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  I clapped him on the shoulder, said, “I’ll see you later,” and followed Heck out into the hall.

  In the hall I grabbed Heck’s arm and said, “You’d better go up and see Vadala alone. He’ll talk more freely without me around.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Thanks for taking this one on, Heck.”

  “A man has to make a living, my friend.”

  “You’ll make a good one off Wood,” I said. “Pad your bill, he can afford it.”

  He laughed and we started up the stairs together. When we reached the ground floor I stopped him again and said, “Don’t let Vadala know how smart you really are.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “He’s not very hard to get a handle on,” I said. “He’s a smart cop, but he doesn’t like anybody but other cops.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said. “What will you be doing while I’m talking to him?”

  “I’ve got another little problem to take care of.”

  He frowned and asked, “It won’t keep you from working on this, will it?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “As a matter of fact, it’s the reason I can work on this. See you later, after your meeting with Vadala. I’ll be dying to hear all about it.”

  Three

  The “little problem” that would enable me to work on Wood’s case—for free—was a paying client.

  Robert Saberhagen had come into my office a week earlier, wanting to hire me to find his missing daughter.

  “Where are you from, Mr. Saberhagen?”

  “Detroit.”

  “Your daughter came here from Detroit on her own?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Melanie is seventeen.”

  “That’s a little young to be coming to the Big Apple all alone, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I sent Melanie here to attend the International Institute of Martial Arts. It’s up on Lexington Avenue and Eighty-third Street.”

  I knew the place was considered one of the finest martial arts studios in the world, according to Billy Palmer, who was a fourth degree black belt himself. In fact, for the past eight months or so, I had been working out with Billy, in karate, getting myself back into shape following an embarrassing sparring session where I had been unable to go three rounds for the sparring fee.

  “Your daughter is interested in martial arts?”

  “Yes,” he said, “karate. She started taking lessons three years ago, when some boys in school starting bothering her.”

  Saberhagen was a large man, very tall and powerfully built, but he had the demeanor of a gentleman. His voice, soft and a couple of octaves higher than you’d expect, belied his size. The thought of his daughter being involved in something as physical as karate seemed repugnant to him. He had small hands, with almost delicate looking fingers, and they were well cared for. He was missing the thumb on the left one, probably the reason he took such good care of the remaining nine fingers. Nervously, he dry-washed them as we spoke.

  “When her mother died last year,” he went on, “Melanie took it very hard. We became sort of . . . distant, and when she asked me to send her to New York to study—well, I’m ashamed to say I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “It must have been expensive.”

  “The cost was enormous, but I can afford it.”

  I was glad to hear that. It’s always nice to hear that a client can afford your fees, even if you double them.

  “Well then, if she’s in Manhattan attending this institute,” I asked, “what’s the problem?”

  “She hasn’t been to a class in two months,” he replied.

  “Where was she staying? Not alone?”

  “No, she was living with my sister, but about the same time she stopped attending classes she disappeared from there. Just packed up one day and moved out without a word.”

  “Didn’t your sister call you?”

  “Not right away,” he said. “She thought Melanie would come back. When she didn’t, Ida called me.”

  “Ida is your sister?”

  “Right.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I came to New York to look for her. I spent weeks wandering the streets, hoping I wouldn’t find her on a street corner in Times Square turning . . . what do they call them, tricks?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d have been more likely to find her along Eighth Avenue if she was doing that.

  “You didn’t find her, I take it?”

  “But I did,” he said, surprising me. “That is, I saw her one day.”

  ‘Where?”

  “In front of Madison Square Garden, with a group of people.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I was across the street, and by the time I made my way to the other side, she and the others had gone.”

  “Did she see you?”

  “I really don’t know,” he said, shaking his head bleakly. He leaned his forehead on his right hand and said, “I kept looking after that, but I never saw her again. That’s when I decided to hire a private investigator.”

  “How did you decide to come to me?” I asked. “There are an awful lot of private detectives in New York.”

  “I wanted the best,” he said, and before I could get too pumped up he said, “so I went to Walker Blue.”

  “I see.”

  There was no arguing the fact that Walker Blue was the best P.I. in the business. In fact, Heck Delgado used him more than any other investigator.

  “And Blue couldn’t take the job?”

  “No, he couldn’t, so he recommended you.”

  “Really?” I said, before I could stop myself. In spite of myself, I felt a certain amount of satisfaction with the fact that Walker Blue had recommended me.

  “He said you’d probably have the time to do it,” he added.

  “Oh,” I said, but I refused to let myself be shot down that easily. “Well, luckily, I’ve just wrapped up a case, so I do have the time,” I lied.

  “Wonderful.”

  Actually, there was something wonderful about it Saberhagen had been all set to pay Walker Blue’s fee, so even if I did double mine, it would seem like a bargain to him.

  We discussed a fee and retainer, and he wrote a check without so much as an extra blink.

