It was six-twenty and just growing light when I parked
the car in a lot at the New Orleans airport. I was
The Long Saturday Night — 50
hollow-eyed with fatigue and the nervous strain of
sustained highspeed driving with one eye cocked on
the mirror for the Highway Patrol, but still keyed up
mentally as I put the packet of bonds in the suitcase,
locked the car, and carried the bag into the terminal. I
had a cup of coffee at the lunchroom, asked the
cashier for some change, and headed for a telephone
booth, setting the suitcase down where I could watch
it through the door.
I dialed the long distance operator and put in a
person-to-person call to Ernie Sewell. I didn’t know
his number, but he lived on Springer Street, on the
edge of town, in a small ranch-style house he and his
wife were paying off. She worked for the county, in
the Tax Assessor’s office.
He was a serious-minded
and hard-working young man of about 24 who’d been
a track and basketball star in high school, and had
been in charge of the sporting-goods department at
Jennings Hardware before he went to work for
Roberts.
“Hello?” he said sleepily. “Oh. Mr. Warren? I
thought the operator said New Orleans.”
“She did,” I said. “I came down last night. I’m sorry
to get you out of bed this early.”
“It’s all right. Matter of fact, I was going to call you
today. But I won’t bother you about it now, over long
distance.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well,” he replied hesitantly, “it’s about the store. I
don’t want to sound like a ghoul, with Roberts not
even buried yet, but somebody’s going to buy the
stock and fixtures, probably one of those bankruptcy
outfits. My idea is that since you own the building
you’d rather have the store there than the vacant
space. All I’ve got is a few hundred dollars saved up,
but I thought maybe if you’d put in a word for me at
the bank I might be able to swing it. Run right, that
place could make money.”
“You mean it didn’t? I thought Roberts was doing all
right.”
The Long Saturday Night — 51
“Well, that’s the funny part of it; it seemed to make
money, and maybe the books’ll show a big profit, but I
wouldn’t want to try to get the loan under false
pretenses. The truth is we didn’t move enough
merchandise to make anything after he paid the rent
and my salary. The potential’s there, all right, or I
wouldn’t want it, but he just didn’t seem to have any
interest in the place, and he wouldn’t give me any
authority to speak of. For one thing, he’d never keep
his stock up; he wouldn’t order anything until
somebody asked for it, and then it’s too late—they’d
just go to Jennings. And I couldn’t get him to
advertise.”
“I see,” I said, thinking of that Browning shotgun,
and the Porsche, and a thousand-dollar membership
in the Duck Club. “How’d he keep going?”
“I don’t know, so help me, Mr. Warren. He never
seemed to have any trouble meeting his bills, and he
always had a good-sized balance at the bank. But I do
know that if somebody took hold of that place who
knew how to run a sporting-goods store and would
stay home and run it, he could have Jennings looking
at his hole card inside of three months. He hasn’t got
anybody over there that knows anything about guns
and fishing tackle.”
“I know,” I said. “Then you think Roberts was
doctoring his books, or had some other source of
income?”
“Well, I don’t know whether he was faking the
books or not, but he sure seemed to be banking more
money than we took in. I realize it’d be easier to get
the loan if I didn’t say anything about this, but I don’t
like to do business that way.”
“I’ll see you get the loan,” I said. “But what about
Roberts’ family? Have they located anybody yet?”
“Yes. Mr. Scanlon and I went down to the store
yesterday evening after supper and found a couple of
letters with his brother’s address on them. He lives in
Houston, Texas. Scanlon sent off a wire, and got one
back in a couple of hours. The brother’s making
arrangements to have the body shipped to Houston
The Long Saturday Night — 52
for the funeral. It’ll be a week or ten days, though,
before he can get down here to pick up Roberts’
personal stuff and see about disposing of the store.”
“Do you remember the brother’s address?”
“No, I’m sorry. I do remember his name was
Clinton, though. Clinton L. Roberts.”
“You won’t open the store today, I suppose?”
“No. Scanlon said we’d better close it until the
brother gets here. All his stuff is there in the
apartment in back. I turned the key over to him—Mr.
Scanlon, I mean.”
“I see. Well, here’s what I wanted to ask you, Ernie.
Do you happen to know what girls Roberts ran around
with mostly?”
