Loot for the Unlucky Lady

She was about to answer and then she saw that he had gone back to his book. She watched the morning sky for a time and then heard his heavy breathing. The book had fallen to the floor. His mouth sagged open a fraction of an inch. She saw that his eyelashes were very long, and very black.

Chapter Two Elusive Lady

Steve Harris, his right eye open the merest fraction of an inch, inspected her fragile and very perfect profile. He felt very content. The future would bring many challenges, but at the moment there was nothing he could do without arousing her suspicions.

She wasn’t the least bit like what he had expected. He wondered if she knew anything about what Al Barnard had pulled. He guessed that she did. She had acted pretty cozy about moving around, about changing names.

For the moment, the case was moving according to plan. Maybe a little better than that. Being able to chase away the drunk was a break.

Sure, probably Barnard had managed to slip enough dough to her for her to get dressed up and buy the transportation. She probably had a little extra to live on until Barnard showed.

It was by far the biggest thing that he had ever gotten tangled up in. He felt more than a mild distaste at putting his services at the disposal of Wesley Gibb, fat, pseudo-socialite owner of the Candor Club. But Wesley had made it worth while. “Twenty percent of whatever you can recover, Harris. In cash.” One hundred percent recovery would thus net him eighteen thousand four hundred dollars, and the expenses would be on top of that.

Not too bad for an ex-cop from Peeks-skill who had been in a dead end because of department politics, he thought. Wesley Gibb, and everyone else, knew that Steve Harris was well-trained and completely honest.

Well-trained. Groundwork at Northwestern. CIC in the Army.

He watched her carefully while she thought she wasn’t being observed. He hoped in that way to find little clues to her character which would enable him to determine, in advance, her future actions. He looked at her hands. They were well cared for. Slightly squarish. Capable hands. And quite pretty.

In the bright light he could see the pale hair springing firm from the white clean scalp. Funny about her. He had gotten on her trail by routine work. The dead man was one Samuel Burkett. Burkett had a girl friend. She responded to sympathy and kind words, gave out with the names of four of Sammy’s friends. He had dug up addresses for them. Three of them were where they should have been.

The fourth, one Albert Barnard had left his room, apparently for keeps. The landlady had broken down for a ten-dollar fee, and let him in the room. Wednesday afternoon, in Barnard’s vacated room, in the wastebasket, he had found an eight by ten glossy print of a pale, rather pretty girl. He had pieced the bits together, found the photographer’s name on the back. Goldtint Special Three Huge Pictures for Two Dollars. Choice of Six Proofs. Glamorous Pictures. Like the Movie Stars. There was a penciled number on the back of the print, just under the photographer’s name.

“Yes, sir. We keep files. If you could tell me why you want...” The eye had flicked down and seen the numeral five on the corner of the bill. “If you’ll wait just a moment, sir.” The five changed hands.

“That’s a Miss Gloria Gerald. Here, I’ll write down her address. We mailed her the proofs and then she came in and told us which one she favored.”

It cost an additional five dollars to get a new print of Miss Gerald and a new print of Mr. Barnard, using the negatives in their files.

With the name and address, it was relatively easy to find that she was a file clerk in a loan company, and that she hadn’t been on the job since Friday at lunch time. And yet she was still occupying her room.

He had a hunch that Barnard would eventually come to her room. So, to insure a constant watch, he had hired a reliable twenty-a-day man to split the shifts with him, giving him first a long look at the photograph.

But Barnard hadn’t showed. Instead, she had moved. By luck, he had been on Saturday morning, followed her in a cab to the railroad station, saw her check the battered bag. Three times he had come closed to losing her in the stores. Then, seated on the far side of the lobby of the midtown hotel, he had seen her register.

Fifteen seconds after she had left the desk, he hurried up to the same man and said, “Say, did you see a blonde girl, dark blue gabardine suit, hat with flowers on it and—”

“Miss Quinn?”

“That’s right. Did I miss her?”

“By just a few seconds. She’s got room 1221, sir. You may be able to catch her at the main entrance...”

At six o’clock she followed the bellhop past his chair in the lobby. He lowered his newspaper after she had passed, just in time to see the initials G.A.Q. on the brand new luggage.