Ed Dallas steered his tall, lanky frame into a pay booth. While he waited for a connection, he surveyed the busy hotel scene through the glass panel of the booth door, his eyes shifting from one beautiful woman to another, trying to make up his mind which of them he would take out for the night should a miracle happen and give him a choice.
A girl’s voice said in his ear, ‘International Detective Agency. Good evening.’
‘This is Ed,’ Dal as said. ‘Gimme the old man, will you, honey?’
‘Hold a moment, please,’ the girl said, and proceeded to make violent crackling noises in Dallas’s ear.
‘Must you knock my brains out?’ Dal as complained, holding the receiver at arm’s length. ‘Why don’t you use your hands instead of your feet?’
‘I would if I thought you had any brains,’ the girl said pertly, and completed the connection with a loud whistle on the line.
Harmon Purvis, head of the agency, said in his dry, flat voice, ‘What is it, Dal as?’
‘The Shine’s just had callers,’ Dal as said, speaking rapidly, the glowing end of his cigarette bobbing up and down within an inch of the telephone mouthpiece. ‘A man and woman. The man’s a well-nourished bird, pushing fifty, and looks made of money. The woman’s a nifty; young, blonde, with a shape that’s knocked my right eye out. The Shine was expecting them. They by-passed the desk and went right up. Want me to do anything about them?’
‘Don’t cal the Rajah a Shine,’ Purvis said coldly. ‘He’s a high-class Hindu. He may be coloured…’
‘Okay, okay,’ Dal as said impatiently. ‘I wouldn’t know the difference. What about these two? Want me to cover them?’
‘Better find out who they are,’ Purvis said. ‘We can’t afford to take chances. They’re his first callers, aren’t they?’
‘If you don’t count the two rubes from the Embassy, and the floozie he had up there last night to fix his insomnia.’
Purvis said he didn’t count them.
‘Well, okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll buzz you on the next move. So long for now.’
Dallas replaced the receiver, pushed open the booth door and walked fast across the lobby of the Hotel Cosmopolitan to where Jack Burns was reading a racing sheet, with one eye on the reception-desk.
Dallas leaned over his shoulder.
‘The old man wants me to find out who those two are,’ he said. ‘Stick around and try to earn your money. If anyone shows up, give the old man a buzz.’
Burns groaned.
‘If I have to sit in this goddamn lobby much longer, I’ll go nuts,’ he grumbled. ‘I wouldn’t mind trailing that blonde myself. Get her telephone number, Ed. She might make blind dates.’
‘Not with you, she wouldn’t,’ Dal as said. ‘A nifty like her needs the velvet touch. I could rock her dreamboat myself.’
‘You’d have to knock over a bank before you got within a mile of her,’ Burns said, mopping his round fat face. ‘A frill with that shape doesn’t have to give anything away. It’d cost you plenty.’
‘You could be right at that.’ Dal as straightened. ‘Don’t fall asleep on the job. The old man thinks this’s important.’
‘I wish I did,’ Burns said, yawning.
Dallas made his way through the crowded lobby to the main entrance. He sat down in a basket chair, shifted it around so he could watch the elevators and waited.
He had a long wait. It was over an hour before the Rajah’s visitors appeared. The girl came first: an elegantly dressed blonde with big blue eyes and a cold, sophisticated expression that intrigued Dallas.
She moved gracefully, swaying her hips in a way that made all the men in the lobby look back at her, aware she was creating a sensation as she passed, and accepting it as her due.
Her companion was a tall, darkly tanned man, a little heavy around the waist-line, but very upright.
His sleek grey hair was taken straight back, and his military moustache bristled. In his immaculate clothes he had an arrogant air of confidence and authority that impressed Dallas, who wasn’t easily impressed.
They passed Dallas without noticing him, and went down the hotel steps to the street. Dallas slid out of his chair and went after them. He was in time to see them get into a big black LaSalle, driven by a smartly uniformed Filipino chauffeur, and which moved away so quickly that Dallas saw he hadn’t a hope of following it.
