“How many Joes are there?” I asked Marilyn.
“Just one. Why?”
“He seems to be twins.”
“You seein’ two of ‘em?” Hale asked solicitously.
I said, “No. I only see one, but the other one is over at the bar getting the drinks mixed. He’ll come back with the drinks while this one is over at the bar getting more drinks mixed. One man couldn’t make that many round trips.”
Joe looked down at me with the half smile on his lips, an expression of detached amusement, not unmixed with contempt.
Hale started to laugh. His laughter kept getting louder. I thought he was going to fall off the chair.
Marilyn waved her hand. “Same thing all around.”
Abruptly I pushed back my chair. “I’m going home,” I said.
Rosalind looked at me. “Aw, gee, Donald, you just got here.”
I took her hand, held it in mine long enough to slip her a couple of folded dollar bills. “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling good. That last drink didn’t agree with me.”
Hale laughed uproariously. “Ought to drink gin and Coke,” he said. “That stuff you can drink all night. Marvelous drink. Makes you feel good, but doesn’t get you tight. You youngsters can’t stand anything. We know, don’t we, Marilyn?”
He looked across at her with a loose-lipped leer, his alcohol-lighted eyes peering out from over the folds of flushed skin.
Marilyn put her hand across to let it rest on his for a moment. A little later she freed her hand, moistened the tip of her napkin in the water glass, and rubbed it on her wrist.
I said, “Good night, everybody.”
Hale peered up at me. For a moment the laughter left his face. He started to say something, then changed his mind, turned back to Marilyn, thought of something else, swung around to me, and said, “This is a smart bird, Marilyn. You wanna watch him.”
“What kind of a bird?” she asked — “not a pigeon!”
“No,” Hale said, failing to get the significance of her remark. “He’s an owl — you know — wise guy. Always said he was ‘n owl.”
That idea struck him as funny. When I went out of the door he was laughing so hard he could hardly catch his breath. Tears were beginning to trickle down his cheeks.
I got to the hotel. Bertha had arrived in Los Angeles. There was the characteristic wire from her: What’s the idea digging in last year’s rabbit warren? We are too short-handed to scare up dope on old murder cases. Felonies outlaw in this state after three years. What sort of a bird do you think you are?
I went down to the telegraph office and was feeling just good enough to send her the reply I wanted: Murder never outlaws. Hale says I’m an owl.
I sent the message collect.
Chapter Fourteen
I got up at seven o’clock, showered, shaved, had breakfast, and unpacked my bag to dig out the revolver that I was supposed to carry. It was a .38, blued steel, in only fair condition. I put it in my pocket and walked down Royal Street to the entrance to the apartment. I wondered how much of a hangover Hale had.
I didn’t try to be quiet as I climbed the stairs. I made noise, lots of it, and my knock on the door wasn’t at all gentle.
Hale didn’t answer.
I started both knuckles to work and used the toe of my shoe to give the summons a little more interest.
Still no Hale.
I had the extra key to the apartment. I fitted this key to the lock and clicked back the bolt.
Hale wasn’t there.
The bed was rumpled, but the wrinkles in the sheet didn’t look as though it had been slept in much longer than an hour.
I walked across the bedroom into the living-room, looked out onto the porch to make certain he wasn’t there. Assured that the coast was clear, I took the drawers out of the writing-desk, tilted it up on one comer, and spilled out the debris from the bottom: letters, clippings, and the gun.
I pocketed the gun that had been in there, replaced it with my own revolver, and then put the desk back into shape.
It was a fine warm day, and the street below was filling up with people who were strolling around, enjoying the sunlight.
I gave the place a final once-over, then quietly opened the door, pulled it shut behind me, and went down the stairs.
I was in the courtyard when I met the colored maid. She gave me a grin and said, “Is the ge’man up yet?”
I assured her that the “ge’man” was either out or was asleep, that I’d pounded on the door, and hadn’t been able to raise him.
She thanked me and went on up.
I went back to the hotel. There was a memo in my box to call Lockley 9746.
I went into a booth and called the number, wondering whether it would be a hospital or the jail. It was neither. A velvet feminine voice answered the telephone.
“Someone calling Mr. Lam?”
She laughed. “Oh, yes. This is the office of the Silk-wear Importation Company calling its president.”
“Indeed.”
“You have a letter and a telegram here.”
“Business is picking up,” I said.
“Isn’t it! Know what happened? Listen to this. We send out two form letters, one by air mail, and we get two replies back, one of them by wire.”
“That’s the way to write sales letters,” I said.
“It was on account of the excellent job of mimeographing,” she retorted.
“I’ll take your word for it and be right up.”
I took a cab up to the office. Ethel Wells seemed really glad to see me. “How’s everything this morning?” she asked.
“Not so hot.”
“No? What’s wrong?”
“I started out last night to show a tourist the town.”
“You look as fresh as a daisy.”
“I feel as though someone had pulled my petals off to see whether she loves me or loves me not.”
“Don’t feel badly about it. Perhaps the answer was that she really loves you.”
I didn’t have any answer for that, so I tore open the telegram.
It read: Silkwear Importation Company. Send five dozen pair express collect size ten and one-half, color four your chart.
The telegram was signed, Bertha Cool, and the address given was that of the agency.
The letter was in a tinted square envelope. The stationery inside matched it. There was a faint scent. The postmark on the envelope was Shreveport, Louisiana. The letter bore the date line, Shreveport. It read simply, Send me six pair of your hose; size eight and one-half, color number five according to your chart.
The letter was signed Edna Cutler, and there was a street address.
I put the letter in my pocket, said to Ethel Wells. “When would I be able to get a train for Shreveport?”
“Must it be a train?”
“A bus will do all right.”
She reached into a cubbyhole beneath the counter which ran on one side of her desk, pulled out a bus schedule, opened it, and handed it to me.
“I see where I made my mistake,” she said.
“What?”
“I should have ordered my stockings by mail and given my home address.”
“Why don’t you try it?” I asked.
She was holding her lead pencil in her right hand, making aimless little diagrams across the page of her shorthand notebook.
She said, very demurely, “I think I will.”
I handed her the bus schedule. “I’ll be out of town today. Miss Wells,” I said very importantly. “If anyone wants to see me, I’m in conference.”
“Yes, sir. And if any more letters come in, what shall I do?”
“There won’t be any more.”
“You wouldn’t want to bet on it, would you?”
“I might.”
“A pair of silk stockings?”