Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  I remembered Ellie, the girl at Waterloo Station with dreams in her eyes, staring at fox furs. What had they done with her?

  Forget it, not your problem!

  I found a late-night bar. A skinny barman, barely twenty, wiped the bar top. He couldn’t hide his irritation. ‘I’m closing, ma’am.’

  I tried to sound pleading. ‘It’s cats and dogs out there.’ I shook the rain off my suitcase. ‘Just the one, just while it passes?’

  He shrugged. I took it as a yes. ‘Scotch on the rocks. Make it a double.’

  I sat at a table as he brought the drink and a clean ashtray.

  I lit up, pondering. I had done the right thing by going. I needed to look out for me. I was no career girl, no wife, no best friend. Going straight had got too old and too complicated fast. Wrong move, Connie. Connie? I hated the name anyway. Sounded like the name you’d give a pet rabbit. Now it meant nothing to me except a false start.

  Time to think big. I had landed in a glittering city where I had no baggage, no duty, no obligations. A Garden of Eden. All those rich kid dumb Adam and Eves could be mine for the taking. I could swallow them whole, relieving them of their gems, their dollars, their gold, even their cars. I’d feather my nest. I would infiltrate high society, go to the swankiest place and blow my money on the con of my life. I’d come out rich and laughing. I’d retire in style. Not on some stupid porch in some sad neighborhood, lying low.

  That was the fresh start I really needed. This is who I really was. Someone who could turn the game to her advantage.

  I peered out of the window. The rain was much lighter. I stood up, leaving a small tip. ‘So long.’

  The barman grunted something back, without looking up from his paper.

  Outside, I heard the roar of an engine. A yellow taxi with its light on. I flagged it down. It pulled up, narrowly avoiding the large puddle.

  The cabbie looked out. A familiar face. The driver that brought me here. Sal.

  ‘Hello, again. Where to?’

  I couldn’t speak.

  ‘Something up? Late-night rendezvous?’ She winked. I stared at her but only saw June’s face. I tried to blink her away. Sal took my suitcase.

  ‘Quitting the hotel already? Not good enough?’

  The fault line. It would divide June from success. Thirty years from now, June would still be at the bottom rung of the wardrobe department, still darning holes and fixing hems, being barked at by her younger bosses. She hadn’t got a hope in hell. June had done more for me in three days than hard nut Lena had managed in years.

  But you don’t owe her anything. Get in the taxi.

  I looked at Sal. Her face was thin, her eyes shrunken. She was masking her impatience. ‘I got five hungry mouths to feed. Can’t sit here all night waiting for you to make up your mind. Not unless the meter’s running.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake.’

  I handed her a five dollar bill. She pocketed it and grinned. ‘My kind of ride. Have a good evening!’

  The taxi sped off into the night.

  What had another of June’s cushions declared? A friend in need is a friend indeed.

  A born crook could do something for a lame dog.

  20

  ‘So you’re the roommate?’ The southern drawl was laced with disdain.

  Dede Dedeaux leant against the wall in June’s room, with a distinctly unimpressed look in her eye. She was in her thirties, with the confidence of the born rich, wearing an ivory satin silk dressing gown, with quilted lapels embroidered with scallop shapes, and edged with tiny pearls. The belt had the same embroidered pattern. The buttons were large pearls, edged in gilt. Her long black hair had a dramatic effect, coiling around her neck and over the ivory. One in the morning and she looked like a movie star.

  That’s what money can buy, and you’ll be looking like that soon.

  I hovered by the door, still in my damp coat, disheveled. June was still dead to the world, lying on her side in bed, in the fetal position. Dede’s maid was tending to her.

  ‘June said you were pals. But Alberta says you ran out on her.’

  The maid looked up with another unimpressed look. I’d had enough of those for one night. I didn’t have to explain myself to them. ‘False alarm.’

  Dede took a silver cigarette case out of her dressing gown’s side pocket. She lifted it open with a scarlet nail and offered me one. ‘Smoke?’

