The Hamilton Building has two big, wide doors that fold back when the place opens up in the morning. I was starting out between them when something on the floor behind the right-hand door caught my eye. A little flash of black and red. I think I knew what it was before I bent and picked it up. And I was right. It was a black purse with bright red drawstrings that pulled the top shut by puckering the cloth up and squeezing it together. I'd seen that bag only a few minutes ago, clutched tightly in the redhead's hand.
I picked up the bag, suddenly feeling a little sick. She could have dropped it accidentally. Or it could have been another bag just like it. Sure.
I sprinted outside and to my right into Pete's Bar. Pete was lazily wiping the counter for lack of anything better to do. There was nothing better to do because there wasn't a customer in the place.
My voice was a little tight when I said, "Pete, where's the girl that came in here? The redhead."
He stopped wiping the counter top for a moment and looked at me. "Girl? Haven't seen no girl, Shell." He moved down the counter a couple of steps and started polishing again.
"You sure? It's important. Long red hair. Slacks. Beautiful shape."
Pete looked up at me again, slightly annoyed. "What's eating you, Shell? Haven't had no customers all morning. Business is—"
But I didn't hear the rest of it; I was going out the door.
Chapter Three
I RACED across the sidewalk, tossed the black pouch bag onto the seat, and dived under the wheel. I started the car, gunned away from the curb, and barreled down the street for two blocks before I realized I didn't know where I was going, or even where I should be going. I pulled over to the curb, parked, and cut the engine. Then I got out a crumpled pack of Luckies and my lighter, lit a cigarette, and called myself names. I was mad. I was burning up.
I guess one of the things that gripes me most, or gripes anyone, for that matter, is knowing you're in the wrong or that you've made a fool mistake. But the first step in cooling off and starting to think again is admitting, to yourself at least, that you are wrong and then finding out why.
So after I'd called myself a number of uncomplimentary names I tried to figure out what was going on and where I stood. I'd screwed up for sure in letting the girl out of my sight. As soon as she piped, "They want to kill us," I should have tied that in tight with the shots tossed at me earlier and latched onto her good.
And right then, a little late, I got a cold crinkling along my scalp. She hadn't said they wanted to kill me, but us. She was included in the deal they'd cooked up for us. Whoever they were. And whoever she was.
And now I knew what had been bothering me after she'd squeezed out of the office. It had been a little scraping in my subconscious trying to make me add the obvious two and two together: The girl had been scared to death of Ozzie when she'd seen him sprawled on the floor, and if she was scared of him, it followed that she'd undoubtedly be equally scared of Ozzie's partner—if he'd had one.
And, almost surely, he'd had one. Ozzie wouldn't have tried pulling a job, particularly a job like this one, alone. He'd have had help, a partner at least. Somebody to wait in the building, or out on the street, or in a car. Christ! There must have been a car. If Ozzie had figured on taking me for a trip, he sure as hell wouldn't have planned to walk. There'd have been a car waiting for us, and there'd have been somebody to drive it while Ozzie kept his.45 tucked into my side or pointed at me through his coat. It was elementary, completely clear, and obvious. Now.
I groaned, picked up the bag, yanked the mouth of it open, and dumped the stuff it contained onto the seat. While I went through the stuff I wondered how I'd got so stupid in thirty years. A lot of this morning's stupidity might be traced to my constitution. I'm so healthy it's disgusting, but it takes me a while to wake up. I creep around mornings in an ugly world till I have a couple of mouthfuls of food and plenty of coffee. Not much food, because food is not appealing when I first wake up, but plenty of coffee. This Monday morning I'd groped my way out of my Hollywood apartment and come straight downtown, had my toast and a cup of coffee while I skimmed the paper, then, still a little bleary-eyed, I'd started for the office. Too many things had happened too fast for me since then. I'd been a step behind all the way. Well, I was awake now, but where did I go from here?
