Ed McBain (15 page)

"Yeah, he quit."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

Mangione shrugged. "Maybe you can get his address from the office in the morning. But, mister, I wouldn't bother him right now, if I was you."

"Why not?"

Mangione smiled.

"Because he's on his honeymoon."

When Davis awoke in the morning, the back of his head hardly hurt at all. He shaved and washed quickly, downed a breakfast of orange juice and coffee, and then went to the San Francisco office of Intercoastal Airways.

Radner, they told him, was no longer with them. But they did have his last address, and they parted with it willingly. Davis grabbed a cab, and then sat back while the driver fought the California traffic. When he reached Radner's address, he paid and tipped the cabbie, and listed the expenditure in his book.

The rooming house was not in a good section of the city. It was red brick, with a brown front stoop. There was an old-fashioned bellpull set in the wide, wooden doorjamb. He pulled this and heard the sound inside, and then he waited for footsteps. They came sooner than he expected.

The woman who opened the door couldn't have been more than fifty. Her face was still greasy with cold cream, and her hair was tied up in rags.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm looking for Tony Radner," Davis said. "I'm an old friend of his, knew him in the Army. I went out to Intercoastal, but they told me he doesn't work for them anymore. I wonder if you know where I can reach him."

The landlady regarded him suspiciously for a moment. "He doesn't live here anymore," she said.

"Darn," Davis said. He shook his head and assumed a false smile. "Isn't that always the way? I came all the way from New York, and now I can't locate him."

"That's too bad," the landlady agreed.

"Did he leave any forwarding address?" Davis asked.

"No. He left because he was getting married."

"Married!" Davis said. "Well, I'll be darned! Old Tony getting married!"

The landlady continued to watch Davis, her small eyes staring fixedly.

"You wouldn't know who he married, would you?"

"Yes," she said guardedly. "I guess I would."

"Who?" he asked.

"Trimble," the landlady said. "A girl named Alice Trimble."

"Alice Trimble," Davis said reflectively. "You wouldn't have her phone number, would you?"

"Come on in " the landlady said, finally accepting Davis at face value. She led him into the foyer of the house, and Davis followed her to the pay phone on the wall.

"They all scribble numbers here," she said. "I keep washing them off, but they keep putting them back again."

"Shame," Davis said sympathetically.

"Hers is up there, too. You just wait a second, and I'll tell you which one." She stepped close to the phone and examined the scribbled numbers on the wall. She stood very close to the wall, moving her head whenever she wanted to move her eyes. She stepped back at last and placed a long white finger on one of the numbers. "This one. This is the one he always called."

Davis jotted down the number hastily, and then said, "Well, gee, thanks a million. You don't know how much I appreciate this."

"I hope you find him," the landlady said. "Nice fellow, Mr. Radner."

"One of the best," Davis said.

He called the number from the first pay phone he found. He listened to the phone ring four times on the other end, and then a voice said, "Hello?"

"Hello," he said. "I'm an old friend of Tony Radner's. He asked me to look him up if ever I was in town." He paused and forced himself to laugh in embarrassment. "Trouble is I can't seem to find him. His landlady gave me this number..."

"Oh," the girl said. "You must want my sister. This is
Anne
Trimble."

"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize..." He paused. "Is your sister there?"

"No, she doesn't live with me anymore. She and Tony got married."

"Well, now, that's wonderful," Davis said. "Know where I can find them?"

"They're still on their honeymoon."

"Oh, that's too bad." He thought for a few seconds, and then said, "I've got to catch a plane back tonight. I wonder if I might come over and ... well, you could fill me in on what Tony's been doing and all. Hate like the devil to go back without knowing something about him."

The girl hesitated.

"I promise I'll make it a very short visit. I've still got some business to attend to here. Besides ... well, Tony loaned me a little money once, and I thought ... well, if you don't mind, I'd like to leave it with you."

"I ... I suppose that'd be all right," she said.

"Fine. May I have the address?"

She gave it to him, and he told her he'd be there in about an hour, if that was all right with her. He went to the coffee counter then, ordered coffee and a toasted English, and browsed over them until it was time to go. He bought a plain white envelope on the way out, slipped twenty dollars into it, and sealed it. Then he hailed a cab.

