“Yeah, that was Jerry’s girl. I never knew her name,” said a customer who’d come up to pay for a bar of Lifebuoy soap as I was showing the owner of a neighborhood grocery store Polly’s picture.
The store was a block from where the dead girl had lived. It stuck to the basics: Bread, butter, eggs. And milk. If Polly had gotten milk for her little girl, I’d figured she’d most likely come here.
“When was the last time you saw Jerry?” I asked.
The man, a big fellow in a flannel shirt and overalls, rubbed a stubble of beard as he squinted in thought.
“Two weeks ago last Friday. Payday. I was headed to a joint I like for a beer before I went into work. I’m on night shift. Place I go to, the back of it’s so close to the tracks you could practically spit on the trains. I was cutting though that way, and there was him and the girl with their arms wrapped around each other. I started to call to them – you know, kid. Then I saw they was both crying like their hearts would break.”
“Any idea why?”
It was the first real information I’d unearthed since leaving Bess’ place.
“Not right then. Jerry was trying to give her some money, but she said no, he’d need it to get by. He shoved it in her pocket and said he wanted her to have it in case the baby got sick. Then a freight came rolling toward us and I couldn’t hear any more. He kissed her real hard and turned and ran and grabbed for a boxcar. I tell you, I held my breath for a second, but then I saw him haul himself in.”
The grocery store owner was so caught up in the tale that his lips were parted.
“And you’re sure that was two weeks ago?”
The customer laid his bar of soap on the counter along with some money. He rubbed his stubble again.
“Wasn’t this last Friday, and the one before that, my wife’s family was all packed in our place celebrating her sister’s birthday. So yeah, two weeks.”
* * *
I made the rounds of three beer joints. What I picked up there confirmed the story of the customer with the soap. Jerry hadn’t been seen in two weeks or more. He’d been heading west to find work.
Polly’s boyfriend wasn’t the one who’d killed her.
I went to my office to think about who had.
Whoever it was, it now seemed all but certain that Polly had died because she’d seen something. Something to do with the hotel safe. When I’d tossed my hat on the rack, I took out the list of hotel employees I’d left there on Saturday.
I’d already eliminated the recently fired bartender, the only employee with grudge enough against the Tuckers to try and steal from them. He’d been laid up with food poisoning. True, he could have hired someone to break into the safe, but getting in would require expertise. In addition to skill, a safecracker would need knowledge of the hotel’s layout and schedules. The idea of a partner was too farfetched to entice me.
That left the second most likely candidate, Len Welles, his breezy replacement. A paperclip held Len’s application to a couple of reference letters.
Birch Lodge was the name he’d listed as his last employer. A note in the margin said ‘went out of business.’ That matched what he’d said when he’d flirted with me in the bar. It was also a dandy way to prevent anyone from checking. Still, at least I could check to see if the place had existed.
It was somewhere in Michigan. I dialed the operator and gave her the name of the town and asked for the number. There was some back and forth between her and another operator about what exchange it was on, but eventually they came up with one. When I called, however, the number rang and rang.
While waiting for inspiration to strike, I noticed my manicure had begun to look shopworn. I got out a bottle of polish remover and took off the color. I walked upstairs to the Ladies and washed my hands. Then I did some filing. The kind with an emery board. Then I gave my nails two coats of polish. By the time I’d finished, I’d also had an idea.
Fitting the unsharpened pencil I kept for such purposes into the bottom hole of the telephone dial, I swept the dial around in a circle.
“Op-uh-ray-tuh.”
I asked for the post office in the burg where Birch Lodge was located. Another minute or two and it was ringing.
“Post Office,” answered a cheerful woman. At any rate she sounded jolly.
“I’m calling from Ohio,” I said. “Are you the postmistress?”
She laughed merrily.
“No, dear, that’s my husband. He came in early and took off early to get in an hour of fishing. Could I help you?”
“Sure,” I said. “At least I hope so. Birch Lodge. When did it go out of business?”
“Dear me. It would be four or five months ago now. Right at the start of the season. The owners were sure they could turn things around, what with times getting better. But the bank had extended their loan too many times already, I guess. Were you needing to reach someone there?”
“No, no. A man who’s applied for a job said he used to work there. My boss asked me to check.”
“It wouldn’t be that nice young Len, would it? Len Welles?”
“Why, yes it would.”
“Lovely young fellow. And now that I think, he was from Ohio, wasn’t he? I’m sure he left a forwarding address if you’d like me to look—”
“No, that’s fine.” Every minute of chat was adding to my telephone bill. “You’ve been very helpful. I hope your husband, uh, catches big fish.”
She laughed as if I’d said something funny.
Maybe I had.
Three hours and numerous phone calls later, I’d eliminated the desk clerks, the bellboys, the doorman and half the dining room staff as likely suspects. No one owed large sums of money. Except for a single fine for running a stop sign, none had gotten themselves in trouble. Former employers and landlords sang their praises.
I needed a drink.