The receptionist was sitting down now. Somebody had brought him a glass of water. He held it with both hands.
The detective who’d been questioning him was gone.
I walked over.
“You feeling alright, pal?”
“I’ve had better evenings.”
“Yea. So has Mr. Musgrove.”
He looked down at his water.
I pulled up a chair.
“Geronimo Flint. I’m a private investigator.”
“I already told the police everything.”
“Good. You’ve had practice.”
He didn’t smile.
“The girl in red. Evelyn LeClaire. You gave her a telephone call?”
“Yes.”
“Who was on the other end?”
“Mr. Musgrove’s assistant.”
“You know that, or that’s what he told you?”
“I speak to him every day.”
I leaned back.
“And he asked for her?”
“He called down earlier. Told me Miss LeClaire was expected, and to ring his office when she arrived.”
“So you did.”
“Yes.”
“Where can I find him?”
“His office is through there.”
He pointed to a door behind the desk.
“Can you get him on the telephone?”
The receptionist put down his water and reached for the receiver.
A minute later he handed it over.
“This is Flint. I’m looking into what happened upstairs.”
“Yes?”
“You called Evelyn LeClaire tonight?”
“At Mr. Musgrove’s request.”
“What did he ask you to tell her?”
“That he wanted to see her. Here at the hotel.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And when she got here, you spoke to her again.”
“Yes. Mr. Musgrove was ready to receive her. I told her to go up at eight-fifteen.”
“Did he usually make appointments that late?”
“Mr. Flint, he owned hotels.”
“Alright. Did she sound worried?”
“She sounded like a woman who wanted to know why she’d been invited.”
“What did you tell her?”
“To ask Mr. Musgrove.”
I looked towards the elevator.
“That might be difficult now.”
“Yes,” he said. “It might.”
I gave the telephone back.
Two calls. Both from a man doing his job. I’d hoped for something better.
The receptionist picked up his water again.
“Did you see her leave?”
“No.”
“Were you at the desk the whole time?”
“No. I went into the office for a few minutes.”
“So she could’ve walked right past.”
“I suppose.”
“Alright. Thanks, pal.”
The bell boy was standing by the luggage cart. Young kid. His uniform looked a size too big for him.
“You took Miss LeClaire upstairs?”
“No sir. She went up alone.”
“See her come down?”
“No sir.”
“Anyone else go up to the penthouse?”
“Not while I was here.”
“Where else were you?”
“Taking bags up. That’s my job.”
“Everybody keeps telling me about their job tonight.”
He shrugged.
“Is there another way down from the penthouse?”
“Service stairs.”
“Where do they come out?”
“Past the kitchens. There’s a door to the alley.”
“Anybody watching it?”
“There’s usually somebody in the kitchen.”
Usually. That was about as good as I was getting.
“Thanks, kid.”
I headed for the entrance.
Monroe was still at the tape.
“Find what you were looking for, Jerry?”
“Still looking.”
“Stay dry.”
“Working on that too.”
* * *
Kirby’s shop was closed. The light in the back was on.
I knocked on the glass.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
“We’re closed!”
“It’s Jerry.”
“I heard you the first time.”
A bolt slid back. Kirby opened the door and looked at the water running off my hat.
“You planning on bringing all that in?”
“Only what I’m wearing.”
He stepped aside.
The shop smelled of oil and old cigarettes. There were guns behind the counter, guns on the wall, and one in pieces on his workbench.
Kirby went back to his stool.
“About time you came for her.”
“She ready?”
“She was ready yesterday.”
“Had a quiet day.”
“Well, that must’ve been awful for you.”
He reached under the bench and brought out Sabbath.
I took her from him.
Dark metal. A grip made for my hand. Seven chambers. Kirby had built her, and he still watched me hold her like he expected me to drop her.
“What do I owe you?”
“What you owed me yesterday.”
I paid him.
He counted it.
“You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you to come back. Paying is something else.”
I put Sabbath away and took the newspaper out of my coat.
“Need you to look at something.”
“If that’s another gun you want me to build, the answer’s no.”
I unfolded the paper on his bench.
He looked at the picture.
“Musgrove?”
“Somebody shot him tonight.”
Kirby looked up.
“You working for him?”
“The girl the police think did it.”
“Of course you are.”
I put my finger below Musgrove’s hand.
“See the rings?”
“I see them.”
“He had two on that hand when I left him. There’s three in the picture.”
“You sure he was wearing all three tonight?”
“No. But somebody turned his apartment upside down, and there’s still a fortune sitting on his other fingers.”
Kirby reached for his glasses.
“Which one’s missing?”
I showed him.
He pulled the lamp closer and bent over the paper.
I waited.
“Well?”
“It’s a newspaper, Jerry. I can’t tell you what it weighs.”
“Can you tell me who made it?”
“Maybe.”
He looked again.
“Big face. Narrow band. Looks like it was made for him.”
“Expensive?”
“He’s wearing it.”
“Kirby.”
He took off his glasses.
“Try Heller. Jeweler over on Mercer.”
“He make it?”
“I said try him. He does that sort of work. If it isn’t his, he might know whose it is.”
I folded the paper.
“Heller on Mercer.”
“He’ll be closed now.”
“Everybody’s closed.”
“Some of us have homes.”
I glanced at the clock above his bench.
“Then what are you still doing here?”
He looked at the gun in pieces.
“Some of us have work.”
I put the newspaper back in my coat.
“Thanks, Kirby.”
“Jerry.”
I stopped at the door.
“That girl. You think she did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does she?”
I stood there a moment.
“That’s what I’m going to ask her.”
Outside, it was still raining. I pulled my collar up and went to find a cab.