Last I saw of him, they were shouldering him out through the employees’ exit. A fall guy. Yair. A poor, old helpless — no, he wasn’t going to be helpless. Auguste was my responsibility.
When I got back to my office, things were really popping. Reidy was there, solemn and uncomfortable. He was relaying word from the hotel’s high command. Evidently Hacklin had burned up the phone lines talking to the D.A.; Reidy was instructed to inform me that I was to co-operate fully with the Prosecutor’s droll legmen, that otherwise I was to be summarily suspended, without pay continuance or pension rights. Reidy was glum.
“Think nothing of it.” I gave him the carefree grin. “I’m practically a member of the D.A.’s crew. Everything’s going fine. Except we don’t know where Tildy M. is. Or Dow Lanerd. They’ve just carted Auguste to the hoosegow. And this Gowriss goon may be prowling the stairs right now.”
Reidy said dourly, “Sooner or later the murder is going to break in the papers; that’s the part I’m not looking forward to.” He tossed an envelope on my desk. “That was in the 21MM box. I told them to switch any calls to you and send all her messages up here.”
I opened it. On a sheet of crested Plaza Royale stationery, suite quality, was lettered in neat capitals:
T.M.:—SEVEN FOR A SECRET BUT NEVER FORGET FOUR Lx
“Is there a cryptographer in the house?” I read it again, getting the same result as the first time. Absolute zero.
“Does read like code,” Reidy admitted. “Guess we better pass it on to the DAides.”
“Let me mull it over.” I put it in my pocket. “I’m a fair-to-middling muller, if I have plenty of time.” The phone rang. It was Fran Lane.
“Nothing important, Mister V. Only a pair of that Eberlein dizzy’s mannequins — isn’t that a sweet name for ’em — are up to no good.”