“You know me better than that,” he said.
“O.K. I shouldn’t have said it. But old Pop Delaney was in on my current deal this morning, as soon as I got it. I could have called from Lundgren’s office, and then taken a powder. I’ve been working with the department all day. I’ve kept one thing secret, the name of my client. The Marines couldn’t get that, not from me, on this case, or any case, unless I want to tell them. That’s my stand, and that’s the way it’ll always be.”
“Delaney?” he said. “Somebody’s missing? You might have told me that before, Morty.”
“I though you’d know,” I said. “A girl is missing. A girl named Flame Harlin. She was the featured attraction at Val Every’s Golden Pheasant. That I know. That’s all I know.”
I didn’t tell him about Rodney Carlton, because Rodney would lead them to Miss Townsbury.
“O.K.,” the Chief said. “We’ll go ahead on that as far as we can. If it isn’t far enough, I’ll be calling you in again. Cooperation is what we want here, boy.”
“It’s no one-way street,” I said, “this cooperation. It works both ways. You might mention that to some of the gang.”
He smiled. “Like Devine? He getting in your hair again? Devine’s a hard worker, Morty. He puts in a lot of hours.”
“All right,” I said. “As a taxpayer, I’m not kicking. But if you could just keep him out of my cases. His touch is too heavy.”
The Chief smiled again. He’d had a change of mood. “We can’t all have your touch,” he said. “Some of us are more serious. Some of us work for a living.”
Glen Harvey was out in the corridor, talking to Doc Walters, and I stopped. Glen told me: “It was a .22, all right. What would that spell to you, Jonesy?”
“Some guy had a lot of confidence in his Shooting,” I said. “Or maybe he was too lazy to carry a heavy gun. It could spell anything.”
“Like a woman? That could be a woman’s gun, huh?”
“Right. But not between the eyes. A woman who could shoot like that could give exhibitions. You ever meet a woman who could place one like that?”
“Not lately,” Glen said. “What’d the Old Man want?”
“Just my views on how to improve the department,” I said. “Homicide stinks, to hear him tell it.” I left them with that.
I went back to the office, but there was nothing there. I went over to Mac’s and had some meat balls with spaghetti. Mac watched me anxiously while I ate it.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
He watched me put the last mouthful away. “I guess not,” he said, “by the way you ate it. I kinda thought that meat was spoiled.”
Nice guy. “The Dodgers stink,” I said, “and Mickey Walker couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag.”
“Hah-hah,” Mac said. “Your opinion, just your opinion.”
“Besides which,” I went on. “You run a crummy joint. The only reason I come here is because it’s handy.”
“The only reason you come here,” he told me calmly, “is because no other joint in town would let you in. A gum-shoe, a shamus — they ain’t so democratic, them other joints.”
“Tonight,” I told him, “I’m going to the Golden Pheasant. I’ll bet they let me in. I’ll bet I get a ringside table.”
“That I want to see,” Mac scoffed. “You should live so long.”
“You should see me with my new suit on,” I said. I paid him, and left.
The new suit was a dark blue cheviot, looking like more than it had cost — I like to think. With it, I wore one of my two remaining white shirts and a blue and silver striped tie. I hoped that this Pheasant wasn’t one of those snobbish places where formal clothes only are admitted. Maybe the Dusy would impress them.
This Golden Pheasant was one of those snobbish places. The doorman looked down his nose at me, while he told me this. It was a long and thin and haughty nose. He didn’t even glance toward the Dusy, parked just across the street.
“It’s business,” I assured him. “It’s urgent business with Mr. Every and I’m sure he’ll fire you if he hears you’ve kept me out”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the doorman said. “I’m very sorry. Perhaps it would be better if you were to go some place and phone Mr. Every.”
“O.K.,” I said. “It’s about Miss Harlin. You tell him that when you see him.” I turned and started to walk away.
“Just a moment, sir.” There was some urgency in his voice.
I waited.
“You didn’t give me your name, sir. Mr. Every will want to get in touch with you, I am sure.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I told him. “He seemed to be a hard man to approach. Tell him I might drop back. Or I might not.”
He was worried, I could tell.
He said humbly: “Wouldn’t you care to wait inside?”
“In these clothes?” I said wonderingly. “In these old rags? Jeeves, I’m disappointed in you. Just tell him I might drop back.”
“You could wait in the bar, sir,” he suggested. “I’m sure there’d be no complaint. I’ll explain it to the bartender.”
I appeared to consider this. I pursed my lips and wrinkled my brow. “They have whiskey in there?” I asked him finally.
“Of course, sir. Including some bonded whiskey.”
“Well,” I relented, “in that case, I might wait around for a while.”
We went in together, and he went down to the end of the bar to explain it all to the bartender.
It was quite a place. There was silver in the decorating, and some pale blues. There was a misty, romantic quality in the atmosphere. All women would look glamorous in this light, all men interesting.
It was early, and there wasn’t much of a crowd. Through the archway, I could see that most of the tables were empty. The bar was semi-circular, attended by five men in white. Only two of them were busy at the moment, the others stood around in a sort of parade rest position. They looked well-disciplined.
One of the men in white was standing before me now.
“Scotch,” I said, “with seltzer.” I examined my nails and pretended that I wasn’t more at home in a spot like Mac’s.
It tasted like all Scotch tastes — like liquid smoke, but I drank it manfully, while I surveyed the place.
Whoever said crime doesn’t pay? He must have meant small crime doesn’t pay much. Val Every had made the money for this joint in a variety of ways, all of them dishonest. He was probably making money here — just meeting the payroll would be big business. And Val wasn’t the biggest operator in this town, not by a long, long way.
From the dining room, now, I could hear the sound of a violin — softly muted music, sad music.
It dug into me, inside, where I live.
Chapter Three
No Logic in Love
Then a feminine voice brought me back to here and now. “Were you waiting for Mr. Every?”
A blonde. She’d been some places and seen some things, I would guess. That was in the dark blue eyes. She wasn’t hard. She was dressed daringly in a sheath of black satin, but she was dressed expensively. The humorous slant to her full mouth saved the face from being just another blonde’s face. She had all she needed.
“I am,” I said. “Has he come in yet?”
“Not yet.” She climbed up onto a stool next to me, and gestured the bartender over. “Rye,” she told him, “with a little water, Jim.”
“Right, Miss Meredith — same as always.”
She turned to me. “My first name is Judy, if you’re interested. Did you bring some news about Flame?”