Текст книги "Snowball in Hell"

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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«Claire Arlen's brother,» Doyle answered. «Her twin brother, I think. He runs a bookstore on South Grand Avenue. Rare and antiquarian books.»

«I think Carl felt bitter about the way Phil treated Claire,» Bob said.

«And how was that?» Matt asked.

Bob shrugged uncomfortably. Veronica said, «Phil was not ideal husband material.» She smiled at Bob, and there was no doubt she thought her own husband was a prize worth hanging onto.

«And how did Claire feel about Phil?»

There was a pause, and Veronica answered. «I guess you'd have to ask her, Lieutenant.»

«I guess I will,» said Matt.

Tara Renee stood frowning beneath the striped awning of the Las Palmas Club. She brightened when she spotted Matt and Jonesy. «What'd you do with Nathan?» she asked, trotting to keep up with Matt as he strode toward the mahogany doors with their stained glass windows of green palm trees and azure oceans.

«Unhooked him and threw him back,» Matt said. He eyed her curiously. «What did you want me to do with him?»

«Artie Cohen said he saw you haul him off in a police car.»

«We didn't haul him anywhere,» Matt retorted. «We invited him to accompany us to Bob Arlen's since he knows the family. I thought he might be useful to have along.»

«Was he?»

«Yep.»

«Nice break for Nathan.»

Matt stopped and subjected Tara to a narrow-eyed inspection. «Okay, what's on your mind, Miss Renee?»

«Miss Renee? You're so formal!» She dimpled at him, but Matt knew her too well to be swayed. «Nothing's on my mind. I'm glad Nathan's getting a few breaks. He deserves them. What'd you think of him?»

«What am I supposed to think of him?» Matt shrugged. «How well do you know him?»

«Are you jealous?»

He sighed.

Tara made a face. «Alright, already! Not a lot. I didn't know Nathan before the war. One thing I do know. He writes beee-ooouti-fully. I keep telling him he should write a novel. The kind of thing that gets slapped between embossed leather

and sent to the Saturday Evening Review boys to chew over. He's too good for this racket.»

Matt shook his head and rapped on the doors. «You seem very interested in Nathan Doyle.»

«I am interested. He's an interesting fellow, unlike the louts I usually meet in my trade.» She batted her eyelashes at Matt. «Don't worry, Lieutenant, you'll always come first with me.»

«That's what worries me,» Matt said, and she laughed. He liked her laugh. That was when she reminded him most of Rachel.

«Jonesy still loves me,» she said, with a backwards glance for Jonesy.

«You remind me of my granddaughter,» Jonsey said. «She needs a good spanking too.»

Tara raised her eyebrows.

Matt said, «Anyway, what the hell was he doing with the Eighth Army for how many years?»

She shrugged. «I don't know. He doesn't talk much. He did say he was in Greece in '41.» She gave Matt a funny grin. «He said he always wanted to see the birthplace of democracy.»

«Greece, huh?» He turned as the mahogany doors were unlocked and dragged open. A bald-headed man with a mouthful of gold teeth glowered at him, and Matt showed his badge. The glower didn't go away, but the man stepped back, and Matt and Jonesy stepped inside. A beefy arm barred Tara's passage.

«I'm with them,» she protested.

The door man said, «Pull the other one, sister. You're no cop. Your legs aren't bad enough.»

«Nice try, Torchy Blane,» Matt said. The heavy doors closed on Tara's protests.

The bruiser led them through a lounge which opened onto an inside garden with a small waterfall, and then through to another larger lounge with a stage where a platinum-haired girl was running through some swing-versions of Christmas standards while a man at the piano tinkled along.

A man and woman sat amidst the sea of empty tables. They had the easy rapport of an old married couple, but in fact Sid Szabo and Nora Noonan were longtime business partners. The rumor was that they were lovers as well, but observing them together, Matt wasn't sure.

