“Different?”
“Abrupt, curt.” She groped for another word, dabbing at her eyes again. “In an awful hurry to say goodbye. Something’s happened to her, Steve.”
“It could be you,” I suggested quietly. “Liquor sometimes does things to phone conversations.”
“But I only listened, I tell you. She did all the talking.”
“Brandy can affect the listening ear, too.”
“I’m not that drunk,” she said.
But she was crocked, completely. The next minute proved it. She lapsed into her hysterical sadness again, her body flat on the couch, her head buried in the cushion. She would be off on another emotional tear if I let her.
I sat near and lifted her head and tried to quiet her.
“I’m all alone,” she said. “All alone, all alone.”
“Not quite. Sit up and we’ll make some coffee.”
She went back to the bottle, too shaky for any permanent seat. She gulped again, at the window now. Her eyes stared into the black reaches of the city. I touched her shoulder and she shivered a little and moved away from me, lost in some secret horizon. The impact of the last few nervous hours showed clearly in her gestures. She was restless—beyond any control. She was building up for a big letdown.
“She hates me,” Peggy whispered. “Hates me.”
“We’ll find her,” I said. “It’ll be all right.”
“Never. It’ll be the same as it was. Maybe I’d better give up. What’s in it for me?”
“You’re upset. Forget her a while.”
“Impossible. How can you forget a sister? It’s always been this way. Judy always did what pleased her. Judy always got the big breaks. The little sister with the big talent. Why am I knocking myself out? Why? Why?”
“You’re doing the right thing, Peggy.”
“To hell with it.”
She went back to the couch, burying her pretty head in the cushions. The tears were leveling her again. She mumbled a few hoarse words, over and over again. “Hates me, hates me,” she wailed. “It’s always been this way.” The racking sobs were breaking me up. She was lost in the deep sea of hysterics, a pitiful doll. I sat beside her and tried to comfort her. It took a long time. She rallied when my arms took her off the pillows.
“Maybe I’d better leave now?” I asked.
She answered me with her lips. Something in our last bout must have appealed to her, quieted her; adjusted her to a fresh reality. She wriggled against me, her body asking for me. “Afraid,” she whispered. “I’m afraid, Steve. Afraid to be alone.” Her little fingers were digging into me.
“You’re drunk, Peggy.”
“I like it this way.”
“But I don’t. It’s out of whack.”
“Put your hands back, Steve.”
“It’s getting late.”
“Stay with me. Please stay with me.”
The wind billowed the drapes over our head. Out there, on the far edge of the silhouetted rooftops, a thin moon rose through the ridge of clouds. The city snored gently. From somewhere deep in another planet, a horn honked and died. Peggy shivered, as close to me as the breath in my throat. The sick tragedy of her loneliness made me close my eyes against the rules. She was scared and small, afraid and alone. She was working to make me lose my head, trapped by her lithe body and her need for someone in her hour of trouble. Pity held me at her side.
“I’m going to hate myself in the morning,” I said.
But not out loud. I was talking to myself from there on in.
CHAPTER 11
Chez Tomaselli—Rue de Duras
The little clock on the mantel stood at 4:06 A.M. On the couch, Peggy snored fitfully, lost in a deep sleep. Under the lone lamplight she was a tempting item. But I left her that way, making a quiet crawl to the door.
Downstairs in the lobby, the sloth-eyed frog at the desk gave me the side of his nose. I crossed the lobby and tried for communication. I lifted an imaginary cup to my lips. I slurped an imaginary slurp. I smacked my lips, imitating a man who has just gulped a good cup of coffee. He didn’t move a muscle, so I repeated the routine, giving the pantomime everything I had.
When it was all over, the desk man said: “You wish to have a cup of coffee, is that it? Our dining room is closed until déjeuner, but I can suggest Eddy’s American Diner, a new establishment on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Eddy is open all night and will be thankful that I sent you to him. Kindly mention my name—Paul Faginarri? Thank you.”
I staggered out of there and grabbed a cab for Eddy’s. It was a small dump, a new American idea, rigged for the tourist trade exclusively. A few tired night-clubbers hung over his counter. The place stank of lard and old eggs. But the black coffee knocked my eyes open. It was strong and bitter and priced at thirty cents a cup. I had two cups and felt better.
Dawn poked pink fingers at the edge of the sky. The cab snaked through the quiet streets. A thin and airy mist seemed to bathe the city, dimming the contours of the buildings and floating like light smoke around the riverbank. We cut back and crossed one of the bridges. Then we were rolling down the little alley where Vince Tomaselli holed up.
I walked from the corner. In the pocket of concrete silence my heels clacked a dull and echoed patter, forcing me to slow my pace, making me feel like a cheap dick in a bad TV show.
I stood foolishly across from Tomaselli’s doorway, casing the location. On the right side of his house, the small garden would lead me into the back of the place. There was no way in on the street side unless I used the front door. I could scale the garden wall and manage a window in the rear. Or I could use the bold approach, ringing his doorbell again and letting the hard words fall where they may. Either way, Vince Tomaselli bothered me. Out of the quick pattern of yesterday’s events, he was my big annoyance, my first real roadblock.