  I nodded. The cigarettes were thin, and pale cream. ‘Mentholated,’ she added, as if it made a difference.

  Dede’s eyes met mine as she held up a heavily engraved lighter. I inhaled. The drag of menthol was soothing on the throat like liquid silk. We both puffed away, watching as Alberta tenderly mopped June’s brow. I asked, ‘Did she tell you what happened?’

  ‘Alberta got the gist.’ Dede picked up the baby deer ashtray, cradling it in her hand and holding her cigarette over it. ‘The creep is a Mr. Elmore Caziel. I got the address out of her, but there’s little point in going there. He’ll deny it. I know these types. Sub-Poverty Row. June could have asked me for money if she was that broke.’ She looked a little pained. ‘No point in going to the cops either. Fat lot of good that will do.’

  ‘I can help,’ I said.

  Dede eyed me, raising a brow, puffing on her cigarette. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I could pay the scumbag a visit. If he took pictures, maybe I could destroy them.’

  ‘Oh, you’re just going to walk right in and get him to hand them over?’

  ‘I can try.’

  She almost laughed. ‘Porno merchants aren’t pushovers. He might have muscle.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe I could trick him.’

  Alberta looked around and met Dede’s eyes. Dede said, ‘Trick? Sounds like you’ve done this before?’

  I addressed them both. ‘I’ve met my fair share of slimeballs. I know how to play them.’

  ‘We don’t want any more trouble than what we’re dealing with now.’

  It was an intriguing remark. A cough interrupted us. A middle-aged woman and a younger woman entered the room. The older one reminded me of a beetle in a black rain mac, graying blonde hair messily pulled back in a bun, heavy tortoiseshell spectacles. Her skin was leathery from too many night shifts. The younger woman wore a nurse’s uniform and was skinny.

  ‘Dr. Rosenberg. Thanks for coming so late.’ Dede greeted the woman warmly, shaking her hand.

  The doctor headed straight over to June, giving me a look. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Connie Sharpe.’ Dede lowered her voice even more. The fact she knew my surname surprised me.

  The doctor kneeled to take June’s pulse and examined the wrist, pulling off my hastily applied plasters. ‘We’ll put a stitch in that and I’ll check her over,’ she announced.

  Dede suggested we retired to her apartment. ‘I want to hear more about your little plan.’

  What looked like a Picasso sat on the wall next to a grand piano. On the opposite wall hung a collection of African masks. They took me back to my homeless days as a kid when I’d lurk in the British Museum to keep warm, gazing in cabinets at exotic wonders. A large dagger was mounted on the wall near the masks. The blade was pale, tapering to a lethal point. The handle was carved bone. A real tough guy of a knife.

  ‘The Abarambo tribe, Congo.’ said Dede, standing at her corner bar which was fatly upholstered in white leather. She sloshed two stiff brandies into the finest cut glass tumblers, and brought one over to me.

  ‘A weapon would help. It would be more persuasive.’ Now this tainted the grieving widow image as much as running out on June did, but something told me if anyone had a gun, it would be Dede Dedeaux.

  ‘Know how to use a gun, or just to wave it around?’ She eyed me. I didn’t see her hand flying for my throat. In seconds, she had pinned me against the wall, my head squashed between two masks. She was strong as an ox.

  I dropped the glass, which shattered at our feet. I felt lumps of lead crystal pelting my ankles. She didn’
t seem to care, yelling, ‘You working for that creep? You spyin’ on us?’

  Us? Spying? What the hell? I managed to gasp. ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

  Her breath was hot and furious against my face. ‘He sent you here didn’t he? Don’t deny it!’

  ‘Nobody sent me here! Please, I can’t breathe!’ What the hell?

  ‘Too bad! Talk!’

  Dede squeezed even tighter. I tried to think while the oxygen lasted. Did she have her own set of problems and think I was some kind of snoop? Bizarre. Everyone was mistaking me for something else. A newsgirl. A snoop.

