I WAS gone about an hour. When I came back, I had a bellboy’s uniform which I’d rented from a costume house, a telegram I’d sent myself, under the name of B. F. Morgan, and a notebook with ruled pages, half a dozen of which had been scrawled with signatures that I’d faked with lead pencil and fountain pen.
I tapped gently on the door of my room in the hotel.
Alma Hunter opened it.
Looking past the open door, I saw Bertha Cool squeezed into the big, overstuffed chair, filling it to overflowing. A bottle of Scotch, some ice, and a siphon of soda were on the table beside her. She was sipping from a tall glass. Sandra Birks came gliding toward me, like some supple shadow. “Oh you bungler!” she said. “You’ve ruined things.”
“Why the bouquets?” I asked, my eye drifting past her to rest apprehensively on the head of the Cool Detective Agency.
“For God’s sake, close the door,” Bertha Cool said to Sandra. “If you want to bellyache, go ahead and do it, but don’t advertise your troubles to the hotel. Come on in, Donald.”
I walked in and Alma Hunter closed the door. I couldn’t see Bleatie anywhere. The bathroom door was closed. I could hear voices coming from behind the door.
“What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“You went away and didn’t tell anyone where you were going,” Sandra Birks said. “You had that original summons and the copy for service, and Morgan has been in there for an hour. He came in just a few minutes after you left. Of all the dumb, bonehead tricks—”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He’s still there,—I hope.”
“Where’s your brother?”
“He had a hemorrhage. His broken nose started to bleed back into his mouth, and I telephoned for the doctor. It may be serious. He and the doctor are in the bathroom.”
Bertha Cool said, “You evidently started something, Donald. Mrs. Birks telephoned me to try and find where you were. Why don’t you keep in touch with the office?”
“Because you told me you didn’t want reports. You wanted the papers served,” I said. “If I’m let alone long enough, I’ll serve them. I’m sorry you were disturbed. It’s what I get for trying to be polite and letting Mrs. Birks know what is going on. I wasn’t in favor of her and her brother coming up here in the first place.”
“That’s all nonsense,” Sandra Birks said coldly. “You’re trying to dodge responsibility by putting the blame on us.”
“I’m not putting the blame on anyone,” I said. “If your brother’s having a hemorrhage in the bathroom, I’m going to change into this bellboy suit in the closet. I suggest you try keeping your back turned.”
Sandra Birks said, “The papers. We want those papers. My God, we’ve been telephoning frantically—”
“Keep your shirt on,” I said. “I’m supposed to serve these papers, and I’m going to. Do you know that it’s Morgan in there?”
“Yes, you can hear his voice through the bathroom door.”
I glanced across at Bertha Cool. “How long have you been here?” I asked.
“About ten minutes,” she said. “My God, you’d have thought the place was on fire, the way they’ve been burning up the wire. If Morgan Birks gets away from you, Donald, I’m going to be very angry about it.”
I didn’t say anything. I went in the closet, unwrapped the costume, got out of my clothes, and put on my bellboy’s uniform. There was no light in the closet so I left the door ajar to see to make the change. Through the open door, I could hear what was taking place in the other room. I heard Alma Hunter say, “I think you’re unjust, Sandra. He had to use his best judgment, didn’t he?”
Sandra said, “His best judgment wasn’t good enough, that’s all,” and then I heard the glug-glug-glug-glug of whisky being poured from a bottle which was almost full, the hiss of siphon water and Bertha Cool’s calm voice saying, “After all, Mrs. Birks, he let you in on this. If he hadn’t telephoned you, you wouldn’t have known a damn thing about it. We’re hired to serve papers. If Morgan Birks has left and Donald can’t serve the papers, then it’s a horse on me. If Morgan Birks is still there and Donald serves the papers, you’re going to be charged for getting me to drop everything else and come rushing out here as fast as a cab could bring me.”
Sandra Birks said, “Well, if you want to know the truth, I think my attorney made a mistake in recommending you. I’m sorry that I ever came to your agency.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Cool said in the voice of a perfect lady discussing the latest novel, “it is regrettable, isn’t it, dearie?”
I came out of the closet, buttoning up the bellboy’s coat around my neck. I took the yellow envelope with the telegram and the notebook, walked over to the telephone, and said to the operator, “Ring 618, please.” A moment later, when I heard a woman’s voice on the line, I said, “There’s a telegram for Mrs. B. F. Morgan.”
“I’m not expecting any telegram,” she said. “No one knows I’m here.”
“Yes, Mrs. Morgan. This telegram has a very peculiar address. It reads: ‘Mrs. B. F. Morgan, Perkins Hotel, or deliver to Sally Durke.’ Now, we have no Durke registered here.”
“Well, I’m certain I don’t know what it’s about,” she said, but her voice was a little less positive than it had been.
“I’ll send it up,” I said, “and you can look at it. Open it if you want to and see if the message is for you—you have a right to do that, you know. Boy, oh boy! Telegram to 618.” I hung up.
