“Tell me about it.”
“I don’t know much. Tonelli gave me a thousand dollars last night and told me to leave town. He told me you were in some kind of trouble and we had to pretend you’d never been to the Kicking Horse. He didn’t tell me any more. Just to get out. And to get lost. In a hurry.”
“Who was Velma Dare?”
“I can’t tell you. Oh, please get out now. Tonelli isn’t an easy guy. If he ever learns I talked to you I wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Where did Velma live?”
“She lived with a friend of hers. In the Wilshire apartments. Occasionally, that is.”
“What do you mean, ‘occasionally’? What else did she do?”
“When did you leave kindergarten?” she said. She was starting to laugh and cry. She broke away from him and sank down on the day bed. “God, that’s funny. A baby like you chasing around after these people. They’ll slice you in thin strips and serve you in Martinis. Get out! Do you hear me? Get out!”
The Wilshire apartments...
Larry had what he came for. He patted her on the shoulder and left. Downstairs the room clerk looked at him in surprise.
“You was quick,” he said.
“Yeah,” Larry said.
Chapter VIII
From Corrine’s apartment to the Wilshire was a twenty minute cab ride. On the way Larry did some thinking, but it didn’t help much.
He now had several facts to go on: one, he had been at the Kicking Horse. Two, Tonelli and the bartender had gone to a lot of trouble to convince him he hadn’t. Three, Corinne had been paid off, told to get out of town, so he wouldn’t have a chance to see her again.
Fine. Three nice facts. But they didn’t tell him anything. He had been framed but the frame had unaccountably backfired. Now no one wanted any part of him. They wanted him to forget about it. Charge it off to a crazy dream or too many drinks.
But he still didn’t know why.
The Wilshire apartments was in a better neighborhood than Corinne’s. About a block from the Lake Shore, about fourteen hundred North, and about spitting distance from the Gold Coast.
The Wilshire was an impressive place, with shrubbery in brass pots, an expensive looking canopy and a doorman who looked like a White Russian.
The doorman opened the two glazed portals for Larry as if they led to the audience chamber of the Czar, and he walked into a discreetly hushed lobby that could have been used for a football game. The thick gray carpet hushed his steps as he walked to the desk.
A young man in a beautifully-cut flannel suit smiled at him, cleared his throat and said, “Yes?” His tone implied that if you wanted the East wing at Buckingham Palace he would be happy to get it for you.
“I want to see Velma Dare,” Larry said.
“Ah!” the young man continued to smile. “Miss Dare isn’t in. Do you care to leave a message?”
“No. I’ll see her friend then.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Don’t say. I’ll talk to her on the phone. I think she’ll see me.”
“Very well.” He made a connection on the switchboard and then pointed to a phone on the desk. Larry picked up the phone and when a sleepy voice said, “yes,” he said, “I’m a friend of Velma’s. I’ve got something important to tell you. May I come up?”
There was a moment’s pause. The voice said, “I’m in suite Four-A. Come up, please.”
The voice didn’t sound so sleepy...
He knocked and the door was opened immediately. The woman who opened the door was thin, with graying hair and a tired looking face. Her eyes were pale blue, blood-shot at the corners. She looked nervous.
The black house coat and high-heeled pumps she wore accentuated her thin, flat-chested figure. She was wearing a lot of jewelry. A heavy silver necklace, thick silver bracelets, and two rings. A ruby and an emerald. It didn’t help her much.
“Who are you?” she said. Her voice sounded like a nail being drawn across sandpaper.
“The name isn’t important,” Larry said. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside and he entered a room that spelled money, from the black wood fireplace to the rugs, lamps, furniture, cocktail bar and Eastern view.
She poured herself a half-tumbler of brandy while he was sitting down, and drained it neat. He realized then her voice wasn’t sleepy. She was just half tight. She sat down opposite him and regarded him steadily with her bloodshot eyes.
“What about Velma?” she asked.
He didn’t know what to say. “Velma’s in trouble,” he said finally.
“That’s nothing new. What am I supposed to do about it?”
“I thought you might be interested.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“I told you. A friend of Velma’s.”
She hiccuped gently. “She didn’t tell me about any trouble.”
“When did you talk to her?”
She thought a minute. Her brow wrinkled and she gazed blankly at the floor. “I get so confused,” she murmured. “Time is always getting mixed-up.” She frowned, then said, “I talked to Velma this morning. She phoned me from the station.”
Larry’s stomach got cold. “You’re crazy,” he said. “Velma couldn’t possibly phoned you this morning.”
“Watch your manners young man,” she said. She got her eyes under control and stared blearily at him. “I’m drunk, but not crazy. Velma phoned to tell me she was going south for a few weeks. She’s always running off like that.”
Larry tried to keep his face from showing what he was feeling. If Velma had been alive this morning, who was the murdered girl?
“Were you sure it was Velma?” he demanded.
“Course. Just like Velma to run off like that. No clothes, no luggage.”
“Did you recognize her voice?”
The bleary eyes went to the floor again. She sat for a moment frowning, then she teetered over to the bar and poured herself another drink. When that was drained she came back and sat down again. “Velma had a cold. Her voice was husky. I told her to look after herself.” She stared indignantly at Larry. “Of course it was Velma.”
“If she spoke in a whisper you couldn’t tell,” Larry said. He knew that was true. A whisper disguised any voice. You couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman talking.
His mind was working swiftly. If someone had killed Velma and wanted to keep it quiet, this is just what they’d do. They’d call her roomate, using a whisper to disguise the voice, and tell just this kind of story. A story that would forestall her running to the police or Missing Persons Bureau to report Velma’s disappearance. That much was logical but it still didn’t help much.
“I think Velma is in trouble,” he said. “I’m trying to help her.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Something pretty serious. Do you know any of her friends?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t let me meet anybody.” She sighed and a tear trickled down her cheek. “Good old Mabel. Everybody’s friend. But not good enough to meet anybody.”
“Who’s Mabel?”
She blinked. “Me. I’m Mabel. The good old horse. Thash all.”
She was getting too drunk to make sense. He knew he had to work fast if he was going to get anything from her.
“Did she have any enemies?”
The gray head shook slowly from side to side.
“Then who were her friends?”
“No friends.” She hiccuped and put her hand guiltily over her mouth. “Touch of gas,” she muttered.
Larry felt desperate, helpless. “You’ve got to tell me something,” he said.
“Whatch you want?”
“Anything. Addresses. Telephone numbers. Names. Something I can go on.”