“That’s right,” I said. I went on, acquainted Talbot with the evening as it had evolved. I mentioned only my invitation to Bill Ashton, made no reference to Julie’s ploy with Susan, and if Talbot understood or suspected the latter, he gave no sign.
“I imagine they stopped at that tavern for a final drink,” I wound up, “and Ashton flashed his wallet too much, gave an idea to some punk with a gun.”
Talbot nodded again. “From what Talbot was able to say, he didn’t know the hood had followed them outside until he accosted them, demanded the money. The street’s badly lighted at that spot Ashton couldn’t even approximate a description.”
Julie had been listening attentively.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“For now, nothing specific unless we get a break,” Talbot said quietly. “The hood abandoned the girl’s car a dozen blocks from the tavern. Ashton couldn’t give the license number, but we know it’s the car from Miss Shepard’s identification in a sample case she’d left on the seat.”
The lieutenant paused reflectively. “The punk probably won’t risk holding on to what could be a murder weapon, will likely throw it down a sewer. But a wad of cash could be something else.”
Julie’s hazel eyes were intent. “You mean once he figures he’s clear, he’ll still have the rest of the night ahead of him?”
“Something like that,” Talbot conceded. “I’ve already got men checking all the bars within a six-block radius of where we located the girl’s car, but after I’m through here I figure to make the rounds myself, see if any barkeep’s spotted a late arrival with some excess money.”
Julie’s close look held. Abruptly, she said, “I’m going with you.”
I had a sudden notion that undercurrents of which I was not fully appreciative were at play, but, such suspicion aside, I didn’t relish the thought of Julie traipsing around strange bistros and taverns late at night, even in the company of her detective brother.
I said, “Now, wait a minute—”
Talbot interrupted me.
“Relax, Paul,” he said. “Julie isn’t going anywhere except home with you.”
Julie’s chin lifted. “You can both relax, because I’m doing nothing of the sort,” she declared firmly. “I know — neither of you have said as much, but you’re thinking I’m responsible for this awful affair. Well, perhaps I am in a way, having Susan meet Bill, but I certainly couldn’t have foreseen the rest.”
She stopped, eyes sparking. “And I’m not about to go quietly back home now.”
That vague notion of an unvoiced-motivation nibbled stronger, but I still couldn’t pin it down. So when Talbot made no direct rebuttal to his sister’s pronouncement, but only looked askance at me, I tucked Julie’s arm in mine, said, “I guess that makes two of us, Ed.”
Talbot made a final check with the doctors in charge, arranged for immediate reports on the outcome of Ashton’s surgery and Susan’s tests to be relayed to his office, and then we started out, riding in Talbot’s official car.
It was a slow, methodical business. I found myself doubting the validity of the town fathers’ constant lament over lack of funds; the liquor licenses alone, it struck me, should have had the coffers overflowing. Bars, taverns, cafes, clubs — I’d never suspected their multiplicity.
In each, Ed Talbot’s procedure was the same: a sharp survey, unobtrusive but penetrating, of the patrons, a quiet questioning of barkeep or manager.
Results, however, continued negative and I began to doubt the wisdom or ultimate success of Talbot’s action. It seemed very much a needle-in-haystack gambit, with the added handicap of no knowledge of our quarry’s description or, for that matter, any assurance he’d continued on-the-town following his crime.
Talbot, though, continued his visitations. Further, in the more pretentious spots which featured cloakrooms he began to not only speak with the hatcheck girl but also to inspect the cloakroom itself. Pondering such a maneuver, I suddenly recalled Julie had managed a few personal words with her brother.
“What’s with the cloakroom bit?” I asked her as Talbot maintained such an inspection at a particularly flashy club. “Did you tell Ed something?”
She assented. “I made a suggestion.”
“What sort of suggestion?”
“About the man we’re looking for,” Julie said.
Abruptly, the notion which had nagged me recurred; Julies “suggestion,” I now knew, had been her true motivation from the beginning. I sighed, said, “Maybe you’d care to tell me—”
I broke off. Ed Talbot had emerged from the confines of the cloakroom carrying a brown topcoat, was talking with the girl in attendance, his features tight, expectant. The girl nodded, looked over the club’s patrons hesitatingly for a moment, then pointed toward the bar.
Talbot turned, began purposefully threading his way through the assemblage. After a moment, his quarry became evident: a sharp-featured character in an off-the-rack brown suit, occupying a stool at the center of the bar.
The man was at ease, nursing a drink, idly surveying the crowd. His casual gaze flicked over Talbot, then did a double-take, hardened. Due to the risk of shooting an innocent customer, Talbot had not drawn his service revolver, but the grim expression on his face, his evident intent both shouted his identity to the hood. Decision flared in the man’s eyes; as Talbot had surmised, he had disposed of his own gun, but he abruptly used his shot glass as a weapon, flung it hard at Talbot’s head.
What followed has only one word: Pandemonium. Women screamed, men shouted as the hood leaped from his stool, attempted to fight his way through the crowd.
He almost made it. Talbot had ducked the shot glass, but still was six feet from the bar when the hood bolted.
Talbot whirled, lunged after the man. The hood was bulling clear. And then he struck a chair, stumbled, went down. Talbot collared him and that was it—
“Suppose he’d sat tight, tried to brazen it out?” I mused after a patrol wagon had answered Talbot’s summons and we were leaving the scene in the lieutenant’s car.
“He read me and panicked,” Talbot said, “but even if he hadn’t, the stuff that was in his topcoat pockets would have tied him in.”
In the excitement, I’d forgotten the cloakroom business. I glanced at Julie, then back at Talbot.
“All right,” I conceded, “what stuff?”
Talbot relaxed at the wheel.
“That’s your cue, Sis,” he told Julie.
Now that it was all over, Julie was regaining a bit of her normal spirits.
“Sample tubes of hair dressing and shaving cream from Susan’s selling case,” Julie informed me simply. “When Ed told us she’d left her case on the seat of her car, I figured that mugger would find it, ransack it and likely pocket what he could use. That’s why I suggested Ed’s checking cloakrooms, then questioning the attendant if he came up with anything.”
Elementary, Watson? I suppose so. But only Julie had thought of it. Not her keen-minded detective brother. And certainly not her tag-along husband.
Ed Talbot chuckled briefly as he caught my comprehension, then sobered. “Sis,” he said, “I’d like to bring up a point you sort of touched on before.” He hesitated, then went ahead. “Both Paul and I have discussed it with you Lord knows how often, and while I grant you weren’t responsible for everything that happened tonight, it just proves how unpredictable your doggoned matchmaking can be.”
In the glow from the dash, Julie’s eyes were big and round and very earnest.
“I know,” she answered gravely, “and I promise. From now on — never again.”
The declaration was nice to hear, but in the shadows Julie’s hands were concealed in the folds of her coat. Her fingers might have been uncrossed, but I wouldn’t bet on it.