Bertha Cool dropped more ice into her glass, and said, “Better make it snappy, Donald, she’ll call the office to verify the information.”
I tucked the book under my arm, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the corridor. The three of them stood looking after me. I walked down to 618 and tapped on the door.
I could hear a woman’s voice talking over the telephone, and said, “Telegram.”
The woman’s voice quit talking. Then I heard her on the other side of the door.
“Slide it under the door,” she said.
I squeezed the notebook partially under the door, so that she could see just the edge of the yellow envelope in between the leaves. “I can’t make it,” I said. “You have to sign for it. The book won’t go under the door.”
She said, “Just a minute, I’ll unlock the door.”
She unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stood staring out at me suspiciously. I kept my face lowered. When she saw my uniform and the telegram in the book, she opened the door six or eight inches. “Where do I sign?” she asked.
“Right on this line,” I told her, shoving the book through the door and handing her a pencil.
She was wearing a rose-colored robe over not very much of anything. I looked through the crack in the open door and could see nothing, so I pushed the door open and walked in.
At first she didn’t get the idea. Then as the light fell on my face, she recognized me. “Morgan!” she cried. “Look out! It’s a detective.”
Morgan Birks, attired in a double-breasted gray suit, was lying on the bed, his ankles crossed, a cigarette in his mouth. I walked over to him and said, “This is an original summons, Mr. Birks, in the case of Sandra Birks versus Morgan Birks. This is a copy of the summons and a copy of the complaint which I hand you herewith.”
He calmly removed the cigarette from his lips, blew smoke at the ceiling, and said, “Pretty smart, aren’t you, buddy?”
Sally Durke came running up behind me, her rose-colored robe trailing out behind her. She had ripped the yellow envelope open and pulled out the fake message. She slammed the book on the floor, tore the telegram in two and flung it at me. “You damn double-crossing stool pigeon,” she said.
“What else?” Birks asked me.
“That’s all.”
“No warrant of arrest?”
“No, this is just a civil case.”
“Okay, buddy. I wish you luck.”
“Thanks,” I said, “and you might call off your dog. I don’t like her bark.”
I turned and started toward the door just as it banged open and Sandra Birks came rushing into the room. Behind her came Alma Hunter, apparently trying to pull her back. And looming behind them, a cigarette in her lips, was the huge form of Bertha Cool.
On the bed, Birks said, “Well, well, well!”
Sandra Birks shouted at him, “You dirty chiseler. So this is the way you’ve been carrying on, is it? This is the little hussy you’ve been squandering your money on. This is the way you treat your marriage vows.”
Birks took the cigarette out of his mouth, yawned and said, “Yes, dearest, this is Sally Durke. I’m sorry you don’t like her. Why didn’t you bring your doctor friend along if you wanted to make the party complete?”
Sandra Birks sputtered indignantly. “You—you—you—”
Birks raised himself to one elbow. I could see the sharp features, the long, slender body, the tapering fingers of his hands. Light glinted from rich black hair which was combed straight back from a high forehead. “Never mind the fireworks, Sandra. You want a divorce, and you don’t want it any worse than I do. Get the hell out of here.”
Sandra Birks said to Bertha Cool, “I just want you to see the kind of husband I have. Look what he’s doing. Carrying on up here with a dirty, faded blonde, wandering around without any clothes on.”
She made a grab at the rose-colored robe. Sally Durke clutched it around her. Sandra pulled it up high enough to show bare legs and thighs. Sally Durke kicked at her face and called her a name.
Bertha Cool scooped an arm around Sandra Birks’ waist and pulled her away from the fighting blonde.
“Thanks,” Morgan Birks said, still sprawled on the bed. “It saves me from popping her one. For God’s sake, Sandra, take a tumble to yourself. You’ve been two-timing me right under my nose.”
“That’s a lie,” she said, struggling against Bertha Cool’s big arm.
Alma Hunter ran to Sandra’s side. “Come, Sandra,” she said, “don’t argue with him. The papers have been served.”
Morgan Birks leaned over the side of the bed, found the cuspidor, dropped the end of his cigarette in it, and said to Sally Durke, “I’m sorry my wife is such a bitch, dearest, but she can’t help it.”
“If you ask me,” Sally Durke said, “she needs a good beating.”
I said to Bertha Cool, “I’ve served the papers. I’m ready to make the affidavit. That’s all I have to bother about,” and walked out into the corridor.
A moment later, Bertha Cool pushed Sandra Birks out ahead of her into the corridor. She was mumbling soothing words. Behind us, the door slammed and the bolt turned. We walked down to 620 and went in. I said, “I didn’t know there was to be a show.”
“I just couldn’t help it. I wanted to confront him with the proof of his infidelity,” Sandra Birks said.
The door from the bathroom opened, and Dr. Holoman came into the room. His sleeves were rolled up, his coat was off, and his shirt was spattered with water and bloodstains.
“What was all the racket about?” he asked. “And did I hear something about a doctor?”
“I’ll say you did,” Bertha Cool said. “And I don’t think Mrs. Birks’ lawyer would care very much about you being here.”
