Inspector Queen’s Own Case

When Genevieve Fuller had left, the old man said, “Connie Coy. Ever hear of her, Jessie?”

Jessie said, “I haven’t been inside a nightclub since December 18, 1943. No, Richard.”

But he ignored her sally. “If it wasn’t Sunday, I could get her address in any one of a dozen ways. As it is, we’ll have to hold it over till tomorrow.”

“I know a thirteenth way,” Jessie murmured.

“What’s that?”

“Look in the phone book.”

He stared at her. “Sometimes, Jessie,” he said solemnly, “I wonder what I ever did without you. Excuse me!”

When he came back he was waving a slip of paper.

“It’s up on 88th near West End Avenue,” he said exultantly. “After you, Commissioner!”

“Still no sign of Mr. Weirhauser,” Jessie remarked as Inspector Queen started the car. They had not caught a glimpse of the black Chrysler all day.

“Funny,” he muttered.

“Maybe he doesn’t work Sundays. Or he’s been called off the job.”

The old man said nothing. But he kept stealing glances in his rear-view mirror all the way uptown.

The apartment house was turn-of-the-century, a fancy production of stone scrollwork and false balconies, cracked and weatherstained, with bleached awnings that had once been striped, scabby iron-grilled doors, and a sidewalk chalked over with hopscotch squares. The whole building cowered as if it were ashamed.

They entered a lobby powerful with food odors. At a wall switchboard, doubled up on a three-legged stool under a 25-watt light, sat a skinny pimpled youth in a uniform too large for him, reading a comic book.

“Who you want?” The boy did not look up.

“Miss Connie Coy.”

“She ain’t in.”

“When do you expect her?”

“I dunno.”

Jessie suggested, “There’s a door there says Superintendent.”

The old man grunted. They went over to the door and he rang the bell.

A heavy-set man in a collarless shirt, with a green paper napkin stuck in the neckband, opened the door.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for some information about one of your tenants, Miss Connie Coy.”

“I can’t give out information about my tenants.” The man began to shut the door, but it refused to shut. He glanced down coldly. “Guys can get their feet knocked off that way. You want I should call a cop?”

The gold shield flashed in Inspector Queen’s palm.

“That’s a hot one,” the man grinned. “Come on in.”

“We can talk here. By the way, what’s your name?”

“McKeown. Joseph N.”

“Do you know where Miss Coy is, McKeown?”

“Out of town. She left three weeks ago Friday. She was supposed to be gone only a week, but she didn’t come back so I guess they held her over.”

“Oh, a professional engagement?”

“Yeah, she’s a club singer. You know, a shantoose.” McKeown glanced sidewise at Jessie.

“Then she might be back any day?”

“I’d say so.”

“She live here long?”

“Seven-eight months.”

“Where’s she singing?”

“Chicago.” McKeown peered over at the switchboard boy and lowered his voice. “Wha’d she do, Cap?”

“Nothing. She may have to be a witness in a case.”

“Glad to hear it,” the superintendent said. “Nice quiet gal. Too bad about her husband.”

“Oh,” the old man said. “She’s got a husband?”

“A GI. He’s in Korea. And he never even got to see his kid. He’s still over there.” McKeown looked sad. “Hard lines getting your wife pregnant and having to ship out, then she has the kid all alone and loses it in childbirth in the bargain. Came back from the hospital all broke up.”

“I see,” Richard Queen said. “What hospital was she at, do you know?”

“Some Army hospital over in Jersey, she said. She was just beginning to show when she moved in here. Tough.”

“It certainly is,” Jessie murmured.

“Does she use her married name here in the building?”

“Yeah. Mrs. Arthur Dimmesdale.”

“How do you spell that, McKeown?” He took out a ballpoint pen and a wrinkled envelope with an Italian postmark. McKeown spelled the name, and the Inspector wrote it down on the back of the envelope.

Arthur Dimmesdale... Jessie thought, Where have I heard that name?

“Then I take it, McKeown, since Miss Coy — Mrs. Dimmesdale — didn’t move in here till after her husband shipped out to Korea, that you’ve never seen him?”

“Never laid eyes on him.”

“Any idea of his branch of service? Rank?”

“I think she said he’s a second looey in the Army.”

The old man made a note. “Couple more questions, McKeown, and I’ll let you get back to your Sunday dinner. What’s Miss Coy’s apartment number?”

“5-C. That’s on the top floor.”

“Apartment C, fifth floor. She live alone?”

“All by her lonely, Cap.”

“She ever have anybody sleep over?”

McKeown grinned. “This ain’t the Barbizon, my friend. We don’t keep a check. She don’t run no brawls, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Don’t mention this to Miss Coy when she gets back, McKeown.”

“I get you, Cap.”

As they walked toward Broadway, Jessie said, “But where are we going, Richard? Why didn’t we get into the car?”

“You’ve got to have your dinner, Jessie. There’s a nice restaurant on Broadway and 87th—”

“That’s not the reason. What is it?”