Alder looked at the picture for a long time. He said, finally, “When was this last picture taken?”
“At Christmastime, just before — before she left.”
“And this one?” He turned back a page.
“Several months before, around Easter of 1937. It was the best picture we ever had of her. Her father’s favorite.”
“Is that why he released it to the police? To the press?”
“It was an excellent likeness of her.”
“No,” said Alder, “it is not as good as the later picture.”
“It is a better picture of her.”
“At the age of fifteen, yes, not at the age of sixteen — less two months.”
“There isn’t enough difference to matter.”
“There is a great deal of difference, Mrs. Delaney. You are her mother, you would not have noted such a difference. Look.” He got up and crossed to her. Laying the open album on her lap, he pointed with his finger. “This is the picture of a child. This—” He turned the page to the last picture. “This is a flower in full bloom.” He touched his finger to the breasts of the girl in the picture, ran the finger gently down in a curve.
“I am surprised, Mr. Alder,” said Mrs. Delaney in a strained voice. “I did not think you had a mind like that.”
“I am a normal man, Mrs. Delaney. I am aware of a woman’s breast. I am aware of a girl’s breast. Very much aware.”
It was a moment before she looked up at him. “That is important to a man!”
“Yes, Mrs. Delaney.”
She began to muse. “A father watching a child grow up — he is proud of the child, but he thinks of her as a child. Unconsciously he might resent her growing up. What would attract him in a grown woman might be resented by him in his own daughter — the mark of maturity.”
Alder nodded. “A girl in a middy blouse, a girl with a beautiful face, but scarcely budding breasts, a child. The face does not change much in a few months, but between fifteen and sixteen — a girl not in a middy blouse, but wearing a sweater — she is not a child any more. The police were searching for a child.”
Mrs. Delaney stared at the last picture of Doris Delaney. Alder moved away and looked down at her.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Delaney,” he said.
“For pointing out a vital fact I had not seen? For talking to me about — about my daughter’s breasts? It is perhaps an indelicate subject. If it were not important. It is important, isn’t it?”
“It might well be the most important thing in all the world — to you.”
She closed the album and looked up at him. “Forty-one,” she said. “You were nineteen in 1938. You know, Mr. Alder, I wish my daughter had met you in 1938.”
“You could not have said a kinder thing, Mrs. Delaney.”
“I meant it. For you — as much as for poor Doris. Perhaps — perhaps if you had met her, there wouldn’t be as much steel in you as there is. There might not have been — the haunted look that there is in your eyes.”
He stepped up to her again, bent and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodbye, Mrs. Delaney,” he said softly.
“Not goodbye, Mr. Alder. I don’t think it is. I believe you will find my daughter.”
He turned away from her. In the next room he saw the aged Negro servant. The man went to the door with him. As Alder went out, the Negro said, “Goodbye, Mr. Alder.”
Chapter 13
Outside, Alder walked to the corner of 83rd Street. He entered a drugstore and went into a phone booth. He dialed the number of his hotel and when the operator answered said, “This is Mr. Alder. I am registered in Room 1819. Are there any messages for me?”
“One minute. Yes, Mr. Alder. A man named Plesch — Pleschette telephoned. He said he would call again.”
“Anything else?”
“Call Murray Hill 7-8383. Just Jim. Urgent.”
“That’s all?”
He left the phone booth and the drugstore. Outside he stepped into a waiting taxicab. In less than ten minutes he got off at the comer of 45th and entered a building.
The offices of Detectives, Incorporated were on the seventh floor. He was ushered instantly into Jim Honsinger’s paneled office.
“Tom Alder!” cried the big man behind the tremendous, modernistic desk. He came around it in quick strides, grasped Alder’s hand in a giant fist and virtually crushed his knuckles. Honsinger was in his early fifties, a paunchy giant of a man, who had gone to flesh. In his younger days he had been a famous athlete, a football player, an amateur boxer who loved to work out at Stillman’s Gym with the visiting professionals.
“Sit down, man, sit down! Scotch — bourbon?”
“I’m working.”
“So am I. Working for you, old hoss. Why I don’t know. And I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”
“I think I do. I’ve just come from Mrs. Delaney’s.”
“Don’t kid me, boy, don’t kid me. Mrs. Delaney hasn’t talked to anyone in ten years. She’s a hermitess — hates the world. She hates cops especially. I called your hotel just a half hour ago.”
“That’s why I’m here. I telephoned in.”
“Got something for you. That little lady in Los Angeles — the little old lady from Los Angeles—”
“Julia Joliet”
“Alias Kate Killigan, alias Frieda Friday — always alliterative. She’s a nice little lady — used to be, that is. Two convictions, one fine of a thousand dollars and restitution — one three-year stretch. Badger, badger, who’s got the badger? Blackmail!”
Honsinger scattered papers on his desk, scooped up one. “Fine, suspended sentence, January 14, 1919.”
“Forty-one years ago!”
“Gave her age as twenty-one, could have been older. Nineteen twenty-three, convicted, badger game, sentenced three years. Came out in ’25. Arrested again in 1929 in a raid. Posted bail of fifty dollars. Forfeited it. That’s all, but it’s enough. Notice the time in between — 1919, next time 1923. Doesn’t mean she worked it only twice, only twice caught. A sweet little lady.”
“No arrests after 1929.”
“Not here. New pastures, new name probably. Check in California. After ’29.”
A light flicked on Honsinger’s desk. He grabbed up one of three telephones. “Yes?... Put him on. Honsinger, Fred. Go ahead... right!... Hold it a sec...” He clapped one hand over the receiver, said to Alder:
“Fred Tamm, in Washington. A very good man. He said there’s a file of the New York Bulletin in the Congressional Library. He had it photographed and is air-mailing it today. Special delivery. We’ll have it tonight.”
“Ask him what’s on the page — page four, section two, column three.”
Honsinger repeated the question. He listened a moment. “A picture, Tom. That’s all. Goes with the article below. Picture of... what’s the name, Fred? Danny Koenig? Good work, Fred. Send me the bill. Wait... anything else you want in Washington, Tom?”
“I have a friend there. Major General Mattock. He was my Colonel during the war. I can get what I want from him.”
“All right, Tom. That’s all, Fred.”
He hung up. “Pentagon stuff, Tom?”
“I’m trying to get the service record of Leroy Dane, the movie man. He was a hero — but not under the name of Dane. By the way, have you gotten his real name yet?”
“Working on it now. Shouldn’t be hard. Lot of crap gets printed about actors, but the real names can be had. Ought to have it for you by night. It’s early, but lunch?”
“I’ll skip it. There’s a lot to do. Keep at things, will you?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get what you want. Long as I don’t have to figure it out. It doesn’t make sense. A missing picture, a blackmailer in California, Doris Delaney — it couldn’t possibly tie together.”