“Sure,” I said.

  “Turn around,” he said tightly, “and put your hands on top of your head.”

  I obeyed. “In my right-hand coat pocket you’ll find a permit for the gun.”

  His hand fumbled in my pocket, then came out. There was a moment of silence. “A private dick,” he said disgustedly. “All right. Put your hands down and turn around.” When I turned, he handed my permit back to me. “Now, what was going on here?”

  “I told you all I know. I’m just passing through Washington. I had lunch in there with a friend of mine and was going back to my hotel when that car pulled up where I was waiting for a taxi. I never saw them before.”

  “How come you got a Washington permit if you don’t work here?”

  “Sometimes I do work here.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Soon.”

  He scratched his head. “I ought to run you in anyway,” he said. “Okay. On your way.”

  There was a taxi cruising down the street. I hailed it and went back to the hotel. When I got there, I called the cab company and asked them to send the driver I’d had that morning. About twenty minutes later the desk clerk phoned to say that my taxi was there. I went down and told Irving to take me to the airport. There was no sedan in sight as we pulled away.

  “What happened to your escort?” Irving asked.

  “They’re probably reporting,” I said. “They tried to pick me up when I left the restaurant. We had a small argument about it and then a cop came along, so they beat it. I haven’t seen them since.”

  “It’ll be lonesome without them,” he said with a grin.

  When we reached the airport I had him wait. I went inside and started down the line of companies that had flights to San Francisco. The first one was Northwest. There were several pretty girls behind the counter. One of them moved over to meet me as I approached.

  “Hello,” I said. “Do you have any flights to San Francisco between five-thirty and seven-thirty in the afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir. We have one at six-fifteen. Would you like to make a reservation?”

  “Not at the moment. Do you know if you’ve had that schedule for long?”

  “I think so, but I wouldn’t know.”

  “Is there anyone here who would know?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Where are the old records kept?”

  “I imagine at the offices downtown,” she said. She looked as if she were about to ask some questions of her own.

  “Thank you,” I said gravely, and took off. A half hour later I had covered all of the airlines. There were only two that had flights scheduled during the time period I was interested in. One was Northwest and the other was Pan-World, which had a flight at six-thirty.

  I had the taxi take me back into the heart of the city. Our first stop was the Northwest office. After talking to three or four people I finally ended up with a vice-president. I showed him my identification, including a card that said I worked for Intercontinental, and told him what I wanted.

  “Normally, we don’t give out information except to the police,” he said, “but in this case I think I can tell you there’s no point in looking up the old records.”

  “Why not?”

  “You said seven years ago. Well, we’ve only had that six-fifteen flight for a little more than two years. Before that we had a five-thirty flight and the next one was at eight.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  I went back to the taxi and we drove on to the Pan-World building. Again I tracked down a vice-president and made my little speech.

  “Well, this is a little unusual,” he said. He picked up my identification cards and looked at them. “You work for Intercontinental Insurance?”

  “Yes. As an investigator.”

  “I see. And what does this have to do with one of our flights made seven years ago?”

  “I can’t tell you the whole case,” I said, “but it has to do with a man who disappeared seven years ago. We have reason to believe that the man is still alive, but if we don’t find him the courts may soon declare him legally dead, and it will be rather expensive for Intercontinental. I personally think that he took a plane to San Francisco—possibly your six-thirty flight.”

  “Well, all we’d have would be the passenger list. Do you think you can tell anything from that?”

  “I think I might.”

  “Our policy is that we only give out such information to the police,” he said. “I can, however, see your point, but I’ll have to get in touch with the home office in New York. They may or may not see it your way.”

  “How long will that take?” I asked. “I was hoping I could leave Washington tonight.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do it that quickly,” he said with a smile. “Suppose you come back in the morning. I might have an answer by then.”

  “All right,” I said. There was nothing else to say. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I went back downstairs and had the cab driver take me to the hotel. As I entered, I saw that Jerry Dell and the other fellow were back on the job.

  The photograph from the newspaper was waiting for me at the desk. I took it and went upstairs. It was a good shot of Rako sitting at a table in the hearing room. There was no hat on his head and it was a full-face picture.

  After a while I called George Macklin and told him I’d be in town overnight. He told me to meet him for dinner at a place called the Cloisters. I said I would.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon taking it easy. Finally I took a shower and changed clothes. I went downstairs and took a cab to the Cloisters. The sedan obediently followed.

  George Macklin was waiting for me at a table. He’d been right. It was a good restaurant. The martinis were almost perfect.

  I gave him a quick report on the futility of the afternoon, and then we turned the conversation to more interesting things. We had several drinks and then a fine dinner. We were working on the coffee and brandy when he brought us back to business.

  “We’re about to have company,” he said.

  I looked around and there was Johnny Clark approaching us. He came up to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

  “Hi, Milo,” he said. “How are you, Macklin?”

