Madeleine had died after swallowing an unknown substance. Suicide wasn’t likely. The first thing the Lieutenant had done after learning of the Las Vegas offer was to phone the club in Nevada and ask if they’d withdrawn the offer. They hadn’t. And why would a featherheaded girl like Madeleine commit suicide when she had her own version of the world at her feet?
The coroner estimated the stuff had been in her system for three hours, and three hours prior to her death she’d been doing her turn on the floor. She’d circulated around the tables, throwing roses to visiting firemen, and here and there taking a coquettish sip from a patron’s glass.
Tonight she’d done that only once — taken a sip, that is — from the glass of a distinguished-looking man. According to the manager, the man might have been a Senator. The Lieutenant could see them putting out wanted posters: “Looks like Senator.”
“Did she have any gentleman friends?”
Parks cleaned another fingernail before replying. “No. Around here they were all too small-time for her.”
Was there more than the usual sourness in that, the Lieutenant wondered.
“Did they include you?”
“Me?” Parks laughed mirthlessly. “I didn’t give her a tumble. She was a cow.”
“A cow? I thought she had quite a figure.”
“I mean her mind.”
The Lieutenant decided that he’d had enough bitterness for one night. This little guy was beginning to ruin his digestion. He went out and down the narrow hall that smelled of disinfectant. This was where the dreams are made, he thought as a chorus girl shouldered past him. Had he talked to this one? He couldn’t be sure. All these chorus girls looked alike to him. He’d count them later and check them off.
In Madeleine’s room he looked around. Was there any corner, any closet he might have missed? It wasn’t likely. Not that he’d been so thorough. It was a bare little room, pathetic really; you could span it with both arms outstretched. There was a strong odor of cheap pine scent and the walls were mouldy; from here Madeleine had issued radiant to sing of love in Paris. Poor kid.
He thumbed once again through the scrapbook on the table. A good-looking girl with long straight legs. Nice smile. On her way to making a thousand a week singing miserable French to people who didn’t know any French.
But it was more than that. It was something of herself that she was able to give — illusion, glamor, something that people needed the way they needed butter and eggs. He guessed that Sophie Klinger had spent long years in Miami storing up those illusions. Too bad she was gone now before she’d had a chance to cash in.
Joe the bartender was waiting, as the Lieutenant had ordered him to, but he didn’t look happy. He’d hinted more than once that he’d been up all night and would like a little shut-eye, but the Lieutenant had ignored him. Now he went into the same act as the Lieutenant approached, stifling a yawn and glancing at his watch.
“Now about this man who sat at the front table.”
“The one she took the drink off of?”
“Yes. What did he look like again?”
“An important person,” pronounced Joe. “The type that money’s no object. Left me a big tip.”
“Oh, he was at the bar, too?”
“Sure. Sat at the bar for half an hour until that table was empty. Had ten or twelve whiskies. Straight.”
“You’re sure it’s the same one who sat at the front table?”
“Oh, yeah. I asked around, у’know, what’s up, and one of the boys tells me this Madeleine’s waltzing around and picks up the drink of this big shot up front. She drinks it and a couple hours later, whammo. She’s dead. I ask about this big shot naturally, what he looks like, and it’s got to be the guy who had ten whiskies. Or maybe it was twelve.”
“What did he look like, Joe?”
“A six-footer. About fifty-five, I’d say. Two hundred dollar suit. Classy shirt. Everything new. Everything.”
“How about his face?”
“Oh, his face. Red. Good living, y’know. Lots of steaks.”
“What color hair?”
“White. Looked like an alderman.”
The manager had said Senator. They were getting more cautious.
“You’d know him again if you saw him?”
“Sure. Couldn’t miss. Culture. Class,” winked Joe. “What he was doing in this rat-trap I’ll never know. Atmosphere maybe. Slumming, huh?"
“Maybe it was to see Madeleine. Did he talk about her at all?”
Joe considered. “Nope. Talked about a lot of things — walking encyclopedia, for cryin’ out loud — but didn’t mention her. Concentrated on his drinking. Finished ’em as fast as I could set ’em up. Paid up with a big bill and told me to keep the change.”
Joe was definitely in the distinguished gentleman’s corner and his expression show that he thought the Lieutenant was wasting his time in that direction.
“It seems you’re the only one who got a good look at him. The waiters couldn’t see much of him out on the floor and when the lights followed Madeleine around they were purple. He looked like a banker, you’d say?”
“Or a broker. Neat as a pin. Looked like when he wore a shirt once he threw it away. Take his shoes now. Brand-new. Forty or fifty bucks if they cost a dime.”
“How could you tell they were new?”
“When he crossed his legs here on the stool. The part between the sole and heel, y’know? Clean as a whistle.”
The Lieutenant made a note. “Did he seem to have his eye on any particular table?”
“Well, he looked at the floor once or twice. There were a couple open but that type’s got to have one up front. It goes with the upbringing. Y’know, the best of everything. Money no object.”
“And when this front table was empty he took it?”
“That’s right.” Joe smothered another yawn.
The Lieutenant was getting tired himself. A few hours of sleep wouldn’t hurt, but the trail might get cold. What trail, he asked himself sardonically. He went to the phone and called up the Medical Examiner. Peters answered and said he’d wrapped it up. The stuff had been taken three hours before death and he’d done some sleuthing himself and learned that the deceased had been in the middle of her Rainy Boulevard number when she’d absorbed it. Now all the Lieutenant had to do was find out what she’d been up to during that Rainy Boulevard.
The Lieutenant hung up. It jibed with what he figured. It had been set up deliberately. Joe’s man had ordered a sherry from the waiter — the sort of drink he expected Madeleine wouldn’t pass up. It came in a delicate slender glass and it had appealed to Madeleine. It he’d had a whiskey now, the sophisticated chanteuse would have passed it by. And why would a man who’d downed twelve whiskies like a machine suddenly switch to sherry at the table? Except as a come-on for the chanteuse?
The Lieutenant walked out on the floor, past the plate-sized tables and up the dark stairs to the street. It was light now, with patches of red in the cast. He inhaled deeply and turned to look at the garish signs pasted over the entrance. The Bon Voyage. Dancing. Entertainment. Allie Parks, Straight From Miami. Madeleine, Sophisticated Chanteuse.
He was about to step into his car when he had a thought. Jack Fisher. He’d talk to Jack Fisher. He went back down the stairs and across the echoing floor.
Fisher was still in his office. The Lieutenant could hear him through the thin door. He seemed to be talking to someone in New York and had a real problem on his hands. The Lieutenant entered. Jack Fisher waved and went on talking.