“Stay where you are. I’ll get you some fodder.”
She rolled back into the shadows, a siren on clover. I backed through the deeper gloom, making a wide and noiseless exit beyond the groups and couples on the lawns. A burble of sounds filled the air, vague whisperings, sudden laughter, and the more intimate grumblings of those hidden under the branches.
Near the terrace entrance, Lester Garr caught me.
“We meet again,” he smiled. “Looking for your girl?”
“Not exactly. You’ve seen her?”
“You’ll lose her if you don’t watch out. She’s drinking a bit. And she’s drinking with Frick.”
“It’ll do her good,” I said.
“With Larry Frick?” he laughed. “I wonder. If she were my girl—”
“Peggy can handle him. And she can use the laughs.”
“You don’t know Frick.”
“I know Peggy,” I said.
The liquor poured freer. The party had slipped into high gear. Out of nowhere, I found myself involved in a debate with Garr and a group of revelers. The talk broadened. A tight little knot of intellectuals argued about native dancing. We were seated near the fountain, around a tray of food and drinks. I recognized some of the steady lushes in the argument.
Jastro, for instance.
He appeared on his knees, crawling out of a patch of foliage. Behind him crawled Larry. They barked and gagged it up, making a big production out of their canine capers.
“Old Jastro has something to say about navels,” Larry shouted. He stood uncertainly on the fountain’s edge, holding up his hand. “Let the expert speak.”
“Nobody can top Jadda Sims,” someone shouted.
“She can mix malted milks on her stomach,” said somebody else.
“Or Martinis.”
“Quiet, bums,” said Jastro. He barely managed to hold his balance in a sitting pose. His eyes were two blobs of red-rimmed vacuum. He was in the comatose clutch of alcohol, a man who bumbled and gurgled out of a half-dream. “Got something better’n Jadda. Best damn shake broad in Paris. Best inna’ world.”
“Nobody tops Jadda. But nobody.”
“Ever seen the East Indian love dance?” Jastro mumbled, more to himself than his audience. “No man can watch it. Makes your blood boil. Bubbles you up. Makes you crawl after her. Anybody. She could make the king of England crawl.”
“Dreams,” laughed somebody. “This boy’s asleep.”
“Truth,” said Jastro. “Get her tonight. You’re all invited. Every damn one of you. My place. You’ll see her later.”
“Give him another drink.”
“Give him a reefer. He needs it.”
“Get her,” said Jastro, waggling a finger theatrically. “My place.” He stumbled to his feet, assisted by Larry. Jastro jerked himself loose and reeled to the nearest support. He turned once more, struggling for composure. “She’ll be there. I’m getting her, you fools. Make your blood boil over, all of you.”
He was gone, weaving off into the crowd. A butler replenished the tray of eats. Larry grabbed a handful of canapés and rocked off over the grass, seeking the nook he had deserted. The drunks were much noisier now, the debates hotter, the band louder and off key. Or was I off key myself? The last drink with Denise had loosened me in the head. It would be better to knock the edge off now. I toured the big foyer and found the coffee and sandwiches, loading up a small picnic for Denise and me.
But she was gone when I hit the lawn.
I found her weaving and rolling toward the black patch of shadows near the big trees. It was an effort to bring her to a halt. I grabbed her arm and struggled with her. We went down on the grass. She didn’t like my touch, suddenly.
“The name of a dog,” she said angrily. “That Larry! Is it that I must kill him? How many women can he satisfy?”
“Relax, baby. I got you some food.”
“I cannot eat,” the sobbed. She still struggled with me, trying to right herself and get away from me. It was a pleasure to hold her down. “How can I enjoy myself when the cochon makes love to another woman? I saw them. They were there, under that tree.”
I sat her up. She squinted drunkenly. I said: “Gone, Denise. It must have been somebody else.”
“To bed, perhaps they have gone,” she wailed. “But it was him, the pig. It was Larry.”
I held the canapés before her nose.
“I brought you some caviar.”
