Quade and Boston walked back across the street to the Midwest Hotel. The bellboy who had obtained the key to Billy Bond’s room for Quade, stood outside the hotel, talking to the doorman. He winked at Quade, then followed him into the lobby.
“Mr. Quade,” the bellboy whispered, “are you a betting man?”
“Only on sure things.”
“This is a sure bet. For me. I’ll bet you five bucks I can tell you something interesting.”
Quade sniffed. “How do you know it’ll interest me? Five bucks worth.”
“Call it a bet, then. Billy Bond had a girl friend. Bet you didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t,” said Quade. “But what makes you think I’d pay five bucks for her name?”
“You didn’t want his key just to look at his neckties, did you? Is it a go?”
“And her address?”
The bellboy nodded. “The name is Lily Roberts. She warbles at the Club 38 on 52nd Street. O.K.?”
Quade slipped him five dollars. “O.K.”
Charlie Boston sulked all the way up to their room. “I’m surer than ever now that we ought to go to the Danbury Fair, Ollie,” he insisted.
“In due time, Charlie. In due time. Let’s get our suits pressed; we’re going out stepping tonight. To the Club 38.”
Charlie Boston groaned. “There goes the last of our bank roll! And what’ll we wear while these suits are getting pressed?”
“We’ll go to bed. Call a bellboy.”
The owners of the dilapidated brownstone building on 52nd Street had been about to tear down the building when a man came along and said he wanted to put a night club in on the ground floor. Builders ripped out partitions, splattered paint and paper and electric lights here and there and in a little while there emerged the Club 38. Inside of two years it became the snootiest night club on the street.
The headwaiter regarded Quade and Boston haughtily until the former slipped him five dollars. Then he led them to a tiny table not too far from the miniature dance floor.
They had scarcely seated themselves when the orchestra burst into a fanfare and the lights in the room became dim, to be relieved by a spotlight.
The master of ceremonies shouted, “That song stylist, Miss Lily Roberts!”
A statuesque blonde in a low-cut evening gown came out from behind the orchestra and walked into the spotlight. She began singing in a husky, throaty voice:
“Say, sweet, you’ll come with me to the sea…
You’ll stay there evermore… with me…”
She was singing the chorus when Charlie Boston suddenly exclaimed, “Ollie, that song!”
“I know,” Quade replied, grimly. “The words are practically the same as Billy Bond’s. It’s probably his song — and that’s his girl.”
Lily Roberts finished the song and was greeted with a tremendous burst of applause. She sang another number, then retreated, amid continued calls for more.
Quade signaled to a waiter. “Listen, chum,” he said confidentially, “what was the name of that first song Lily warbled?”
“Oh, that! Why, Cottage By the Sea.”
“Cottage By the Sea, eh? Well, look, you suppose you could get me one of the musician’s copies? For — this?”
He laid a folded five-dollar-bill on the table. The waiter pretended to wipe off the cloth with his napkin and the bill disappeared. It was a neat job.
Two minutes later he came back with a folded sheet of music. Quade looked at it and said softly, “What did Billy Bond say the name of his song was?”
“Cottage By the Shore.”
“That’s what I thought. The Showman gave that title, too. Well, listen to what it says here: ‘Cottage By the Sea, Words and music by Al Donnelley.’”
Charlie Boston gasped: “One of these guys is a robber!”
“The question,” said Quade, “is which one. I haven’t told you about my visit to Murdock & Company this afternoon. Murdock gave me a big song and dance; what pals he is with a famous song writer. The guy’s name is Al Donnelley!”
“Why, the dirty—!” cried Charlie Boston. “Did Murdock publish this song?”
Quade shook his head. “No. It says here, ‘Published by Wingate Music Company.’”
Boston sighed. “All right, Ollie. You’ve got me going now. Let’s go it whole hog. Bring on the blonde and we’ll give her a third-degree.”
“Lily Roberts, eh? You could go for her.”
“Well, she isn’t a bad looker. Not for my money.”
At that moment, Lily Roberts wandered out from behind the bandstand. She looked about the floor with an expression of boredom. Quade signaled to the waiter who had obtained the song sheet for him.
“Julius, do you suppose you could persuade Miss Lily to have a drink with us?”
The waiter stowed away the bill. “A man can only try, eh?”
He went over to Miss Lily Roberts and spoke to her. Lily looked over at Quade and Boston, and wrinkled her nose distastefully. Then she strolled over.
Quade and Boston both rose hurriedly. Quade offered Lily his chair and moved to one the waiter brought up.
“I drink only champagne cocktails,” Lily Roberts said abruptly.
“Waiter,” Quade said, “bring Miss Roberts a glass of beer! Domestic beer!”
Lily started to get up, but Quade said quickly, “Hold it, Lily! I want to talk to you, about — Billy Bond!”
She stiffened. “Cops?”
Quade didn’t say yes and he didn’t say no. He smiled. “That song you sang a while ago. Cottage By the Sea. It wasn’t bad. It’s new, isn’t it?”
Lily nodded. “Just came out a couple of days ago. The customers like it.”
“It reminded me very much of a song Billy Bond wrote. Ever hear his?”
“Naw,” said Lily. “I gave up listening to his songs months ago. He was a good kid, but he wasn’t a song writer. I told him he didn’t have the stuff.”
“I don’t imagine he liked you to say that.”
Lily sniffed. “So what? So he was just a fella I saw once in a while. Nice to kill an hour with, but he didn’t have what it takes. Not more’n enough to buy a beer with once in a while.”
“No champagne?”
The gorgeous Lily patted her red, red lips to conceal a yawn. “All right, I’m sorry. He wasn’t a bad kid, but can I help it if the Big Town was too much for him and he jumped off?”
“Oh, you think it was suicide.”
“What else? He was broke. A flop. He took the easy way out…. Are you cops, or aren’t you?”
“No,” said Quade. “We’re friends of Billy Bond.”
“Glad to have met you.” Lily pushed back her chair. “I’ve got to get ready for another number.”
“So long,” Boston said, but she merely glared at him.
She sauntered off.
Quade said, “Nice blonde, eh, Charlie?”
“And he wasted his dough buying beer for that cake of ice. A dame like that makes a man lose his faith in love.”
Quade grinned, but there was a glint in his eyes.
Soup Spooner lived on the top floor of an old brownstone house on Tenth Avenue. He cooked and ate here, slept and conducted his chemical experiments. He had an amazingly well-equipped laboratory.
Now and then Soup had visitors. They talked furtively and gave him commissions to execute. Soup read the newspapers later on, to learn of his success.
Soup was in his laboratory today. He was working and the ghost of a smile played about his mouth. It was an unusual thing and indicated that Soup was engaged in a particularly interesting experiment.
The biting odor of ammonia was strong in the room, but Soup was oblivious of it. Before him on a bench were a half-dozen, small steel discs. Soup put little pinches of powdered iodine on each of the discs. With a knife blade he took iodine from certain discs and added it to others. Finally he took a flask and let drops of ammonia drip on the discs. He worked each heap into the ammonia, making a plastic mixture which he spread out thinly on the discs.