He picked her up and put her carefully on the bed. She lay limp, her eyes closed, breathing hard. He made sure that she was right out, before he began to search her. He didn't like the job, it made him feel like a snake, but he went through with it. Pushed down the top of her girdle, he found what he was looking for. A little red leather note-book. He didn't wait to examine it there and then, he just put it carefully in his inside pocket, rearranged her dress and left her. He let himself out of the apartment, and brought the elevator up from the ground floor. While he waited for it to come up, he kept an ear cocked for any sound from the flat. It was only when he got into the street that he felt at ease. He noticed, across the road, a big Packard was standing. No one was in it. He crossed the road and glanced inside. He recognized the car as the one that had followed him. It belonged to Annabel English.
“Well, well,” he said. This was getting quite beyond him. He walked a little way down the road, then he flagged a cruising taxi. He gave McGuire's address. When the cab jerked off, he settled himself back on the shiny leather, and took out the note-book. It was very neat, each page covered with minute writing. Just names and addresses, and against each name was a number of small denominations. He turned the pages, carefully reading each name, hoping to get some clue. At the fifth page he realized that he was reading down a list of New York's top-liners. He went on.
There was no doubt of that. Well-known names began to jump out of the pages. Wives of bankers, stockbrokers, rich playboys, daughters of millionaires, actors and actresses, councillors, a judge here and there, quite a complete list of people in the public eye and who mattered. Duffy looked for Annabel English's name, but he couldn't find it. He held the book in his hand and scratched his head. He thought probably the key lay in the numbers against the names. But it had him beat. He counted the names for something better to do. They totaled just over three hundred. At the end of the book, written faintly in pencil, was a name and address, set apart from the other names. He made it out with difficulty: “Olga Shann, Plaza Wonderland Club”. He put the note-book in his pocket, and leant back brooding. Perhaps, he thought, he'd get a line from this Olga dame.
The taxi swung to the kerb, and he got out. There was something familiar in the taxi-driver's face. Duffy looked at him hard. The taxi-driver grinned at him.
“You must love that dame,” he observed. “The last time I brought you to this joint you had to be carried, and now, God love me, she's scratched you to hell again.”
Duffy gave him some money. “One of these days,” he said evenly, “someone's going to take a dislike to you.”
The taxi-driver grinned some more. “T should worry,” he said.
Duffy left him and walked up the steps to the apartment.
CHAPTER VII
WHEN MCGUIRE GOT in from work, he found Duffy and Alice in the kitchen. Duffy was standing over the stove, a heavy frown on his face, watching a large steak grilling.
McGuire took one look at him and said, “For God's sake, he's been at it again.”
Alice looked up with a mischievous smile. She was peeling potatoes at the sink. “He won't say a word.”
Duffy scowled. “For the love of Mike, pipe down,” he said. “What if my girl friend did get tough?”
McGuire shook his head sadly. He leant himself up against the wall. “I never met such a guy,” he said. “Can't you take care of yourself once in a while?”
Duffy said, “Know the Plaza Wonderland Club?”
Sam shot a look at Alice. “I've heard of it.”
Alice said, “I knew you would. You know all the low clubs.”
Sam protested. “You got me wrong there,” he said violently; “I've never been there. I just heard of it from the boys.”
“I know.”
Sam groaned, “She's always imagining things,” he complained to Duffy. “As if I'd be seen dead in one of those burgs.”
“You're going to this one tonight,” Duffy said, turning the steak carefully.
Sam cocked his head. “Is that so?” he said. Again he looked at Alice.
She shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to say yes,” she said.
Duffy went over and gave her a pat. “Be nice,” he said. “This is strictly business. You got to stay home.”
“You men,” she said, but she wasn't mad. Duffy knew she'd take it all right. She was like that. “Don't get him into trouble,” she said, looking at Sam.
“Me?” Sam laughed. “I like that. Get him into trouble? It's me that's going to run into that, I bet.”
Duffy shook his head. “You're just window-dressing,” he said. “You'll see.”
After the meal, McGuire pushed his chair back and looked inquiringly at Duffy. “You want to get going?” he said.
Duffy nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Might as well.”
Sam lit a cigarette and went over to get his hat. He slapped it on the back of his head and turned to Alice. “We ain't going to be late,” he glanced at Duffy, who shook his head. “Keep the bed warm for me, honey.”
She raised her face to his for a kiss, and Duffy looked on with approval. “You must've been screwy to marry a tramp like that,” he said to Alice.
Sam grinned. “There was a shortage of men at the time.”
Alice threatened him with a roll of bread, and he ducked out to get the car.
She said in a small voice, “You'll be careful?”
Duffy turned his head, and said with elaborate astonishment, “Why, sure, we're going to have a good time.”
She got from her chair and walked over to him. “Save it, Bill. You're poking your nose into this murder business.”
Duffy shrugged. “This won't amount to much,” he explained. “I've got a line on Cattley's girl friend. She might turn in some information. This business puzzles me. There is a lot I don't get. Maybe I've been a bit hasty, hiding up that rat. I don't know. This Annabel broad ain't nice. She's dangerous.”
“I wish you hadn't anything to do with it. Sam's worried too.”
Duffy put on his hat. “I gotta see it through now. Don't you worry about Sam, I won't get him into anything.”
“I'm worrying about you.”
“Forget it,” he pleaded; “it's going to come out okay.”
She went with him to the door. “I don't want to be a fuss.”
He patted her shoulder. “You're swell,” he said. “It'll be all right.”
He found Sam sitting at the wheel of a small tourer that had seen better days. Duffy climbed in beside him. “Where's this joint, anyway?” he asked.
Sam let in the clutch with a bang, the car jerked forward, and then stalled. Duffy didn't say anything, he was used to it. Sam pulled the starter, reversed the engine, and let the clutch in again. The car pulled away from the kerb, making a noise like a beehive.
“The Plaza?” Sam said; “it's near Manhattan Bridge.”