Girl Running

by Lawrence Lariar

  “How about his rooms?” I asked. “What happened to his belongings?”

  “Ah, that is the mystery, my friend. We do not understand why this man Folger left with his luggage last night. We also do not understand several strange marks on his body. There are a series of tiny holes in his neck and chest. There are also bad lacerations on his back. The medical examiner is not sure these wounds were made when the unfortunate man fell. We will explore these things. We will keep you informed.”

  Larry interrupted to shoot a quick French question at Malencourt. They exchanged a patter of dialogue. Then the inspector turned my way.

  “There is one other theory,” he said. “Since we have had similar cases in the past. Founard’s is in a section of the city known for certain crimes.” He turned again to Larry and there was another rapid-fire dissertation.

  “Muggings,” Larry said. “He thinks Folger could have been mugged by a gang from the neighborhood.”

  “It has happened before,” said the Frenchman. “There are those criminals who specialize in the tourist trade. They watch and wait for such people as Monsieur Folger, the alcoholics, the party people, the Bohemians, if you like. We will investigate the area around Founard’s.”

  “You’ll be available?” I asked.

  “To be sure,” smiled Malencourt. “And you, Monsieur? You will also report any progress?”

  “By all means.”

  Larry called me a liar on the street.

  “You didn’t tell him about Velma. Why?”

  “Velma is all mine. I don’t want the flics barging in on her. I don’t want her good nature fractured. Velma has a bad memory but I may be able to revive it. She’d freeze for the cops. I could lose her that way.”

  “You sound as if you’ve got her in your pocket.”

  “Temporarily I have. How do we get to Morni’s?”

  Larry whistled a cab and ordered the hacky to Montmartre. We screamed off in a burst of speed. The day was gray now, the sun dead behind a ridge of dirty clouds. Paris takes on a mood quickly. The buildings seemed vague and misted, the streets dull and dusky. We bounced through traffic on the way up the bill to Montmartre. French hackies drive like madmen, slipping and sliding and feinting around corners, their hands always on the horn.

  “Hackies,” explained Larry, “are the only Parisians who rush. Once behind the wheel, the French autoist changes character. He forgets the three hours he spent for lunch. He no longer moves in the sluggish, Gallic tradition. He sweats and shouts at his compatriots. He slams brakes and slaps horns, anxious to prove himself the master of his chariot. He takes chances and rarely is involved in an accident. But he gets you there—and always ahead of time.”

  We were circling the edge of the hill. Here the streets narrowed and the ground rose at a nasty grade. We swung to the right into a section of narrow houses, small cafés and occasional shops. Here and there a group of pedestrians blocked our way. They glared at us stupidly. They resented our entry into this alley. We were invading their front yard, their area of leisure. The cabby pulled up before a tired-looking doorway, the entrance to the Hotel Morni.

  Hotel? The lobby was a square hole, decorated with only a few chairs, an old table and a landlady of the same vintage. She eyed Larry sleepily from behind a window in the wall.

  They exchanged a few quick words.

  “Your girl Velma is gone,” Larry said. “The old doll says we can go up to her room and check.”

  “She left today?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “Ask her if Velma left alone.”

  I watched the old lady’s face fall into wrinkled laughter. She cackled and giggled in between French paragraphs. Something was knocking her out. Her hilarity was too much for Larry. He joined the comedy routine. I kicked myself in my mental pants again for neglecting my study of the language in school. They were having more fun than two kids at a circus.

  Finally Larry said: “The old girl thinks Velma could have skipped out with any number of men. According to the landlady, Velma was public domain. She’s been living here for more than three years and the traffic hasn’t let up for a day. All weights and sizes. A real friendly type.”

  “Skip the character assassination. Why did Velma leave?”

  “The old girl doesn’t know. Velma always seemed happy here. Up until today.”

  “No forwarding address?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Maybe the old babe knows some of Velma’s chums?”

  Larry began another conversation. The landlady, however, was a professional laugher. Something in her memory of Velma pushed her into perpetual glee. She cackled and gasped, dropping a few words into the gusts of gayety.

  “All mankind,” said Larry. “A truly humanitarian doll, your friend Velma.”

  “To hell with the old lady. Let’s go up and examine the room.”

  Velma’s place was strangely neat for the hotel. She had lived in a small apartment facing the street, on the second floor. The living room featured several modern pieces of furniture out of key with the age of the place. She must have bought these herself, out of a deep yen for domesticity. There were other marks of her personality around. The walls were bare, empty of pictures. But big light stains showed where pictures once hung. A small liquor chest still held several decanters of scotch and bourbon. The glass containers were not cheap. The small brandy glasses were of Swedish design.

  “Velma has good taste,” Larry said. “These little items run high.”

  “Take a look in here,” I said.

  I was standing in the bedroom admiring her bed, an oversized affair, small enough for a dozen sleepers. It dominated the large room. She must have decided to leave her personal trappings, the colorful modern cushions, the delicate porcelain night light on the table.

  Larry whistled. “Biggest mattress I ever saw. Velma must suffer from claustrophobia. Either that or she entertained conventions here.”