There was the usual junk in the purse: lipstick, comb, compact, and so on. But there was a check made out to Iris Gordon, signed by Martin Sader. Well, well. Identification and social-security cards also bore the name of Iris Gordon. A driver's license told me Iris was five feet, five inches tall, weighed a pleasant 127, was twenty-five years old, and single. Well. Single like me. And even her fingerprint was pretty. The identification card also gave me her address: the Caldwell Apartments, Apartment 7, on De Longpre Avenue in Hollywood.
I leaned back and took stock of what I knew and, more, what I had to find out before this Monday got much older. That is, if I wanted to get much older. Obviously somebody wanted me killed and had missed one chance at me this morning; Ozzie, whom I was going to see more of later, had a hand in some unpleasant designs on me; and the redhead, Iris, who obviously had some connection with Ozzie's boss, had been trying to warn me of something before she'd taken off—or been taken off. So now, out of all the people in Los Angeles I knew of two who might explain why bullets were flying past me: Ozzie York and Iris Gordon. Ozzie didn't feel like talking while Iris had been dying to, and I didn't have either of them.
I threw my cigarette away, got out of the car, found a pay phone, and called police headquarters. I learned that Ozzie wasn't even saying hello, but I passed word on through Sergeant Russo that I had an idea Ozzie might know plenty about the bullet holes in Pete's window. I went back to the Cadillac, knowing that the police would keep after Ozzie and my play was to keep after Iris. Maybe Iris Gordon had problems of her own, but right now I was more interested in my problem and her conversation. I checked the address on the identification card again and started the car. I wanted to see that redhead, sure; I had to see her if I could find her, but I'd done enough foolish things for one day. Before I started throwing my weight around, I wanted to know more about the lovely Iris.
I headed for De Longpre Avenue and the Caldwell Apartments. Number 7 was on the second floor. I walked right up, paused in front of the door, then knocked.
I didn't expect Iris to be home, and I didn't really expect anybody to be there. I certainly didn't expect what I got.
I got a barefoot gal in a pajama top. Uh-huh. Pajama top.
It wasn't Iris Gordon. It was another girl, taller and heavier, with a strange quality about her face that I couldn't place right away. She cracked the door a few inches and looked out at me.
I said, "Good morning. I’m Shell Scott. Is—uh—is Iris here?"
"No."
She answered quietly, looking at me, but she didn't elaborate. I was carrying the ball, so she waited and watched me.
I said, "I'm a private detective. Iris—Miss Gordon—seems to be in some sort of trouble. It may be bad trouble and I'm mixed up in it. I'm trying to help us both. I thought perhaps you might. . ."
"Oh? You're a friend of hers?"
I hesitated a moment, then said, "No. Actually I just came here hoping to find something that might help me find her. I think she's. . ." I let my voice trail off. I'd started to say I thought she'd been kidnapped, but all of a sudden it seemed a little silly. I went on, "She had something important to tell me and she's disappeared. I think she may be in very real danger."
She frowned slightly, then opened the door wide. "Please come in, Mr. Scott."
It was then that I noticed what she was wearing, and under different circumstances I'd have leaped inside and barricaded the door. But I walked in sedately and she nodded toward a chair. She didn't seem to be embarrassed by her costume, or lack of it. She didn't even seem to be aware that my eyes were hanging by their stalks. The pajama top was several sizes too big for her and several sizes too small for me—any
way you look at it. But it hung down far enough, leaving her shapely legs bare a delightfully disturbing distance up her white thighs.
I sat down and swallowed twice, strenuously, and she smiled, just the ghost of a smile, a slight movement of full lips. She said, "Excuse me," and walked out of the room into another room in back.
I watched her leave, walking easily and gracefully. Moving slowly, taking her time, which was all right with me. She was a big girl. Not ungainly or awkward, but large, a little buxom, with heavy breasts and hips and a look of strength about her. She was barefoot now, but in high heels she'd have been nearly as tall as I am.
When she came back in she still had on the pajama top, but it was tucked into a dark skirt, and slippers were on her feet. I appreciated the fact that she hadn't taken more than a half minute or so out of the room, hadn't stopped to pretty herself up. Some women might have, even though I'd made it obvious that my call might be important. She hadn't been wearing make-up when she'd answered the door, and she didn't have any on now. She sat down on a couch opposite me and asked, "What is it you want, Mr. Scott?"