  “I was fine,” George said.

  “Sorry to hear it,” Johnny Clark said. He looked at me. “I hear you roughed up one of my boys this morning.”

  “You heard right,” I said. “He put his hand on me. I’m particular about who does that.”

  “Then, later, you threw a burning cigarette into his face. That wasn’t smart, Milo. Jerry’s pretty mad.”

  “That’s too bad. But you can tell him he was lucky. The next time he pulls a gun on me, it may be worse. Was that your idea?”

  “You misunderstood it. He was just going to bring you to the office so we could have a little chat.”

  “With a gun in my back?”

  “Maybe he was afraid you’d take another punch at him. You shouldn’t have thrown that cigarette in his face. Jerry’s a tough boy when he’s sore.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” I said evenly. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Oh, anything.”

  “Were you going to tell me where to find Rako?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about that.”

  “So you did. Maybe you were going to tell me why two of your hoods have been following me.”

  “I told you I don’t like cops on my back.”

  “Or maybe you wanted to tell me about two of your union members who helped Rako vanish and then were killed. Or maybe you wanted to talk about Willie Nemo.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said angrily. “I just thought we’d have a friendly talk.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t have any time. I expect to take a plane to San Francisco tomorrow.”

  “Really?” he said. “Have a nice trip.” He got up abruptly and walked away.

  “What did you say that for?” George Macklin asked. “You don’t even know you’re going there.”

  “But I’ll bet I’m warm,” I said. “He didn’t look relieved when he took off. But to hell with him. I thought you were going to show me the town.”

  “Will do,” he said.

  We finished our coffee and went pub-crawling. It was almost three in the morning when I made it back to the hotel. I slept until eight and then got up, a little the worse for the night before. But a couple of drinks and some breakfast fixed me up. I got dressed and headed for Pan-World.

  The vice-president was waiting for me when I was shown into his office. “You’re in luck, March,” he said. “The New York office said to give you the information. It seems we have quite a bit of insurance with your company.”

  “That always helps,” I said.

  “We had a flight to San Francisco at six-thirty on May 6th seven years ago. I have the passenger list right here, but I don’t think it’s going to tell you much. You want me to read the names to you?”

  “I don’t think that would help,” I said. “Was the flight completely booked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any last-minute tickets sold?”

  “As a matter of fact there was one—by accident. The flight was all reserved, but one passenger didn’t show, and that seat was given to a stand-by passenger who was waiting at the counter. It happens quite often.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What about the one that didn’t show? When was his reservation made?”

  “About one-thirty in the afternoon—by phone. A Mr. Joseph Smith. He didn’t cancel or anything. We probably held the ticket until shortly after six, although I have no record on that, and then turned it over to a man who had been waiting at the terminal.”

  “What was his name?”

  “R. Thomas.”

  “Smith and Thomas,” I said. “Two good old American names. Well, thanks.”

  I left before he could ask any questions. On the way out I stopped and made a reservation on the next plane to San Francisco.

  I took a cab back to the hotel, packed, and checked out. I went to the airport and checked my bag. There was just time to get a newspaper, some cigarettes, and a quick drink. Then I boarded the plane.

  Shortly before the plane took off, a last-minute passenger hurried in and took a seat behind me. It was Jerry Dell.

  Eight

  It was still early evening when the plane came down in San Francisco. I took a taxi to the Imperial Hotel and checked in. Jerry Dell was approaching the desk as I went upstairs. I unpacked my things when I got to the room and put them away. Then I slept until evening. I went downstairs and ordered a martini. As I nursed it, I thought about the case.

  Now that I was in San Francisco, what the hell was I going to do? Where did you start to pick up a trail that was seven years old? The only thing I could think of was my one contact, Pete Moretti. He’d been in the rackets in New York and he was in trouble with the boys who ran things. I’d bumped into the situation while I was working on a case involving some of the hoods who were after him. I’d saved his life. I remembered hearing that he’d come to San Francisco and was running a club. I pulled out my address book and thumbed through it. Sure enough, it was there. The Club Moretti on Broadway.

  I looked around the room to see if Jerry Dell was waiting as usual. I didn’t see him, but I did see somebody else I wasn’t expecting. Nick Potti was sitting in a booth along the wall.

  I finished my martini and walked over. “It looks like I’m hitting the jackpot,” I said. “I draw you and Jerry Dell both. I’m flattered.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m here on business.”

  “I know—and I’m it. Where’s your twin?”

  “Jerry? I guess he’s upstairs. I told you. We’re both here on union business.”

  “So am I. Rako.” I looked up and saw Dell approaching from the lobby. “Here he is now. I’m glad he made it. I was just ready to leave and I wouldn’t want to lose either one of you boys. You might get a lesson in how to enjoy yourself in San Francisco.” I turned and left the bar.

  The doorman got a taxi for me. As it pulled away, I looked back and saw Jerry Dell and Nick Potti getting into another cab. I turned back and told my driver where I wanted to go.

