“Please do,” said Daisy. “You’ll know what he should be told, much better than I.”
“And what’s better not told,” Miss Genevieve agreed.
Kevin took them down. “This Pascoli guy,” he said sternly to Daisy, “you know him?”
“I’ve met him.” How on earth did Kevin know Daisy was meeting Pascoli?
On second thoughts, that was an easy question to answer. The hotel switchboard girl had told him. Pascoli was right to be wary of eavesdroppers.
“Well, you be careful, you hear? I got my people watching, but if he pulls a gat, there ain’t nuttin much they can do. Hey, Mr. Lambert, sir, you maybe better frisk him soon as he gets here.”
Lambert’s jaw dropped, but he managed not to say, “Who, me?” “I—I guess so,” he stammered instead.
“Frisk?” Daisy asked.
“Check to see is he packing heat,” Kevin explained. “I’ll see you get some ‘Irish tea’ right away, sir. What you need’s Dutch courage.”
“I guess so,” Lambert agreed gratefully.
Kevin ushered them out of the lift and through to the lobby. There he seized Stanley—his inferior in age, size, and cheekiness—by the ear. “Here, you order tea for the ladies and a spot of the Irish for Mr. Lambert. And put some pep in it!”
“I always do!” Stanley buzzed off to the restaurant to pass on the order, and Kevin, seeing the desk clerk coming in to take over from the manager, dashed back to his lift.
Only one other couple was in the lobby, and they left after a few minutes. A waiter arrived, his tray laden with two teapots and the cakes and biscuits for which the Misses Cabot must have a standing order. “Indian,” he said, setting the large pot before Miss Cabot. The small one was deposited in front of Lambert. “Irish. I’ll need cash for that.”
While Lambert fumbled for his wallet, Daisy reached forher handbag, saying, “Let me treat you both, Miss Cabot.”
“So kind!”
“No, no,” said Miss Genevieve. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, you eat like a bird. It can go on our tab.”
Daisy had never in her life been told she ate like a bird; in fact her mother had frequently castigated her for eating like a horse. She smiled and gave in gracefully.
Miss Genevieve regarded Lambert with disapproval. “You’re a federal agent,” she reminded him as he picked up his cup and took a gulp of whiskey.
He choked, coughing and spluttering while tears came to his eyes. When he had recovered his breath, he begged, “You won’t report me?”
“Do I look like a police nark?” Miss Genevieve demanded in outraged tones.
“Something’s been puzzling me,” Daisy put in quickly. “The first time I saw Carmody, he took a nip of spirits from a flask. Yet I’m sure he was interested in Kevin’s arrangements from the muckraking reporter’s point of view, not as a source of supply for himself. If he drank himself, why would he want to expose someone dealing in drink?”
“What makes you think so?” asked Miss Genevieve.
Daisy thought back. “We were in the elevator. Kevin whispered to me that he could get me genuine Irish whiskey and it was quite safe because all the ‘right people’ had been paid off. I don’t know how much Carmody overheard, but at the very least he heard ‘paid off.’ Kevin cleverly pretended he’d been telling me his brother was laid off.”
“That’s it, then. Carmody wasn’t interested in bootlegging as such, only in the police accepting bribes to ignore it.”
“Oh yes, that’s much more …”
“Here’s Pascoli,” said Lambert, who was facing the door. “Do I really have to frisk him?”
“No,” said Daisy.
“Yes,” said Miss Genevieve.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Miss Cabot brightly.
Lambert stood up, squaring his shoulders. “Aw, gee,” he said, “Mr. Thorwald’s come, too.”
