Читать книгу The Cover Girl Killer - Richard A. Lupoff - Страница 10

CHAPTER FOUR

Lindsey watched Chicago grow through the window of a 757. O’Hare would be a madhouse, O’Hare was always a madhouse, but it was all part of the job. He felt better about the Vansittart case knowing that Marvia Plum was involved in it at the California end, and he felt good about leaving Mother in the capable hands of Gordon Sloane.

Sloane was the best thing that could happen to Mother. She’d been robbed of her husband at the age of seventeen by a tragedy at sea off the coast of North Korea. She’d spent the better part of forty years in a mental fog, devoting what little sense of reality she’d retained to raising the son her husband never lived to see.

It was only when Lindsey started, ever so cautiously, to untie the apron strings and move away from her, that Mother began to discover herself. She was not yet sixty. She was healthy, intelligent, even attractive. There was still time for her to have a life.

Lindsey recognized the Sears Tower, then Lake Michigan, the pale sun of a late winter’s afternoon glinting from its surface. Lindsey shivered. January in Chicago might be no colder than it was in Tahoe, but somehow he knew it would feel colder.

Before leaving California, Lindsey had posted a message on International Surety’s KlameNet/Plus system, addressed to his friend and onetime roommate Cletus Berry, now a SPUDS agent in New York. The message included a sketchy rundown on the Vansittart case and the information Lindsey had got from Scotty Anderson. He asked Berry to check on Lovisi in Brooklyn and see what light he could shed on the matter, especially regarding the inquiry Lovisi had received about Paige Publications.

The Boeing touched down and rolled to a stop. Lindsey waited obediently for the captain to signal, then stood up and retrieved his heavy coat and hand luggage from the overhead rack. He was wearing his official cold weather traveling suit, with a cloisonné potato pin in the lapel. He’d had enough of airline baggage checks.

He’d phoned the SPUDS rep in Chicago, Gina Rossellini. They’d never met, and he wondered what she was like. Her name conjured up the image of a glamorous Italian actress, surely a cross between Gina Lollobrigida and Sophia Loren. Yes, Lollobrigida as she’d appeared opposite Bogie in Beat the Devil. And Loren—well, there could be no question. Boy on a Dolphin opposite Alan Ladd. Lindsey’s fantasies took a detour when he heard Rossellini speak. She sounded like a character out of Death in the Ditch.

Lindsey had Scotty Anderson’s Paige Publications bibliography in his pocket. It was also in his computer and in the electronic case file he’d transmitted to SPUDS headquarters in Denver. Whatever happened to him on this case, the information was safe.

When Lindsey came through the gate he spotted a woman holding a placard with a picture of a potato on it, identical to the one on his lapel. That was the SPUDS logo. She looked like an Italian actress, all right, but not like Lollobrigida or Loren. She looked more like Anna Magnani, Rose Tattoo vintage. Definitely the earth-mother type, fleshy and muscular, with olive skin and deep, dark eyes. She wore a black suit, high-heel shoes and big hair.

Gina Rossellini’s dark eyes must have been sharp; she caught sight of Lindsey’s lapel pin and held out her arms like an ideal Mediterranean mother. She had rented a car in Lindsey’s name, a white Ford LTD. It was waiting in the airport parking structure.

Lindsey tossed his carry-on luggage and palmtop computer in the Ford’s trunk. He’d never been in Chicago before so Gina drove. Heading away from O’Hare, she told him that she’d heard from Denver. “You’ve got a great little job there. All you have to do is track down a model from a forty-year-old painting.”

“Better than that,” Lindsey replied. “I don’t have a copy of the painting. Looks like nobody does.” He told her about his visit to Scotty Anderson. “At least I wound up with the Paige Publications’ address. And a list of their books. It’s a start.”

“You bet. You busy for dinner?”

Lindsey looked at his watch. It was a little early, but the winter darkness had settled quickly over Chicago while he was still in the airport. He could use a good meal and a good rest.