“He had to come on account of Bleatie,” Sandra Birks said. “How is he, Archie?”
“He’s going to be all right,” Dr. Holoman said, “but it’s been touch-and-go. I had the devil of a time stopping that hemorrhage. He got too excited. I’m going to insist that he keep absolutely quiet for at least three days.” He popped back into the bathroom and closed the door.
Sandra Birks said, “He’s a beast. He’s always made those rotten insinuations. I’ve been absolutely true to him. I’ve never so much as looked at another man all the time I’ve been married. He’s even poisoned my own brother’s mind against me.”
I went back in the closet, changed my clothes, and wrapped up the bellboy costume.
She walked over to the door and called out, in a loud voice, “Oh, Bleatie, it’s all right. He’s been served.”
I heard Bleatie’s voice from the other side of the bathroom door saying, “Shud up. He cad hear.” Then from the other room, sounding distant and mumbled, but still taunting, came Morgan Birks’ voice, distinctly audible: “Bleatie, eh? So I have you to thank for this? I should have known it.”
Bleatie sputtered into noise. “You’re crazy, Morgan,” he yelled in his hay-fever voice. “I stuck up for you. I’ve got something in my pocket to give you. Open the door.” There was silence for a minute or two, then the bathroom door burst open, and Bleatie came storming into the room. He was a mess, with red stains all over his shirt and coat. “You fool!” he cried at Sandra, his voice coming thickly past the bandaged nose. “Haven’t you any more sense than to yell at me like that? Didn’t you know he could hear?”
“I’m sorry, Bleatie.”
“Sorry, hell!” he shouted. “You never did anything in your life you were sorry for, unless it was something that inconvenienced you. Now that the papers have been served, you don’t give a damn about me. Well, I’ll make it a point to see that you don’t stick Morgan for a lot of alimony.”
He dashed past us, jerked the door to the corridor open and ran around to room 618. He hammered on the door. Then, when there was no answer, said, pleadingly, “Morgan, let me in. It’s Bleatie. I want to talk with you. I have something to tell you.”
Bertha Cool finished the last of her drink and smiled benignly at the tense group in the room. After a moment, Sandra Birks moved out into the corridor where she could watch Bleatie standing in front of the door, pleading and knocking.
Bertha Cool said calmly, “Come on, Donald. We’re going back to the office.”
I looked over at Alma Hunter, and her glance showed me that she understood.
“I did have a dinner date,” I said. “Something to talk over—”
Bertha Cool interrupted with calm finality. “You’re going to dinner with me, Donald. We have a case to talk over. You’re working for me. If Alma Hunter wants to hire my agency for any more work, I’ll be glad to accept the employment and assign you to the case. This business is finished. Come on.”
I took a card from my pocket, scribbled the telephone number of the boarding house where I was staying, and handed it to Alma Hunter.
“She’s the boss,” I said. “If you need me, you can ring me there.”
Bertha Cool said to Sandra Birks, “This Scotch and soda are part of the expenses. I’ll leave word at the desk that you’ll settle up. Come on, Donald.”
Dr. Holoman ran out into the corridor just ahead of us. He tugged gently at Bleatie’s sleeve and said in a low voice, “You’ll start that hemorrhage again. Come back here.”
Bleatie shook him off, pounded on the door. “Open up, Morgan, you fool,” he said. “I have something that’s going to help you win your case. I’ve been protecting you all the way through.”
Dr. Holoman turned quickly away. Mrs. Cool, marching toward the elevator, almost ran him down.
He grabbed her arm desperately and said, “Look here, you can do something with him. He’ll bring on a hemorrhage. Won’t you try getting him back into the room?”
Mrs. Cool said “No” to him, and then to me, “Come on, Donald,” and led the way down the corridor.
When we were on the sidewalk, I said, “Is this new case something I’m supposed to start on tonight?”
“What case?”
“The one you wanted to discuss at dinner.”
“Oh,” she said, “there isn’t any case, and there won’t be any dinner.”
When she saw the expression on my face, she went on, “I saw you were falling for that Hunter girl. I don’t like it. She’s mixed in a case. We’ve worked on that case. Our job’s finished. Forget her. And, by the way, Donald, you might signal a cab for me. Get it over here by the fireplug where he can pull into the curb, because I’m not built to go out into traffic and climb aboard a cab.”
I walked out to the curb with her and signaled a cruising cab. He took a look at Bertha Cool’s build and didn’t like the idea of trying to load her, away from the curb, any more than she did. He switched on his lights, pulled in next to the fireplug. I assisted her in, and raised my hat.
“But you’re coming, Donald,” she said.
“No, I’ve got other places to go.”
“Where?”
“Back to ask Alma Hunter for a dinner date,” I said.
Her eyes locked with mine. “I’m afraid,” she said, “you don’t take kindly to suggestion, Donald.” And her voice was the voice of an indulgent mother, censoring a child for a minor misdemeanor.
“I don’t,” I said.
