"Any friend of the press is a friend of Gerald's. I'm glad you made it. Anyone here you'd like to meet?"
In four different spots around the room, men were clustered in a tight, circle, laughing occasionally, talking with that odd intensity they developed when the nucleus of the circle was a pretty woman. "Maybe the Proctor Girls," I suggested.
Dulcie poked me with her finger. "Uh-uh. They're just eyewash. Besides, they're too young for you."
"How about them?" I indicated the men around the girls. Not one of them would ever see fifty again.
She looked at them and laughed lightly. "Funny, isn't it? When the Assembly is in session they're at each other's throats or thinking up some scheme to transform the world. Now here they are simpering at twenty-year-olds like schoolboys. There's nothing like a pretty face to keep peace and quiet at a party."
"You ought to try it at the U.N. Maybe that's what they I need."
"Oh, I've given it a thought. Gerald didn't exactly favor the idea the first time, but the Proctor Girls were such an asset he insists we invite them. Actually, it was his wife's idea originally."
"How did you get involved with being his hostess?"
"I'm a social climber, or haven't you heard?"
"Rumors," I admitted. "I'm not a member of the set myself."
"Fact is, I was born to this sort of thing. My family was Midwestern blue book and all that, I attended the right schools and made the proper friends, so that all of this comes naturally. I rather enjoy it." She sipped her champagne thoughtfully and said, "Every one of those Proctor Girls you see are from important families. One is engaged to a junior congressman, one to the son of a wealthy industrialist and the other two are being signed by a Hollywood studio."
"Lucky."
"No...they work for it. The qualifications for a Proctor Girl are quite rigorous. If they weren't, we couldn't afford to have them here." She put her empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and took another. "By the way...have you found the girl you were looking for?"
"Not yet. It's a big city and it's easy to get buried in it. I'm giving it a little more time."
"Did the photographs help at all?"
I shrugged and shook my head. "Nobody's seen her. But you don't forget a face like that."
Dulcie turned and cocked her head, her eyes thoughtful. "You know, I'm wondering..."
"What?"
"Teddy Gates...the one who photographed the girl you wanted. He has contracts independent of ours and sometimes uses models we turn down. It could be possible he kept a listing on her. He's done it before."
I could feel my neck muscles tighten with the thought of the possibility. "How can I reach him?"
"You won't have to. He keeps an office in our building and I have the keys." She looked at her watch and said, "It's eight now. We'll be breaking up here about midnight. Are you intending to stay?"
"No."
"Then suppose you meet me in the lobby of my building...say at twelve-thirty. We'll take a look."
"You don't mind?"
"Uh-uh. I like white hunters. Now let me go play hostess. Have fun."
I watched her walk away, appreciating the patrician stride that was so full of purpose, yet so totally feminine. Other eyes caught her as she passed, and watched regretfully when she was out of sight.
Norm Harrison hadn't found any communication from Mitch Temple. He had gone through his files and his notes without seeing even an interoffice memo. The kid who did his desk work said he remembered Mitch trying to contact him, but his conversation was hurried and the main point was for Norm to call him back when he came in. The kid didn't remember anything else.
We were all together in the library trying to figure out Mitch's reason for the call, but Norm couldn't put his finger on it and all he could speculate on was the one time they had been together at a party was when Mitch queried him about the political repercussions of his series on the Mafia. Since then Norm had been assigned to cover the general political situations in the U.N. and the forthcoming elections in the States, neither of which touched Mitch's area of operation.
One of the maids came in, told Hy he was wanted on the phone and we waited while he took the call. When he came back he had a look of excitement on his face, waited until we were alone and said, "Al Casey located the cabbie he thinks picked up Mitch. He had him follow another cab and passenger to a store on Twenty-first Street. They waited outside for about fifteen minutes, then this man came out with a package under his arm, walked to the end of the block and got into a private car he apparently had called for. They tailed him out to the Belt Parkway, but the other car was going like hell and when the cabbie tried to keep it in sight, he got stopped by a police cruiser and picked up a ticket. Mitch had the guy drive him back uptown and got out near his apartment."
"He was sure it was Mitch?"
"The cabbie identified his photo. What made him remember was that Mitch tipped him enough to pay for the ticket."
"But no I.D. on the other car?" I asked.
"They never got close enough. It was getting dark, traffic was heavy and he said it was either a dark blue or black sedan. He didn't remember the make."
"How about the store?"
"None of the clerks were specific about the customers, but one did sell a white negligee that day. Al checked the sales slips. It was a cash purchase with no name or address."
I looked at Hy thoughtfully. Something was bugging me and I couldn't reach out and touch it. I said: "Pat better have this now."
"He's already got it," Hy said. "But what good's it going to do if we don't know who the hell we're looking for?"
"Mitch recognized him."
"And Mitch knew a hell of a lot of people."
"But why him?" I insisted. "What would make one guy stand out of a crowd buying sexy clothes for his doll?"
Norman said quietly, "Maybe he's done it before...been messed up in this sort of thing."
"We can find out," Hy told us. "Pat will be checking the M.O.'s and we can give him a hand. Want to come, Mike?"
"No, you go ahead. I'm going to try a different direction. I'll call you later."
Hy had that puzzled look back on his face again. "Look, Mike..."
"It's only an idea," I interrupted him. "We have to play this from all sides."
Gerald Ute seemed sorry to see us go, but wasn't insistent on our staying. We said good-by to a few of the others and Dulcie McInnes came over to walk us to the door. I told her something had come up I wanted to check on, but would see her at the Proctor Building as we planned.
Outside, Hy had flagged a cab, dropped me off opposite the News Building without asking any questions and went downtown. There was a small bar close by that the newspaper fraternity kept filled between shifts. Tim Riley was on his usual stool with his usual martini in his usual endless discussion of the New York Mets with the bartender. He was an old sports reporter assigned to the rewrite desk now, but he couldn't get baseball out of his system.
He gave me a big grin when I sat down next to him, but I didn't let him get started on the Mets. I said, "Favor time, Tim."
"Mike, I haven't got a ticket left. I..."
"Not that. It's about Mitch Temple."
He put his glass down, his face serious. "Anything. Just ask."
"Did he save carbons of his columns?"
Tim grimaced with his mouth and nodded. "Sure, they all do in case they need a reference later."
"I want to see them."
"You can go through back issues and..."
"That'll take too long. I'd sooner see his carbons."
He finished his drink with one swallow, pushed a bill across the bar and got off the stool. "Come on," he said.
Mitch Temple's cubicle of an office had the stale smell of disuse. An old raincoat still dangled from the hook behind the door and the ashtray was filled with snubbed butts. Somebody had gone through his drawers and left his papers stacked on his desk. Two three-drawer filing cabinets stood side by side, a couple of the drawers only partially closed, but since they only contained his original typewritten carbons stapled to their printed counterparts, there had been no thorough examination. Each folder contained his turnout for the month and they were dated back to two years ago. Some of the folders had cards clipped to their fronts cross-indexing Broadway items, rumors turning into fact, things of interest concerning personalities to be elaborated on later. I snagged the swivel chair with my toe, pulled it up in front of the files and sat down.