He checked into the Drake Hotel on Lake Shore Drive. It was an elegant establishment; entering the lobby was like stepping into Chicago’s past. He half expected to see Elliot Ness conferring with an underling, Frank Nitti stubbing out a cigarette in a potted palm.

They gave him a high corner room with windows on two sides and a view of Lake Michigan. There was a lock-bar in one corner, a couple of easy chairs and an elegant writing desk with a wooden chair. Gina Rossellini said she had some errands to run, she’d meet him in the Cape Cod Room at 8:00. She’d already made a reservation for them.

He showered, then sat with his feet up, looking out over the lake. Lights of freighters moved slowly across its black surface. He phoned Marvia at home, but he’d forgotten the difference in time zones and got only her machine. He told her that he loved her and would talk with her soon. He left his hotel number in case she felt like calling him back. He called his own home and left a similar message for Mother.

He turned on his palmtop computer, plugged it into the hotel’s phone line, and tapped into KlameNet/Plus. The computer whizzes had enhanced KlameNet into a corporate information system. If you had the right passwords you could tap into International Surety’s main data base, file reports, dredge up records. It was wonderful. Almost as good as talking to somebody who knew what was going on.

First things first: Lindsey and all the other SPUDS operatives in the company were told to stand by for a meeting in Denver. The alert contained a little information on the planned program. It looked like a combination pep talk/threat, standard Ducky Richelieu stuff, seasoned with elements of class reunion and corporate convention. Knowing International Surety and Desmond Richelieu, Lindsey figured there would be precious little drunken ribaldry at the gathering, a good deal of maneuvering, some promotions announced and some involuntary transfers posted.

At least Lindsey had been invited. In I.S., when you heard about a meeting like this one from a colleague but you weren’t invited, it was time to polish up your résumé. Sometimes, it was already too late.

There was nothing new on the Vansittart case. Lindsey had keyed the Paige Publications bibliography into the computer, and even though he still had the paper copy that Scotty Anderson had given him, he called the document up on the screen instead and sat there, staring at the titles and by-lines.

Baseball Stars of 1952. He wasn’t much of a sports fan; he noticed the headlines when one of the local teams made it into the World Series or the Super Bowl but he wasn’t really involved. He had no idea who the baseball stars of 1952 would be…well, maybe a little idea. Some of the names still popped up on the 10:00 o’clock news. Was Joe DiMaggio still playing in 1952? Stan Musial? And that pitcher—his rental car reminded him of the guy. Yeah, Whitey Ford.

Well, no matter. That wasn’t likely to have any bearing on the case. And By Studebaker Across America—now that sounded like a hot one!

He checked his watch. He’d reset it for Chicago time, and it was nearly time to meet Gina Rossellini at the Cape Cod Room. He shut down the computer, pulled on his shoes and slipped into his jacket. He was relieved that the Cape Cod Room was part of the Drake. He was weary and the temperature must be well below freezing. He could hear the wind whistling past his room, trying to make it around the corner from Lake Shore Drive onto Michigan Avenue.

As he was leaving his room the telephone rang. He turned back and picked it up. It was Marvia. She’d heard from Willie Fergus in Reno. The UNR prof had lowered his fiber-optic scanner into Lake Tahoe, looking for the wreckage of Albert Crocker Vansittart’s helicopter. The scanner had located the wreck. At that depth, of course, there was no natural light, but the coaxial fiber-optic cable that could bring back an image to the surface could carry light down to the lake-bed. The image, Marvia told Lindsey, was dark and unclear, but there was an image. They were going to bring in a stronger light-source and a more sensitive probe and try to get a clearer picture of the crash.

Later, Fergus had told Marvia, they hoped to bring up the wreckage, with Albert Crocker Vansittart inside. If he was still there. If something—crabs, fish, or maybe Tahoe Tessie—hadn’t eaten him by then.

Lindsey said there was no progress at his end, but he was going to work in the morning and he had his hopes.