She settled back against the cushions. “Pull down that jump seat, Donald,” she said, “so I can put my feet on it, and don’t be so God damn serious about it. Good night.”
I raised my hat a good ten inches from my head as the taxicab whisked her out into traffic. Then I turned back toward the hotel and bumped into a man who was standing just behind me.
“Sorry,” I said.
“What’s the hurry?” he asked.
“Nothing you’d understand,” I said, and tried to push past him. Another man who had been standing a step behind the first one came up to block my progress. “Take it easy, Pint-Size,” he said.
“Say, what is this?” I asked.
“The chief wants to see you,” one of the men said.
“Well, the chief has nothing on me.”
The first man was tall and slender with a hawk nose and hard eyes. The other had big shoulders, slim hips, and a bull neck. His nose looked as though it had been pushed all over his face, and his right ear had a tendency to cauliflower. He had the gift of gab, and evidently liked to hear his own voice.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Our friend is pulling the old crook stall. The chief has nothing on me—how about it, buddy? Want to talk with the chief, or shall we tell the chief that you don’t care about co-operating?”
“Co-operating with what?” I asked.
“Answering questions.”
“About what?”
“About Morgan Birks.”
I glanced from one to the other, unostentatiously shifted my position so that I could look over toward the hotel. At any minute now Sandra Birks and her brother might come out. They’d figure I’d led them into a trap or had sold them out. I grinned up into the hard eyes of the tall man, and said, “Sure I’ll come.”
“That’s better. We thought you would,” the bruiser said, and looked anxiously down the street. A big sedan slid out of the stream of traffic, and the men pushed me across to it, one at each arm. They opened the door and popped me in, climbed in beside me, and the tall man said to the driver, “Okay, John. Let’s go.”
We went, but it wasn’t until the car reached the residential section that I began to be suspicious.
“Say, what’s the big idea?” I asked.
Fred said, “Now listen, Pint-Size, we’re going to have to put a bandage over your eyes so you don’t see so much it wouldn’t be healthy. Now, if you’ll just—”
I swung at him. He took my blow on the chin without appearing to have noticed it. His hand whipped out a folded bandage, put it down over my eyes. I fought and tried to shout. Fingers closed over my hands, handcuffs snapped around my wrists. The car began a lurching series of turns, designed to make me lose all sense of direction.
After a while I felt the slow jolt as it ran up into a private driveway. I heard a garage door open and close. The bandage was taken off. I was in a garage. The outer door closed, and a side door opened onto a flight of stairs. We climbed the stairs to a hallway, past a kitchen, through a dining room, and into a living room.
I kept up the pretense.
“What is this?” I asked. “I thought you were going to take me to the station.”
“What station?”
“To see the chief.”
“You’re going to see the chief.”
“But he isn’t here?”
“Oh yes. He lives here.”
“You’re cops?” I asked.
The men looked at me with exaggerated surprise. “Cops?” they said. “Why, buddy, whatever gave you that idea? We never said we were cops. We simply said the chief wanted to see you. That’s a nickname we have for the big shot, you know.”
I figured there was no use in playing a part any more. I kept silent.
“Have a chair,” the thickset man said. “The chief will be in right away. He’ll ask you a few questions, then we’ll drive you back up town, and everything will be all hunky-dory.”
I sat down in the chair and waited. I heard quick, nervous steps in the corridor, and a fat individual, with blubbery lips and cheeks, who had perspiration smeared all over his forehead, came walking into the room with the quick, light step of a professional dancer. He was short, and he was pretty fat, but he stood straight as a ramrod, pushing his belly out in front of him; and his little short legs took quick, rapid-fire strides.
“The chief,” the tall man said.
The chief smiled and nodded, his bald head bobbing on his fat neck like a cork bobbing on water. “Who is he, Fred?” he asked.
The man with the battered nose said, “He’s with a gal by the name of Cool who runs a detective agency. They were employed to serve summons on Morgan Birks in the divorce action. He was hanging around the Perkins Hotel.”
“Oh yes. Oh, yes,” the chief said, rapidly, bobbing his head and smiling affably. “Yes, indeed. Pardon me for not recognizing you. And what’s your name?”
“Lam,” I said. “Donald Lam.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Lam. I’m certainly glad to meet you, and it was very nice of you to come out, very nice indeed. Now tell me, Mr. Lam, you’re working for—what was the name, Fred?”
“Bertha Cool—the Cool Detective Agency.”
“Oh yes. You’re working for the Cool Detective Agency.”
I nodded.
“How long have you been with them?”
“Not very long.”
“Find it congenial employment?” he asked.
“So far.”
“Yes, yes. I dare say it’s a nice opening for a young man, plenty of opportunities to use intelligence, ingenuity, and quick wit. I would say there was quite an opportunity to work up. I think you’ve displayed very commendable judgment, very commendable judgment, indeed, in getting into work of that kind. You look alert and intelligent.”
“Thank you,” I said.
His head bobbed up and down, the fat on his neck wash-boarding into wrinkles, and the coarse hair on the back of his neck bristled and wriggled like the hairs on a flexible brush.
