Girl Running

by Lawrence Lariar

  He walked quietly to a piece of sculpture on a small table. It was a figure of a sprite, a dancing nymph. He rubbed his hands over it lovingly. He stroked the head and stared at his handiwork.

  “A beautiful creature, she was. How can a man hold such a woman? She was too vibrant for one man to keep for himself. She promised me that one day she’d quit running around looking for fun. She told me that when that day came she would stay with me. But it really didn’t matter. When I had her, when she lived here with me, all time stood still. A minute, an hour, a night, it was all the same for me. I was happy that she stayed at all.”

  “Who were the others?” I asked. It was a tough one, but it had to be thrown at him. For a flickering second his face colored with anger. Then he saw the futility of his reaction. He only shrugged and sat again. “It will help if I know them, Bowker. I know it hurts. But you’ve got to tell me.”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Jastro?”

  “There was a time when she liked Jastro.”

  “Garr?”

  He laughed but there was no humor in it. “Lester Garr, too,” he said with a sigh. “She stayed with him, after a party.”

  “And Vince Tomaselli?”

  “Why not?” He threw up his hands, on the edge of hysteria again. He began to walk the floor, taking big, shuffling steps. “She loved them all, I tell you. All, all, all.”

  “But Jastro a little better than the others?”

  “She felt sorry for him. The poor, stupid drunkard, he appealed to her softer instincts. She had a passion for people in trouble, don’t you see? In some crazy way, for some impossible reason, she was giving herself to the troubled ones.”

  He went to the cabinet under the window ledge. There was a bottle in there. He opened it savagely and began to gulp huge swallows of the liquor. He stopped only long enough to shout at me again. “Listen, I’m going to get drunk. Fast. I want to be alone. I’ll explode if you make me talk any more. Is that understandable? Get out. Get out now.”

  “I may need you again. Where will you be?”

  “Here,” he almost screamed. “Right in this room, blubbering in my beard.”

  “I’m sorry. I bothered you, Bowker.”

  “Get out,” he shouted again.

  I left him that way, the bottle up to his lips, the liquor spilling over and wetting his mat of beard. He continued to gulp it, hopefully, thirstily, until I was gone.

  But I heard the sound of his returning sorrow when I reached the street.

  He was crying his heart out in there.

  CHAPTER 19

  Apartements Goncourt—Rue de la Trémoille

  Gaston was behind me when I stopped for a quick Pernod on the way to Peggy’s apartment at the Goncourt. He watched me abandon the cab at her door. He parked under an awning across the street, suddenly interested in a small book. It was long past his hour for dinner and I felt sorry for him.

  I ran over and tapped his arm. “Let’s be friends,” I said.

  “Monsieur?” he asked, as dumb as a poodle. “I no speaking English.”

  “Sure you do. Malencourt wouldn’t send a man after me unless he had ears.”

  “Monsieur?” he said again.

  “You heard me, Gaston.” He was fighting to kill the little grin that curled his lip. But he was losing. “You’re no dummy, my friend. I don’t want to see you standing here hungry. Malencourt wouldn’t want a man to starve, would he? I may be busy at the Goncourt for some time, understand? A social visit. Why not knock off and grab a quick sandwich? Am I coming through to you?”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Stubborn boy. Stout fellow. Bon flic, alors. You do as you like, mon ami. But you’re a damned fool if you stand here chewing your gums when you can take time off for dîner.”

  He smiled again, shrugging me off. I left him that way.

  In the lobby, I paused to look back at him. He was going through a small battle with his conscience. He stuffed the book into a pocket. He came out from under the awning and looked at his watch and scratched his chin. He cased the street, this way and that. On his right, two doors away, a small café winked at him. He started for it, paused and returned to his post under the awning. He shook his head, shrugged, examined his watch again. Then he ran over to the café and sat at a sidewalk table.

  I was chuckling at the pantomime when Larry Frick slapped my shoulder.

