had been gone three days now. No, not the whole family, Mrs. Shepherd and the girl. He didn’t know where they had gone, and neither did anyone else around there. Some thought they had skipped, and some thought the cops had ‘em. He personally thought they might be dead. No, not Mr. Shepherd too. He came home from work every afternoon a little after five, and left every morning at half past six.
A glance at my wrist showing me ten to five, I offered the animal a buck to stick around the front and give me a sign when Shepherd showed up, and the look in his eye told me that I had wasted at least four bits of the clients’ money.
It wasn’t a long wait. When Shepherd appeared I saw that it wouldn’t have been necessary to keep the janitor away from his work, for from the line of the eyebrows it was about as far up to the beginning of his hair as it was down to the point of his chin, and a sketchy description would have been enough. Whoever designs the faces had lost all sense of proportion. As he was about to enter the vestibule I got in front of him and asked without the faintest touch of condescension:
“Mr. Shepherd?”
“Get out,” he snarled.
“My name’s Goodwin and I’m working for Miss Madeline Fraser. I understand your wife and daughter—”
“Get out!”
“But I only want—”
“Get out!”
He didn’t put a hand on me or shoulder me, and I can’t understand yet how he got past me to the vestibule without friction, but he did, and got his key in the door. There were of course a dozen possible courses for me, anything from grabbing his coat and holding on to plugging him in the jaw, but while that would have given me emotional release it wouldn’t have got what I wanted. It was plain that as long as he was conscious he wasn’t going to tell me where Nancylee was, and unconscious he couldn’t. I passed.
I drove back down to Thirty-fifth Street, left the car at the curb, went in to the office, and dialed Madeline Fraser’s number. Deborah Koppel answered, and I asked her:
“Did you folks know that Nancylee had left home? With her mother?”
Yes, she said, they knew that.
“You didn’t mention it when you were here this morning. Neither did Miss Fraser this afternoon.”
“There was no reason to mention it, was there? We weren’t asked.”
“You were asked about Nancylee, both of you.”
“But not if she had left home or where she is.”
“Then may I ask you now? Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Miss Fraser?”
“No. None of us knows.”
“How did you know she was gone?”
“She phoned Miss Fraser and told her she was going.”
“When was that?”
“That was … that was Sunday.”
“She didn’t say where she was going?”
“No.”
That was the best I could get. When I was through trying and had hung up, I sat and considered. There was a chance that Purley Stebbins of Homicide would be in the mood for tossing me a bone, since Cramer had been spending nickels on us, but if I asked him for it he would want to make it a trade, and I had nothing to offer. So when I reached for the phone again it wasn’t that number, but the Gazette’s , that I dialed.
Lon Cohen immediately got personal. Where, he wanted to know, had I got the idea that an open press release made an entry in my credit column?
I poohed him. “Some day, chum, you’ll get a lulu. Say in about six months, the way we’re going. A newspaper is supposed to render public service, and I want some. Did you know that Nancylee Shepherd and her mother have blown?”
“Certainly. The father got sore because she was mixed up in a murder case. He damn near killed two photographers. Father has character.”
“Yeah, I’ve met Father. What did he do with his wife and daughter, bury them?”
“Shipped ‘em out of town. With Cramer’s permission, as we got it here, and of course Cramer knew where but wasn’t giving out. Naturally we thought it an outrage. Is the great public, are the
A glance at my wrist showing me ten to five, I offered the animal a buck to stick around the front and give me a sign when Shepherd showed up, and the look in his eye told me that I had wasted at least four bits of the clients’ money.
It wasn’t a long wait. When Shepherd appeared I saw that it wouldn’t have been necessary to keep the janitor away from his work, for from the line of the eyebrows it was about as far up to the beginning of his hair as it was down to the point of his chin, and a sketchy description would have been enough. Whoever designs the faces had lost all sense of proportion. As he was about to enter the vestibule I got in front of him and asked without the faintest touch of condescension:
“Mr. Shepherd?”
“Get out,” he snarled.
“My name’s Goodwin and I’m working for Miss Madeline Fraser. I understand your wife and daughter—”
“Get out!”
“But I only want—”
“Get out!”
He didn’t put a hand on me or shoulder me, and I can’t understand yet how he got past me to the vestibule without friction, but he did, and got his key in the door. There were of course a dozen possible courses for me, anything from grabbing his coat and holding on to plugging him in the jaw, but while that would have given me emotional release it wouldn’t have got what I wanted. It was plain that as long as he was conscious he wasn’t going to tell me where Nancylee was, and unconscious he couldn’t. I passed.
I drove back down to Thirty-fifth Street, left the car at the curb, went in to the office, and dialed Madeline Fraser’s number. Deborah Koppel answered, and I asked her:
“Did you folks know that Nancylee had left home? With her mother?”
Yes, she said, they knew that.
“You didn’t mention it when you were here this morning. Neither did Miss Fraser this afternoon.”
“There was no reason to mention it, was there? We weren’t asked.”
“You were asked about Nancylee, both of you.”
“But not if she had left home or where she is.”
“Then may I ask you now? Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Miss Fraser?”
“No. None of us knows.”
“How did you know she was gone?”
“She phoned Miss Fraser and told her she was going.”
“When was that?”
“That was … that was Sunday.”
“She didn’t say where she was going?”
“No.”
That was the best I could get. When I was through trying and had hung up, I sat and considered. There was a chance that Purley Stebbins of Homicide would be in the mood for tossing me a bone, since Cramer had been spending nickels on us, but if I asked him for it he would want to make it a trade, and I had nothing to offer. So when I reached for the phone again it wasn’t that number, but the Gazette’s , that I dialed.
Lon Cohen immediately got personal. Where, he wanted to know, had I got the idea that an open press release made an entry in my credit column?
I poohed him. “Some day, chum, you’ll get a lulu. Say in about six months, the way we’re going. A newspaper is supposed to render public service, and I want some. Did you know that Nancylee Shepherd and her mother have blown?”
“Certainly. The father got sore because she was mixed up in a murder case. He damn near killed two photographers. Father has character.”
“Yeah, I’ve met Father. What did he do with his wife and daughter, bury them?”
“Shipped ‘em out of town. With Cramer’s permission, as we got it here, and of course Cramer knew where but wasn’t giving out. Naturally we thought it an outrage. Is the great public, are the
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