9:32 P.M.
Mack Irby stopped his two-finger typing and leaned back in the creaky swivel chair to light himself a cigarette. This was the only part of his job that he really hated, making reports. He'd rather tail a wife for her husband or a husband twelve hours straight than spend the half hour writing up a report on the activities of the suspected spouse. Whenever possible he talked a client into settling for verbal reports, but it wasn't always possible to get a client to agree to that. Some of them insisted on having words on paper for their money.
His dream was to have enough men under him so he could afford a stenographer-bookkeeper to take down the reports as dictation—he wouldn't mind talking them—and to take care of sending out and paying bills and the rest of the paper work. He wouldn't even insist that his office help be young and pretty—God, he had all the sex he wanted or needed with Dolly. He'd settle for anybody who could type.
But it seemed as though even this modest dream was a long way from coming true. He did all right for himself, one way or another (some of them not too honest) but strictly as a lone wolf operator. True, he had connections with other detective outfits that let him farm out work at times when he had more than he could handle alone, but he'd never had even one operative working under him full time. He'd never get rich, but most of the time he thought it was best that way; when you work alone you can cut corners you wouldn't take the risk of telling someone else to cut for you. So in all probability the nearest he'd ever have to office help was what he had already, a telephone answering service. That was an absolute must, since he spent so little of his working time actually in the office; he couldn't have operated without it.
He took a deep drag of his cigarette, put it down on the edge of his desk, already scarred by a hundred cigarette burns, and went back to his typing. "Subject entered Crillon Bar at 3:15, looked around first, then went to the bar and ordered a drink. Talked, apparently casually, to the bartender while he drank it, but kept an eye on the door as though waiting for someone. At 3:25 the woman already described in previous report entered. She nodded to him and went to a booth. He joined her there and ordered drinks for both of them. At 3:47 he—"
The phone rang and he picked it up and said, "Mack Irby speaking."
"Mack." It was Dolly's voice. "Fletcher just left and—"
"All right," he said, interrupting her to save time. "I'll be around, but I'm going to finish this one report first. I'll be there in about—"
"Wait, Mack. It's not just that. He stole my jewelry, the few things I had in that leather box on my dresser. Not worth much, but—Do you think I should call the police and report it? And if I do, maybe you shouldn't come, maybe you shouldn't be here when they get here. What do you think?"
"Don't call the cops," he said flatly.
"But why not? Like I said, the stuff isn't worth much, but they might get it back for me."
"They might, Doll. But I might be able to do even better than that. Sit tight. This report can wait till tomorrow. I'll be there in five minutes."
He hung up the phone, got his hat and turned out the lights, locked the office, and left. Downstairs he got in his car. It was, as any car used for shadowing should be, inconspicuous—a five-year-old Studebaker Commander painted gray—but there was a bit of souping-up under the hood and it was kept in perfect condition; it could go over a hundred if it had to. He drove the dozen blocks to Dolly's in three minutes flat. He let himself into the building with the key he carried and it was exactly the five minutes he had predicted when he rapped lightly on Dolly's door. He heard her coming and called out, "It's me, Doll, Mack," to save her the business with the chain.
She let him in. She was still—or again—wearing the red kimono she'd put on when he'd left at nine, and he wondered if she'd have had sense enough to have dressed before she called the police, if he had let her call them. He kissed her, and then firmly disentangled her.
"This is business," he said. "So no monkey-business. I'll sit here and you sit over there and don't distract me."
"All right, Mack honey. But can't I make us each a drink?"
"No, not—Well, all right. I can be asking questions while you make 'em." He sat down on the sofa and tossed his hat onto the end table. Dolly went behind the kitchenette's screen and he raised his voice a little so she could still hear him easily.
"So the family jewels are gone. Point one. Can you be absolutely positive this Fletcher took them? Obviously you missed them right after he left, but how long ago do you know for sure they were still in the box?"
"While you were still here, Mack, just before he came. Remember I had on those costume earrings—the ones with the green stones—and I took them off when I undressed. I hate earrings in bed, especially dangly ones. And I put them in the box on the dresser. The other things were there then too, or I'd have noticed."
"That makes it sure, all right. How come you missed the stuff so soon after he left? You weren't starting to get dressed again, were you?"
Dolly came around the screen, again with a glass in each hand and again the red kimono gaped open all the way down the front. Mack Irby took his drink from her and then resolutely averted his eyes. "Pull that damn kimono shut and sit down—over there. Now answer my last question."
Dolly sat down across from him and obediently pulled the top of the kimono closed. But she crossed her legs and it fell away from them, quite a lot of Dolly still showed. She said, "No, I wasn't going to get dressed again. I just—well, I just had a sudden hunch, right after he left and just before I called you, and I looked around to see if anything was gone. I looked in my purse first; there wasn't much money in it but it was still there, and then I looked in the jewelry box and it was empty and I knew my hunch had been right.
