door leading to the canopied check-counter. He thought for a moment she was going to speak to him, but as he passed on she turned to the youth behind her. He didn’t recall having met her and he didn’t have time to find out now.
The blonde hatcheck was busy in the back. Before she had time to turn he had selected an umbrella from a stand across the counter and was out on 52nd Street. Raising the umbrella he tacked into the wind toward a drug store a half block east.
Inside the telephone booth he dialed three different numbers. None of them answered. Then he called his room at the hotel. Kierney answered. Quickly Joe explained where he was and described the two men with Richard Raleigh. Kierney’s low whistle was excited. He was serious when he spoke.
“Listen, Joey, if the guy with the mustache has a cut under it, and if he’s a little gimpy, and if he’s with a Poland China that looks like he’s ready for the smokehouse, and if you seen ’em both at the Timbuctoo, you got yourself into some extra elegant company.” The Irishman paused for breath, and speaking softly and distinctly continued, “The guy with the mustache is Frankie Shasta and the chowderhead is Porky Wiener. Only don’t call him Porky to his face.”
Joe said, “Thanks,” sarcastically.
“That’s all right,” Kierney replied generously. “Call on me any time, Joey. I don’t know what you’re gettin’ into, but me and Kitch is glad we ain’t in it.”
A girl in a greenish yellow slicker blocked his way as he opened the door of the booth. She came just to Joe’s shoulder. He recognized her immediately as the girl who had almost spoken to him as he left the night club. The tweeds were covered now by the slicker, but he remembered the brown hat and the wet green feather! He started to pass her, but she put out a hand and stopped him.
“You’re Mr. South, aren’t you?” she greeted him. “I’m Naomi Raleigh. I talked with Uncle Park right after you left the hospital this afternoon.” She had hardly paused for breath. “I tried to catch you at the house, but you had already gone. I stopped at the Timbuctoo where I knew I’d find Dick and saw-you at his table.”
Joe said nothing. He had suddenly recognized her voice. It was the one he had heard coming from Van Pelt’s office that morning. He was as fascinated by the gamin-like animation of her features as he had been by her brother’s mustache. She paused at last and gave him an appraising stare. After a moment she observed, “You don’t look like a detective.”
“That’s what they all say,” he retorted disgustedly as he drew out a chair for her. He sat down. “Or else they tell me I’m the very image of some guy that hangs around Hollywood.”
She ignored the chair and turned back toward the street door.
“Please let’s not be childish,” she begged. “I came here to talk with you about Dick. Charles is with me and if you’ll wait a moment I’ll get him. I won’t keep you long.”
The detective nodded and drew out a cigarette. The difference between Richard and Naomi was more than just a toss up. Under the hat was a mind. One of those high-nosed Eastern finishing schools had dusted it up, but she’d started out with plenty and still had it. He shrugged. It meant more trouble. The Raleighs, like the mumps, hit all points at once.
The girl returned almost immediately trailed by a wispy young man without hat or topcoat. He was taller than Naomi by about an inch. His walk was slightly swivel-hipped. Several pencils protruded from the breast pocket of a tweed sports jacket.
Naomi introduced them. His name was Charles Emmett Shermond. From the way she pronounced it Joe thought he was supposed to recognize it. He didn’t. Shermond extended a limp hand that felt like a fistful of putty. His voice had about the same quality. “I’m happy to meet you, Mr. South,” he murmured, but didn’t look it.
The girl removed her hat. She said without preliminary, “Dick is with that girl again, isn’t he, Mr. South?”
Apparently her uncle had brought her up to date. Joe extracted a toothpick from the fly-specked glass at his elbow and broke it into bits. His resentment increased. He said. “You picked a, swell night to go gallivanting around watching your brother. I thought I’d fallen heir to that job.”
Naomi leaned toward him and smiled.
“Now look, Mr. South . . . No. I expect I’d better call you Joe. We’re going to be together a lot.” Joe shuddered. The anything that might have happened was beginning to. He pictured himself trying to tail a couple of mugs with this gypsy girl-scout on his heels. She hadn’t paused for breath. “Joe, you’re not listening to me. Don’t you think I’m capable of taking care of myself? That’s the trouble with Dick and Uncle Park. They think I’m still a school kid. I know it would be thrilling to help you with Dick.”
Joe was rude. He said, “Skip the melodrama, sister. You’ve been reading the tabloids.”
His glance traveled to Charles and he wondered what the attraction was.
He wasn’t aware that he hadn’t been listening until she said, “Why don’t you pay some attention to me, Joe? I just said Charles and I are going back to the Timbuctoo with you.”
Charles was nervously toying with the pencils in his pocket. His remonstration was weak.
“Darling, I think you’re overdoing this. I’ve told you before. Time will take care of it. Time cures everything.” He appealed to Joe. “Don’t you believe in Time, Mr. South?”
“Yeah, Mr. Shermond is right. Time. Your Time is my Time. Good old Time. Time Marches On.” Joe humored the boy. Naomi’s smile was elfin. She was enjoying Joe’s levity.
Enthusiasm came into Charles’ eyes. He offered the putty again. His voice was precise and dry. “Mr. South, you make me very happy. I didn’t expect to find you sympathetic. It goes to prove that the true understanding of Time has a leavening effect.”
“You see,” Shermond said to Naomi. “Mr. South will handle the whole thing. It’s his job. Certainly you don’t wish to go to that awful place again.”
Joe watched Shermond with renewed interest. There was going to be fun in this after all. He said, “What the hell! It’s okay with me if you go back. Do you suppose it will be all right with your brother?”
Naomi shrugged.
“Oh, Dick won’t make a scene. If that’s what you mean. He hates scenes.” She grinned impishly. “I’m the one who likes them.”
Watching the rising excitement in her eyes Joe could believe it. This was going to be difficult. He’d probably never get rid of the brat now. He put a hand on her wrist.
“Wait,” he cautioned. “We’ve got to make this look straight. What will your brother think if he sees us come in together?”
That stopped her, but only for a second. She patted Joe’s hand.
“You’re right, Joey. You go ahead and Charles and I will follow.”
Joe groaned. On top of everything else she’d started that. What was it about him that made everybody call him Joey two minutes after they’d met him? As he entered the club the blonde hatcheck nodded to the orchestra leader. The band swung into Montana Moon. The music followed him to the table and ended with a crash of cymbals and bass drum as he sat down.
