He began to pace up and down. “Something’s happened to her,” he said, driving his fist into the palm of his hand. “As soon as Drake came around, I slipped out to tell you. No one else knows but Drake and father. You must do something.”
I was beginning to feel better. “When was she last seen?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
“She left her office at five o’clock and she was going on to a dance. Roger Kirk, the boy she was meeting, says she didn’t show up. He thought she wasn’t well, so he went home. It was only when Drake phoned him at eleven o’clock that we began to think something was wrong.”
I fumbled in my coat pocket, found a packet of Lucky Strike and shook a couple onto the quilt. “Have a smoke and sit down,” I said, lighting up.
He sat down but he wouldn’t smoke.
I brooded for a minute or so while he watched me anxiously. Then I said: “Has Drake told the cops?”
“Not yet. He came to father because he thought—”
“I bet he did,” I broke in. “What’s your father done?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “He won’t do anything until the morning. That’s why I came here. We’ve at least seven hours’ start over any of them.”
“Yeah,” I said without much enthusiasm, “but there isn’t much we can do.” I flicked ash on the floor, stifled another yawn and went on: “You know the girl?”
He nodded. “She was a friend of Luce McArthur,” he told me. “Roger Kirk and I went to the same school. We four used to go out together.”
I got up and wandered over to the chair where I had dumped my clothes. It took me three minutes to dress and then I went into the bathroom to sponge my face and fix my hair. I came back into the bedroom and poured myself a small Scotch.
“Drink?” I said, waving the bottle at him.
He shook his head. “What are you going to do?” His eyes were bright with speculation.
“I’m playing a hunch,” I said soberly. “I bet it’s a no-good hunch, but I’ll take a chance. How far is this Street-Camera joint?”
He drew in a sharp breath. “On Murray Street. About five minutes in the car.”
“Have you got the car?”
“It’s outside.”
“Okay, let’s go.” I picked up my hat, yawned some more and turned to the door. “This is a hell of a game for sleep,” I said, moving out into the passage “Don’t you ever take it up as a profession.”
As he followed me out of the room, Marian French’s door opened and she propped herself up against the doorpost. “Sleep-walking?” she asked, with reasonable curiosity.
I thong it she looked nice in the powder-blue silk wrap she was wearing. Her long, silky fair hair hung to her shoulders and her face was flushed and sleepy.
“Hullo, there,” I said in a whisper; “if you listen hard enough in a minute or so you’ll hear the day break. I’m the guy who breaks it.”
She glanced at Ted Esslinger and then back at me. “Is he your assistant?” she asked, trying not to gape.
“Miss French, meet Mr. Ted Esslinger,” I said, waving my hands. “Now will you be a nice girl and go back to bed? Mr. Esslinger and I are going on a practice run.”
“Has something happened?” she asked, first smiling at Esslinger and then turning back to me.
I shook my head. “I do this sort of thing every day of my life. It keeps me fit.” I tipped my bat at her and jerked my head at Esslinger. “Let’s go,” I said.
He gave Marian a quick, shy smile and followed me downstairs. I heard Marian heave an exasperated sigh and then her door closed.
“Nice, isn’t she?” I said, walking as quietly as I could.
“Yes,” he said, “but this isn’t the time—”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I returned, entering the lobby, “Any time’s right with me.”
The night clerk, a fat little man with a heavy moustache, stared at us blankly, but I didn’t stop. I crossed the lobby and the verandah and got into the Pontiac that was standing at the kerb.
Esslinger ran around and slid under the steering wheel.
“Make it snappy,” I said, huddling down into my seat. “I want some sleep sometime tonight.”
He drove fast. There was no traffic around and we had the streets to ourselves.
“What do you expect to find?” he asked, as he turned into Main Street.
“I don’t know,” I returned, lighting a cigarette. “It’s just an idea I’ve got at the back of my mind. I’m willing to bet there’s nothing to it.”
He gave me a quick glance, shrugged and drove on. We didn’t say anything until we reached Murray Street.
He slowed down and peered out or the window. “It’s somewhere along here,” he muttered.
I made no attempt to help him. It was his town and it was up to him to find the place. He swung into the kerb suddenly and stopped the car.
“This is it,” he said.
I got out of the car and looked at the small plate-glass window that was stacked with photographs. I stepped back to read the sign overhead. It was picked out in heavy chromium lettering that glittered in the moonlight: “The Street-Camera.” This was the joint all right.
I took a flashlight from my hip pocket and threw the beam on the window.
Ted was standing at my side. “What’s the idea?” he said, following the beam as I Worked it over the postcard-sized photographs pinned to the back of the window, the sides, and on a sloping board on the floor of the window.
“See anyone you know?” I said, keeping the light moving.
He got it then. “You don’t think he began,” but I shushed him.
Right bang in the middle of the sloping board was a photograph of a blonde girl who laughed up at me. The background of Main Street showed behind her head. The photograph was four times the size of any of the other photographs in the window. Underneath it was a small notice. Special enlargements $1.50 extra.
“That her?” I said to Esslinger.
“Yes.” He was holding onto my arm and shivering.
“When I get a hunch I play it right on the nose,” I said, snapping off the flashlight.
“You know what this means,” Esslinger said unsteadily. “They have been kidnapped, and kidnapped from here. Mary might even be hare still.”
I walked round him to the shop door. It was of plate glass and chromium. The only way to force an entrance would be to smash the window and I didn’t want to do that. It would make too much noise.
“Can we get in around the back?” I asked.
“Get in?” he repeated. His face told me he was scared. “You’re not going to...?”
“Sure, but you’re not in this,” I said. “You get off home.”
He hesitated, then said stubbornly: “If you’re going in, I’m coming with you.”
“Forget it,” I said sharply. “I’m paid to stick my neck out. If we get caught, your father’ll know you’re helping me. I don’t want it that way. You’re useful to me as long as no one knows what you’re doing. You’ve done enough already. Get off home and leave this to me.”
He hesitated, then nodded his head. “I guess you’re right,” he said reluctantly. “They don’t even know I’m out. Do you want the car?”
“I could use it,” I said, “but someone might recognize it. No, you take it and get off.”
“I don’t like leaving you...” he began, but I wasn’t going to spend the rest of the night arguing with him.
“Be a good guy and beat it,” I said, and leaving him by the car I walked off down the street. A hundred yards further on I came to an alley. As I peered into the darkness, wondering if it led to the back of the building, I heard his engine start up and then the Pontiac swept past at high speed. I watched the tail light disappear before I entered the alley.
I was relieved to see him go. An amateur at this game could easily step out of turn, and I wasn’t looking for trouble. I liked to work alone. If anything went wrong I had only myself to blame.