"You see, Mack, he was in an awful hurry and kind of—well, furtive is the word, I guess, when he left. Almost like he was scared. And besides that, he's in some kind of a jam over money. What he really came here for was to try to borrow some from me."
Mack Irby laughed shortly. "He sure didn't know you, Doll. What kind of money did he want? Did he mention an amount?"
"Five hundred. He offered to pay six back in a week or two. That would have been fair enough, if I knew him. But I probably don't even know his right name—and if Ray Fletcher is his right name he could still be planning to blow town for all I know."
"You played it smart, I'd say. Offering that much interest is suspicious, and besides, the fact that he swiped your jewelry shows he ain't very honest. If you'd of lent him the money you'd never of got it back. Now you said the jewelry wasn't worth much. How much is not much?"
"Well, it was mostly costume stuff. Some of the things maybe cost up to twenty bucks apiece, but they wouldn't have any resale value. The wedding ring, worth ten or fifteen—I mean, that's what it would have cost new, not what he could get for it. And that diamond ring, the one with the flaw. You remember it."
Mack Irby remembered the ring. One of Dolly's "friends" had given it to her about a year ago. She'd turned it over to Mack to have appraised and maybe to sell it for her. It had looked like a good stone and as though it might weigh almost a carat; they'd thought it might be worth several hundred dollars. But the appraisal had been disappointing. Mack's jeweler friend had told him its diameter was deceptive; it was too shallow, cut too thin. And it had a bad flaw, one you could see with the naked eye if you looked at just the right angle. Seventy-five was all he offered for it. And at that price, since it looked to be worth much more, Dolly had decided to keep it.
Dolly seldom wore rings, but once in a while someone wanted to take her out of town for a weekend, and if the someone was a free enough spender she sometimes went. Since they'd be registering as man and wife she kept a plain wedding ring to wear on such occasions. And she thought that a diamond ring worn with it would look good and add verisimilitude.
Mack said, "If that's the lot, he won't get more than fifty bucks from a fence—if a fence would be willing to bother with the stuff at all. If he needs five hundred, he's in for a disappointment. All right, so much for the stuff. And now about Fletcher. I think we can take it for granted the name's a phony, or he wouldn't of risked robbing you."
He thought a moment. "But there's still a possibility. If the jam he's in is so bad he's figuring on blowing town anyway, the name business might not worry him. Let's check something."
He walked over to the telephone table and picked up the directory and opened it. After a minute he said, "There's only one Ray Fletcher listed, a Ray W. Fletcher, seventy-one sixteen South Kramer. How long ago did your Ray Fletcher leave here?"
Dolly looked at her wrist watch—and was suddenly glad she'd kept it on instead of taking it off as she sometimes did. It was a good watch, worth more than all the items she'd lost put together. She said, "About fifteen minutes ago."
Mack said, "That address is to hell and gone on the south side. Take him at least half an hour to get there, so if that Ray Fletcher is home now we can eliminate him."
He picked up the phone and dialed. A man's voice answered, "Ray Fletcher speaking," and Mack said, "Sorry, wrong number," and put the phone down.
He went back to the sofa. "Not our boy; he's home. All right, what do we know about our boy? He told you he's a liquor salesman and I'd say that's probably true, account of his bringing you a case of whisky most of the times he brought you anything. Did he ever mention what outfit he works for?"
Dolly shook her head.
"The cartons the whisky came in. Were they stamped with the name of a distributor?"
"I didn't notice if they were. And the last carton got thrown out at least a month ago. But listen, the whisky was always Belle of Tennessee brand. Would that help? I mean, do all distributors handle all brands?"
"That might help. It'll pretty well pinpoint him if it's a brand his outfit has exclusive franchise for. But damn it, I won't be able to work that angle till tomorrow—and I want to get to him tonight if I possibly can, while he's still got the stuff on him. We won't be in such a strong position if he's got rid of it, or even stashed it somewhere."
He took another sip of his drink. "All right, Doll. Start at the beginning. Where and how did you meet the guy?"
"He called up one evening and said John Evans—that's a guy I was seeing once in a while then—had given him my name and phone number and suggested he give me a ring sometime. Wanted to know if he could drop up and meet me, and bring some liquor. I wasn't doing anything that evening and he sounded nice over the phone so I said sure."
"Know how to get in touch with this John Evans?"
"No. I don't know what happened but I haven't seen him in over a year."