He memorised the licence number and signalled to a passing taxi.
‘Police Headquarters,’ he said urgently, ‘and imagine you’re driving to a fire!’
Three minutes later, the taxi pulled up outside the concrete and steel building that housed the city’s police. As Dallas paid off the driver he saw Lieutenant Olin get out of a police car and start up the stone steps leading to the main entrance of the building. He ran after him.
‘Hi, George,’ he said, joining Olin. ‘Too busy to do me a favour?’
Olin frowned at him.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ he said reluctantly, ‘but I guess I can spare you a minute. Come on in. Have you heard Jean Bruce has been knocked off?’
Dallas’s eyes popped.
‘You mean she’s been murdered?’
‘That’s what I mean.’ Olin walked quickly along the passage to his small office, kicked open the door, entered and sat down behind a small battered desk. ‘A stick-up job with a couple of my boys sunning themselves within yards of it. The guy got away with an emerald and diamond bracelet worth five grand. He hit the girl on the side of her jaw — broke her goddamn neck.’
‘Jeepers!’ Dal as whistled. ‘Any idea who?’
Olin nodded.
‘Yeah, but never mind that. What do you want?’
‘Checking up on a black LaSalle, licence number AO 67. I want to know who owns it.’
Olin accepted the cigarette Dallas pushed at him, and then a light.
‘Working on something?’
‘A fifteen-year-old robbery,’ Dallas said. ‘Want to hear about it? It’s a good story.’
Olin shook his head.
‘Robbery isn’t my line. Besides, who cares about a fifteen-year-old robbery?’
‘The insurance companies — when the amount involved is four million,’ Dal as said seriously.
Olin looked startled.
‘Is that right? Four mil ion?’
‘Yeah. The insurance companies were caught for the lot. They paid up, but they’re still trying to find the jewellery.’
Olin squinted at his cigarette end.
‘I think I remember something about that job: wasn’t it a Rajah’s collection?’
‘That’s right. The Maharajah of Chittabad. He lent the whole of his family heirlooms to the Purbright Museum. That was fifteen years ago. The museum was staging an exhibition of the world’s most famous gems. The Maharajah had his collection flown to New York. They never arrived, and they’ve never been seen since. A year later a fence in Holland was approached by Paul Hater with some of the stuff.
Remember Hater? He was the smartest jewel thief of them all. The fence shopped Hater because Hater wouldn’t agree to his price. Hater was arrested, but he wouldn’t tell where he had cached the collection.
He got twenty years: he’s still serving his sentence, and is due out in a couple of years time. Old man Purvis is representing the insurance companies, and we’ve been trying to find the stuff ever since. Our one hope now is to wait until Hater comes out and then stick to him like leeches in the hope he’ll lead us to the hiding-place. There’s four hundred grand in it for us if we get the stuff back, as well as a yearly retainer.’
Olin blew smoke down on to his grubby blotter, then waved it away irritably.
‘Did Hater do the job alone?’
Dallas shrugged.
‘No one knows. The pilot and the crew of the plane were never found: nor was the plane, for that matter. We figure they must have been working with Hater, but he wouldn’t finger them. We’re pretty certain the stuff’s never come on the market. Hater’s the only one, as far as we know, who knows where it’s hidden.’
Olin pushed out his aggressive jaw.
‘I guess my boys would have made him talk,’ he said sourly.
‘Don’t kid yourself. They worked over him until he looked as if he had been fed through a mincer.
Nothing anyone did to him — and they did plenty — could make him open his trap.’
‘Aw, the hell with this!’ Olin said impatiently. ‘I’ve got me a murder to solve. What do you want this car owner for?’
