Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 51, No. 2, June 28, 1930

“I... oh, you know about Baa-Baa and myself, I guess. I’ve known her on and off for three or four years, but we just didn’t click all that time. You know, we didn’t get this yen for each other till about a month ago. Since then we’ve been together pretty near all the time. We—”

“Live here with her?” interrupted Frayne, although he knew that Vince hadn’t.

“Nothing doing, inspector.” Lamont laughed with a wave of his hand. “No dame gets me like that. I’ve been hanging out at my own little room-and-bath at the Piccadilly Circle ever since it’s been built, about four years ago.”

“Wise man,” nodded Frayne. “Well? Last night?”

“We blew in early from the ‘Spanish Slipper.’ A little after two, I’d say. We had a few shots more of rye and... aw, hell, you know how this hooch hits some dames, lately. They get naggy and start to hang things on you that you never done. We... well, Baa-Baa was jealous, and she starts saying I was trying to make a cabaret kid at the Spanish Slipper. One word led to another — and that word led to about six more — and—”

Vince Lamont shrugged again, made a helpless gesture with outstretched hands, and blew out smoke.

“Maybe I am wise in some ways, inspector_; like you said. I am in one way, I know. I never let a dame get me into a deep argument that’s maybe gonna lead to a fight. I blow, instead. I blew last night. It was about four.”

“That’s when you stopped down below and had a few more shots, is it?”

“Yeah. Flo and Toots Mason — you know, from the Scandals — have got a flat there. They were throwing a party, and I—”

“You stayed there how long?”

“Oh, maybe an hour; maybe a little longer.”

“And then?”

“I blew over to Jerry Spino’s place and had a few more shots. Not many, two or three, I think — yeah, three. I got to mopin’ about Baa-Baa after that. I — aw, hell, inspector, maybe I’m a little hard-boiled, see, but I’d lately got to thinkin’ a lot of Baa-Baa. I felt sorry we’d had that spat; I got to thinkin’ I was too quick in takin’ her up; I got to thinkin’ perhaps I had give that Wop cabaret kid the eye; I... Aw, I figgered it was up to me to come back and make up!”

He paused, looked somber for a moment, and took out another cigarette. He lit it, and blew the smoke out with a sigh:

“Well, you know what I come back to!”

“Uh huh,” said Frayne.

Frayne was telling himself that he knew one thing for certain. He knew that the alibi at Jerry Spino’s speakeasy would be copper riveted and otherwise unimpeachable. The Spino crowd stuck together, as the man-hunter was well aware.

“So you rang the bell, eh? You didn’t have a key?”

“Baa-Baa was shifty about handing out keys, inspector. Nope, she didn’t even give one to me. Hell, I only know one guy that ever had — but ain’t that right, Bethenia? I never had a key, did I?”

“No, suh,” said Bethenia. “He didn’ have no key, Mistuh Lamont didn’!”

Frayne was fingering his close cropped and well trimmed mustache with the thumb and index finger of his right hand:

“So another lad did have a key?” he was musing.

“Nix, inspector,” laughed Vince with a positive wave of his hand. “Wrong there. This was just a bird that Baa-Baa fell for a coupla months ago, for about a week. She probably hasn’t seen him since, and I know he gave her back the key. He—”

“Why so positive?”

“He’s a dub. Gawd knows how she ever did fall for him, even for a day. He’s the night clerk at the Piccadilly Circle — a sap that’s always tryin’ to beat the ponies from the outside. I take most of his bets for him.”

“Losing lately?”

“Ever see a sucker that won, inspector?” countered Vince.

“No,” said Frayne, “and I never saw a wise guy that did, either.”

“You’re tellin’,” chuckled Lamont.

“What’s he called?”

“Baker — Blondy Baker, inspector. But say, you’re all wet, an’ I mean that right. He had no more to do with this than—”

“What time does he finish his shift?”

“Seven in the morning.”

“Live at the hotel?”

“Yeah!”

“Don,” said Frayne.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll make better speed in the roadster. Chase over to the Piccadilly Circle and round up Blondy Baker, the night clerk. Step on the gas, Don.”

“I will, sir.”

Frayne took out a cigar, presumably searched his waistcoat pocket for his lighter and didn’t find it.

“Let me have a light, Lamont.”

Lamont fumbled in his own pocket, clumsily, took out a match, lit it and held the flame for Frayne.

“Thanks,” said the inspector. He noticed that the tout had not removed his gloves.

Frayne started to walk up and down, his eyes narrowing. Denham appeared in the doorway, then. Denham’s face told Frayne, furthermore, that no finger-prints had been found on the knife or on the body of Baa-Baa.

Frayne continued his pacing. He stopped, presently. He stretched, yawned, looking like a man who is immeasurably bored; who was slightly annoyed, too.