartment house was just off 83rd Street, one of the older ones. The doorman was old, the elevator operator was well past his prime and had to remain seated in his car. The doorman would give out no information. It was quite obvious that the elevator man would not take Alder beyond the first floor until he had the approval and permission of the doorman.
“Mr. Alder of Los Angeles,” Alder told him in his most formal tone.
The doorman spoke into the house phone, listened and then said, “Thank you.” He turned to Alder. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Delaney is not receiving.”
“You spoke to her personally?”
“She is not receiving.”
“Will you do one thing — take a written message up to her?”
The elderly doorman pondered that carefully. “There has been no specific instruction against it.”
“Do you have some house stationery about?”
This also was not covered by specific instructions and the doorman weighed it. He decided correctly and went into a little room off the lobby. After a moment he returned with an envelope and a card bearing the monogram of the apartment house.
Alder wrote a single line on the card, inserted it in the envelope, and sealed it. He handed it to the doorman. “It’s for Mrs. Delaney personally. It should not be opened by a servant.”
“I’m afraid I cannot guarantee that,” was the deliberately thought-out protest.
“I’m sure Mrs. Delaney would not want the contents of this note seen by other human eyes.”