last night in a cold rain?”
“Nevertheless, I did,” Julie said.
“Unless the person’s mind was on fire, if I can put it that way. And the rejection of a story doesn’t seem sufficient motive for that.”
“How did you know I came in at all? No name in the book or anything.”
“A security officer recognized you, but having recognized you he lost interest and couldn’t say what direction you took from the desk.”
“Now I understand,” Julie said. “Have you reached Alice Arthur?”
“We have,” Marks said.
“And Mrs. Alexander?”
He almost seemed amused. “And her daughter.”
“I’ve never met her. I don’t even know her name,” Julie said.
“Family friends and never met the daughter?”
“She’s always been away at school or someplace.”
Marks grunted and looked around. The dilapidated leather couch where Tony had claimed to do his best thinking was covered with plastic. A card read: Do not disturb by order of the Police Department. “Would you like to sit down? Perhaps at the table?” The technicians were leaving.
“I’m fine,” Julie said.
“Tell me again now: what’s in those file drawers?” The whole bank was isolated by movable posts.
“They’re profiles of celebrities, or just source material—gossip, rumors, leads…. They’re terribly confidential.”
“And you wouldn’t like to take advantage of access to them now? Who knows when you’ll have the opportunity again?”
He was not going to give up until she yielded information that justified her intended visit to the office. “All right. Lieutenant, I wanted to look up Jay Phillips.”
“Shall we do it together?”
Naturally.
He cautioned her to touch nothing, especially she was not to touch the cards. The drawers had been examined for prints, but he turned the cards with tweezers. The only entry under Phillips was Ellen Duprey Phillips.
“Wait,” Julie said. They both read: “An actress yet. Femme fatale. If you saw her naked you’d say go put some clothes on before you catch cold.”
“Any relation?” Marks asked, deadpan.
“She was Jay’s wife, and she’s been dead for ten years.”
“Having caught cold, no doubt,” the detective said dryly. “Didn’t Alexander ever clean out his files? Ten years—to keep something like that?”
“I think you’d better ask Alice Arthur that question, Lieutenant. I don’t know.”
“Anyone else while we’re here?”
“Morton Butts,” Julie said.
“Yes, of course,” Marks said. “We must look him up.”
“Why?”
He looked up at her from where he was about to tweezer his way through the b ’s. “You know, Mrs. Hayes, it is customary for the police to ask the questions, not to answer them.”
Julie shrugged.
“Because,” Marks went on, “there is a name scrawled in the registry downstairs that could be Morton Butts.”
“I was wondering whether Tony knew Butts and never let on to me. When I learned at the funeral parlor that Jay Phillips was doing the publicity for this dance marathon, it just didn’t make sense. Phillips was a big time public relations man. Why would he take on a two-bit operation on the fringe of Harlem?”
“And one that interested Tony Alexander so that he sent his number one reporter to cover it. How did he find out about it?”
“From a release out of Phillips’ office?” Julie suggested. “Alice Arthur might be able to tell us that. I can’t really believe he knew Butts. He didn’t mention him by name, and Butts seems like an insignificant little man. It was the dance marathon that interested Tony. He’d won a two hundred dollar prize in one when he was young.”
Marks continued through the cards to the end of the b ’s. “No Butts,” he said. “But me no buts.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to remove a card if you wanted to,” Julie said.
The detective smiled. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and marked the drawer. “Who else shall we look up?”
“That’s it.” Alone, she
“Nevertheless, I did,” Julie said.
“Unless the person’s mind was on fire, if I can put it that way. And the rejection of a story doesn’t seem sufficient motive for that.”
“How did you know I came in at all? No name in the book or anything.”
“A security officer recognized you, but having recognized you he lost interest and couldn’t say what direction you took from the desk.”
“Now I understand,” Julie said. “Have you reached Alice Arthur?”
“We have,” Marks said.
“And Mrs. Alexander?”
He almost seemed amused. “And her daughter.”
“I’ve never met her. I don’t even know her name,” Julie said.
“Family friends and never met the daughter?”
“She’s always been away at school or someplace.”
Marks grunted and looked around. The dilapidated leather couch where Tony had claimed to do his best thinking was covered with plastic. A card read: Do not disturb by order of the Police Department. “Would you like to sit down? Perhaps at the table?” The technicians were leaving.
“I’m fine,” Julie said.
“Tell me again now: what’s in those file drawers?” The whole bank was isolated by movable posts.
“They’re profiles of celebrities, or just source material—gossip, rumors, leads…. They’re terribly confidential.”
“And you wouldn’t like to take advantage of access to them now? Who knows when you’ll have the opportunity again?”
He was not going to give up until she yielded information that justified her intended visit to the office. “All right. Lieutenant, I wanted to look up Jay Phillips.”
“Shall we do it together?”
Naturally.
He cautioned her to touch nothing, especially she was not to touch the cards. The drawers had been examined for prints, but he turned the cards with tweezers. The only entry under Phillips was Ellen Duprey Phillips.
“Wait,” Julie said. They both read: “An actress yet. Femme fatale. If you saw her naked you’d say go put some clothes on before you catch cold.”
“Any relation?” Marks asked, deadpan.
“She was Jay’s wife, and she’s been dead for ten years.”
“Having caught cold, no doubt,” the detective said dryly. “Didn’t Alexander ever clean out his files? Ten years—to keep something like that?”
“I think you’d better ask Alice Arthur that question, Lieutenant. I don’t know.”
“Anyone else while we’re here?”
“Morton Butts,” Julie said.
“Yes, of course,” Marks said. “We must look him up.”
“Why?”
He looked up at her from where he was about to tweezer his way through the b ’s. “You know, Mrs. Hayes, it is customary for the police to ask the questions, not to answer them.”
Julie shrugged.
“Because,” Marks went on, “there is a name scrawled in the registry downstairs that could be Morton Butts.”
“I was wondering whether Tony knew Butts and never let on to me. When I learned at the funeral parlor that Jay Phillips was doing the publicity for this dance marathon, it just didn’t make sense. Phillips was a big time public relations man. Why would he take on a two-bit operation on the fringe of Harlem?”
“And one that interested Tony Alexander so that he sent his number one reporter to cover it. How did he find out about it?”
“From a release out of Phillips’ office?” Julie suggested. “Alice Arthur might be able to tell us that. I can’t really believe he knew Butts. He didn’t mention him by name, and Butts seems like an insignificant little man. It was the dance marathon that interested Tony. He’d won a two hundred dollar prize in one when he was young.”
Marks continued through the cards to the end of the b ’s. “No Butts,” he said. “But me no buts.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to remove a card if you wanted to,” Julie said.
The detective smiled. He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and marked the drawer. “Who else shall we look up?”
“That’s it.” Alone, she
Similar Books
