Kennedy walked out to the sidewalk, drew a cigarette out of the packet he had opened and stood on the curb lighting up in the wind. The girl almost brushed his shoulder.
“Go to nine-ten Waterford,” she said to the driver of the cab parked there.
Kennedy tossed away the match and reentered the lobby and strolled up to the desk.
The clerk said, “I just asked one of the operators if she ever heard of Benedictine Krause and she said no.”
“Well, look,” said Kennedy. “You have a Joel Webb stopping here, haven’t you?”
The clerk referred to his card index, said, “Yes.”
“Ah,” said Kennedy, rubbing his hands. “That’s the man was supposed to have brought her to America. I knew him when I was covering the shows in New York. I’ll surprise him. What room’s he in?”
The clerk grinned. “Five-o-five.”
Kennedy winked. “Mum’s the word.”
“Mum’s the word,” nodded the clerk, also winking.
Mr. Joel Webb was a long-legged young man with crisp brown hair, impetuous blue eyes, and a small but determined mouth. He looked upset, harried, but by no means abject. His neck was lean, wiry, his chin aggressive.
“Well?” he demanded of Kennedy, who drowsed in the doorway.
“I’ve got something very important to tell you, Mr. Webb.”
“Okey. Tell it.”
“It will take time and I wouldn’t want passersby to hear it.”
“Well,” snapped Webb, “come in then.”
Kennedy sighed pleasurably and drifted into the small bedroom and Webb closed the door, barged across the room, found a pipe and piled tobacco into the bowl. He was still upset, still harassed, and apparently more preoccupied with his own thoughts than he was interested in the presence of Kennedy. But in a minute he seemed to remember that Kennedy was in the room. He snapped:
“Well, well, come on, come on. You’ve got something to tell me. Spill it, spill it.”
Kennedy was half-reclining on the bed. “My name is Kennedy.”
“All right, your name is Kennedy. So what?”
“So this, Mr. Webb. What was Inez looking for at the Carioca about half an hour ago?”
Webb, who had struck a match and was about to light his pipe, dropped the pipe and the match.
“Better step on the match,” Kennedy recommended placidly.
Webb slapped his foot down on the burning match, put it out. His eyes bounced on Kennedy, his lips tightened, his lean jaw grew hard. He turned and strode to the window, rubbed the back of his neck. He swiveled. He leveled an arm at Kennedy and seemed all set to unleash a torrent of invective. But instantly he appeared to change his mind. He did change his mind. He came over and sat on the bed and said rapidly and in a low, earnest voice:
“Now be reasonable, Mr. Kennedy. Inez and I were at the Carioca the night the police raided it. We had to get out in a hurry. In the rush, Inez lost her handbag — a little bag — oh, you know, one of those small mesh bags.” He eyed Kennedy steadily. “You’re a broadminded man, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“Well, look now,” Webb went on confidentially. “Inez and I went to school together. We’re old friends. I’ve been away, oh, for years, and when I came back, why, Inez was married. She’s been married for three years. To a nice guy, but” — he wagged his finger — “a very jealous guy. He’ll never let Inez see anybody, even her old friends. You understand, things between Inez and me are strictly on the level. But we went out that night.
“We went to the Carioca. She lost this handbag, with some of her cards in it. She was afraid it would be found and her husband would find out that she was there. She said she was going to try to get in the Carioca and see if she could find it. I told her not to. I told her that if the worse went to the worst, I’d explain everything to her husband. But she wouldn’t listen. She went to the Carioca to see if she could find the bag. For God’s sake, mister, don’t tell her husband. He’s a nice guy, a swell guy, only he’s jealous — and if I thought I’d make trouble for Inez, why, I’d never forgive myself.”
Kennedy sat up, scratched his ear, smiled dreamily. He rose from the bed, chuckled reflectively, and wandered to the door.
“Okey, Mr. Webb,” he said. “I believe you implicitly.”
“Gee, that’s swell of you.”
“Don’t mention it. I was just keeping an eye out on the Carioca and I saw Inez come out. No harm done. If I run across the bag, I’ll return it to you.”
Webb actually beamed. “Will you! Say, you’re a regular guy, Mr. Kennedy!”
Kennedy went down to the lobby, entered a phone booth and called Flannery at the office. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve run into something that’s worth fooling around with but I can’t be sixty-eight places at one time, so I’ll need some help... Well, I want a guy to tail a guy... Is Tucker around?... Well, send him over to the Somerset House. Pronto, baby.”
Tucker arrived ten minutes later. He was a small, slight, middle-aged man, who wore spectacles. A derby was perched high on the top of his head. He looked innocuous, simple-minded, but he was a good man on spot news and a good all-around newshawk. You would expect him to speak softly, precisely, apologetically.
He said, “Is this on the level, bozo, or is it just one of your practical jokes?”
Kennedy said, “Level as a mill pond, Tucks. I want you to tail a guy. Don’t let him out of your sight. Check every place he visits. If he tries to take a train, a plane, a boat, or a bus — have him pinched.”
“On what charge?”
“Any charge. Rough-house him, stick your watch in his pocket and then tell a cop he stole it. Anything to hold him. His name is Joel Webb. He’s stopping here. In five-o-five. Go up to the fifth corridor and float up and down. If he leaves, tail him. If he comes down while you’re on the way up, I’ll tail him and send up a bell-hop to tell you. If a hop doesn’t come in five minutes, you’ll know Webb’s still in his room. Got it?”
“Sure,” said Tucker, and took an elevator up.
Kennedy waited five minutes, then left.
The cab he rode in had a broken window and before it had gone six blocks Kennedy was chilled to the bone. He called out:
“Stop at Enrico’s.” And when the cab stopped in front of Enrico’s, in Flamingo Street: “Wait for me.”
MacBride was sitting at the bar eating ham and baked beans and drinking beer. Paderoofski, the barman, was paring his fingernails. His huge eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead and he grinned, greeted:
“Hah, Meester Kennedy, no seeing for a long time, mebbe t’ree days. Huss afry leetle t’ing?”
“Jake, Paderoofski. You’re looking tip-top.”
“Shoo, I’m alwuz top-tip. M’ wife she’s say, ‘Honey-bun, youzza top-tip, youzza da berries, youzza da coffee in m’ crim.’ Honey-bun she’s call me.”
MacBride looked sour. He muttered, “Honey-bun!”
“Shoo, Honey-bun. She’s swal nack-neem, no?”
MacBride glared at him, swallowed, went on eating.
“Rye,” said Kennedy. “And don’t mind the skipper. Somebody hit him in the face with a bottle of sour cream. Well, well, Captain MacBride! Fancy meeting you here!”
“Nuts,” said MacBride.
“How is everything at Headquarters, Stevie?”
“Nuts.”
“Still working as hard as ever?”
“Nuts.”
“Ha — nots!” laughed Paderoofski.
MacBride stabbed him with a violent stare, picked up his food and his drink and moved to the other end of the bar.