I wasn't interested in the jazz site. I said, "Which legation building is Ris associated with?"
Al scowled, looked at the photo and tapped the one in the northeast corner. "This one, I think. Hell, I don't remember." His eyes caught mine. "You got a lead on something?"
"An idea maybe," I said.
"Something we can help with?"
"Not yet."
"If it's got to do with Mitch, I'd like it now."
"You'll know about it if it does."
I left Al sitting there puzzled, then went downstairs and found a pay phone, dropped in a dime and dialed the Proctor Group number and asked for Dulcie. Miss Tabor let out another one of those horrified gasps, but put me through.
Dulcie McInnes came on with a pleasant laugh and said, "Mike, how nice. I was hoping you'd call."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. For some reason you seem to bring a little excitement into an otherwise staid life." Then she turned serious a moment with, "Mike...the girl we saw..."
"I notified her brother. That was all I could do. He wanted to be sure she was safe, that's all."
"Well, it sure caused a flurry around here. Do you know the police have been here inquiring about Teddy Gates?"
"What about him?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows where he is. He isn't at home and he hasn't shown up at work. I wish you'd tell me what's going on."
"He may be caught in the middle of a big one," I said. "If he's found he'll supply a lot of answers."
For a second she didn't say anything, but I could hear her steady breathing. "Mike...can this hurt the Proctor Group? You know, will there be any publicity?"
"I don't see how. If he was engaged in something outside the office it shouldn't touch you."
"Please, Mike. Be sure. If they find out...well, even though I helped you...the Board certainly won't like it. I can't afford to be involved in anything sensational and neither can the magazine."
"We can keep a lid on it. Look...can I see you again?"
"I'd love to, Mike. When?"
"As soon as possible. I want you to exert a little of your influence for me."
"Oh?"
"I want to meet Belar Ris."
Her laughter was a clear tinkle. "Social climber," she told me. "I should think you could do better. Now there are several young ladies of respectable and wealthy parents who..."
"I'm not kidding, Dulcie. Can it be arranged?"
She caught the imperativeness in my voice and got serious again. "Do you have a black tie?"
"I'll get one."
"Tonight there's a reception at the Flamingo Room for one of the delegations. Mr. Ris will be there. I'm invited and I'll be happy to have you escort me. Suppose you meet me at seven-thirty in the lobby. Now, can you tell me why?"
"Later."
"Mike..."
"What?"
"If you hear anything about Teddy Gates..."
"Don't worry, he'll turn up. I'll make sure we keep a lid on it."
"Thank you, Mike."
"See you tonight."
When I hung up I waited a few seconds, then tried the number in Bradbury that Velda had given me. There was no answer in her room and no messages for me either.
I tried Pat and got him in. He told me he had to go uptown and to meet him at the Blue Ribbon in an hour.
New York was still under its blanket of gray. There was a damp, clammy chill in the air and the streets were devoid of their usual crowds. I had forty-five minutes to waste, so I headed west, taking it easy, and got to the Blue Ribbon in time to have coffee with George before Pat got there. He came in exactly on schedule, tossed his hat on the rack and pulled out a chair opposite me. He looked tired, tiny lines pulling at the corner of his eyes and mouth.
He waited until his own coffee came before he said, "The Corning deal washed out."
"What happened?"
"We picked up the guy in the neighborhood he was spotted in. It was one of those damn look-alike situations and I couldn't blame the guy who fingered him. He was pretty indignant, but played the good citizen bit and even let us print him for a positive I.D. The guy was clean...service record in Washington, executive job in Wall Street for fifteen years. A real bust."
"Scratch one sex fiend."
"There's something else." Pat reached into his pocket and pulled out two folded white sheets and handed them to me. There was a peculiar look in his eyes and he edged forward in his chair. "Our M.E. ferreted this out. Remember me telling you about chemical substitutes that induce the same symptoms he found in the Poston girl?"
I nodded.
"There's the formula. The stuff isn't even produced in this country at all. It's made in limited quantities by a French firm and distributed to selected outlets that use the stuff for chemical analysis tests in locating certain rare elements in earth samples. One of those buyers is Pericon Chemicals."
I looked up from the report and felt my eyes start to narrow. "Ronald Miller, Mitch Temple's friend. He's with them."
"Yeah, his army buddy, the book writer."
"We got hold of him this morning," Pat told me. "He confirmed the use of this product...called it C-130...and even knew of its side effects. In fact, its properties are clearly stated on the containers. Before they handled it properly, the stuff killed a lot of people by being induced through skin abrasions. It's been manufactured since 1949 and a record is kept of its sales and use.
"Now here comes the kicker. A year ago part of an order going to Pericon Chemicals was stolen in shipment. None of it has ever been recovered, although the manufacturers conducted an exhaustive search and even issued notices as to its deadly effects. A check with the company showed that two previous inquires had been made to them requesting a sale of the product, but were turned down because they only sell to specific companies for specific purposes. Both inquiries were by phone. And now here it is--that C-130 was being shipped on board the Pinella on a trip from Marseilles to Tangiers."
"Ali Duval," I hissed.
"He was a steward on the ship then too."
"There's a weak point there, Pat."
"I know," he said. "Mitch Temple didn't know for sure how the Poston girl might have died. He had no reason to check with Miller on that angle."
"He wanted something, that's for sure," I said.
Pat nodded. "Pericon Chemicals got involved in some litigation over the theft and we're going into that for what it's worth. There's got to be some connection."
"How expensive is that stuff?"
"It sells for twelve hundred dollars an ounce."
"That's more than H."
"And a half liter is missing."
I let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of loot. Somebody was still taking a chance on handling it."
"The package wouldn't be very large. It could be moved around. Hell, the stuff is even soluble in water and can be impregnated into clothes and recovered later the same way."
"No sign of Ali Duval?"
"Nothing yet. He was of French Arabian parentage and we're covering all the places he might go to find his own kind. Photos of Duval are being circulated and if he's around, we'll find him."
"And charge him with what?"
"We'll break him down."
"I didn't ask that."
"That's the other hole in the picture. I'd rather not think about it right now. If he's wrapped up in anything, maybe another country will want to pick him up. The inquiry to Interpol is out now and I'm waiting for an answer." Pat paused and finished his coffee. He put the cup down carefully, his eyes watching my face. "Have you got anything more to add?"