  “She was in a hell of a hurry to get out. Left some of her clothes.”

  The closet contained a small mound of discarded dresses, most of them of the cheap variety, cottons for lounging around at home. A faded robe hung alone on a hanger. There were two pairs of slippers in the corner. A hatbox labeled “Sarah’s” contained four berets, each a different color. I noted the name of the hat shop.

  “I know Sarah,” Larry told me. “Specialty shop for ladies. Good designer, but she gets a fortune for each lid.”

  We moved into the bathroom. Nothing but a lone stocking remained. It hung over the edge of the sink, and I picked it up and examined it. Larry watched me.

  “Sad touch,” I said. “But it spells out something about her for me.”

  “Stocking hater?”

  “Not quite. Velma stripped this room clean. Took all her cosmetics because they’re important to her. She left this stocking only because it’s imperfect. Nasty run down the seam. Gives me some insight to her brain box, Larry. She skimmed through this John like a demon, salvaging all her womanly paint and powder, the important items for her. Yet she dropped the stocking in the same gesture. She thinks fast. She’s smart, my Velma.”

  “Piled all her stuff into a cab, according to the old bag downstairs. Kept him waiting on the curb while she emptied out up here. She must have made a pretty sudden decision.”

  “This proves it.”

  We were in the tiny kitchen now. The table held a full percolator. The cup was empty. A croissant lay near the percolator. She had taken one bite of it. A half glass of orange juice sat near the sink.

  “As American as a green dollar,” I said. “Can you see it? She still drinks orange juice after years in Paris. She started her juice and put it down. Then she nibbled the bun. But something was itching, something was pushing her. She decided to scram before finishing her breakfast.”

  “This is where
we came in,” Larry said. “Now what?”

  “We’re going to dig her out.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Because I like her,” I said. “And because I don’t understand why she beat it so suddenly. In my book, she’s tied to Folger. She was bedding down with him last night. She talked to him. She could have been the last person to engage him in conversation.”

  Down in the lobby, the old bag still leaned her lank elbows on the window ledge, grinning up a storm. Larry questioned her again She knew nothing about the cabby who waited for Velma. She knew nothing about the direction Velma took. Larry slipped her a few francs and she stopped laughing and promised to get in touch with him if she heard of Velma’s whereabouts.

  We hit the street and canvassed the neighborhood shops. Everybody knew Velma. Everybody liked her, especially the male shopkeepers. Velma was gay and good and gracious. Ooh, la! la! how pretty she was! What a rare morsel! Certainly a girl who would go far—in one direction or the other.

  “She only slept in this neighborhood,” Larry said. “I know her reputation at the other end of town, where she went for more lasting contacts. I’ll dig up some facts about her, Steve. I’ll start right now, if you like.”

  “Get me what you can before dinner,” I said. “I’ll need you at Loretta’s in a little while.”

  “How soon?”

  My mind clicked off, caught up in another gambit.

  We had circled the block. We stood again, in the darkness now, across the street from the decrepit entrance to the Morni Hotel. There was a man advancing toward the door. As he passed along the rim of weak light from the store windows, his figure came into focus. He walked slowly in the gloom. He carried himself stiffly erect, like an army officer. He sported a stubby beard and carried a fat white cane. He paused at the Morni entrance, turning slowly to check the street behind him.

  Then he slipped inside the hotel.

  I said: “He could be one of Velma’s boy friends.”

  “A good guess,” Larry said.

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve never met the crud officially. But I’ve run into him at art openings. He’s a freeloader. Name of Bowker—Max Bowker. Dabbles at sculpting. He has as much talent as my janitor. Maybe less.”

  I tugged his arm to end the monologue. Up in Velma’s room the light went on.

  “He’s up there,” I said. “On your way, Larry. Meet me at Loretta’s. I’m going up for a talk with our bearded pal.”

  “Maybe you’d better have company?”

  “Two’s company,” I told him.

  He started down the hill, turning once to wave. Then he was lost beyond the ridge of buildings.

  I crossed the street and entered Morni’s again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Morni’s—Montmartre

  Bowker wasn’t in Velma’s living room when I walked in.

  He had crossed the room to wander into the kitchen, not bothering to use a light until he arrived there. I stood in a pocket of darkness watching him.

  He was bending into Velma’s tiny refrigerator. He was nibbling a slice of meat, taking his time about it. Behind him, on the kitchen table, he had set down a bottle of wine. In the crazy tableau, he reached to lift the bottle, sucking deep and strong. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand. He belched mightily.

  “Gesundheit,” I said from the darkness.

  The sound of my voice stirred him to action. Now he moved fast, dropping the bottle and reaching for his cane. He came through the door, a hulking silhouette, the cane brandished above his head.

  He flailed out at me. But he couldn’t see me in the sudden darkness. He muttered a Gallic curse, waving the wood with frantic energy. The sound of it made music in the air.

  “Relax,” I said from the corner near the couch. “You’ll get yourself a Charley horse, friend.”