Nora Noonan was not beautiful, but she had a self-contained, intelligent face-like one of those portraits of the Madonna. Her hair was reddish blonde. She wore a well-cut tweed suit. Sid Szabo was one of the most handsomest men Matt had ever seen-like a Sunday matinee idol. Dark hair and eyes so blue you could tell it from across the room. He was watching the girl on the stage, but Matt knew he hadn't missed their entrance.

Nora Noonan was smiling her slight, enigmatic smile as Matt and Jonesy approached the table. «Well, Detectives, we heard the news on the radio. I had a feeling you'd be showing up.»

«Lieutenant Spain,» Matt said, and flashed the tin.

Nora Noonan raised her eyebrows, pretending to be impressed. «May I offer you a drink, Lieutenant Spain?»

«No thanks. What can you tell me about the Arlen kid?»

«Do sit down!» She smiled at Jonesy. «Sergeant? You look like a drinking man.»

Jonesy made some uncomfortable assurances to the contrary, and she smiled that smile again. Szabo watched them, unspeaking, his eyes not missing a move-and yet his attention remaining with the girl now warbling «I'll Be Home for Christmas.»

After they were seated, Nora said, «The truth? I wouldn't shed any tears over Phil Arlen-except for the fact that he owed me forty grand.»

Matt whistled. «Is that right? Forty-thousand dollars in gambling debts?»

«Gambling is illegal in this state, Lieutenant,» Nora said mildly. «This was a personal loan.»

«For?»

Nora smiled. «I didn't like to ask. After all, Arlen was a good customer-and he came from a good family. I felt sure he'd make good on his debt.»

«He was a weasel,» Szabo said.

Nora looked exasperated. «Sid-«

«He was a weasel,» Sid repeated. «Why pretend anything else?» His stone-cold eyes studied Matt boldly. «You talk to the wife? She was here Friday night threatening to kill him.»

«Sid!» Nora sounded truly put out now.

Szabo turned his profile and stared at the stage and the singer. «Talk to the wife,» he said.

«Cherchez la femme,» Nora remarked. «Maybe.» She shrugged her tweed-clad shoulders. «I guess it makes as much sense as anything these days.»

«The fact is, we're investigating Arlen's death as a kidnapping gone wrong,» Matt said-and now he had the attention of both.

«A … kidnapping? The radio didn't mention that,» Nora said carefully. Sid said nothing.

«That's right. Arlen didn't come home Saturday night. His family received a ransom demand on Sunday. The money was delivered, but Arlen was bumped off anyway.»

«My goodness,» Nora said faintly. «They paid the ransom?»

«Right.»

Nora looked at Sid. Sid looked at Nora.

Nora said finally, «That doesn't make much sense. Killing the victim, I mean, if the ransom was paid on time. Not a sound business practice.»

«That's what I say,» Matt said. «Anyway, the last time anyone saw the Arlen kid was here on Saturday night.»

«I wouldn't know,» Nora said. «I wasn't here. I had one of my sick headaches.»

She looked at Sid, who said flatly, «He was here. He was always here. We should have charged him rent.»

Nora made one of those pained faces-the Madonna putting up with a lousy suggestion from Joseph-and said, «Philip was somewhat enamored of Pearl.» She nodded to the girl on the stage. «Pearl Jarvis. She sings here Tuesdays through Thursdays.»

On Mondays the club was closed, and on weekends the big names appeared. The Las Palmas Club attracted a lot of big names: Tommy Dorsey, Bing Crosby, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman. It was one of the city's hot spots, though Matt would have to take the word of others for that; he was not much for nightclubs.

It was Szabo's turn to look irritated. «Pearl put up with the puppy, that's all. She was just being nice to a customer. They're all good girls here.»

«Sure,» Matt said. «Convent-reared, every one of them. So Philip hung around Pearl, and Philip's wife was jealous?»

Nora laughed a cool little laugh, «Well, I expect she wasn't pleased about it, but I don't think Claire Arlen is the type to go around murdering husbands.»

«You might be surprised what wives will do,» Matt said, holding her gaze.

Nora's dark gaze sharpened. She looked down at her drink. «True,» she murmured.

Matt said to Sid, «Do you remember what time Arlen left here on Saturday?»

