Джон Макдональд - Flight of the Tiger

He wondered if the agency where Dick had worked would know anything about Helen. He went to the classified directory and ran his finger down the long columns of advertising agencies, knowing he would recognize the name when he saw it. Christy & Reeves, Rockefeller Plaza. He dialed and asked for the copy chief.

The girl said, “Mr. Willsie is our copy chief. Who is calling, please?”

“Mr. Morrow.” As soon as he said it, he wondered why he left off the military title.

He was connected with another girl, one with a softer voice, who also asked him his name. He waited for about thirty seconds and then a husky voice said, “Willsie speaking.”

“Sorry to bother you like this, Mr. Willsie. I’m... I was a friend of Dick MacLane’s. I just got back. I want to see Helen MacLane and I couldn’t think of anyone else who might help me on that. Do you know where I could locate her?”

There was a long silence on the line. “Maybe I can help you, Mr. Morrow. Could you come up here at — noon?”

“I’d be glad to.”

“I’ll see you then, Mr. Morrow. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up and looked at his watch. It was twenty after eleven. He knew he should find someplace to stay. He walked back and got his bag out of the coin locker. He walked north on Vanderbilt and then turned west. After a couple of blocks he saw a sign that said Hotel Maralane. There was a stairway between two stores in the middle of the block and a sign that said that the lobby was one flight up. He reached the top of the staircase and almost turned back. The lobby was a narrow room without windows. Some men sat in ancient leather chairs reading newspapers. A girl in slacks leaned on the counter talking to the clerk. There was a dingy smell about the place, a smell of dust and cigars. But there would be a room, with a bed, and that was all he needed, so he went to the desk. The girl moved aside. She was blond and her cheek was badly bruised. The clerk said he had a room with a private bath, and it would be four fifty in advance. He agreed to refund the money if Mr. Morrow didn’t like the looks of the room. An ancient and shabby bellhop led him back to another staircase, and up one floor.

The room was tiny, but it seemed reasonably clean. The window looked out on an air shaft. Ben tipped the morose old man. The maroon rug was worn down to the brown cords, and the towels were threadbare. The maid had forgotten to empty the ash tray. After the bellhop had gone, Ben carried the ash tray into the bathroom and dumped the cigarettes with their bright stains of lipstick. He unpacked quickly and went down the two flights and out into the sunshine. The smell of asphalt and gasoline was an improvement. Yet, in some obscure way, the Maralane pleased him. It had the air of being a hiding place. It had a slightly furtive flavor that matched his mood.

He asked directions and walked to Rockefeller Plaza. The flags fluttered brightly in the sunlight and he stopped and looked at a model of an ocean liner in the window of a travel agency. He got lost once among the banks of elevators, and then he found the right one to take him to the twenty-first floor.

The small reception room was paneled in silver-bleached wood. A pretty girl sat behind a reception window, working a small switchboard. Two men sat on a coral-colored upholstered bench. Ben went to the window and spoke through the circular hole. “My name is Morrow. I have an appointment with Mr. Willsie.”

The girl did not answer. She looked beyond him. The two men who had been waiting came up behind him.

“Mr. Morrow?” the taller one said. He had a lean, tired-looking face. He wore a dark, slightly rumpled suit and a gray felt hat. The man with him was shorter and broader, and similarly dressed. There was no special similarity of appearance, yet they gave Ben a strong impression of being very alike. He wondered if it was the expression in their eyes. Their eyes, their expressions, were completely devoid of friendliness. They had a clinical look.

“That’s right,” Ben said.

The tall thin one said, “Police, Mr. Morrow. I’m Davis. This is Sergeant Waska. Do you mind answering a few questions?”

“No. I don’t mind.”

“Come over here, Mr. Morrow.” Ben went over and sat on the padded bench. Waska sat beside him. Davis pulled up a chair, turning it so that he faced Ben.

“Full name, please.”

“First Lieutenant Benjamin R. Morrow.”

“You told Mr. Willsie you were back from Korea.”

“That’s right.”

“Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“I’m on leave.”

“Let me see a copy of your orders.”

“Sure.” Ben took the folded copy out of his wallet and handed it over, and held the wallet out so that his ID card was visible. Davis glanced at the card and then read the orders and handed them back.

“Pilot?” Waska asked.

“Jet,” Ben answered, endeavoring to recreate the pride with which he had always said that before.

“Friend of MacLane’s?”

“Yes. What’s this all about?”

“Why are you looking for Helen MacLane?”

“Hell, that’s normal enough! I roomed with Dick. He must have mentioned me in letters to Helen. I was on the same flight when he got it ten months ago. I didn’t actually see it, but the leader did. It’s normal to come see her, isn’t it? My people are in Philadelphia. I had to come East anyway. What’s this all about?”

“Where are you staying in town, Lieutenant?”

“A place called the Hotel Maralane.”

“Who suggested that fleabag?”

“Nobody. I just walked in. The hotels I called were full.”

The two police officers glanced at each other. Waska shrugged. Davis said, “Sorry to bother you this way. Thanks for your co-operation.”

“Now can you tell me what it’s all about?”

They stood up. “Willsie told me that if you’re okay he wants to buy you a lunch. We’re kind of pushed for time, and he can give you the score. I guess you’ll understand why we had to brace you when he tells you what the deal is.”

They went out, and in the doorway Davis turned and waved casually at the girl behind the window. She smiled quickly, plugged a jack into her board and spoke into her mouthpiece. Ben went over to the window. “Mr. Willsie is on his way out,” the girl said.

The paneled door opened and a small, round, white-haired man hurried toward Ben, smiling. He had clear bright blue eyes and a pink, unlined face. He had the direct guileless look of a well-adjusted child. He took Ben’s right hand in both of his to shake it. “Nice to see you, Mr. Morrow. The authorities have cleared you, I see.”

“Without telling me what it’s about.”

“I owe you a lunch for being so dramatic. Orders, you know. Come on. It was a terrible shock when I heard about Dick. Bright guy. I felt disassociated for days. Vividly unreal. Couldn’t match that information to this environment. Get used to seeing a man in an office and you can’t see him flying a jet. Entirely too Walter Mitty.”

They didn’t talk in the crowded elevator. And then when they were outside, Ben said, “He was very good in jets. Very steady. Older than most of the rest of us.”

Willsie gave him a quick, bright stare. “Oh, you fly too? Or are you out of it now? Calling yourself mister.”

“On leave. Lieutenant Morrow. Ben Morrow, Mr. Willsie.”

“Here we are.” Ben followed him into a narrow restaurant, dimmed to a perpetual twilight. They went to the bar. A man with a sheaf of menus appeared out of the gloom and said, “Your table is ready, Mr. Willsie.”

“Thank you, Joseph. Let’s have our drink at the table, Lieutenant.”

They went back and sat at the table, a table for two against the far wall. Willsie said, “You were lucky to find me in today. We’re usually closed on Saturdays. This restaurant used to be a favorite of Dick’s and mine. We had one rule when we came here: no shop talk. No soups and soaps, no campaigns, no presentations, no whining about the art department. We’d tell each other lies about our pasts in the newspaper business. Try the mutton chops. Recommend them.”