“You never had a date with him, then?”
She gave me a look of complete contempt. “With that? I’d rather sit home knitting in the Y.W.C.A. than go out with Willie Octopus.”
“Maybe he’s a real riot with all kinds of other women, and you’re the odd girl out who finds him absolutely resistible?”
Tamara blinked rapidly. “Are we talking about the same guy?—Willie Byers?”
“I was hoping you’d know something about him,” I said in a discouraged voice. “His hobbies, recreations— any scandal—the whole bit.”
“I found his main hobby that day in the vault,” she said bitterly. “He does have one other, he’s always talking about it—painting. He even goes to an art class one night a week.”
“You don’t know where?”
“He did mention it.” She wrinkled her lovely forehead while she tried to remember. “The—Peerless Academy —or something like that. A brilliantly original name, anyway.”
I saw her glass was empty, like mine, and signaled the waiter.
“Why all the interest in little Willie, anyway?” she asked.
“Whoever made that first fake tiara was smart enough to fool even your Mr. Elmo, right?” I said. “Then last night, a second fake appears on top of a corpse’s head.”
She shuddered faintly. “I don’t care to think about that.”
“Whoever made thpse fakes was an expert, wouldn’t you say? It was an expert who made the original— Willie Byers.”
“You don’t think little Willie made those two paste imitations? That’s ridiculous.” She shook her fantastic hair-do carefully so it wouldn’t come tumbling down around her ears. “He’d drop dead of fright if somebody stopped him in the street and asked for a match! Sorry, Danny, you’re way out in left field on that one.”
“Maybe. But I figure there’s more to Willie than meets the eye.”
Tamara shuddered again, daintily. “I hope I never get to find out.” Her face brightened as she picked up her new drink. “I love these rum-based drinks, don’t you? With all the cute names they give them, and all. What’s this one called?”
“ ‘Virgin’s Delight,’ ” I said, straight-faced.
She bit her lip and looked at me out of the corner of her eye for a moment. “You made that up!” she finally accused me. “Let me look at the menu.” She scanned the printed page eagerly. “You did—it’s not here.” She giggled suddenly. “The kookiest name here is ‘Missionary’s Downfall’—but not a thing about virgins.”
“Guess again,” I said. “They’re one and the same. The missionaries made the virgins wear Mother Hubbards so they wouldn’t look so sexy, and the virgins knew the reason, of course, and only felt sexier, and there you have the missionary’s downfall.”
A slow grin curved the comers of her mouth. “Some missionary you’d make!”
“Give me a chance to make a pagan convert and have dinner with me?” I suggested.
“Not tonight.” She shook her head, for a moment there I thought I detected a faint note of regret in her voice. “I have a date already.”
“Willie, I suppose,” I grunted sourly.
“Believe it or not, I have to go home tonight for dinner —it’s my kid sister’s birthday.”
“Don’t you go home every night?”
“Only to my apartment normally—I’m what they call an independent girl.”
“So why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night? Or is that your kid sister’s kid sister’s birthday?”
“No—that’s Friday,” she said happily. “All right—tomorrow night’s a date. Will it be formal?”
“Just wear your Mother Hubbard, honey,” I said, “and I’ll be wearing the same old leer.”
We finished our drinks and she had to go. I walked with her to the door and saw her disappear into a cab with a flurry of skirts that exposed a pair of beautifully dimpled knees. The world was suddenly a lonely place after she’d gone. I went up to my room and looked through the phone directory until I located the “Peerless Academy of Art.” With a name like that, I figured they must charge fifty cents a lesson at least.
A nasal feminine voice answered, reciting the full name of the academy like it was a call to arms.
“Lieutenant Schell, police,” I said in a harsh voice. “You hold a weekly painting class down there, right?” “Oh—er—yes, Lieutenant.” Her voice quavered nervously. “Every Tuesday night. Mr. Callahan teaches, and I must say he’s an excellent teacher. The fee is—”
“You figure a cop has time to paint?” I growled.
“Oh—er—I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I thought—”
“Don’t,” I said succinctly. “Just get your list of pupils out. I want to check a couple of names.”
There was a frantic rustling noise at the other end of the line, and I sat wondering if she was sorting through papers on her desk, or if she’d just lost her girdle. Finally she said she had the list right there.
“Is a guy named Byers listed?—Willie Byers?’*
“Just a moment, Lieutenant, I’ll have to put on my reading glasses first.” There were more frantic whispering sounds. “Ah!” she said in a relieved voice. “That’s better.” So I sat and wondered some more for a few seconds. “Yes, yes, Lieutenant. Here it is—Wilhelm Byers. He seems to be one of our best pupils. Never misses a class and always pays each quarter promptly in advance.”
“Can he paint?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” she said blankly. “You’d have to ask Mr. Callahan about that.”
“Never mind,” I snapped. “How about the women pupils? Do you have a Miss Lamont listed by any chance?”
“Let me see now. “More rustling. “Yes, we do—that is, we did. She only attended a few classes apparently, Lieutenant.”
“That’s Louise Lamont?”
“Yes, it is. But according to the list we haven’t seen her in the last three or four months. When they drop out like that, they don’t usually come back. But still—if you want to leave a message for her, Lieutenant?”
“No, thanks,” I said tersely. “I know where she is right at this moment.”
“Oh, really?” The curiosity was hot in her voice. “Where, Lieutenant?”
“The morgue,” I said, and hung up.
I lit a cigarette and figured it all made for a neat tie-up between Louise and Willie. For a guy who was normally repulsive to women—and I’d take Tamara O’Keefe’s word on that—to have something exotic like Louise Lamont within reach would be worth any effort, including the making of two fake tiaras. So the next time I called on Willie, like within an hour or so, I guessed I wouldn’t treat him gendy, virus or no virus. The phone rang imperatively, breaking my obvious line of thought.
“Mr. Boyd?” a whisper asked when I answered. “Sure,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“Patty Lamont,” the whisper said. It had a kind of eerie quality that prickled my crew cut. “I have to see you, Mr. Boyd, right away. Would you please come
straight to my apartment? You do have the address—I gave it to you yesterday, remember?”
“Sure, I have it,” I said awkwardly. “But I have to go out right away, Miss Lamont, and it’s important. Maybe we could make it sometime tomorrow?”
“No!” The whisper became a frantic, imploring voice. “It has to be now, right away, Mr. Boyd. There’s not a minute to lose! Believe me, I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s a matter of life and death!”
“Are you sick or something?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you any more now,” she said hysterically. “But you must come—now!11 There was a sharp click as she hung up.
I replaced the phone and thought the hell with it, and with Patty Lamont, too. Then I remembered what Machin had said—she’d been very close to her sister and the shock of hearing about Louise’s murder had broken her up completely—and I figured I had to show up, however stupid her imagined emergency might be. Willie Byers could wait a couple of hours, at that.