Claustrophobia are doing even better than I thought, or Mom has taken up another hobby,” she said, passing the books to Brass. “There’s something over twenty thousand dollars in these.”
“A healthy nest egg,” Brass agreed. “What’s on the sheet of paper?”
She unfolded it. “It looks like an address.”
“Could it be where she is?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sandra said.
Brass took the paper and looked at it. “Four-sixty-four Fenton. Does it mean anything to you?”
“No. I don’t even know where that is.”
“It conveys nothing to me either, but since she kept it carefully hidden, it must mean something,” he said, handing it back. “I assume this means that your mother wasn’t planning to stay away, or she would have taken Binny—or his contents—with her.”
Sandra Lelane stuck it and the bankbooks back into the raccoon, zipped it closed, and stuffed it into her oversized handbag. “I hope nothing’s happened to her, damn her!”
Brass took her hands in his and searched her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be okay. It’s just—”
“We’ll find her,” Brass said. “At least we’ll give it a damn good try. This, here, proves nothing except that someone who knew Mary wasn’t home thought she had something she wanted.”
“But whoever it was had a key.”
“I don’t think so. What she had was a lock pick. There were slight scratch marks around the keyhole.”
“Oh. What does that mean?”
Brass shook his head. “Presumably that whoever entered here didn’t have your mother’s keys, but beyond that I have no idea. Incidently, do you have a recent photograph of your mother?”
“There’s probably one in her bedroom,” Sandra said. “Give me a moment.” She disappeared back into the interior of the apartment. A couple of minutes later she was back with an 8 x 10 photograph in stiff cardboard folder with the emblem of the Stork Club embossed on the cover. “This must be a recent one,” she said.
Most of the big nightclubs have house photographers; girls in brief costumes who come around and take your picture while you eat or dance or gaze soulfully into the eyes of your date. It’s a way of proving to the crowd back home that you were a big sport while visiting the big city. It costs five bucks a snap, and we blasé Gothamites usually don’t want to pay the tariff for a picture of us looking soused with a woman who is probably not our wife.
This photograph was a close shot of a man and woman sitting at a table against the wall. The man was wearing a tux, and had his face turned to whisper into the woman’s ear, so I couldn’t really tell what he looked like. The woman had on a low-cut evening gown with puffy shoulders and was very attractive. She might have been as old as forty, but I would have bet on a good five years younger. She was laughing in the photo, presumably at whatever the man had just said. She looked like she had a great laugh. “Is that your mom?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“A very good-looking lady.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t look like the same woman I’ve seen outside the theaters.”
“That’s her matron disguise,” Sandra said, handing the photo to Brass. “This is her glamour girl. She has a different look for all occasions, my mother.”
“Who’s the gentleman with her?” Brass asked.
“I have no idea.”
We went back downstairs to find Schreiber by the gilded lectern, engaged in discussing Field Marshal Ponce’s sins with him in a fierce murmur. Ponce’s ears were red and as we approached he suppressed a sniffle.
Brass stopped at the lectern. “A word with Mr. Ponce, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Why not?” Schreiber said. “I’ve had a few words with him myself.”
Brass turned to Ponce and smiled reassuringly. Ponce didn’t look reassured. “Could you describe the young lady who impersonated Miss Lelane?” Brass asked.
Ponce raised a hand in front of him, palm down, as high as his
“A healthy nest egg,” Brass agreed. “What’s on the sheet of paper?”
She unfolded it. “It looks like an address.”
“Could it be where she is?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sandra said.
Brass took the paper and looked at it. “Four-sixty-four Fenton. Does it mean anything to you?”
“No. I don’t even know where that is.”
“It conveys nothing to me either, but since she kept it carefully hidden, it must mean something,” he said, handing it back. “I assume this means that your mother wasn’t planning to stay away, or she would have taken Binny—or his contents—with her.”
Sandra Lelane stuck it and the bankbooks back into the raccoon, zipped it closed, and stuffed it into her oversized handbag. “I hope nothing’s happened to her, damn her!”
Brass took her hands in his and searched her face. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be okay. It’s just—”
“We’ll find her,” Brass said. “At least we’ll give it a damn good try. This, here, proves nothing except that someone who knew Mary wasn’t home thought she had something she wanted.”
“But whoever it was had a key.”
“I don’t think so. What she had was a lock pick. There were slight scratch marks around the keyhole.”
“Oh. What does that mean?”
Brass shook his head. “Presumably that whoever entered here didn’t have your mother’s keys, but beyond that I have no idea. Incidently, do you have a recent photograph of your mother?”
“There’s probably one in her bedroom,” Sandra said. “Give me a moment.” She disappeared back into the interior of the apartment. A couple of minutes later she was back with an 8 x 10 photograph in stiff cardboard folder with the emblem of the Stork Club embossed on the cover. “This must be a recent one,” she said.
Most of the big nightclubs have house photographers; girls in brief costumes who come around and take your picture while you eat or dance or gaze soulfully into the eyes of your date. It’s a way of proving to the crowd back home that you were a big sport while visiting the big city. It costs five bucks a snap, and we blasé Gothamites usually don’t want to pay the tariff for a picture of us looking soused with a woman who is probably not our wife.
This photograph was a close shot of a man and woman sitting at a table against the wall. The man was wearing a tux, and had his face turned to whisper into the woman’s ear, so I couldn’t really tell what he looked like. The woman had on a low-cut evening gown with puffy shoulders and was very attractive. She might have been as old as forty, but I would have bet on a good five years younger. She was laughing in the photo, presumably at whatever the man had just said. She looked like she had a great laugh. “Is that your mom?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“A very good-looking lady.”
“Yes.”
“She doesn’t look like the same woman I’ve seen outside the theaters.”
“That’s her matron disguise,” Sandra said, handing the photo to Brass. “This is her glamour girl. She has a different look for all occasions, my mother.”
“Who’s the gentleman with her?” Brass asked.
“I have no idea.”
We went back downstairs to find Schreiber by the gilded lectern, engaged in discussing Field Marshal Ponce’s sins with him in a fierce murmur. Ponce’s ears were red and as we approached he suppressed a sniffle.
Brass stopped at the lectern. “A word with Mr. Ponce, if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Why not?” Schreiber said. “I’ve had a few words with him myself.”
Brass turned to Ponce and smiled reassuringly. Ponce didn’t look reassured. “Could you describe the young lady who impersonated Miss Lelane?” Brass asked.
Ponce raised a hand in front of him, palm down, as high as his
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