“How’s the wife?” he asked.
“How’s any wife,” Meyers muttered.
He got in beside Larry and lit a cigarette. He made no move to start the car, just sat there, staring out the wind shield. The cigarette in his mouth accumulated ash. Is cascaded down his vest.
“Find out anything?” he asked finally.
Larry shook his head. “The bartender didn’t remember me. The twenty six girl I talked to in there is gone. Some guy, Tonelli, his name was, spent twenty minutes trying to cinvince me I was drunk.”
“Tonelli,” Meyers said. “Go on.”
“That’s all. They claim I wasn’t even at the Kicking Horse last night.”
Meyers pinched his nose with stubby fingers.
“How did Tonelli seem?”
“Friendly enough,” Larry answered. “But he didn’t know of any blonde who hung around the bar there. He didn’t know the twenty six girl. And the bartender was pretty sure he’d never seen me before! But he was lying.”
“How do you figure?”
“He went out of his way to talk to me last night. He fixed me up with this girl. He bought us a drink. A guy would remember something like that.”
“I guess he would,” Meyers said. He turned and looked at Larry. “If it happened, that is.”
“Oh, shut up,” Larry said wearily. “What percentage is there trying to prove I’m crazy? Or just a drunk who has funny dreams? If you don’t believe me let me alone. I know what happened to me. I know where I was last night. I know that bartender was lying. And I intend to find out why.”
Meyers shrugged. “Okay. But don’t cry if you get hurt. Can I drop you somewhere.”
“No,” Larry said. “I can get home.”
Meyers frowned and then threw his cigarette away.
“If you come across anything give me a ring?”
“Now who’s crazy?” Larry asked.
“I don’t know. My food doesn’t taste right though. Hell of a note.” He sighed heavily. “Be seeing ya.”
Larry got out of the car and watched him drive away.
Chapter VII
He was looking for a match when he found it. He was still standing at the corner of Canal and Madison, an unlighted cigarette in his lips when he found the match folder on which the dice girl had scribbled her phone number.
He stared at it for a moment, trying to assimilate all the things it meant. First, he wasn’t crazy. Second, he had been in the Kicking Horse, had talked to the girl named Corinne.
And both Tonelli and the bartender had lied about it. They were trying to convince him he had been drunk. And they had both known he wasn’t. Why? That was a big why.
He turned into a drugstore. He knew a number, maintained by the telephone company for the use of its maintenance crews which would give the street address of any listed telephone number.
He dialed it, gave the operator the dice girl’s telephone number and in a few seconds she gave him the address of the phone. It was on the North side, near Wilson avenue. He thanked her and hung up.
He went outside and looked for a cab. He felt a queer feeling of excitement. He felt he had finally succeeded in clutching one of the ravelled ends of this mystery.
Where it led he had no idea. But it was something. The shadows were taking form. Soon there might be something tangible in his hands.
A cab stopped and he climbed in and gave the driver the address on the North side. His hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette...
The house was a six-flat, brownstone front, with bay windows and an incongruously ornate canopy leading from the curb to the doorway. A flight of worn steps led to the double glass doors.
He paid the driver and went up the steps. It was ten thirty by his wrist watch.
The lobby had a vaguely dirty smell. There were a few overstuffed chairs, a phony marble fireplace and a worn wooden floor needed a good a good scrubbing.
The desk clerk was a tired old man with white hair, and over worked adam’s apple and rheumy blue eyes.
“I want to see Corinne,” Larry said.
The old man looked at him. “Corinne who?”
“How the hell do I know,” Larry said. “She gave me her phone number and address. I don’t need her last name. I’m not going to introduce her to anybody.”
The old man grinned crookedly. “Corinne ain’t as bad as some of them. But you guys are all the same. A dame is just something to kick around, treat like dirt. You wouldn’t do it to your wives ’cause you’re scared. That’s why you chase these tramps around. But Corinne ain’t no tramp. Her room is three ten. If she gave you her number it’s because she likes you.”
“Thanks,” Larry said.
He crossed the lobby to the self-service elevator and went up to the third floor. Three ten was three doors from the elevator.
He knocked and waited. A moment later he heard light footsteps and then the door opened.
She didn’t recognize him at first. When she did she tried to slam the door. But he got his foot in the way.
“I want to talk to you, Corinne,” he said.
“I got nothing to say,” she said. She was panting and her face looked pinched and scared. “You’re poison. Get out of here and let me alone.”
He pushed the door open, stepped in and swung it shut behind him. She backed away from him, her eyes wide with terror.
“Get out of here!” she whispered.
“Not until we talk a little,” he said.
The room was shabbily furnished. There were a few chairs with worn upholstery, a day bed with a red quilt thrown over it, and a dusty gray rug. A lamp was on above the day bed and there was an open magazine on the floor.
He sat on one of the chairs and pulled out his cigarettes. He offered her the pack and she refused with a jerk of her head. She was wearing a faded blue silk house coat and blue slippers. Her dark hair was drawn into a bun at the nape of her neck and her skin, without make-up, was white and drawn.
“I’m sorry I barged in,” he said. “But I’ve got to talk to you. I want to know who that girl was I met in the Kicking Horse last night. And why you quit so suddenly. And why Tonelli lied to me about it.”
“You saw Tonelli?” her voice was still a whisper.
“Just left him,” Larry said. “He claims you never worked there.”
“You fool! You simple fool! What are you sticking your neck out for? You’re out of it now. Stay out of it. Get out of here and forget you ever saw me.”
She spoke in a tense, frightened voice that was close to the breaking point of hysteria.
“I can’t,” Larry said. “That girl I met in the Kicking Horse was murdered last night. Somebody tried to pin it on me. But it didn’t work.”
The girl sat down on the day bed as if her legs had lost their strength. She stared dully at him. “Murdered? Velma dead?”
“Her name was Velma?”
“Yes.” She answered like a person in a daze. “Velma Dare.”
“Who was she?”
Corinne stood up suddenly. “Get out of here!” she screamed suddenly. “You’re dragging me into this too. I didn’t know what it was. You’re poison.”
He stood up then and gripped her shoulders.
“Corinne,” he said urgently, “listen to me, for God’s sake. I’m behind the biggest eight ball in the world unless I get some help. I’m not trying to get you in trouble. That’s the last thing I want. But I’ve got to get some answers.”
For a moment she stared at him, trying to twist her shoulders away from his grip, and then she began to cry, soundlessly, and her shoulders went limp under his hands. He pulled her to him, until her face was buried against his coat.
“I didn’t know it was murder,” she whispered. “I knew it was bad, but nothing like that.”