Black Mask (Vol. 29, No. 3 — January 1947)

“I’d say no,” Gage admitted. “But he might meet Pola and she’d take him to them, on account of she’s a dame that can get by in ritzy places like this: tail, built, black hair and eyes, white skin, smooth dresser. Tommy don’t look no worse than a young lawyer hisself. They’d just pick a place like this to come together.”

“Well, we waft and see.” Slabbe shrugged. “Suppose I jingle my office and see if my boy checked in yet?”

“How good is he?” Gage asked.

“Whitey gets around,” Slabbe assured the tired man. “Tell you in a second.”

He started for the phone booths across the lobby, fishing a nickel from his wrinkled gray trousers and juggling it on a palm that made it look like a pinpoint.

A Hiss said: “Hey, Slabbe!”

Nothing altered in Slabbed face as he saw a wisp of a man dart from behind one of the lobby’s huge marble columns and flit into the men’s room. He plodded after the man, found him inside and handed him the nickel.

“I was going to use it to call you, anyhow, Whitey,” he explained. “How’d you know I was here?”

Whitey Fite, adequately nicknamed because he was an albino, whined: “How do I ever know anything, huh? What you want?”

Slabbe held up a hand and ticked off three names. “Silk Flaim, Happy Lado, Pola Velie,” he said. “How about it?”

Whitey’s knowing eyes were no more furtive than a gopher sizing up the situation outside its hole. He used a finger with a thick black half-moon of dirt under the nail to dig at an itch on his white hair thoughtfully. “How much?” he said.

Slabbe chewed gum easily, deciding to handle it by needling the shabby little man. He sneered: “How much? What do you mean? For what you got or for what you think you can get?”

Whitey took the bait. “For what I got!” he bristled.

Slabbe put a fatherly arm over Whitey’s skimpy shoulders, ruffled the white hair fondly. “You wouldn’t hold up an old pal, would you? It ain’t worth nothing, really, ’cause I could find out myself by making a call here and there. You’re only saving me a half hour’s work. Say a finif, huh?”

“Go to hell!” Whitey responded promptly.

“Ten.”

“Fifteen!”

“Ten!” Slabbe repeated sternly.

“Fifteen!”

Slabbe sighed. “You’re a tough cookie.” He got out his wallet, leafed off three five-dollar bills. Whitey’s grimy hand flicked out, enveloped them.

“I dunno where Happy and Silk are now, but you can get to them mebbe through the dame.”

“Did you see them?” Slabbe asked quickly.

“Yeah. They blew in this morning around ten on a rattler from St. Louie.”

“How’d you spot ’em?”

Whitey leered. “I’m giving you fifteen bucks worth, not how I work. The dame is at 5502 Emerald Avenue in an apartment where a girl named Nikki Evans lives. That’s your money’s worth, ain’t it?”

“For now,” Slabbe said thoughtfully. “5502 Emerald, hey? Be seeing you, kid.”

He left the men’s room and made his original destination, the phone booths. He rang a number. A quiet, unexcited man’s voice said: “Hullo.”

“Abe, it’s me,” Slabbe said. “Took a chance on catching you at home. Got a job in your neighborhood there: 5502 Emerald Avenue, apartment under the name of Nikki Evans, only she’s not your party. Who you want is Pola Velie, girl friend of Tommy Rex who pulled a jewel heist in Philly a month back. She’s tall, black eyes and hair, built, white skin, smooth dresser. Take a plant on the place. If you can find out if Pola is inside, call me here at the Carleton Arms. But don’t be cute. Happy Lado and Silk Flaim might be in and out — they play rough.”

“Check.”

“If Pola leaves, it might be to meet Tommy down here. If she’s alone, stick along. If she’s with somebody else and seems to be heading here to the hotel, but they split up before she gets here, stick with whoever she’s with.”

“Check.”

“Don’t be cute, remember.”

“Check.”

Slabbe clicked off, then phoned another boy who took his money on occasion, Charlie Somers. He told Charlie to come to the Carleton Arms, fast. He hung up and returned to Al Gage. The Zenith op hadn’t moved a muscle, he was so tired. Slabbe flopped beside him, saying: “Tabbed the girl. 5502 Emerald Avenue. Told a boy of mine to take a plant on the place and call me back if she’s there. Got another boy coming here to take over in case the girl’s up there and we want to go calling.”

“You don’t do bad.” Gage sat straighter, green eyes speculative. “Yeah, I’d say we should go there if she’s in. Tommy don’t have the stuff, and that’s for sure, but she might, and getting it back is my bread and butter.”

“There he comes,” Slabbe murmured.

“I see him,” Gage said, though his eyes did not seem to be anywhere near the tall, blond man who had come out of the dining room and was trotting down the stairs to the lobby proper.

Slabbe noted that Tommy Rex was quite at ease, not hurried at all. He looked more like a young man about town looking for his date than a heist artist. He selected a chair and sat down leisurely.