Michael Shayne’s first stop was at Elsie Murray’s former address on Madison Avenue. He paid off his taxi, went up a short flight of stone steps and through swinging doors to a small entry exactly like the one described in Elsie’s script. Beside the lock on the inner door was the bell she had mentioned with the brass plate beneath bearing the word SUPERINTENDENT.
Shayne exhaled a sigh of satisfaction and went back out. So far, so good. The script appeared to be more and more factual all the time. He stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the avenue. A few doors away on his right was a canopy with the words RESTAURANT — BAR. There was nothing on his left to indicate a drinking establishment.
Shayne went to the canopy and entered a long cool room with a bar on one side and small tables ranged against the wall. In the rear was a square space with a dozen or more dining tables. A few of the tables were occupied at this early lunch hour, and half a dozen of the bar stools were filled.
He walked down the bar to the other end, found a telephone book chained there, and the phone booth was across the room. Again, Elsie’s description was perfectly accurate.
A genial-faced and paunchy bartender came up to Shayne, and the redhead said, “Cognac. Martel or Monnet if you have it.”
“We’ve got Martel. Drink or pony?”
“A double drink, please. A little ice water on the side.” There was a second bartender at the front end of the bar serving the drinkers congregated there. He was tall and young, with a completely bald head.
When Shayne’s drink came, he asked, “Either of you fellows been working here long?”
“Don’t know what you call long, Mister. Six months for me, and Jack down there has been around a couple of years.”
“Good enough.” Shayne put a five-dollar bill on the counter and said, “I wonder if either of you remember a girl named Elsie Murray who used to drop in quite often a few months ago. Lived right down the street.”
“Say! That’s real funny. We was talking about her just a little while ago. Read in the paper about her getting killed last night. Damn shame. She was real nice except when she’d had one too many which wasn’t often.”
“Who is we?” asked Shayne.
“Come again.” The bartender frowned his puzzlement.
“You said we were talking about Miss Murray just awhile ago. Who were you talking with?”
“Jack… that’s the man up front, and…” The paunchy bartender leaned closer and lowered his voice discreetly. “And the young lady sitting right back of you. She used to come in sometimes with Miss Murray a few months back… before she quit coming all of a sudden. We was talking about how funny that was.”
Shayne took a long, slow drink of straight cognac, rolling it gratefully around in his mouth to wash out the taste of Radin’s whiskey, and asked patiently:
“Who quit coming in suddenly? The young lady behind me or Miss Murray?”
“Miss Murray. We never knew why, but then we heard she’d moved away from where she lived right down the street. What’s your angle, Mister?”
“I’m working on the case.” Shayne turned on his bar stool slowly to glance along the row of tables against the wall behind him.
There was a threesome of giggling shopgirls, a middle-aged couple intently absorbed with martinis and themselves, and a young woman seated alone on a bench against the wall facing Shayne across a table for two.
She sat very erect with her shoulders squared against the wall behind her which made her look quite tall, and the effect was heightened by an upswept hair-do which showed off the clean lines of a somewhat thin neck above a severely plain white blouse and tailored gray suit.
There was something of a haughty look about her face, with a nose that was a trifle too long and too sharp, and a short upper lip that drew away slightly from upper teeth. She was looking directly towards Shayne as his casual gaze slid down the row of tables and stopped to survey her. She didn’t avert her eyes as they met his, but continued to look calmly through him as though he didn’t exist. A thin-stemmed cocktail glass stood on the table in front of her, half-full of a yellowish liquid that looked like a side-car.
Shayne considered her gravely for a moment, then continued around in a full circle to face the bartender again. He asked quietly, “You don’t happen to know her name?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe I ever heard it mentioned. You’re not the cops?”
“Private,” Shayne told him. He drank more cognac and took a sip of ice water, asked, “Can you remember if either you or Jack were on the late closing shift about three months ago?”
“That’d be Jack. He always worked the last shift until two weeks ago when he got hitched. Now he’s got something better to do at home than hang around here till four in the morning shooing out drunks.” The bartender chortled meaningfully. “So he traded off with one of the day men. What was it you wanted, Mister?”
“A word with Jack if I can have it.” Shayne pushed the bill across the counter. “Keep that for your help. What’s the young lady at the table behind me drinking?”
“Say, thanks.” The bill went into his pocket. “That’s a stinger she’s got.”