  “Shall I stay in New York—” he started to ask, but I cut him off and told him no. I didn’t need him looking over my shoulder.

  “There’s really no point to that, Mr. Saberhagen,” I said. “I’ll call you in Detroit when I’ve found out something.”

  “I’ll give you my card,” he said, digging into his pocket. “It has my home number and my business number.”

  “Fine,” I said, taking it from him. Calling him in Detroit wouldn’t bother me, because it would all go down on the expenses. Actually, it was worth it to me not to have him in New York, where he might be demanding progress reports every day.

  “Go back home, Mr. Saberhagen, and don’t jump every time the phone rings. I’ll do my best to find her.”

  “I hope so,” he said, rising.

  “Did you bring a picture of your daughter?”

  He reached into his jacket and brought out two photos, one three by five and the other five by seven. The smaller one looked like a head and shoulders high school photo, while the five by seven was a full length job, showing a pretty, well built girl in her late teens.

  “Pretty.”

  “Yes, she’s very pretty,” he said, “but she’s changed quite a bit since those photos were taken.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I walked him to the door and he asked, “What will you do first?”

  “Well, I guess I’ll just have to brush up on my front kicks.”

  Actually, my first step had to be research, and to research the karate scene there was no better person to go to than Billy Palmer at Bogie’s.

  After Saberhagen left my office I walked to Bogie’s and g
ot there in time to miss the lunch rush. Good timing is everything in the detective business.

  Billy was in his customary position at the end of the bar when I walked in, and he waved.

  “Can I have a beer?” I asked him.

  “You’re in training,” he reminded me. “You have the nerve to ask me that?”

  “Just one?”

  “All right,” he said, “a light beer . . . and just one.”

  I had gotten out of shape, the result of retirement and a large appetite, and Billy had offered to help me get back into shape—through karate. He wouldn’t let me pay him, but we had made a deal, and I was about to cash in on it—or, more to the point, he was.

  “What’s up?” he asked, when I had my beer and he had another glass of coffee. I don’t know what it is about him, but he always has to drink his coffee from a glass. I’m always waiting for the damn thing to crack. It never does.

  “Remember the deal we made?” I asked. “You get me back into shape and I’ll let you work on a case with me?”

  “I remember,” he said, and then his eyes widened and he said, “Are you about to pay off?”

  “I am,” I said, “and that ought to be worth another beer.”

  “You can’t change the deal now,” he said, “and besides, you’re not even half through with that one. Come on now, pay up. What’s the case?”

  “A missing girl,” I told him, and proceeded to tell him the whole story.

  “Her old man must be loaded,” he commented when I was done, “or have some pretty good connections.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The institute doesn’t take just anybody, Jack,” he answered. “You’ve either got to be connected—”

  “Connected? Are we talking—”

  “—Mafia?” he asked, laughing. “No, not that kind of connected.”

  “You mean connected in the karate world,” I said. “Her teacher in Detroit must be a heavy hitter, then.”

  “Maybe,” Billy said. “It might be a good idea to find out his name. I could tell you if I ever heard of him.

  I checked my watch.

  “Her old man’s probably on a plane right now, and if I call him too soon he’ll get his hopes up. If it starts to seem important, I’ll ask him.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

  I’d had one thing in mind when I first went to Bogie’s, but at that point, another idea struck me.

  “How am I doing, Billy?”

  “In karate?” he asked. I nodded and he said, “You’ve progressed more in eight months than any other student I’ve ever seen.”

  “Could I get into the institute?”

  “Not on my say-so,” he admitted candidly.

  “Do you know anybody who could get me in?”

  “Why?”

  “What would happen if I went over there and started asking questions?”

  “We’re talking New York people here,” he said. “It wouldn’t matter if it was a karate school or a sewing school. They’d clam up.”

  “Exactly. I need to get in as a student. Do you think I could hold my own?”

  “For how long?”

  “Long enough to find out if Melanie Saberhagen made any friends there. I don’t know how long that will take.”

  “You’re going to run into some rough characters, Jack,” Billy warned me. “Some of them grew up that way, and some of them got that way because of the confidence karate has given them. They’re all tough, though.”

  “Thanks for caring, but can you get me in?”

  “There’s somebody I know who might be able to,” he said, “if he wants to.”

  “You’ll ask him?”

  “I’ll ask him, and let you know . . . but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when we made our deal.”

  “I’ll see if I can come up with a blonde for you to tail,” I promised.

  “Whoa, don’t say that too loud,” he said, looking around, “Karen might hear you.”

  I finished my beer and said, “There is something else you can do.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’m sure you know a few other instructors in New York with their own dojo.”

  “Sure,” he said, “in Manhattan, Brooklyn, even Staten Island.”

  “Check with them, will you, but do it discreetly? See if they have any new students, someone who might have joined during the last couple of months.”

  “You think maybe she just changed schools and her old man’s jumping to conclusions?”