"And John Evans was probably a phony name too. Damn it, Doll, this is a digression but you ought to know the right names of the men you see. Not for blackmail or anything—I know you don't go in for anything like that—but just for your own protection. Like tonight. You can do it. Sooner or later a guy goes in the can and leaves his pants outside and all you got to do is take a quick gander in his wallet for his right name and address. And from then on you'll know who he really is.
"But okay, let's get back to Ray Fletcher. Do you think he's married?"
"I'm almost sure. He never took me out anywhere, for one thing, just came to the apartment. Single guys—I know a few of them—like to show me around; I'm decorative. And another thing; he never stayed all night, usually left around twelve or one. And other little things—yeah, I'm sure he's married."
"Know what kind of a car he drives?"
She shook her head again. "He must drive one, but he never brought it upstairs with him."
"You sure don't know much about him. All right, physical description. Don't see how that'll help tonight, but we might as well get it over with."
"Well, he's about your build, maybe an inch taller."
"Go on."
She giggled. "He's about an inch taller, but you're about an inch longer, Mack."
He looked at her disgustedly. "A lot of help that is, unless I find him in a Turkish bath."
Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Doll, was he wearing tonight a gray suit, white shirt, blue tie. Sandy hair, no hat?"
"How—? Oh, sure, you must have passed him on your way out. He got here just a minute after you left."
"Good. Then skip the rest of the description; I'll know him if I see him again. We passed in the doorway. But damn it, Doll, you haven't come up with anything yet that will let me find him tonight, and you gotta. Put down that drink and think hard. As many times as he was up here he must have said or done something that'd give me a lead. Think hard."
Dolly Mason closed her eyes and thought hard. After a minute she said, "He's a horse player. Usually had a Racing Form with him, in his pocket. At first, until I convinced him I don't bet, he used to give me tips on horses—and offered to place bets for me if I wanted to take the tips."
"Keep going."
Dolly's eyes opened wide. "Mack honey, I got something. I think Ray is his right first name."
"That helps. How do you know?"
"One evening, maybe six months ago, he must of made up his mind suddenly to make a bet. He used my phone to call some bookie to phone in the bet. Twenty bucks to win—I don't remember the horse or the track. He started out by saying 'This is Ray'; no last name but the bookie must have known him from that."
"Doll, we're getting somewhere. Think hard. Did he call the bookie by any name?"
"I think he did, but—Yeah, I remember. He said 'This is Ray, Joe,' and then went on and gave the bet."
Mack said, "I know two bookies named Joe. It couldn't be Joe Renfeld; he takes only cash bets, no phone business. Runs a cigar store and books on the side. So it's Joe Amico. I'll know in a minute."
He crossed to the telephone table, looked up a number and dialed it. When a voice answered he said, "This is Bill? Mack Irby. Is Joe there? Can I talk to him."
Bill said sure and a minute later Joe's voice said, "Hi, Mack. What can I do you?"
"Joe, you got a customer named Ray. He's a liquor salesman. Can you give me the rest of his name?"
"What do you want with him, Mack? Listen, he owes me dough and if you're going to get him in trouble I'll never collect."
"It's the other way around," Mack said. "He's in trouble all right, but he'll be in worse trouble if I don't find him right away, tonight. He stole some jewelry from a client of mine. If I can get to him before he sells it, there'll be no beef; my client'll settle for getting the stuff back. If he fences it before I get to him, it'll be too late for that, see? I can find him tomorrow easy enough—how many liquor salesmen are there in town named Ray? But that might be too late to keep him out of jail."
Joe Amico grunted. "Guess you got a point. And I guess I pushed him too hard. All right, his last name's Fleck. F-l-e-c-k. I don't remember his address offhand, but it's in the phone book."
"Attaboy, Joe. You wouldn't make a guess which fence he might head for?"
"No, I wouldn't. I know some fences, and so do you, but I don't know which of 'em, if any, Ray might know or know about."
"Okay, one more thing. Got any idea where I might find him tonight? If he didn't head home, that is. I'll give his number a ring first."
"Best I could guess is some downtown tavern, almost any of them. He makes the rounds. Your best bet would be to make 'em too. Will you know him if you see him, Mack?"
"Yeah. Thanks to hell and back, Joe. So long."
He put down the phone and quickly looked up Ray Fleck in the phone book. He looked at the address first. Yes, it was close enough. If Fleck had headed straight for home he'd be there by now. And just maybe that's what he'd done, if he was scared.
He dialed the number and while it rang a dozen times he held his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Dolly. "Your boy friend is Ray Fleck. Three-one-two Covington Place. But I guess he didn't head for home." He cradled the telephone. "So I go looking for him."
Dolly ran over to him, put her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his.
"Mack honey, do you have to start right away? Would fifteen or twenty minutes matter?"
Mack Irby laughed. "All right, I don't guess fifteen or twenty minutes will matter."
The red kimono fell almost completely away as he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.