Inspector Queen’s Own Case

“A small-time private detective named George Weirhauser. Fleabag office near Times Square. Mostly divorce evidence jobs. He rates pretty low downtown — he’s pulled plenty of shady stuff — but he’s always managed to steer clear of open violations. Enough to hold on to his license, anyway.”

“But what’s he doing watching us?”

“I don’t know.” Richard Queen looked grim. “Well, there’s no point trying to shake him with what he’s seen today already. A tail can work two ways — he keeps an eye on us, we keep an eye on him. Maybe we’ll find a use for him.”

“He looks awfully hard.”

“That’s Weirhauser’s stock-in-trade,” he said contemptuously. “It’s all front, Jessie. Don’t worry about him.”

Weirhauser tailed them until after ten o’clock, when they put Jessie’s car away for the night in the garage on 70th Street where she had arranged for a month’s parking. When they walked over to 71st and stopped before Gloria Sardella’s walk-up, the Chrysler drove past, picked up speed, and did not come back.

“Thank goodness,” Jessie said. “He makes me nervous. Won’t you come up, Richard? I’ll make some coffee.”

“No, you’re going to bed, Jessie.”

“I am a little weary,” Jessie confessed. “And you’re a dear to have seen it — Richard.” She clutched his arm.

“Yes?”

“There’s another one!”

“Another what, Jessie?” He seemed calm.

“Another man following us! I noticed him lounging around near the garage when we drove in. And now he’s across the street in a doorway!”

“You certainly missed your calling,” he said.

“Richard, what are you doing—?”

He was guiding her by the elbow across the street toward the offending doorway. The man who had been watching them retreated into the dimness of the vestibule. To Jessie’s consternation, Richard Queen marched her right in after him.

“Shame on you, Wes,” he said, chuckling. “Jessie, this is Wes Polonsky, ex-detective first grade, Automobile, Forgery, and Pickpocket Squad, retired.”

“Good heavens,” Jessie said. “How do you do, Mr. Polonsky.”

“Glad to meet you, Miss Sherwood,” the man said sheepishly. “Or maybe not so glad. I’m sure rusty.” He was a massive old man with a mashed nose and white hair and innocent blue eyes. He looked as if he had once been powerful, but his chest was sunken and Jessie noticed his puffy hands trembling as he lit a cigarettete. “You going to take me off, Inspector? This is the first kicks I’ve had in eight years.”

“Don’t be silly. This woman has eyes in the back of her head.” Richard Queen sounded proud. “Wes, we were tailed today.”

“I noticed a black Chrysler sedan ambling after you just now,” Polonsky said, “but I couldn’t get a good look at the driver.”

“He wasn’t around here last night, was he?”

“No. At least not in that car.”

“It’s George Weirhauser.”

“That crum.” Polonsky made a disgusted sound. “Want me to run him off if he shows again?”

“Let him be. Just don’t let him get near Miss Sherwood.”

“Okay, Inspector.”

“But what is all this?” Jessie demanded. “I don’t understand, Richard!”

“Now don’t get mad, Jessie,” he said placatively. “I ran into Wes Sunday night while I was walking home from your place — he lives in this neighborhood — and, well, Wes was saying how sick he was of being idle—”

“I’d get me a job,” Polonsky said apologetically, “but it’s impossible for a man my age to find anything.”

“So,” Richard Queen said, “one thing led to another, and before I knew it Wes was begging me to declare him in.”

“And that’s how Mr. Polonsky came to be my guardian angel, is it?”

“Since Sunday night,” the ex-detective said, beaming.

“It’s only for the night trick, Jessie. The times when I’m not with you.”

“It’s very sweet of you, Mr. Polonsky,” Jessie said in a low voice.

The second old man said, “It’s my pleasure, miss.”

Jessie slept soundly that night.

They struck the trail in the seventh day of their search.

It was at one of the big general hospitals on the West Side, in midtown. The old man was going through a file of baby footprints when Jessie felt him stiffen. He turned a pocket magnifying glass from the hospital record he was examining to the photostat and back again several times.

“We’ve found it, Jessie,” he muttered.

“I don’t believe it! Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

The name identifying the set of footprints was “Baby Exeter.”

“Let’s see what they have on the mother.”

He came back with some scribbled notes, and they sat down on a sofa in the waiting room.

“Mother’s name Mrs. Willis P. Exeter, maiden name Lois Ann Edwards. Phonies, of course. Address... this house number on East 55th is misleading, Jessie. It’s actually a small residential hotel. My guess is Finner maintained a room there under the name of Willis P. Exeter — probably had a number of such rooms around town under different aliases — and simply assigned one of them with a ‘Mrs.’ attached to every girl he did business with, for purposes of hospital registration.”