  “No. She might have changed schools, but there’s got to be more to it than that. She left her aunt’s house without a word. She wouldn’t have done that if she was just changing schools.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to talk to her aunt and see if I can’t find out what happened to make her leave.”

  I got down off my stool to leave, then turned back.

  “When will you get a chance to talk to your, uh, friend?”

  “I do have a business to run,” he said, reminding me.

  “A deal is a deal, oh assistant to the great detective,” I said, reminding him.

  He saluted and said, “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  “While you’re at it, Watson,” I called out on my way to the door, “have my violin tuned!”

  Four

  Written on the back of one of Melanie Saberhagen’s photos was the address of her aunt, Ida Saberhagen. I went to see her and found a bitter, spinsterish woman who seemed to take Melanie’s disappearance as just another of life’s slaps in the face.

  Ida Saberhagen lived in an apartment building on Thirteenth Street between University Place and Fifth Avenue.

  She appeared to be in her mid-forties, but the lines around her eyes and mouth might have made you think she was older. She was wearing a shapeless one-piece shift that hung on her bony, angular frame. Still I had the feeling that with some makeup and decent clothes, she wouldn’t have been bad looking. Wearing her dark hair in some fashion other than a tight bun wouldn’t have hurt, either.

  “Miss Saberhagen?”

  “Yes,” she said. She pushed away from the door frame, unfolded her arms, and said, “You might as well come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed her into the apartment, which was oppressively stuffy.

  “Is my brother still in town?”

  “I’m afraid he’s gone back to Detroit.”

  She laughed shortly and said, “He was so worried about his daughter that he rushed right back home after hiring you.”

  The lines around her mouth deepened and she folded her arms across her breasts again.

  “He returned at my request, Miss Saberhagen,” I said. “I really didn’t feel it would do anyone any good for him to stay around. Besides, I’m sure he has business to attend to back in Detroit.”

  “Hmph,” she said, and then added, “he could have stopped in to see me just once.”

  So that was the source of her anger. Saberhagen had not stopped in to see her before leaving, but he must have stopped in when he first arrived. . . .

  I asked her if that was the case, and she laughed bitterly again, a habit that was going to get on my nerves very quickly.

  “Why should he have?” she asked. “His daughter wasn’t here anymore, right? And now I’m sure he’ll stop sending—” she started, and then broke off abruptly.

  “Stop sending what?”

  She hesitated a moment before answering, then shrugged in a “What the hell?” manner and said, “Checks.”

  “Checks?” I said. “Mr. Saberhagen was sending you money to look after Melanie?”

  “Well, why not?” she demanded defensively. “She was eating my food, wasn’t she? Using my electricity? I was entitled.”

  “I’m sure you were,” I said, trying to appease her. “Miss Saberhagen, I’d simply like to see the room where Melanie slept, and ask you a few questions.”

  “Ha,�
�� she laughed, and I gritted my teeth, “you’re in it.”

  “In what?”

  “The room she slept in,” she said, opening her arms to encompass the living room.

  “She slept here?”

  “On the couch.”

  “I see.”

  “And it was damned inconvenient, I tell you.”

  I’m sure it was, I thought. I was also sure that this woman must have let Melanie know, too.

  “Did she leave anything behind?”

  “Nothing. She had one suitcase when she came, and she left with it.”

  “During the time she was here, did she ever bring any friends home?”

  “Home,” she said, in a tone just as bad as her short laugh. “No, she never brought anyone up here. I forbade it.”

  That figured.

  The small apartment was becoming more and more oppressive by the minute, and it was having less and less to do with the heat.

  “Has she called you since she left?”

  “Why should she?”

  “Has anyone called for her?”

  “I forbade her to give out the number.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s really nothing else I can tell you, Mr. Jacoby,” she said, pronouncing my name incorrectly. I didn’t bother correcting her, because I was hoping I’d never have to hear her say it again.

  “No, I don’t suppose there is, Miss Saberhagen.”

  I allowed her to show me to the door, which closed decisively behind me.

  I hadn’t even been on the case a day and although I didn’t know why Melanie was missing, I had a pretty good idea why she had left her aunt’s apartment.

  I couldn’t wait to get out myself.

  My office is not the cheeriest looking place in the world, but after Ida Saberhagen’s apartment it looked pretty inviting.

  I walked behind my desk and accidentally kicked the trash can. Looking down I saw its scorched bottom, which reminded me of a letter I had burned in it months ago. I was going to have to buy a new can. I didn’t need reminders of an unread letter from my dead brother’s wife. I didn’t need reminders of Julie Jacoby, because I thought of her enough as it was, even after almost a year.

  Sitting behind my desk I thought about what Billy had said about Melanie’s teacher in Detroit. I knew a P.I. in that city and it wouldn’t take much to call him and ask him to check it out for me. At the same time he could run a check on my client, just so I’d know something about the man who hired me.