«I wasn't keeping track of him. He was pretty drunk, that much I do remember.»

«When was the last time you remember seeing him?»

«Sometime after midnight.»

«Who was he with? Pearl?» Matt glanced at the canary. She looked like a million other girls to him: nice figure, nice face– nice voice too-but clothes too tight, hair too blonde, and skin too painted.

Sid smiled sourly. «Nope. They weren't talking that night. He was with a reporter. What's his name from the Tribune-Herald. Doyle, that's it. He was with Doyle the last time I saw him.»

Chapter Two

Carl Winters Bookseller read the black and gold script on the sign above the long bow window, and beneath, in smaller letters: The Fine, the Rare, the Antiquarian.

Bombastic, in Nathan's opinion. The man sold words, he didn't write them. Or at least not that Nathan knew of. But then he didn't know a lot about Carl Winters. What he did know wasn't heartwarming.

He pushed through the door and found himself in one of those hushed and rarefied establishments where tomes were sold by the size and matched leather bindings-and cracking a book's spine was a hanging offense. Plush maroon carpet deadened his footsteps as he made his way through Ming vases, Chippendale chairs, and a few strategically placed bookshelves to the front desk. This long black wood construction could never be called a counter, and nothing so plebian as a cash register sat there. A cool and elegant blonde wearing a pair of horn-rim spectacles that had to be for show observed his approach.

«May I help you?»

«I'd like to speak to Mr. Winters.»

She didn't quite allow herself a smirk, but her «Did you have an appointment?» was clearly rhetorical.

«No. I'm Nathan Doyle.» He showed her his press pass.

Her pointy little nose twitched. «Mr. Winters is not speaking to the press.»

There was an answer to that, but Nathan bit the inside of his cheek. She didn't look like she had much sense of humor. «Okay. Well, could you remind him we met Saturday night at the Las Palmas Club?»

She tipped her head, studying him over the top of her glasses, then, reluctantly, she abandoned her front desk post and sashayed through a pair of oversized carved doors, vanishing into a discreet back room.

Nathan leaned back against the front desk and studied the very nice watercolors on the wall. England probably. A very different England than the last time he'd been there. He supposed you could still find places like that, rural pockets mostly untouched by the war. He hadn't seen any. Not in England. Not in North Africa.

Outside the shop windows holiday shoppers in raincoats, umbrellas tilted against the rain, bustled along the wet street, laden with parcels and shopping bags. Funny, that. Come wind or rain or sleet or world wars, people still celebrated the holidays. Maybe it said something about the human spirit. Or maybe it said something about the strength of habit.

«Mr. Doyle?»

He turned as Carl Winters approached. He was alone. There was no sign of the Dresden figurine sales girl. That alone assured Nathan he was on the right track.

Winters was a trim and dapper mid-forties. He wore a pale yellow carnation in his lapel and Nathan could just about see his reflection in the gleam off Winters' hand-stained antique copper brogues. His lustrous hair was prematurely white, but

the face beneath was tanned and youthful. Though he was smiling, his eyes were wary, and Nathan understood why.

They shook hands briefly, and Winters said-heading Nathan off, it seemed-«Is this a sympathy call or a request for an interview?»

Nathan studied his face. «I can't say I'm particularly sorry about Phil,» he said. «Are you supposed to be?»

«He was a lowlife. A creep. That's off the record and on.»

Nathan smiled.

«But I didn't kill him,» Winters added.

«Sure. Any ideas about who might have?»

«Anyone who had the displeasure of his acquaintance.»

«Including your sister?»

«Leave Claire out of this.»

«She brought herself into it by showing up at the Las Palmas Club on Saturday night.»

«That was … nothing,» Winters said curtly.

«It was something.» Nathan was gentle but definite. «The police are liable to think so, anyway.»

Winters' face changed, grew ugly. «I see. This is a-a shakedown, is that it?»

Nathan shook his head. «I couldn't keep it quiet if I wanted to. Too many people saw your sister threaten Phil. Too many people saw all three of us at the club on Saturday.»