He found the mailbox marked A. Trimble, and realized the initial sufficed for both Alice and Anne. He walked up two flights, stopped outside apartment 22, and thumbed the ivory stud in the doorjamb. A series of chimes floated from beyond the door, and then the peephole flap was thrown back.

"I'm Mr. Davis," he said to the flap. "I called about—"

"Oh, yes," Anne Trimble said. The flap descended, and the door swung wide.

She was a tall brunette, and her costume emphasized her height. She was wearing tightly tailored toreador slacks. A starched white blouse with a wide collar and long sleeves was tucked firmly into the band of the slacks. A bird in flight, captured in sterling, rested on the blouse just below the left breast pocket.

"Come in," she said, "won't you?" She had green eyes and black eyebrows, and she smiled pleasantly now.

Davis stepped into the cool apartment, and she closed the door behind him.

"I'm sorry if I seemed rude when you called," she said. "I'm afraid you woke me."

"Then I should be the one to apologize," Davis said.

He followed her into a sunken living room furnished in Swedish modern. She walked to a long, low coffee table and took a cigarette from a box there, offering the box to him first. Davis shook his head and watched her as she lighted the cigarette. Her hair was cut close to her head, ringing her face with ebony wisps. She wore only lipstick, and Davis reflected that this was the first truly beautiful woman he had ever met. Two large, silver hoop earrings hung from her ears. She lifted her head, and the earrings caught the rays of the sun streaming through the blinds.

"Now," she said. "You're a friend of Tony's, are you?"

"Yes," he answered. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the sealed envelope. "First, let me get this off my mind. Please tell Tony I sincerely appreciate the loan, won't you?"

She took the envelope without comment, dropping it on the coffee table.

This is a very cool one, Davis thought.

"I was really surprised to learn that Tony was married," he said.

"It was a little sudden, yes," she said.

"Oh? Hadn't he known your sister long?"

"Three months, four months."

Davis shook his head.

"I still can't get over it. How'd he happen to meet her?"

"Like that," Anne said. "How do people meet? A concert, a club, a soda fountain." She shrugged. "You know, people meet."

"Don't you like Tony?" he asked suddenly.

She seemed surprised. "Me? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I think he'll be very good for Alice. He has a strong personality, and she needs someone like him. Yes, I like Tony."

"Well, that's good," Davis said.

"When we came to Frisco, you see, Alice was sort of at loose ends. We'd lived in L.A. all our lives, and Alice depended on Mom a good deal, I suppose. When Mom passed away, and this job opening came for me ... well, the change affected her. Moving and all. It was a good thing Tony came along."

"You live here alone then, just the two of you?"

Anne Trimble smiled and sucked in a deep cloud of smoke. "Just two little gals from Little Rock," she said.

Davis smiled with her. "L.A., you mean."

"The same thing. We're all alone in the world. Just Alice and me. Dad died when we were both little girls. Now, of course, Alice is married. Don't misunderstand me. I'm very happy for her."

"When were they married?"

"January sixth," she answered. "It's been a long honeymoon."

January sixth, Davis thought. The day the DC-4 crashed. "Where are they now?" he asked.

"Las Vegas."

"Where in Las Vegas?"

Anne Trimble smiled again. "You're not planning on visiting a pair of honeymooners, are you, Mr. Davis?"

"God, no," he said. "I'm just curious."

"Fact is," Anne said, "I don't
know
where they're staying. I've only had a wire from them since they got married. I don't imagine they're thinking much about me. Not on their honeymoon."

"No, I guess not," Davis said, and smiled. "I understand Tony left his job. Is that right?"

"Yes. It didn't pay much, and Tony is really a brilliant person. He and Alice said they'd look around after the honeymoon and settle wherever he could get located."

"When did he quit?"

"A few days before they were married, I think. No, wait, it was on New Year's Eve, that's right. He quit then."

"Then he wasn't selling tickets on the day of..."

Anne looked at him strangely.

"The day of what?"

"The day he was married," Davis said quickly.

