"May I use your telephone?" I asked her.
"Certainly. The door's unlocked." She bent gracefully to pick up the shears, to displace her grief again in the garden.
I phoned Alice Kramer, Manners' secretary, at Wit-low Cable and asked her if she'd heard of Craig Blount. She hadn't, and she couldn't remember Manners' mentioning even a similar name in her presence.
I left Elizabeth Manners' home with an idea, about which I had more than a few doubts. But it was the only idea I had, so I clung to it.
At a large drugstore that sold everything from cough syrup to furniture, I got a handful of change from a schoolgirlish blonde cashier behind one of the registers and made my way to the phone booths.
The booths were in a secluded spot behind men's outerwear, and I was glad for the privacy. I fed change to the hungry telephone until it was glutted, then managed to get in touch with Dale Carlon.
"What have you learned?" Carlon asked immediately in his crisp business voice.
"I've got a connection between Talbert and Gratuity and the Robert Manners who killed himself, Manners and Gratuity and somebody named Craig Blount, who was killed in a hit-and-run accident in Seattle a few weeks ago."
"There is no Gratuity Insurance, Nudger. I checked."
"So did I. That's what interests me."
"Whoever or whatever they are, do you think my daughter is mixed up with them?"
"I'm reasonably sure of it."
Carlon's exasperated outlet of breath was amplified to a drawn-out rasping in the receiver. "You're keeping things quiet, aren't you, Nudger?"
"Too quiet. The police should know what I know, Mr. Carlon. If they did, you might see an extensive and effective investigation."
"We'll decide when and what to tell the police, Nudger."
What he meant by that was he would decide, and he had fifty thousand good arguments in his favor.
"Ever heard of Business View?" I asked him. "It's a magazine."
"I have. Used to subscribe to it."
"Then I take it it's a reputable publication."
"Very much so. I think it's published in Chicago. It's one of those financial monthlies that reports on the stock market and analyzes and predicts trends."
"There's a female reporter here who works for the magazine, gathering information about Manners' death. Her name's Alison Day."
"Alison?" He sounded surprised. "I know her well, Nudger. She's dedicated and, despite her comparative youth, widely respected in her profession. I've known Alison both professionally and as a friend of the family, for years. She recommended Joan to her college sorority."
"Then you vouch for her?"
"Completely. She's a thorough professional in her field. That's not to say, Nudger, that you should confide in her. She is a reporter."
"She doesn't know who I'm working for or why," I assured Carlon.
"I think you should go to Seattle," Carlon said after a pause.
"I don't think it's necessary at this point," I told him. "If I decide to, I'll let you know."
Gently I replaced the receiver, before he could insist. I had worked for Dale Carlons before; their egos demanded that they be better than everyone at everything.
On the way out of the drugstore, I stopped at the pharmaceutical counter and bought a fresh roll of antacid tablets. My next stop was going to be the Clairbank Hotel.
20
Alison's room at the Clairbank was large and comfortable. It lacked the careful color and style coordination of chain hotel rooms. The long triple dresser didn't quite match the smaller dresser on the opposite wall, two overstuffed wing chairs looked more like they belonged in an English men's club than a hotel room, and the flowered spread on the double bed matched neither beige carpet nor heavy drapes. The overall effect was one almost of hominess.
I could see a gleam in Alison's shrewd eyes as I told her what Craig Blount's name has evoked from Elizabeth Manners. Alison began to realize then, I think, that I was holding back a great deal from her.
"You're right about Gratuity Insurance," she said. "No such company is listed with-"
"I know," I told her, "it's been checked and double-checked."
She was wearing a tailored pinstriped outfit that couldn't subdue the curves of her lean body, and I found myself wondering if she would approach sex with her usual brisk and cool efficiency. The feline something in her eyes and the generous arc of her lower lip told me that wasn't likely.
"Where did you get the name of a fictitious insurance company?" she asked, pausing before the window in fetching silhouette.
"It's cropped up throughout my investigation. Now it's a link between Manners and Blount, two men who don't seem to be linked in any other way."
"Nudger," she said, "could you tell me what, precisely, you're investigating?"
I smiled and shook my head. "We agreed from the beginning there'd be some things I wouldn't tell you."
She narrowed an eye but didn't argue. "What do we do now?" she asked.
I was glad she said "we," because right now I needed her. "Can you draw up a list of the business establishment's top executives, nationwide?"
The suggestion didn't throw her. "How many names?"
"How about the top fifty? Not the obvious multimillionaires-the corporation men."
Alison walked to the writing desk, drummed long-nailed fingers on smooth polished wood. "What do you intend to do with the list?"
"I want you to use your professional status to contact the secretaries or other satellite personalities who surround these men. Let them know that you want to be notified immediately if they hear of a Gratuity Insurance appointment. Can you do it?"
"Not as easily as you make it sound." She caressed her chin in thought. "How about my drawing up a list of the top people with whom I have connections, or with whose satellite personalities I have connections? I can't guarantee they'll be in the top fifty, but I feel safe to say they could all make the top hundred or two."
"That should help."
"And I can talk to the heads of some secretarial organizations," Alison said, picking up enthusiasm. They can get the word out to their members to phone if they hear anything about Gratuity."
That was something I hadn't thought of, and it put the plan well into the realm of workability. "That's good," I told her. "The list doesn't have to read like a who's who. I want the names of executives in the same league as the men who died."
"Big league, but not the superstars," Alison said. She took a well-worn portable electric typewriter from the closet and set it on the desk. Then she dug through her luggage and came out with an expandable card- board file and several flat leather-bound books. "This is going to take a long time," she said.
"Most everything worthwhile does," I told her sagely, myself doubting the wisdom of that pronouncement. "I'll look in on you later."
"Where are you going?"
"To see about some stocks."
As I closed the door behind me, I heard the ratchety sound of paper being rolled into the typewriter.
At the Gilford and Hollis brokerage firm, I talked to a broker's representative and got a prospectus on each of the five companies that had employed the dead executives whose names had been given to me by Alison, plus a prospectus on Widow Cable.
I sat in a chair behind a low wooden railing, among several stricken-looking gentlemen who stared at the constantly sideways-traveling ribbon of the big board's lighted numerals, those numerals depicting the rise and fall of stock prices and men's fortunes in eighths of dollars. Now and then one of the men would seem to break the mesmeric spell of the lighted board, get up and walk over to check a teletype or speak in soft tones to one of the busy representatives at a row of desks beyond the railing. I was sure no one would disturb me as I settled back to examine the first prospectus, telling me in accountant's language all about a company called Avec-Stern.