Girl Running

by Lawrence Lariar

  “It’s Judy’s,” Peggy whispered. “I’m sure it’s Judy’s.”

  “Who painted this?” I asked Eric.

  He rolled his frightened eyes at the painting. Then he giggled nervously.

  “Guess,” he said.

  “No time for guessing games.” I grabbed him and jerked him out of the chair, dragging him into the alcove. He seemed to shrink and fade so close to Peggy. The horror in him converted him into a trembling stick. I shook the stick until he began to whine. “It’s an original Judy Martin, isn’t it, Eric?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “I’ll break you in half. I’ll give you a minute to make up your mind, sister.”

  Peggy stepped toward him. “You’d help us if you told.”

  “Get back, you bitch,” he whimpered, struggling to move away from her.

  “Touch him, Peggy,” I said. “Touch him and he’ll spill for us.”

  Peggy played it my way. She came forward, trying to smile at him, her hand reaching out. He recoiled, trembling. He could have been retreating from a leper. He could have been crawling away from death itself. His eyes rolled and he bit hard at his lower lip.

  He didn’t wait for her to come all the way.

  “Of course it’s Judy Martin’s,” he almost screamed. “If you had a brain in your head, you’d see the signature in the lower corner, hidden in the dark blue. What if it is a Judy Martin? Is that why you came here?”

  “How long has Vince had this one?”

  “A few years. His place is full of paintings. How should I know? I can’t recall every purchase he makes.”

  “He has other Judy Martin items?”

  “In the hall, you idiot. You passed two on the way in.”

  Peggy ran into the foyer. Eric was right. Two other nudes hung in the deep shadows on the other side of the door. They were the same in scheme and mood, both pale women against a gray and blue background. Peggy stared at them, her eyes filling with tears.

  “She’s good,” Peggy said. “Her paintings are great.”

  “Where’s Tomaselli?” I asked.

  “He’s not here.”

  ‘“Are you leveling? Or must I slap you around?”

  “Take your filthy hands off me,” he shouted. “Why not search the place and see for yourself? What sort of a beast are you, anyhow, breaking into a man’s place and running riot? Or is this your way of studying art? If I were you I’d dash out of here, my friend. You have no right to barge in and conduct private searching parties. You can see Vincent during the day, during office hours. I’ve got a good mind to call the flics. This is preposterous.”

  I shook his prissy monologue to a halt. “Relax, little girl. I’m only interested in small talk with Tomaselli. Where did he go?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Squeeze a little. It’ll come to you.”

  “I tell you I don’t know.”

  “Touch him, Peggy.”

  He began to crawl again, squirming in my grip. The touch of him started a cold wave of nausea in me. It would be tough to handle him if he balked any more. But I held on until Peggy stood within inches of him.

  Then he broke for me.

  “Garr’s,” he screamed.

  “What’s Garr’s? A bistro?”

  “Lester Garr,” he squealed. “A party at Lester’s house. Over on the Rue Boissy D’Anglas. Try there. But leave me alone. Get the bitch away from me.”

  “You’d better be right,” I said. “Or I’ll come back to haunt you, sweetheart.”

  “Please,” Peggy said. “I’ll feel better out of here, Steve.”

  His dainty movements continued to the door. He stood there, nibbling his lower lip, watching us with a secret smile, half amusement, half speculation.

  “Good night, you stupid people,” he said as the door closed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Maison Garr—Rue Boissy D’Anglas

  Larry was waiting for us at Loretta’s, a fresh drink in his hand.

  “No hits, no runs,” he said. “And nobody home at Bowker’s. I managed a squint over his garden wall. He has a ground floor dump, with doors opening into a dirty terrace. I looked through the doors. There was plenty of light from the street into his cruddy studio. Nobody there.”

  “Any signs of female clothing?” I asked.

  “Nothing at all. Nothing but his cornball statuary.”

  He would have held us there, to drink a few with him. Loretta had made a special feast for her after-midnight patrons, small and heavily garlicked pizza pies. She was heartbroken to hear of our departure.