  But Dede’s suspicion of my true identity had a silver lining. I could use it to meet her in the middle, and if I was going to continue living here, then loosening up the Connie Sharpe act would help.

  I gasped, trying to wave an arm. ‘All right. You got me. No dead husband. My real husband was a louse. A swindler and a cheat. I had enough and took off with some of his money. I’m just lying low. I only came to the Miracle Mile because a taxi driver suggested it. I never heard of the place, or you, until June told me about you.’

  ‘So it’s all been an act? You been living in England?’

  ‘Years ago, I went for a vacation.’

  ‘So what do you know about me?’

  ‘What’s there to know? You got a flashy apartment? If you’ve got trouble, sorry about that, but I know nothing. I’ve got enough on my own plate.’

  Dede’s grip relaxed. She took a step back. ‘All right. Say I believe you. Why walk out in the dead of night?’

  ‘I’m not the kind of person who holds anyone’s hand, while they get over bad things. Anyway, I can’t be around if the cops come calling.’

  ‘So why the change of heart?’

  ‘June was good to me. If I can destroy any pictures, I pay back the favor.’

  Dede looked at me for several seconds. ‘Had to ask.’ She spun around, her dressing gown spiraling out behind her, leaving me standing among the crystal fragments and brandy.

  I rubbed my neck and picked my way out of the mess.

  Dede returned with a gun, a dustpan and brush and some rags. She handed me the gun and squatted, to start cleaning up the mess. Odd. Maybe she didn’t want Alberta to see. Her ivory gown was soon sodden at the hem but she didn’t seem to care.

  I examined the gun, a small pistol, a neat piece with a cream pearly handle that matched her gown. Definitely pricey, judging by the detail and the weight.

  Dede looked up at me. ‘I want that back.’

  21

  Always carry a lighter. You never know when you’ll need to start a fire.

  Fire hadn’t been on my mind but when I saw the tatty frame houses lining one side of Gordon Grove, it was clear they, and any smutty pictures of June, would all go up fast. It was mess of a street, caught between times, sad and neglected. Opposite the houses, a few ugly, squat warehouses lined the road, with large gated front yards dividing them. They must have replaced similar frame houses.

  The place was too near Hollywood’s main arteries to escape the greedy developers for much longer. Even the straggly palm trees looked like they knew their time was up. The trunks were blackened, the leaves yellowing and brittle, as if they’d made up their minds to die before being felled.

  The house occupied a corner plot, with a long high wall around the side and rear. Three large cars, old models, sat in the drive leading to the timber house. Two of these were coated in grime. Wooden shutters on the ground floor windows kept the light – and people – out. The upstairs windows were festooned with curtains of heavy lace. The paintwork was peeling in great patches. Nobody cared, and nobody would.

  I casually ambled around the corner so I could check out the back of Caziel’s place. The adjacent street was similarly depressing, except dotted with cheap-looking bungalows with signs of life like washing lines and a dog barking. In the backyard was some kind of double-story guesthouse next to the high rear wall. The whole thing was covered in a flowering climber.

  I turned back. Time to face the music.

  Strolling into the front yard with a pronounced wiggle, I hoped I came over as gaudy and fast to anyone on the other side of the nets. I had plastered on the make-up and was wearing the blue summer dress that Betty had given me. I wondered why I was still holding on to it, this last vestige of my former life. I was sure the designer in Mayfair hadn’t had this jaunt in mind when they sketched the frock.

  I’d met perverts over the years. Men fueled by sex addiction, or a desire to denigrate others, particularly women. But their addiction is a bite in their own ankle, and if I had any kind of a game plan today, it was to kick the self-inflicted wound even harder.

  I wasn’t chubby like June so I hoped this Caziel creep catered for wider tastes. Besides, I’d have to offer something else if he was going to let me through the door. My talent for reading people fast would have to be sharp today.

  With a cough and butterflies in my stomach, I rang the bell. I turned away, feeling the heat on my skin. Alberta had lent me one of her hats, a woven downbeat affair with a checked trim.

