"That's New York," I said.
"Now how about you." It was a statement, not a question.
I looked at him and shook my head. "Count me out. I haven't had contact with him since I saw him last. I told you what he said...he'd lay off his story for a week, but meanwhile he'd keep on working that negligee angle. Think he found something? He had a lot of sources."
Pat shrugged. "Neither his paper nor his secretary had any record of his movements. She said he was gone a lot, but he turned out his column regularly. We're backtracking the items he reported in case it ties in with one of them."
"How about that series he did on the Mafia last month?"
"They're too smart to buck the press. It wouldn't stop anything and throw too much light on them. They want anonymity, not publicity. This is something else."
"Those damn negligees?"
"It's a possible. I hoped you'd come up with something."
I reached in my pocket for my cigarettes and got the wallet instead. "Hell, I'm only an insurance adjuster," I grinned. "It says so right here." I tossed the wallet to Velda. "Here, you can have it." She caught it, and like all women, dropped it in her pocketbook. "Sorry, Pat. I can't give you a damn thing. That is, unless the police department wants to employ me."
"Yeah," he grunted. "I can picture that. Well, you might as well get out of here before the press arrives. They'll blow this one sky high as it is and I don't want them getting cute followup angles involving you."
"Count me out, old buddy."
"If you hear of anything, let me know."
"Sure will."
"There's a side entrance. Take that out."
We started for the door and I turned around as I reached it. "Mind letting me know how things shape up?"
Pat's mouth twitched into a smile. "Okay, nosy."
Supper was a steak in Velda's apartment, a homey little arrangement she set up deliberately, a perfect man trap if there was one. She wore a quilted housecoat of deep blue, belted loosely enough so that when she walked each step exposed a satin length of calf and thigh, provocatively out of reach as she passed by. Sitting opposite me, the lapels stretched over the deep swell of her breasts, and with the gentlest motion of her shoulders, fell apart so I could be taunted by her loveliness.
I finally pushed the plate away, the steak finished, but untasted. She poured the coffee, grinned and said, "See what you're missing?"
"You're a nut." I fished my cigarettes out and stuck one in my mouth. "Light me, will you?"
Velda reached for her pocketbook, dumped some of the stuff out until she found matches and lit my butt. When she was putting the things back she paused with the wallet in her hand and said, "Why would an inmate send you that?"
"You saw the letter. It's part of their rehabilitation program."
"No, I don't mean that. If they're sent to well-known people, certainly they wouldn't mistake their occupation. Especially not yours. It's too bad there's no name of the maker."
"Let's see that." I took the wallet and flipped it open. It was of standard design with card pockets, an identification window and a section for bills. I felt in all the compartments, but nothing was there. "Empty," I told her. "Besides, these things would be checked to make sure nobody was sending messages outside. It could be a cute gimmick."
"Maybe it has a secret compartment," she laughed.
But I didn't laugh. I stared at the wallet a long moment, then felt around the folded edges until I found it, a cleverly contrived secret pocket that cursory examination would never uncover.
That's where the note was.
It was written in pencil, printed in tiny caps on toilet paper. I read it twice to make sure of what I had, digesting every word. Dear Mike, Heard about that redhead on the radio. My sister knew her and the Poston dame. Didn't think much about it when the Poston kid died, but this one bothers me. I ain't heard from Greta in four months. You find her and make her write and I'll pay you when I get out. It was signed, Harry Service.
Velda took the note from my fingers and read it over, frowning. "Poston," she said softly. "Helen Poston. That was the schoolteacher who committed suicide."
"That's the one."
"But this Harry Service...wasn't he the one...?"
"Yeah, I got him sent up."
"Why would he write to you?"
"Maybe he doesn't hold a grudge. Besides, he's not the type to confide in cops. He wouldn't give them the sweat off his butt."
"What're you going to do about it, Mike?"
"Damn it," I said, "what can I do?"
"Let Pat have it."
"Great. Then word gets around I'm a first-class fink. Harry went to all that trouble to get, this to me. The insurance adjuster bit was supposed to tip me and I'm thick-skulled about it."
Velda handed the slip back to me. "You don't owe this Service any favors."
"Not in the ordinary sense. Even though I nailed him in that robbery and he tried to kill me, he still figures I'm square enough to deal with." I glanced at the note again. "It's a crazy request."
"What you're thinking is even crazier."
"A wild kind of a client."
She gave a little shrug of resignation. "Pat doesn't want you playing with this thing. You're only asking for trouble."
"Hell, all I'm doing is locating a missing person."
"You're rationalizing," she said. "But go ahead, you'll do it anyway. Only don't start tonight, okay?"
"Okay!"
"Okay then," she repeated with an impish grin and came into my arms. On the way she tugged at the belt and I felt wild little fingers crawl up my spine.
Chapter 3
The file on Harry Service listed his sister Greta as next-of-kin. He had taken a seven-to-fifteen-year fall on that armed robbery rap a year and a half ago and at that time her address was listed as being in Greenwich Village. I never remembered her being at the trial, but when I went through the back issues of the paper there was one photo of the back of a woman in a dark coat squeezing Harry's arm after he was sentenced.
It was a little after two when Hy Gardner got to his office. He waved me into a chair and sat down behind his typewriter. "What's on your mind, Mike?"
"The Service trial."
"You did him a favor slamming him in the cooler. That way he won't make the chair. You're not trying to spring him now, are you?"
"Not me."
"Then what's the problem?"
"When he was sentenced there was a dame there to see him off. It may have been his sister. Your paper had a picture of her back, but that's all. If you know any of the photogs who covered the thing, maybe one of them might have clipped a shot of her face."
"Something doing?"
"She might be a witness in something else, but I want to be sure."
"I can check," he said. "Hang on."
Twenty minutes later a clerk came up from the morgue with two four-by-five glossies that showed her face. One was a partial profile, the other a front view. The last one was the best. The coat hinted at the fullness of her body and the wide brim of her hat didn't conceal a face that devoid of makeup was pretty, but with it could have been beautiful. They hadn't printed the picture because Harry Service's face was turned away, but the notation on the back of the photo named her as Greta Service, sister. Three others were identified as Harry's lawyer, the D.A. and the owner of the store he was trying to rob.
"Can I have this, Hy?"
"Be my guest," he said without looking up from his notes. "When you going to tell me about it?"
"It's just a little thing. Might be nothing at all."