For some reason, I hadn’t thought about what effect the news of the Colonel’s death would have on a paroled prostitute. Now, staring at Melahn, I felt stupid and uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I should make an attempt to comfort her — which I suddenly wanted to do — or stick to the facts and get through this as quickly as possible. I decided to try and make it as gentle as I could.
“He was abducted from his office. It may have had something to do with one of the cases he was working on.”
Cradling her drink in both hands, Melahn sat down on a wicker chair and stared miserably at the floor. “He said he wasn’t going to take any more cases. He said he was done with all that.” Melahn looked up at me and took another drink of stabilizing fluid.
“We were going away together… at the end of the month. He was going to retire… and we were…”
Without looking at me, Melahn sprang up and bolted from the room. I watched her leave and decided I needed to smoke. An ashtray with several cigarette butts in it sat on the coffee table in front of the sofa, so I figured it would be OK.
I’d almost finished my cigarette when Melahn came back into the room. Even with no makeup and red, puffy eyes, she was beautiful. The body, the face… but there was more to it than that. I’d never been a good judge of female character — my wife had sworn to that under oath in divorce court — but something indefinable about Melahn told me that there was a good deal more to her than I, or maybe anyone else, had first thought. The Colonel must’ve seen whatever it was she had. Maybe he’d met her through one of his cases and helped her back on her feet. He’d always been smarter than I was.
But now he was dead, and I wasn’t. Melahn sat back down on the wicker chair and buried her nose in a tissue as I stubbed out my Lucky Strike. “I hope you don’t mind.”
Melahn shook her head. I looked at her, knowing that I needed her to talk to me, but not sure how, or if the subject should be broached. Luckily, she took a shaky breath and looked over at me. “Sorry, I haven’t cried in years.”
I nodded. She dabbed her nose and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. After a moment, she glanced at me. “You’re not a cop.”
I paused and thought it over, then shook my head. “No, I’m not. I’m a PI… and an old friend of the Colonel’s.”
Melahn nodded. After a few seconds, she straightened up and pulled her robe tight.
“What do you want to know?”
I shrugged. “Anything. I’m just trying to find out who would’ve killed him.”
“I can’t help you. Roy never talked about his work. And we’d only been seeing each other for a few months. I knew him, but not about the other things in his life.” She raised the tissue to her nose, then folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t look like a hooker.
“That was the way he wanted it. He said we were starting over, together. We didn’t talk about other things.”
A wave of disappointment washed over me. I didn’t want to be insensitive, but I’d been hoping that Melahn could help. Apparently, she couldn’t. I believed what she was telling me, as much as I didn’t want to hear it.
“Tell me, Melahn, is there anything you can think of… anything… Roy… said during the past few times you saw him?”
Melahn’s eyes focused on the floor thoughtfully. After some time, she shook her head.
“No.”
I looked up at the ceiling. Maybe I was asking the wrong questions. “Do you remember him saying anything about CAPRICORN?”
Melahn’s head moved slowly from side to side.
“How about something called the Winter Chip?”
“No.”
Melahn stared back at me, her eyes were starting to brim again as she said, “I’m sorry.”
I was sorry too, and for more than one reason. I stood up and walked to where she was sitting. She looked up as I put my hand on her shoulder. “Me too. I’m sorry about what happened, and I’m sorry I had to tell you.”
I reached into the inner pocket of my overcoat. All I could find was a cash register receipt. I wrote on the back of it, then handed it to Melahn. “Here’s my name and my number. If you can think of anything, or if I can help in any way at all, give me a ring.”
Melahn nodded. I felt like dirt and really wanted to get home and shower. There was probably something I should have said, but I couldn’t think of anything constructive. I put on my hat and walked to the door.
“Wait.”
I turned around, and Melahn stood up. “Roy left some things here. You can see them if you think it’ll help.”
I crossed the room and followed Melahn into her bedroom. She looked into a closet and several drawers and laid a handful of items on the bed. There was a hardback novel, which I flipped through and found nothing in, a pair of cheap reading glasses, a tartan vest, two shirts, a pair of khaki trousers, and a half dozen boxer shorts. I didn’t bother to search the undies, and the shirts and pants turned up nothing. I’d just about decided that I’d hit a dead end when I checked the watch pocket of the vest. Inside was a notebook, about two by three inches. I held it up. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Melahn shook her head and began to gather up the items as I left the room. I reached the door and glanced back. She had sat down on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. I turned and closed the door quietly behind me.
As I walked down the stairs, I flipped through the notebook. Something fluttered out and dropped to the floor. It was a clipping from a newspaper, folded up. As I opened it, a picture in the center caught my eye. It was a photo of the countess’s statuette.
UAKM — CHAPTER TWELVE
I checked my watch as I left the Knickerbocker building. It was just after 9am. I’d been up for almost a day and a half, and it felt more like 21 o’clock… p.m. Louie’s coffee had sobered me up, and now I needed another drink.
I lifted off and headed for the nearest bar. Why did the Colonel have a photo of the statuette? Suddenly, his disappearance was connected to the bogus Countess. When I’d been in the Police Commissioner’s office, I honestly hadn’t thought I was even remotely involved in the Colonel’s murder, but now I was starting to think maybe I was. But how?
I needed bourbon and time to meditate. I glanced down at the street below and caught sight of a sign: The Gaslight Lounge. The open sign was lit up, and I still had $40 in my wallet. The Gaslight Lounge looked like just the kind of dive a destitute PI would waste the last of his cash in.
It was dark and stinky inside-a perfect place to think and drink when one’s biological clock is on the fritz. I ordered a serving of Old Grand-Dad with a sidecar from a bartender named Denny and carried the Papa glass and the Baby glass to a circular booth in the corner. The malt was cheap, but adequate, all things considered. As the harsh, caramelly taste ran down my throat and blazed a trail into my stomach, I pulled out the newspaper clipping and examined it.
The article said that a daring heist had been pulled off in a museum in Berlin. The only item stolen was the statuette shown in the photo. The article went on to say that the statuette had only recently been unearthed while renovating an old section of the city.
There was no date shown anywhere on the clipping.
I took another sip of Old Grand-Dad and closed my eyes. My brain was filled with puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit together. The first piece was the Colonel stopping by my office for no apparent reason. Then there was the call from that “Countess”. She hires me to find this statuette, claiming that it’s an old family heirloom that had been stolen from her. Of course, she’s lying, but I don’t know it at the time. I take the job, find out about Eddie Ching, and follow his trail to Mexico City. I find out that he’s in some sort of illegal exporting business, but how the statuette got from the museum in Berlin to Ching’s apartment is a complete mystery. Regardless, I get the statuette, but it’s stolen from me in Brownsville. All indications point to me being set up and followed.