  I went to the Four Seas on Grant Avenue. I had another drink, then the barbecued Mongolian lamb. It was one of the best meals I’d had in a long time, and it was made even more enjoyable by watching Dell and Potti, who had followed me in, struggling over the menu. It was mostly Northern Chinese food and therefore completely strange to the person who is familiar with the average Cantonese restaurant.

  I lingered over the tea and finally left. Then I took my two faithful followers on a short tour of San Francisco, mostly to throw them off about the visit I wanted to make. I made stops at the hungry i, the Purple Onion, the Black Hawk, and finally the Buena Vista, where I had some Irish coffee. It was about ten o’clock when I left there and went to the Club Moretti.

  There was a small jazz combo playing when I entered. I got a table near them. Dell and Potti came in and took a table not far from where I sat. I wondered if they knew Pete Moretti.

  I had a drink and when the waiter came over to see if I wanted another one, I told him I wanted to see the headwaiter. I’d tipped him well when I first came in, so he responded quickly.

  “Is there anything wrong, sir?” the headwaiter asked.

  “No,” I said. “Is Pete Moretti in?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” he said evasively. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  “Tell Pete that Milo March is out here and wants to talk to him. But I don’t want to be obvious about it. I’d like to handle it so that no one knows I’m going to see him. I’ll do whatever he suggests.”

  “I’ll see, sir,” he said, and slipped away.

  I listened to the combo and waited. They were good. They finished one number and were starting on another when I saw my waiter coming. He was carrying a fresh drink for me.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said, his voice low as he picked up my empty glass. “I have instructions to spill this drink on you and to tell you to make a scene when it happens.”

  “All right,” I said. I got out a cigarette and started to light it.

  He set the drink in front of me and started to turn away. As he did, his tray hit the glass. It and the emptied glass both landed in my lap. I leaped to my feet.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” I said loudly. “Drunk or something? Look at my suit.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. He was mopping at my pants with a napkin.

  “To hell with being sorry. What about my suit?”

  The waiter glanced around nervously as though he were worried about the other customers witnessing this scene. He gave up trying to dry off my suit and straightened up.

  “If you’ll just follow me, sir, everything will be taken care of.”

  “It had better be,” I said as I followed him.

  It was hard to keep from smiling as we went past the table where Dell and Potti sat. I could see they weren’t sure whether this was on the level or not. In the meantime the waiter turned and headed toward the rear of the room. We went all the way to the back, then turned into a little corridor. There were several doors opening off it. We stopped at the first one.

  “In there, sir,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I told him.

  I opened the door and stepped inside. Pete Moretti was sitting behind a desk covered with papers. He was a big man with dark hair, now beginning to thin. Otherwise he looked about the same as the last time I’d seen him.

  He looked up as I closed the door and a smile spread over his face. “Milo,” he said. “It’s good to see you. How’d you like the service?”

  “Great,” I said, looking down at my wet trousers, “but couldn’t you have figured out a way that wouldn’t look so much like a part of an old Buster Keaton movie?”

  He chuckled. “You wanted action, so I gave it to you. How the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Pretty good.”

  I walked over to the desk and shook hands with him. I dropped into the chair beside his desk and got out a cigarette to replace the one I’d just started to light when the drink went into my lap.

  He opened a drawer of the desk and pulled out a glass and a bottle of V.O. He poured a drink and pushed it over. “To replace the one you lost,” he said. “The waiter said that’s what you were drinking. In town on business or pleasure?”

  “Business.”

  “Somebody on your tail?”

  I nodded. “Two fellows you might know and they might know you. That’s why I didn’t want to be obvious about coming back. They’re sitting out there now.”

  “Who?”

  “Jerry Dell and Nick Potti.”

  His face became serious. “I used to know Dell and I’ve heard of Potti. Guns—and good ones. Do they mean business?”

  “Not yet, but they may before long.”

  “You want them taken off your back?”

  I shook my head. “But I do want a favor from you, if it’s possible.”

  “I owe you a favor,” he said quietly.

  “Do you still have contacts?”

  “I have a few. What is it, Milo?”

  “Do you remember the name Thomas Rako?”

  He frowned. “Sure. I never knew him. He was a gun, too. Not as good as these two. He made a showing before a Washington hearing, then vanished. My guess was that somebody let a contract on him.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think he’s still alive and hiding out somewhere. I’m trying to find him for an insurance company. The two boys outside don’t want me to find him. They both work for Johnny Clark. So did Rako.”

  “You think he’s out here?”

  “I doubt it. But I think he came here from Washington and then went on somewhere else. He’d need a lot of help to vanish so completely. He had it in Washington. He could get it almost anywhere through Clark’s union, but he may have had some contacts of his own out here. He was here when he was a kid and got his first conviction here. But direct help I’m sure was dangerous for everybody.”

 

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