“I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I am, and I’m sorry I disturbed you. No hard feelings, I hope?”
“No hard feelings,” Clane said. “Have a cigar. There are some Yat T’oy picked up through some of his Chinese connections. They’re very good.”
“Chinese cigars?”
“Heavens no, they’re a pure Havana cigar. Try one.”
“Thank you, I will. Been a little difficult to get any lately.”
Malloy took a cigar from the box Clane extended, smelled of the wrapper and his face instantly softened into a smile of approval.
“Put some in your pocket,” Clane urged. “I don’t smoke them myself. Just keep them for guests and Yat T’oy laid in a good supply.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Yat T’oy,” Clane called, “get that woman out of here. If you’ll pardon me a moment,” he said to Inspector Malloy, “I’m going to break up this romance.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” Malloy said chuckling.
“It’s the idea,” Clane said. “An old man and a young girl like that. I suppose if the truth were known, she’s his slave girl and he owns her just as you or I would own a dog. But just the same...”
Clane said in Chinese, “It is well that Sou Ha should leave at the moment Malloy leaves so that watchers will see them emerge from the door together.”
Yat T’oy answered from the other side of the door, “She is ready.”
“Well,” Clane said to Malloy, “I suppose you’re satisfied.”
“Entirely satisfied. I’m sorry having to be a little rough with you, Mr. Clane, but you will admit you do get around and get into peculiar situations now and then. Well, I’ll run along. It’s too bad I had to make a checkup on this place but... well, you know how it is, it’s all in a day’s work with me. No hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings,” Clane said and escorted Malloy to the door.
From the back entrance leading to the hallway, Sou Ha made a dispirited exit from the kitchen. She was carrying a bundle of laundry tied up in a sheet, a bundle which Clane knew contained her expensive shoes and stockings, and Cynthia Renton’s coat and hat. Sou Ha’s bare feet were thrust into a pair of oversized Chinese slippers which doubtless belonged to Yat T’oy. Her shoulders were stooped as befitted a young woman whose body had already been sold in the slave market and who could not, at this late date, increase the purchase price thereof nor benefit therefrom if she could. Her slow shuffling gait spoke of dreary hours spent in menial tasks with only the prospect of more dreary hours ahead wherever she was going.
Inspector Malloy said genially, “Well, I’ll be on my way, Clane. Try to be a little more discreet in the future. You’re getting mixed up in this thing pretty deep. Sorry about that search, no hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings,” Clane said and closed the door.
From the window he watched to see Sou Ha emerge on the sidewalk to make sure that she was not stopped or questioned.
Inspector Malloy was first out. Sou Ha followed him only a second or two later. She turned and started down the steep hill, keeping perfectly in character, walking with stiff-backed shuffling steps.
Clane nodded approvingly, then saw Inspector Malloy gain Sou Ha’s side in three or four swift steps. He was, Clane realized from his gestures, apparently offering her a lift.
Sou Ha shook her head, moved on. Inspector Malloy insisted, pointed to his automobile and then in the general direction of Chinatown. Sou Ha wearily turned and, with the air of one who is too tired to be grateful, climbed into Inspector Malloy’s automobile.
Clane, watching Malloy drive away, felt an uneasy disquiet as he noticed the manner in which the Inspector’s car gathered speed. There was something purposeful about the manner in which Malloy piloted the automobile on down the street. The Inspector was driving fast, shooting across the street intersections. It was as though he knew exactly where he was going and was in a hurry to get there.
Clane frowningly watched the car until it turned a corner in the direction of Chinatown.
Inspector Malloy could pump Sou Ha until the cows came home without getting anything out of her. He could deliver her to any address in Chinatown and she would blend into the background and promptly disappear as effectively as a young quail in a patch of dead leaves.
Nevertheless, Terry Clane was considerably concerned. There was, after all, a possibility Inspector Malloy had not been as innocent as he seemed and that, after all, Sou Ha was not being taken to Chinatown but to police headquarters.
Fifteen
Clane, with a map of the city to aid him, was patiently plodding along, putting himself in the place of Edward Harold, trying to anticipate Harold’s next move.
Some hundred yards behind him was the warehouse where tie murder had been committed. Assuming that Harold had jumped from that window in a panic and had raced across the strip of soft ground where his footprints had been found, he had hit the pavement and then had started walking. Where would he walk and what would he do?
Clane plodded along through the drab warehouse district until he came to a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant.
Clane ordered a cup of coffee. “How late are you open?” he asked.
“Nine o’clock. Used to stay open until midnight when there was a lot of draying down here. Things are quieter now, costs are up and you can’t get help, so I’m closing early.”
“Any place around here that’s open all night?” Clane asked.
“Don’t know of any.”
“Until after midnight?”
“No, I don’t think so. Wait a minute, there’s a place up the street, two blocks up over on the right. Sid Melrose runs the joint. I think he’s been staying up lately. Used to close but I think he’s been open now.”
“Thanks,” Clane said. “I may be on night shift down here and wanted to know where I could come for a cup of coffee.”
“Most satisfactory way is to carry a thermos bottle.”
Clane thanked the man, paid for the coffee, and walked up to the restaurant operated by Sid Melrose.
There was a sign over the door, Open until 11:00 p. m.
Clane seated himself at the counter, ordered coffee, toast and eggs.
The waitress who served him eyed the dollar bill which Clane pushed across the counter. “What’s this for?”
“Information.”
Her fingers rested on the edge of the dollar bill. “About what?”
“I want to find out something that happened here last night around closing time. Who was on shift?”
“I was.”
“And you’re on again this morning?”
“Uh-huh, we stagger shifts. Today is my change-over from night shift. I worked until eleven last night and then came on again at eight this morning and work until one. Then I come back at four and work until seven. What did you want to know?”
“Some time around closing time,” Clane said, “I think a man came in here and wanted to use the telephone. He didn’t have a hat or an overcoat. He was rather tall and had dark hair which he combed straight back, the eyes were dark and...”
“Sure, I remember him. What do you want to know about him?”
“What did he do?”
“He came in here and wanted to telephone. Then he asked for some coffee. He seemed sort of nervous. What about him?”
“Just trying to check up on him,” Clane said. “It’s all right. Just a personal matter.”
“Well, he got some nickels and went over to the telephone and dialed a number. He didn’t get any answer, came back and had another cup of coffee, then went over and dialed the same number again...”
“The same number?” Clane asked.
“I think so. The first two calls were to the same number. At least the first two or three numbers were the same. I happened to notice him when he was working the dial on the telephone. Business was slack and... well, you know how it is, you just sometimes notice people like that. He seemed... well, there was something funny about him. I don’t know exactly what it was but he seemed sort of all on edge.”