I said, "Just to be sure we're talking about the same person, Miss Gordon is a redheaded girl, isn't she? Very attractive?"
She nodded. "I think she was wearing dark blue slacks and a midriff sweater in light blue this morning."
"That's the one. She does live here, doesn't she?"
She nodded again. "We live here together. We both work at the same night club and share expenses here."
I thought I knew what night club she meant even before I asked. "This night club? The name?"
"The Pit."
Marty Sader's club, the Pit. And there he was again. Sader was looming up more and more as a man I had to see, and maybe had to see damned soon. I thought back to the one evening I'd spent in the club. The setup was a little screwy, but similar to clubs I'd seen in San Francisco. An alley ran straight through the middle of the block, from Seventh Street down to Sixth Street, and you walked from Seventh about twenty feet down the alley to a door into an elevator on your right. You took the elevator down into the club, and the tourists loved it. The elevator crept slowly down, taking about a minute to go twenty feet below street level, and by the time it stopped, you thought you were a mile underground. Just a plain night club, no gambling or anything extraordinary, but it was an intimate place and seemed shut off from the rattle and bang of the city above you.
It wasn't very well known because of its out-of-the-way location, and, as I remembered, the food service was among the worst in town—which was one reason I hadn't been back since that first time. But they'd had a red-hot floor show, and I looked approvingly at the dark-eyed, dark-haired girl opposite me on the couch. I remembered thinking on my first visit to the Pit that the star dancer was hot enough to be a fire hazard, and in a place like the Pit she was dangerous. As far as the public knew, at least, the only way in and out of that fire trap was the elevator. The place was designed more like a fortress than a night spot.
I said, "Sader does own the Pit, doesn't he?"
"Yes. Marty Sader. He owns the whole building, the building up above and the club underneath it."
"Something else," I said, "if you don't mind. What do I call you?"
"Mia. Forget the last name. It's Italian and you couldn't pronounce it." That ghost of a smile again.
"Mia, when was the last time you saw Miss Gordon?"
"I'm not sure of the hour. It was this morning. I was sleeping late, and Iris said she was going to pick up her check. She forgot it last night."
"Check? From the Pit?"
"Yes. Monday is our day off, so we get paid before we leave Sundays, and I guess Iris forgot her check. I think she called the club and then went down to get it this morning."
"I see." I didn't really see, but I was getting a glimmering. I'd stuck the little pouch bag in my pocket when I'd left the car. Now I pulled it out and opened it. I took out the check I'd found in the bag.
Mia was staring at the bag, and for the first time she looked worried. She was frowning and she asked me quickly, "Where did you get that? It looks like the new one Iris bought."
"It is," I said. I figured I'd better tell her what had happened up till now. I ran over it in a hurry and finished, "No Iris around, but there was her bag. It had this address in it, and I hoped by coming here I could find some lead to where she might be."
Mia got up from the couch and started walking slowly back and forth in front of me. I sighed. In a moment she sank down on the couch again, biting her full lower lip.
I asked, "Any idea what's going on?"
"None. I can't understand it. I wish I did know. I can't understand it at all."
"No reason you can think of why anybody might want to kill her or—or the two of us?"
She shook her head. "No. Why—why, it's simply fantastic!"
"Yeah. Just fantastic enough to be fatal." I handed Mia the bag and check. "It looks like she got her check, all right. Here it is. You said today was your day off. That means the club's closed today?"
"Yes. Every Monday."
"Isn't that a little unusual?"
"A little. Most places stay open all week, but I've worked at others that closed up one or even two days. Depends on the boss."
That was true enough, and Marty probably wasn't worrying about the one day's take from the club. I thought a minute about what Mia had told me, then I said, "You say she forgot her check last night, then this morning she called the club—but it's closed."
She frowned slightly, looking at me. "I hadn't thought about that. I was half asleep. Of course, Marty or somebody might have been there, but I'm not sure where she called. I think she talked to Marty. I heard her using the phone, then she came into the bedroom and told me she was going to run down and pick up her check. She had some shopping she wanted to do today."
