Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“Well,” said Tom, reassured, although he lowered his voice, “when I’m in the stock room I can’t see the cellar door nor the kitchen door.”

“Ah!” said Oakes. “You mean maybe they was taking something out or in that they didn’t want you to see?”

“Sure. I know there was a truck drove up to the kitchen door not long before Mr. Collman told me to go and fix the spuds.”

“Fine, Tom! Now, what do you figure it was they didn’t want you to see?”

Tom lowered his voice another notch.

“Hooch!” he whispered.

“Oh!” said Oakes.

“Yes, sir,” Tom went on, gathering courage. “Mr. Collman’s got a couple of other places, but he keeps most of his hooch here. They can’t fool me. And that truck that was outside the kitchen door when I went to shave the spuds, it w as gone when I got back to the sink, Mr. Oakes.”

“You don’t say!” Oakes surveyed Tom admiringly. “It’s a good thing there’s a wide awake chap like you around here, Tom.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom admitted.

“Now, don’t tell any one about this, Tom. I’ve got to go now, but you’ve been a great help to me.”

“All right, Mr. Oakes. I’m sure glad you spoke to me about it.”

Oakes shook hands with the dishwasher, and left. Instead of going out through the dining room, however, he went through the kitchen door to the side road.

A few feet from the door he stopped, stooped quickly and scooped up a small and crumpled piece of paper. He straightened it out, glanced at it. It was a scrawled note, reading:

Meet me at the kitchen door of the Blue Plume, outside. I’ll be waiting for you. Leave by the front door, and don’t tell any one.

Myrtle.

Oakes folded the note up and inserted it in his vest pocket. He walked slowly down the road toward the highway.

As he reached the highway, Collman of the Blue Plume was coming across from the opposite side, having apparently just parted from his friendly competitor of the Broken Lantern, Mr. Jim Bouchet.

“Did you see Hayden?” inquired Collman.

“Who? Oh, you mean the waiter? Sure, I saw him. Nice old chap.”

Collman gazed at him, rather doubtfully.

“Learn anything?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Oakes.

“What?”

“That dishwashers are smart people,” Oakes told him.

The answer did not seem to satisfy Collman. His lips appeared to be framing another question, but a bus swung around the bend in the highway, and Oakes trudged out to hail it.

IV

Back in town, Hugo Oakes was presently standing in front of a small, shabby house on a shabby street. He rang the bell. A middle-aged woman, small of stature, somewhat old-fashioned in dress, and plainly worried, opened the door.

“I want to see Miss Myrtle Deronda,” said Oakes.

“She isn’t here just now,” said the woman. “Can I do anything for you? I’m her mother.”

“No,” said Oakes. “I want to see her. Where is she?”

Mrs. Deronda hesitated.

“Is it about this dreadful murder?”

“Oh, it ain’t such a dreadful murder,” Oakes comforted her. “Nothing messy about it; just a shot through the heart.”

The woman seemed on the verge of tears.

“I never wanted Myrtle to work in that road house,” she lamented. “And I never did thrust that Mr. Lanyon.”

“Well, Mrs. Deronda,” said Oakes, “these young women are hard to handle. But I got to talk to the girl. It’s in the interest of your son. So you better tell me where she is.”

“She’s with Clara.”

“Clara?”

“Yes. Clara Fanning. That’s the other girl that worked at the Broken Lantern. She lives in a rooming house a couple of blocks away, down this street — number 2349.”

Oakes thanked the woman, and left with as much speed as he could manage.

Clara had a room on the second floor of the rooming house to which Mrs. Deronda had sent him. At the door, the landlady directed him, and he wheezed up a flight of stairs. In a few moments he discovered that he was unusually ill at ease; he was in a room with two young women, both of them quite dangerously good looking.

“Which of you is Miss Deronda?” he asked.

“That’s me,” said one of them. Myrtle Deronda was dark, with challenging black eyes, stubborn little chin and daringly fashioned lips. She was sitting on the arm of a large chair.

Oakes turned to the other one, who was sunk deep in the same chair. Her eyes and hair were brown, a gentler type than the Deronda girl, and probably some years older, but still quite handsome. She was clearly distressed, and the younger one seemed to have assumed the role of comforter.

“Then you must be Clara Fanning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sorry to disturb you two ladies,” Oakes apologized, “but I’m representing Miss Deronda’s brother. He’s in the can... er... that is, he’s under arrest, you know.”

Myrtle’s eyes flashed.

“He’s a crazy kid. He ought to stay home nights, where he belongs.”

“Maybe,” Oakes suggested bravely, “that might be a good plan for you, too.”

“Say! I don’t need no bodyguard,” the girl flared at him.

“Well, maybe you don’t,” Oakes hastily retracted. “But we got to get the boy out, or they’ll send him up for murder.”