Shayne said, “Why don’t you ask Jack to bring a fresh one, and a pony of Martel for me to her table?”
“Coming right up.” The bartender bustled to the front of the bar to confer with his colleague, and Shayne finished his double brandy. He lit a cigarette and slid off the stool, crossed to the girl’s table and pulled out the vacant chair in front of her, asking, “Do you mind if I sit here and buy you a drink?”
Her upper lip curled away from her teeth a trifle more than when it was in repose. She said, “Sorry, but I didn’t come in for a pick-up.”
Shayne said, “I know,” settling himself in the chair. “You came in to talk about Elsie Murray. So did I. So, let’s talk.”
“Elsie?” Surprise and fear slid briefly into her cool blue eyes. She really looked at him now, with intense interest. “I don’t know you at all.”
“You didn’t know all Elsie’s friends, did you?”
“Of course not. I didn’t really know her well.”
“Well enough to come around here and discuss her with the bartender when you read about her murder.”
She finished her cocktail and shrugged elaborately. “That doesn’t mean anything.” She put her hands flat on the table as though to get up.
Shayne leaned forward and put one big restraining palm over the back of one of hers. “I’ve ordered you a fresh stinger. I want to talk about Elsie.”
She hesitated, compressing her lips and looking down at his hand covering hers on the table. “Are you another of her boy-friends?” Her voice was icy, but it trembled a trifle.
Shayne shook his red head. “I never met the girl. But a friend of mine was in her apartment last night just before she died and I’m trying to help him out.” He withdrew his hand as the tall bald-headed bartender came up to their table with a tray.
He looked at Shayne with interest as he placed the glasses in front of them, and said, “You were asking about Miss Murray that got killed last night?”
Shayne said, “Yes,” and leaned back in his chair to look up at the waiter. Another five-dollar bill lay on the table. “Were you on duty here from midnight to closing about three months ago?”
“I would’ve been, sure. Always worked that shift until lately.”
“And you knew Elsie Murray by sight?” Shayne persisted.
“Yeh. Nice girl. She mostly dropped in alone late for a nightcap. Lived in that apartment right down the street.”
“I know. Do you remember one night around midnight when she came in pretty tight and borrowed a dime from you to make a phone call because she’d lost her purse and hadn’t any change?”
A slight movement from the girl across the table drew Shayne’s attention to her. Her eyes were rounded and thoughtful, no longer so cool a blue as they had been. Her mouth was open slightly in a small O and she was frowning intently.
Shayne swung his gaze back to Jack when the bartender said flatly, “I don’t recollect anything like that ever happening.”
“Wait a minute. I’m sure it did happen,” Shayne said just as flatly. “Maybe this will jog your memory. You advised her to go on home instead of telephoning, and she got sore and told you to mind your own business and give her the dime. So you did. And she looked up a telephone number here in the directory and read it out to you while you wrote it down for her. Now do you remember?”
“I sure would if it’d happened that way. But it didn’t. None of it.” Jack met Shayne’s gaze steadily with his jaw outthrust a bit.
Shayne said harshly, “Why are you lying about it, Jack?”
“Lying? Why should I?”
“That,” said Shayne, “is what I want to know. This is a murder investigation, you know.”
“I don’t care what it is,” blustered the bartender. “You can’t come, in here pushing me around. I tell you it never happened that way.”
“And I say it did.” Shayne stood slowly to face the man. Faces from the bar were turned in their direction curiously as their voices carried over the light hum of conversation. The lines in Shayne’s cheeks deepened as he said flatly, “I want the truth from you. And I particularly want to know why you’re lying about something that happened three months ago.”
Jack wet his lips indecisively. He glanced away from Shayne at the faces at the bar and at his paunchy colleague behind it, then back to the redhead to say angrily, “I won’t take that sort of talk from no one. One more crack like that will get you thrown out on your ear.” He turned on his heel and stalked away defiantly.
Shayne sat down, thoughtfully crumpled the bill that still lay on the table and replaced it in his pocket.
The girl across from him looked puzzled and worried. She leaned closer and asked in a low, troubled voice: “What is it about a telephone call Elsie made three months ago? Why it is important and why would he lie about it?”
“The lying part is most important,” Shayne told her grimly. “Until that happened, I wasn’t sure whether the call meant anything or not. Now I do know.” He lifted his pony of brandy to sip from it abstractedly.
