“Mr. Nash checked out on January fifteenth. He didn’t leave any forwarding address, but had us hold his mail. He drops in to pick it up occasionally.”
Shayne said, “Is there any mail there for him now?”
“Yes. Two letters that came several days ago.”
“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart and I’ll buy you a drink next time I’m around.” Shayne bent forward to cradle the receiver. He tugged at his ear lobe for a moment, muttering, “Bill’s biggest trouble was the bangtails. Where is the Dillmore Hotel?”
Lucy looked at the open directory and gave him a number in the seven-hundred block on North-East Second Avenue.
Shayne took a small address book from his pocket, read a telephone number to Lucy, asked her to dial it, and then reached for the receiver.
A man’s voice answered, and Shayne said, “Len? Mike Shayne. How they running these days?” He grinned as he listened. “That’s good. Look, Len, do me a favor? Where would I go on the seven-hundred block on North-East Second Avenue to lay two bucks on a filly’s nose?” The redhead gave Lucy Hamilton a left-eyed wink as the voice came over the wire. He said, “Maybe you haven’t got it in your head, Len, but check, will you? It’s damned important. Sure, I’ll hang on.”
Shayne waited for several minutes, then said happily, “That’s just what I wanted. I’ll do you a favor some day.” He tossed the instrument to Lucy and went out fast. Ten minutes later he pulled up at the curb, in front of a dingy bar and grill, half a block from the Dillmore Hotel.
Half a dozen loungers were clustered at the end of the bar, near the television set, watching a baseball game. The bald-headed bartender languidly chewed on a frayed matchstick and drew two steins of beer.
Shayne slid onto the front stool and waited until the bartender drifted toward him. “A slug with a beer chaser,” he said, and lit a cigarette. When his order was placed before him he asked casually, “Seen Bill Nash around lately?”