“Depressed?” I asked. “Not a crying jag?”
“Not that bad. But a quiet drinker, you understand? They sat for an hour. He had much to drink. But it did not make him noisy. Not happy, that one.”
“And Velma? Was she happy?”
Loretta leaned back and laughed. Her amusement was contagious, Larry joined her, tickled by something Peggy and I couldn’t understand. Peggy lowered her eyes, lost in her own memories of Folger. She was taking it hard. I patted her hand, and she smiled at me weakly.
“Zut!” Loretta was saying. “The little cat knows her customers. With some she is gay—with others sad. She will blend with a man’s mood. She is an actress, that one. She talked softly. She looked into his eyes like a silly virgin. After a while they went away. It was most unusual for Velma. A gay, a noisy girl, the cat is.”
“And an erratic one?” I asked. “A jumpy one?”
“What do you mean? Her habits? Her personal life?” Loretta gave me her serious eyes now. She was aware of my change of pace.
“Her apartment. Why would she move out suddenly?”
“Ridiculous. You will find her at Morni’s, of course.”
“She moved out,” Larry said. “In a big hurry.”
“Fantastic! Where would she go?”
“You tell us.”
Loretta shrugged her big shoulders, toying with the wine glass. Her big eyes studied the crimson liquid, dark pools of deep thought, until the pixy light filled them again. She slapped her palm on the table.
“A man, naturellement! The little cat would only leave Morni’s for a pair of pants. Perhaps the young one she found last night has turned her heart upside down? From the way she was looking at him, from the way she acted—”
“Not that one,” I suggested. “Try again. Velma must have one steady.”
“A favorite?” Loretta winked. “Is there a man good enough to satisfy that one? Velma is in love with all mankind. But if she ever decides? At present there seems to be one she favors. Max Bowker.”
Larry stopped picking at his cacciatore.
“Where does Bowker live?” I asked.
“The far end of Paris. Number 9 on the Rue Cernuschi.”
I gave Larry an extra minute to finish his food. He was loaded with chagrin, too full to move.
“Shake your tail over to Bowker’s,” I told him. “I’ll be waiting to hear whether you’ve found her.”
“Suppose I do? What do I tell her?”
“Bring her back. I’ve got a memory test I want to give her.”
He gulped the last dregs of his demitasse. He shook his head sadly toward the kitchen, tortured by the promise of one of Loretta’s fancy desserts.
“On your horse,” I said.
Larry went out slowly. There were people at the bar for him to greet. Everybody liked him. Everybody seemed anxious to favor him with hospitality. His easy grin would earn him many a free meal in this atmosphere. His cordial good nature made every acquaintance a pal. Two dolls grabbed him at the door. He patted their bottoms affectionately. I saw him turn once, to smile back at me guiltily, like a kid caught robbing the cookie barrel.
Then he was gone, through the door and into the street.
“A wonderful soul,” Loretta said, blowing him a kiss. “Such a funny man.”
In the next minute she was bounding away from us, back to the bar for a quick conference with her waiters. Peggy and I drank and talked. She was feeling better now, calmed by the steady flow of liquor. She could make it easy for me to forget who she was. A client? In the quiet corner, with a few more drinks, she could be a cozier character, a casual date, a doll to be tested. Her nervousness had faded now. In its place she beamed an alcoholic warmth my way.
“This could be pleasant,” she said, “if only I knew how to reach Judy.”
“Forget about Judy.”
“It isn’t easy, Steve. I’ll never enjoy anything until I’ve found her. I keep thinking of Doug. I keep tying him up with her, wondering why he was killed. It’s headachy, but I can’t stop worrying. What’s going to happen? Are you getting anywhere?”
“It’s slow, but it’s movement,” I said. “In the skip-trace business you never know. You follow every lead, even the ones that look stupid. Like Velma. She may be a dead end, a blind alley. Or she may be a straw in the wind. The fact that she drank with Folger is big. The fact that she went to his rooms is bigger. We’ve got to find her and stoke her memory. She must be in Paris.”
Loretta came back to us. She was pushing a small table, loaded with the flaming gimmick for manufacturing crêpes suzette.
“Vincent is here,” she said. “At the bar over there, the man with the bow tie. Introduce yourself. You will find him quite charming.”
“Who’s the sweet boy with him?”
“Eric Yale,” said Loretta with a sigh. “A strange one. He is Vincent’s assistant, you see? A perfect little lady, but harmless.”
I left Peggy and walked to the bar.
CHAPTER 7
Chez Tomaselli—Rue de Duras
They were deep in conversation, Vince Tomaselli and his assistant. Tomaselli was a handsome character, a dark type carved in classic lines. He wore a broad-striped suit, white pinstripes on black. He would look fine on Madison Avenue, among the advertising gentry. He had a strong chin and the kind of face that always seemed begging for a razor, the cheeks bluish under the flesh. He fiddled with his shoelace bow tie. He watched himself in the mirror, bored.
