D.A. cover-up?
Back when a security officer didn’t resent being called house dick to his face, it was sometimes possible to put the shush on a murder in a hotel. A freemealing district captain would occasionally return past favors by hustling an assistant medical examiner over to certify the corpse before newshounds got wind of the crime. But there’ve been some changes made.
Even in those days, a homicide in the suite of a notable couldn’t have been kept quiet. Especially a nationally known character like Tildy Millett. She was what you might call a famous figure; the simplest silhouette of any trim-limbed femme in a short, flared-out skirt was merely a trade-mark for Tildy. Dame like that would be news if she did nothing more’n switch from one brand of face powder to another.
Tildy Millett, the name was up there in incandescent lights somewhere on the Main Stem practically all the time. The crowds who’d swarmed to see the Icequadrilles, or made Holiday On Ice a six-week holdover, or seen her Skate Mates in Technicolor, they’d have wolfed any gossip about her. Even before this Mystery Miss hodelyo.
So it didn’t seem as if there was any chance to avoid flash-bulbing and scare-headlining in connection with this dead man.
I felt sorry for the poor guy; probably he’d been an all-right joe whose folks and friends would miss him plenty. But I didn’t know Roffis, whereas I did know just how much grief his death would cause around the Plaza Royale. If Dow Lanerd had any good reason for delaying the yapping of the hounds, I was ready to listen.
I asked if he thought she knew something about the murder.
“She was here with Roffis just before I came across from my rooms.” Lanerd was trying to decide how far into his confidence to take us. “He was supposed to escort her over to the studio. But about ten minutes before the three of them were scheduled to start — her maid Nikky goes everywhere with her — Roffis disappeared. Just like that. They looked through the suite for him, couldn’t find any trace, finally got worried, and called me because they were scared to go out without a guard.”
Reidy looked at the blood-prints on the door. “How about this maid?”
“No, no. Nikky might use a knife on a man — to defend herself.” Lanerd waggled his hand to indicate excitability. “Nikky Narian has what you might call a mercurial temperament. But she’d never have done a thing like this.” He squatted beside me, reached toward the dead man.