“I’m sorry,” she said simply.
He nodded.
“Sorry for what?” Thorne inquired, then laughed, and said, “Oh, pardon me. I forgot. You see, Moraine, I’ve known Doris for a long time. I feel like a big brother to Ann.”
Ann Hartwell crossed to a chair and sat down on the edge. Moraine sat down on the chaise longue. Thorne turned to stare at Ann Hartwell.
“Listen, kid,” he said, “are you on the up-and-up with that snatching business?”
She nodded silently. His eyes stared at her with steady question.
“There’s something phoney about it somewhere,” he said.
“About what?” she asked.
“About the guys who pulled the job.”
“What about them?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
“Have... have the police caught them?”
“I don’t think so, but they’ve run down a couple of clews. The clews look phoney.”
Ann Hartwell lowered her eyes and said slowly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help to the police.”
Carl Thorne kept staring at her.
“Was it a real snatch?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to his, made a motion with her head.
Thorne said savagely, “All right. Which is it — a shake or a nod — yes or no?”
“Yes,” she said, “of course it was a snatch. But please let’s not talk about it now.”
She glanced at Sam Moraine.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed slowly.
“I’m tired, frightfully tired,” she said.
Thorne studied the smoke which eddied upward from his cigarette. His face was set in hard, grim lines.
The telephone rang insistently. Ann Hartwell walked across the room to it. With a dead, listless manner, she picked up the receiver and said, “Hello... No, this isn’t she. I’ll call her... Yes, he’s here.”
She said to Carl Thorne, “It’s for you.”
As Thorne took the telephone, she walked rapidly to the door through which Doris Bender had vanished. She gave Moraine one pleading look, then slipped into the outer room.
Carl Thorne said into the telephone, “Hello... Not yet I haven’t, but I will... Yeah... Okay, spill it.”
He remained silent, listening.
Doris Bender came hurrying into the room. She went at once to Sam Moraine.
“For God’s sake,” she said softly, “get out of here! Can’t you see what’s happening?”
Moraine grinned up at her.
“Is he jealous?” he asked in a low tone.
She pushed him toward the door.
“Please,” she said, “please get out.”
Moraine laughed, starting to say something, then, at the look in her eyes, patted her shoulder.
“Okay, sister,” he said, and picked up his hat.
Thorne was still at the telephone, listening, as she slammed the door behind him and twisted the bolt.
Chapter Seven
There was a biting chill to the night wind. It howled past the corners of the office building in which Moraine had his office. The sound was distinctly audible, an ever present wailing undertone, a background of weird noise.
Moraine sat cross-legged on the big leather couch and slid a fine nail file along the edges of his nails in an absent-minded, mechanical manner. Natalie Rice sat very straight and erect at the desk.
“Any trouble?” Moraine asked.
“No trouble at all. He remembered her perfectly.”
“Did you show him her picture?”
“No, I didn’t have to. He remembered her as soon as I showed him the card.”
“Did you get a description?”
“Yes.”
“Did it check up?”
“Absolutely. It’s the same girl, all right.”
“Well,” Moraine said, “what’s the news?”
“He picked her up at Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst last night about eight o’clock.”
“Last night?” Moraine asked, looking up from his nails.
“Yes.”
Moraine slowly slid the nail file into his pocket. His voice was interested.
“Okay, go ahead; tell me the rest of it.”
“She was all alone, seemed rather nervous and excited. She had him run her down to Pier 34. There was a motor boat waiting there for her. He thinks it was a speed boat, the way it sounded when it put off.”
“How did he happen to give her his card?”
Natalie Rice smiled.
“You know taxi drivers get in on lots of cuts in return for giving people steers — you know what I mean — cuts on the night life, and things of that sort.”
“Well?” Moraine asked. “What about it?”
“The taxi driver thought Ann Hartwell might be going down to keep a date with some people on a yacht, thought she was sort of a party girl. He got to talking with her on the road down, and she seemed real friendly. He gave her his card and told her that if she liked to go out, he frequently had men who were looking for a single, unattached girl.”
“Then what?” Moraine asked.
“She kept stringing him along,” Natalie Rice told him. “Evidently, she was getting quite a kick out of it, but the taxi driver thought she was a live one. She wanted to know how much of a cut he wanted and just what she was supposed to do, and put on the act of a young wife who was just running away from her husband and was looking for an opportunity to turn to almost anything that would make a living for herself.”
“And the cab driver now thinks she was kidding him?”
“I guess so. When I showed up with the card, he was a little suspicious. He thought at first I was a detective from the vice squad, or something of that sort. I had a little trouble making him talk.”
“Perhaps he adopted the angle that it was all a joke with you, simply on account of being frightened.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Was she carrying a suitcase with her?”
“No, she carried nothing except a purse.”
“Sixth and Maplehurst, huh?” Moraine mused.
She met his eyes squarely. “I thought at first she might have dropped off a train. The railroad track runs along Maplehurst Street. They run the trains rather slowly, particularly around the Sixth Avenue crossing, because that’s a residential district. She might have dropped off one of the trains.”
Moraine nodded.
“Then,” she went on, “I thought I’d better look up some of the property holders in the vicinity. I got a map at the assessor’s office that showed the district. I think you’d be interested in one of the names.”
“What name?”
“Peter R. Dixon,” she said slowly.
Moraine raised his eyebrows, gave a low whistle.
“Like that, eh?” he said.
She remained silent, watching him.
“Carl Thorne,” Moraine said slowly, “Peter Dixon — political enemies. Two women who are on the loose, and the Hartwell woman had been doing some secretarial work for Thorne. Put those facts together, and...”
“You went out there to see the Bender woman?” Natalie Rice asked, as Moraine left his sentence significantly unfinished.
“Yes,” he said, “I thought I’d have a chat with her and see if I could find out something.”
She remained silent for a moment and then said slowly, “Would you care to tell me about it?”
“You’re interested in this?” he asked her.
“Naturally, anything that concerns Peter Dixon interests me.”
“You’d like to get something on him?”
She nodded her head slowly.
Sam Moraine consulted his wrist-watch. “Look here,” he said, “the officers aren’t going to be satisfied with the situation the way it exists. They’re going to put some pressure on that Hartwell woman. When they do, Lord knows what they’re going to find out. Now, suppose we interview Pete Dixon. Just ask him a few questions and see what his reactions are?”