The faces around me weren't those of New Yorkers--at least those of the men. Most could be spotted as out-of-towners looking for a good time. You could tell those who had their wives along. They sat at the bar and tables sipping drinks, with one eye on the wife and the other on the stray babes, wondering why they had been talked into taking the little woman along.
Yeah, the atmosphere was great, what you could see of it. The Zero Zero Club took you right back to the saloons of a western mining camp, and the patrons loved it. Scattered throughout the crowd were half a dozen hostesses that saw to it that everyone had a good time. I got a table back in one corner that was partially screened by a group of potted plants, and waited. When the waiter came over I ordered a highball, got it and waited some more.
Five minutes later a vat-dyed blonde hostess saw me there and undulated over to my table.
She gave me a big smile from too-red lips and said, "Having fun?"
"Not so much."
I leaned over and pulled out a chair for her. She looked around once and sat down with a sigh, using me as a breather between courses. I signalled the waiter and he brought her a Manhattan without asking. She said, "It isn't tea, friend. You're paying for good whisky."
"Why tell me?"
"The farmers out there have read too much about hostesses drinking cold tea. They always want to taste it. So we don't drink at all, or have a small cola."
There wasn't much sense fooling around with chitchat here. I finished my drink, called for another, and while I waited I asked, "Where's Murray?"
The blonde squinted her eyes at me a moment, checked her watch and shook her head. "Beats me. He hardly ever gets here before midnight. You a friend of his?"
"Not exactly. I wanted to see him about something."
"Maybe Bucky can help you. He's the manager when Murray's away."
"No, he couldn't help me. You remember Nancy Sanford, don't you?"
She set her glass down easily and made little rings on the table with the wet bottom. She was looking at me curiously. "Yes, I remember her. She's dead, you know."
"I know. I want to find out where she lived."
"Why?"
"Look, honey. I'm an insurance investigator. We have reason to believe that Nancy Sanford was actually somebody else. She was using a phoney name. Oh, we know all about her, all right. But if she was this somebody else, we have a policy on her we'd like to clear up. The beneficiaries stand to collect five thousand dollars."
"But why come here?"
"Because we heard she used to work here."
There was a sad look in the blonde's eyes this time. "She was working in a house..."
"It burned down," I interrupted.
"Then she moved over to an apartment, I think. I don't know where, but..."
"We checked there. That's where she lived before she died. Where was she before either one?"
"I don't know. I lost track of her after she checked out of here. Once in a while someone would mention seeing her, but I never did. I'm afraid I can't help you at all. Perhaps Murray could tell you."
"I'll ask him," I said. "Incidentally, there's a reward that goes with finding the place. Five hundred bucks."
Her face brightened at that. "I don't get it, Mac. Five bills to find out where she lived and not who she was. What's the angle?"
"We want the place because there's someone in the neighborhood who can positively identify her. We're having trouble now with people putting in phoney claims for the money, and we don't want to lead them to anybody before we get there first, see?"
"In other words, keep all this under my hat until I find out. If I can find out."
"You got it."
"I'll buy it. Stop back again soon and see if I learned anything. I'll ask around." She finished her drink and turned on her "having fun?" smile, waved to me and went back to the rest of the party. The kid wanted money, all right. She'd keep it under her hat and ask around. It wasn't exactly what I had come for, but it might give me a lead sometime.
Five drinks and an hour and a half later Murray Candid came in. I had never seen him before, but when the waiters found something to do in a hurry and the farmers started chucking hullos over, looking for a smile of recognition that might impress the girlfriend, I knew the boss had come in.
Murray Candid wasn't the type to be in the racket at all. He was small and pudgy, with red cheeks, a few chins and a face that had honesty written all over it. He looked like somebody's favorite uncle. Maybe he was the one to be in the racket at that. The two guys that trailed him in made like they were friends of the family, but goon was the only word that fitted them. They both were young, immaculately dressed in perfectly tailored tuxedos. They flashed smiles around, shook hands with people they knew; but the way they kept their eyes going and the boss under their wing meant they were paid watch-dogs. And they were real toughies, too. Young, strong, smart with a reckless look that said they liked their job. I bet neither one of them smoked nor drank.
The band came on then, with a baby spot focused on the dance floor, and as the house lights were dimming out I saw the trio turn into an alcove over in the far corner. They were heading for the place I wanted to see--Murray Candid's office. I waited through the dance team and sat out a strip act, then paid my check and picked my way through the haze to the alcove and took the corridor that opened from it.
There were two doors at the far end. One was glass-panelled and barred, with EXIT written across it. The other was steel, enamelled to resemble wood, and there was no door-knob. Murray's office. I touched the button in the sill and if a bell rang somewhere I didn't hear it, but in a few seconds the door opened and one of the boys gave me a curt nod.
"He's in. Your name, please?"
"Martin. Howard Martin from Des Moines."
He reached his hand to the wall and pulled down a house phone. While he called inside I felt the door. It was about three inches thick and the interior lining was of some resilient soundproofing material. Nice place.
The guy hung up and stepped aside. "Mr. Candid will see you." His voice had a peculiar sound: toneless, the ability to speak without accentuating any syllable. Behind me the door closed with a soft click and we were in an anteroom that had but one decoration--another door. This time he opened it and I stepped inside at once.
I was half-way across the room before I heard a cough and looked to see another door about to close. The place was lousy with doors, but not a sign of a window.
Murray Candid was half-hidden by a huge oak desk that occupied most of the wall. Behind his head were framed pictures of his floor-show stars and studio photos of dozens of celebrities, all autographed. There was a couch, a few easy chairs and a small radio and bar combination. That was all, except for the other goon that was stretched out on the couch.
"Mr. Candid?"
He rose with a smile and stretched out his hand. I took it, expecting a moist, soft clasp. It wasn't. "Mr. Martin from, ah, Des Moines, is that correct?"
I said it was.
"Sit down, sir. Now, what can I do for you?"
The goon on the couch hardly turned his head to look at me, but he rasped, "He's got a gun, Murray."
He didn't catch me with my pants down at all. "Natch, brother," I agreed, "I'm a cop. Des Moines police." Just the same, it annoyed the hell out of me. The coat was cut to fit over the rod and you weren't supposed to notice it. These guys were pros a long time.
Murray gave me a big smile, "You officers probably don't feel dressed unless you're armed. Now, tell me, what can I do for you?"
I sat back and lit a cigarette, taking my time. When I flicked the match into a wastebasket I was ready to pop it. "I want a few women for a party. We're having a convention in town next month and we want things set up for a good time."