  “Big party,” I said. “Lester Garr’s. You know him, Larry?”

  “Lavish,” Larry kissed his fingers. “Come on, Loretta. I’ll be your boy for tonight.”

  “Perhaps later, mon cher. Right now, my customers need me.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen, shouting orders in clipped French to her two chefs. She radiated a peasant’s vivacity. Her face was flushed with honest sweat, but it did nothing to dull her basic beauty. Framed in the door to the kitchen, she was suddenly ageless, a woman who refused to abandon her youth. Her figure was firm and ripe.

  “Quite a broad,” Larry winked. “Or did I catch you admiring her pizza pies?”

  “She’s beautiful,” Peggy said.

  “My sentiments, exactly,” I said.

  “Liar,” said Larry. “What was your cheap dick’s mind thinking about her?”

  “Her man?” I asked. “Who’s her boy friend? I’d like to shake his hand, lucky character.”

  “She’s not tied down. Plays the field. Loretta’s had a sad history, according to local legend. She ran away from home at an early age. Fell in love with a singer who was on his way to Paris. The story goes that she gave him her all. He died over here. Left her with a little girl, who also kicked off during Loretta’s starvation days. She found the formula for success after working as a waiter over in the Black Cave, a tourist trap in Montmartre. Loretta soon started on her own. Rumor has it that Vince Tomaselli staked her. After she opened here, her troubles were over. Now she gets the customers she likes, people from the arts and entertainments. But love? She’s saving it, Steve. Maybe you’ll be the lucky boy.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Loretta. I was caught up by her womanly charms, her soft good nature, her easy grace. It was a pleasure to watch her figure in the kitchen. She seemed to pause there, making up her mind about something. She abandoned the stove and walked through the restaurant to the little vestibule in the rear. She entered her private office. Through the open door I could watch her at the telephone. She hung up, disappointed. Then she began to remove her blouse. The open door caught her eye. She closed it.

  “Let’s get over to Lester Garr’s party,” I said.

  The cab took us across to the Right Bank, through the gaily lit commercial section and then down dark streets. Larry described the landmarks as we moved along. He had a keen wit and a natural tongue for lecturing. He did his best to liven the trip. But no gagman on earth could have warmed Peggy. She sat close to me, lost in some personal horizon. In the quick pattern of light from the street lamps, I saw her dab at her eyes again. I took her hand. She didn’t seem to mind. But there was no answering pressure.

  Lester Garr owned a mansion in the Rue Boissy D’Anglas. It was an ancient trap, richly brocaded in stone on the façade. You’d expect a footman to pop out of the front door here. You’d look for the trappings of upper society in this château. The parking yard was loaded with a variety of hot cam, low slung and chic and richly upholstered.

  Beyond the parking field, a formal garden buzzed and hummed with revelers. A Spanish orchestra beat out a rumbling tango. A girl with a frog in her throat sang the lyrics. Nobody listened. Nobody danced. The party was geared for talk and sin, the guests standing in
noisy knots, deep in discussion or argument. Here and there a couple wrestled under the pretty bushes. The uniformed flunkies wandered among the people, offering fresh libations and a mad assortment of canapés.

  “Open house?” I asked Larry.

  “Don’t be naïve.” Larry nibbled a handful of small sandwiches. “We were examined at the gate by Lester’s secretary. She’s an old friend of mine. She let us through. Lester’s a news-hungry slob. Loves stories about his brawls in the press. I got to know him when I was working for the press service, a few years ago. I got him a feature story in a New York supplement. Lester had a flock of naked broads baked in a cake for that one. I had a staff lens man snap them and broke the pictures all over the world. Lester loved it. He’s never forgotten me for the favor.”

  Larry led us into the great foyer of the mansion. The Garr art collection dominated the decor. We marched along the route, eyeing the fabulous art. He had all the leaders, from Picasso to Braque.

