I nodded. “Who else does she run around with?”
“You’re not serious? I thought she was too homey to run around with anyone.”
“Wolf doesn’t think so.”
“At his age he can’t afford to choose.”
“So there’s no one else?”
“Blackley. I saw her with him once, but he’s as bad as Wolf. Bald, old, wrinkles and the rest.”
“Who’s Blackley?”
“The District Attorney. He’s no good. You don’t think there’s anything to it, do you?”
I was thinking hard. “To it? What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “You’re talking in riddles. What’s Edna Wilson to you?”
“Listen, son,” I said, patting his shoulder, “the whole goddamn thing’s a riddle.”
Out in the street, I signalled a cab and told the driver to take me to Laurel Street. It took twelve minutes to get there and I told him to put me down at the corner.
I found the building with the roof garden halfway up the street on my right. It was a nice-looking joint and I agreed with Phipps that it would be all Tight to live in.
I walked into the lobby and went to the desk. “Mr. Selby,” I said.
The girl frowned. “No Mr. Selby here, sir.”
I said Mr. Selby was an old friend of mine and I had come two hundred miles to see him and this is where he lived. I said if she didn’t know the names of her clients she’d better call the manager.
She produced the register to prove I was wrong. Audrey Sheridan’s room was number 853. I said I must have made a mistake, that I was sorry and could I use the phone? She showed me where the phones were and I thanked her.
I put a call through to room 853 but there was no answer. The phone was out of sight of the girl at the desk and the elevator was right by me. I rode up to the eighth floor, walked down a long deserted corridor until I came to 853. I rapped, waited and then took out my pocketknife. I was inside in thirty seconds.
The red and cream sitting room was pleasant and livened by flowers in squat pottery vases. A faint smell of lilac gave the right feminine touch.
I put my hat on the walnut settee and searched the room from wall to wall. I opened every drawer, cupboard, box, trunk and subjected its contents to examination by eyes and fingers. I tested every piece of clothing for telltale bulges or for the sound of crinkling paper. I looked under rugs and furniture. I pulled down blinds to see that nothing had been rolled up in them for concealment. I examined dishes and pans and food and food-containers. I opened the flush-box in the bathroom and looked out of windows to see that nothing was hung below them on the outside. I took the apartment to pieces systematically, but I didn’t find the three photographs nor Mary Drake’s handkerchief.
I hadn’t made more mess than necessary, but I had made a mess. I stood looking around the room, a little tired and depressed. Although I hadn’t found what I had come for I had managed to create a picture of Audrey Sheridan by her possessions. Her clothes for one thing. A woman’s clothes can be an indication of her character — especially her underwear. Audrey Sheridan’s underwear was spartan in its severity — no lace, no colours, no fancy cut. Her clothes were-ultra smart. Tailored suits, three or four pairs of flannel trousers in various shades, high-neck jumpers, bright-coloured shirts. All smart and all carefully chosen.
Her cosmetics comprised cold cream, lipsticks and lilac scent. The apartment was full of books. Even books in the kitchen and bathroom. There was a radio on the table by the window and a big library of gramophone records in a cabinet by the door.
One look at the titles of the books and the records convinced me that Audrey Sheridan had a serious mind. I have always distrusted serious-minded women; but a serious-minded woman who took the trouble to learn jiu-jitsu and who didn’t hesitate to steal evidence from a fellow dick looked like poison to me.
I set fire to a cigarette, tossed the match into the fireplace and dragged down a lungful of smoke.
I decided it was time for Audrey Sheridan and me to have a little talk.
With one last glance around the disordered room, I went out, closing the door behind me.
At the far end of a light, airy passage was a door lettered in bright gilt on pebbled glass: “The Alert Agency.”
I turned the doorknob and went in.
The room was small. Two windows covered by cream net curtains faced me.
Three armchairs stood against the apple-green painted walls and on a light oak table under the windows were scattered copies of Saturday Evening Post, Harpers and the New Yorker. Bowls of bright flowers made pools of colour around the room and a thick Turkey carpet, thick enough to tickle my ankles, covered the floor. As an outer office of a detective agency it was something to see.
I was just recovering from the shock when I ran into another. The door leading into the main office jerked open and Jeff Gordan slid out. He had a gun in his hand and he pointed it at me. The muzzle of the gun looked to me as big and as steady as a tunnel.
“For God’s sake,” Jeff said, showing yellow teeth, “look who’s here.”
“Well, well,” I countered, “if it isn’t Jeff! You do get around, don’t you?”
He threatened me with the gun. “Grab some cloud, you son of a bitch, and don’t start anything you can’t finish.”
I raised my hands to my shoulders. “The Warner Brothers have a lot to answer for,” I said, with feeling. “Can’t you cut this Bogart stuff out?”
Jeff called through the open door: “Hey, look what’s blown in.”
A man’s voice said sharply: “Who is it?” The voice was high-pitched and staccato; the same voice that had threatened Dixon over the telephone.
“The New York dick,” Jeff said, grinning evilly at me.
“Bring him in here,” the high-pitched voice said.
Jeff jerked his head at the door. “Get in, you.”
“Now wait a minute,” I said hurriedly. “I came to see Miss Sheridan. If she’s all tied up, I’ll come back.”
Jeff sniggered. “She’s tied up all right,” he said, “but that ain’t going to trouble you.” His face changed to purple viciousness. “Get in, you louse!”
I shrugged and, keeping my hands up, walked into the other room.
The room was as big as the outer office was small. Another fitted Turkey carpet covered the floor. A big mahogany desk stood by the open window, and two armchairs, filing cases, and other office equipment completed the furnishing.
The room had none of the ordered neatness of the outer office. It looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Drawers were pulled out, papers were scattered all over the floor, filing cabinets spilled their contents on the carpet.
There were three people in the room. A girl and two men.
The girl was, of course, Audrey Sheridan. I was about to give her a cursory glance, but I changed my mind. I stared plenty. She was sitting in a chair set in the middle of the room. Her hands were tied behind the chair. For the moment I dismissed that as unimportant. I concentrated on her as a person. As a person, Audrey Sheridan was something to see. She had broad shoulders and narrow hips and a figure that Varga likes to draw. Her eyes were large, blue in colour, with long, silky eyelashes. Her mouth was large, full-lipped and scarlet. Her hair, red shot with gold, fell to her shoulders in long, thick waves. If you can’t imagine her from this, then think of Joan Crawford and you’ll be near enough.
She was wearing a smart white and blue checked coat, powder-blue trousers, brown buckskin shoes and a high-necked cashmere sweater in blue.
One of the men sat on the desk opposite her, one foot on the desk and his hands clasping his knee. The other man stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes watching the man sitting on the desk.