The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.
—Raymond Chandler, Farewell, My Lovely
IN TOTAL DARKNESS, I heard Jack’s voice. It seemed to come from far away.
“Ready for that cuppa joe I promised you?”
“Coffee?” I moaned. “You’ll have to drag me out of bed first.”
“You’re sleeping back there, doll, but you’re awake with me. Just open your eyes.”
I did, and along with my vision, all my other senses returned—with a vengeance. We stood on the sidewalk of Manhattan’s Eighth Avenue in the middle of a bright October afternoon. Boxy cars and trucks in hues from black and green to muddy brown crowded the busy street. I could smell the diesel exhaust from a Greyhound bus, hear the traffic noise, and feel Jack Shepard’s strong, reassuring arm wrapped around my waist.
“The diner’s right down the block.” Jack pointed. “The Pluto isn’t much to look at, but the java’s good and hot.” Releasing me, he took a few gigantic strides that left me in the dust.
“Slow down, Detective, I can hardly walk in these shoes!”
“They’re ankle-strap wedges. Veronica Lake strolls around in them all the time.”
“I’m not a Hollywood star!”
“Maybe not. But you got the gams of Betty Grable.”
I shot Jack a look. He appeared amused as he watched me negotiate the sidewalk in my narrow pencil skirt. Finally, I caught up.
“So, doll, you remember the case we’re working on back here?”
“Of course. It’s about that beautiful blue-eyed blonde, Ruby Tyler.”
“Give me the facts.”
“Let’s see . . . Ruby came to New York from a West Virginia mining town and wound up working as a glamorous hostess at the Albatross nightclub. A talented young artist named Nathan Brock was arrested for her murder. But Nathan’s fiancée, Shirley, didn’t believe it. Desperate and pregnant, she hired us to find Ruby’s real killer.”
As I recited the facts of Ruby’s case, her haunting image came back to me, the one that Nathan Brock had painted for that stunning pulp cover. I could still see his skillful brushstrokes sensuously defining Ruby’s naked curves, her sassy blond bob and apple red lips. I also remembered what was lurking behind Ruby in those saffron yellow curtains. I’d never forget that big, rough-looking man with pockmarked cheeks, raising his deadly dagger.
I was shivering with the memory when Jack announced—
“We’re here. This is the joint.”
The Pluto was a pretty typical boxcar-shaped hash house. It had stainless steel siding, a tacky neon sign, a row of wooden booths against the windows, and a line of cushioned stools along a well-worn counter. At this hour, the lunch crowd was gone and the place was pretty quiet. I figured Jack timed it that way.
“Is this the same diner Shirley Powell told us about?”
“Right on the money, Penny. Miss Powell followed her fiancé here. This is where she saw him meet up with Ruby. Now, let’s go . . .”
As Jack pulled open the glass door, a tidy middle-aged woman frying bacon on the grill noticed us and shouted over her shoulder.
“Kosmo! We have customers.”
Tidy was not a word I’d use to describe the hulking man in a dingy food-stained apron who came up behind her, carrying a sack of potatoes. His dark hair was greasy, his nose hawklike, and his expression grim as a gangster’s as he sucked on the cigarette dangling from his lips. When I saw that build and the pockmarks on those rough cheeks, I knew.
“Jack, that’s him!” I fanatically whispered. “That’s the man with the knife from Nathan Brock’s painting!”
“Yeah.” Jack calmly nodded. “He’s the guy in the painting, and that’s a fact.”
“Why are you so serene? Isn’t he the one we’re looking for? Didn’t he kill Ruby?”
“Kosmo, a killer?” The detective laughed. “That man is so gentle he doesn’t even own a fly swatter.”
“Gentle or not, he gave me a fright.”
“The only thing to fear in this joint is the grub. Like I warned you, doll, don’t judge a book. And call me ‘Mr. Shepard’ from now on. You’re supposed to be my secretary, remember?”
“Secretary again? Can’t you introduce me as your trainee? Or better yet associate?”
“I use words like that in here, they’ll think you’re my mistress.”
“Fine. Secretary it is, Mr. Shepard.” With a sarcastic salute of my white-gloved hand, I knocked my pillbox hat off. Jack caught the silly thing before it hit the floor and set it back on my head. Then he led me to the counter.
“Penny, meet Kosmo Spanos. He’s the owner of this establishment.”
“What’ll it be, gumshoe?” Mr. Spanos asked in a voice reminiscent of Popeye the Sailor.
“Two cups of joe.”
Jack gestured to a stool and we both sat down. When Kosmo served us, Jack slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter. “I’m here for more than coffee, Kosmo. My secretary and I need some information. What do you know about Nathan Brock?”
He stared at the crinkled bill. “The skinny kid artist? What do ya want to know?”
At Jack’s prodding—literally an elbow to the ribs followed by a wink—I took over the conversation.
“Mr. Spanos, we were told Brock was here last week to meet a woman. Is that true?”
“Easy to meet women. Lots of dames come here. Most of them just got off the bus with stars in their eyes. And there’s a whole booth full of the more seasoned variety in the back.” He gave me the once-over. “You’re a looker enough to join them. A little old, but you’re okay.”
“Gee, thanks.” I followed Kosmo’s gaze to the back booth.
Three bored women in their twenties lingered over coffee. One chewed gum while filing her nails. Another read the paper. A third was poring over pages of a play or script. Their shabby-chic outfits showed off their figures, and they all seemed to be waiting for something.
Jack nudged me again.
“Mr. Spanos, do you know the name of Nathan Brock’s latest acquaintance?”
“Do I look like a stool pigeon, lady?”
