When I got to Lotty’s it was afternoon. I had stopped on the way to call my answering service—a Mr. McGraw and a Mr. Devereux had both phoned, and left numbers. I copied them into my pocket phone book but decided not to call until I got to Lotty’s. She greeted me with a worried head shake. “Not content with beating you, they beat your apartment. You run with a wild crowd, Vic.” But no censure, no horror—one of the things I liked in Lotty.
She examined my face and my eye with her ophthalmoscope. “Coming along nicely. Much less swelling already. Headache? A bit? To be expected. Have you eaten? An empty stomach makes it worse. Come, a little boiled chicken—nice Eastern European Sunday dinner.” She had eaten, but drank coffee while I finished the chicken. I was surprised at how hungry I was.
“How long can I stay?” I asked. “I’m expecting no one this month. As long as you like until August tenth.”
“I shouldn’t be more than a week—probably less. But I’d like to ask the answering service to switch my home calls here.”
Lotty shrugged. “In that case, I won’t switch off the phone by the guest bed—mine rings at all hours—women having babies, boys being shot—they don’t keep nine-to-five schedules. So you run the risk of answering my calls and if any come for you, I’ll let you know.” She got up. “Now I must leave you. My medical advice is for you to stay in, have a drink, relax—you’re not in good shape and you’ve had a bad shock. But if you choose to disregard my professional advice, well, I’m not liable in a malpractice suit”—she chuckled slightly—”and keys are in the basket by the sink. I have an answering machine by my bedroom phone—turn it on if you decide to go out.” She kissed the air near my face and left.
I wandered restlessly around the apartment for a few minutes. I knew I should go down to my office and assess the damage. I should call a guy I knew who ran a cleaning service to come and restore my apartment. I should call my answering service and get my calls transferred to Lotty’s. And I needed to get back to Peter Thayer’s apartment to see if there was something there that my apartment smashers believed I had.
Lotty was right: I was not in prime condition. The destruction of my apartment had been shocking. I was consumed with anger, the anger one has when victimized and unable to fight back. I opened my suitcase and got out the box with the gun in it. I unwrapped it and pulled out the Smith & Wesson. While I loaded it, I had a fantasy of planting some kind of hint that would draw Smeissen—or whomever—back to my apartment while I stood in the hallway and pumped them full of bullets. The fantasy was very vivid and I played it through several times. The effect was cathartic—a lot of my anger drained away and I felt able to call my answering service. They took Lotty’s number and agreed to transfer my calls.
Finally I sat down and called McGraw. “Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,” I said when he answered. “I hear you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”
“Yes, about my daughter.” He sounded a little ill-at-ease.
“I haven’t forgotten her, Mr. McGraw. In fact, I have a lead—not on her directly, but on some people who may know where she’s gone.”
“How far have you gone with them—these people?” he demanded sharply.
“As far as I could in the time I had. I don’t drag cases on just to keep my expense bill mounting.”
“Yeah, no one’s accusing you of that. I just don’t want you to go any further.”
“What?” I said incredulously. “You started this whole chain of events and now you don’t want me to find Anita? Or did she turn up?”
“No, she hasn’t turned up. But I think I flew off the handle a bit when she left her apartment. I thought she might be wrapped up in young Thayer’s murder somehow. Now the police have arrested this drug addict, I see the two weren’t connected.”
Some of my anger returned. “You do? By divine inspiration, maybe? There were no signs of robbery in that apartment, and no sign that Mackenzie had been there. I don’t believe he did it.”
“Look here, Warshawski, who are you to go around questioning the police? The goddamn punk has been held for two days now. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been let go by now. Now where the hell do you get off saying ‘I don’t believe it’?” he mimicked me savagely.
“Since you and I last talked, McGraw, I have been beaten and my apartment and office decimated by Earl Smeissen in an effort to get me off the case. If Mackenzie is the murderer, why does Smeissen care so much?”
“What Earl does has no bearing on anything I do,” McGraw answered. “I’m telling you to stop looking for my daughter. I hired you and I can fire you. Send me a bill for your expenses—throw in your apartment if you want to. But quit.”
“This is quite a change. You were worried sick about your daughter on Friday. What’s happened since then?”
“Just get off the case, Warshawski,” McGraw bellowed. “I’ve said I’ll pay you—now stop fighting over it.”