She gave him her hand. She had a strong grip, almost like a man’s. Yet her flesh was soft, warm.
She chucked the young Hungarian under the chin. “Look me up in a couple of years, sonny. If you don’t make it in Hollywood.”
“You can be my hostess,” Szabo grinned. “When I become Mayor of Chicago.”
“Dammit, you’re all right. Mayor, huh? A Hungarian Mayor.”
They returned to the car. Alder was silent as they climbed in. Szabo started the motor. “Back to town?”
“Yes.”
They drove for ten minutes, then Alder said, “I’m going to drop it. We’re on the wrong track.”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Alder.”
“Forget it. I’m calling off your boss.”
Chapter 21
At eleven o’clock, Alder was in his hotel room, preparing to go to bed when the phone rang.
He answered, but there was no voice on the other end. Alder was about to speak again impatiently — and then heard the humming on the line. The humming of a long-distance call.
His pulses suddenly pounded. He said, “This is Tom Alder... Hello...?”
There was no reply.
He knew that there was someone at the other — end of the wire, he knew that the person was a long ways off — far from the hotel, from Chicago.
He knew who it was.
“Nikki,” he said softly, “I’m here.”
He waited. He thought he could hear the breathing at the other end, but he knew that he could not hear it.
“I’ll come to you, Nikki,” he said. “I’ll come — wherever you are.”
There was a click on the wire, and the connection was broken. She had hung up.
He knew, though, who it had been. He knew.
He picked up the phone. “You just put through a call to my room,” he said to the operator. “It was a long-distance call. I want to know from where the call came.”
“One moment, please,” said the operator.
It was a full two minutes before the operator returned. “Sir, I’ve been trying to trace the call you inquired about. I have the long distance operator on the lines...”
The long distance operator came on. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“This is Tom Alder,” he said. “I’m occupying Room 1424-S at the Palmer House. A long-distance call just came through to me — less than five minutes ago. I want to know from whom the call was — no, from where it came.”
“One moment, sir!”
Two minutes went by, three. The long distance operator returned. “Regarding the call you asked about, sir. Are you the party to whom it was placed?”
“I am.”
“Your name?”
“Tom Alder — Thomas Alder. I’m registered at the Palmer House.”
“The call you are inquiring about, sir, came from Minneapolis, Minnesota. The Minneapolis operator informs me that it was transmitted from Bismarck, North Dakota — from a pay telephone.”
“What was the number of the phone?” cried Alder.
“The call was placed from 24026, Ring 2.”
“Ring two?”
“A party line. Many of the smaller communities have party lines. They are identified by the letter R, for ring. Ring one, Ring two, sometimes Ring three.”
“Get me the number — the Bismarck number, 24026, Ring 2.”
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to place that in the regular way. Dial your local operator.”
Alder gritted his teeth, but hung up, jiggled the prongs and got the telephone operator. “I want to put in a long distance call,” he said, “to Bismarck, North Dakota. The number is 24026, Ring two.”
“24026. Ring two, you said?”
“Ring two. That’s a party line.”
He waited. He heard the call routed through Minneapolis, Fargo, and Bismarck. Finally the connection was made. The phone rang two, three, four times. There was a click on the phone, but it still continued to ring. After six rings the Bismarck operator said, “I’m sorry, operator, your party does not answer.”
“Somebody answered,” cried Alder. “I heard the receiver taken off.”
“Ring two did not answer. Ring one perhaps picked up the telephone.”
“Sir,” said the hotel operator, “the party you called in Bismarck, North Dakota, does not answer. Shall I try the number again in a half hour?”
“No,” said Alder, “it’s a pay phone and the place where it is probably closed for the night. Cancel the call.”
He held the phone in his hands. Bismarck, North Dakota.
She had called him — and then had not spoken a word.
Why?
He knew the reason — he hoped that he knew the reason.
He put the telephone to his ear. “Operator, give me your travel desk... I want to make an airplane reservation... Travel, this is Mr. Alder in Room 1424-S. Can you tell me how soon I can get a plane for Bismarck, North Dakota?... I’ll wait.”
He waited. Three minutes.
The travel clerk said then, “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no direct flight from Chicago to Bismarck. Best I can do is give you a seat to Minneapolis. You’d have to take your chances there on the local fights.”
“Minneapolis,” snapped Alder. “One ticket... how soon?”
“One way or round trip?”
“One way — round trip. It doesn’t matter. How soon?”
“There’s a flight in forty-five, no forty-two minutes. If you could get to the airfield in that time... Would you like me to...”
“No,” said Alder.
He put down the phone, got to his feet. His purchases were scattered on the bed. He had not bought a bag. He shook his head strode to the door and went out.
He punched the elevator button and fumed until the car door opened. He strode swiftly across the lobby and out to the State Street entrance. A cab was unloading at the curb.
Alder thrust a twenty-dollar bill at the cabby. “The airport. I’ve got exactly thirty-nine minutes — and if you make it in thirty-five minutes, you get another ten dollars to pay your speeding ticket.”
“Hang on,” cried the cab driver.
He made it to the airport in thirty minutes, but used up another minute jockeying about to get Alder close to the terminal building.
Alder strode through, stopped at the Information Window. “The flight to Minneapolis—”
“Gate seven. Leaves in three minutes.”
He went through the gate to the plane. The co-pilot and stewardess stood at the foot of the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Alder said. “I didn’t have time to buy a ticket. Do you have a seat — to Minneapolis?”
“Your luggage, sir?” asked the co- pilot.
“I didn’t even have time for that. It’s an emergency. I can pay, however.”
“That’s all it takes to fly with me,” grinned the co-pilot. “Money.”
“This way, sir,” said the stewardess and led the way up the flight steps into the plane.
The plane touched the broad runway of the Minneapolis airport a few minutes after two. It had rained recently and the concrete was glistening. There was a bite in the night air.
Alder went into the terminal building. There were booths of a half dozen or more small airline companies, feeder lines that spread out into all directions of Minnesota, Wisconsin, the Northwest, Canada.
He was referred from one booth to another. The one he wound up at was closed for the night.
He questioned, prodded the attendants who were on duty at other desks. He used money and he found one who was willing to accept it. The attendant made a phone call. He talked at some length, whispering part of the time. Then he put down the phone.
“Mike Erlinger,” he said. “The Great Plains Airways.” He grinned. “Fancy name for two crates that are held together by baling wire. But so far Mike’s always come down, right side up. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. He lives only about a mile away.”