Dilston folded a newspaper, carried an empty plate to a sink, and snatched-up a suit coat and then ambled to a sofa where Moll sat and kissed her forehead. “Many thanks for lunch.”
She nodded, chewed her lip. “Headed somewhere?”
“First precinct. The inspector has a few items to put by me.”
“Again?”
He put a suit coat halfway on, paused, and gazed at her and then sighed. “Uh oh…”
“Uh oh, what?”
He shook his head. “Should’ve known something was up.” He sat beside her. “Come on—lay it on me.”
She half-glanced at him, gnawed on her lip. “I haven’t the slightest idea what—”
“You let me read the paper at the table, made waffles—my favorite—for lunch, and have been chewing your lip as though it were dessert. So, you know as well as I do you’ve got something get off your mind.”
She lifted her thumb to her mouth and grinded a nail between her frontmost teeth, but Dilston took-up that hand and held it.
“Whatever it is, you know you tell me, and no matter how bad it is, I’ll sit right here and work it out with you.”
She turned her eyes to his, and he patted the sofa.
“Right here,” he said. “So, what is it?”
“Dilston, yesterday, the Chateau phoned—they asked if I could sing three nights a week.”
Dilston froze, and a moment later, stood, and put his suit coat on. “I call you about dinner.” He ambled to a coat rack, grabbed a wide brim hat, and walked toward an entry door.
Molls shot on her feet. “So, what’s all this mean?”
He halted, turned. “All what?”
“You mean to tell me you’ve got no comment about the Chateau callin’?”
He shrugged. “None at all—it’s is a free country, and they can call all they want.”
She sighed. “Ah okay,” she said and giggled. “And to think I was worried about what you’d think.”
“Worried about what I’d think??” He laughed, plopped his hat on his head, and walked to the door. “I don’t know why…it’s not like you’ve been persuaded unretire your Moll ‘The Doll’ vocal act.” He laughed, waved at hand at her, and opened the door. “I’ll see you later, Hun,” he said and shut himself in a hallway, and eyes wide, she peered at the door a moment and then walked to a cabinet packed whiskey and brandy, poured a drink, and walked it near the entry door. A second later, Dilston dashed through the door to her.
“Moll,” he said. “About Moll ‘The Doll’—”
She held the drink out for him to take, and he peered at it, at her, and at it and then sighed, took the drink, and drank it. He trudged to the sofa, removing his hat, shaking his head, and plopped on a cushion.
“But I thought you’d moved on from ‘The Doll’.”
“I never said I’d moved on from the stage. I said I disliked my prior arrangement—you know, contractually…it made the stage feel too much like work. So, I wanted a break.”
“But what wrong with the dress boutique?”
“Nothing.” She walked to the sofa and sat. “I rather like the boutique.”
“And don’t they like you?”
“Yes. In fact, given all folk who knew my act that come in, they say sales are up.”
He flipped his palms face-up. “So, what’s the problem?”
“Nothing. I love fashion and always will. But I got the call to return to singing, I just didn’t mind the change.”
He dropped his face in his hands. “Wow, Moll,” he said. “Never thought you’d bite-up enough nerve to go back to lounge singing.”
She chucked. “Dilston, can you hear yourself? You sound as though I’m headed back to streetwalking.”
“No, you’re right—lounge singing isn’t streetwalking, but if it was, the Chateau would have the whole pimp thing down.”
“Aren’t you a riot.”
He closed his eyes, rubbed his temple, and repeated the dancehall’s name to himself.
She smiled. “You’ve forgotten to click you heals together.” She watched him open his eyes.
“Huh?” he said. “Oh no, I’m just trying to remember the Dodson case when we had to stop by the Chateau. We spoke to a…Scoresby.”
She nodded. “Trenton Scoresby, he’s the general manager there. In reality, the new management’s the biggest reason why I’ve decided to give them another go.”
He peered at her. “So, it is in stone now, huh?”
“They’re giving me a square deal: Sunday through Tuesday nights, not Thursday through Saturday, so I can avoid all the riff-raff.” She took his hand. “I’ve made I clear to them that all I want to do is punch my time card, sing, punch the card, and head home. No lending me out to other clubs, no special events…”
“Industry folk?”
She smiled at him, and he leapt upon his feet and jammed his hat on his head, and she laughed, seized his arm.
“No—industry folk. How can I even think about cutting records now anyway, I don’t even know whether or not I can still cut it on the stage half as well as I used to.”
He shook his head. “Well, if you want to sing, make records, and all that—”
“And all that?”
“All’s fine by me. Just so long as I get to drop you off and pick you up each night.”
“I wouldn’t care if you punched my time card yourself.”