‘A couple of years back, the Maharajah died,’ Dal as explained. ‘His son came into the estate. This guy has his own ideas of how to live, and he’s been throwing his father’s money around like a drunken sailor. Rumour has it he’s run through half the old man’s fortune already. Without warning he suddenly turns up here. The insurance companies have the idea he’s over here to contact Hater. They think he’s going to do a deal with Hater somehow or other.’
Olin stared.
‘What sort of deal?’
‘They think Hater would be glad to sell the stuff back to the Rajah at a price. They argue the Rajah could get rid of it far easier than Hater could. From what they hear about the Rajah they think he’s quite capable of sticking to both the jewels and the insurance money. Personally, I think it’s a lot of phooey, but you can’t tell these insurance birds anything. They’ve hired us to watch the Rajah, and report to them who he’s seeing while he’s here. Up to now the only two he has seen are the man and woman who left his hotel in this LaSalle. I want to know who they are.’
‘Well, I guess I’d better do something about it,’ Olin said, reaching for his phone. ‘Purvis has done me a lot of good in the past. How is the lug, anyway?’
‘Just the same,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘Doesn’t spend a nickel more than he can help, and still thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen, and no place else.’
‘That’s Purvis all right. He gave me a box of cigars last Christmas I swear he made himself.’
‘You can consider yourself lucky,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘He didn’t give me a thing. How about a little action on that car number? I haven’t got all night.’
Olin spoke into the phone, listened, waited, grunted and hung up.
‘The car belongs to a bird named Preston Kile. He has a house on Roosevelt Boulevard which puts him in the money. Does that help you?’
‘Not much. You wouldn’t like to ask Records if they’ve anything on him?’
Olin sighed, dialled, spoke again into the phone. While he waited, Dallas crossed over to the window and stared down at the two-way stream of traffic flooding the main street. He spotted the Herald truck unloading a pile of newspapers at the corner. The boy snatched them from the driver and began running along the sidewalk, yelling excitedly.
‘Looks like your murder’s hit the headlines,’ he said.
‘It’s going to make a sweet stink,’ Olin said, grimacing. He spoke into the telephone again, then hung up. ‘We’ve got nothing on Kile. We don’t know him.’
‘Well, okay and thanks,’ Dal as said. ‘I guess I’ll have to do a little more leg work. This job gives me the hives. So long, George. Hope you find your killer.’
‘I will,’ Olin said, scowling. ‘The drag-net’s out for him now. It’s just a matter of time. If your job gives you the hives, my job gives me ulcers. So long. Drop in when I’m too busy to see you.’
Dallas grinned and walked quickly along the corridor, down the stairs to the street. He took another taxi to the Herald offices, made his way through a maze of corridors to Huntley Favell’s office, rapped and pushed open the door.
Favell was the Herald ’s gossip column writer. He made it his business to know everything about anyone in town whose income ran into four figures.
Dallas was a little startled to find Favell and a pretty red-haired girl wrapped together in an embrace worthy of the best traditions of Hollywood. They sprang apart on seeing Dallas, and the girl slid past him, her face scarlet, and fled from the office.
Favell, completely unruffled, eyed Dallas coldly. He was a tall, thin Adonis, with a Barrymore profile, who lived well above his income and was glad to augment his earnings by selling information to the International whenever the opportunity arose.
‘Don’t you know better than to burst into a private office like that?’ he asked tartly as he sat down behind his desk.
‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘Accept my apologies. The next time I’ll let off my gun before coming in.’
‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ Favell said, wiping his mouth careful y with a handkerchief. He eyed the smear of lipstick that appeared on the handkerchief with a grimace of displeasure and tucked the handkerchief away. ‘And don’t go getting any wrong ideas,’ he went on, distantly. ‘She had something in her eye.’
‘Sure. I always get things out of a girl’s eye in the same way.’ Dal as sat on the edge of the desk and offered Favell his cigarette-case. ‘I dropped in for a little information.’
Favell’s acid face brightened, but he didn’t say anything. He lit the cigarette, leaned back in his chair and waited.
