I took out my notebook and fountain pen.
She unfolded the letter. From where I sat, it looked like a woman’s handwriting. She said, “Archibald C. Smith is in — oh, shucks!”
“What’s the matter?”
She said, “His office building isn’t given here. I thought it was. I’ll have to look it up in my address book. I thought it was in the letter. I remember now, he gave me his address just before he left, and I wrote it down in my address book. Just a minute.”
She took the letter with her, re-entered the bedroom, and popped out a second or two later turning the pages of a small, leather-covered address book. She dropped the letter on the table.
“Yes. Here it is. Archibald Collington Smith, Lake-view Building, Michigan Boulevard, Chicago.”
“Room number in there?”
“No. That’s where I was confused. I knew I didn’t have the number, just the building.”
“You said he was in business there?”
“Yes. That’s an office building. I haven’t his home address.”
“What did you say his business was?”
“Insurance.”
“Oh, yes. I wonder if your friend might be able to tell me something about him.” I motioned toward the letter.
She laughed, and I knew she’d been baiting a trap. “I presume she could, but if you’re really looking for Mr. Smith to close an estate, I imagine Mr. Smith can tell you all you need to know about Mr. Smith.”
I said, “Doubtless he could,” and then added, “That’s one of the troubles we sometimes encounter, particularly when we’re dealing with a name as common as Smith. You know, a man will try to make it appear he’s the person you’re after, hoping he can get the money. That’s why we always like to investigate as many different angles as possible before we approach him directly.”
Her eyes were smiling at me, and then suddenly she was laughing. “That was a splendid recovery, but you must take me for an awful simp.”
“What now?”
She said, “It’s the first time I ever heard of anyone trying to find a missing heir by that sort of an approach. Usually, some lawyer says, ‘Now before we can close up the estate, we have to find an Archibald C. Smith who was the son of Frank Whoosis who died in nineteen hundred and umpty. The last we heard of Smith was that he was in Chicago, running a haberdashery store.’ So then the detectives start looking, and one of them comes to me, and says, ‘Pardon me. Miss, but do you happen to know a Mr. Smith who is in Chicago running a haberdashery store?’ And I say, ‘No, but I know a Mr. Smith who’s in Chicago in the insurance business. What does the man you want look like?’ And the detective says, ‘Good Heavens, I don’t know. All I’m looking for is a name.’ ”
“So what?” I asked her.
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“You mean that this is unusual?”
“Yes. Very.”
I smiled and said, “Isn’t it?”
There was exasperation on her face. She was getting ready to let me have a verbal broadside when knuckles sounded on the door. She let her attention swing from me to the door, regarding it with a puzzled frown.
The knuckles sounded again.
She got up and walked over to the door, flung it open.
A man’s voice, sharp-edged with eagerness, said, “I told you you couldn’t run out on me! But you had to try it, didn’t you? Well, sweetheart, I—”
I wasn’t looking toward the door right then, but when his voice ran out of words, I knew he’d been pushing his way into the room as he talked, and had advanced just far enough to get a glimpse of me sitting there in the chair.
I turned my head casually.
I recognized him almost instantly. It was the man who had responded to all the horn-blowing at Jack O’Leary’s Bar around three-thirty that morning.
Roberta Fenn whirled, glanced at me, then said in a low voice to her visitor, “Come outside for a minute where we can talk.”
She half pushed him out into the hallway, and pulled the door behind her so that it was almost shut.
I had only a few seconds. I knew I must make every move count.
I raised myself gently from my chair so as not to make any noise. My hand snaked out and grabbed the letter which Roberta had left on the top of the table.
The envelope bore the return address: Edna Cutler, 935 Turpitz Building, Little Rock, Ark.
I gave the letter a quick once-over. It read:
Dear Roberta: A few days after you receive this, you’ll have a call from Archibald C. Smith of Chicago. I’ve given him your name. For business reasons, I wish you’d be particularly nice to him and make his stay in New Orleans as pleasant as possible. Show him around the Quarter and take him to some of the famous restaurants. I can assure you it will be bread on the waters, because—
I heard the door opening from the corridor, heard a man’s voice saying, “All right then, that’s a promise! Don’t forget, now.”
I tossed the letter back to the table and was putting a match to my cigarette when Roberta Fenn came back.
She smiled at me, said, “Well, let’s see. Where were we?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “Just talking.”
She said, “You’re a detective. Tell me how that man could have got through the street-entrance door without ringing my apartment.”
“That’s easy.”
“How?”
“He could have rung one of the other apartments, got a signal to come in, and then gone up. Or he could have picked the lock on the lower door. The locks on those street doors don’t amount to much. They’re made so that the key to any apartment will open them. Why would he want to get in without giving you a ring?”
She laughed, a nervous, high-pitched little laugh, and said, “Don’t ask me why men want to do the things they do. Well, I guess I’ve told you everything I know about Archibald Smith.”
I took the hint, got to my feet, and said, “Thanks a lot.”
“You’re — you’re here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I headed off any further questions by saying abruptly, “I suppose I’ve interfered with your evening. I hope I haven’t made you late—”
“Don’t mention it. You haven’t interfered at all. Thank you.”
She stood at the doorway and watched me down the flight of stairs. I went out through the outer door, looked up and down the street, sized up the cars that were parked near by, but couldn’t see the tall chap who had busted in on Roberta Fenn.
I had plenty of opportunity to look around, too. It was ten minutes before I was able to pick up a cab which was running empty back toward town. The cab driver assured me I was lucky. Cabs, he said, didn’t do much cruising around in that part of town.
Chapter Six
My feet on the steep, wooden stairs sounded like a herd of horses walking over a wooden bridge. I fitted my latchkey and opened the door of the apartment.
Bertha Cool was stretched out in the easy chair. Her thick, capable legs were thrust out straight in front of her, the feet propped on a cushioned ottoman.
She was snoring gently.
I switched on the lights in the center of the room. Bertha slept on peacefully, her face relaxed into a smile of cherubic contentment.
I said, “When do we eat?”
She awoke with a start. For a moment she was blinking the lights out of her eyes, taking in the strange surroundings, trying to find out where she was and how she’d got there. Suddenly realization dawned, and her hard little eyes glittered into mine. “Where the hell have you been?”