Marvia said, “Bart, I miss you. I love you.”

He said, “Me too.” It sounded stupid to him, but it was all he could think of to say.

Downstairs, the Cape Cod Room was jammed. What Cape Cod had to do with a Chicago hotel was baffling, but the place was attractive and comfortable. There was even a fireplace with a huge blaze in it, perfect for a night like this.

Gina Rossellini must live nearby. Either that or she kept a change of clothes handy wherever she went, like Clark Kent. She wore a scoop-necked blouse that displayed her chest to maximum advantage, and she’d put on makeup and earrings and a necklace. The earth-mother look was gone; she actually looked elegant.

Hey, Anna Magnani would have looked elegant, too, if she’d dressed like this.

The food was good and Lindsey and Gina Rossellini shared a bottle of Bardolino with it. A brandy afterwards helped, too, and Lindsey was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

In the morning Lindsey set out on his quest. The temperature had dropped overnight and a thin, frozen mist was falling. He had to stop and buy a hat and a pair of gloves. He surveyed himself in the haberdasher’s mirror. He looked like Jim Dial on Murphy Brown. He wondered if Charles Kimbrough ever felt as desperately outmoded as the character he played. He wondered if he was becoming obsolete himself.

Maneuvering the white LTD through crowded, slush-choked streets he found LaSalle and Kinzie, parked and walked to the site of the Paige Building. He’d expected to find a modest, old-fashioned commercial structure, but instead he found himself gazing at a modern office building that managed to shimmer in the gray mist like the ghost of technology. Surely this was not the Paige Building, but he pushed through revolving doors into the lobby and looked for a building directory, just to be certain.

No, this was not the Paige Building.

A uniformed major domo must have read Lindsey’s distress. He asked if he could help and Lindsey asked if he had ever heard of the Paige Building or of Paige Publications. The man shook his head.

Lindsey was ready to give up. He started back toward the revolving door, then stopped. There was a lobby newsstand. The proprietor, sitting behind stacks of Chicago Tribunes and Sun-Times looked old enough to remember the first Mayor Daley, if not the earlier lords of the city. Lindsey picked up both morning papers and dropped a bill on the counter.

“You remember the Paige Building?”

The man looked up at him. His hair would have been pure white if it hadn’t been for some peculiar yellow patches. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Lindsey was amazed that the management of a building like this one would tolerate the man, but here he was.

“Sure, I worked there.”

“What happened?”

The man shrugged heavy shoulders and grinned. His teeth were not nearly as white as his hair. “They tore it down. What do you think happened, the Russkies stole it and sent it back to Rooshia?”

“When? I mean, when was it torn down? The Paige Building.”

“I know what you mean. That was in, let’s see.…” The man had taken Lindsey’s bill but had not bothered to return any change. Lindsey waited.

“This building went up in ’88. This place was a vacant lot in between, you know? Part of the time it was just boarded up, part of the time they let kids play ball here. For a while they had a parking lot here. I worked here all the time. I used to stand on the street hawking papers, you know, like the old-time newsboys. I guess you could say I’m the last of the old-time newsboys.”

He picked up a heavy weight that held down a stack of newspapers. Lindsey didn’t see why he needed it here in the lobby, but it must have been good outside when the wind blew.

“They tore down the old place in,” a faraway look came into the old man’s eyes, “in ’72. That’s right. They tore it down in ’72 and they were going to put up townhouses but that fell through so it just stood here, I mean the lot just stood here, for sixteen years. This building now, it’s all modern-like and they have air-conditioning and fancy elevators, computers every place.”

Lindsey didn’t know if he was called upon to comment. He said, “It must be a nice place to work.”

The old man said, “It stinks. Gimme back the old place any day. People knew each other. They stopped and gave you the time of day. You could walk in the street and not get murdered. Gimme back the old times, any day.”