  “The invisible man,” he said. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been combing the brothels for you.”

  “Watch your language,” I said. “And wipe the lipstick off your fat mouth.”

  He did the job with the back of his hand, grinning like a fool. “Women,” he said. “Why don’t they leave me alone?”

  “You’ve been upstairs?”

  “What a detective you are.”

  “Bothering our client?”

  “Don’t make me laugh. She wouldn’t give me the time of day. Thought I’d find you up there. Our client was stiff as a board, detective. And almost friendly. She didn’t mind it too much when I made a pass at her.”

  “You’re a grade A stinker,” I told him. “You know the doll’s upset.”

  “You should talk. From what she tells me, you’re her big moment, chum. She’s pining away for you. She’s so fond of you that she took a powder when you didn’t show up for dinner.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “That’s her little secret. She instructed me to inform you that you are a cad. I’ve been waiting here in the lobby to tell you the glad tidings.”

  “She’ll keep,” I said. “I was on my way up to get a rain check on our dinner date anyhow. We’ve got things to do. In a big hurry.”

  “No food first?” Larry moaned. “I’m a bundle of nothing without fodder.”

  “You’ll have to grab it on the run.”

  ‘Where am I running?”

  “To Lester Garr’s.”

  “A pleasure. He’ll have plenty of food, complete with scones and caviar.”

  I broke it down for him slowly. He stopped his quips when I explained his job.

  “Lester’s the prize quail in the Velma Weston deal. The way I see it, he was nuts about her from way back. I caught him coming out of Bowker’s dump before I went in. Everything adds up for Lester. He could have taken that knife from Jastro’s place. He could have dumped the Folger stuff in the closet, planted it to set Jastro up as Folger’s murderer.”

  “But why would he kill Folger?”

  “Jealousy. He’s a little man with a loused-up sense of power. He’d be given to worshiping a doll like Velma from afar. His maggoty brain schemed a quick way to get rid of her new lover. He must have joined them when he knew that Velma was blind drunk, too drunk to remember him in the group. He took Folger out when she collapsed. He butchered Folger, or hired a few thugs to do the job.”

  “My God. It makes sense, all of it.”

  “It’s the pitch, I tell you. There’s only one item missing.”

  “Item?”

  “The shocker,” I said. “First-hand evidence. We’ll get that later. Right now, I want you to stay close to Garr. Follow him wherever he goes. Watch him carefully. He’s our duck. You know him well. You can get to him and get with him. Offer to take him out tonight. Offer him anything. But stay with him.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’ve got other fish to fry. I’ll meet out at Garr’s, later.”

  “My God,” said Larry, stunned. “What a brain.”

  I dropped him at the Champs-Élysées. He ran down the Rue Balzac, puffing and thumping. He would find no casual restaurants on the way. He would be forced to take potluck with his host, a fascinating project for a man of Larry’s appetite.

  The cabby gave me the edge of his nose when I ordered him to double back to the Goncourt. He shrugged and sighe
d and muttered a feeble statement about the crazy Americans. Behind me, another cab snaked along. I laughed out loud. Gaston must have been caught before his soup. Gaston would be calling me names, too.

  I took the elevator to Peggy’s flat. There was a long wait at the door. I buzzed again, leaning into it.

  She came to the door with a glass in her hand.

  “Go away,” she pouted. “I don’t want to see you.”

  “We had a date for dinner.”

  “Hours ago.”

  “You’ve eaten?”

  “My heart out,” she said drunkenly. She backed away from the door, rolling a bit. She was dressed in another bedroom job, all silk and big buttons. But some of the important buttons were lazy, up near her low neckline. Her hair was loose and free. She dropped into the couch and lay there, looking up at me drowsily. “Don’t like to be kept waiting,” she said.

  “You’re drinking too much, baby.”

  “Like it.”

  “And you’ve been having company.”

  “Company?” Her glazed and shallow eyes lit with dull curiosity. “You’re crazy. Crazy little detective.”

