Girl Running

by Lawrence Lariar

  “And if this is my living room,” she smiled. “You do not knock before entering?”

  “I should have knocked.”

  “Or did you, perhaps, hope to find something of interest here in my bedroom?” She was out of the bed now, putting on a delicate gray housecoat. She was an amazing woman, completely unconcerned by my presence. She had a young girl’s solidity. All the way. She buttoned the housecoat casually, eyeing me with the same pixy stare. “But that could not be, I am sure. You would not come in if you thought I didn’t want it?”

  “Of course not, Loretta.”

  “But especially if you thought, perhaps, I had a man with me?”

  “Naturally, naturally.” I swallowed hard, but the initial chagrin stayed with me. How can you fight simple truth? How can you fight a gentle Amazon? She could smile me out of my mind, this broad. “Just wanted to talk, Loretta.”

  “With me, of course?”

  “Who else?”

  She shrugged. She reached for her house phone and began a quick French monologue to one of her menials downstairs.

  “You will have déjeuner with me, Monsieur? Breakfast?”

  “I never refuse a cup of coffee.”

  “I have the American kind,” she smiled. “You will enjoy it. Please sit down. Perhaps it is all for the best that you came this way. Perhaps I can help you?”

  So I sat and we gabbed and the embarrassment fell away under her terrific personality. We sipped the java and made nice talk. We gassed and gagged, like two old friends in a public bistro. And all the time she was sitting close to me, bending over her little silver percolator, as intimate as a bride at her first breakfast. She worked to put me at my ease, and she succeeded quickly. You couldn’t talk to this doll without liking it. After the third small cup of coffee, I was all hers. She listened to me with high regard. You can’t hate a dame who listens.

  “I’m going to level with you, Loretta. I came up here expecting to find our friend Tomaselli.”

  “Vincent? Here?” She laughed, a quiet ripple of amusement. “And why would you come to such a conclusion?”

  “Stupidity. You were at Garr’s with him last night.”

  “That is true.”

  “And you left with Vince.”

  “That also is true,” she said. “But is your logic sound? Suppose I had left with another man? Would that mean you must find him here in my bed? You are cruel, Conacher. Is this what you think of me?”

  “My face is still red, isn’t it? I’ve been on his tail and he’s driving me nuts. This morning I paid a quiet call to his house. I got in through the back and walked up to his bedroom. He wasn’t there. That’s why I figured he could be with you. But I was wrong. He isn’t that lucky.”

  “Thank you. You think he would be lucky in my bed?”

  “I think he’d be out of his class. You deserve better.”

  “Again I thank you,” she patted my hand. “But you are wrong about Vincent. It is I who would be the lucky one, mon ami. You will talk to him soon and you will find him a good man, one of the finest. I have known Vincent for many years. Believe me, he is a gentleman.”

  “Coming from you, I’ll buy it.”

  “It is true. You will see.”

  “If and when I pin him down. Why doesn’t he talk to me?”

  “You are mistaken,” she said with sincerity. “You are not judging poor Vincent fairly in this season. Have you ever known a true artist? A genuine creative spirit? This is Vincent when it comes time to plan his new fashions. His eye is distant, his soul flies off, he wanders in his own thoughts—scheming, constructing, dreaming. You must think of him as a poet, always with his head in the clouds. Instead, you seem to push, push, push at him. What would you say if I told you he is completely unaware of your efforts? To him you are only another face, a stranger who wishes to transport him out of his world of fantasy. Do you begin to see it now?”

  “You make it easy.”

  “I am so glad.” She squeezed my hand again. “Why shouldn’t it be easy? The explanation is obvious, no?”

  “So far,” I agreed. “But I’ve got a client who’s pushing too, Loretta. I’ve got a girl I must find. And Vince knew her pretty well. He’s important to me. He may have information that could break the case, don’t you see? Something he considers unimportant—even crazy. Some little bit of knowledge about Judy Martin that might lead me right to her door.”