“No, you look like a concerned citizen who’s helping in the investigation of a young woman’s murder.”
Kosmo Spanos shifted his gaze to Jack, then back to me. Finally, he snatched the fiver and stuffed it into his apron pocket.
“You must be talking about Ruby Tyler. Sweet kid. She worked for me once upon a time. Visits now and then, too. But I didn’t know she’d been clipped. Really sorry to hear it.”
“It didn’t make the papers,” Jack explained.
“Ruby was a decent waitress and easy on the eyes. Her charms kept the cabbies and bus drivers coming back, that’s for sure.”
I leaned close to Mr. Spanos. He smelled of raw onions.
“Was Nathan Brock with Ruby the last time you saw him?”
“Yeah, she met Mr. Artist here. It was before the lunch crowd showed. Maybe eleven. They had coffee and sinkers and left together. I haven’t laid eyes on Ruby since. Was he the guy who did her in?”
Jack spoke up. “Any chance you know where they went that day?”
“I heard mention of the Forrestal on Park Avenue.” He leaned close and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I gotta say it wasn’t the first time I heard that place mentioned, either.”
“What do you think they did there?” I asked.
“How should I know? My cousin used to work at a sewing shop in the basement. A bunch of gals do costumes for Broadway. But I doubt Ruby and Brock were there for a fitting, if you know what I mean.”
“What else can you tell us about Brock?” Jack asked.
Kosmo shrugged. “Not much. Just that Mr. Artist was a fixture around here for months before he met Ruby. He’d eat a sandwich, order coffee or a milk shake, and sit around, lurking.”
“Did he do anything else,” Jack said, “besides lurk?”
“Take pictures.”
“With what?” I blurted.
“A camera, what else?” Kosmo looked at me like I was a dim bulb.
I glanced apologetically at Jack, who covered his eyes and shook his head. Sorry, Jack, I forgot. This was 1947, a little too early for iPhones, drones, and GoPros. At least my question kept Kosmo talking—
“Brock has one of them fancy cameras, like reporters use. He snaps pictures of all sorts of customers.”
“What sort?” Jack asked.
Kosmo shrugged. “Rubes just off the bus, cabbies, steamfitters from the dock, creeps and panty sniffers from who knows where—usually New Jersey.” Kosmo chuckled. “Brock even took pictures of me once. But mostly he photographs dames. Young ones. And those gals who only come out at night.”
Jack jumped in again to steer the conversation. “You said you heard the Forrestal mentioned before? When was that?”
“The first time was a few months ago, the day Nathan Brock came in with a woman old enough to be his mother.”
“Is that right?” Jack rubbed the scar on his chin. “Can you describe her?”
“Maybe fifty. Long gray hair swept up like a schoolteacher, even had a pencil behind her ear. Classy manners, but her duds weren’t posh like the ladies with leather luggage. She was dressed regular, like your secretary here.” He gestured to my plain cotton blouse. “The two of them sat at my counter and watched the crowd. I was busy, but I overheard the dame make a crack about how great it would be to get some of them dolls in my diner up to the Forrestal.”
“Why?”
“Search me, gumshoe. But it started happenin’. That same gray-haired dame showed up plenty o’ times since. She chats up some young doll or even a gaggle of them. Then they all hop a cab and off they go.”
“Go where?” I demanded.
“Ain’t you listenin’, honey? The Forrestal apartment building on Park Avenue.”
Kosmo’s testimony sent my thoughts into a tailspin. What began as a cut-and-dried case of a man two-timing his pregnant fiancée, and being falsely accused of killing his mistress, started to look like something else entirely. What, I didn’t know. A secret bordello? From the grim look on Jack’s face, he seemed to think so.
“One more thing,” Jack said. “Do you have Ruby’s address? There’s another five-spot in it.”
Kosmo nodded and went back to the kitchen. While he was gone, I leaned toward Jack and whispered—
“Why did you ask for Ruby Tyler’s address? Wasn’t it in that envelope Shirley Powell gave you?”
He shook his head. “When Miss Powell followed Ruby and her fiancé to the Forrestal, she mistakenly assumed Ruby lived—and died—in that building. But I knew Ruby could never have afforded an apartment on Park Avenue. Kosmo doesn’t remember, but I knew Ruby from her days working here at the Pluto. She used to serve me. That’s how we met. I was the one who helped get her a spot at the Albatross, after putting in a good word with Hugo.”
“Then why didn’t you go to Hugo for Ruby’s address?”
“Because I didn’t want him knowing I was on the case. Loose lips sink ships—and I didn’t want Hugo tipping anybody off before I got some background legwork in.”
Before Jack could say more, Kosmo returned with a piece of paper.
“That address is almost two years old. Don’t come crying to me for your money back if this isn’t Ruby’s place no more.”
Jack slid the fiver across the counter, and we hit the street. But we didn’t go far. At the end of the block, I stopped him.
“Where are we going now, Detective?”
Jack folded his arms. “You’re the trainee. You tell me.”
“Well . . . we could stake out the Pluto and wait for that older woman to return.”
“That would take time and too much of it. Think smarter. What do we want to know more about?”
“The Forrestal. Whatever was going on between Nathan Brock and Ruby Tyler happened in that building. It also sounds like illegal activity might be going on with all those pretty young girls. I think we should check it out . . . Is that what you did?”
Jack nodded. “That’s what I did—and that’s what we’re going to do.”
“But if it’s a posh building on Park Avenue, there’s sure to be a doorman. How do we get in?”
“I’ll show you. But first close your eyes.”
“What?”
“You heard me. We need a change of costume and location.”
“If you say so,” I told him, and down my eyelids went.