“Ah, you are kind,” she sniffed. “You are so good. I am a fool to think of him.”
“And some coffee.”
“Très gentil,” she cooed, sipping noisily. “And more rum? How sweet you are, mon petit. I will tell you something. Already I am forgetting the cochon.”
She pulled me her way lustily. The French have adjustable minds, hot and cold running temperaments. She kissed me long and hard. She had a skilful tongue and a keen purpose. It would have been easy to roll in the shadows with her. She was hell-bent on favoring me with her type of justice, an active revenge for Larry’s neglect.
“I’m a good friend of Larry’s,” I said.
“I, too,” she whispered.
“It’s not cricket to make a play for his girl.”
“Poof! Let us forget him.”
“He’ll hate me for it.”
“Does it matter? I like you for it.” She tugged me again and found the target. This time she didn’t have to convince me. I was beginning to forget about Larry. “It is easy to like Denise, no?”
“A lead pipe cinch.”
“And quite easy to forget the cochon?”
“Not quite,” I said. “Larry’s only doing a good deed. You remember the picture I showed you this morning? Judy Martin?”
She tightened in my arms. “The missing one? You have found her, then?”
“Not quite. But we will, Larry and I. He’s with Judy’s sister now, showing her a good time. The poor kid can use it. She’s worried sick about Judy.”
“She cannot worry by herself?”
“Could you? If your sister was missing?”
“It bothers you, mon petit?”
“It’s my business,” I said. “Finding the missing can bring big rewards. I pay well for information.”
“You pay?” All of a sudden she was bright and commercial. She sat up and adjusted herself, hiccupping pleasantly from excitement. She frowned, reminded of a nasty thought. “That cochon, Larry—he did not tell me about the money. Perhaps I can help you some more?”
“Perhaps. But you don’t remember much about Judy’s men friends.”
“And if I remember?”
“It may be worthwhile.”
“How much?” she teased.
“If I use it, I’ll pay off, baby.”
“Ask me again?”
“Who were Judy’s boy friends?”
“There were a few I can recall,” Denise leaned and stretched, letting me see the effort in her backtracking. “Judy was always searching for the intellectuals. I can remember Jastro. I can also remember the bearded one, Bowker—who did not last very long—and Tomaselli, and even this little rich one, this small and pitiful one, Garr.”
“Garr is pitiful? Why?”
“Have you seen him?” She giggled at some personal joke. “Is there anything more pitiful than a man with so much money who still cannot buy affection? This Garr appeals to me, mon petit. He would be a fine catch for a girl of my abilities. I would love him to pieces for some of his money. Yet, it would be an effort, don’t you see? Gars is a nonentity. He is a small person who seeks to buy companionship with his bank account. In many ways I am very sympathetic. What a sad, sad little man he is. No, Judy would not tolerate him for a moment.”
“Who would she favor?”
“Je ne sais pas,” she said dreamily. “Jastr
o, perhaps. He is a painter, an artist of some skill. Or perhaps, Tomaselli?”
“You know him?”
“Not warmly,” she said, laughingly. “But he is a fine type, clever and handsome. A girl might do much for Tomaselli.”
“Isn’t he Loretta’s boy?”
“Loretta?” Her giggle leveled her. She lay on her back and laughed up at the stars. “An old one? I do not think she would appeal to Tomaselli.”
“He left here with her.”
“A novelty perhaps. Good sport for an evening, no?”
“I’ll have to ask Tomaselli.”
Through the barrier of leaves, a large part of the garden was visible to me. Somebody had dived into the fountain. A doll bounced up out of the water, naked and glad of it, her arms flailing the water, sending spray up on the terrace among the giddy onlookers. Somebody shouted a French gag. In the next moment another girl hit the water, dressed in a black bra and panties.
Denise pulled me to her feet. “Such figures!” Come, mon petit. Let us show these fools a real woman!”