Lindsey rubbed his lips with the back of one leather gloved hand. “What happened to Paige Publications? Were they here until, when was it, ’72?”

The old man literally cackled. “Not on your life, Mister, nothing like. Old Paige Publications went belly-up back in the fifties. Early fifties. Oh, they had government men around here then, people coming and going, you’d of thought Joe Staleen personally was running the place. Hell, no, Paige Publications been gone since Ike was President.”

“Did you know any of the people who worked there?”

The old man reared back in his chair. “Of course I did. I told you, people had time to give you the time of day back then. They’d stop and talk about the Cubs and the White Sox, the Bears, what was going on in the world, what they was up to in Springfield. Oh, those were the days.”

“Was there actually a Mr. Paige? Did you know him?”

“Of course I did. I told you, I just told you. I used to see him every day, Mr. Paige. He ran the company, had a sweet little wife, used to work there too. Had a couple of kids. Hey, it broke the old man’s heart when he lost that company. He kept the building for a few years, just rented out commercial space, but then he lost that, too. I don’t know what happened to him. Where’d he go? Where do they all go, I ask you. He’s gotta be dead by now. Gotta be. Just like that other poor sap was takin’ flying lessons.”

Lindsey blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“You wouldn’t want to.” The old man cackled. “Not that kind of flying lessons, nosiree. I mean, flying lessons without no airplane.”

The old man grinned at Lindsey. “You ain’t tracking, are you, youngster? I mean, that poor fella took a header off the roof. I seen him with my own eyes. Was right around the time those gov’ment fellas come around, right around the time Mr. Paige decided to close up the company. One fella used to hang around here all the time, wrote one of them little books for Paige. Went right off the roof.”

“You know that? You saw it?”

“Hell, yes, I seen it. Went across the street for a pack of cigs. I useta sell a lot of them, nobody smokes no more. Back then, ran through a couple cartons a day. But I run out and I wanted a pack for myself. Was a little candy store across LaSalle back then, Greek fella run it. I run across the street to buy a pack of cigs and I turn around and start back and this fella’s on the edge of the roof. I seen him. Mr. Paige was up there, tryin’ to get him to come back in but he wouldn’t come back in. Went off like a high diver. Wasn’t but five stories but that was enough. Kilt hisself.”

Lindsey asked, “Are you sure about this?”

“Hundert per cent, Mister. I had to go testify at the inquest. Man, it was just like bein’ on Perry Mason. They decided it was an accident, he was up there sunning himself, got dizzy from the sun and fell over the edge. That was that. That was the end of him.”

“What was the man’s name?”

“I hardly knew the fella before he tried to fly, then I found his name. Never forget it, neither. Everybody was saying, Poor Del, poor Del. Like, he wrote things, said his name was Del Marston. But at the inquest they said that wasn’t his name. I won’t forget that, not as long’s I live. His real name, they said, was Isidore Horvitz. Yep, I remember that. Isidore Horvitz. They said he got dizzy in the sun and fell off the roof but I know he jumped.”

Lindsey rubbed his chin. The old man seemed certain of himself, but Lindsey pressed him. “How can you be certain that he didn’t get dizzy from the sun? It seems possible, doesn’t it?”

“I told you, young fella, I remember that day as clear as I do yesterday. Clearer, clearer. I remember that day. It was springtime, it was right before Easter, and it was cold and raining. Cold and windy and it was raining cats and dogs. He wasn’t up there for the sun, there wasn’t no sun to be up there for. I remember, young fella, I remember.”

Lindsey switched to another tack. “Did you know Mr. Paige’s first name? Or his wife’s or children’s?”

The old man rubbed his eyes. His fingers had the yellowish-brown color of a longtime smoker’s. “I think it was Wilbur, William, something like that. I never knew the wife’s name, and the kids was just babies, they didn’t have no names as far as I was concerned, they was just babies.”

Lindsey leaned over the counter. “Do you know where the Paiges lived?”