The girl remained leaning forward tensely. “You say it happened one night when Elsie had lost her purse?”
Shayne nodded. “Mislaid it, at least. She had been to a party,” he went on swiftly, “and left her purse in a man’s car when he brought her home quite tight. Not only all her money, but the keys to her apartment were in the purse. So she dropped in here and borrowed a dime from Jack to telephone someone. Did you know her at that time, and do you know anything about the incident?”
The girl sank back against the wall and the fingers of one hand curled tightly about the stem of her glass. “I knew her when she was living down the street.” Her voice was steady and throbbed with something that sounded like gladness or relief to Shayne.
“Three months ago. I think it must have been the night Elsie passed out at a party and was questioned the next day by the police about the death of a man with whom she was suspected of having left the party and registered in a hotel room.”
“What makes you think it was that particular night?” Shayne kept his voice low, but it cut like a whip-lash.
“Isn’t it a natural assumption?” She looked at him in surprise. “Elsie was murdered last night, and you say you’re trying to help out a friend who may be suspected. So you come in here asking questions about a phone call she made three months ago. Wouldn’t you expect anyone of even normal intelligence to think there must be some connection between the two murders?”
“She proved she had nothing to do with the first one.”
“Did she?” Her upper lip curled disdainfully again.
“She was questioned by the police and produced an alibi they had to accept.”
“Is that what happened?” Her voice was light. “I never knew the exact truth. Except that she was questioned, and later moved very suddenly from her apartment down the street. And stopped coming in here altogether after that night. Who provided her so conveniently with an alibi for that night?”
“I hoped you could tell me that.”
“Sorry. I really didn’t know much about the affair.” She lifted her stinger glass and drank from it.
“Nevertheless,” said Shayne grimly, “you’re the first person I’ve contacted who had any connection with the unsolved murder of Elbert Green three months ago, and I’ve got a lot of questions to ask.”
“Do you think Elsie did it… and was killed last night for revenge or something?”
“I don’t think anything yet. See here, I’m a detective, Miss…?” Shayne hesitated.
“Stevens,” she told him promptly. “Estelle Stevens. I’d be awfully glad to help you, but really I must hurry along to keep an appointment.” She finished her cocktail and stood up as she spoke.
Shayne stood up with her and put a detaining hand on her arm. “This is a lot more important than any appointments you may have. Give me five minutes…”
“I’m really sorry but I haven’t a minute to spare.” She was all patrician hauteur now. She tried to move away, looking icily down at his hand on her arm.
His grip tightened and his voice became angry. “This isn’t a game, damn it. Sit down here…”
He was interrupted by a husky Irish brogue at his elbow: “This man giving you trouble, Miss?”
Shayne jerked his head around to see a burly enforcer of New York’s ordinances standing flat-footed beside him. A few paces back, the bald-headed bartender stood with venomous triumph glittering in his eyes. A complete hush had fallen over the cocktail lounge, and all eyes were interestedly taking in the tableau at the rear.
“Thank you, Officer.” Estelle Stevens spoke swiftly and nervously. “Yes. He is giving me trouble. He’s an utter stranger who insisted on sitting with me and detaining me from an important appointment. If I could just be allowed to go along now…?”
“Now wait a minute,” said the bluecoat officiously. “If you wanta make a complaint…”
“But I don’t,” she cried. “I simply want to be left alone.”
“Besides all that, Captain,” said Jack stepping up beside the policeman, “I’ll swear out a complaint if you want. Like I told you in the beginning, this bozo come in here and started asking questions and causing trouble and then…”
“I’m sure you understand, Officer,” said Estelle nervously, twisting her arm from Shayne’s grasp and sidling toward the door. “I simply want to be left alone. And I do thank you for your assistance.”
She tripped out gaily and Shayne turned angrily to the uniformed man; drawing him aside and turning his back on the bald-headed bartender to display his Florida credentials as a private investigator and explain hurriedly:
“From Miami, but I’m working on a local case. That woman is an important witness and must be followed. Let’s get on her tail fast.”
The cop hesitated, narrowing his eyes at Shayne’s face. “Are you Mike Shayne?”
“I’m Mike Shayne.” The redhead moved him toward the door, continuing swiftly: “Get smart and you might get promoted off your beat. You can check with Lieutenant Hogan of Homicide later. But right now we can’t afford to lose that woman.”