The fire at the Hotel Spain had been pretty grim. It was an old family-type hotel about twelve stories high. The fire had started on the fifth floor, and it must have been a lulu, because the seven top stories had been completely gutted. The twelve people who had died in the fire had all been trapped above the fifth floor. Others had escaped, but those twelve had either been unable to get to safety or had not become aware of the danger until too late. Bodies had been taken to the morgue, and so far there had been no definite identifications. That is to say, the authorities had, by checking with the survivors, been able to tell who the twelve dead were, but the bodies themselves had been burned beyond recognition.
I looked over the list of the dead and saw no names there that meant anything to me. It’s cold-blooded, but my concern was with names that would mean something in the news. The fire department wasn’t prepared to make any sort of statement as to how the blaze got started, though they hinted someone might have dropped a lighted cigarette in some trash can. There was no suggestion of arson.
I had a look upstairs. My press pass and my connection with Mike got me most places I wanted to go. When I finally returned to the lobby the place was jammed with anxious people, checking on the safety of friends or relatives. I started to push my way through the crowd toward the front doors, and then I stopped dead. Standing in the center of the crowd was Joan Malvern.
She didn’t spot me until I’d worked my way over to her and put my hand on her arm. She swung around to face me and I was shocked by the look in her eyes. She was scared stiff.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I... I had a friend who lived here,” she said.
“Who?”
“A... a girl I know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Vance, what are you trying to do? Give me a third degree?”
“What’s the matter with you?” I said. “I happen to have a list of the casualties here in my pocket. What’s your friend’s name?”
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Eloise Morton,” she said.
That was a facer, because I remembered the name. It was about third from the bottom on the list of the dead. I took Joan’s arm in a firm grip. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
She didn’t say anything till we got out on the sidewalk. Then she stopped and faced me. “Her... her name is on the list?”
“I’m sorry, Joan.”
Her legs started to buckle under her. I grabbed her and started looking for some place to take her, but she managed to get hold of herself.
“Would you buy me a brandy, Vance?”
I found a place a couple of doors down the street. She drank the brandy, choking a little on it, and I ordered her another. We sat at a little table, and she didn’t say anything. She just twisted and untwisted her handkerchief around her fingers.
There was no use not talking about it. “I never heard you mention this friend of yours,” I said.
“She... she was an old school friend,” Joan said.
“Oh.”
“Where’s Father?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the twisted handkerchief.
“He’s gone home to wait for Erika. The police want to talk to her. Waldo’s death will be a nasty shock.”
“Yes.”
“Look, Joan; we all have to die sometime. Maybe it comes easy or maybe it comes hard.”
“I know.”
“It’s funny,” I said. “I’m sorry about Eloise Morton, and I never heard of her till ten minutes ago. I knew Waldo well — and I’m not sorry.”
“The early afternoon papers have the story on Waldo,” she said. “The police say some woman who came to see him tipped them off.”
“That’s right.”
“Have they found out who she was?”
“Waldo had a million of them,” I said. “She called from outside. She didn’t give a name.”
Joan didn’t say anything more. She just sat and stared at the handkerchief.
“Joan,” I said, “you remember that little revolver Mike gave you a few months back.”
“Yes,” she said listlessly.
“You know where it is?”
“In my top bureau drawer at home. I never carried it, Vance. I couldn’t have shot anybody if my life depended on it.”
“Maybe I better take you home.”
“No,” she said sharply.
“You still look pretty rocky.”
“I... I better get in touch with Eloise’s family,” she said.
“Can I help?”
“No, thanks, Vance. No; thanks very much.”
She stood up, and I never saw anybody look so white. But she walked quite steadily out of the place...
We were getting it in reverse when I got back to the house. Reporters were hanging around the front entrance, along with a dozen or so photographers. They all crowded around me, demanding in:
“You know how it is, Vance. It’s a job we have to do.”
“I’ll see what I can work out for you,” I told them, and opened the front door.
Inside, I glanced at my wrist watch. It was nearly 4 in the afternoon. I went through the library into Mike’s office.
He was sitting at his desk, but he wasn’t working. His elbows rested on the desk and his face was buried in his hands. He lifted his head quickly as I came in. “Any news?”
“It was quite a fire,” I said. “Twelve known dead. It turns out one of them was an old school friend of Joan’s.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he said impatiently. “Is there any news of Erika?”
“I haven’t been looking for Erika,” I said. “Haven’t you heard from her?”
“Would I be asking if I had?” Then he turned away. “I’m sorry, Vance. I am afraid I’ve gotten panicky. There hasn’t been any word from her. Surely she’d have heard about Waldo by now and gotten in touch.”
“That girl can sleep the clock around,” I said. “If she holed up with some friend for the night she may not be awake yet, not if they did a late turn.”
“Thanks,” he said drily.
“For what?”
“For not saying what you really think.”
“That is what I think.”
He brought his fist down hard on the desk. “There’s something badly wrong. We all know it. We just don’t want to admit it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then let’s do something practical about it. We’ll start calling her friends. One of them will—”
“What do you think Kathy and I have been doing all afternoon?” he cut in. “We’ve called everybody we can think of that she knows. We’ve called every number in the address book on her telephone table. We’ve called the hospitals” — his voice cracked — “even the morgue.”
“Well,” I said, as cheerfully as I could, “if there hasn’t been an accident and she isn’t in the morgue, that ought to take part of the load off your mind.”
“She could have driven out of town with someone. There could have been an accident somewhere else — Jersey — Connecticut — Long Island. How can we begin to cover those possibilities?”
“Look, take it easy,” I said. “The best bet is that she tied one on last night with some of those crack-brained friends of hers. She rolled in at 5 or 6 in the morning somewhere and stayed overnight.”
“Why wouldn’t she call me?” Mike said. “She knows the rules. Even at 6 or 7 in the morning she should call.”
Ordinarily, he’d get sore if you suggested Erika might have been drinking. He was so worried now he almost preferred to think so.
“She knows you don’t like her to get tight,” I said. “It’s just after 4 now. If they rolled in, say about 6 this morning, it’s only ten hours. Erika’s just getting her second wind of sleep when it’s ten hours.”