“Thank you for your interest, Elizabeth.”
She stood up and reached for her purse. “I expected something better than this, Chuck.”
“Sorry, Elizabeth.”
She opened my office door and paused on the threshold, waiting for me to say something more. I said nothing.
Finally she half turned and said slowly, “I hope you never regret the rejecting of my advice, Charles.”
The door closed and she was gone.
What the hell — was that a threat?
Chapter 10
LOUISE HORNE
FEDERATED PRESS BLDG
CAPITOL CITY ILLINOIS
THANKS FOR FLOWERS DARLING STOP EXPECT RELEASE FROM HOSPITAL TOMORROW STOP LETTER FOLLOWING STOP
Chapter 11
Boone, Ill.
Friday, noon
Dear Louise:
I have a very nice nurse named Hazel; she’s competent, starched, and more than a little cynical. She provided me with a tilting-top table, some stationery, and loaned me her pen.
I hope the telegram didn’t frighten you. Hazel telephoned it in for me. They were very nice roses, and thank you again.
It all happened, Louise, because I didn’t have enough sense to take Dr. Saari’s advice. It’s all somewhat hectic, and rough, and more than a little puzzling. It went like this:
Liebscher rammed his thin, sharp elbow into my unprotected ribs and pointed a blunt finger through the dirty windshield.
“That’s her, chum,” he said casually.
I looked first at her attractive, long legs mounted on spiked heels and the handsome, expensive fur coat she was wearing as she moved swiftly towards our car along the snow-blown sidewalk. And then I looked up, up the legs and fur coat, into the face of the Chinese doll. The newspaper fell from my fingers.
Croyden is a murky, grey vestpocket edition of Chicago. The smoke begins at the river’s edge, belching from a score of chimneys, and sweeps west across the waterfront and up the hill to Adams Street. The air is sooty and discouraging and clings to the skin like an unhealthy blanket. My handkerchief was soiled from several swipes across my face, and my throat tasted as if the smoke had seeped into my mouth.
It didn’t seem to bother the local citizenry; they ate it and apparently liked it.
Liebscher had met me at the station in his rattling excuse for an automobile, with an excuse for Rothman’s absence, some scribbled notes in his pocket, and a hundred lousy jokes on his lips. Liebscher and Joe Miller have much in common: stale and musty corn.
Immediately upon arriving in Croyden I had paid an anonymous visit to Ashley, the attorney. Giving him a phony name and address, I pretended to consult him on a slander charge that was being threatened against me by some equally fictitious neighbors. He consumed a half hour of my time and ten dollars of my money cautiously advising me how thin a slander action was. The secretary gave me a receipt on the way out.
I left his office wondering if I had gained ten dollars’ worth of Ashley. It didn’t require the full half hour for me to realize the attorney could be guilty of anything from counterfeiting to murder-providing he had some other stronger person to lean on. Ashley was a remarkable follower, even a co-leader; I remember the afternoon when he was frightened out of his wits by my description of Evans’ death.
And the next day he was no longer afraid. Overnight his silent partner had stiffened his spine. Ashley wasn’t the man I wanted. The silent partner was the man to go after.
After leaving Ashley’s office, Liebscher had driven me south along Adams Street, pointing out various addresses he knew or frequented. Finally he turned around, heading back towards town, and parked half a block north of a small theatre.
“The gal lives in the south apartment over the theatre,” he explained. “Did I ever tell you the one about—”
I cut him off. “What gal?”
“What gal? Chum, you said pry into the lawyer’s love life; I did. The gal goes to see him. She lives there, upstairs over the movie. A Chinese gal.”
“Chinese? Are you certain?”
“I’ve seen her, haven’t I? Some relation to your dead one. She came out of the office building while you were upstairs seeing Ashley.”
“Ashley’s office building?”
“What else am I talking about?”
I didn’t know.
He had no more than shut off the motor and slumped down behind the wheel when the girl in question alighted from a streetcar and came towards us. It was then that Liebscher had pointed and said “That’s her, chum.”
I stared at her.
She was a dead ringer for Leonore; she might have been her sister. She probably was her sister. They looked to be about the same age, the same height. The eyes and hair were similar. She was as pretty as Leonore but at the same time her face suggested she knew her way around a bit more. Older sister, in all probability.
I twisted around in the seat as she went by and watched her enter a doorway leading to the apartments above the movie house. Her skirts were just trim enough to show the back of her knees.
“That reminds me,” Liebscher said, staring. “Did you hear the one about the parrot with strings tied to each leg?”
“I’m going up there,” I said to him.
“Upstairs? Suppose papa comes home?”
“You come galloping to the rescue.”
“Okay, chum. Stay alive until I get there. Don’t you want to hear about the parrot?”
“No.”
I waited perhaps two minutes longer for her to get inside and climbed the stairs. There were two apartments, the one on the north had a For Rent sign tacked to the door. I knocked on hers. I had heard no voices inside.
The Chinese girl promptly opened it. There was not so much as a flicker of recognition on her face. She was wearing a thin, white blouse and a gray skirt which fitted snugly around her hips. I decided to play dazed.
I said, “Hello, Leonore.”
Her eyes widened. There was no other visible reaction. It convinced me this was Leonore’s sister but that I had better pretend and call her Leonore. She had not answered my greeting.
“I’d like to come in and talk to you, Leonore.”
“No.”
I pretended confusion and bewilderment. “What’s the matter, Leonore? What have I done to make you act like this?”
She tumbled then and thought she understood.
“I’m not Leonore. Leonore is dead. I am her sister.”
“I know—! But I thought — I mean, of course... I’m confused... Excuse me. My name is Charles Horne. I’m from Boone.”
I watched for a reaction to that and was fully rewarded. She had heard of Mr. Horne all right; her lips and eyes said so in no uncertain terms.
“You can’t come in,” she answered tonelessly.
“Look, Le... miss: I have something for you. No, not with me, but I can get it for you.” My next statement was another trial rocket that worked. “You are... Leonore’s nearest relative. All she left were her clothes and a bracelet. I think you should have them.”
She swayed against the door with her eyes shut tight, and when she opened them again they were filled with sudden tears.
“Please,” she choked, “I...”
“I only want to talk to you for a few minutes,” I wheedled gently. “Forgive me for confusing you with Leonore. You resemble her greatly.”
I took off my hat and made a hesitant step forward. She made no move to prevent my entrance, and when I was in she softly closed the door behind me.
The apartment was in excellent taste and had obviously cost someone a lot of money. Maybe that someone got his money’s worth, I don’t know. I looked at the weeping girl and didn’t attempt a valuation.