“I don’t know. I think somewhere on the north side. Maybe out of town. Where the heck. I think they lived up in Evanston or Skokie. Plain people could live there back then. You didn’t have to be a millionaire to live anyplace. I tell you, Mister, I tell you about the modern world.”

Lindsey waited.

“The modern world, Mister. It stinks.”

* * * *

Lindsey took a light meal, then returned to the Drake. There was an I.S.+ office in Chicago, and a separate SPUDS operation run by Gina Rossellini, but Lindsey set up a base of operations in his hotel room.

He started with a stack of Chicago-area telephone books. There must be hundreds of Paiges in the greater Chicago area, but the last of the old-time newsboys had mentioned Evanston and Skokie, and that was a logical place to start.

Paige, Wilbur.

Or Paige, William.

Or something like that.

He’s gotta be dead by now. Gotta be.

But maybe not.

And even if Paige, Wilbur, or Paige, William, was dead—maybe there was a Wilbur or William Paige, Jr., living in the old house, or at least in the old neighborhood. In the old town. Living in the old home town.

And if that didn’t work—if there was no Wilbur Paige or William Paige or if there was and it turned out to be the wrong Wilbur or William Paige—Lindsey had the Paige Publications bibliography. God bless Scotty Anderson, and God bless Lovisi, the publisher, for getting Anderson to do the research.

If he couldn’t find Paige, he could look for Violet de la Yema or Salvatore Pescara or Del Marston or Walter Roberts or J. B. Harkins or Bob Walters.

Somebody still had to be alive.

Lindsey would find the survivor.

An hour after starting, Lindsey realized that it was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t eaten any lunch. He ordered a sandwich and a pot of coffee from room service and went back to work.

After another hour he rolled the room service cart back into the hall, yawned and stretched and stood at his window looking out over Lake Michigan. The frozen mist had stopped falling but the sky was still filled with fat clouds. They looked full of moisture, ready to let it go any time the mood overtook them. The lake itself looked cold and black and ugly.

Lindsey went back to work. He’d already tracked down two William Paiges in Skokie as well as three in Evanston, plus three Wilbur Paiges in Skokie and none in Evanston. Why was that? Had Evanston banned Wilburs?

Not likely.

Worse, none of the Williams or Wilburs or their spouses or children had anything to do with Paige Publications, or had even heard of Paige Publications. An Eleanor Paige in Evanston (“I live with my son William since my husband died”) remembered the Paige Building in Chicago. It had been a family joke between her husband and herself. (“There’s our building. Isn’t it nice being landlords? I wonder how the tenants are doing.”) But in fact her husband had been a wholesale butcher with a shop near the stockyards, and her son was regional manager for the Piggly-Wiggly supermarket chain and they really had nothing to do with the Paige Building or with Paige Publications.

Lindsey straightened his tie, slipped into his suit-coat and took the elevator downstairs. He walked into the bar and ordered a whiskey. There was a TV set above the back bar, tuned to CNN. Of course there was a set in Lindsey’s room, but he hadn’t turned it on. The picture looked murky and for a moment Lindsey thought the satellite was acting up, but the bartender leaned his elbows on the wood and pointed at the set with one thumb.

“What do you think of that?”

Lindsey tried to figure out what he was looking at. This might be one of those wonderful medical shows featuring super blowups of some poor soul’s intestinal parasites.

The announcer intoned, “These are the photographs that have the world of ichthyology in an uproar. Have scientists from the University of Nevada really found Tahoe Tessie, the mountain lake’s cousin of Scotland’s famous Loch Ness Monster, or is it merely a sunken log, or perhaps an overgrown Mackinaw trout?”

The image cut to a perfect co-anchor team seated behind a news desk. They weren’t Dan Rather and Connie Chung but they could have passed for clones. The Connie had been speaking. Now the Dan took over. “In the Kremlin today, forces loyal to former leader.…”

The bartender used the remote control to cut the volume on the set. “Lake Tahoe, hey? That’s a little puddle. Those professors ought to take a look at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Then they’d see what a real monster looks like. Waddaya think?”

