Nemesis

“And who the hell are you?”

“I told you. A friend of Velma’s.”

She hiccuped gently. “She didn’t tell me about any trouble.”

“When did you talk to her?”

She thought a minute. Her brow wrinkled and she gazed blankly at the floor. “I get so confused,” she murmured. “Time is always getting mixed-up.” She frowned, then said, “I talked to Velma this morning. She phoned me from the station.”

Larry’s stomach got cold. “You’re crazy,” he said. “Velma couldn’t possibly phoned you this morning.”

“Watch your manners young man,” she said. She got her eyes under control and stared blearily at him. “I’m drunk, but not crazy. Velma phoned to tell me she was going south for a few weeks. She’s always running off like that.”

Larry tried to keep his face from showing what he was feeling. If Velma had been alive this morning, who was the murdered girl?

“Were you sure it was Velma?” he demanded.

“Course. Just like Velma to run off like that. No clothes, no luggage.”

“Did you recognize her voice?”

The bleary eyes went to the floor again. She sat for a moment frowning, then she teetered over to the bar and poured herself another drink. When that was drained she came back and sat down again. “Velma had a cold. Her voice was husky. I told her to look after herself.” She stared indignantly at Larry. “Of course it was Velma.”

“If she spoke in a whisper you couldn’t tell,” Larry said. He knew that was true. A whisper disguised any voice. You couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman talking.

His mind was working swiftly. If someone had killed Velma and wanted to keep it quiet, this is just what they’d do. They’d call her roomate, using a whisper to disguise the voice, and tell just this kind of story. A story that would forestall her running to the police or Missing Persons Bureau to report Velma’s disappearance. That much was logical but it still didn’t help much.

“I think Velma is in trouble,” he said. “I’m trying to help her.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Something pretty serious. Do you know any of her friends?”

She shook her head. “She didn’t let me meet anybody.” She sighed and a tear trickled down her cheek. “Good old Mabel. Everybody’s friend. But not good enough to meet anybody.”

“Who’s Mabel?”

She blinked. “Me. I’m Mabel. The good old horse. Thash all.”

She was getting too drunk to make sense. He knew he had to work fast if he was going to get anything from her.

“Did she have any enemies?”

The gray head shook slowly from side to side.

“Then who were her friends?”

“No friends.” She hiccuped and put her hand guiltily over her mouth. “Touch of gas,” she muttered.

Larry felt desperate, helpless. “You’ve got to tell me something,” he said.

“Whatch you want?”

“Anything. Addresses. Telephone numbers. Names. Something I can go on.”

She got up slowly, keeping her balance with difficulty and swayed across the room to a writing table. She fumbled through a stack of papers and came back with a neat card. There was a telephone number typed on the card.

“Telephone number,” she mumbled. “But you can’t use it. Velma says never use it. Just for emergency.” She giggled. “Like running out of brandy.”

Larry took the card from her shaking fingers and put it in his watch pocket. She made noises in her throat and tried to get it back, but he grabbed her bony wrists and forced her back into the chair.

“It’s all right,” he said.

“Can’t use the phone number,” she cried. She started to sob. It made her jewelry shake and tinkle.

He left her there, crying, shoulders shaking, and the tears making little muddy rivulets through her make-up. And the sound of her silver jewelry was a discordant tinkle in the large, dimly-lighted room.

Chapter IX

Downstairs he walked West, trying to decide what was going to happen next.

That was decided for him.

Out of the shadows of the dark street two men emerged. His arms were caught and pinioned before he could make a move. The men were large, powerful and business-like. They seemed to know just what they were doing.

Larry struggled, but it was useless. He was half-carried, half-dragged toward an alley.

“Too bad,” the man on his right said. “A guy gets a few drinks and his friends got to suffer with him.”

“Yeah!” the voice came from his left. “Terrible thing this drinking.”

In the darkness of the alley his coat was whipped off his shoulders and secured from behind, pinioning his arms. One of the men stood in front of him, a bulky shadow, with just a pale blur of a face.

“Now listen, chum,” he said, “this is good advice I’m goin’ to give. Go home. Stop asking questions. Stop nosing around. Lay off.”

Larry didn’t see him raise his arm, but a fist like a mallet suddenly crashed into his jaw. His head rolled and a lot of lights started snapping on and off inside his head.

“Get it!” the voice said. “Go home!”

The fist landed again. More lights started flickering. There was a taste of rusty iron and salt in his mouth.

“Stop asking questions!”

The fist again. And more lights. He felt he could spit out teeth if he tried.