“Now when did you see Morgan Birks last?” he bubbled.
“I make my reports to Mrs. Cool,” I said.
“Yes, yes, of course. How careless of me.”
A door opened, and a big woman came in. She wasn’t fat, just big; broad-shouldered, big-hipped, and tall. She was dressed in a gown which showed the gleaming skin across her broad shoulders, the sweep of her heavy neck, the well-muscled arms.
“Well, well, well,” the fat man said. “Here’s the little woman! So glad you could drop in on us, Madge. I was just asking Mr. Lam about Morgan Birks. Pet, this is Donald Lam. He’s a detective, working with the—what was that name, Fred?”
“The Cool Detective Agency.”
“Oh yes. Working with the Cool Detective Agency,” the fat man said. “And what’s the name of the woman that runs it, Fred?”
“Bertha Cool.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. Bertha Cool. Sit down, m’love, and see what you make of it. Mr. Lam, this is my wife.”
I knew I was in a jam. Sometimes a man doesn’t lose anything by being polite, no matter how the cards are stacked. I got to my feet, and bowed from the waist. “I am very pleased to meet you,” I said, and tried to make my voice sound as though I meant it.
She didn’t say a word.
“Sit down, Lam. Sit down,” the fat man said. “You’ve doubtless had a hard day. You detectives have quite a bit of running around to do. Now, let’s see, Lam. Where were we—oh yes, you’d been given papers to serve on Morgan Birks, hadn’t you?”
“I think you’d better get in touch with Mrs. Cool if you want to find out about these things.”
“Cool—Cool? Oh yes, the woman who runs the detective agency. Well, that’s a splendid idea, Lam, but you see, we’re a bit pressed for time, and we don’t know just where the lady is. But you’re here, and doubtless you have the information.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Well, now,” the fat man said. “I hope you’re not going to be obstinate, Mr. Lam. I certainly do hope you’re not going to be obstinate.”
I remained silent. The man with the battered face moved a step closer.
“Now just a minute, Fred,” the chief said. “Don’t get impulsive. Let’s let Mr. Lam tell this in his own way. Don’t bother to interrupt him. Don’t try to hurry him. Now let’s just begin at the beginning, Mr. Lam.”
I said courteously, “Would you mind telling me just what you want to know, and why you want to know it?”
“Now that’s the spirit,” the chief said, beaming all over his face, his little protruding gray eyes looking for all the world as though they’d been crowded out by the layers of fat which had been deposited on his cheeks. “That’s exactly the spirit! We’ll tell you anything you want to know, and you tell us what we want to know. You see, Mr. Lam, we’re business men. We’ve been associated with Morgan Birks, and Morgan Birks has certain—well, you might call them liabilities—certain obligations to us. We don’t want him to forget those obligations. We’re anxious to see that he’s reminded of them. Now you’re employed to serve papers, and we wouldn’t interfere with that for anything on earth, would we, Fred? Would we, John? That’s right. The boys agree with me. We wouldn’t interfere with your work at all, Mr. Lam; but after your work is finished, we want to know where Mr. Birks is.”
“Well,” I said, “I see no reason why I can’t help you—if Mrs. Cool says it’s all right. Of course, she’s my boss, and I wouldn’t want to do anything without her.”
The tall man said, “You’d better let Fred soften him up a bit, Chief. From all we can figure, things are getting hot. It looks as though he’d expected Morgan Birks at the Perkins Hotel. The whole gang moved in there. Sandra Birks, her brother who came out from the East—and had his nose broken in an automobile accident, a bird who said at the desk his name was Holoman, who doesn’t figure in the picture anywhere that we can see, Alma Hunter, Bertha Cool, and this guy. He took Bertha Cool out of the hotel and put her in a taxicab. He was turning around to go back to the hotel when we picked him up.”
The chief said, “You’d better tell us, Mr. Lam, because it’s really important to us, and sometimes my boys get impulsive. No one deplores it more than I do, but you know how boys are. They just will be boys!”
“I think Mrs. Cool would gladly co-operate with you,” I said, “if you’d get in touch with her. And I think she has information that would be valuable to you. You understand, she’s in the business of getting information and selling it to clients.”
“That’s right, so she is,” the fat man said. “Well now, that’s a thought! It is, for a fact! I’ll have to take that up with the little woman. What do you think of it, m’love?”
The big woman didn’t change expression by the twitching of a muscle. Her hard, cold eyes looked at me as though I’d been a specimen under a microscope. “Soften him up,” she said.
The big man nodded.
Fred shot out his arm with the speed of a striking snake. His fingers hooked around the knot in my necktie, twisted it until it started choking me. He pulled on the necktie, and I came up out of the chair as though I hadn’t weighed fifty pounds. “Stand up,” he said. His right hand swung up from his hips so that the heel of his palm pushed the tip of my nose back into my face and sent tears squirting out of my eyes. “Sit down,” he said.
Under the impact of that hand, I went down like a sack of meal. “Stand up,” he said, and his hand on my necktie brought me up.
