This time she was the one who had to go away, ten yards or so away, until he was gone and the coast was clear again.
But by that time somebody else had already come out and was well on his way. She had to run up the street after him to overtake him.
“Yeah, I’m Frank.”
“Did a girl borrow a pencil from you tonight, at your end of the bar? She was a tall girl, and she was red-haired, and she was in a light-green dress. Oh, it was a long time ago, earlier in the night, but see if you can remember— Did someone? Did anyone?”
He nodded. She got it. “Yeah,” he said, “someone like that did. I remember. It was way back around twelve o’clock, but someone did.”
“You don’t know her name, though?”
“No, that I don’t. I’ve got an idea she works in one of the other clubs around here—”
“You don’t know which one, though?”
“No. The only reason I say that is because I happened to overhear somebody else say to her, ‘Whatcha doing in here? You through at your own place already?’ ”
“But you don’t know—?”
“I don’t know who she is or where she works or anything else about her. Only that she borryed a pencil from me and bent over close, scribbling something behind her arm for a minute, then looked up and gave it back to me.”
He stopped by her a moment longer. There wasn’t anything else for either one of them to say.
“Wish I could help you.”
“I do too,” she said wanly.
He turned and went away. She stood there looking down at the sidewalk at a loss.
That was as close as she could probably hope to get. So near and yet so far.
She raised her head. He’d turned a second time and come back to her again.
“It seems to have you worried.”
“Plenty,” she admitted forlornly.
“Here’s a tip for you. I don’t know if you’re in club work yourself or not, but they’ve got funny habits. There’s a theatrical drugstore they all hang out in after the clubs’ve closed up. People that aren’t in the know, they think they step out with these stage-door johnnies, go on champagne parties. Well, some of them do some of the time, but most of them don’t most of the time. Don’t you believe it. Nine times out of ten they head for this place like a bunch of kids when school’s been let out. They like it better. They gang up there and drink malted milks and let their hair down. Go over there and take a shot at it. It’s worth trying, anyway.”
Was it! She broke away so fast she left him standing there staring after her. She ran all the way. It was only down a couple of blocks from there.
They weren’t exactly lined up at the fountain, as he’d led her to expect. Maybe that was because it was too late and the majority of them had already disbanded. But there were a group of three still lingering down at the far end. One of them had a Russian wolfhound with her. She must have brought it out for an airing before going to bed for the morning. They were all ganged up around it, feeding it crumbs from their plates and making a fuss over it. Its owner was in what might be called a state of street-wear deshabille. She had a polo coat thrown over her shoulders, and under it peered the bottoms of a pair of boudoir pajamas, stockingless ankles, and house slippers. None of the three was a redhead.
Their heads came up. Their attention left the borzoi and settled fleetingly on Bricky instead.
“She means Joanie, I guess,” one of them said. She addressed her directly, and rather fatuously. “That who you mean?”
How could she tell, if she didn’t know herself?
They didn’t know her last name, it appeared.
“I just know her from in here,” one said.
“Me too,” a second one added.
“She didn’t show up tonight,” the third one supplied. “Why don’t you go around to her hotel, look her up there? It’s just down the line a ways. I think it’s called the Concord or the Compton or something like that.” Then she qualified it: “I don’t know if she’s
They shrugged her off. Their gnat-like attention went back to the borzoi again, as being the more interesting of the two rival bids for attention.
The hotel had every earmark of one of those shady places catering to card sharps, confidence men, and other fly-by-nights. It held no terrors for her, though. She had met its type of denizen on the dance floor every night of her life, for years past. She went up to the desk with the assurance of one who doesn’t expect to be turned away. An evil-looking night-clerk with a cast in his eye, a collar that hadn’t been changed in a week, and a whiff of stale alcohol on his breath, shifted over a little to match her position.
She leaned comfortably over the desk on the point of one elbow. “Hello, there,” she said breezily.
He widened his mouth and showed her a space between two of his teeth. It was probably supposed to be some kind of a grin.