  “Larry was here,” I said. “Playing games?”

  “So what? Nice boy.”

  “You changed your mind about him?”

  “Nice boy,” she said again. “Funny boy.”

  “Put the glass down,” I said.

  “Not me.” She rolled to her feet and staggered to the little bar and began to fill up again. I caught her there. She struggled against me, a bundle of frantic girlishness. She began to giggle as we hammed it up. She dropped the glass and reached for me, grabbing me tight. “Jealous, Stevie?” she gurgled. “Jealous?”

  I hauled her back to the couch. She was hell-bent for forgetting her troubles, all the way. Her pretty mouth was open and she would have bit my hand if I let her. She squirmed and wriggled against me, muttering sly little phrases.

  I said: “Kill it, baby. You’re not that drunk.”

  “Kiss me, Stevie.”

  “I said kill it.”

  “Please, you’re hurting my wrist.”

  “Sit up and talk sense,” I said. “I’ve got big news for you.”

  The anger in me came through to her. If she was drunk, this would be the test. She hauled herself to a sitting position, staring at me blearily. She was a terrific actress, all the way. She nibbled her lip and brushed the hair out of her eyes. Now some sense of sanity returned to her. Not much, but enough to show me she could understand me.

  “News?” she said, slurring the word.

  “About Judy.”

  “Sweet sister Judy.”

  “I’ve found her, Peggy.”

  She stiffened and stared. The drunken spree began to fade for a moment. The fogged eyes began to clear. In the close-up, her body quivered and shook under the impact of the sudden news. She sucked air in heaving gasps, her girlish breasts alive under the silk barrier. The reaction lasted for a perfect interval. Then came the tears.

  She broke down for me completely. She went into an emotional flip, banging her body into the pillows and flailing at the air. She said: “Oh, no, no, no,” over and over again, in between great sobbing gusts of emotion. I struggled to bring her back to where she was, half drunken, half sleepy. But the shock had sent her into a tailspin, so hysterical that I couldn’t handle her, there was only one way to bring her out of it.

  I slapped her.

  She recoiled. The sting of my hand hurt her.

  “Oh, Steve, Steve, Steve,” she sobbed. “I’ve been such a fool. Such an idiot. How can I ever thank you?”

  “You can begin by sobering up.”

  “You don’t hate me?”

  “You’re a mixed-up kid,” I said. “And you drink too much.”

  “Where is she? Where’s Judy?”

  “I’ll know for sure later tonight.”

  “How much later? I want to be with you. Take me to her.”

  “When you’re sober,” I said at the door. “Take a few Bromos and black coffee. I’ll phone you in a few hours.”

  “You don’t hate me?”

  Her arms reached for me. Her body was too close for comfort, too active for a quick goodbye. I kissed her quickly, to quiet her, to keep her gay and hopeful. Her lips were hungry.

  “Tell me you forgive me, Steve.”

  “Baby,” I said, “you’re the craziest.”

  I blew her a kiss and ran for the elevator.

  CHAPTER 20

  Loretta’s—Rue Delambre

  At exactly 9:12 P.M. I stood on the corner across the street from Loretta’s bistro. Through the window the place glimmered with life, the candlelit tables setting up a flickering pattern of light. Her bistro was crowded with the fashionable eaters now. The gourmets always munch slowly in dives like Loretta’s. They dawdle over their demitasse and tickle themselves with the fancy liqueurs. They sip Benedictine. They linger to laugh and talk.

  I closed the gap for a close-up of her window.

  At the bar, Vince Tomaselli sat with his pale shadow, Eric. They favored the same stools that held them last night. And Vince still glared at his face in the long mirror, lost in his creative fog. The nance’s lips moved fast, close to Tomaselli’s ear. The nance tried for laughter, enjoying his own joke. Vince didn’t respond. Eric was talking to himself.

  Loretta came over and put an arm around Tomaselli. He turned to smile at her, but there was nothing in the grin. He lingered in the deep woods of a personal sadness. He was out of this world.

