“Don’t talk like that, Tom. But I’m glad you called. I stayed here just because I’ve been trying to get you since four o’clock. I’ve got some pay dirt for you.”
“I hope it’s about Danny Koenig.”
“You win the cigar! This Koenig was a sweet little guy. Best thing happened was when he got rubbed out. Saved the state an electric bill, if you know what I mean. But that isn’t the news — it’s Koenig’s chum, the lad the police tabbed for killing Koenig. Guess his name?”
“Pleschette?”
Honsinger exclaimed in chagrin. “That was my bomb! This Pleschette lad was made from the same mold as Koenig. Numbers collector, strong-arm stuff, panderer.”
“Panderer?”
“Him and Koenig both. Two nice boys. Only they had a falling out and the police figured it was Pleschette knocked him off. Funny thing, though, they never got him. He took it on the lam, disappeared. They expected to nail him without any trouble, but they never did. Pleschette — he never used the same name twice. Some of the boys called him Little Frenchy, on account of his brother, Big Frenchy, but on the police blotter they’ve got him Nick Fanchon, Johnny Adana, Charles White — half a dozen other names. That reminds me, the photostat from Washington came a half hour ago. It’s a bust — just a snap of Koenig. Only shows about half of his face. Looks like it was taken at the scene of a raid, the crooks coming out, being piled into the Black Maria and the guy trying to hide his face with his hat. He’s handcuffed to someone, but you only see the other man’s arm.”
“Wait, Jim,” cut in Alder. “Somebody thought that picture was recognizable enough so that he went to the Bulletin morgue and cut it out of both the file copies they have there.”
“Oh, it’s recognizable,” said Honsinger. “You can make out the face well enough. But it’s twenty, twenty-five years old. Shows a young punk with slicked-down hair. Looks just like fifty punks who’re picked up every week. Fella’d know himself from the picture. Maybe his friends would, too. You stop to think the pictures in the papers might have been cut out twenty years ago?”
“It’s possible,” said Alder. “You dig up any pictures of Pleschette? Little Frenchy, not his big brother?”
“We’re working on it. Shall I send the photostat of Koenig to Chicago?”
“No,” said Alder. “I’m not even going to give you my address here. I don’t trust your people, Jim—”
“Whoa, now!” cried Honsinger.
“I mean it, Jim. Your boys can be bought. I’m almost certain one of them got Hartwig on my neck. I’ll call you and I’ll do it from a pay phone.”
He hung up abruptly. He thought for a moment, frowning, then picked up the telephone again. “I want to put in a call to Major General Charles Mattock, at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. If he’s not there, try his home in Chevy Chase, Maryland.”
It was ten minutes before the call came through.
“Tom,” cried the general. “I thought you were going to New York. Your plane crash in Chicago?”
“I’ve been to New York, Chuck. I may return in a day or two. I’m calling again about the service record of—”
“Oh, no!” wailed General Mattock. “You’re making more trouble for me now than you did when we were in the South Pacific.”
“I’m the godfather of your Number One son,” said Alder. “That gives me privileges. Pleschette — P-L-E-S-C-H-E-T-T-E, Auguste, with an ‘e’ at the end. His service record.”
“That’s Leroy Dane under his real name?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I merely want Pleschette’s service record, and another for Daniel Koenig, last known address, New York. Both men have police records.”
“Then they may not have been in the service.”
“Small stuff, Chuck. I don’t think it amounted to enough to keep them out of the army. Not in the last war-to-end-wars. They took everything that could move — even me.”
“All right, Tom, I’ll get at it. But you’re sure going to have to come through with something for your godson. He’s twelve now. Few more years and I’ll send him out to Hollywood and you can fix him up with one of those young starlets.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“One thing more, Tom. Gladys knows that you’re digging up things on Dane. She says you harm one hair of his head you’ll have to answer to her. She loves him madly.”
“So do about a thousand women who just mobbed him down in the hotel lobby. He’s here.”
“Get his autograph, Tom. Get it and Gladys’ll love you for life.”
“I’ll try, General.”
“Very well, Major. On the double!”
“Thank you, Colonel, I mean General, sir.”
General Mattock said a four-letter word and hung up.
Chapter 17
Alder chuckled as he replaced A the phone on the prongs. He was reaching for it again, when it rang. He winced as he picked it up.
“Darling,” he said, “in five minutes.”
“You louse,” said Linda. “I’m sitting here waiting and I’m starved.”
“Order and I’ll be up before they bring the food.”
He pushed her door buzzer in ten minutes. She opened the door. She had put on a dress, a blue dress with a frilly skirt and a bodice that did nothing to conceal what she had under the dress.
“Wait’ll we’re married,” she said, biting his ear playfully. “I’ll teach you to keep a lady waiting.”
She had a two-room suite, a bedroom and the sitting room. Her eyes flicked to the bedroom, as he put his arms about her and held her tightly.
“Who the hell wants to eat?” she said.
“I’m hungry. I skipped lunch. A man was giving me a fitting for a cement overcoat and I didn’t get a chance to eat.”
“What in the world are you talking about? A cement overcoat.” Then her eyes widened. “Tom, you’re not — in trouble?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said, “only when I laugh.”
That one went over her head.
“I don’t know anything about your work. I put my foot in it the other night. I’m not going to do it again. But is it — dangerous?”
“Coming from the airport, the limousine ran a red light. We could have been killed. You can step off the curb outside the hotel and be hit by a car. My job’s as risky as crossing a street.”
“It is bad! That’s what you’re trying to say in your... your usual way.” She pushed away from him. “I... I cut out a piece from the papers about you, Tom. Away back in ’45. When they made you a Captain and gave you the medal. And then — when you were wounded—”
“Tarawa,” he said, “that’s where I almost got it. I got your letter on the ship the day before we hit the beach. The Dear John.”
She put the palm of her hand over his mouth. “If you say that again, I’ll scream. We made an agreement the other night — never to talk about that again.”
It takes two to make an agreement, a fact that Linda had overlooked. She had made the pact. He had not spoken at all.
“That dress,” he said, “it’s very attractive. There isn’t a more beautiful woman than you in the hotel. Let’s eat downstairs. I want to see the other women glaring at you.”
“But I’ve ordered, Tom. You said on the phone—”
“Call Room Service. Cancel it.”
“They’ll charge.”
“You can afford it.”
She looked at him, stepped forward and crushed her lips to his. Then she moved back. “I’ll get a wrap.” She went into the bedroom. He heard her in the closet, then she returned carrying a mink stole.
“What about Nikki? Suppose she calls?”