His pulse was quickening, and there was a warmth flowing through him that he fought against showing in his face. Cavalier, and nothing more, he told himself sternly. He drew his arm away from her fingers. “Just how did you come to pick me as your champion?”
“I’d heard about you, read about you in the papers all week long.” Her voice bubbled with admiration. “Fascinating stories about your twenty years as a detective. About how wise you are, and how clever.”
It was flattery and he’d had much of it—up to his neck—but coming from her it was excitingly new. “Spare my blushes,” he said.
“I tried to see you yesterday, right after that farewell banquet they gave you. But there were too many people around you then.”
“Tell me your name,” Devereaux said.
“Jennifer Phillips.”
“And Mr. Whosis—which Phillips is he?”
There was a small hesitation. “Martin Phillips.”
Devereaux’s jaw fell. “Don’t tell me!” he said incredulously.
“Yes,” she nodded solemnly. “The Martin Phillips.”
Devereaux whistled. Martin Phillips, the grand slam among theater critics. The high priest of literature who used rattlesnake venom for ink. The man who said that the drama had died with Shakespeare, that glamour was buried with Queen Victoria.
“He’s a damned important figure, your so-called father,” Devereaux said soberly.
“I know,” she agreed dismally. Her fingers found his arm again. “Will you help me?”
“What was the name of that hotel?”
“The Orleans.”
“What does this Mrs. Jennings, or Mrs. Gordon, look like?”
“Gray-haired. About sixty, I’d say. Pale, like a sick person. Small, almost daintily small.” Her eyes shone at him and her voice was fervent. “Thank you so very much.”
“You’re a little premature,” Devereaux said. “Now, where can I drop you?”
CHAPTER TWO
1.
THE ORLEANS: A FAMILY HOTEL was a throwback to the era of horse cars and nickel beer. An incongruous neon sign across its face was the only concession to twentieth-century vogues. The Buick slid into the curb, parallel with a sidewalk stanchion that warned: “No Parking, 8 A.M. to 6 P.M.”
It was forenoon. The outdoors was as sultry as an unseasonable September could be, and the street was a bedlam of people and motor traffic. Devereaux had got to the sidewalk when the whistle arrested him and a cop on horseback came galloping up.
“Don’t you read, or should the sign say positively?” the cop on horseback said witheringly.
“Hiya, Kennedy.” Devereaux submitted his face smilingly.
“Devereaux!” The voice chided. “Thought you were catching a train or a boat.”
“Tomorrow. One fine tomorrow.” Devereaux shrugged. “New York won’t let go, Kennedy.”
The street filled with a mad warfare of horns, and Kennedy, motioning Devereaux to wait, shooed a backing truck away from an area whose curb sign read: “No Unloading, 8 A.M. to 12 A.M.” Soon the stalled line of cars inched again toward the avenue, and Kennedy returned to the tête-à-tête.
“Somebody once said”—the mounted man’s eyes twinkled—“that tomorrow never comes.” He waved a newspaper clipping, then handed it down to Devereaux.
Devereaux took the clipping. It was a tear from a gossip column, “The Lyons Den.” It read: “Radio producer Travis Cord coaxing tough cop Johnny Devereaux out of retirement with $l,000-a-week offer as narrator on True Crime-File serial. Who said crime doesn’t pay?”
“Big piece of change, a thousand per.”
“I’m lighting out tomorrow,” Devereaux said irritably. “Place your bet that way.”
Kennedy grinned. “The offer will ride along with you. And in the end you’ll find yourself sticking your hand out, hoping the offer still holds good.”
“I don’t need that much money.” Devereaux scowled. “That much money is indecent.” He closed his fist tightly and put the crushed clipping in his vest pocket. “Can I stay parked for a half hour?”
“All day, even.” Kennedy chuckled. “I always give radio actors the run of the block.”
“You go to hell.”
2.
“Sorry,” the clerk said, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Devereaux. “She doesn’t answer.”
Devereaux looked into the small lobby. It was a family hotel, indeed, and despite Management’s stern injunction against sterno cans and the single electric burner, an unmistakable odor of cooking hung in the atmosphere. The lobby loungers had the look of old residents, people to whom the broken chairs, shredding rugs, dust, and gloom were as familiar to their close, personal living as their next of kin.
“Maybe sitting out there somewhere?” Devereaux suggested.
The clerk peered. “No, she isn’t.”
Devereaux watched the clerk’s fingers drum nervously on the counter for a moment, then observed mildly, “Slick numbers depot. Smart boy.”
“Wrong, Devereaux,” the clerk protested. “You’re dead wrong. I quit the racket.”
“For clerking at thirty-five per?” Devereaux’s lip curled derisively.
“It’s a living,” the clerk said.
“I’ll bet! See Mrs. Gordon go out this morning?”
The clerk shook his head, then looked into a mail cubbyhole. “Funny,” he said. “She isn’t in, and she hasn’t left her key.” There was a small mystification in his face.
“Does she usually leave her key when going out?”
The clerk nodded, then looking earnestly at Devereaux, he said, “Going to jump at conclusions?”
“Know one reason why I shouldn’t, with your record of arrests?”
“I’ll lose my job.” The clerk shrugged resignedly. “Okay, jump. I don’t give a damn.”
3.
The elevator stopped at the fourth landing. “Step up,” the driver admonished.
Devereaux
