I tried to put myself in his place after his talk with Ricardo, when he’d discovered, without any question, that someone was leaking the stuff out of his files. The story was that somebody had called up Johnson, Ricardo’s friend, and tried to blackmail him with the framed story. The somebody had been a man. If I’d been Mike, and I wanted to start checking, I’d have gone to see Johnson and asked him about the phone conversation.
Johnson is a threatrical producer and I knew he had an office at the theater where his production of Underdog is running. I went there to see him. It was about 40 minutes before curtain time and he was in his office on the second floor of the theater. He wasn’t too cordial, but he saw me. He was a nice-looking, fairly young man.
“If Malvern wanted any more information from me he should have come himself,” Johnson said.
“I’m here on my own,” I said. “If you’ve heard the news today you know things are pretty messed up in Mike’s life.”
“That’s the understatement of the week.”
“Mr. Johnson, did Mike come to see you last night?”
“I ran into him at Lindy’s around one o’clock,” Johnson said. “I don’t know that he was exactly looking for me.”
“You talked to him about the blackmail phone call?”
“Yes.” Johnson was smiling at me in an odd way.
“Would you repeat the gist of that conversation to me?”
The odd smile widened. “I got a distinct impression, Vance, that he was trying to find out if I’d recognized your voice over the phone.”
“My voice!”
“That was the gist of it,” Johnson said. “I wouldn’t get too burned up about it. He’d just had it proved to him that there was a leak somewhere and that a man was involved. You, I take it, are the only man who has access to his confidential records. He’d have to check on you, no matter how much he trusted you, wouldn’t he?”
An hour after I left Johnson I went into a quiet little place off Broadway and ordered myself some food and coffee. I’d done some more checking and I began to understand why I’d been left sitting in that bar across from Ricardo’s hotel twiddling my thumbs. Mike had been investigating me! He must have had some idea of other items that had leaked. Two or three guys who were usually very friendly with me had acted queer and reserved. Mike’s questions had left them wondering about me.
It hit me hard to discover that Mike had doubted me so actively. Well, it didn’t matter. I was clean and he must know it by now. Also, though his two-hour alibi at Ricardo’s wouldn’t hold up, I’d discovered half a dozen places he’d been in that time. There were gaps in it — big enough to make a short visit to Waldo possible — but it was still a pretty good alibi.
Alibis made me think of Charley Carson, Mike’s lawyer. He should have seen Joan by now if he’d acted on Kathy’s call. I had his private number in my pocket notebook and I dialed it from a booth in the restaurant. Carson is one of the topflight boys in his trade, and his particular specialty, as far as Mike was concerned, was a vast knowledge of the libel laws. He worked on a retainer for Mike, and any time there was anything the least bit touchy in one of the columns, Carson saw it before the proof was okayed.
“Hi, Vance,” he said, over the phone. “You been talking to Kathy?”
“Not recently. Why?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Kathy said you were out on the town somewhere. Can you come over to my place for a few minutes?”
“Sure. How’s Joan? You’ve seen her?”
“I’ve seen her,” Carson said. “Get over here, will you, son?”
Carson lives on Central Park South, a fancy penthouse overlooking Central Park. He’s a big, fat, easygoing guy who likes the good things of life, and earns them by being sharp and hard as nails at his job. He let me in and took me into his library. He was wearing a silk lounging robe and smoking a cigar that smelled like about two dollars’ worth.
“I understand Mike has blown his top over this thing” he said, as he settled himself in the armchair back of his desk.
“Things are rough,” I said. “Erika missing. Joan charged with murder. Somebody stealing stuff from his files.”
Carson has the heavy, hooded eyes of a gambler. You can never read in them what he is thinking. “I didn’t know until after I’d seen Joan that he hadn’t wanted me called.”
“He was pretty hard hit about then. He’ll have calmed down when he hears about it.”
“He has heard about it. He told me to lay off.”
“What are you going to do?” I said.
“I told him to go fly a kite,” Carson said. “I told him Joan had retained me personally.”
“Good for her,” I said.
“Of course she didn’t. That’s where you come in, Vance. I want you to go see her and tell her I’m working for her, not her father.”
“What’ll she use for money?”
I said it bitterly.
“Who said anything about money?” The hooded eyes turned my way. “You ought to have your behind kicked,” Carson said amiably.
“I? What have I done?”
“You’ve been mooning around over Joan for a couple of years,” he said. “I had an idea you were really in love with her.”
“I was — only, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”
“Was?” His bushy gray eyebrows rose.
“I don’t know where I’m at right now,” I said. “Waldo Layne! When I think of her — and Waldo—”
“I’ll be glad to do that kicking right now,” Carson said. “You never loved that girl. If you did you’d know what kind of a person she is.”
“I thought I did.”
“Would the girl you loved have given Waldo Layne the time of day?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. But—”
“You wouldn’t have thought so! You fathead! What’s changed her?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Nothing changed her!” he said emphatically. “She was no more in love with Waldo Layne than I am. And I handled his divorce and know just the special kind of louse he was.”
“But—”
“You sound like an outboard motor! But, but, but. Why don’t you use your heart and your head? Why is she telling this cock-and-bull story?”
“There’s no question that she went to the hotel,” I said.
“Who said there was? She was there, she found Layne dead, she ran away, she phoned in the alarm. All those things happened. But she hasn’t said why she went or what it was all about. Of course, you and Mike, who love her, are perfectly prepared to believe she could care for a heel like Waldo.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Mr. Carson, you really don’t think she—?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” he said impatiently. “I’ve known Joan since she was toddling around in a baby-walker. I’m not in love with her, but apparently I know her better than those of you who are supposed to be.” He paused, and I had to look down, because my eyes felt hot and salty. Then he went on in a matter-of-fact tone: “Frankly, I couldn’t get anywhere near the truth from her, Vance. She kept repeating that silly story about Waldo. Maybe you can break her down.”
“I’d like to try,” I said.
“Good. I’m going to give you an authorization for her to sign, retaining me as her counsel. I’ll arrange for you to see her now. Okay?”
“Wonderful,” I said. “One thing, Mr. Carson — about the revolver. The fact that it’s missing is damaging, isn’t it?”
“Don’t tell me that along with your other asininities you think she shot Waldo?”
“No, of course not. All the same—”
“Until they find the gun and ballistics proves it was the one that killed Waldo it’s just a gleam in McCuller’s eye. Good heavens, do I have to tell you again? She didn’t kill Waldo. She wasn’t in love with him. She’s covering for someone, and I wonder if I have to tell you who that is, too?”