Ben went back to the rack and looked up Anton Freimak in the Manhattan directory, then in Brooklyn, then in the Bronx. He found the name in the Bronx directory and wrote down the number and then had to wait for one of the booths to be empty.
The voice that answered the telephone sounded like a girl’s.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Freimak.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Do you know where I could get hold of him?”
“He’s out. You want to hold on a second, maybe I can find out.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He heard a rattle as the telephone was laid down. He could hear faint music. In a few moments another voice, a woman this time, said, “Yes?”
“I was wondering how I could get in touch with Mr. Freimak.”
“Is it important?”
“Quite important.”
“He’s at some kind of a meeting at the Hotel Roosevelt. I don’t know as he’s even got there yet. But it’s for cocktails and dinner and speakers. Some kind of a tax meeting. I don’t know the name of the meeting, but they would know at the information desk. I don’t know if you can get in, even, but maybe they could call him out if it’s important. He doesn’t like to be bothered when he goes to those meetings.”
“Thank you very much.”
“If you don’t get hold of him there you can telephone here tomorrow, but not before eleven in the morning. Should I tell him who was calling?”
“The name won’t mean anything to him, thanks.”
By the time he arrived at the Roosevelt the cocktail hour was well under way. Couples were waiting to be seated in the lounge at the right of the entrance. He went up the steps to the lobby and saw the information sign ahead and on the left, across from the elevators.
“Could you tell me where the tax meeting...”
“Mezzanine floor, sir, and to the right,” the girl said, and turned toward the next questioner.
He took the elevator up. He went down a wide carpeted hall and found a sign on a standard outside open double doors. The sign said, Annual Meeting, Tax Consultants’ Association of Greater New York. He walked through the doors.
A cocktail bar had been set up in the room. A stone-faced woman sat at a table on the left with a cashbox and typed list.
“Name, please?”
“I’m not attending the meeting. I just want to talk to Mr. Freimak a moment.”
She ran a finger down the list. “He hasn’t arrived yet.” There were a half-dozen men standing back at the cocktail bar, talking and laughing.
“Could I wait?”
“Please wait in the corridor and I’ll send him out when he arrives,” the woman promised.
Ben went out into the corridor. The checkroom was just down the hall. The members arrived singly and in small groups, laughing together, a few of them glancing curiously at him as they went through the double doors. He tried to amuse himself by looking for some factor they all had in common, some identifiable stamp of the accountant. There were very few who fitted the cartoonist’s conception, very few pale, withered, myopic little men. If there was any common characteristic it was a sharpness of eye. Their minds were honed sharp by the necessities of survival — survival in a field where the rules changed constantly.
A short broad little man came back down the corridor, walking with short quick steps. His features gave an impression of roundness: round head, round snub nose, small round mouth, wide round eyes — but there was nothing bland or naive about the expression in those eyes.
“You want to see me, young man?”
“I’m sorry about bothering you this way, Mr. Freimak. I’m Lieutenant Ben Morrow. I flew with Dick MacLane.”
“Just a moment. MacLane. Yes. Advertising, free-lancing. His wife is a model. Absolutely no head for figures. Called back to active duty. You have a message for me from him?”
“He was killed about ten months ago, Mr. Freimak.”
The wide round eyes narrowed for a moment. “I’m sorry, of course. Our relationship was purely professional. His wife should have come in and seen me. Have her call for an appointment. I’ll get out the file. I have his insurance data. She should have come to see me immediately.”
“It was in all the newspapers, Mr. Freimak, about—”
“My newspaper reading is specialized, Lieutenant. Have her come in and see me. Is that all?”
Ben thought quickly. Freimak obviously knew nothing about the search for Helen MacLane. And. quite obviously, Freimak wanted to get back to the meeting. The roar of voices from the room had deepened as the crowd had increased. Ben said, “Actually, Mr. Freimak, I want to ask you a personal favor.”
“See me Monday at the office.”
“Please give me just two minutes now, Mr. Freimak.”
Freimak sighed. “Hurry, then.”
“I have thirty days’ leave. MacLane used to tell me about his place, the one out of town,” Ben said. “He insisted I should use it if we ever got back — and now I’d like to, but I forgot where it is. I remembered his mentioning your name. I thought you could tell me how to find it.”
“Ask his wife. Why ask me?”
“She — went back to Ohio. I haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”
“That was a small account, Lieutenant. Do you think I walk around with my head full of addresses?”
The man was getting angry, and Ben felt himself blush as he made an emotional appeal. “I don’t have any other place to go, Mr. Freimak. I just thought — well, that you’d be willing to help out. I hate to bother you, but it’s important to me.”
Freimak looked at him for a moment and then took hold of his elbow. “Come in and we will have one drink and I will try to find the right card.” He tapped his forehead with a blunt finger. “In here, I keep the file cards. I have to sort them, like I was one of those punch-card machines. All I remember now is that there was a place, some kind of allowable deduction, something about a name. Come on.”
They went in. Freimak asked him what he was drinking, then left him and wedged his way up to the bar and came back with two drinks in a surprisingly short time.
“I just—”
“Don’t talk for a minute, Lieutenant.”
Freimak stood with his eyes shut, the drink in his round hand. At least thirty seconds went by. Freimak opened his eyes and smiled. “Now I know why I remember. A percentage deduction. He worked there on magazine pieces. He took a long lease, paid cash. The receipt is on file in his folder in my office. I amortize the payment.”
“Where is it?”
“Off Route Nine above Rhinecliff. A farm with cabins and, I think, a lake. A pond, probably. A man named Cassidy owns it. The receipt I got, it is made out to — wait a minute — Richards, or MacRichards. His name changed around. A sort of a joke he had with his wife. I think. You get in touch with her and tell her to come and see me. I can help her. I will do that as a courtesy because her husband was a client. You understand, Lieutenant, I don’t go around giving out information like this.”
“I appreciate it.”
“It’s just because of where you’ve come from and what you’ve been doing. Have a good leave, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Mr. Freimak.”
“Here, I’ll take care of the glass.”
Ben said good-by to him and walked out of the crowded room. He went down in the elevator. He knew he ought to call Davis. It sounded like the place Helen MacLane would have run to. And he sensed the true extent of his own luck. This had been like hitting with the first coin in the slot, the first pull of the handle. But the girl had run. It had been her decision. He had made the same decision, and it was entirely possible that someday someone would turn him in. His identification, he knew, was with Helen rather than with the Davises and Waskas. And he might endanger her by leading the wrong people to the cabin. Perhaps the best he could do for her would be to forget what he had learned. Other people with police protection had suffered strange accidents. And, as Davis had indicated, he couldn’t even trust his own people completely.