  After a while, the door opened a crack. Two dark, suspicious eyes flickered at me. A woman’s eyes in a sallow and tired face. I could glimpse a green uniform.

  I beamed. ‘Is Mr. Caziel at home?’

  ‘Que?’ What? She didn’t speak English.

  ‘Mr. Caziel? I need to see him.’

  The woman shook her head.

  I pulled out a five dollar note. ‘I want five minutes with him.’ I held out five fingers, sounding a little desperate with it. She opened the door wider, snatching the note and slipping it into the apron pocket.

  ‘You wait ‘ere.’ Funny how her English had improved so fast.

  I quickly decided on a name. Minnie Groader. What seemed a lifetime ago now, I had owned a chipped teapot by Groader, all worn gilt, pink and yellow flowers and gold handles on the pot and lid. It must be forever part of the Suffield Road smithereens now. If they ever built gardens again, maybe fragments of my teapot would be discovered. In Holloway, gardening duty was made more fun by the pretty bits of china or glass we’d unearth when digging. Till Doodlebag cottoned on and decided to take them away from us, for fear we would use them on others or ourselves.

  Footsteps. The maid returned. ‘’Ee see you. Two mee-noo-tes.’ She opened the door wider and I stepped inside.

  Caziel reminded me of a baggy, evil, scarecrow. How the hell did June trust this guy? But she saw the good only, was blind to the devil and his many forms. Caziel’s head was buried in a paper, his greasy hair was almost mushroom-colored, with all the uniform lifelessness of a toupee. His feet rested on his wide desk, next to a coffee pot on a tray. His white and blue shoes were immaculately polished, and he wore purple silk socks that almost matched his tie, loosened at the neck. The baggy suit may have been stylish in 1930.

  I pressed my handbag closer to me, glad that I’d slipped the pistol inside the garter around my thigh.

  I coughed. ‘Mr. Caziel? I’m Minnie Groader.’

  Caziel slowly raised his head, keeping one eye on the newspaper to rub in the point I was insignificant. His thin nose leant to the left of his face. The irregular look was unnerving.

  ‘If you’ve come for the shoot, you’re too late. Job’s over.’ His eyes roved up and down my body like I was a piece of meat. ‘And you’re too skinny. No meat on the bone. Wasting your time.’

  ‘A pal said you needed girls.’

  ‘Who said?’ He put paper down.

  ‘Someone at the studio. Shiralee? I’ll pose nude.’

  ‘Like I said, you’ve wasted your time. Get out.’ He raised his paper.

  I gave my best crestfallen expression and didn’t budge. ‘Sir, can’t you just help me out? I got nothing.’

  Beyond the lacy curtains and the grime on the pane I could just make out a man in a dark suit with a brown hat, smoking a cigarette. The muscle, on look-out duty. My eyes reverted to Caziel. �
��Please?’

  ‘Please! Please!’ He whined back at me, mocking. ‘Do I look like a goddamned job agency? Beat it!’

  I feigned bursting into tears. ‘I’m staying in a fleapit, ain’t even got my bus ticket home. I’m down to my last couple of cents!’

  He laughed. ‘Those crocodile tears don’t fool me. Scram.’

  I slipped off my jacket and began unbuttoning the top of the dress. I flashed a sensual smile at him.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Showing you my talents.’

  My brassiere was on show, with the pathetic little cleavage I had managed to gain since Holloway. His eyes were fixed on my bust, waiting to see what lay beneath the lace and the buttons. Hooked! I shot him a sneaky grin. ‘Show you more, if you like?’

  ‘Brazen little hussy, aren’t you? Minnie Groader, huh?’ He stood up. The bulge was visible in his crumpled pants.

  ‘I could do with some better pictures. Help me get more work. I figured you could take some, give me copies.’

  I needed to find the camera, expose the celluloid, anything. He’d tell me to pose but I’d pull out the gun, threaten him, and get to work.