By now he was probably exploding with curiosity,
but he was too polite to express it. “Well, there were a
lot of ‘em, I guess, though he never talked about ‘em
much. He was more interested in girls than he was in
the store, that’s for sure. At different times I’ve seen
him with Carol Holliday, and Mrs. Ryan that works for
you, and Midge Carson. And let’s see—Doris Bentley,
and Sue Prentiss. And probably some more I can’t
think of at the moment.”
Doris Bentley, I thought. She’d worked for Frances
when she had the dress shop. It’d been a year and a
half since I’d heard her voice on the telephone, but in
those days she’d answer quite often when I’d call
there for Frances. It could be—
“Thanks a lot, Ernie,” I said. “And don’t worry about
the loan.”
I carried the bag out front, mingled with a crowd of
incoming passengers reclaiming their luggage, and
took the airport bus downtown. At the first stop, I got
off, took a taxi to a cheap hotel off the lower end of
Canal Street, and registered as James D. Weaver, of
Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was twenty after seven, still two
hours before the banks opened. The room was on the
second floor, overlooking a dreary alley filled with
utility poles and trash barrels. I left a call for ninethirty,
and lay down. The bed rocked as if I were still
The Long Saturday Night — 53
driving, and the instant I closed my eyes the pulpy
and battered mass of her face was burned into the
backs of the lids down to the last projecting shard of
bone, and I sat up shaking and sick, my mouth locked
against the outcry welling up inside me.
Sleep was out of the question. I shaved and took a
shower, and sat on the side of the bed, chain-smoking
cigarettes until almost nine, trying to fit the pieces of
the puzzle into some recognizable pattern. It was
hopeless. I didn’t have enough of them. Taking the
folder from the suitcase, I walked uptown through
chill sunlight and the early morning traffic to a bank
where one of the officers knew me, and turned in the
bonds. It was a routine procedure until they asked
whether I wanted a cashier’s check or a draft and I
explained I wanted it in cash. It was obvious they
disapproved and thought I had a screw loose
somewhere, but they had to give it to me. I made
some lame excuse about a business deal, stowed the
180 one hundred-dollar bills and some change in my
wallet and the inside pockets of my jacket, and went
out. It was ten-ten A.M. now, and I had to work fast.
I always ate breakfast at Fuller’s, even when
Frances was home, because she never got up before
ten. I was usually in the office by eight-fifteen. At least
six mornings of the week Mulholland was there having
his breakfast at the same time, and even if he missed
today he’d probably ask if anybody had seen me. At
any rate, by this time Scanlon would have learned that
I hadn’t shown up in town. He’d call the office, and
the house, while the air around the courthouse
became incandescent with profanity, and within a few
minutes somebody was going to be checking the
garage at home to see if my car was gone. When they
found it missing, but the Mercedes there, and still
could get no answer, they’d break in a door, and
within an hour the police all the way from Texas to
South Carolina were going to have the description
and license number of that Chevrolet. Ernie might call
and tell him I was in New Orleans, as soon as the
story got around town, but whether he did or not, by
sometime this afternoon he’d have found out where I
The Long Saturday Night — 54
cashed the bonds and they’d have located the car
abandoned at the airport. I had four or five hours at
the most. I headed for a phone booth, and began
flipping through the yellow pages of the directory.
Dentists . . . Derricks . . . Desks . . .
* * *
Louis Norman of the Norman Detective Agency had a
lean and thoughtful face, the attentive gaze of a born
listener, and some quality of ageless disillusion about
the eyes which seemed to promise that if you hoped to
tell him anything that would surprise him you were
out of luck. He leaned back in his chair with a ruler
balanced between his fingertips and surveyed me
across the top of it. “What can I do for you, Mr.—?”
“Warren.” I passed over one of my business cards.
“John D. Warren, Carthage, Alabama. First, have you
got enough men to handle a rush job that’ll probably
take a lot of legwork?”
He nodded. “Three, beside myself, and I can get a
couple more if necessary. That kind of crash job can
run into money, though, if it takes very long.”
“I know.” I slid six one hundred-dollar bills from the
overstuffed wallet and dropped them on the desk in
front of him. “Use your own judgment as to how many
men you need. If it runs more, bill me. I want some
information, and I want it fast.”