I chose the back way. The little garden was surrounded by a small fence that led to his rear door. This was a catchall for a variety of boxes, packing cases and odds and ends of his dress business. One of the small crates tripped me, suddenly. I fell toward the door, holding my breath against the crack of sound.
Nothing happened but an outbreak of sweat along my neck. To the right, a window winked at me. It. was an easy chance, an unlocked entry to the ground floor, into a room full of sewing machines and dress dummies and the assorted equipment of the dressmaker’s craft. Ahead, the night light glowed, a small blue dot near the front door corridor. I snaked out there.
The going softened at the outer room. Here the plush carpet began, the beginning of Tomaselli’s front, his customer display room, his formal fixtures and fancy furniture. The big stairway began at the edge of the foyer. Going up was like walking on felt. No sound moved with me. I made the top landing quickly, pausing to listen to the noise of my own breathing.
Another blue night light hung at the far end of this floor, straight down the broad hall. There were three doors here, the first opening into the landing. It was painted bright crimson.
On a neat plaque, lettered in careful script was the legend:
VINCENT TOMASELLI
Office
Please Knock
I didn’t knock. The knob froze in my hand. The lock was of the heavy type, a French version of the classic Yale. It would take time to manage this one. It would also take more keys than I had on my ring. I passed it up, turning to the left and heading down the hall.
The first door was open. I crawled inside, into a small foyer, the entrance to a larger bedroom. Black quiet sang in my ears. I stiffened where I stood, my ears open for the little sounds of sleeping, a soft movement, the squeal of a spring, the erratic sigh of a mattress. I played the waiting games closing my eyes to the void. In another half minute I knew that I was alone in here.
Where was Tomaselli? I closed the door to the hall and lit the room. There
was a large window facing the alley. I pulled down the shade. The bed sat against the far wall, neatly made up in masculine dress, a plaid throw over the sheets, a black cushion at the head. Behind the pillow, a modem row of utility shelves dominated the scheme. There were many books here. A reading light on a swivel lay within easy reach. A telephone sat on a convenient ledge. Above the shelves hung a small painting.
It was another of Judy’s nudes, this one done in a lighter mood, gayer colors, more animated in composition. The model was the same—a slick body, high-breasted and breathing sex appeal. In the corner, the initials J. M. were signed in a larger size. The style of the picture held me. What had happened to Judy’s sad blues in this one? The draughtsmanship stamped it as hers. The handling of the composition resembled Loretta’s painting. Yet the entire effect sparkled with life. An earlier Judy Martin? I stepped to the side of the bed to look closer.
But I didn’t get far.
Because somebody spoke to me from the hall door.
“A crazy tithe of day for studying pictures,” giggled Eric Yale. “What a mad little man you are!”
“Where’s Vince?” I asked.
“Stand where you are.” The little automatic was solid in his hand. He aimed it in a feminine way, his arm stiffly out, his gesture crazy He licked his lip with relish, enjoying the moment. “Keep your hands up where I can see them.”
“Your glands are showing, Eric. You don’t need a gun for me. This is just a social visit.”
“Your hands,” he giggled. “Keep them up where I can see them.”
“Too many movies,” I said. “You’ve been seeing too many thrillers, sister.”
“Back up and out of here.”
“I haven’t finished admiring the art. Isn’t this an early Judy Martin over the bed?”
“Out,” said Eric in a higher key. “I’m going to turn you in, my little man. I’m going to call the flics and let them handle you. Have you ever seen the way French police work? When they catch a small fool like you they begin by slapping you into insensibility. A gorgeous sight. They’ll convert your smug and stupid profile into a crimson pulp. I can’t wait to see them begin.”
“Silly girl. Put the gun away and let’s be pals. I only came to speak to Vince. Where is he?”
“Out!” he screamed.
The gun began to quiver in his hand. He would be quaking with nerve-shattering panic in another minute. His upset would be enjoyable—if it didn’t work the nerves in his trigger finger. He would be like a woman in the clutch. A quick burst of internal heat might carry him to the end of his patience. He might shoot me by accident. And he was too close to miss.
He marched me ahead of him, down the plush stairs and into the big showroom. Here he lit the light and watched me with a sly eye. Something was moving his mental machinery. He had me where he wanted me. He could have killed me. The rules for behavior against prowlers are international. But he lacked the guts for mayhem. He seemed foggy about his next move, lacerating his lower lip as he examined me.
“What’s holding you up?” I asked.
“Be quiet,” he said angrily.
“The flics. You were talking about the flics.”
“Shut your big fat mouth.”
“Chicken?” I asked. “I thought you were a brave little gal.”
“Stupid oaf,” he breathed. “I wish Vince were here to handle you. If it were my choice, I’d shoot a bullet into your mad little head. It would be fun to quiet you, believe me. But shooting you would be horrible publicity for Vincent.”
“Brainy,” I said. “Now put the gun down and let’s just chew the fat a bit.”
“Out!” he screamed at me. He waved the gun toward the door. Now the panic was in him. I had called him and found him lacking in the emergency. The psychology of the gun didn’t come through to him. You use a gun to threaten only when you’re prepared to carry out the threat. You aim and order. You shoot when the pinch is on.