“If that square deal has anything less than four sides, I’ll find Scoresby and punch more than that.”
Moments later, Dilston dashed through fifth precinct’s revolving door to a large desk where an office waved. He nodded at the officer and then gestured upward toward a closed upper-floor office door which stood at the end of a mezzanine.
“Is the dragon awake?” Dilston said.
The officer nodded. “And hungry.”
Dilston sighed, plodded to a staircase, and tread to the next floor and then to the office door. Over a banister, he peered down at the first-floor desk, and the office gazed upward at him, making a slashing gesture across his neck. Dilston shook his head, stepped to the office door, and lifted his hand to knock, but the door whipped open, and a tall, suspendered man stood with several files in his hand.
“Dilston,” he said and motioned inside the room. “Come in and close the door.” He turned and ambled behind a desk. “Have a seat.”
A knotted formed in Dilston’s throat, but he gulped it down and then did what the man ordered. In a seat before the desk, he drummed fingers on his leg. “Inspector Chambers, my apologies for my tardiness. I’d had a personal matter I—”
“No worries.” Eyes scanning a file page, Chambers shrugged. “Personal matters happen.”
Dilston eyebrows elevated.
“In fact,” Chambers said and lifted his eyes. “Where are my manners.” He slapped the file folder shut, placed it aside, and smiled. “I’ve a legendary former law enforcement officer in my office and I’ve got my nose stuck in a case file.” He leant over his desk and smiled. “My apologies.”
Dilston peered at him.
“I’m serious,” Chambers said. “I’ve got to do a better job of treating people like… people and not like… not people. So, going forward, I plan to do just that. Okay?” He watched his former subordinate scratch his head and then nod.
“Fair enough, inspector,” Dilston said. “So, about the Tullamore case: during yesterday’s questioning, the waitress seemed believable but the hostess didn’t. So, if I was you, I’d have the new guy—”
Chambers raised both palms. “Whoa, we don’t have to rush to business so fast.” He leaned back in his chair. “How are private investigations these days?”
“Slow, so never better.”
“And your health?”
“Fading fast, so could be better.”
The inspector nodded. “And Moll? You know, I thought bring her down to the station during your last week. How is she doing?”
“Compared to me, always better.”
He nodded and then played with his fingers, and Dilston gazed at him.
“So, you said Moll is doing well, ay?”
Dilston’s gasped, dropped his face in his hands, and shook his head. “Goodness gracious,” he said. “I only found out this morning. When did you find out?”
“Find out what?”
“That Moll was returning to lounge singing.”
Chambers forced a gasp, threw himself halfway over the desk. “The Doll’s returning to the stage?? Well, I’ll be!!”
“You be a fool if you believe I didn’t think you knew since at least yesterday.”
The inspector laughed. “Well, you’re not a fool, at least not today: yesterday, my contact at the Daily Dime spilled the beans over a beer. I think the Chateau leaked it. You know, to get people talking.”
“Oh, people are talking alright—talking themselves right in front of my barrel.”
“That’s enough, Dilston. Besides, I don’t see why you her return to the stage would upset; especially when you’d met her when she was on it.”
“I don’t!”
Chambers stared at him.
“I don’t, sir.”
“Excellent. Then you won’t mind rustling up a pair of tickets for me and the Mrs. her opening week.”
Dilston rubbed his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
Chambers nodded and then opened a file folder on his desk. “Information on that hostess.”
“Her movements?”
“Since before we contacted her, she hasn’t changed her routine.”
“And this revised statement you’d mentioned over the phone?”
Chambers flipped through bundled pages, slipped out a sheet, and put it on top. “All but double-downs on her prior statement. Just layered a few more details.”
Dilston studied it a moment and then smiled. “Perfect.” He closed the file, put his hat on, and stood.
“What do you mean, perfect?”
“Well, our little hostess received some coaching.”
“Restating her story but with more detail? You call that coaching? If you ask me, it seems amateurish.”
Dilston shrugged. “Then the coaching worked.” He ambled to the door and opened it.
“Wait a minute, you mean to tell me who ever is pulling the strings wants us to believe he, or she, is an amateur?”
“Which means he, or she, is not.” He saluted, turned, and darted out, fingers tracing the mezzanine railing.
“Dilston, where are you going?”
Dilston turned, saw Chambers standing in the office door.
“Do you need back up?”
“Nope,” Dilston said. “But the Pesky Perot might if their rum barrel’s dry.”
Chamber shook his head. “And remember my Chateau tickets.”
Dilston turned, waved, and ambled toward the staircase. “Yeah, I’ll give you tickets—straight south, one-way!” Over his shoulder, he heard a chuckle.
“So long as Moll’s is singing when I arrive there, I’ll take them!”