The corridor was empty. 21MM was quiet.
With the Prosecutor’s office trying to keep the police in the dark, there were various possibilities. All bad. The Plaza Royale, specifically, the security staff, could easily get in the middle, wind up being booted by both sides.
Tim Piazolle was at the report desk in my outer office when I got down to 303. I looked over his shoulder as he manhandled the typewriter.
8:47 p.m. Ordered two debewtants off the mezz: had spotted them dropping cig. ashes on heads of lobby crowd below. Said they knew manager, would have me fired.
“That does it.” I sighed. “You’re fired.”
Tim grinned, his homely, raw-hamburg face shiny with sweat. “Fine work for an able-bodied citizen. Shooing schoolgirls off a balcony.”
“You want excitement? We have a coffin case in the house.”
That pricked up his ears. I briefed him on the doings up in 21MM, meanwhile flipping through the personnel file for Auguste’s card. “Hacklin and Company will try to pin this on one of our employees. I’d guess Lanerd figures Tildy Millett was the killer. Ruth Moore’s afraid Lanerd did it. She probably imagines the guard caught Mr. Giveaway with his pants down, was knifed because Lanerd feared blackmail. But the secretary did her best to sick me onto Mrs. Lanerd’s trail.”
“Tildy Millett!” Tim couldn’t think of the others; her name dazzled him. “Holy crys! Saw her ’n the moom-pix, only couple months ago. What a zizzer! A real zizzer. Why, that chick did tricks on skates I couldn’t of done if I’d—”
“—been on skates. What you know about this, Timothy?” I showed him the card.