Continental Op Stories · The Girl with the Silver Eyes (4/7)

XI

After Porky had cleared out, I leaned back in my chair and burned half a dozen Fatimas over the job. The girl had gone first with the twenty thousand dollars, and then the poet had gone; and both had gone, whether permanently or not, to the White Shack. On its face, the job was an obvious affair. The girl had given Pangburn the work to the extent of having him forge a check against his brother-in-law’s account; and then, after various moves whose value I couldn’t determine at the time, they had gone into hiding together.

There were two loose ends to be taken care of. One of them⁠—the finding of the confederate who had mailed the letters to Pangburn and who had taken care of the girl’s baggage⁠—was in the Baltimore branch’s hands. The other was: Who had ridden in the taxicab that I had traced from the girl’s apartment to the Marquis Hotel?

That might not have any bearing upon the job, or it might. Suppose I could find a connection between the Marquis Hotel and the White Shack. That would make a completed chain of some sort. I searched the back of the telephone directory and found the roadhouse number. Then I went up to the Marquis Hotel.

The girl on duty at the hotel switchboard, when I got there, was one with whom I had done business before.

“Who’s been calling Halfmoon Bay numbers?” I asked her.

“My God!” She leaned back in her chair and ran a pink hand gently over the front of her rigidly waved red hair. “I got enough to do without remembering every call that goes through. This ain’t a boardinghouse. We have more’n one call a week.”

“You don’t have many Halfmoon Bay calls,” I insisted, leaning an elbow on the counter and letting a folded five-spot peep out between the fingers of one hand. “You ought to remember any you’ve had lately.”

“I’ll see,” she sighed, as if willing to do her best on a hopeless task.

She ran through her tickets.

“Here’s one⁠—from room 522, a couple weeks ago.”

“What number was called?”

“Halfmoon Bay 51.”

That was the roadhouse number. I passed over the five-spot.

“Is 522 a permanent guest?”

“Yes. Mr. Kilcourse. He’s been here three or four months.”

“What is he?”

“I don’t know. A perfect gentleman, if you ask me.”

“That’s nice. What does he look like?”

“Tall and elegant.”

“Be yourself,” I pleaded. “What does he look like?”

“He’s a young man, but his hair is turning gray. He’s dark and handsome. Looks like a movie actor.”

“Bull Montana?” I asked, as I moved off toward the desk.

The key to 522 was in its place in the rack. I sat down where I could keep an eye on it. Perhaps an hour later a clerk took it out and gave it to a man who did look somewhat like an actor. He was a man of thirty or so, with dark skin, and dark hair that showed grey around the ears. He stood a good six feet of fashionably dressed slenderness.

Carrying the key, he disappeared into an elevator.

I called up the agency then and asked the Old Man to send Dick Foley over. Ten minutes later Dick arrived. He’s a little shrimp of a Canadian⁠—there isn’t a hundred and ten pounds of him⁠—who is the smoothest shadow I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen most of them.

“I have a bird in here I want tailed,” I told Dick. “His name is Kilcourse and he’s in room 522. Stick around outside, and I’ll give you the spot on him.”

I went back to the lobby and waited some more.

At eight o’clock Kilcourse came down and left the hotel. I went after him for half a block⁠—far enough to turn him over to Dick⁠—and then went home, so that I would be within reach of a telephone if Porky Grout tried to get in touch with me. No call came from him that night.

XII

When I arrived at the agency the next morning, Dick was waiting for me.

“What luck?” I asked.

“Damndest!” The little Canadian talks like a telegram when his peace of mind is disturbed, and just now he was decidedly peevish. “Took me two blocks. Shook me. Only taxi in sight.”

“Think he made you?”

“No. Wise head. Playing safe.”

“Try him again, then. Better have a car handy, in case he tries the same trick again.”

My telephone jingled as Dick was going out. It was Porky Grout, talking over the agency’s unlisted line.

“Turn up anything?” I asked.

“Plenty,” he bragged.

“Good! Are you in town?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you in my rooms in twenty minutes,” I said.

The pasty-faced informant was fairly bloated with pride in himself when he came through the door I had left unlocked for him. His swagger was almost a cakewalk; and the side of his mouth that twitches was twisted into a knowing leer that would have fit a Solomon.