But Eric would never shoot. Instead he twitched and swallowed hard. He backed away from me when I advanced. The odds were with me now. I continued to step forward, watching his trigger hand carefully. On the third step backward he began to gurgle and gush his fear. Odd noises came from his throat.
I slapped the gun out of his hand.
It fell away across the rug, sliding against the big red chair. I picked it up and began to laugh.
The damned thing was empty.
“Brave girl,” I said. “You could have pushed me out of here, Eric. But the sap ran thin. You’re not built for anything but lace, you poor slob.”
He blubbered away from me, cowering in the chair.
“You make me tired,” he gasped. “Why don’t you go away and leave me alone?”
“A dandy idea. Just tell me where to find Vince?”
“I don’t keep books on his dates.”
“He sleeps out often?”
“For the Lord’s sake, shut up,” he moaned. “Of course he sleeps out.”
“Where?”
“Ask him.”
“When I see him, I will. But right now I see only you.”
I grabbed him and shook him up a bit. His eyes were dampening now. He would be bawling soon. The touch of him brought back the old gut-buckling stomach pains in me. For the life of me I couldn’t manhandle this daisy. It would be easier to shake up a squirming snake, to pummel a heavy dame. But Eric made my skin bump.
I dropped him in the chair.
“Who’s his steady bedmate?” I asked.
“Ask him.”
“Loretta?”
“Ask him.”
“Velma Weston?”
“Ask him.”
I was looking for a reaction to the names. All I got was the same shivering stubbornness. He was as feminine as a bra and panties. He was sucking his fear now, weeping softly into his hanky. Against the background of crimson leather he was suddenly a small and pitiful figure. His thin frame curled stiffly as he raised his beaten eyes at me. In a virile man, this stubbornness would be branded nobility. Yet his sticky loyalty to Vince Tomaselli moved me to let down the pressure. I would get nowhere with him.
And that was why I gave up.
“I’ll be back,” I told him. “You can tell Vince that I dropped by to see him. My apologies for breaking and entering. But he’s going to talk to me, whether he likes it or not. Tell him it’ll be soon.”
I ran down the alley into the early sunlight. I took big gulps of fresh air. My stomach needed the ozone. My stomach needed plenty to wipe out the sticky memory of Eric Yale.
I backtracked to Eddy’s for more black coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs.
The streets were alive with early morning slaves when I started for Loretta’s.
CHAPTER 12
Loretta’s—Rue Delambre
Loretta’s side door was open. Nobody saw me enter the small vestibule. In the restaurant kitchen, a lonely scullery wench scrubbed a big copper pot, humming a monotonous strain from a popular dirge. Inside the restaurant, another woman polished the bar rail, rubbing the zinc to a fine luster.
From where I stood there was only one route to take. Up the narrow stairs, beyond the turn and up again, another landing where the beginnings of domestic life showed in the sudden sparkle of wall paint and decent furniture. Loretta had good taste, a Gallic yearning for luxury. Her upstairs floor sang with soft colors and spotless polish. I stood there letting my ears do a job for me. It was getting to be a habit, this casual snooping.
One door lay ahead of me. I put my ear to it, listening for the sound of breathing. Was Tomaselli under the sheets with her? The house must have been built of solid stuff. The fat door held all bedroom noises away from me. In the pause, I heard a quick metallic sound. The bedsprings? Or the hammering of my wrist watch? Curiosity jabbed me. I would be sweating forever unless I checked
Loretta. I would be calling myself names for giving up a chance at Tomaselli. The itch and bother of yesterday’s events rose up to annoy me. There were too many loose ends, too many airy gaps. But the biggest lead lay with Vince Tomaselli. He had bought Judy’s art. He might have known her well. I could go no deeper into the case until I questioned him. Even if he was in there snoring against Loretta’s ample frame.
The doorknob turned noiselessly in my fingers.
Then the door was open.
Loretta slept in the approved French manner. All the windows were shut tight against the mysterious night drafts the Gauls think bring sudden disease. Against the broad panes, the dark shades were pulled tight. But the morning light managed to filter through. The room swam in a gray haze. Directly ahead loomed a big antique bed. And on the bed, her arms stretched prettily over her head, Loretta stirred in her sleep. She was alone.
All of a sudden I felt like a damned fool. What maniac logic had driven me here? The door behind me seemed miles away. I should have looked in from the hall. Now, in the cold sweat of regret, I would have to get the hell out without waking her. I began the long journey, no more than two steps back to the door.
The trip ended in my first movement.
“The little detective,” Loretta said quietly. “At such an hour, pourquoi?”
She was sitting up, a puzzled smile curving her lips. There was no fear in her. Nor any modesty. She just sat there, her buxom figure exposed to me above the rim of the sheets, her big eyes alive with something resembling pity. She reached for the window nearest her and flipped the shade up. The room burned with sunlight. But no brighter than my face.
“Bum steer, Loretta,” I apologized. “I thought this might be your living room.”
“My living room is downstairs—the restaurant.”
“My mistake.”
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