  She led him to a table in the rear. She sat with him, snapping her fingers for a waiter. Tomaselli nibbled his hors d’oeuvres, a quiet eater. Loretta’s pretty face moved animatedly. She was working to please him. Any other man would have made quick passes at her. She leaned in close to him, as affectionate as a new bride.

  But Vince said nothing, did nothing but chew his celery and stare into space.

  I went back to the other side of the street, into a store marked TABAC. I phoned Loretta. There was a short pause while the waiter got her. I could see the tableau, through the window. Loretta leaned down and patted Vince affectionately.

  In the next minute, her voice asked: “Yes?”

  “Steve Conacher, remember?”

  “But of course. I have been expecting your call.”

  “You still want me for that dinner?”

  “Mais, oui. It is all prepared.”

  “Keep the stove hot,” I said. “I called to tell you that I’ll be held up for a while.”

  “Oh, that is too bad,” she said with great sincerity. “Will you be long? I am open late, very late, you know.”

  “It’s hard to say, Loretta. I’m finishing tonight.”

  “Finishing? What does that mean?”

  “I’ve found the missing girl.”

  “No.” There was a breath of silence, an interval when the restaurant noises came through to me. “But, how wonderful,” she said at last. “When did this happen?”

  “It’s about to happen. Right now.”

  “You mean you are there? With the girl?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “But you will come here afterwards?”

  “Still want me?”

  “I will be waiting,” she said pleasantly.

  I beat it back across the street, at the private door to Loretta’s apartment stairway. Here I could see the scene up close, complete with sound effects. The noises of the restaurant came through the window, dull and muffled. I was flat against the pane, no more than three yards from Tomaselli, but out of his world, so far as he could see.

  But he wouldn’t have looked my way for anything. Because he was jabbering with Loretta now. His face no longer held the vague and distant look of the dreamer. His lips moved fast, too fast for English. Lo
retta leaned in over the table, her hands gripping him. They were scared, both of them. Vince got to his feet, wiping his lips nervously. They pantomimed a frantic confusion of gestures and poses. The whole act built to a sudden climax. He was grabbing her hand and starting for the door. Eric Yale stopped them at the bar, but Tomaselli swept him away with a violent, desperate push.

  Loretta and Vince ran across the street, back toward the broad avenue. They paused at the corner deliberating about a taxi. But Tomaselli would not wait for transportation. He continued along the avenue for two blocks, running at a trot, Loretta at his side.

  They ducked to the right, down a quiet street. It would be tough running after them here. No traffic slid through this alley. No people moved. It was an area of darkened residences, most of the people inside already asleep. At the end of the block, Tomaselli shouted something at his companion. Her answer was soft and gentle, but I could catch no part of it.

  Now we were circling a quiet park, approaching the entrance gate. He pulled her inside with him and they ran down a narrow lane beneath the trees, their figures lit only occasionally by the random lampposts along the walk. He would be cutting through to the opposite exit, but there was no way to take a short cut. I had a vague memory of this place from a studious session with a map of the city. This was the Luxembourg Gardens, a big park but a simple one. They turned to the left at a giant building. The street ahead was the Rue de Vaugirard.

  One block to the left they veered into the Rue Garancière. I was behind them when they found their destination, a big house with a dignified front. The masonry reflected refinement and upper-class pride. The stones were neat and clean. In the long, narrow windows subdued lights glowed, giving the place an air of cozy quiet, a family air, a well-disciplined house.

  Inside the narrow vestibule, I stood in a box of silence. There was one more door ahead of me, a heavy affair with a small glass panel above eye-level. They had rushed in without locking this door. The corridor beyond was done in typical French family style, wallpaper of a vivid design and furniture belonging to another generation. I stood there, listening to my pulse. From upstairs, a vague mumbling, muted and meaningless. There would be big rooms upstairs, big rooms with ancient, thick walls.