When he’d finished, I was looking properly humble.
Devine said: “We’ve got a lead on this, Chief. There’s a guy been bothering the doc, and he’s got a record as long as your arm.”
“His physical description fit?” the Chief asked.
Devine nodded.
The Chief said: “All right, Jones. We’ll leave things as they are for the time being. But keep in touch with us.”
Which was my dismissal, and I took it. Devine didn’t start talking again until I was out of the room and the door was closed. It’s a heavy door; I could hear nothing.
I went down the hall to Devine’s office, and Glen Harvey was there, as I’d hoped he’d be. He grinned at me. “Some day, that Devine is going to scalp you. Some day you’re going to needle him once too often.”
“He should keep out of my hair,” I said. Then: “I hear you boys have a lead on this one already. Fast work.”
“You hear the damnedest things,” he said, and his eyes were blank.
“I’m going to work on this, Glen,” I said. “I’m not going to get in anybody’s way, but I’ve got to know about this one.”
He shook his head. “I’m not saying a word. Excepting that I like to eat. I like to eat every day. Nothing personal, Jonesy.”
“O.K.,” I said, “nothing personal.” It would be, I thought, in poor taste to tell him of the time I got him in the papers, picture and all. I did not want to be guilty of that.
I went out, and down to the Dusy. Jack Carmichael was sitting in the Dusy, smoking a cigarette and staring into space.
When he saw me, he said: “They showed me a million pictures in there, Jonesy, and some of them were pretty close. But I wasn’t sure about any of them. I think, even in a picture, I’d be sure of that little, fat mug.”
“I’m going to stay with this,” I said, “at my own expense.”
Jack said quietly: “The way I botched this, you probably won’t want me around. But I’ve nothing else to do, Jonesy. I’d like to stay with it, too.”
“I’d be grateful for the help,” I told him. “I can’t see a guy staying in town when he knows you got his picture in your brain. Unless he plans—” I paused. “You be careful, Jack. You keep your self armed.”
“From here in,” he promised, “all the time.” Then: “And thanks.”
I wasn’t tired, now. I should have been, with only four hours’ sleep, but I kept seeing that knife handle protruding from the doctor’s throat. There’s something about a knife...
The air was sultry and depressing, but it would be cool at Mac’s, and so would the beer.
There were a couple of customers in the place, and one of them was the proprietor of the tobacco store under my office. He was reading Mac’s paper, and so was Mac. It was a new edition.
They both looked up when we entered. Mac said: “Tough luck, Jonesy.”
The murder was all over the front page.
“It happens to the best of us,” I said. “Two beers.”
Mac drew them, and brought them over. I asked: “Ed Byerly been in to ask about me lately?”
He shook his head. “You think maybe, Jonesy, he—”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. “What have you got to eat?”
He had chili, and so did we. It was good chili; Mac would make somebody a good wife. We had rye rolls. Jack had another beer, and I had some coffee despite the heat.
When we were finished, I said: “I’m going up to see the widow. You find out what you can about this Byerly. Still got that jalopy of yours?”
He nodded, “Runs like a new car.”
I gave him a twenty, and he left.
I went up to the office to check the mail. There wasn’t much, mostly ads and a few bills. The phone rang, and it was Doc Enright. He said: “I’ve been reading the paper.”
“Didn’t know you could read,” I said.
“They probably had you down at headquarters grilling you.”
“I was down there.”
“Jonesy — you didn’t tell them anything I was foolish enough to tell you?”
“I didn’t. You didn’t tell me anything that Dr. Randolph didn’t tell me himself, the first night I saw him. You can put your ethics right back in mothballs.”
“All right, Sherlock. I suppose we’ll get the whole juicy story tomorrow night?”
Tomorrow night was poker night. I said: “You’ll get all the papers will tell you. I’ve got ethics, too.”
“Huh,” he said. “A man who’ll check and raise. Ethics, huh.” He hung up.
I decided not to call Mrs. Randolph first. There was a chance she wouldn’t be home, but it wasn’t much of a trip, anyway. The Dusy made it in eight minutes.
Juan opened the door. I said: “It’s rather important, Juan, that I see Mrs. Randolph. Will you tell her that?”
He nodded and went toward the living room, leaving the door ajar. I heard the murmur of voices, and then he was back.
“Mrs. Randolph see you.” He nodded toward the living room.
She was sitting on one of the big davenports, smoking. There was a half emptied glass of liquor in front of her, and the familiar shape of the Scotch bottle next to that. She was wearing a dressing gown. What was under it, I couldn’t know. I would guess it was nothing.
“Philo,” she said. “It’s been a bad day, hasn’t it? I suppose you’re here for your check?” The dark eyes were mocking.
“I’m here,” I said, “for what information I can get. This must have been a blow to you, Mrs. Randolph.”
She stared at me levelly. “Nothing I can’t bear up under. Don’t let that little incident the other night give you any ideas, Philo. I was his wife, you know.”
“I thought perhaps—” I said, and stopped.
She smiled and shook her head. “Drink?”
“If you’ve got some rye.”
She inclined her head in the general direction of the cabinet at the far end of the room. “Would you mind getting it yourself?”
I went over and got a bottle of rye. I brought it back and mixed a drink. It was excellent rye.
She sipped her drink, and asked: “What kind of information were you looking for?”
“About his enemies, if any. About anyone who would have reason to be an enemy or who might benefit from his death.”
“You could take the phone book,” she said, “and pick every other name. He was a man with an unusually high quota of enemies. I guess I’d benefit the most from his death. Have you thought of that, Philo?”
“I’ve thought of it,” I admitted. “And the name is Jones, Mortimer Jones. You wouldn’t want me to call you Cleopatra, would you?”
That chuckle of hers and the dark eyes merry. “O.K., Mortimer.” She considered me. She reached over to set her glass down, and I modestly averted my eyes. It took some will power. She said quietly: “How would you like a drive this afternoon?”
I knew what she meant. I said: “I’d like it.”
She rose. “O.K. I’ll be dressed in a jiffy. I’ve already had my shower.” She walked over to the archway, and turned. “But I’ll be damned if I’ll wear black in this heat.”
Even in burlesque, I reflected, they had to have their exit lines.
It was hot. I was hot, and I thought it must have been the chili and the coffee, for it was far cooler up here than it had been outside. I smoked a cigarette and finished my drink. I didn’t mix another.
She didn’t wear black. She wore white, a revealing type of material. No stockings, white shoes, a white flower in her blue-black hair. She was something to see.
I said: “Won’t you be needed this afternoon?”
“Alex is taking care of everything,” she explained. “I don’t know what I’d do without dear Alex.”