  “What would give you such an idea?”

  “I’ve been told he was one of her boyfriends.”

  “Indeed?” She seemed surprised by the tidbit. She had a face full of obvious poses, open and quick to react. She popped her beautiful eyes at me in amazement. “It is possible, of course. Still, I have been a good friend of Vincent’s for many years. A close friend. Why is it that I do not know of this romance?”

  “He never brought Judy in here?”

  “Never. And I can assure you he would come here first with her.” She paused, considering her next thought. She weighed it carefully, appraising me with her calm smile. “Let me tell you more about Vincent. He is not much interested in women.” She held up a finger of caution. “I am not saying that he is queer, of course. You may rest assured that he is virile. But in his business, with the beautiful models, you must understand that there is no need for close relationships. Vincent, after all, can select any one of the young and eager girls. They would gladly go to bed with him.”

  “And which one is his tootsy now?”

  “This I do not know.”

  “I thought it might be you.”

  She laughed her soft chuckle. “You flatter me, Monsieur. Vincent and I are only good friends. It has always been that way.” She said it with a touch of pride. But I was reaching her now, ruffling her. She got up from the little table and lit a cigarette and walked to the window. She stared out at the street. The room seemed dead and tense without the sound of her voice. She left me with myself for a long pause.

  Then she turned and said: “You will speak to Vincent, mon ami. You are most certainly right about the situation. I can understand your impatience now. Why shouldn’t he tell you what he knows? I will arrange it.”

  “Today?”

  “As soon as possible. You will phone me?”

  “Whenever you say.”

  “This afternoon,” she said. “Late?”

  “The later the better.” She was with me at the door. Up close, her beauty pulled hard. Her age faded. She was as young as the day—and twice as fresh. Her face needed no feminine varnish, no phony color. Her cheeks shone with a schoolgirl’s flush. There was excitement in her eyes. It would be good to try her with brandy, later. “Maybe a late dinner?” I suggested. “Very late?”

  “It would be pleasant. I will arrange it.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Bonne chance,” she said.

  CHAPTER 13

  Hotel Excelsior—Rue Cujas

  My eyes were sanded with sleep. I beat it back to the hotel, fighting hard to stay alive for a while longer. I lost the fight. A shower only rocked me for a brief pause. Then the important muscles gave way and fatigue took me to bed for a cat nap. I told myself that I could sleep two hours. I phoned the desk to jerk me awake at about noon. Then Morpheus grabbed me.

  But reality poked me awake. I was edging into the deep black forest of quiet when the phone bell broke through and hammered me alive again. I had been asleep only an hour.

  The sound of the voice on the wire pushed the fog out of my brain.

  “Conacher?”

  She was breathless and tense, my name half whispered, half swallowed.

  I said: “This is Conacher.”

  “Velma Weston.”

  “You’re walking in your sleep, baby. I thought you said you don’t get up until noon.”

  “Please.” The word was
almost a sob. “I haven’t slept a wink since I saw you. I’ve been on the go. I’ve got to see you. Got to talk to you, right away. Now.”

  “Hold on with both hands,” I said, trying to calm her. “You sound like the voice of doom.”

  “I’m scared, Steve. Frightened half to death.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I’ve seen him. I remembered him.”

  “Him? Who?”

  “The man who was with Folger and me.” For a tight minute her voice broke. She could have been crying. My memory tabbed her voice as calm and cool, a well-poised doll. My memory told me this babe would crack only under panic, only under real hazards. She was no debutante, no soft touch for tears.

  “You saw him?” I asked. “And you want to identify him for me? Is that it?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you. About Judy Martin. I know her well, I roomed with her for some time. When I got back to Morni’s yesterday, after I sobered up, I realized that there was a man following me. I packed up and left Morni’s right away. He was across the street, watching the house. I loaded my junk into a cab and ran. My cabby managed to lose him and I thought I was safe. But he’s back. I saw him this morning, on the street. I’m scared to death. I’m in here alone now.”