  “Money, money, money,” sang Larry. “This boy Lester is lousy with it.”

  “I want to meet Garr,” I said.

  “I want the little girl’s room,” Peggy said.

  “Upstairs,” Larry directed. “At the head of the landing, to your right. Don’t let it throw you, Peggy. The powder room resembles Grand Central Station.”

  We walked through the foyer into the main room. Here bedlam hit, a wave of noise that ripped at the ears, a mixture of laughter and argument and the high notes of alcoholic abandon. These were the well-cooked intellectuals, the indoor types. The occasional squeak of women’s laughter rose above the din. I caught many familiar faces: actors, statesmen, sports celebrities and television trollops.

  “Lester Garr,” Larry said.

  “My pleasure.”

  Garr shook my hand, appearing out of nowhere. He was a short one, just my size, but much heavier in the beam and midsection. He had a pleasant face, big in the mouth. His dentures gave him a scarecrow look around the jaws. He sported an informal outfit, complete with waistcoat and tweed jacket. He wore one of the Madison Avenue shirts, light magenta. His out-of-focus eves surveyed me for importance.

  Larry said: “Steve’s somebody you should know, Lester. The biggest private investigator in New York City.”

  “Interesting,” said Garr. “I recall the face.”

  “He means it, Steve.”

  “Of course I mean it. You were in the news a year or so ago, isn’t that right? A Puerto Rican case involving art. You’re quite an art student, aren’t you?”

  A little blonde emerged from the crowd, rolling toward Larry. He grabbed her on the first bounce. She climbed him to kiss him.

  “Hellocookieboy,” she cooed. “Getchadrink?”

  “Excuse me, gents,” said Larry. “My old schoolteacher, Miss Fiditch.”

  “I may need you later,” I said.

  “I’ll be around. Look for me on the grass. I’m a nature lover at heart.”

  Garr laughed, watching them move off. “Fabulous character, your friend Frick. Has more chums than any man in Paris. He has a rare capacity for making people like him. Especially the girls.” He snapped his fingers for a flunkey. We drank together. Garr downed his liquor in one gulp. “Can I get you anything special, Conacher?” he asked. “More food? Wine? Or a girl, perhaps?”

  “I brought my own,” I said. “She’ll be down in a minute. Her name’s Peggy Martin.”

  “Martin?” he asked himself. In the pause, his face froze in the toothy smile. He smiled all the time. It would be tough to check a reaction on his square kisser. His eyes were small and black and staring. He would have done well in a poker game. He would be wonderful in any dead-pan sport. “A familiar name,” he said.

  “Maybe you know her sister? Judy?”

  “More familiar.” He nibbled a canapé, studying the caviar for some clue to Judy. He found it. “Not Judy Martin, the little painter? Of course. Of course. I have one of her things in the library.”

  “She sold it to you?”

  “Not directly. I believe it was Vince Tomaselli who brought the painting to me.”

  “Then you never met Judy?”

  “I didn’t say that. I met her after I bought the oil. Nice little girl. And very talented.”

  “Seen her lately?”

  “Not for years.” He grabbed another sandwich off a passing tray and washed it down with more liquor. It was a routine gesture for him, like breathing. He would be a long-term drinker and nibbler. A bottomless pit. “The last time,” he said, “was at a party. Like this one. Judy came for a while.”

  “Alone?”

  “An odd question.” He studied me carefully. “But then, you’re a detective, aren’t you? You’re trying to locate her, is that it?”

  “You, too,” I said, “are a detective.”

  “It’s a bad night for questions and answers. I haven’t much time, as you can see.”

  “I won’t take much time. Another minute.”

  “Fire away,” he said pleasantly, waving to some newcomers. “But I’d be glad to tell you all I know in some quieter moment.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on the long talk,” I said. “Right now I want to know whether Judy came here alone when you last saw her.”

  “She did. She came as my guest.”

  “After you bought the picture?”

  “Exactly. Matter of fact, the party was the next day.”

  “You were making a play for her?”

