“For awhile.” I gave her another crooked smile. “You said she was out of the running.”
“She is.” She drained her glass, refilled it. “She hasn’t looked at a man since she started living here and that was a year ago. You want to know why?”
“Sure.”
“Because she’s married to the UN. To an inanimate, faceless world organization. She’s in early and she works late almost all the time. When she isn’t working for the UN she’s doing something for one of those outfits who call themselves friends of the UN.”
I asked: “What about Noel Draftsman?”
“What about him? He probably got so he couldn’t stand the competition any longer.” She took an unsteady trip to the liquor cabinet and mixed another round.
“What’s he doing?”
“Who?”
I repeated the name slowly, patiently.
“M-m-m.” She poured herself another drink and sat in an armchair opposite me. She looked like she was having trouble focusing.
“How about laying off that stuff for awhile?” I said, and she emptied the glass. I sighed. “Where’s Noel Draftsman?”
“How the hell should I know, buster?” — It came out ‘busshder’. “I don’t even know the guy. Never met him. Didn’t even know Eleanor was in New York until a year ago.”
She emptied another glass, got up, grinned idiotically, and collapsed. She must have drunk three-fifths of the quart herself. I went over and felt her pulse. It was slow and strong. Nothing wrong with her that a good night’s sleep and maybe two years of intensive psychotherapy wouldn’t cure. I laid her out on the couch and looked around the apartment, figuring this was a good time to try and locate a photo of Noel Draftsman.
The phone rang as I turned toward the bedroom. I let it ring a couple of times while I checked the tops of the dressers. Which was maybe silly, considering the state of the Draftsman’s relationship, but you can never tell. Then I answered the phone. That is, I picked up the receiver.
It was still eight inches from my ear when this joker started talking. He might have been primed at that.
He said, “Hello, baby, I’m around the corner in a phone booth. Just wanted to let you know I’m on my way. Hello, hello—”
I hung up. And lit out. Fast. I didn’t want any trouble. I had enough as it was. I brooded on it all the way uptown. I’d spent twelve hours on the case — a day and a half counted in hours — and what did I have to show for it? A big fat zero. I went back to the office to do some planning for the following day. I also wanted to take another look in the Draftsman dossier.
The following morning I gave all of it to Akutagawa verbatim. The way he likes it — dialogue, facial expressions, the whole bit. Always He would listen intently, eyes turned inward, unmoving except to nod once in awhile or ask me to clarify a point.
He said, talking about Joan Chandler, “She was a rather striking redhead?”
“Just as I described her. And a lush, to boot.”
“So.” He nodded. “Pour some tea, please.”
I obliged. I said: “We’re out of luck on the photograph. I didn’t get a chance to look around much, because this joker called.”
“A pity,” was all he said, which meant he was extremely dissatisfied with our progress.
I added, “I wouldn’t mind betting that Noel Draftsman could tell us a thing or two.”
“That, I think, will be our first line of attack,” he finally said. “Someone remembered that he’d worked for the Cranford Endowment for Peace. Called late yesterday afternoon. One of the secretaries on the thirty-eighth floor. Also, see what you can find on Joan Chandler. I suspect there’s more there than meets the eye, I’ve already put through a request for clearance, on both Chandler and Draftsman.”
Meaning the usuaclass="underline" New York Police Department, FBI and Interpol. I nodded, finished my tea and headed back to my cubicle. I had a feeling this was going to be a tougher case than we’d figured. Regardless of how it finally turned out.
Though I had to admit it was looking more and more like Mrs. Draftsman would not have jumped. Joan Chandler, maybe. But Eleanor Draftsman was something else again. The UN had quite a few staffers like that — totally dedicated to the idea and the organization. They had plenty to live for.
I put through a call to Cranford Endowment. Personnel there tried to be helpful but all they could tell me was that Noel Draftsman had left them three years earlier.
They didn’t know where he’d gone. No one had called for references on him. This was all memory work because the personnel record had been destroyed a year after Draftsman’s exit. Company policy, because of space limitations.
He’d been with them maybe five years. They had no recollection of where he’d come from, but seemed to remember that he’d been in the military sometime after World War II. They promised to call if they came up with anything else. I thanked them and rang off.
Next I called Joe Benares of Ajax Probes, a company which specializes in credit investigation. Joe was an old buddy of mine from the days when we ran divisional security in Korea. I told him what I wanted and he promised to run a fast check.
In the meantime I called UN Amici, the outfit Mrs. Draftsman worked for after hours.
I played this one off the top of my head when a gushing society type answered the phone and asked if she could help me. She had a curiously split voice: one half contralto, the other half soprano, as though her voice had just broken, though it was hard to tell in which direction it was heading. She introduced herself as Mrs. Brownell.
I said, “We’d like to get hold of Eleanor Draftsman—”
“Who is this?” Her voice dropped several octaves. It was now cautious, hedging.
“This is Mr. Random,” I said.
“Yes?”
“From the Wayfarers—”
“I don’t believe I am familiar—”
“Excuse me. I thought everyone was familiar with the Wayfarers, Mrs. Brownell.”
“It does sound vaguely familiar—” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, we’re a club devoted to world travel. A private dub, yon understand.” I waited for her to say yes, then continued: “We understand that your Mrs. Draftman provides informative talks on the UN—”
“Yes, indeed she does.” Now she was gushing again. “She’s one of our most talented speakers. Always in such constant demand. I only wish she were able to give more than two talks a month.”
I said: “Is she available?”
“I shall have to find that out for you, Mr. Random. If you’ll just hold the phone for a moment.”
“Thank you.” I heard her riffling through some papers.
She came back on: “I’m afraid she’s already given two talks for this month. I don’t believe—”
“Well,” I interrupted, “maybe next month.”
“Yes, well, we do have other speakers...”
“We want Mrs. Draftsman,” I said, then added, “unless of course you’re available, Mrs. Brownell.”
“Oh.” Her voice had risen. “No, I’m afraid I don’t accept speaking engagements. I—”
I told her that was a pity because she had such a fine voice. I promised to call next month, then cut the connection.
Joe Benares of Ajax Probes called back soon afterwards. Mrs. Draftsman, it seemed, had a lousy credit record. She owed around three thousand dollars to three major stores in the metropolitan area and a thousand more to assorted smaller concerns. At least one company was considering legal action. Her bank balance was in the upper three digits.
As for Joan Chandler, she was a big spender but met all her bills on time. She was presently working for International Acoustics on Forty-second and Lexington. Secretary to the president, George King. She’d been with them since nineteen fifty-eight, following her graduation from college and separation from the U.S. Army.