  I cut in on her again. Somehow, I had to slow her down.

  “I’m with you, baby,” I said. “Now relax for a minute. Do you know this man?”

  “His name? No.”

  “Does Judy know him?”

  “No, no, no,” she pleaded. “How can I tell you? On the phone it’s impossible. You’ve got to come here. Now! I’d come to you, but he’s out there. Across the street again.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Bowker’s. Max Bowker’s studio.”

  “You went there from Morni’s?”

  “Not directly. I sent my cab to the Brissaud Warehouse with my stuff. That was how I lost him. He kept following me. I switched cabs, don’t you see?”

  “Bowker knows you’re there?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her voice broke again and she began to weep, the terror parlayed by way of the telephone.

  I said: “Listen carefully, Velma. Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “When you hang up, phone the flics. Tell them you want somebody over there right away. I may be there before them. I’m starting now.”

  Then her voice did crazy things.

  “The window!”

  She was screaming at me. The yell was pitched high and long, the wailing shriek of a woman gone berserk.

  “No! No!” she shouted.

  The next gap of silence was punctured by a fresh wave of hysteria. But the noises were fading away. I heard a vague burst of confused sound. Feet in movement? Struggle? And after that, the throttled sobbing, lower now.

  And then silence.

  And the quiet click of the phone, dropped back on the hook.

  I called myself names for falling asleep. I added a few for taking the shower. Now my start was slowed to a crawl by the scramble for shirt and drawers and tie and pants: Velma was in real trouble. Somebody was tearing her apart at Bowker’s place. Somebody might be putting her away. The minutes crawled while I scrambled into my clothes.

  Then when I was at the door, my phone buzzed again.

  “Velma?” I asked, my voice high with hope.

  “You’re off the beam, chum.”

  It was Larry Frick.

  “Say it fast, Larry. I’m in a hurry. Trouble.”

  “I’ve got hot news for you, Steve.”

  “No time for jokes.”

  “Listen.” He was miffed by my impatience. “I dug up something interesting I tell you. It happened this morning—at Jastro’s.”

  “For God’s sake,” I yelled. “Spare me the crummy dancing girls.”

  “Don’t be so damned righteous,” Larry shouted. “You remember the talk about Jadda? Jadda Sims? After you left, Garr got her. We took her up to Jastro’s. We were going to have her compete with Jastro’s dancer. You should have seen what that Jadda does with her hips. She—”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait, stupid. I want to tell you what I found in Jastro’s dump. On the way to the john. Wandered into a closet by mistake.”

  “I’ll give you five seconds more.”

  “Hold on to your pants. I found Folger’s wallet. And his hat.”

  The phone sweated in my fist. If he was kidding me, this would be the last gag of the season for him. But his voice had lost its usual lilt. He was leveling with me.

  I said: “Meet me at Bowker’s. Now. With the stuff you found.”

  “Hell,” he yawned. “I just worked my way out of bed. I’m half blind.”

  “I’m on my way, Larry.”

  “I’ll be there. A little late, maybe, but—”

  I cut him off. All of a sudden things were breaking, but the breaks were crazy. A few hours ago I stumbled in a closet. A few hours ago I groped in a dead end, bypassing Folger because of the zany way he died. He had looked like a routine case for the Paris flics, a business for files and mug photos until they rounded up the punks who killed for quick dough. And now? Jastro was in it, up to his drunken ears.

  Traffic slowed my cab, giving me too much time to think, too many chances for cheap theory. Was Jastro the character who drank with Velma and Folger? He fitted the pattern. He would drink and drool with any convivial tippler. Yet Velma would have remembered Jastro, out of his connection with the Zarchy school. Or would she? She might be a private model, a specialty doll who posed only for sculptors. A sudden thought knocked me off that gambit. Velma might not remember her best friend when drunk. Velma was a forgetful dypso, a gal who fogged out completely after her quota went down the hatch. Yet, something had jogged her memory. But hard.