Eric Yale was saying: “A perfectly monstrous body, hasn’t she? We must do something with her breasts.”
“We’ll fix her up,” Vince said.
“I wouldn’t use the beast. The picture magazines will laugh at us.”
“We’ll fix her up,” Vince said again.
“For the love of little flowers,” shrieked Eric Yale, clasping his dainty hands to his chest. “You have a heart of gold to stay with her. I can think of other models who’d swoon for the chance. Yet you persist in foisting that one, that chicken-breasted little idiot. Heavens!”
Vince Tomaselli let him rave, laughing softly. Against the mirrored bar, his profile was something out of a dead generation. He was very handsome. He turned to whisper a word to the nance. Eric Yale leaned into him amorously. He eyed me with sulky disapproval as I stepped closer.
“We’ve got company,” he said nastily.
“Not you,” I said, nudging him out of the way. “Vince has the company.”
“Company?” Tomaselli asked lazily. His voice had a sad, lost quality. He didn’t bother to turn. He saw me in the mirror of the bar. “I didn’t catch the name.”
“Conacher,” I said. “But you wouldn’t know it.”
“It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I’ve been anxious to meet you, Vince.”
“Really? Why?”
“Just for kicks. For small talk.”
“Not now,” said Tomaselli quietly. He had the heavy calm of a funeral director. There was no humor in him at all. “I come to Loretta’s for solitude, not small, talk. It’s noisy here, but I have the right to choose my own interruptions. Tonight you’re not one of them, Conacher.”
He went back to his drink. The nance slid in closer.
“You heard what he said, brother.”
“I’m an orphan, sister. And I don’t hear well.”
“Please,” said Tomaselli. “No trouble, Eric. No trouble.”
His bored and morbid poise bothered me. So did the touch of the nance. Eric Yale was beginning to bubble and burn near me. He was a skinny youth, all bones and angles. His pale face twitched with annoyance. His delicate nostrils flared under any stress and strain. He had wedged his prissy frame between Vince and me. He eyed me coldly, a little muscle quivering his upper lip. I didn’t want to hit him. It would be like hitting a woman.
/>
“I won’t take much of your time,” I said to Tomaselli. “A couple of words is all. A couple of questions about Judy Martin.”
Did he tighten at the mention of her name? His body remained stiff in the pose. But I saw him hesitate. In the mirror, his heavy brows frowned. He put down his glass slowly.
“I wish you all the luck in the world,” he said.
“Thanks. I may need it.”
“Why come to me for information?”
“You knew her. You bought paintings from her.”
“I buy paintings from dozens of artists in Paris. Does that mean I keep records of their whereabouts? I don’t know where Judy is. And I care less. Does that answer your question?”
“Not quite. When did you see her last?”
“Oh, please.” Tomaselli shook his head wearily. It would take dynamite to move him out of his heavy despair. He was either a natural manic-depressive or a natural mortician. He barely moved his head my way when he talked. “Go away and don’t bother me, Conacher.”
He started off the stool. I reached for his sleeve to hold him for another minute. It was a quick gesture, but not a hostile one. In the little minute of tension, Eric Yale slapped at my hand.
“You heard what he said,” Eric spat at me. His voice bit a higher range, close to soprano. “He said to leave him alone, didn’t he?”
The next few seconds hopped with action. The nance flailed out at me, a driving bundle of spit and spite. His fingers clawed for my face and I ducked at his frenzied passes, not wanting to hurt him but anxious to hold Tomaselli in the dive.
But Tomaselli was already heading for the street.
I ducked a chopping right cross. I pulled hard at Eric Yale’s arm and jerked him off balance.
“Out of my way, sister,” I said.
“Pig,” hissed the nance.
Suddenly there was a knife in his hands. He must have been reaching for it in his last lunge. It came from nowhere, a switch-blade small enough for slicing king-size salamis. He leaped at me, the blade held at an angle, whipping it down in threatening gestures. There was no more time for playing games with him.
So I clipped him. I caught him high on the cheek, a flat slap that stunned him and froze him. He paused only for a second, his thin lips grim with purpose now.
“I’m going to kill you,” he screamed.
And he would have. I got him again, on the way in. The knife flew away from his hand when he caught my fist in his gut. He went down in a slobbering heap, groaning his falsetto grief. He was down but not out. He came after me, crawling along the floor, the crowd amused by his zany posture. I picked the knife up ahead of him. He butted me, too low for the legalities.
The knife slipped away from me and he grabbed it and returned, screaming obscenities.
At that moment, he could have sliced my throat.
He had the knife firmly again. He wanted to use it.
But Loretta stepped between us.
“Bad, bad boy,” she said.
