Snowball in Hell

leather-lined office. As he entered the room, Nora Noonan and Sid Szabo broke off what appeared to be an intense discussion. Sid swung away and went to glare out the rain-streaked window; Nora rose from a Queen Ann chair behind an equally magnificent desk.
«Mr. Doyle, you're becoming a regular.»
Nathan smiled and shook hands. «I'm afraid I'm here in my official capacity.»
«And what's that? Snoop?» That came from Sid, his back to the room.
«The Arlens are news in this town,» Nathan said mildly.
«Of course they are,» Nora said. She shot Sid's back an exasperated look, and then smiled again at Nathan. «We always like to cooperate with the press, but I'm not sure how much help we'll be. Frankly, it's not the best publicity for us, Phil Arlen getting kidnapped off our doorstep.»
«Was he kidnapped?»
«The police seem to think so.»
«What do you think?»
She directed another one of those looks at Sid's unresponsive broad shoulders, waiting in vain, it seemed, for him to chime in. «It seems likely. The last time anyone seems to have seen him was here.»
«With you,» Sid said.
Nathan turned his way. «That's right. Phil and I walked out together. We said goodnight. He went his way and I went mine.»
«So you say.»
«Sid!» That time Nora couldn't contain her impatience. The smile she turned on Nathan was apologetic and charming. «There's no reason we can't be civilized. Would you like a drink, Mr. Doyle?»
Nathan thought about it. He couldn't remember if he had eaten at all that morning. He suspected breakfast had consisted of a nip from the flask belonging to Fred Williams of the Daily News. And there had been several drinks after that, but the alcohol was helping him get through this-and there was still a long way to go-so he said, «Sure.»
Nora poured him a generous two fingers from a bottle of Four Roses. «Sid?» she inquired.
«You know I don't drink during the day,» Sid returned.
Nora winked at Nathan and took a dainty sip. She reminded Nathan of a nun with the high white collar of her blouse and her plain, intelligent face-although he'd never seen a nun taking a nip.
He said, directing the question to either of them, «What can you tell me about the relationship between Pearl Jarvis and Phil Arlen?»
«Why are you trying to start something? There was no relationship,» Sid said, turning to face the room-to face Nathan. «The little weasel had a crush on Pearl. Lots of guys do.»
«Mrs. Arlen seemed to think it was a little more than that.»
Nora sighed. «Perhaps it was. What can it matter now? Arlen's dead.»
«Yeah,» Nathan said. «Supposedly his kidnappers bumped him off after they picked up the ransom money. Any idea why that would be?»
«Maybe he got on their nerves,» Szabo said. «It's been known to happen.»
«Maybe,» Nathan agreed. «How much was Arlen into you for?»
«Forty big ones,» Szabo said. «So if you're thinking Nora and I have a new sideline-«
«If you have, you came out sixty grand ahead on the deal.»
Nora laughed. «We're gamblers. We're not crazy.»
«I agree,» Nathan said. «For that kind of risk it would have to be worth a lot more to you than sixty-or even a hundred grand.» When neither of them responded, he asked, «Would it be okay if I talked to Pearl?»
«Why?» Szabo asked.
As though he hadn't spoken, Nora said, «That's up to Pearl. She's not here right now. You can probably catch her after her show this evening.»
«Do you have an address for her?»
«No,» Szabo said.
Nora looked regretful. «We don't give that kind of information out, Mr. Doyle. But come back this evening. We'll see you get the best seat in the house. Nothing's too good for the gentlemen of the press.» She smiled a secret sort of smile.
Nathan looked at Szabo. «Any reason you don't want me to talk to Pearl?
«Why should there be?»
Nathan shrugged. «Every time her name comes up you get a little testy. You have a lot of problems with her?»
«We don't have any problems with her.»
«She's very good,» Nora said. «Very talented. Have you ever heard her sing 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You'?»
«Once or twice. She knows how to sell a song.» Nathan said to Szabo, «Maybe you did like her. Maybe you liked her too much.»
Szabo stared long and unblinkingly at Nathan. Nora said, «I guess you haven't heard the rumors about Sid and me, Mr. Doyle.»
Nathan smiled. «I guess I might have-but I don't believe everything I hear.»
He was not going to be very popular with Whitey Whitlock, his editor. At the rate he was going, the Tribune-Herald was going to be the only paper in town that didn't have a major story filed on the Arlen murder; that in itself was liable to look suspicious.
He couldn't help it. He didn't have a lot of time. Every time he thought of a particular police lieutenant with a pair of shrewd hazel eyes, Nathan could hear a clock ticking. It wasn't going to take Lt. Spain long to put two and two together because-unless Nathan was very wrong-Lt. Spain already had an inkling or two.
Of course he could be letting his imagination-and guilty conscience-run away with him. He thought back to what he'd read in Spain's eyes. The look he'd first seen across the sand and weeds and grass that morning-a very different look from the one he'd seen by the time they parted ways after leaving
Bob Arlen's apartment. Had he interpreted that look correctly? Or was he seeing what he wanted to see? It was hard to know sometimes.
Either way it was moot now. Spain had picked up the scent, and Nathan recognized, without knowing almost anything about the man, that Spain was a very good tracker.
There was still a chance, if he acted quickly, and that's what he had spent the morning doing.
He needed to find Pearl Jarvis. Needed to hear her story, find out what she had to say, but if she wasn't deliberately lying low she was sure giving a good impression of it.
Having struck out at the club, he wasted another hour hunting down her last known address. But Pearl no longer resided at the rooming house in Echo Park, and Nathan got an earful from her former roommate about owed rents and a missing Bonwit Teller evening coat.
From Echo Park he trailed the elusive Miss Jarvis back to an apartment on Highland Avenue, but it was the same story-or at least a similar one-there. Miss Jarvis had vacated owing a month's rent and claiming loudly that she knew nothing about a misplaced cultured pearl choker.
Pearl was clearly a girl who moved around a lot even in Los Angeles's wartime housing shortage. But maybe she had good reason. It seemed that way to Nathan. From Highland Avenue he finally tracked her down at a rooming house on Hill Street.
But although Pearl at least technically still lived at Mrs. Malloy's, she was not at home.
«When do you expect her back?» he asked.
Mrs. Malloy was vague. «Not 'til after the last show tonight.» Her face took on a suspicious look. «No gentlemen visitors after seven o'clock.»
«I wouldn't dream of it,» Nathan said, and that at least was true.
It looked like he was going to have to settle for talking to Pearl after the last show at the Las Palmas Club.
He caught a street car back to Broadway and Third, pushing through the arched entrance of the Tribune-Herald Building, making his way through the inside courtyard, looking up to see rain washing across the skylight. Taking the caged elevators up, he mentally hammered out his story. He didn't have anything. He was trusting that no one else did either, but he didn't know. He hadn't noticed any extras showing up on the street, but he'd been so preoccupied somebody could have pushed a paper into his hand and he wouldn't have noticed.
Had the cops managed to talk to Pearl? Something Szabo had said before Nathan left the Las Palmas Club made him think not. Not then, anyway. But even if the cops talked to Pearl they might not know what questions to ask. In fact, Nathan was trusting that they didn't, that they were still investigating Arlen's murder as a kidnapping gone wrong.