I reached out a firm hand.
“Come on, brother, we’ll go up together.”
As soon as I grabbed the arm and spilled the words I knew I had made a mistake. It wasn’t “brother,” it was “sister.” I turned her around to the light and took a look at her face. It was the jane who had been sitting with the human octopus.
“Oh, won’t that be lovely!” she said with a funny catch in her voice, and we started for the elevator.
Going up I could feel her big eyes on my face. I didn’t look at her much because I’d given her the once over in the cabaret, and had seen all there was to see on the face. If anyone can tell anything about these flappers by looking at their maps they know more than I do. They all of ’em doll up with rouge, lipstick and powder, talk about things that’d make me blush, have codes of their own, and yet I’ve a hunch most of ’em are as straight as a string. Anyhow, if she wanted to look a hole in my face I’d let her. She was going to do some explaining when she got to the apartment, and in the meantime I’d let her look to her heart’s content.
When I opened the door of my apartment Bobo, that’s the dog, made one leap to welcome me, and then drew back and looked at the girl. Bobo wasn’t used to seeing me come in with visitors, particularly with flappers.
“Hello, Bobo!” remarked the girl, snapping her fingers.
She knew his name. That meant she’d been reading that article in the paper all right. Bobo looked at her and then at me, sizing her up, and then he wiggled the extreme tip of his tail a bit, sort of dubiously. That was that. There was only one girl Bobo had ever taken to on sight, but the wiggle of the tip of the tail wasn’t a bad sign. Dogs have sensitive ears and sensitive noses, and a dog can read a hell of a lot more about a flapper than a man can by inspecting the color design of their exterior decorations.
“Spill it,” I said, short and crispy.
She let her eyes lazily wander around over the apartment, easy, assured, self-possessed, mistress of the situation and apparently wanting me to realize it. That made me mad, something of her easy assurance, something of the pains she was taking to make me understand that she was the one who held all the cards, knowing all about me, while I knew nothing about her, got under my skin. I decided I’d fool her a bit and give her something to think about, so I ostentatiously went over to the door, turned the key in the lock and dropped the key in my pocket.
She laughed,
“Subtitle, ‘I have you in my power,’ hissed the villian. Not so good, Ed. You’re just peeved and trying to get my goat. When a man’s going to try rough stuff there’s a different look in his eyes, sort of an animal gleam. You just look mad.”
I sighed. Here was this little twenty-year-old flapper kidding me and getting away with it.
“All right, kid,” I told her, “don’t let me keep you up. Speak your little piece and be on your way.”
“Don’t call me kid, call me Lois,” she purred, grinning a bit, her eyes all bright and starry, “Lois Lambert, that’s my name, and I called to invite you to a dance at our house next Thursday. It’s a dress up affair, but you’ll have a good time just the same, and you’ll get a chance to look over lots of good looking dames, and some good looking jewels.”
I gulped. I’m used to most things, but this was something else again.
“Where’s your house?” I asked innocentlike, but I knew the answer before she spilled it.
“Out on Shropshire Drive. I’m John Lambert’s daughter, you know, an only child and spoiled, I guess. Promise me you’ll come.”
I was damned if I was going to let this little flapper see she had my goat, but she sure was ragging me to death. John Lambert was a sort of newcomer in recent years, but he had got there all right. He was reputed to be an engineer of ability and integrity. He had been fortunate in some real estate holdings he’d had when California started to become a tourist mecca, and the old boy was worth a wad of dough. That was all I had on him, but I knew he was in the social upper crust. Here was this moll, posing as his daughter, trying to get me out to his house for a dance on Thursday… Evidently the human octopus was a crook, the girl was his moll, and they were going to make a gem cleanup at the dance, and make sure that I’d be out there where the police would pick me up. That’d make it soft for them.
“Sure, I’ll be there,” I told her. “That is, if the date doesn’t conflict with some of my other social engagements. I’ll have to wait until my social secretary arrives in the morning. I never can remember my engagements. Let’s see, though; there’s the supper party at the Mayor’s some time this week, and the president of the First National Bank wanted me to drop in for an informal family party either Thursday or Friday, I’ve forgotten which, and I promised the Chief of Police I’d sit in on a bridge party the latter part of the week. I’ll look up the dates and let you know tomorrow.”
“Then I can count on you being there?” she asked, her red lips smiling up at me with a daredevil expression. “You’d ditch any of those dates to come out to my party wouldn’t you?”
I walked over, stood by the door and bowed.
“You can count on me accepting your invitation,” I told her. “Don’t give it another thought. Just tell the butler I’ll be on the list of those invited so he won’t throw me out because I haven’t an engraved invitation.”
She ducked her head in a grin.
“Oh, that’s all right. There’s just going to be a few intimate friends there, no mob, you know. I’ll come right and get you as soon as you show up and see that you’re properly introduced. Remember now, Thursday at eight-thirty.”
I took her arm, and felt her wince as my hand grabbed the warm, bare flesh.
“Look here, kid. I’ve got nothing against you, but I’m getting tired of being a fall guy. Just get this settled in your think tank. I’m coming, and I’m going to be there with bells on.”
She gave my cheek a swift pat as she twisted her arm free. “That’s what I want you to do, silly. Now the key, please, because the folks will be worrying about me.”
I unlocked the door and gave her a cold glance.
“How did you happen to get me on your invitation list?”
“Oh, I just wanted to pep things up, Ed,” she said. “You’ll be the life of the party.”
I let her get into the elevator before I got busy. I won’t say that I beat the elevator down, but I came pretty close to it. I was back in the hallway as she went through the door, got a glimpse of flashing skirts, neat ankles, and heard the whine of the starting motor. When the machine purred down the street I had the license number and three minutes later I had my own roadster under me.
John Lambert’s house number I got from the telephone directory, and I was out there in as short a time as I dared to make it without running the risk of a long jail sentence. I waited in the darkness across the street, watching the black hulk of the gloomy house, the piled up shadows of solid respectability.
Thirty minutes after I started watching, the long roadster nosed around the corner, hesitated for a minute at the entrance to the driveway and then swung into the Lambert garage. The girl got out after she’d closed the garage doors, skipped up the front steps and let herself in with a latch key. She was alone.
I gumshoed over to the garage, took a look at the machine, saw that it had the same license number, looked at the registration card and saw that it was registered in the name of Lois Lambert. Then I beat it. I didn’t want to be seen hanging around the house.