That touched her where she was sensitive. “I don’t take any crap from a lousy errand boy! If Dow thinks he can give my girls the brush like that, he’ll find out it’s damn costive to cancel on Edie Eberlein!” She tossed her head so the big hat brim jiggled indignantly, flipped open her handbag, fished around for a compact. “I’ve gone to all that expense — he needn’t think he’s going to get off for free.”
“He wouldn’t let you hold the bag on that.” I couldn’t see any more of the gloves, but my preliminary size-up seemed to have hit it pretty close. Obviously she was one of those conventioneer madams who arranged for the cute little well-groomeds who were occasionally sneaked into better hostelries under the guise of “entertainers” for tired tycoots.
Having verified my guess that her cash deal was simply payment in advance for the “entertainers,” the routine would have been a flat “no dice.” But there was a key in her handbag. A Plaza Royale suite key.
She wouldn’t be registered. None of those alleged “agents” who furnish con girls ever check in; a group of those babes in a suite would be as noticeable as a Swede at a Senegambian wedding. So someone had given her the key. I couldn’t read the number on the square brass tag we use for double-letter duplexes, but I thought about the key Roffis would have had on him.
When Lanerd attempted to search the dead man’s pockets, I’d stopped him with that crack about police being touchy if anyone handled a cadaver. But since I’d had to unlock that closet the guard’s body was found in, I knew then that the key wouldn’t be on Roffis — unless it had been Tildy Millett who’d murdered him. Anyone else would have had to take the key from the corpse’s clothes, lock the door, and take the key away.
Edie snapped her bag shut. “I don’t want a lot of git-gat-giddle from you, errand boy. All I want is somebody to sing that old Yale song: ‘Moola, moola... moola, moola...”
“Mickey,” I called. “Repeat the prescription.”
“Right with you, Mister Vine.” He didn’t stop the rumba of the shaker.
“On the line,” Edie emphasized. “But quick.”
Walch returned, forehead furrowed, eyes resentful. “Nobody wanted me.” He stared as if I was something oozing out of a crack in the sidewalk. “I don’t understand—”