She ran across the lawn, jerking her dress off as she fled. Some impromptu stage director had dimmed the brilliant flood lights on the terrace. Now a series of tinted spots bathed the area in shades of red and purple. The subdued lighting did nothing to dim the spirits of the group. Denise stood on the rim of the fountain as a burst of applause rang out. She let them taste the full strength of her classic figure before she jumped. In the next minute, a man dived in after her.
And the minute after that, I spotted Peggy Martin.
She was stalking away from the edge of the grass, where Larry sat. Her stride was uneven and rambling. She was drunk, her face working in anger, out of control. She gave the fountain a wide berth. She didn’t look at the revelers. Larry got up and started after her. She turned and shouted something at him, almost tripping in the gesture.
I caught her, off balance.
“Too much,” she said. “This party is too much, Steve. Including your friend Larry.”
“He means no harm, Peggy.”
“I can live without him. Take me home?”
Larry appeared at my side. She turned away from him, her eyes closed. She had a tight grip on my arm, but her body was loose and limp. She would be dropping soon.
I said: “Peggy’s had too many.”
“My fault,” Larry apologized. “Thought it would do her good. Dame’s too serious. Worries too much.”
“Go away,” said Peggy.
I winked him aside. “She’s had it,” I whispered. “I’m going to take her home to her hotel.”
“Lucky boy.”
“Watch your language,” I cautioned.
We crossed the lawn and headed for the parking field. I turned back once to watch the shouting group at the fountain. Larry had strolled to the edge of the pool. He was laughing down at Denise. His mouth opened in a happy flood of Gallic dialogue. Denise screamed back at him and waved her fists.
“Cochon,” I heard her say.
In the next minute, he was taking off his shirt and pants.
“Here comes the diving pig,” he shouted.
And Larry Frick dumped his plump figure into the water beside her.
CHAPTER 10
Apartements Goncourt—Rue de la Trémoille
“Come up,” said Peggy sleepily. “I’m going to make you a cup of American coffee.”
She leaned into me as we crossed the lobby of the Goncourt. It was a modern trap, one of the newer apartment buildings rigged for the tourist expatriates, the foreigners who want a large dose of Paris living. The man at the desk dead-panned us. The elevator boy did the same. Nobody stares at the strays in France. Nobody gives a damn about the basic vices.
Peggy rocked and rolled against me in the elevator. She was the quiet type of lady lush. The liquor had lowered the bars for her. She pressed for intimacy. Her head rested on my shoulder. Her body seemed part of mine on the way down the plush carpet to her apartment door.
The nest was modern and smart. Through the broad windows the dying lights of Paris shimmered and glowed against the sky. The city hummed and buzzed, mumbling before sleep. An occasional taxi horn burped in the muted distances. The little clock stood at 1:17 A.M.
“Nightcap?” Peggy asked. She poured before I could answer, bringing me a small glass of brandy. She had one herself.
“End of the line,” I said.
“Positively the last,” she agreed lazily. “A toast?”
“Quick success.”
“What kind of success?”
“Judy,” I said. “Here’s to Judy. Well find her soon.”
She closed her eyes against me, the glass shaking in her hand. The liquor bobbled, pouring over her fingers. She stood there, ready to weep again. Her lips were tight and hard, her pretty face, rocked with emotion.
“Of course,” she said slowly. “To Judy.”
She gulped the hooker of brandy in one swallow. The glass fell from her fingers and rolled along the rug, cracking against the wall. She dropped herself on the couch beside me, teetering my way. For a minute she sat that way, not looking at me but staring at the broken glass. What was bothering her? What made her move away suddenly, to weave across the room and then turn and face me?
“Be right out, Steve. Want to get comfortable.” She laughed softly and sadly. “Comfortable for the coffee.”
Then she was gone. The brandy was solid and strong, burning inside me. The background of other drinks at Garr’s, the uncounted quick ones on the lawn and in the shadows, all these rose up to clobber my head. It would be pretty cozy with Peggy if I wanted it that way. She was obviously lonely and bleak, worn out by the emotional strain of the search. She would be pliable now—if I encouraged her.