“I knocked it over for you, kid,” he boasted. “Nothin’ to it⁠—for me! I went down there and talked to ever’body that knowed anything, seen ever’thing there was to see, and put the X-ray on the whole dump. I made a⁠—”

“Uh-huh,” I interrupted. “Congratulations and so forth. But just what did you turn up?”

“Now le’me tell you.” He raised a dirty hand in a traffic-cop sort of gesture, and blew a stream of cigarette smoke at the ceiling. “Don’t crowd me. I’ll give you all the dope.”

“Sure,” I said. “I know. You’re great, and I’m lucky to have you to knock off my jobs for me, and all that! But is Pangburn down there?”

“I’m gettin’ around to that. I went down there and⁠—”

“Did you see Pangburn?”

“As I was sayin’, I went down there and⁠—”

“Porky,” I said, “I don’t give a damn what you did! Did you see Pangburn?”

“Yes. I seen him.”

“Fine! Now what did you see?”

“He’s camping down there with Tin-Star. Him and the broad that you give me a picture of are both there. She’s been there a month. I didn’t see her, but one of the waiters told me about her. I seen Pangburn myself. They don’t show themselves much⁠—stick back in Tin-Star’s part of the joint⁠—where he lives⁠—most of the time. Pangburn’s been there since Sunday. I went down there and⁠—”

“Learn who the girl is? Or anything about what they’re up to?”

“No. I went down there and⁠—”

“All right! Went down there again tonight. Call me up as soon as you know positively Pangburn is there⁠—that he hasn’t gone out. Don’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to come down there and scare them up on a false alarm. Use the agency’s undercover line, and just tell whoever answers that you won’t be in town until late. That’ll mean that Pangburn is there; and it’ll let you call up from Joplin’s without giving the play away.”

“I got to have more dough,” he said, as he got up. “It costs⁠—”

“I’ll file your application,” I promised. “Now beat it, and let me hear from you tonight, the minute you’re sure Pangburn is there.”

Then I went up to Axford’s office.

“I think I have a line on him,” I told the millionaire. “I hope to have him where you can talk to him tonight. My man says he was at the White Shack last night, and is probably living there. If he’s there tonight, I’ll take you down, if you want.”

“Why can’t we go now?”

“No. The place is too dead in the daytime for my man to hang around without making himself conspicuous, and I don’t want to take any chances on either you or me showing ourselves there until we’re sure we’re coming face to face with Pangburn.”

“What do you want me to do then?”

“Have a fast car ready tonight, and be ready to start as soon as I get word to you.”

“Righto. I’ll be at home after five-thirty. Phone me as soon as you’re ready to go, and I’ll pick you up.”

XIII

At nine-thirty that evening I was sitting beside Axford on the front seat of a powerfully engined foreign car, and we were roaring down a road that led to Halfmoon Bay. Porky’s telephone call had come.

Neither of us talked much during that ride, and the imported monster under us made it a rather short ride. Axford sat comfortable and relaxed at the wheel, but I noticed for the first time that he had a rather heavy jaw.

The White Shack is a large building, square-built, of imitation stone. It is set away back from the road, and is approached by two curving driveways, which, together, make a semicircle whose diameter is the public road. The center of this semicircle is occupied by sheds under which Joplin’s patrons stow their cars, and here and there around the sheds are flowerbeds and clumps of shrubbery.

We were still going at a fair clip when we turned into one end of this semicircular driveway, and⁠—

Axford slammed on his brakes, and the big machine threw us into the windshield as it jolted into an abrupt stop⁠—barely in time to avoid smashing into a cluster of people who had suddenly loomed up before us.

In the glow from our headlights faces stood sharply out; white, horrified faces, furtive faces, faces that were callously curious. Below the faces, white arms and shoulders showed, and bright gowns and jewelry, against the duller background of masculine clothing.

This was the first impression I got, and then, by the time I had removed my face from the windshield, I realized that this cluster of people had a core, a thing about which it centered. I stood up, trying to look over the crowd’s heads, but I could see nothing.

Jumping down to the driveway, I pushed through the crowd.

Face down on the white gravel a man sprawled⁠—a thin man in dark clothes⁠—and just above his collar, where the head and neck join, was a hole. I knelt to peer into his face.

Then I pushed through the crowd again, back to where Axford was just getting out of the car, the engine of which was still running.

“Pangburn is dead⁠—shot!”