“I’d like to ask you just one question, Mr. Stanley. What do you think happened to Doris Delaney?”
“I said, forget it!”
“I’m not asking for information — just an opinion. Your opinion. You said kidnaping—”
“It brought in the F.B.I.”
“You think it was kidnaping?”
Stanley sent an ominous look to the tall man who was leaning carelessly against the door. “I got the word, Alder. Talk to him, tell him to go home and mind his own business. I’ve passed it on. Now, why don’t you be a good boy and do that little thing, huh? Go home.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long, huh?” He suddenly indicated the tall man at the door. “He doesn’t talk much. In fact, he hardly ever says a word, on account of he don’t get paid to talk. He gets paid — to do things.”
“All right, Stanley. You’ve delivered the message.”
“What they say in the movies? ‘Mission accomplished!’ I can pass the word along, huh?”
“You can tell them you delivered the message.”
“Just one more thing, Alder. That telephone number I gave to call me. It’s no good. And my name ain’t Mark Stanley.”
The heavy-set man smirked and started for the door. The tall one opened it for him.
And then Alder said, “What is your name — Danny Koenig?”
The man who had called himself Stanley stopped. It was a moment before he turned. He looked at Alder with sober eyes. “What was that name?”
“Danny Koenig.”
The tip of the heavy-set man’s tongue came out, flicked his lips sidewards. He said, “Never heard of him,” and went out.
The tall man moved sidewards through the door after him and closed it carefully, firmly.
Alder shuddered. He suddenly felt the need of fresh air, but he waited a good three minutes before he left his room.
In the lobby, Alder located the hotel switchboard. There was a battery of booths just outside of it. He went into the one closest to the switchboard, where he could see the three hotel operators.
He put through his call and a moment later had Jim Honsinger on the line. “Jim, I’ve just had a couple of visitors. One of them was around fifty, two-ten or two-twenty. Five feet eight or nine. He wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe suit. He knew a lot of things, such as what you are doing for me.”
“Oh-oh,” said Honsinger. “Blue pinstripe suit, eh? Double-breasted. I think I know him. He’s pretty high up. Close to the top. Number three, some say number two.”
“What’s his name?”
“Hartwig, if it’s the man I think it is. Milton Hartwig.”
“I think I’ve seen his name in the papers. The recent congressional investigations.”
“He was in them. Took the Fifth nineteen times. The First, eleven.”
Alder said, “That photostat from Washington won’t reach you for another two or: three hours, will it?”
“Perhaps not until early evening. Is it that important?”
“I think so. In the meantime, Jim, can you put every available man on it? Danny Koenig — whose picture is in that photostat. He has a police record, according to the newspaper account below the picture. He was a minor hoodlum, but I’d like to know everything about him. His physical description, his background — that’s aside from the police record. His friends, associates — everything.”
“That’s a tall order for a hoodlum dead that long. They come and go in that business. Some of them are forgotten in two weeks. But we’ll do our best.”
“And do it with as little notice as possible. I... I wouldn’t want another visit from our friend. Not before I’m ready for him.”
“The kind of investigation you want can’t be made under a barrel, Tom. I’ll tell the boys to work as quietly as possible, but if you want fast results, it’s going to get around. I’ve been thinking, Tom — maybe you ought to have one of my boys go around with you.”
“I don’t need a bodyguard. Not yet.”
“I was only thinking of you. All right, Tom. We’ll get busy.”
Alder hung up, thought for a moment, then fished another coin out of his pocket. First, however, he brought up the Manhattan phone directory and looked up a number.
He dialed it then. “Miss Tubbs,” he said.
“Who?” asked a female voice.
“Miss Tabitha Tubbs.”
“Miss Tabitha Tubbs died twenty years ago,” was the reply.
“I didn’t know,” said Alder. “Who is this speaking?”
“The headmistress. My name is Agatha Ainsworth. Who is this, please?”
“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you, Miss Ainsworth. I’m from out of town, here on a visit. A relative of mine asked me to give his old friend, Miss Tubbs, a call and say hello for him. He says he went to school with her in Denver.”
“Miss Tubbs attended school in Boston. I’m afraid your friend is mistaken about having gone to school with her.”
“Are you certain, Miss Ainsworth? My uncle told me he met her once here in New York — at the time of the famous Doris Delaney case. He had a short visit with her.”
“That’s impossible. I knew Tabby intimately. We were together for many years. As a matter of fact, she willed the school to me. I don’t recall of Tabby having a school friend visit her, not then, or any other time.”
“But this is the school Doris Delaney attended?”
“I don’t believe I wish to—”
“You say you were a teacher at the school at the time? You knew the Delaney girl?”
“Yes, I knew her, but I don’t care to...”
“I quite understand your position, Miss Ainsworth. A student kidnaped practically from your doorstep...” Alder heard Miss Ainsworth gasp, but continued on inexorably. “The school received much unfavorable publicity as a result. Parents withdrew their children...”
“That’s a lie!” Miss Ainsworth practically screamed. “Not a single girl was taken out of the school. Doris was not kidnaped. She ran away! The school was not responsible. Oh...” The line suddenly went dead.
Alder grinned at the phone. He opened the door and stepping out quickly got a glimpse of Hartwig’s tall man as he moved behind one of the square pillars.
He left the hotel, moved to the curb. There were three taxicabs in line. He nodded to the doorman and the first cab moved up a few yards to the canopy.
The tall man left the shelter of the doorway and strode toward the second cab in line. Alder opened the door of his cab, started to step into it, then backed out.
“Never mind,” he said to the driver and tossed him a crumpled bill. He circled around the cab, raced swiftly across the street where a single cab was parked, facing downtown.
He tore open the door, scrambled inside, and looked out. The tall man had left his cab, started across the street and now, seeing that Alder was taking the only cab facing south, was wheeling — heading back for the cabs in front of the hotel. He would pile into one, try to persuade the driver to make a U-turn and follow Alder’s southbound cab.
“Around the corner,” Alder told his driver.
The driver shifted into gear, zoomed the car away from the curb. “What’s the trouble, Mac?” he called over his shoulder.
“I’m trying to lose a man.”
“Cops and robbers, huh? Sorry, Mac!” He slammed on the brakes. “I don’t play that game. No charge.”
The car had almost reached the corner. Alder opened the door, catapulted out. A car was making a U-turn in front of the hotel.
A subway kiosk was ahead. Alder made for it, got down the stairs and through the turnstiles as a train pulled in.