«That's right,» Winters said. «But Phil was still alive and kicking when Claire and I pulled out. We left him to your tender mercies.»

Nathan shrugged. «Phil was alive when I left him.» He considered Winters levelly. «The story is he was grabbed by

kidnappers. But I guess you would have heard that from your sister.»

Winters didn't so much as blink.

Nathan nodded thoughtfully. «You don't buy the kidnapping story either.»

«I buy it. I'm just waiting for you to accuse me of kidnapping and murder.»

«Times are tough,» Nathan said. «Not many people have leisure or luxury to read these days.» He glanced at a copy of William Blake's Songs of Innocence under glass on the ebony counter. «Not at these prices.»

«I do very well,» Winters said. «It's not a crime. Even in wartime.»

Nathan just studied him, and Winters said edgily, «I don't know what you think you've heard…»

«We both know what Arlen was,» Nathan said coolly. «I heard enough on Saturday to figure out that he was putting the screws on you. I can make an educated case as to what he had on you.»

«What he thought he had on me,» Winters corrected.

«If you were paying him to keep his mouth shut-and apparently you were-«

«That doesn't mean anything,» Winters interrupted. «I paid him because scandal can ruin a man in my position. It doesn't matter if it's true or not, just the hint of it's all it takes. That's the way the world turns.»

«Maybe so,» Nathan agreed. But he was thinking that if Winters had nothing to fear he would have told his brother-in-law to go to hell. He hadn't because he didn't want Arlen

planting that seed of doubt in anyone's minds. It was liable to start people looking and Winters couldn't afford that. Nathan understood that line of reasoning because he couldn't afford people to start looking either.

He added, «I guess you weren't happy about the way he was treating your little sister.»

«No, I wasn't happy,» Winters said. «But, believe it or not, Claire loved that little rat. She wouldn't have thanked me for removing him from this mortal coil.» He swallowed hard. «This is liable to kill her.»

«She seemed healthy enough to me on Saturday,» Nathan replied. «Healthy pair of lungs on her.»

Winters' face darkened again. «She didn't kill him. And I didn't kill him. And as far as paying Phil hush money, what were you paying him for?»

Nathan's smile was wry. «I didn't pay him. I couldn't afford to.»

Winters stared at him. «Then it seems to me,» he said, «you've got as good a motive for murder as anyone.»

«It does seem that way,» Nathan agreed.

* * * *

Philip and Claire Arlen lived up the road a bit from the Robert Arlens in a fashionable five-story Spanish-Italian apartment hotel called the Los Altos. The hand-tinted postcards sold in the lobby said the Los Altos «Catered to a Particular Clientele,» which always amused the hell out of Nathan.

He ran through the stone courtyard, fountains gurgling with rain and water, and ducked in under the ornate stone entrance. The lobby was carpeted in red, the walls creamy, and the light muted. A large flocked Christmas tree stood at one end, a spill of gaily wrapped, for-display-only «presents» beneath its feathery limbs. Nathan went up a couple of flights of stairs, down a hall with intricately carved wooden panels, and rang the buzzer of Philip Arlen's apartment. Veronica Thompson-Arlen opened the door.

«Oh,» she said, surprised. She did not seem like a woman frequently caught off guard. She had been a navy nurse, Nathan remembered; Bob's nurse after he cracked up his B-25 Mitchell during a failed bombing run over Japan. Love among the bedpans. Bob hadn't come out of it too badly. A game leg, a scarred face, a beautiful young wife, and a nice cushy job waiting for him. A lot of guys had it a lot worse.

It made sense that Veronica would be there to comfort her sister-in-law. Nathan said, «Hi, Ronnie. Is Claire home?»

«She's resting. Why?» She glanced over her shoulder into the silent interior of the apartment. The drapes were drawn, blinds closed. «Nathan, she's not well enough to speak to anyone. Phil's death has devastated her.»

«I'll be careful with her.»

«But why can't it wait?»

Good question. «You'll have to take my word that it can't.»