“That’s the business we’re in. What is it you need?”
While I had the wallet out, I removed the
photograph of Frances and dropped it beside the
money. “That’s my wife. She was in New Orleans from
December 30th until yesterday. I want to know the
places she went, whom she was seeing, and what she
was doing.”
“You say until yesterday. Then she’s not here now?”
“No. She’s at home.”
He pursed his lips. “It won’t be easy. Tailing is one
thing; backtrailing—”
“If it were easy, I wouldn’t need professionals,” I
said. “Can you do it?”
The Long Saturday Night — 55
“Probably. How old is the picture?”
“Eighteen months. It’s a good likeness.”
“That’ll help. But a lot would still depend on what
kind of starting point you can give us.” He reached for
a pad and undipped his pen.
“Full name, Frances Warren,” I said. “Maiden name,
Frances Kinnan. Twenty-seven years old, five-feetseven,
about 120 pounds, black hair, blue-green eyes.
Always expensively dressed, in good taste, and in
daytime she favors dark tailored suits. When she came
down here she had a light-colored mink coat, but
sometime in the seven days it apparently disappeared
—along with about seven thousand dollars in cash.
She was driving a dark blue Mercedes-Benz 220
sedan with blue upholstery and Alabama license
plates, but the chances are she didn’t use it getting
around the city because she doesn’t like driving in
heavy traffic and trying to outguess these one-way
streets. So she would have been using taxis, because
she never walks anywhere if she can help it and
wouldn’t be found dead on a bus or streetcar. Any taxi
driver would remember her, because of the legs if
nothing else, and the fact she’s a lousy tipper and
arrogant enough to take back the dime if he got
unhappy about it. She was registered at the Devore
Hotel, and checked out yesterday around seven P.M.
“She came down originally to go to the Sugar Bowl
game with some New Orleans friends, the Harold L.
Dickinsons of 2770 Stilwell Drive. She and Mrs.
Dickinson were supposed to have gone to a series of
concerts during the past week, and some cocktail
parties, but as to how much she actually saw of the
Dickinsons I don’t know. You might be able to find out
something more, without mentioning me. I do know
she was at the hotel at least part of the time, because
I talked to her there on the nights of January 2nd and
3rd—”
He interrupted. “Did you call her, or she call you?”
“I called her,” I said. “She was at the hotel, all
right.”
“Just what makes you suspect her?”
The Long Saturday Night — 56
I explained about the call from the pay station when
she said she was at the hotel. “And there’s the money,
of course. Nobody could run through $7000 in a week
going to a football game and a couple of concerts. Or
even buying clothes—unless she was in Paris. And,
also, what happened to the coat?”
“Was it insured?”
“Yes.”
“Even so, it might have been lost or stolen and she
was afraid to tell you. But with all the other money
she seems to have got rid of, it seems more likely she
sold it or hocked it. I’ll have a man hit the pawn shops
and check back through the classified ads. But how
did she get hold of $7000? You don’t carry that much
in a checking account, do you?”
I explained about the stocks she’d sold, and gave
him the name of the broker.
He nodded. “Then if it was hers, it’s not the money
you’re interested in?”
“No,” I said. “Only what she was doing with it.”
“You believe it’s another man?”
“Sure. I can’t think of any other reason she’d lie
about where she was. And she must have given that
money to somebody.”
“This is professional,” he said, “so don’t take
offense. Strictly off that photograph, she’d never have
to buy any men, so there must be another answer.
Has she ever, to your knowledge, been in any kind of
trouble? Anything she could be blackmailed for?”
“No,” I said. “She was no gangster or gun moll.
Before we were married, she owned a dress shop in
Carthage. And before that, she ran one in Miami.”
“Does she have family connections of any kind in
Carthage?”
“No,” I said.
“Friends? I mean, before she came there?”
“No.”
The Long Saturday Night — 57
“Hmmm. Did she ever say why she gave up a
business in a city the size of Miami to open one in a
small town where she didn’t even know anybody?”
“Sure. It was a divorce. She and her husband owned
the place jointly, and when they split up they sold it
and divided the proceeds.” I explained how she was
on her way to the Coast when she stopped overnight
in Carthage and became interested in its possibilities.
“I see,” he said, though it was obvious he wasn’t
completely satisfied, any more than I was now.
