“I’ll have Hannegan get a picture from his wife and we’ll send out the word.”
Harlan Jones’ house was on Park Lane over on the West Side. It was a modest but substantial place, along in the fifteen-thousand-dollar class. It was just eight P.M. when I pushed the button next to the front door.
The woman who answered my ring was as much a contrast to Mrs. Knight as her home was to the Knight home. Sleek and serene, she escaped thinness by that slight margin stylists call willowy, which is between slender and skinny. Golden hair pushed back from a broad unlined brow in careful waves. Her eyes were wide-spaced and green, and her nose arched slightly but delicately over a soft, humorous mouth. She looked thirty, but by the barely discernible crows-feet at her eye corners, I judged her a well-preserved thirty-five.
I said, “Mrs. Jones?”
“Yes.” It was the same throaty voice I had heard over the phone.
“Mr. Jones in?”
“Not at the moment. He just stepped down to the drug store, but he’ll be right back. Will you come in?”
I said, “Thanks,” and let her lead me into a tastefully furnished living room.
“I’m Manville Moon,” I explained when we were settled in easy chairs with a knee-high glass-topped table between us. “I phoned earlier.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I answered the phone.” She laughed lightly. “Harlan will be glad to see you. He was upset when you hung up on him.” Her tone grew an edge of tolerant cynicism. “Harlan is always upset when he thinks he’s lost a chance to make a nickle.”
Then, apparently realizing her flippancy was not exactly diplomatic with one of her husband’s prospects, she looked contrite. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m always saying things I shouldn’t.”
“It won’t hurt your husband’s business,” I said dryly. “I’m afraid I left a wrong impression with Mr. Jones. I’m not in the market for stocks and bonds.”
Fishing out my wallet, I handed my license over for examination for the third time that day. She read it carefully, then looked at me with an amused quirk lifting the corners of her mouth.
“A detective! How dramatic! Don’t tell me Harlan is secretly a criminal.”
I shook my head. “My interest isn’t in your husband.”
“Neither is mine,” she said frankly, then colored to the roots of her hair and emitted a throaty little laugh. “Don’t I say the damnedest things?”
I let a grin form on what I use for a face.
“You’re nice when you grin,” she said. “Sort of like a friendly Saint Bernard whose face has been chewed by a bulldog. Do you mind my saying that? You must know you’re not exactly handsome. But of course with those shoulders, you don’t have to be.”
As she seemed to require only occasional answers when carrying on a conversation, I contented myself with merely continuing to grin.
“Are you interested in me?” she asked suddenly.
“How do you mean? As a detective?”
“How else?” Then her eyes widened and she let out a healthy, spontaneous laugh. “Are you interested some other way? That might be fun.”
“I came to see your husband about his partner,” I explained.
All laughter faded from her eyes. “Willard?”
I nodded, mildly intrigued by her use of Knight’s first name.
“What’s he done?” Her tone was intently serious.
I shrugged. “Nothing I know of. Except disappear.”
She studied me estimatingly and a faint trace of amusement reappeared in her eyes. “Going out of town on business is hardly disappearing.” Then she frowned. “At least Harlan said he was away on business.”
I remained silent.
“Harlan never lies. To me, anyway. I’d catch him in a minute.” Continuing to eye me, her tone gathered impatience. “What do you want to know about Willard?”
“Where he is.”
“Why?”
“Want to talk to him.”
She gripped one side of her lower lip between even teeth and watched me vexedly. “Is it a secret?” she asked finally.
“No, but I’d just as soon hold it till your husband comes home and not have to repeat myself.”
She fell silent and thought wrinkles momentarily marred the smoothness of her brow. Then, lifting her shoulders deprecatingly, she said, “Will you have a drink?”
I nodded assent. “Been waiting for an offer.”
Her good humor returned at once. “You should have asked.” She rose and moved toward the hall. She had been gone about two minutes when I heard the front door open and close again.
A round little fat man carrying a carton of cigarettes came in from the hall. He stopped short when he saw me, then advanced diffidently.
“Good evening, sir.”
I got out of my chair. “You Mr. Jones?”
“Yes.”
“Manville Moon,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I phoned earlier. I took advantage of you over the phone,” I said. “I’m not in the market for stocks. I just wanted some fast information about Willard Knight.”
Mrs. Knight came back into the room, bearing a tray with two glasses. “Are you back, Harlan? This is Mr. Moon. He’s a private eye. Isn’t that exciting?”
I winced, as I always do when anyone calls me a private eye.
“Yes,” Jones started to say. “We’ve...”
“We’re having a new drink,” she interrupted. “Scotch and bourbon mixed. Mr. Moon’s admirable suggestion. Go make yourself one.”
“I don’t want a drink,” Jones said petulantly.
“Suit yourself.” She handed me one of the glasses, took the other herself and curled up in a chair with her legs under her.
Easing myself back into my own chair, I said, “Luck,” and tried a sip of the drink.
It did not taste like it had overseas. In fact it tasted lousy.
“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Jones thrilled after her first sip. “Wherever did you discover it?”
“It was invented on the continent,” I said with a straight face.
“See here,” Jones put in suddenly. “What’s all this about?”
I said, “I’m here about the murder that took place last night, Mr. Jones.”
“Isn’t he dramatic?” his wife asked. Then her face stiffened and she said in a strangely hushed voice, “Not Willard?”
“He means Walter Lancaster, I presume,” Jones told her with mild impatience. To me he said, “I’ve already told the police everything I know about the man. What is it you want with me?”
“I want you to tell me where Willard Knight is.”
He looked surprised and a little relieved. “I don’t know. Our secretary phoned his wife this morning when he didn’t come in, and Mrs. Knight said he left town to see a prospect. She didn’t seem to know where he went Why don’t you ask her?”
“I did. She doesn’t know either.”
Mrs. Jones said, “No doubt he will wire in tomorrow. Can’t you wait?”
“No, he won’t wire,” I said. “He’s run.”
Nervously Jones punched out his cigarette. “I don’t understand this, Mr. Moon. Is Knight suspected of the crime?”
I shrugged. “Not exactly. But a few hours before the murder he threatened Lancaster, and now he’s dropped out of sight. When his wife last saw him, he was in a peculiar hurry. And he definitely was not where he told his wife he was last night. You established that on the phone.”
Mrs. Jones said, “Willard couldn’t have. Why he was...” Her voice trailed off and she finished lamely, “You have mentioned he has a temper though, haven’t you, Harlan?”
Abruptly she rose, pardoned herself and left the room.
Jones said, “This is all a great shock to me, Mr. Moon. But I’m sure my partner wouldn’t kill anyone. There must be some other explanation for his absence.”