I tried to get my hands up to block the heel of his hand as it came for my sore nose. He speeded up the punch just a little, and beat me to it. “Sit down,” he said.
I felt that the whole front of my face was coming off.
“Stand up.”
“Sit down.”
“Stand up.”
“Sit down.”
“Stand up.”
“Sit down.”
“Talk.”
He stepped back a pace and let go of me.
“Talk,” he repeated, “and don’t take too long about it.” His face was expressionless. His voice held a note of impersonal boredom as though he’d been softening people until it had become a routine chore, and he felt aggrieved about being called upon to perform it after five o’clock.
“That’s right,” the fat man said, nodding and smiling affably. “You see, Fred’s right, Mr. Lam. When he says stand up, you stand up. When he says sit down, you sit down. Now then, when he says talk, you talk.”
I groped for my handkerchief. There was blood trickling from my nose down the front of my face.
“Now, never mind that,” the fat man said. “That’s just a little surface leakage. As soon as you’ve told us what we want to know, you can go in the bathroom and get fixed up. Fred will help you. Now, when did you see Morgan Birks last?”
Unostentatiously, I swung around in the chair so that my leg was braced against it. “You,” I said, “can go to hell.”
The fat man held Fred back with a gesture of his upthrust palm. “Just a moment, Fred,” he said, “don’t get impulsive. The young man has spirit. Let’s see what the little woman has to say. What do you think, m’love? Should we—”
“Go ahead,” she said to Fred.
Fred reached for my necktie.
I came up out of the chair with everything I had and swung straight for his stomach. I pivoted from my hips so that my body muscles were behind the blow, my right fist traveling in a straight line with the force of a piston.
Something happened to my right arm. It went numb. A pile driver cracked me on the point of the jaw. I felt myself being lifted from my feet and sailing through the air. There were blinding flashes of light in front of my eyes and a feeling of black nausea in my stomach. I tried to get my eyes in focus, and saw a fist coming. Before I could do anything about it, the fist exploded into my face. From what seemed to be a far distance, I heard the woman’s voice saying, “More in the ribs, Fred.” And then something caved in the pit of my stomach. I doubled up like a jackknife and knew somehow that the thing which had banged against the side of my head and stayed there, was the floor.
I heard the fat man’s voice sounding weak and fuzzy, like a blurred radio station. “Now take it easy, Fred. Don’t overdo it. After all, you know, we want him to talk.”
The tall man stood over me. He said, “Nuts on this guy. We’re wasting valuable time. He’s got the papers, and it’s all arranged for him to serve them.”
“Where’s he got them?” the woman asked.
“In his inside coat pocket.”
“Take a look,” she said.
Fred reached over and poked his fingers in the collar of my shirt. He lifted me up so hard that my neck, which was like a dish rag, came back with a snap, and my head almost jerked off. I felt hands going through my pocket, first the inside pocket of my coat, then all of my coat.
Bill’s voice made the report. “He’s got the original summons. He hasn’t any copies.”
The woman said, “You damn fools. He’s served them.”
“He couldn’t have served them,” Fred said.
“What makes you think he couldn’t?”
“I know he had them when he went to the Perkins Hotel. He was there about five minutes when Alma Hunter came in and joined him. They registered as man and wife. Then Sandra Birks and her brother showed up. Then he went out. He pulled the papers out of his pocket when he hit the sidewalk, to make sure they were all okay and ready for service, and pushed them back again into his inside coat pocket. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram. We don’t know who it was to. The telegraph girls wouldn’t kick through with any information. Money didn’t interest them. We kept trying until they threatened to call the cops. I tagged him from there to a costumer’s. He got a bellboy costume and went to the hotel. He was there about twenty minutes and then came out with Mrs. Cool.”
“When did Mrs. Cool go to the hotel?” the chief asked.
“We didn’t cover that. Jerry was on the job at the hotel. I think he said she came about twenty minutes before this guy went back with the costume.”
I lay there on the floor, seemingly drifting on a sea of black pain with waves of nausea sweeping over me. I wanted to retch and couldn’t. My sides hurt when I tried to breathe. I knew that the warm stuff trickling down my face and onto the collar of my shirt was blood, but I was too weak to do anything about it.
The woman said, “Get Jerry on the phone. Tell him to go through that hotel with a fine tooth comb. Morgan Birks is in there.”
“Morgan Birks can’t be in there,” Fred kept insisting. “We had the tip on that hotel. Jerry’s been on it ever since last week, and we know Birks hasn’t been there—not yet. That hotel’s the place where Morgan was to meet his cutie.”
“Did you tail this guy, or pick him up at the hotel?” the woman asked.
“Picked him up at the hotel.”
“And the hotel’s sewed up?”
“Tighter than a drum.”
“He served those papers in the hotel.”
Someone reached down and picked me up. The end of my sore nose was clamped between the knuckles of two fingers. When the hand jerked, it felt as though my nose had come out by the roots. Fred’s voice, still sounding bored, said, “Talk.”
“Lay off his face, Fred,” the woman said.