“Where can I get in touch with you here?”
“You can’t. I’m just in town for the day, and haven’t
got a hotel room. But I’ll call you this afternoon, and
after that you can reach me at my office in Carthage.
The number’s on the card. If I’m not in, you can give
the information to my secretary, Mrs. Barbara Ryan.”
He gave a shake of the head. “We don’t like to pass
confidential information to a third person.”
“It’s all right in this case,” I said. “I authorize it.”
“You’ll have to put that in writing. And there’s
another thing—she’ll have to identify herself. Any
woman on the phone could say her name was Barbara
Ryan.”
“Yes, I know. But you can give me a file number.”
“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. He scribbled
something on the pad. “The number is W-511.”
“Right.” I made a note of it, scribbled the
authorization on another sheet of his pad, and signed
it. When I went out, he was already giving orders on
the intercom.
* * *
I stopped at a bank, got twenty dollars worth of
quarters and dimes, and took a taxi to the telephone
company office. In the battery of out-of-town
directories, I looked up detective agencies in Houston
and Miami. One of the big nationwide outfits could
have handled all three jobs, but I had to keep them
separate.
The Long Saturday Night — 58
Selecting an outfit called Crosby Investigations in
Miami and a man named Howard Cates in Houston, I
wrote down the addresses and phone numbers and
headed for a booth. I put in the call to Miami first,
person-to-person to Crosby himself. He was in. I
introduced myself, and asked, “Can you handle a rush
job that’ll take a couple of men?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll mail you a cashier’s check for a retainer
within the next half hour, airmail special, and you
should have it this afternoon. Is $200 all right?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Warren. What is it you want?”
“A confidential check on an employee who used to
live in Miami. Her name’s Frances Kinnan.” I gave
him a description. “She was born in Orlando, in 1934,
went to high school there, and attended the University
of Miami for two years, according to the information
on her personnel card. Around 1953 she went to work
as a salesgirl in the women’s-wear section of
Burdine’s, and later became assistant to the head of
the advertising department. In 1955 she married a
man named Leon Dupre who’d been some kind of
minor executive with one of the dress shop chains—
Lerner’s, I think—and the two of them opened a shop
on Flagler Street. It was called Leon’s, and
specialized mostly in resort clothes. In 1958, she and
Dupre were divorced, and they sold out. That should
be enough information for you to pick up the trail, and
what I want to know specifically is whether she’s ever
been in any kind of trouble, if there actually was a
divorce, where Dupre is now—if possible—and if she
ever knew a man named Dan Roberts.” I gave him a
description of Roberts. “Can you handle it?”
“With that much to start on, it’ll be easy. How much
time do we have, and how do you want the report? By
mail?”
“No. Wire it to me at my office in Carthage. By five
P.M. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“We’ll do it, or break a leg.”
I hung up, dialed the long distance operator again,
and put in the call to Houston. Cates’ line was busy
The Long Saturday Night — 59
and I had to wait five minutes and try again. This time
I got him. I told him my name and address, made the
same arrangement for payment I had with Crosby,
and asked for a report on Roberts. “I don’t know
where he lived in Houston,” I said, “or how long ago
he moved away, but he still has a brother living there.
The brother’s name is Clinton L. Roberts, and he
should be in the book, for a place to start.”
“That’ll do,” he said. “And just what is it you want to
know?”
“What business he was in there, whether he’s ever
been in trouble with the police, why he left, whether
he has any known enemies, and whether he’s ever
lived in, or been in, Florida. Wire it to me at my office,
not later than tomorrow afternoon if you can swing it.
Okay?”
“Right. We can do it.”
I went out. At another bank I bought the two
cashier’s checks, ducked into a drugstore for airmail
envelopes, addressed them and marked them special
delivery, and plastered on a bunch of stamps from the
vending machine. Dropping them in a mailbox, I
headed out Rampart, looking at cheap used cars on
lots decorated with whirling orange-colored
propellers. It was nearly one P.M. now, and I was
beginning to feel naked on the street. Picking out an
accessory-cluttered and fox-tailed old 1950 Olds, I
gave my name as Homer Stites of Shreveport, paid
cash for it, and drove it back uptown to a parking lot.
