Though I knew of no motive anyone who had been present at Amhurst’s the evening before might have to kill Ford, both Max Furtell and Bubbles Duval had opportunity. Since everyone else had been in the front room when the shots sounded, I could eliminate them as suspects. However, we had only the bodyguard’s unsupported statement that he had not stirred from his car until I went after him, and only Bubbles’s word that she had remained all that time in the bedroom.
The latter I tended to rule out because, while she would have had plenty of time to shoot Ford, step back into the bedroom through the French doors and then unobtrusively join the rest of us, she would not have had time to run across the intervening yards and plant the gun in Henry’s workshop. Nor could she have planted it after she left, since Fausta and I took her home and she wasn’t out of our sight between the time of the murder and the time Hannegan must have started his search of Henry’s workshop.
Ed Friday’s bodyguard easily had time to plant the pistol though, since a good quarter hour elapsed between the time the gun went off and I went outside for him. And for motive all he needed was an order from Ed Friday.
The more I thought about it, the more possible it seemed that Friday had issued such an order. I was certain the ex-racketeer was capable of ordering murder if he thought it necessary to his plans, and equally certain Max Furtell would obey such an order. What Friday’s motive could be, I had no idea, but I kept remembering his nocturnal visit to my flat and his attempt to get me out of town before Madeline could engage me to look into the murder.
I decided my next move would be to check into a possible relationship between Ed Friday and Walter Ford.
Madeline and Fausta had completed their mission of mercy while I was engaged with Amhurst and were seated in the car when I came out. Madeline had in her lap a round, one-pound can of tobacco and a collection of three pipes.
“You know some woman who lives in the Remley?” Fausta inquired.
“Several,” I said. “And they’re all mad about me. But I was visiting Barney Amhurst. You want to take that stuff over to Tom now, Madeline?”
When the girl said she did, I drove her over to headquarters and left her, and then drove Fausta back to El Patio.
Chapter Eleven
My next logical move should have been a visit to Evelyn Karnes in an attempt to discover just how far she thought Ed Friday’s jealousy of Walter Ford might have taken him. While it was a little difficult to visualize the cynical Friday in an Othello role, he had exhibited jealousy of Walter Ford, and it was at least conceivable he had ordered him killed because Ford was making a play for Evelyn.
But Evelyn Karnes lived halfway across town. And since Bubbles Duval’s apartment was only a mile or two from El Patio, I tried the blonde first.
It was pushing five when I left Fausta, and I stopped at the first drugstore I saw in order to use the phone. I found a Miss Beatrice Duval with a Dove Street address listed in the book, but there was no answer. Recalling that Mrs. Jennifer Ford had referred to Bubbles as a dress model, it occurred to me she might know where the girl worked. Mrs. Ford was at home, but apparently she had been pursuing the gin bottle steadily ever since I had left her. In a thick, nearly incoherent voice she told me she didn’t know where any of her deceased husband’s tramp girl friends worked, and cared less.
As a last resort I again phoned Howard Quentin, the private cop Mrs. Ford had employed to check on Walter’s love life. I caught him, he informed me, just as he was walking out the door for the day.
He also informed me Bubbles Duval modeled dresses at Saxon and Harder’s.
There was a little delay in getting Bubbles to the phone at Saxon and Harder’s, the store apparently being unaccustomed to having its models receive calls while working. When she finally answered, she sounded out of breath.
“Manny Moon,” I said. “Remember me?”
“Of course,” she said with what sounded like a mixture of pleasure and misgiving. Then quickly, “You better make it fast. We aren’t supposed to get personal calls.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I tried your home first. I want to see you. When do you get off work?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Not till seven, Manny. And I have to get home to dress after that. Informal?”
“No,” I said, suddenly realizing she was misinterpreting my request to see her and thought I was calling for a date. “You’ve got the wrong idea. I just...”
“My supervisor’s heading this way,” she interrupted in a quick tone. “Formal then. But don’t call for me. A couple of reporters have been hanging around trying to get my statement about last night, and they’d only bother you with a lot of questions too. I’ll meet you somewhere. Where?”
“May I get a word in edgewise?” I asked.
“Oh, gee! She’s looking right at me and tapping her foot. I have to hang up, Manny. Make it El Patio at eight.”
The last words came in a rush and were followed by a sharp click. Exasperatedly I glared at the dead phone for a moment before slamming the receiver back on its hook. El Patio the girl had said. It wasn’t bad enough to be roped into a date I had no desire for, it had to take place right under the interested eye of Fausta.
Then I got sore at Bubbles. After Fausta’s reaction the evening before, she should have known better than to pick Fausta’s own club for a rendezvous, even though she was rattled by her supervisor’s observation. If the girl was that empty-headed, she deserved whatever Fausta did to her.
And since I did want to talk to Bubbles, I phoned El Patio, got hold of the headwaiter and reserved a table for two at eight.
Evelyn Karnes was listed in the phone book at 1114 Grand. Dropping another dime in the slot, I dialed the phone number listed.
After a few rings, the enameled brunette’s clear but lifeless voice said, “Hello.”
“Evelyn?” I asked. “Manny Moon.” Then before she could get the same misapprehension Bubbles had suffered as to the reason for my call, I added distinctly, “I’d like to talk to you for a few moments about last night. You going to be home for a while?”
“Until seven. I have a rehearsal scheduled at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll be right over,” I said, and hung up.
Evelyn Karnes lived in the lower right flat of a four-family building. The neighborhood was moderately quiet and the building fairly new and modern. From the outside, it was nothing you might not expect a chorus girl to be able to afford, however.
But inside, the apartment was at a fantastically different economic level than the neighborhood. Evelyn’s wages had never paid for the thick Oriental rugs, the deep-cushioned modern furniture or the luxurious drapes at the windows. The furnishings were fabulously expansive. The place was not a home, it was the love abode of an Oriental satrap. Everything in it was either soft or sensual, from the white bear rug in front of the fireplace to the excellent nude originals on the walls.
As she mixed drinks for both of us at the bar, I wondered what Friday saw in the girl. She was beautiful, of course, but the ex-racketeer’s wealth could have bought him any number of beautiful women. Beneath Evelyn’s beauty there seemed to be nothing: no humor, no conversational ability, no interests beyond the shallow interests of self. And, judging by last night, no personal regard for Ed Friday beyond a rather abject recognition of duty due him as her provider.
But apparently she possessed whatever it was Ed Friday wanted in a woman. I noted she again wore the diamond bracelet he had ripped from her wrist the evening before.