Lindsey said, “You’re absolutely right.” He paid for his whiskey, left most of it in its glass and headed back to his room. Once there he looked out the window again at the now black sky and black lake. He sighed and went back to work.

He could go in either of two directions. He could spread his net wider—look for Wilbur or William Paiges in Chicago proper, or in other suburbs—or he could keep trying Paiges in Evanston and Skokie, but not limit himself to William or Wilbur.

He decided on the latter course.

Another hour’s work and he hit pay dirt. He’d had to go a little past Evanston, but not very far. A Paul Paige on Willow Road in Winnetka announced that he’d just got home from work at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry where he was a senior curator. Yes, he knew about Paige Publications and the Paige Building. No, he didn’t know any William or Wilbur Paige, but his father had been Walter Paige, founder and president of Paige Publications. No, he was no longer alive. Nor was his wife, alas.

But Paul was alive and well thank you very much and what was it that Mr. Lindsey wanted?

Lindsey explained that he was with International Surety and was trying to find the beneficiary of a life insurance policy.

Mr. Paige said, “I’ve heard ’em all, brother, and believe me, that one’s the oldest in the book.”

Lindsey dialed Winnetka again. This time a woman answered. Lindsey asked, “Is this Mrs. Paige?”

Her voice was smooth but not particularly friendly. “No, Mrs. Paige died many years ago. Who is calling?”

Lindsey said, “I’m sorry. I meant, Mrs. Paul Paige. I’m trying to—”

“Are you the insurance man?” she cut him off.

“Yes, but I’m not a salesman. I give you my word of honor.”

“Then just what do you want?”

Lindsey tried to explain the Vansittart situation in twenty-five words or less. He must have done pretty well, because the woman who was not Mrs. Paige finally said, “All right, you may come to the house. Tonight. It’s—” he could almost hear her look at her watch “—almost six-thirty now. We should finish our dinner by eight o’clock. You may join us then for coffee. Paul and I will try to assist you.”

Lindsey thanked her.

“But I warn you,” she added, “if you even try to sell me anything, I will go in the other room and get my gun and come back and kill you. I’m not joking.”

She hung up.

Lindsey vowed silently not to try to sell her anything.

The phone rang. It was Gina Rossellini. How was Lindsey doing, did he need any help with the case, and was he all at loose ends in a strange city and looking for company for dinner?

He thanked her for the offer but begged off. He thought about phoning Marvia or Mother at home, then remembered the difference in time zones. He dialed Marvia at Berkeley police headquarters.

He got through to her and told her that he’d located the Paige family and was going out to their house in an hour. She said that Willie Fergus had called and told her that the fiber-optic probe at Lake Tahoe was getting good results. Lindsey told her about his conversation with the bartender. They promised to keep each other informed.

That was the end of the call.

He thought, Maybe if we were married I could get her to quit the police force. Then she could travel with me. This would be one heck of a lot pleasanter if I weren’t alone in this city. I wouldn’t have to fend off Gina Rossellini.

Then he thought, Do I want to fend her off?

Then he thought, Yes, I really do.

Then he thought, What if she looked more like Sophia Loren and less like Anna Magnani? Would you still fend her off?

Then he thought, Yes.

He ate another room service sandwich for dinner, put on his Jim Dial topcoat and fedora, and picked up his white Ford LTD. The drive to Winnetka wasn’t as bad as he’d feared; they kept the roads pretty clear in Chicago and the northern suburbs.

The Paige home on Willow Road was a tall Tudor set behind a broad lawn. A gravel drive led to the front door. Lindsey’s prospective hosts had left a light burning—that was a good sign. The house sported a three-car garage, but there was already a new-looking Chevy Caprice in the driveway. Maybe there was more company tonight, or maybe the Paiges were a four-car family.