Veronica studied him. «I don't know you that well.» Then she shrugged. «Bob says you're a straight shooter. I'll ask Claire if she feels up to talking to you.» She hesitated as though there were something more she needed to say then

seemed to change her mind. She turned and walked into the other room.

Nathan looked around himself. The word was that old man Arlen had cut the purse strings to young Philip in an effort to bring him into line. The way Nathan heard it, the old man wanted Philip to enter the family business-take his birthright corner office at Arlen Petroleum-and to spend a few more nights at home. It was no secret that Phil had declined. But it didn't look like he and the missus were suffering unduly. The apartment was very nice-they were all very nice apartments at the Los Altos-although it didn't come with the finger bowls and champagne glasses doled out to occupants of The Bryson. Still, it didn't look like baby brother was exactly strapped for cash. Claire's bloodline was impeccable, but the Winters had been at financial low tide for decades, ever since the big crash in '29, so the funding wasn't coming from her side of the family.

Veronica appeared in the doorway and beckoned Nathan in.

The living room was dark; it smelled of pine trees and Elizabeth Arden. There was a five-foot evergreen standing unadorned in one corner, and various scattered ornaments winking and glinting in the dim light. He could just make out the woman sitting on the sofa near the French doors. Claire Arlen's hair appeared to be the exact shade of the pale carnation her brother wore in his lapel. She was pale and small and curvy in all the right places. She was wearing some kind of frothy negligee set, and she looked as fragile as the Christmas tree angel sitting on the table beside her elbow.

Nathan glanced around and Veronica had disappeared.

Claire said in a dull voice, «Carl called to tell me you'd probably turn up. I didn't kill Phil.»

Nathan took off his hat and sat down on the ottoman. «You were pretty upset with him on Saturday night.»

«Not with Phil. With her. That woman.»

«Pearl Jarvis?»

Claire nodded. «The torcher. 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You'.» She laughed a bitter little laugh, and covered her eyes with her hand. «I used to like that song!»

«Was Phil having an affair with her?»

«I don't know.» She wiped her eyes. «I didn't think so, but then…» she shook her head. «There was something between them.»

«It seemed like you thought so on Saturday night.» She took her hand down and glared at him. He made sure his voice stayed low and soothing. «Did you ever try to talk to Pearl?»

«Her?» She sounded indignant. «That tramp?»

He smiled apologetically. «I know wives sometimes do-try to talk to other women.»

Something in his smile seemed to disarm her instinctive affront. «Are you married?» she asked.

«No.»

«Got a sweetheart?»

He shook his head. «I've been overseas.»

Claire shook his head like he couldn't possibly understand. «I did try to talk to her once. She just laughed at me. Told me Phil was free, white and twenty-one. When Phil found out I'd

been to see her, he slapped me. Carl told him if he ever laid a hand on me again-« She broke off.

«He'd kill him?» Nathan finished.

She didn't reply.

«I guess I'd feel the same,» Nathan said. «If someone treated my sister that way.»

«Do you have a sister?»

«No.»

«Then what do you know about it?» She turned a mutinous profile and stared unseeingly at the row of photos on the credenza. «Anyway, it was only the one time. Carl didn't kill Phil. He was killed by the kidnappers.»

«Why do you think they did that? After the ransom was paid?»

«How should I know? Maybe … Phil saw one of them. Maybe he saw or heard something and they couldn't afford to let him go. Maybe … there was a problem with the money. Maybe they didn't receive the ransom payment.»

«Do you think there was a ransom payment?»

That brought her face forward in a hurry. «What are you suggesting?»

«Yes, what are you suggesting?»

That was Veronica, standing in the doorway behind him. He hadn't heard her, and he wondered how long she had been standing there.

He said simply, «Nothing the police won't think of on their own.»

«Listen,» Veronica said. «Regardless of what Bob thought of Phil and the way Phil conducted his affairs-sorry, Claire,

honey-he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his safety. That's not brotherly love; it's the kind of man Bob is-and you ought to know it. Bob delivered that money exactly per the kidnapper's instructions.»

«I believe you,» Nathan said.