  We slowed at last on a quiet street. Here the houses were poor and mean, the fronts ancient and dirty. Bowker’s place was small, a house that seemed to stand apart from the rest. On the wall, to the right of the door, a clean sign read:

  MAX BOWKER

  Sculpture

  All this I saw as the taxi rolled to a stop across the street from Bowker’s. All this and something more. There was a man leaving Bowker’s, a man who seemed in a big hurry.

  I caught him before he reached the heavier pedestrian tide at the corner.

  “Garr,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Well,” he said breathlessly. “Well. We meet again, Conacher.”

  “You were visiting Max?”

  “I was about to.” Confusion worked his face into a twitching sea of nerveless muscles. He was beyond forced calm. “Nobody answers the bell.”

  “Funny. Somebody’s in there. You came to see Bowker?”

  “Let’s have a quick drink, shall we?”

  “No time for small talk, Garr. Let’s have it. Were you inside?”

  “I’ve done a crazy thing, Conacher. Let me explain. A drink?”

  “I said to hell with the drinks. You look white as a waxed bean. Anything wrong in there? In Bowker’s?”

  “I didn’t go inside,” he insisted. “Tell you exactly what happened. Last night a gang of us went to Jastro’s after my party. Crazy sort of idea. Stupid contest between Jadda and a girl Jastro promised to bring. Point is, we saw Jadda dance, but Jastro’s girl wasn’t available. I was intrigued by the idea of a girl who could do better than Jadda. Nonsensical stuff, of course, but you don’t lose curiosity about such women. Then—”

  “Get to it,” I interrupted. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Jastro phoned me a little while ago. Said to meet him at Bowker’s. Promised to have the girl there. Silly business.”

  “And nobody answered Bowker’s bell?”

  “Nobody. I’m a bit embarrassed ha
ving you find me there.”

  “Why?”

  “Makes me feel naked, dammit. I admit I like women, but I shouldn’t have come, really. Jastro’s a bit of a fool, you know.”

  “I’ll buy it, Garr.”

  “Forget you’ve seen me?”

  “Get yourself an aspirin,” I said. “You’re twitching like a bowl of Jell-O. What the hell, maybe the doll would have been worth the trouble.”

  He skipped away from me in a big hurry. He ducked into a cab and was gone. The little incident seemed corny, badly timed, something that made no sense at all.

  Until I ran back to Bowker’s and pressed his bell.

  Through the peephole in the door, the inside hall showed me nothing. The studio would be off to the right where the stone fence walled in a small garden.

  Nobody answered the bell. I beat it out into the street again, to the side alley that led back to the terrace. The tiny garden featured one lonely tree, a patch of sod and a dry fountain. Bowker’s work dominated the place. He specialized in garden claptrap—cupids and cherubs and other cliché decorations. A giant doe stood on the little terrace, legs up in a stiff and formal prance. His sculptures were fruit for enjoyment, but I passed them by in a quick rush for the terrace doors.

  Inside the square studio, Bowker was a better housekeeper. Here were only the formal tools of his trade. A model stand sat in the light corner, near the big windows. On the right, a little hall led deeper into the house. I ran through a narrow kitchen on my way to the rear of the place. My heels set up an echoed clatter on the rough boards. The damned place was deadly quiet.

  In the bedroom, I found the reason why.

  Velma Weston lay on the bed, her body sprawled in a horrible pose.

  Her head was back and away from the bed’s edge. Her arms hung limp. She was wearing a street outfit—a simple white blouse above a tweedy skirt. But the blouse was stained with blood, a gigantic smear that brought the cold to my shanks. She had been stabbed. She had fought him off bravely, savagely, because her blouse had ripped and shredded in the struggle. The last gasp must have come on the bed. It was scrambled with confusion, the sheets ripped back from the mattress, the pillows on the floor. There was no need to lean in and examine her. No movement came in the area of her mutilated torso.