I took a taxi back to the hotel, checked out, and
carried the suitcase up the thronged sidewalks of
Canal Street, cut over to the parking lot, and locked it
in the trunk of the car. It was two-fifteen P.M. I
couldn’t wait any longer; any time now the police
would have men covering the bus station, railroad
terminals, and the airport, and they’d know I couldn’t
have got away after that. I ducked into a phone booth
and called Norman.
The Long Saturday Night — 60
6
“Oh,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you quite so soon.”
“I won’t be able to stay in town as long as I’d
thought,” I explained. “Have you come up with
anything yet?”
“Not much. The man working the hock shops hasn’t
got any lead on the coat so far, but I had a call about
twenty minutes ago from Snyder, who’s covering the
Devore Hotel. So far, of course, all he’s been able to
talk to is the day-shift crew, but he has uncovered one
or two items. Several bellmen and the doorman
remember seeing her in the coat from time to time
when she first checked in, but nobody recalls seeing it
in the last two or three days. If it was lost or stolen,
though, she never reported it to anybody in the hotel
or to the police, as far as we can find out. According
to the housekeeper on her floor, she stayed in her
room every night, and if she ever had a man there
nobody ever saw him and he didn’t leave any tracks.
She apparently had no visitors at all, and the only
phone calls anybody can remember were from a
woman, probably Mrs. Dickinson. There is one funny
thing, though; she was never in the hotel in the
afternoon. She always left a call for ten-thirty A.M.,
had breakfast and the newspapers sent up to her
room, and then went out about a quarter of one. The
The Long Saturday Night — 61
doorman always got her a cab, but he never heard
what she told the driver. We’ve had the picture
copied, and at shift-changing time at four P.M. we’ll
cover the garages of all three leading cab companies
to catch as many of the day-shift jockeys as we can at
one time. There’s a good chance we’ll find somebody
who remembers her and where he took her.”
“Good,” I said. “And thanks a lot. I’ll be in touch.”
“We’ll have something definitely tomorrow morning,
I’m pretty sure.” He hesitated, and then went on,
“Look, Mr. Warren, it’s your business, and you don’t
have to tell us if you don’t want to, but it’ll make it a
lot easier if you level with us. Were you having her
tailed at any time when she was down here?”
I frowned. “No. Of course not. Why?”
“Well, I’ve got a hunch somebody else was
interested in what she was doing.”
“Why?”
“Well, these bellmen are a pretty wise bunch, and
they don’t miss much. One of ‘em hinted he knew
something, and when Snyder primed him with an
extra fin, he said there was a guy he was pretty sure
followed her away from the hotel three or four times.
He’d come in around noon and stooge around the
lobby chewing a cigar and pretending to read a paper,
and when she’d come out of the elevator he’d drift out
after her and take the next cab off the stand.”
“You suppose the kid just made it up, for the five
bucks?”
“There’s a chance, of course, but I don’t think so.
From the way he described this joker, I think I know
who he is. He’s in the business.”
“Could you find out who hired him?”
“Not a chance. If it’s the guy I think it is, he
wouldn’t tell his mother the way to a fire exit.”
“Could the police make him talk?”
“Sure, or make him wish he had. But you’ve got
nothing to take to the police, at least so far. There’s
no law against her spending her own money—or even
yours, for that matter.”
The Long Saturday Night — 62
“Yeah,” I said. I wondered what his face would look
like when he saw the evening papers. “Well, keep
digging.”
I hung up, dug in my pocket for another handful of
change, and dialed long distance. “I want to put in a
person-to-person call to L. S. MacKnight, of the Mac-
Knight Construction Co., El Paso, Texas.”
“Thank you. Will you hold on, please?”
Mac was an old friend. We’d gone to the same
military school in Pennsylvania and later were
classmates at Texas A. and M. We hunted quail
together somewhere every year. I hoped he was in the
office now. Luck was with me.
“Duke? Why, you crazy devil, where are you?”
“New Orleans.”
“Well, grab some airplane. Let’s go huntin’.”
“I wish I could, but at the moment I’m working the
other side of the street.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m in a jam, and I need a little help.”
“Name it, pal.”
“Well, look, I’d better tell you first—you could get
your tail in a sling, if they ever proved it—”
He cut me off. “I said name it, knucklehead. Never
mind the fine print.”
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