“All right.” It was a grudging concession. “Where is he?” Hacklin didn’t like the deal much.
Neither did I, but it was the best I could do, off the cuff. “Waiters’ smoking-room. Basement.”
On the way down in the service car, Hacklin told me they were all balled up now because they couldn’t locate Lanerd.
“Thought he was at the studio.”
“He wasn’t. Never went there. Charley talked to the producer of the Stack O’ Jack thing, fella name MacGregory. MacGregory talked to Lanerd on the phone after the show but hadn’t seen his boss at all. I called Mrs. Lanerd — he has a place out at Manhasset — but he hadn’t gone home; she hadn’t heard from him, seemed kinda worried about him.”
“Everybody’s worried about him,” I said. “His wife, his secretary.”
“Worried? I think she’s crazy about him.”
“No!”
“Yuh.” He didn’t take kindly to sarcasm. “She acts more upset than a secretary would, simply because he doesn’t call her up to let her know what’s cooking.”
“Maybe she figures he eloped with Tildy Millett.”