A kick at the base of my spine jarred me clean up to the top of my head. “Come on,” Fred said, “give us the low-down. You served those papers.”
I heard the ringing of a telephone bell. They all became silent. I heard pounding steps moving across the floor toward the bell. Then it ceased ringing, and the tall man’s voice said, “Hello. Hello. . . . Who is it? Jerry? . . . Yes, Jerry. . . . Now listen, Jerry, we think he’s there in the hotel. . . . I tell you he had them. . . . Of course, it’s under an assumed name, and he’s probably lying low. . . . Well, get through the room. Cover the dump. I tell you he’s there. He has to be.”
He hung up the telephone, and said, “About two minutes after we left, Sandra Birks, her brother, and Alma Hunter came out together. This other bird who doesn’t enter the picture, came out. Jerry says he heard someone call him doctor. He thinks the brother had a hemorrhage, and the doctor was called in a rush to stop it. That’s the best the boys could pick up.”
I was coming back to consciousness again. The woman said, “Well, you can see what’s happened. He’s served those papers. He’s delivered the copies, and is keeping the original on which to make his affidavit of service.”
The big man said, “You wouldn’t want to make a little easy money, would you, Mr. Lam?”
I didn’t say anything. It was easier not to answer questions.
“If you wanted to pick up a little spot of cash, say five hundred dollars, or perhaps even six hundred dollars, I think it could be arranged. You could fix it so we could get Mr. Birks up here at the house. Perhaps you could arrange things—”
“Shut up,” the woman interrupted in a level voice. “There’s no dice with him. Don’t be a damn fool.”
The fat man said, “Well, you heard what the little lady said. I guess she’s right at that. Feeling pretty bad, are you, Lam?”
I was feeling bad enough. As I got better, I got worse. That first pile-driving smash had knocked me half unconscious. Now, as the numbing effects of it commenced to wear off, I began to feel pain from the other beating.
The telephone rang again. “Answer it, Fred,” the chief said.
Fred said, “Hello—yes—” and then was silent for almost two minutes. He said, “That’s clever as hell,” and was silent for another minute. Then he said, “Hold the phone,” and came back into the living room. “News,” he said. “Let’s go where I can tell you.”
The chief said, “You watch him, John.”
I heard an exodus of steps and lay quiet, thinking how much my side hurt. After a while I heard Fred’s voice on the telephone again. “All right. It clicks. I’ll get on the job myself. G’by.”
They came back into the room.
“Take him in the bathroom, Fred,” the chief said, “and clean him up.”
Fred picked me up as though I’d been a baby and carried me into the bathroom. He said, “Tough lines, Pint-Size, but it isn’t as bad as though your nose had been broken. It’ll be sore for a while, that’s all. Here, let’s get some cold water on it.”
He set me on the toilet seat, let cold water run into the wash bowl, took my coat off, and started splashing cold wet towels on my forehead. My mind began to function more clearly. It got so I could focus my eyes.
He said, “That necktie’s a mess. I guess we can find one of the chief’s. Now how about that shirt? We can’t use it. We’ll have to do something about that. We can get the blood off the coat all right. Just a little cold water will fix that. Now, sit right still, and don’t try to move around.”
He got my shirt off, stripped me down to the waist, and sponged me with cold water.
I began to feel better.
The woman came into the bathroom, and said, “I think this shirt will fit him.”
“We want a necktie,” Fred said.
“I’ll get one.”
“And a bottle of alcohol and some smelling salts,” Fred said. “We’ll have him right as a rivet in five minutes.”
The woman came back with smelling salts, alcohol, towels, a shirt, and tie.
Fred worked over me like a second ministering to a fighter between rounds. While he worked, he talked. “One good thing,” he said, “you aren’t bruised up any. That nose is going to be red for a while. It’s going to be sore. Don’t touch it. Don’t try to blow it. Now then, a little alcohol on the back of the neck. There, that’s fine. Let’s slap a little over your chest—oh, that chest is sore, is it?—too bad. Nothing cracked, though, just a little wallop—you shouldn’t have tried to hit me, Lam. Let me tell you something about hitting. When you’re going to throw a right at a man, don’t hook it around. And don’t draw back your hand before you start a punch. I’m sorry you’re so tender now, because you wouldn’t take any interest in a lesson. But I could show you how to start a punch and the path a fist should travel, and in ten minutes it would make you about eighty per cent better when it comes to a fight. You’ve got what it takes. You’ve got guts, but you’re too light to stand up against a punch. You’d have to learn to get away from ’em, and that takes foot work. Now then, let’s put a little more alcohol on there—that’s fine. The bleeding’s stopped. That cold water’s great stuff. Your hair will be wet for a while, but that won’t hurt anything. Now then, on with the shirt—that’s it. Now let’s try the tie—rather a loud pattern to go with that suit, but it doesn’t look bad at that.”
The woman said, “Give him a shot of whisky, Fred.”
