Richard rose. So did the ends of the mustache. Joe decided the mustache was like a trained seal.
“Will you two please excuse me? I see some friends I’d like to speak to.”
Milly leaned forward and put her hand on Joe’s sleeve, looking at Dick.
“Don’t stay long, Dick. I’m afraid to be alone with these strong, silent men from the West.”
“So I see,” was all he said, as he moved through the crowd on the dance floor to a table in the far corner where two men were sipping coffee. They hadn’t been there when Joe came in. Both were in evening clothes.
One was fat. So fat he had trouble reaching the table with his elbows. What hair he had appeared to rest on his shoulders. There was almost no neck. Blonde, almost albino brows hovered over colorless eyes. His fat sensuous lips drooled over a well-chewed cigar.
The other, in comparison, was well built. His shining black hair waved in a perfect marcel and his mustache was Waxed and pointed. Joe caught his eye across the room suddenly and was startled at the intensity of the man’s stare. Neither of the men rose as Richard joined them. His presence was taken for granted.
Joe and Milly finished their drinks. Then they drank Richard’s. He saw that she was beginning to feel the effects of the cocktails. She watched him under sultry lids. There was no giggle this time.
“You know, Mr. South, I could go for you in a big way.”
“Most of them do,” he answered idly. He was wondering how much she knew about Richard’s business. He decided to find out. He said, “We’d better watch our step though. Dick’s got some tough friends.”
“Afraid?” she pouted.
“Not afraid—only careful.” He motioned toward Dick who was still at the table with the two men. “He might get tough. Looks like he has some pretty hefty playmates.”
The pout left the girl’s lips and for a moment a frightened look showed in her eyes. Then she shrugged.
“Oh, them. They may get by with telling Dicky when to change his diapers but they can’t kick me around. Me and Dicky understand each other.” She pressed her lips together and an angry light chased fear from her eyes. “Dicky’s smarter than they are. Just wait till . . .” She clapped her hand over her mouth suddenly and gave a small gasp. “What am I talking about? Come on. Let’s dance.”
“All right,” Joe agreed. He knew he wouldn’t get any more out of her now. “But no jitterbug stuff.”
Young Raleigh’s back was to them as they edged onto the floor. Joe put his arm around her waist. Her bare back felt warm and sleek under his touch. Brushing stray hairs from his cheek he whispered into her ear, “Just call me Joey.”
The floor was jammed. Milly was taller than she looked when seated.
She slid up on her toes, clinging to him with a sinuous sway of her hips. Her firm, slender body snuggled softly to his and he felt the rise and fall of pulsing breasts as she followed him expertly. Boy, young Raleigh knew how to pick them.
The man with the mustache was following him with hot, intense eyes. Presently Richard turned. Joe knew there was suspicion in his glance. He pretended not to notice. The music stopped and Milly still clung to him. He released her hold gently. She was definitely intoxicated. So it wasn’t altogether his personality that had made her so warmly responsive. They returned to the table, Joe steadying her into her chair. He said, “Excuse me. I just remembered a call I should have made the minute I got off the train.”
The girl’s giggle was alcoholic.
“Oh, Mr. South, you’re so funny. It’s the second door to the left.”
Joe cut his way around the tables of the smoke-filled room. A small, gypsy-faced girl in tweeds was standing near the 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