Sir Lancelot’s Crime Wave

“Fine. Tomorrow pick the likely jewelry stores and tramp around until you find the one that sold Kiern that ring. Take his picture along. Make up a song and dance. When you find the store, quit right there. I’ll ask the questions later. It’s three-fifteen now. Go back to the office and see if you can get your hands on a complete list of all the customers Kiern called on. If you can make it, I’ll meet you at six under the clock in the lobby of the Pritchard.”

He walked her to the office door. She was taller than he had thought.

Before he opened the door he said, “This will be strictly personal, not official. Keep that straight, please.”

The building superintendent at 1281 Lincoln was a limp and languid young man with a surprising and carefully modulated basso profundo voice.

He stood in the hallway and said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Is it so tough to understand?” Jamison asked. “Kiern was going to marry my cousin here, Miss Dobbs. If he’s run out on her, he wants a good bust in the nose. All I’m asking you is how he acted when he left. I want to give the guy the benefit of the doubt.”

The superintendent glanced again at Corrine Dobbs. He coughed, ran a thumbnail along one side of his hairline mustache. “Well, Mr. Kiern seemed in a bit of a hurry. He had ten more days rent coming. But he seemed very... gay. I told him I had to check the inventory and check for breakage. His apartment was furnished, you know. He gave me twenty dollars and said he was in a hurry and that money, plus no refund on his rent, should cover everything.”

“Was he drunk?”

“I believe he’d been drinking, but I wouldn’t say he was drunk.”

“When you cleaned out the room, did you find he’d left anything?”

“Nothing important. Some receipted bills, movie stubs, a third of a bottle of bourbon, two soiled neckties. Everything was thrown out but the bourbon. The janitor got that.”

“Did he have any guests the last few days he was here?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Was he alone when he left here?”

“His car was parked out in front. I told him not to park it in front of the entrance, but he always did. It had the name of the company he worked for on the door, you know. There was somebody in the car waiting for him.”

“A woman?”

“I think it was a man. It was dark, you know. I didn’t go out to the car. I glanced out and got the impression someone was smoking a cigar. The glowing end of it was bigger than a cigarette.”

“He carried his own bags out to the car?”

“Yes, there were two of them. He was whistling as he went down the walk to the car.”

“He did the driving?”

“He got in the car on the other side, so I would imagine so.”

“What did he say about a forwarding address?”

“He said he would stop and pick up any mail that might come, though he wasn’t expecting any, and when he stopped he would leave his new address.”

“That would indicate that he was staying in the city?”

“It looks that way to me.”

“Thanks,” Jamison said. “Thanks a lot.”

“It’s nothing, really. Glad to oblige,” the superintendent said. He favored Corrine Dobbs with another look that approached sly amusement.

Out in Jamison’s car, Corrine said, “Ugh! He’s an awful little weasel, isn’t he?”

“Did you mind being Woman Scorned?”

“Except for the way he looked at me, no. We... we aren’t getting anywhere, are we?”

“One mysterious citizen with cigar, Corrine. He would have the answers. Now we hit the parking lot. Do you know the attendant?”

“Yes. The company let the salesmen use the cars in the evening. We used to park it there when we went to the movies. His name is Charlie something and he’s an old man with a bad limp and something wrong with his mouth.”

“I’ll park a block away then and go back and see what I can do on my own.”

Chapter Two Song and Dance

He left her in the car. The lot was at the rear of the office building where Ballou and Stark rented a full floor. The tiny gate house was brightly lighted and the lights gleamed on a sign that read: Not open to the public.

Jamison’s heels were loud on the gravel. The old attendant put down his magazine. He had a scar that bisected both lips and twisted his mouth. His speech was thick and hard to understand. “Something, mister?”

Jamison took out his wallet, flashed the gold-and-blue enamel badge. “Traffic Division, pop. Understand you park Ballou and Stark cars here.”

“Three of ’em.”

“Know the men that drive them?”

“Guess I do.”

“Two weeks ago last Sunday one of those Ballou and Stark cars went through a red light at about eight o’clock in the evening. The witness didn’t get the license number. Have any idea which one it was?”

“Hard to tell, captain. All three of ’em were out, I think. No, let me see, now. Mr. Gardner’s car was in. He put it in early. He’s the sales manager. That leaves two out. Mr. Brank had one and some new salesman, blond fella, had the other. Mr. Brank is the head salesman of the company and he helps Mr. Gardner in the office, I think.”

“Know when those two came in?”