“Brandy’s better,” Fred said. “Brandy will pick him right up. Get some of that seventy-five-year-old stuff, a big snifter of it. Don’t be afraid of giving him too much. He’s been knocked around a bit and it will take something to get him back to normal. He’s a little bit light to take heavy punches like that. That one I hung on his jaw was pretty good. How is it, buddy? No teeth gone—that’s fine. The jaw’s sore, of course. It will be for a while.”
Madge came back with a big snifter of brandy. Fred said, “This is the chief’s favorite. He likes to dawdle around sipping it after meals, but you take it and gulp it right down. He says this is sacrilege, but you need it. Here we go, buddy.”
I drank the brandy. It was smooth as sirup. It traced a hot streak down into my stomach, and then began radiating little branches of warmth which tingled along the nerves.
Fred said, “All right, up we go. Now we’ll get that coat on, and into the car. Any particular place you want to be taken, buddy?”
I was weak and groggy. I gave him the address of my rooming house.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“My rooming house.”
“That’s fine. We’ll take you there.”
I saw him exchange glances with the woman. Fred helped me up, and I walked out into the other room. The chief came walking toward me, his face wreathed in blubbery smiles. “Well, well,” he said. “You certainly look a thousand per cent better, and that’s a mighty becoming tie! Yes, sir! It certainly is. My wife gave me that tie for Christmas last year.”
He threw back his head, and laughter bubbled forth. He quit laughing and grabbed my hand in his. He pumped it up and down and said, “Lam, you were splendid! You’ve got plenty of nerve my boy plenty of nerve. You’ve got what it takes. I wish I had a few men like you. You don’t feel like telling us anything?”
“No,” I said.
“I can’t blame you, my boy. I can’t blame you a bit.”
He kept pumping my arm. “Take him wherever he wants to go, Fred,” he said, “and be careful with him. Don’t drive too fast. Remember he’s sore. All right, Lam, my boy, perhaps I’ll see you later. Who can tell? No hard feelings, Lam. Tell me there’s no hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings,” I said. “You beat me up, and God damn you, if I ever get a chance to get even I’ll pour it to you.”
For a minute his eyes hardened. Then he bubbled into effusive laughter. “That’s the spirit, my boy, the old fighting spirit! Head bloody but unbowed, and all that sort of stuff. Too bad he hasn’t a little more beef, Fred. He’d have given you a tussle for a fact. He came up out of that chair as though he’d been shot from a gun.”
“Aw, he was awkward, and he couldn’t swat a fly hard enough to hurt it,” Fred said, “but he has guts, that boy.”
“Well, take him up town. Just be certain that he doesn’t try to locate the house so he can find his way back to it. You know, Lam, it’s been a nice visit, and we don’t want to seem inhospitable, but if you come back here again we’d much rather you came with us than with someone else.”
And he roared with laughter at his own joke.
Fred said, “Come on, buddy. Put this handkerchief over your eyes, and away we go.”
He blindfolded me, and he on one side, the chief on the other, led me back through the hallway, down the stairs, and into the car. A garage door went up and I shot out into the night. The fresh air felt good on my face. After we’d been riding about five minutes, Bill took off the blindfold and said, “Just settle right back against the cushions, Lam. I’ll drive slow.”
He was a skillful driver, and he threaded the car through traffic until he came to my rooming house. I saw him looking it over. He parked the car, opened the door, and helped me up the steps. Mrs. Smith opened the door, and looked at me. Her look was eloquent. A roomer who hadn’t been able to pay rent for five weeks being brought home drunk.
Fred said, “Now don’t look like that, madam. The boy’s all right. He’s been shaken up in an automobile accident, that’s all. He’ll want to go up to his room and lie down.”
She came closer and sniffed my breath. “That certainly was an automobile accident,” she said. “He must have run into a truckload of whisky.”
“Brandy, ma’am,” Fred said. “The very choicest seventy-five-year-old brandy. That was a shot of the chief’s private stock given to him to brace him up.”
“I got a job today,” I told her.
I saw her eyes lighten. “How about the rent?” she asked.
“Next week,” I said, “when I get paid.”
She sniffed and said, “A job. I suppose you’re celebrating.”
I fumbled around in my pocket and produced the certificate of appointment as a private investigator which Bertha Cool had given me. She looked it over, said, “A private detective, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t think much of you as a detective.”
Fred said, “Now don’t be too sure, ma’am. He’s got nerve, that boy has. He’ll make a success in anything. He has plenty of what it takes. Well, good night, Lam. I’ll be seeing you again one of these days.”
He turned and went down the stairs. I said to Mrs. Smith, “Quick, get the license number on that automobile,” and as she hesitated, added, “He owes me some money. I can pay the room rent if I get it.”
With that incentive she walked out to stand on the porch. Fred went away from there with a rush. She came back and said, “I’m not certain. The number was either 5N1525 or 5M1525.”
I fumbled around until I found a pencil, wrote both numbers down on a piece of paper, and hobbled up the three flights of stairs. She stood looking after me and said, “Don’t forget it, Mr. Lam, I can use that room-rent just as soon as you get it.”
“I won’t,” I told her. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”