«I don't care if you believe me or not. You've outstayed your welcome, Mr. Doyle.»

Nathan glanced at Claire, but she seemed to have tuned out again. She was staring at the grouping of photos, her hand resting lightly on her midriff as though she felt ill-and he couldn't blame her for that. He rose and followed Veronica into the outer hallway with the Italian carvings. He put his hat on, and she said abruptly, «You're getting the wrong idea about Phil. Mostly he was just young. If Benedict had let him enlist like he wanted to, he'd have been all right. The irony is Benedict wanted to keep him safe at home.»

«Just boyish high spirits, is that the story?» Nathan inquired.

She met his gaze levelly, «We all have our stories, Mr. Doyle. Don't we?»

* * * *

Nathan had lunch-a drink and a smoke-at the High Hat, which was where most of the reporters from the larger papers hung out. It was a nice little place with decent food and strong drinks. There was a piano bar in the evenings, and out back was a red-carpeted patio with several tables beneath green umbrellas. Because of the rain everyone was inside and the bar was noisy and blue with smoke. Most of the noise

centered on the Arlen story, and Nathan took a fair amount of razzing about being picked up by the police.

He grinned, easily deflected the questions, and listened closely. Everyone seemed to be running with the same angle: a kidnapping gone wrong. He hoped that meant that the police were investigating it the same way. He wasn't convinced though. Lt. Spain seemed the thorough kind.

For a moment he let himself dwell on the thought of Lt. Spain. Alert, aggressive-probably an ex-marine. They were all tough bastards. But Spain had that boy-next-door quality too. And that infrequent and devastating smile-and eyes just the color of a Scottish loch at sunset: sort of green-gold, like summer bracken or polished cairngorm.

And the fact that Nathan was thinking like this about a cop indicated just how bad things had gotten. Maybe he really was losing his mind.

It was after two o'clock by the time Nathan caught the Yellow Car for Wilshire Boulevard and the Las Palmas Club. By then he was feeling the cumulative effect of too many drinks and too many sleepless nights. He was still a long way from being fit-there were days when he wondered if he would ever feel truly fit again. And the worst part was he didn't really care either way.

Like all such places, the Las Palmas Club seemed smaller in the daylight. Rain sheeted off its striped awning and gargled down the gutters of Wilshire.

He expected to have trouble getting into the club, but in fact, he had very little. An ugly, bald-headed bruiser let him inside, and after a brief wait in the foyer, he was shown into a

leather-lined office. As he entered the room, Nora Noonan and Sid Szabo broke off what appeared to be an intense discussion. Sid swung away and went to glare out the rain-streaked window; Nora rose from a Queen Ann chair behind an equally magnificent desk.

«Mr. Doyle, you're becoming a regular.»

Nathan smiled and shook hands. «I'm afraid I'm here in my official capacity.»

«And what's that? Snoop?» That came from Sid, his back to the room.

«The Arlens are news in this town,» Nathan said mildly.

«Of course they are,» Nora said. She shot Sid's back an exasperated look, and then smiled again at Nathan. «We always like to cooperate with the press, but I'm not sure how much help we'll be. Frankly, it's not the best publicity for us, Phil Arlen getting kidnapped off our doorstep.»

«Was he kidnapped?»

«The police seem to think so.»

«What do you think?»

She directed another one of those looks at Sid's unresponsive broad shoulders, waiting in vain, it seemed, for him to chime in. «It seems likely. The last time anyone seems to have seen him was here.»

«With you,» Sid said.

Nathan turned his way. «That's right. Phil and I walked out together. We said goodnight. He went his way and I went mine.»

«So you say.»

«Sid!» That time Nora couldn't contain her impatience. The smile she turned on Nathan was apologetic and charming. «There's no reason we can't be civilized. Would you like a drink, Mr. Doyle?»

Nathan thought about it. He couldn't remember if he had eaten at all that morning. He suspected breakfast had consisted of a nip from the flask belonging to Fred Williams of the Daily News. And there had been several drinks after that, but the alcohol was helping him get through this-and there was still a long way to go-so he said, «Sure.»