"No, he wasn't." She continued looking at him, and then asked, "How do you happen to know Tony, Mr. Davis?"

"The Army," Davis said. "The last war."

"That's quite a feat," Anne said.

"Huh?" Davis looked up.

"Tony was in the Navy."

Once again, he felt like a damn fool. He cursed the crashed plane, and he cursed George Ellison, and he cursed the stupidity that had led him to take the job in the first place. He sighed deeply.

"Well," he said. "I guess I didn't meet him in the Army."

"I guess you didn't meet him at all," Anne said. She was staring at him coldly now. "Maybe you'd better get out, Mr. Davis. If that's your name."

"It's my name. Look," he said, "I'm a private eye. I'm investigating the crash for my client. I thought..."

"What crash?"

"A DC-4 took a dive in Seattle. My client's daughter was aboard her when she went down. There was also a bomb aboard."

"Is this another one of your stories?"

Davis lifted his right hand. "God's truth, s'help me. I'm trying to find whoever put the bomb aboard."

"And you think Tony did?"

"No, I didn't say that. But I've got to investigate all the possibilities."

Anne suddenly smiled. "Are you new at this business?"

"No, I've been at it a long time now. This case is a little out of my usual line."

"You called yourself a private eye. Do private eyes really call themselves that? I thought that was just for the paperback trade."

"I'm afraid we really do," Davis said. "Private Investigator, shortened to Private I, and then naturally to private eye."

"It must be exciting."

"Well, I'm afraid it's usually deadly dull." He rose and said, "Thanks very much for your time, Miss Trimble. I'm sorry I got to see you on a ruse, but..."

"You should have just asked. I'm always willing to help the cause of justice." She smiled again. "And I think you'd better take this money back."

"Well, thanks again," he said, taking the envelope.

"Not at all," she said. She led him to the door, and shook his hand. Her grip was firm and warm. "Good luck," she said.

The door whispered shut behind him.

He stood in the hallway for a few moments, sighed, and then made his way down to the courtyard and the street.

The time has come, he thought, to replenish the bank account. If Ellison expects me to chase hither and yon, then Ellison should also realize I'm a poor boy, raised by the side of a railroad car. And if a trip to Vegas is in the offing ... the time has come to replenish the bank account.

He thought no more about it. He hailed a cab for which Ellison would pay, and headed for the old man's estate.

The butler opened the door and announced, "Mr. Davis, sir."

Davis smiled at him and entered the room. It was full of plates and pitchers and cups and saucers and mugs and jugs and platters. For a moment Davis thought he'd wandered into the pantry by error, but then he saw Ellison seated behind a large desk.

Ellison did not look old, even though Davis knew he was somewhere in his seventies. He had led an easy life, and the rich are expert at conserving their youth. The only signs of age on Ellison were in his face. It was perhaps a bit too ruddy for good health, and it reminded him of MacGregor's complexion, but Ellison was not a fat man. He had steel-gray hair cropped close to his head. His brows were black, in direct contrast to the hair on his head, and his eyes were a penetrating pale blue. Davis wondered from whom Janet had inherited her red hair, then let the thought drop when Ellison rose and extended his hand.

"Ah, Davis, come in," he said. "Come in."

Davis walked to the desk, and Ellison took his hand in a tight grip.

"Hope you don't mind talking in here," he said. "I've got a new piece of porcelain, and I wanted to mount it."

"Not at all," Davis said.

"Know anything about porcelain?" Ellison asked.

"Not a thing, sir."

"Pity. Volkstedt wouldn't mean anything to you then, would it?"

"No, sir."

"Or Rudolstadt? It's more generally known as that."

"I'm afraid not, sir," Davis said.

"Here now," Ellison said. "Look at this sauceboat."

Davis looked.

"This dates back to 1783, Davis. Here, look." He turned over the sauceboat, but he did not let it out of his hands. "See the crossed hayforks? That's the mark, you know, shows it's genuine stuff. Funny thing about this. The mark so resembles the Meissen crossed swords..." He seemed suddenly to remember that he was not talking to a fellow connoisseur. He put the sauceboat down swiftly but gently. "Have you learned anything yet, Davis?"