Or did Peggy need encouragement?
She had left the room. The door to her bedroom lay at the end of a small square area. The door was partly open. She had left it that way, giving me a long-shot view of part of her personal chamber. I saw her clearly in there, standing before her vanity, unbuckling the stays of her costume. The blouse slipped away, and next the skirt. She stood there in her intimate apparel. She yawned lazily, eyeing herself in the little mirror. She had a trim figure, girlish and firm. She untied the brassiere and let it slip away, still stretching and preening. How long would she remain in the pose? Her sly strip tease was eating at me. It was only a few steps to her side, only a quick walk to grab her. She was waiting, waiting for me. I found myself turning and heading for her door.
Until the phone rang.
The sharp jangle jerked Peggy out of her mood. She turned abruptly, reaching for a yellow pajama top and throwing it on hastily. She stepped into crimson lounging pants, zipping them tight as she moved toward me.
“The phone,” I said stupidly.
“At this hour?” she asked herself. “Who could it be?’
“Better answer it, Peggy.”
“But it’s impossible. Impossible.”
The phone kept ringing. She crossed the room hesitantly and stood over the little coffee table, her tired eyes studying it.
“Answer it,” I said, holding her shoulders. She was on the edge of panic now. She shivered and shook under my fingers. “Or do you want me to take it?”
“I’ll take it,” she whispered.
The next few minutes burned with tension, from the moment Peggy said a weak “hello” into the mouthpiece.
“No! No! No!” she whispered. “It can’t be. Judy? Where are you? It’s so good to hear your voice.” She covered the phone with a trembling hand, showing me a face full of fright. “It’s Judy, Steve. Do something. Go down into the lobby and trace the call. She sounds awful, perfectly awful.”
“Keep her talking,” I said. “I’ll go down.”
I ran across the big room to the hall door. Behind me, Peggy
was sobbing now, gently, almost a whimper. Then everything went quiet as I turned away from the door and hot-footed it to the elevator. Nobody seemed anxious to answer the buzzer down there. I kept my hand on the button. There was nothing to do but wait and hope.
But I waited too long.
Peggy appeared at the far end of the hall.
“Too late,” she screamed. “She’s hung up.”
Back in the apartment, she lay crying on the couch. It took many minutes and more brandy to rally her. It took hard words and heavy pressure to end her hysterics. I slapped her face to kill the flow of blubbering frustration that poured from her.
“Gone, gone, gone,” she was sobbing. “It’s all a crazy dream, a nightmare.”
“Sit up. And talk sense.”
Another fit of trembling shook her as she dropped into my arms. I let her finish her hysterics. I brought her another drink and yet another, until the alcohol slugged her into a hiccupping despair. It would do no good to press her. She was completely out of control, the brandy over her pajama top, her face a mask of torment. She clung to me in a reflex of emotional high jinks. I kissed her and petted her. She gave way to my pressure, digging her sharp nails into my shoulders. I kissed her again. It was good therapy for her heaves. But it was bad medicine for me. There was too much pleasure in her willowy body, too much enjoyment in the way she responded to me.
“The little fool,” she said at last. “The crazy little fool.”
“Where is she, Peggy?”
“She didn’t say.”
“What did she say?”
“That I should give up. That I should forget her and go home.” Her eyes were rimmed with tears again. Up close, she seemed ready for a strait jacket, torn by a terrible upset. “She told me that she’s well and happy and content to stay where she is. She wants no part of me, Steve. She sounded hard and mean, not at all like Judy, I tell you.”
“But you recognized her voice?”
“It was Judy all right.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The things she said. She called me Pim. Nobody but Judy would know that name. It’s a special name only Judy used. There isn’t another person alive who ever called me that. And her voice. Nobody could imitate Judy’s voice. She’s just like Tallulah, a deep voice. We used to call her a whiskey tenor at home. Oh, it was Judy all right, but a different Judy.”
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