Where Is Bianca? by Ellery Queen Page A

want anything more of me, Captain?”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Corrigan said, watching him closely. “For now, no. But stay on tap.”
    The gross man laughed. “Where would I go?” he asked, as if the world ended at the bounderies of Manhattan Island. He shuffled to the door, opened it, and let himself out like a ghost.
    Peggy Simpson reached out as if she felt a need to cling to Corrigan’s hand. He pretended not to see it.
    â€œMiss Simpson—” he began.
    â€œCall me Peggy,” she said. There were still tears in her eyes. “He frightened me so. I don’t know what’s happened to everyone. People used to be fun.…”
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” Corrigan said, “I have things to do, Miss Simpson. I’d like to borrow a few items that belong to Noreen, things only she handled.”
    â€œWhatever for?”
    â€œFingerprints.”
    The girl raised a limp hand. “Noreen’s bedroom is there, the one with the bath. I slept in the little room off the kitchen. Help yourself. I don’t think I’ll ever have the strength to get out of this chair again.”
    When Corrigan got to his office, he found Chuck Baer waiting for him.
    â€œI’m checking the passport people and circulating pictures of Bianca Lessard among agents for overseas airlines,” Baer said. “Just in case she did decide quietly to take herself back to Europe.”
    â€œGood. Fingerprinting should have something shortly.”
    Corrigan went to his desk. Reports from the lab and the Medical Examiner’s office were lying on the green blotter.
    He scanned the reports, jerked his head up. “Jane Doe’s lung tissue yielded water showing a trace of soap.”
    â€œSoap?” Baer said.
    â€œA French-milled type, the lab says. Expensive. That narrows it down, Chuck. The girl in the morgue was drowned in a bathtub in a house or apartment where you’d expect to find such luxuries as expensive French soap.”
    â€œUpper East Side?”
    â€œIt would fill the bill.” Corrigan nodded slowly. “Then her body was carried out to a manhole and she was dumped underground.”
    His phone rang. He did more listening than talking. When he hung up, he said to Baer, “Fingerprinting. The dead girl in the morgue is Noreen Gardner. The prints check against some things I took from her bedroom.”
    Baer grunted. “So I’ve still got a client, and I’m still stuck with the original question: Where is Bianca?”
    â€œThis case is like a cancer cell,” Corrigan complained, “that keeps subdividing. I’m stuck with the question: Who killed Noreen Gardner?”
    â€œI’ve only got the brains for one question at a time,” Baer said. “If a travel agent doesn’t come through for me, I’ll put some mileage on the swindle sheet and take a run up to Adirondacks Hall. It was the one place Bianca’d found peace and quiet. After her blow-up with her crumb of a husband, maybe she wanted to go back there for a while. And asked them not to get in touch with Lessard or tell him where she was if he inquired.”
    â€œKeep me posted, Chuck.” Corrigan glanced at his wrist watch. “Jean Ainsley probably works late. I might still catch her at Fielding Realty.”
    As he reached for his phone, Baer chuckled, “While you have dinner with the chick, think of this poor old private peeper gumshoeing the heels off his brogans.”
    â€œStrictly in the line of duty,” Corrigan said with a straight face.

9
    With the Chateaubriand pleasantly in his gut, Corrigan thumbed his lighter and held it to Jean Ainsley’s cigarette.
    Her hazel eyes examined him over the flame. She’s lovely, he thought, and had to bring himself to remember what he was there for. But it was difficult. My God, he thought, have I finally fallen for a doll? It was not only unprecedented, it was