It all sounded simple and uncomplicated: a night-club girl sleeping late in the morning, another one starting out to pick up a pay check. But it didn't explain why somebody wanted me dead. Or what was happening to Iris Gordon right now.
"This Pit," I said. "I've been there. That's the place in the alley, isn't it? Elevator business down to the club?"
She nodded.
"That the only way in and out?"
"It's the only way anybody uses. There are some steps up to Seventh in front—fire rules or something—but they're always locked off." She raised a dark eyebrow. "Much more mysterious that way."
"Yeah. What do you two do at the club?"
"Part of the show."
"Oh? I was there about three months ago. Don't know how I missed you."
"I've only been there about two months. Iris has worked there four or five months now; that's where I met her. Iris sings. I'm"—she smiled ever so slightly again—"a dancer."
She didn't look like a dancer. One thing was sure: she didn't dance ballet. But whatever it was, and I had an idea, I was pretty sure I'd enjoy it.
Looking at Mia, I was reminded again of the strange quality I'd seen about her face when she'd come to the door. Her face wasn't beautiful, but calm and pleasant, and it seemed to be traced with a vein of savagery, as if under the quiet surface were primal emotions that made you keep looking at her and wondering, with more curiosity than lechery, what she'd be like in a wide, strong bed. She made you think of flickering firelight and heavy drums booming in a sweaty jungle. She seemed to belong, a little bit, to the jungle herself, and I think it was that about her that showed in her face: she didn't look quite civilized.
While we'd talked, I'd been struck by her voice. It sounded as if there were a lot of power behind it, but she kept it low-pitched, like a murmur of wind in deep grass. It was an intimate voice and, whether it actually was meant to or not, it sounded like a whispered invitation. She said what she had to say, or answered my questions, then kept quiet and looked at me. She wasn't bold or arrogant about it; I was there and she was talking to me, so she looked at me. That was all, but it was disconce
rting. The way her eyes rested steadily on me, I found myself wishing it were dark so I wouldn't feel the slight discomfort it gave me—and that gave me two reasons for wanting to draw the blinds or turn off the lights.
Suddenly I realized that we'd been staring at each other for two or three minutes without saying a word. Something had been building up between us; something dark and heavy and elemental that thickened the air in the room and the air in my throat.
I said, "I'll have to go. There's nothing you can tell me that might help me find her? Nothing else?"
"No."
I got up. "Thanks for your time. And the information. It might help."
"Let me know. Or if there's anything I can do." She hesitated. "We're very close, Mr. Scott. I think a good deal of Iris."
"I'll let you know."
I went out. Mia didn't come to the door; she sat on the couch and watched me leave. It was just as well. I had a feeling I'd wasted enough time already. Not that a little more would really have been wasted.
Chapter Four
I DROVE AWAY from Mia's thinking that, actually, the time I'd spent talking to her, aside from the fun it had been, had also been quite productive. I'd learned that she and Iris both worked for Sader at the Pit, and that Iris had apparently called Sader and then left the apartment to get her check. The separate items seemed easy to add together, but I didn't like the total I got. Those early-morning shots at me, plus Sader's boy Ozzie waving a .45 in my face, plus the fact that Iris had apparently seen Sader this morning, when added to the fact that the next thing I knew of Iris was that she was gasping at me in near panic and babbling that Sader was "after me," seemed to indicate pretty definitely to me that Marty Sader, himself, was behind Iris' disappearance—particularly if she'd run into the "partner" I was assuming Ozzie'd had. I didn't like that apparently logical total because it left me banging my nose up against a peculiar problem. It went like so: by now I was convinced that Iris was my best port in the bloody storm that seemed to be brewing around me, and I felt that I had to find that redhead so she could finish gasping at me and turn my fumbling fancies into some kind of solid fact; but if, as I had assumed, Sader not only still carried his grudge against me and was "after me," but also had Iris tucked away somewhere, that meant my finding Iris would let Sader find me!
Everybody Had A Gun Page 3