Nora poured him a generous two fingers from a bottle of Four Roses. «Sid?» she inquired.

«You know I don't drink during the day,» Sid returned.

Nora winked at Nathan and took a dainty sip. She reminded Nathan of a nun with the high white collar of her blouse and her plain, intelligent face-although he'd never seen a nun taking a nip.

He said, directing the question to either of them, «What can you tell me about the relationship between Pearl Jarvis and Phil Arlen?»

«Why are you trying to start something? There was no relationship,» Sid said, turning to face the room-to face Nathan. «The little weasel had a crush on Pearl. Lots of guys do.»

«Mrs. Arlen seemed to think it was a little more than that.»

Nora sighed. «Perhaps it was. What can it matter now? Arlen's dead.»

«Yeah,» Nathan said. «Supposedly his kidnappers bumped him off after they picked up the ransom money. Any idea why that would be?»

«Maybe he got on their nerves,» Szabo said. «It's been known to happen.»

«Maybe,» Nathan agreed. «How much was Arlen into you for?»

«Forty big ones,» Szabo said. «So if you're thinking Nora and I have a new sideline-«

«If you have, you came out sixty grand ahead on the deal.»

Nora laughed. «We're gamblers. We're not crazy.»

«I agree,» Nathan said. «For that kind of risk it would have to be worth a lot more to you than sixty-or even a hundred grand.» When neither of them responded, he asked, «Would it be okay if I talked to Pearl?»

«Why?» Szabo asked.

As though he hadn't spoken, Nora said, «That's up to Pearl. She's not here right now. You can probably catch her after her show this evening.»

«Do you have an address for her?»

«No,» Szabo said.

Nora looked regretful. «We don't give that kind of information out, Mr. Doyle. But come back this evening. We'll see you get the best seat in the house. Nothing's too good for the gentlemen of the press.» She smiled a secret sort of smile.

Nathan looked at Szabo. «Any reason you don't want me to talk to Pearl?

«Why should there be?»

Nathan shrugged. «Every time her name comes up you get a little testy. You have a lot of problems with her?»

«We don't have any problems with her.»

«She's very good,» Nora said. «Very talented. Have you ever heard her sing 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You'?»

«Once or twice. She knows how to sell a song.» Nathan said to Szabo, «Maybe you did like her. Maybe you liked her too much.»

Szabo stared long and unblinkingly at Nathan. Nora said, «I guess you haven't heard the rumors about Sid and me, Mr. Doyle.»

Nathan smiled. «I guess I might have-but I don't believe everything I hear.»

He was not going to be very popular with Whitey Whitlock, his editor. At the rate he was going, the Tribune-Herald was going to be the only paper in town that didn't have a major story filed on the Arlen murder; that in itself was liable to look suspicious.

He couldn't help it. He didn't have a lot of time. Every time he thought of a particular police lieutenant with a pair of shrewd hazel eyes, Nathan could hear a clock ticking. It wasn't going to take Lt. Spain long to put two and two together because-unless Nathan was very wrong-Lt. Spain already had an inkling or two.

Of course he could be letting his imagination-and guilty conscience-run away with him. He thought back to what he'd read in Spain's eyes. The look he'd first seen across the sand and weeds and grass that morning-a very different look from the one he'd seen by the time they parted ways after leaving

Bob Arlen's apartment. Had he interpreted that look correctly? Or was he seeing what he wanted to see? It was hard to know sometimes.

Either way it was moot now. Spain had picked up the scent, and Nathan recognized, without knowing almost anything about the man, that Spain was a very good tracker.

There was still a chance, if he acted quickly, and that's what he had spent the morning doing.

He needed to find Pearl Jarvis. Needed to hear her story, find out what she had to say, but if she wasn't deliberately lying low she was sure giving a good impression of it.

Having struck out at the club, he wasted another hour hunting down her last known address. But Pearl no longer resided at the rooming house in Echo Park, and Nathan got an earful from her former roommate about owed rents and a missing Bonwit Teller evening coat.