Obit Delayed by Helen Nielsen Read Free Book Online Page B

and not too inexpensive.”
    “How about a full-page spread?” Mitch suggested.
    “You name it. You’re the idea man.”
    The payoff was a little subtle for Costro’s style, but Mitch understood. There was nothing like freedom of the press.
    If Mitch had been a good boy he’d have taken Costro’s left-handed advice and gone back to the office to write an editorial on creeping socialism; but Mitch had a weakness. He didn’t mind being stepped on; it was grinding the heel that hurt. And if Dave Singer’s slip of the tongue concerned the big brass to the extent of ringing down the iron curtain, it concerned Mitch enough to look a little farther. At the nearest gas station he pulled in and used the phone. The Duchess answered, her mouth full of lunch and her voice full of sarcasm.
    “How sweet of you to call,” she cooed over the wire. “It’s so nice to be remembered now and then.”
    “Oh, I think of you children often,” Mitch answered, “but just now I’m looking for a woman. Rita something—Royale, I think. She figured in a vice raid not long ago. We carried the story.”
    “Well, good for us! What about her?”
    “I want her address. Pry yourself out of my chair and start hunting, honey. The exercise will be good for your hips.”
    After that Mitch let the receiver dangle for a few minutes. It was warm enough without the character analysis The Duchess would deliver before going to work on the files.
    Rita’s diggings didn’t belong in the same world as Dave’s. The apartment building had been constructed in an era when sunlight was just nasty stuff that faded the carpets, and iron grillwork was the latest thing in decorative elegance. Mitch groped his way down a hall that resembled a deserted subway station and was wearing out his knuckles on the door before anything began to stir.
    “Who is it?” demanded a voice, feminine and full of sleep.
    “Paper boy,” Mitch responded.
    The door opened, and it was Rita, all right. Rita in a cherry-colored whiff of chiffon, her ashen hair rumpled and the evidence of a large evening circling her eyes. “What the hell’s the idea of making all that noise?” she blazed. “I don’t want any damn paper!” Then she stopped abruptly and stared at Mitch. “Oh, it’s you!”
    “You remember me?”
    “How could I forget? I’m still black and blue from you falling on me last night!”
    For a moment Mitch thought she was going to display the evidence, which might have been interesting, but then Rita drew the negligee tighter and made a self-conscious swipe at her hair. “Well, what is it?” she demanded. “What are you here for?”
    “Dave Singer,” Mitch answered. “Is he here?”
    “Is he supposed to be?”
    “I don’t know. I’m just asking.”
    “I get it, the inquiring reporter. Answer the man’s questions and you’ll get your picture in the paper.” Rita’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t easy, but they narrowed. “Thanks just the same,” she said, “but I’ve already had my picture in the paper.”
    “I know.” Mitch smiled. “That’s one of the reasons I think you’re going to invite me in for a chat.”
    The door had been steadily closing but Rita wasn’t that dumb. There wasn’t too much a paper could work up indignation over without stepping on important toes, but she was vulnerable. The Ritas of the world were always vulnerable. There was no sense in deliberately courting trouble. So Mitch walked into an apartment that could have used a good housekeeper and a couple of interior decorators. The divan needed upholstering and somebody had upset an ash tray on the rug. The bedroom door was open, displaying a recently vacated bed and a row of stockings drying on a line in the bathroom beyond, and off to the left in what must be the kitchen a faucet was dripping noisily. The whole place gave the impression that somebody had slapped controls on the wages of sin.
    “Satisfied?” Rita challenged, when Mitch had seen everything he could