James Chase - You've Got It Coming

“That's her good luck. Griffin specializes in getting money out of women.”

The girl looked shocked.

“I wouldn't have thought it. Are you sure you're not confusing him with someone else?”

Borg's eyes went sleepy.

“I guess not. What's this guy like, you know?”

'Why, he's tall and handsome. Dark hair, around twenty-eight. When he came to see Glorie in his uniform I thought he looked a little like Gregory Peck.”

“What uniform?” Borg asked casually.

“He was a pilot for the C.A.T.C. I did hear he had left them. Glorie said something about him looking for another job. That's when he moved into her apartment.” She sniffed. “They weren't married, of course, but that's their business. You can't live other people's lives, can you?”

“I guess that's right. When did he leave the C.A.T.C.?”

“About three or four weeks ago.”

Borg produced a photograph of Harry Green he had taken the trouble to buy from the Photomat shop in Essex Street.

“Is that the guy?”

The girl examined the photograph and handed it back.

“Why, no. It's not a bit like him. Mr. Griffin was young and he didn't have a scar. Is that the man you're looking for?”

Borg nodded. He put the photograph back into his notebook and the notebook back into his pocket.

“The trouble with my job” he said as he heaved himself towards the door, “is there are too many punks ready to give me a bum steer. I thought I was on to the right guy for a change. You don't know where I can find Miss Dane?”

“No, I don't.” The girl was looking bewildered. The janitor might know.”

“Never mind,” Borg said. “I don't suppose it matters.”

He thudded down the stairs, holding on to the banister rail.

He paused in the hall and brooded, then he went down the passage to the janitor's office. The janitor was a skinny little man with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down in his throat like a yo-yo on a string. Borg loomed over him, staring down at him, his eyes bleak and unfriendly.

“You the janitor?” he demanded, and poked at the little man with a finger as thick as a sausage.

“That's right,” the janitor said, backing away.

“I'm looking for Glorie Dane. Where is she?”

“What do you want her for?” the janitor asked, backing further away as Borg edged his gross body against him.

“I want her. She's in trouble. Where is she?”

The janitor licked his lips. His Adam’s apple flopped up and down.

“She told me not to give her address to anyone,” he said feebly. “What sort of trouble, mister?”

“I got a summons for her. If you want me to call a cop to talk to you, say so,” Borg snarled.

“Well, she asked me to forward her mail to the Maddox hotel, New York.”

Borg stared at him.

“I hope that's right,” he said. “If it isn't I'll be back and you’ll be sorry.”

He walked away down the passage to the front door, leaving the janitor staring after him. He was whistling softly under his breath as he struggled into his car and set it moving.

He drove four blocks, turned left and pulled up outside the dingy entrance to the Daffodil club. Leaving his car, he walked down the stairs to the small, shabby foyer. At this hour in the afternoon the manager of the club, a thin, sharp-featured Mexican, was taking it easy, his feet on his desk, his eyes closed, his hands folded over the beginning of a paunch.

His office door stood open, and he looked up as he heard Borg’s heavy breathing. When he saw who it was, he reacted as if he had seen a cobra.

Slowly and with exaggerated care, he removed his feet from the desk and sat up. He placed his hands on the desk.

“Hello, Sydney,” Borg said, propping himself up against the doorpost. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” the Mexican said. “That's right. Anything I can do for you, Mr. Borg?”

“I'm looking for Glorie Dane. Remember her?”

“Why, sure. I haven't seen her for months.”

“I didn't think you had. Got a photograph of her, Sydney?”

The Mexican's black eyes opened wide.

“Is she in trouble?”

“No. I just want to talk to her.”

The Mexican pulled open a drawer in his desk, took out a bundle of half-plate, glossy photographs, skimmed through than, took one from the pack and dropped it on the desk.

“That's her.”

Borg's dirty fingers closed on the photograph. He stared at it for some seconds.

“Not bad. I've seen worse. This like her?”

“It was taken two years ago. She's a little worn at the edges now, I guess. But you'd know it was her if you saw her.”

Borg nodded, put the photograph between the pages of his notebook and the notebook back into his pocket. He turned and plodded out of the office.

“You're sure she's not in trouble?” the Mexican asked. “She was a nice girl. I never had any bother with her when she was here. I wouldn’t . . .”

He stopped short as he found himself talking to the air.

By then Borg had dragged his bulk up the stairs and had got into his car.

He was coming along, he told himself as he started the engine.

Could this Griffin guy be Harry Green? Everything pointed to it. He'd been a pilot, and it was obvious that Harry Green had also been a pilot. Griffin had worked for the C.A.T.C., and he had had the means of knowing about the diamonds. Borg thought that he was on the right track. He revved the engine and sent the car away fast.

Forty minutes later, he was being shown into the Personnel Manager's office of the C.A.T.C. The Personnel Manager, a thickset, friendly looking man with rimless glasses, regarded Borg unfavourably. On the desk was a small wooden plaque bearing the name: Herbert Henry.

Borg removed his hat and sank his bulk into a chair by Henry's desk.

“What can I do for you?” Henry asked. He looked at the card

Borg had sent in, frowned at it and laid it down.

“You had a guy working for you some weeks ago,” Borg said. “Harry Griffin. Remember him?”

Henry's face clouded.

“Yes, of course. What about him?”

“I'm trying to find him.”

“I can't help you. I haven't seen him since he left the company.”

“He's left town,” Borg said. “I hear he's somewhere in New York.”

“Why this enquiry? Is he in trouble?”

“No. I've been hired by Gregson and Lawson, the attorneys, to find him. He's come into some money and they want to deliver.”

Henry's face relaxed and his suspicions went away.

“I'm glad to hear that. Is it much?”

Borg lifted his heavy shoulders.

“Well, no, but it's worth having. Something like two thousand dollars, but if I don't find him fast, it'll all go in my expenses. I don't even know what the guy looks like. You wouldn't have a photograph of him, would you?”

“I guess so,” Henry said and pressed on a buzzer. When a girl came in he told her to get Griffin's file.

She came back after five minutes or so and handed the file to Henry.

“I’m glad he's had this bit of luck,” Henry said, as he flicked through the pages of the file. “He was a good pilot, and I was sorry he left.”

“I heard he was run out,” Borg said, making a guess.

Henry frowned.

“There was some trouble. It was his hard luck more than anything else.” He flicked a half-plate photograph across the desk.

“I can let you have that if it's any use to you.”

Borg gathered up the photograph, glanced at it, nodded and straggled to his feet.

“I guess I'll find him with this,” he said. “I'll tell him you gave me the photo. Maybe he'll buy you a drink.”

He plodded to the door, opened it and went out to his car.

When he had put several miles between himself and the airport, he pulled up and took out the photograph Henry had given him and studied it. He studied it for a long time, then he took a pencil from his pocket and very lightly sketched in a moustache, a scar and filled out the lean, hard face that looked at him from the glossy surface of the photograph.