  “I liked her,” said Garr simply. “Judy’s a very attractive personality.”

  “And did she like you?”

  “Not enough.”

  “You made a pitch?”

  “Frankly, yes.” He sighed, remembering something that made him smile. He was loaded with conceit. Or it could have been his dough that gave him so much confidence. He must have been pushing forty, a little man with a horse-face, one of the homelier-than-thou boys. Yet, he had expected Judy to roll over for him. “But Judy didn’t see things my way,” he said. “It was as simple as that.”

  “She had a steady boyfriend at the time?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  We were off to one side, in the shadow of the great marble stairway on a small stone ledge that gave us a view of the big room. There were a hundred heads buzzing beneath us. In the far reaches of the giant hall, through the terrace doors, through the foyer doors, new people arrived as we watched. The noise beat hard at my ears. But my eyes were clear. I watched the crowd as I talked. I saw Vince Tomaselli. He was just outside the terrace door, talking to a tall blonde.

  “You don’t remember any of her men?” I asked.

  “I can’t help you, Conacher.”

  “A man named Jastro?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Or Bowker?”

  “The sculptor?” Garr laughed his queasy laugh. “I wonder whether Judy would tolerate him long. An obvious phony.”

  “Or Vince Tomaselli?”

  “More likely Vince. A lucky man. He can pick and choose from the best in Paris. Models, you know. All types.” He sighed, caught up in his own hopelessness with the broads. He would have the realistic items for a babe—the money, the mansion, gold brocaded mattresses. But he lacked everything else a woman might want. He was aware of his inadequacies. He showed me a small part of his frustration. “A man to be envied, Vince Tomaselli.”

  We watched Vince together. He was suddenly detaching himself from the blonde. Something off the terrace moved him. I left Garr with a quick apology. But the human wall ahead slowed me. There was no short cut to the terrace, no detour around the surging guests. They were jam-packed into the big room.

  Approaching the terrace, I saw Peggy with Larry Flick, downing a cocktail, her eyes gay. Larry laughed it up with her. Vince was off the terrace when I hit fresh air. A cab stood at the e
nd of the parking section. The shadows were deep there, on the rim of the garden where a wing of the house abutted on the street. Deep in the gloom I heard, the sound of a woman’s voice. Loretta? I ran forward over the pebbled drive. She was on her way into the cab. Vince climbed in beside her and the motor roared and the hack swung into the street. In the quick light from the entrance, her face came into focus for me.

  She was Loretta, all right.

  And she was taking Vince with her.

  CHAPTER 9

  Maison Garr—Rue Boissy D’Anglas

  The redhead cornered me under a tree.

  “It is the little one, alors,” she giggled. “I am so happy to see you.”

  She was Denise Marchand. And she was more than happy. She leaned into me with a fine show of drunken glee. She would be laughing it up for hours, a chuckling drunk, a broad with free hands and an anxious eye. She carried a big glass, half full of an amber liquid. The smell of it mixed with her cosmetic odor. She was a bare and brazen beauty from the chest up.

  “Larry, he is here?” she asked. “A moment ago I saw him?”

  “The hell with Larry,” I said. “Let’s you and I get gay.”

  “Cochon,” she breathed. “This Larry is one big cochon. Pig, you understand?”

  “Forget him.”

  “Always he is playing around. Women, women, alors. One cannot trust him.”

  “Forget the slob. You’ve got me now, Denise.”

  “You are a nice one,” she smiled. Her eyes were ready for bed. “Where will you take me?”

  “Out with the birds and bees,” I said. “I know where the grass is soft, baby.”

  Finding an empty patch of lawn wasn’t easy. The guests had commandeered the outdoors, hauling bench cushions into the shadows, carrying trays of food and drink close to where the imitation stream poured down the imitation landscape. The edge of the garden seemed quietest. We sat under a convenient hedge.

  “Such a little man,” mumbled Denise. “But such a nice one. You have, perhaps, a sandwich of some sort?”