Lindsey had left his palmtop computer in his room at the Drake. The only equipment he brought with him to Willow Road was his pocket organizer and his gold International Surety pencil.

The woman who answered the door wore a black maid’s uniform complete with white apron and cap. Lindsey hadn’t seen anything like her since AMC re-ran My Man Godfrey with William Powell and Carole Lombard. She took his fedora and topcoat and his card away and came back and ushered him into the living room.

Yes indeed, the family was assembled for their after-dinner coffee, and Lindsey was invited to join the fun.

The ceiling was high enough for a few small clouds to form among the heavy wooden beams. The floor was blue slate. The furniture was late Curt Siodmak hunting lodge. Lindsey half expected C. Aubrey Smith to stride through a doorway, shotgun over his arm, a couple of newly-killed partridges in his hand.

The woman who rose to greet him wore her white hair in a graceful upsweep that might not have been current but was definitely fashionable. She wore a dark green woolen dress and a simple golden chain that reached halfway down her chest. A tiny golden crucifix hung from the chain. Jesus looked happy and contented between the woman’s breasts. She had received Lindsey’s card and glanced at it as he approached.

She shook his hand. He noticed long fingernails, a first-rate professional manicure, a wedding band and a large glittering rock.

“I am Patti Paige Hanson. Please do not make any jokes about the doggie in the window, I was tired of them thirty years ago. You are Mr. Lindsey. Please sit down. Doreen will bring you a cup of coffee. Is that satisfactory or would you prefer tea?”

She steered him to a sofa. He managed to get in a few words. “Coffee would be just fine.”

Doreen poured the coffee. The silver was polished and the china, Lindsey would have bet, did not come from Japan. Tiny cubes of sugar were served with tiny silver tongs formed into tiny birds’ claws. The creamer had a round belly and four little birds’ feet.

There were three more people in the room. The older man –his features faintly resembled Patti Paige Hanson’s—sat quietly observing. His hair was not pure white, like Patti Paige Hanson’s; it was silvery gray. His face was seamed and leathered, with the look of an outdoorsman’s. He wore a blue pinstripe suit, a white shirt and quiet tie. He was perfect.

He nodded to Lindsey. He said, “I’m Paul Paige. We spoke on the phone.”

Patti Paige Hanson asked if Lindsey’s coffee was all right. He tasted it. It was superb.

A boy who might be a youthful twenty or a regular sixteen sat on the edge of an easy chair. He wore a hounds-tooth jacket, a button-down shirt, striped tie, flannel slacks.

A girl who might be a year or two younger sat sideways in another easy chair. Her hair was cropped boyishly short and dyed jet black. She wore death-white makeup, black eyeliner and black lipstick. Her clothing was black and ripped in three or four places. She wore one fingerless glove.

Paul Paige said, “Ah, my nephew, Theo, and my niece, Selena. Hanson. Theo and Selena Hanson. They’re my sister’s children by her late husband, Gelett. Gelett Burgess Hanson, a nephew of the original Gelett Burgess. You’ve heard of Gelett Burgess, the famous author?”

Theo Hanson stood up and advanced to Lindsey. Lindsey stood. The boy said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.” He shook hands with Lindsey, then returned to his seat.

Selena Hanson sneered at Lindsey.

Lindsey confessed that he had never heard of Gelett Burgess, the famous author.

Patti Paige Hanson said, “A pity. His books are worthy of attention. I suggest that you investigate them when you return to your home.” She paused to preen briefly, then went on. “Now, Mr. Lindsey, just what was it about this alleged insurance policy? My father—Paul’s and mine—was indeed in the publishing business in the early 1950s. But you were not very clear on the telephone about this insurance policy.”

Lindsey went over the case again. Mrs. Hanson seemed to listen intently. Lindsey couldn’t be sure about the rest of the family. “What I was hoping, then, was to find any kind of records of Paige Publications. Personnel files, financial records, anything that could help me find the girl on the cover of Death in the Ditch.”