  He came at me, grunting his rage. He whipped and slashed with the cane, missing me by inches. I heard his breath, the hurried gasps of a man unused to violent action. He was a standing duck for mayhem. I could have kicked his navel in.

  Instead, I tripped him.

  He fell forward, almost carrying me with him. The cane came loose in his hand. We had worked our way to the kitchen door where he lay on his belly and squirmed to right himself.

  He sat up stupidly.

  “Who the hell are you?” he roared.

  “Temper, pal. You’ll get yourself an ulcer one of these days.”

  He rubbed at his knee. Up close, his face was a mask of anger, accented by the mat of beard on his chin. He struggled for composure. He would be the poised and unruffled type, embarrassed by his zany pose on the floor.

  “What do you want here?” he asked. He began to lift himself.

  “Stay where you are, pal.”

  “You’re a bad little man, aren’t you?”

  “And watch your language.” I waved the cane under his nose. “Sometimes I get real mad at big apes like you. Sometimes I like to draw blood.”

  “You’re scaring me to death, little man.”

  I rapped the cane against his knees. I rapped again. He clutched and yowled his pain. When he leaned forward I grabbed his beard and jerked—hard. He came up to his knees yammering. He was caught off guard. I showed him the end of the cane, in his gut. He began to cough.

  “Now, Bowker. Let’s talk sense.”

  “You know my name?” he asked. “Do I know you?”

  “You’ll learn to love me. I’m a pal of Velma’s.”

  He got up slowly, brushing himself off. “She isn’t home,” he said. “She’s out for the night.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Velma’s never home at this hour. She usually leaves before dinner and stays away until early morning.” He eyed me speculatively. “You’d know that if you were a good friend of hers.”

  “So would you,” I said.” Yet, you’re here.”

  “A habit of mine.”

  “You wait until she gets back?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You’ve got a key?”

  “You’re a little busybody,” Bowker said. His poise and calm had returned. He continued to slide his hand into the refrigerator, tasting the slices of meat. He gulped the wine. “Sure I’ve got a key. Jealous?”

  “Do you always make a beeline for the food?” I asked. “Without turning on the living room lights?”

  “When I’m hungry I do.”

  “Put down the food,” I said, “and come with me.”

  He obeyed reluctantly, more curious than fearful. He would have enjoyed beaning me with that bottle. He would have relished cracking my head open with his heavy cane. He managed one quick swallow and then stepped ahead of me into the living room.

  He was surprised when I flipped on the lights.

  “Our little bird has flown,” I said.

  He stared around the room, at the empty walls, at the general disorder. He galloped into the small hall near the john and switched the light on in there. He came out and headed for the bedroom.

  “Save your energy,” I told him. “Velma’s gone.”

  “I don’t understand it.” He paused on the way back, rubbing and pulling at his beard. He was suddenly thoughtful and sad. He shook his head and surveyed the living room. He was either a great actor or a great friend of Velma’s. “I saw her just yesterday. She didn’t say a word about moving out.”

  “It was a sudden decision.”

  “Hardly credible,” he said. “And not at all like her.”

  “You should know.”

  “I do know. We’re old friends. I’ve known her ever since she came to Paris, years ago. She’s one of my favorite models. Use her all the time. She loved this place. Why should she leave?”

  “Maybe she scrammed to get married.”


  Bowker laughed for the first time. It was a guttural grunt. Laughing came hard for him.

  “Not Velma,” he said. “She’s probably only changed apartments.”

  “She talked about it?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Any idea where she might be?” I asked.

  We were back in the kitchen again. Bowker allowed nothing to interfere with his yen for fodder. He continued to munch the meat. The plate was empty and he shifted to olives, popping them into his bearded mouth one after the other. Once in a while he paused to examine me briefly. He made no bones about his curiosity. He stared hard at me, as open as a school teacher eyeing a juvenile delinquent.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

  “I didn’t pitch it.”

  “Yet, you knew my name.”

  “You’re a famous man in Paris,” I said. “Everybody knows Bowker. Sculpture of the highest type.”

  Flattery only made him laugh a little. The reflex guttural chuckle meant I had hit him in a weak spot. Some of his natural arrogance seemed to fall away, but the stiffness remained, the erect and almost impossible posture of a store dummy. He lit a large pipe and sucked at it with relish. He continued to stare at me through the high wave of smoke. It was impossible to tell whether he was smiling or suffering under the beard.

  He looked around the room for the last time, as if to seal the picture in his mind for further use. Then he marched out with me behind him.

  In the street he said: “I hope she hasn’t left Paris for good. I need her on a piece I’m doing, a commission for a London customer. She has a figure that will be hard to duplicate.”

  He turned on his heel and strode away from me.

  I gave him his head. Down the dark street and around the corner Bowker went, as casual as a window-shopper. He made the top of the ridged hill and started down. There was no traffic here. I wanted him out in the open, deep in a pedestrian tide where it would be easier to tail him. The business of search and follow is founded on basic habits. A man tailed must be unaware of his shadow. Quiet streets breed echoes. Quiet streets encourage the instinct to look back over your shoulder. I stepped behind him carefully, his hard heels clacking ahead of me, a block away.