‘Know anything about a guy named Preston Kile?’ Dal as asked.
Favell seemed surprised.
‘Why? Is he in trouble?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I spotted him with a blonde who interested me. Is he likely to be in trouble?’
‘He’s seldom out of it,’ Favel said. ‘I haven’t time to waste talking to you, Dal as. I’ve got my column to polish up.’
Dallas took out his wallet, selected two tens and dropped them on the desk.
‘That should cover five minutes of your precious time,’ he said. ‘I want to know as much about Kile as you can tell me.’
Favell hurriedly pocketed the bills.
‘I don’t know a great deal,’ he said, relaxing. ‘By the way, you can keep your trap shut about that red-head. She has a husband in the wrestling racket, and he’s been waiting to pick on me.’
‘Never mind about her: tell me about Kile.’
‘He comes from San Francisco. Hasn’t been here more than a couple of months. He’s bought a big house on Roosevelt Boulevard which he hasn’t paid for yet, and probably never will. Three years ago he was a successful market manipulator and cleaned up a packet, but since then he seems to have dropped out of business. He spends a lot of his time on the race-tracks. He must win more than he loses, as he doesn’t seem to have any other means of making a living.’
‘What’s this about trouble?’
Favell stubbed out his cigarette, and helped himself to another from Dallas’s case.
‘Scandal more than trouble. The guy’s never grown up. His theme song’s wine, women and irate husbands. He specialises in married women, and a couple of husbands have taken shots at him in the past. One of them winged him. It was hushed up, but it didn’t teach him a lesson. He gets into brawls as easily as you get into bed. He drinks too much, and when he’s lit up, he gets tough. For a man of his age he should know better, but he just won’t learn.’
‘Who’s the blonde he’s going around with?’
‘Eve Gil is. Quite a dish, isn’t she? He took her out of the Follies about a month ago and set her up in an apartment on Roxburgh Avenue. It can’t last long. He’s a love ’em and leave ’em Joe, but from the look of her she’ll get what she can out of him before he gives her the gate.’
‘They cal ed on the Rajah of Chittabad about an hour ago,’ Dal as said thoughtful y. ‘From what you tell me they don’t sound like people a Rajah would entertain.’
Favell looked interested.
‘They’re not. Are you sure?’
‘Yeah; I saw them go to his suite.’
‘You still working on that jewel robbery?’
‘Sure; it’s Purvis’s main source of income.’
Favell thought for a moment, his polished nails tapping on his blotter.
‘You may be on to something here,’ he said at length. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Kile is in contact with the underworld. Just rumours, mind you; nothing concrete. I’ve never been able to get any proof. He spends a lot of his time at the Frou-Frou Club. It’s run by a wop named Ralph Rico, a small-time fence.
Rico’s slowly moving up in the world. It wouldn’t startle me to hear Kile’s behind him. It might pay off to keep an eye on Rico.’
‘The police haven’t anything on Kile,’ Dal as said, frowning.
‘I know that. I tell you at one time Kile was in the money in a big way. Some of his deals were a little questionable, but then most big-shot financiers do edge over the line sometimes. What puzzles me is he’s been out of business now for two years. Admit edly he’s probably worth a lot stil , but he certainly knows how to spend his money. You could do worse than to look into his association with Rico. He may be planning something.’
‘Okay, I wil .’ Dal as slid off the desk. ‘If you hear anything you think’d interest me, give me a buzz.’
‘Don’t blame me if there’s nothing to it,’ Favel said, reaching for a pile of copy in his In-tray. These rumours about Kile may be a lot of phooey.’
‘I know. Half the tips I get lead nowhere,’ Dal as said gloomily. ‘That’s the hell of this job. Well, so long. Next time you stage an eye operation, better lock the door.’
He went out, tipped his hat to the red-head who was busily typing in the outer office, grinned to himself when she tossed her head at him, and made his way rapidly down to the street.