Mrs. Hanson shook her head. “Father seldom spoke of the publishing business. That all ended so long ago, then he concentrated on real estate. He had hard going for several years, but eventually he did very well, as you can see.” Her gesture included the room, but it seemed to indicate the whole house, maybe all of Winnetka.

“There’s a new building on the old Paige site at LaSalle and Kinzie,” Lindsey said.

“Yes.”

“I was there today and spoke with the man who runs the news kiosk in the lobby. He says he knew your father and mother. Knew both of you when you were small children.”

Mrs. Hanson shot a look at her brother. “I wouldn’t remember any of that. I was just a baby. So was Paul.”

“The thing is, he mentioned some government agents visiting your father. Said that they came around repeatedly.”

“Probably about taxes. Or some bureaucratic matter. You know how the government can be. They’re a pack of self-serving Socialists in Washington. If not worse. Let me tell you something, the Soviet Union was never a threat to this country. The Communist menace comes from Washington, not from Russia. From Washington and Boston and Jew York. Decent people are going to have to build walls around themselves soon to keep the other kind out.”

That’s what Lindsey thought she said. He didn’t ask her to repeat it. He said, “I do have a list of books that Paige Publications issued.”

He unfolded Scotty Anderson’s printout and spread it on the coffee table. Theo Hanson came over and looked at it. Selena Hanson sneered. Patti Paige Hanson said, “I’m sure I am not interested. What I would really like to know, Mr. Lindsey, is whether this insurance settlement involved the Paige family. If this money was left to an employee, perhaps the company is entitled to the money. I mean, some casual model, not even an employee, really. I never met Mr. Vansittart but of course I knew of him. I was shocked to hear of his death. I’d think that the money should come to the company, you know, under the law of agency.”

Lindsey shook his head. “I doubt that, frankly. It’s really a question for Legal, of course, but I really don’t think so.”

Mrs. Hanson reached into a purse that appeared miraculously and extracted a jeweled eyeglass case. She unfolded a small pair of glasses and perched them on her nose. Lindsey almost expected her to use a lorgnette. She peered at the Anderson bibliography and sniffed. She shook her head. “No. No.” She shoved the paper back toward Lindsey.

“Do you think your father might have left any personal notes on the company? Correspondence? If I could just get a lead on this girl.…”

“Nothing.” Mrs. Hanson stood up. Her brother and son followed suit. Selena swung one leg over the end of her chair, up and down and up and down.

Doreen reappeared with Lindsey’s hat and coat. She must have been summoned telepathically. She helped Lindsey into the coat and handed him the hat. He turned to Mrs. Hanson and the others. “If you do think of anything, I’ll be at the Drake for a little longer. Or you could try me at International Surety in Chicago after that, they’ll get the message to me. If you do think of anything.”

Paul Paige and Theo Hanson shook his hand. Patti Paige Hanson sniffed, touched her fingertips to his, and turned back into the house. Paul Paige wished Lindsey a safe drive back to Chicago.

Lindsey walked to the LTD and turned on the engine. He left the radio off during his drive back to Chicago, listening to the purr of the Ford’s engine, the hum of its heater, the hiss of its tires on the slick black streets. There had been some snow here, but all that remained were low icy berms along the sidewalk and small patches on the broad lawns.

Somehow the car’s sounds and their rhythms and counterpoints turned into a melody. By the time he pulled the LTD under the Drake’s canopy and handed the keys to the parking valet, he was actually whistling.

All the way up in the elevator, walking along the corridor to his room, crossing the room and staring out again into the black winter night, he whistled, and wondered what the familiar tune could be. At last he remembered what it was. He actually sang a couple of lines.

How much is that doggie in the window/

The one with the waggily tail?

He’d been stymied by Mrs. Hanson and her subservient brother, but somehow, as he fell into bed, he was grinning.

How much is that doggie in the window/

I do hope that doggie’s for sale.

Then the phone rang.