“I didn’t say it did.”
“But you didn’t say it didn’t.” The big detective chuckled. “Good thing I’m an honest private eye. One of my crooked colleagues would take the information they’d get — never mind, shouldn’t talk that way about my competitors.”
It was twenty minutes to twelve when Alder reached the street. There were things to digest. A question nagged at his brain and he could not find an answer. He walked to his hotel and tried to sift out the pieces, the information he had, things he suspected, and things he guessed at. They didn’t go together.
At the hotel he asked for his key and went to the message clerk. She handed him a heavy manila envelope and the telephone messages. Four slips of paper. Two were calls from Jacques Pleschette. A third slip he had taken care of — Jim Honsinger. There was a fourth slip.
“Call Mr. Stanley, Chelsea 2-4024.”
His name was on the slip, so there could not be an error. Yet he knew no one named Stanley. He went up to his room, half expecting to find Jacques Pleschette in it. But it was empty.
He picked up the phone. “Get me Chelsea 2-4024.”
After a moment a voice said, “Yeah?”
“Mr. Stanley? I have a message that you called me. Alder...”
“Ah yes, Mr. Alder. This is Mark Stanley. I wondered if we might have a chat, you and I, Mr. Alder.”
“About what?”
“Why — just things. A friendly little chat, that’s all. It might be very beneficial.”
“Not to me, Mr. Stanley. I don’t know you.”
“That may be your loss, Mr. Alder. Not mine. I do think we ought to get together. Say about four? At your hotel if you wish...”
“I don’t wish.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Mr. Alder. I’m trying to be helpful, that’s all...”
“Give me a name that I know, Stanley.”
“Not on the telephone. I do not like tape recorders, tapped wires, or other electronic devices.”
“I can assure you that there are none of those things here.”
“One never knows, Mr. Alder. Not until one gets before a committee and they suddenly produce tapes... with your voice on them. Of course they cannot be used as evidence. Not in the law courts. But committees aren’t courts. They do not convict, but they can cause much embarrassment. A private conversation in a public place — it’s so much more satisfactory. And so much safer.”
“All right, Mr. Stanley. If I am not busy at four o’clock, I’ll be in the grill downstairs.”
“Try not to be busy. Until four then, Mr. Alder.”
Alder replaced the receiver, just as the door opened. Jacques Pleschette came into the room.
“I left the door on the latch,” exclaimed Alder. “You have got a key!”
“Keys, Mr. Alder? Childish devices. I seldom use them.”
“You just say presto, and the doors open!”
“A nail file is an excellent door opener, Mr. Alder. So is the common ordinary paper clip. Although I am an expert with a strip of celluloid and I once opened a very fine tumbler lock with an old-fashioned wooden match, the kind we used back home.”
Chapter 14
Pleschette took off his Homburg hat, placed it carefully on the coffee table and dropped into the wing chair facing Alder, seated on the couch.
“You’ve had a busy morning, Mr. Alder. You called at 881 Fifth Avenue, and then you spent the longest time at a certain apartment house on Madison Avenue, and then you called at Mr. Honsinger’s offices on lower Madison.”
“You’ve been following me?”
“Of course, sir. And I do hope those calls were on my behalf.”
“They weren’t.”
“That’s why I have been telephoning you, Mr. Alder.” The big Frenchman beamed. “Although I followed you, I still maintained contact with your hotel. I thought you might be telephoning in from time to time and I did so want to keep my name on your mind. You have come to a decision, Mr. Alder?”
“I have. It’s no.”
“But that’s terrible, Mr. Alder! Have you thought of the thousand-dollar bills? The beautiful treasury certificates?”
“They tempted me, Pleschette, but not enough. I don’t want any part of you.”
“But my dear sir, it’s not I — it’s my brother I want you to find. I am an old man, a scoundrel beyond redemption. I have been a thief and a swindler all of my life. But now, in my old age, I do want to do one fine thing — find my long-lost brother and you, Mr. Alder, you reject my commission. Think of it this way. You would not be working for me, but my brother.”
“You’d pay me with money you stole.”
“Money I earned. I paid for that money with sixteen years of my life. I earned the money. Every dollar of it. They do make prisoners work, you know. In my case I was fortunate in being the librarian. Nevertheless, it was work.”
Pleschette suddenly chuckled. “Very well, Mr. Alder. You will not accept tainted money. Excellent! I will not pay you at all. You will find my brother because you are a humanitarian. Filthy lucre shall not contaminate you. You will do it for charity’s sake.”
“I have an agreement with the United Charities,” said Alder. “They do not search for missing heirs and I don’t work for charity.”
“You jest, sir! Very well, we shall be humorous. I laugh. Ha-ha! And now let us get back to business. I will give you a little tidbit — the answer to a question you asked me last night. Why I chanced to be at the El Toro Court in Los Angeles.”
“I know the answer to that.”
“You couldn’t possibly know it.”
“Julia Joliet, alias. Kitty Killigan, alias Frieda Friday. An old friend of yours, an accomplice perhaps from the old days, the good old days.”
“Fantastic, Mr. Alder! Fabulous! That steel-trap mind of yours. That intellect. Like a rapier.”
“You used that one last night.”
“Oh, did I? I am all the more determined to have your services, Mr. Alder.”
“Go to the police. They’re very good at finding missing persons.”
“I cannot deal with the police. They know me as Big Frenchy Fanchon. No, sir, I cannot ask the police for help.”
“Try a private detective.”
“Mr. Honsinger? Your detective agency? They are already working for you. Yes, they could help. While they are asking for information for you, they could just as well probe a bit on my behalf.” Mr. Pleschette’s mouth puckered up. He pushed the pucker out, pulled it in. “Perhaps they are doing that very thing. It was Mr. Honsinger who told you about the late, ah, Julia Joliet? An interesting name. From the great French explorer, Louis Joliet, an ancestor of mine, perhaps.” The pucker came out again. “Mr. Alder, I followed you this morning. You were not aware of it. Did you know, Mr. Alder — and this may shock you — that I was not the only one who was following you?”
“What?”
“Precisely! You are astonished. I am an expert at such things. I was not exactly following you, Mr. Alder. I was following the man who was following you. And he was an expert at it. Would you like to see him?” Pleschette stepped to the door, listened, then signaled to Alder.
Alder walked swiftly to the door.
“Open,” said Pleschette quietly.
Alder opened the door. A lean, tall man stood at a door across the hall and one door away. He was in the act of pressing a door buzzer — or pretending to do so. He did not look toward Alder, but as Alder watched, he turned and walked off toward the cross corridor that led to the elevators. Alder closed the door.