Eric Yale recoiled. He was still on his knees. She stared down at him, her pretty shanks on a level with his hot eyes. There was something about the sight of Loretta that paralyzed him. The knife dropped again. He pulled back from her, snaking and squirming toward the street door. His face was loaded with terror. He began to gurgle stupidly in a high and whining pitch.
“Stay away,” he whispered. “Don’t come near me.”
“You are a bad, bad little boy,” Loretta said.
“Not closer,” he cried. “Please. Not closer.”
They were roaring at him now, the bar hounds and the table bibbers. They were beginning to enjoy the louse, the nance who couldn’t stand the sight or touch of a woman.
“Let me kiss you, bad boy,” Loretta cooed, aware that she had him in control. “One little kiss?”
Eric Yale couldn’t take any more. He lurched and leaped away. He rolled and ran, making the door in a frenzy of mad movement. We saw him streak past the last bar stool. Then he was through the door and gone.
“That boy needs help,” I said. “A good psychiatrist.”
“Too late, my friend,” Loretta said. “Poor Eric is too far gone.”
“He reacts that way to all women?” I asked. “Or just you?”
“The poor man cannot stand the touch of a woman, any woman. It is for this that he is teased so. In a way, Eric is to be pitied, no? He is really quite talented, a good assistant for Vincent Tomaselli, a man with many ideas for fashions. He would die for Vincent, but not for any reasons you might imagine. Vincent is a man, you understand? Quite a man, indeed.”
Peggy joined us at the bar. I needed a stiff drink. I gulped two to make me forget the idiot spark in the nance’s eye. I had been torn between violence and pity a minute ago. The boiling rage needed an outlet. I burned with the yen to get what I was after, a few important words with Vince Tomaselli. More than ever now, I had to ask him questions.
Peggy sensed the anger in me.
“Why not call it quits for tonight?” she suggested. “You’ve had a tough day, Steve.”
“The night is young. And I’m going to see Tomaselli.”
“He will talk to you, I am sure,” Loretta said. She gave me his address. “Perhaps he went home. Perhaps Eric will not be with him. You will find Vincent a sensitive, sober gentleman.”
“What’s eating him?” I asked. “He looks ripe for a rest cure.”
“That is Vincent. The studious one. He sits and schemes his designs all day. This is his life. This is his love, the business of dressing women, the business of becoming famous; the greatest fashion authority on earth. When he achieves his desire, when he is greater than Fath or Dior, then you will see a new Vincent. But until then, the flame burns inside him. That is the way of the genius, no?”
“Let’s pay the genius a visit, Peggy.”
“Come back,” Loretta said. “I am open all night for my friends. You will use the side door after midnight?”
“I’ll be back,” I said. “Tell Larry Frick to rest his tail until I get here.”
We walked out into the darkness.
On Montparnasse the sidewalks jump with life all night. The bistros are alive and brightly lit. The tourist traps are open for business, offering all kinds of entertainment including the best drum-beaters of le jazz hot. The Parisian younger set bounces and bops to frantic music, deep in the noisy dens, undecorated caves that sweat with eager music lovers. The Americans come to gape and gawk here. This is a different Bohemia, a more open area of uninhibited gayety. Along the busy streets the pretty French tarts stroll. A dozen specialty houses welcome all lovers of fleshy fun. The bordellos flourish under the casual eyes of the French flics, leisurely clicks in uniform who always travel in pairs. Bedlam sneaks into the dumps and dives as soon as the sun fades.
But the side streets sing a different tune. The alleys are quiet.
Silence hangs over the misted rooftops. A distant dog barks at an invisible moon. Cats wail among the garbage.
Vince Tomaselli’s house was a combination home and office, a four-storey heap of a place. Over the door, in simple letters, a small sign read:
VINCENT TOMASELLI
Couturier
Eric Yale
The street dead-ended at a low wall. Beyond the ridge of the concrete a few tired trees blew in the wind. The adjoining buildings slept around them. Only Vince’s dump showed a light, a feeble glow through the vestibule. The traffic noises filtered through weakly from the main street beyond.
Peggy shivered at my side.
“It’s like something out of a bad movie,” she said. “Can’t you come back here during the day?”
“I’m stubborn, Peggy. Tomaselli is a good lead.”
“I should have had another drink.”
“I can take you back,” I said. “If it hurts
that much.”
“I’ll stay.” Her hand clutched my arm tight. She would be brave out of her deep resolve to find her sister. Or was she coming along for the more subtle reasons? In the deep gloom I couldn’t see her face. But the pressure of her body telegraphed confidence in me. “Just let’s get off this miserable street,” she said.
I pressed the buzzer. Buzzer? From deep in the guts of the house a clanging bell went off. From where I stood, the murky interior seemed etched in fogged light. On the far wall of the vestibule a vague square blob could have been an ornate frame for a large picture. Beyond the frame, an oval mirror shone with an eerie glow. I stared hard at the mirror. Somebody had moved in it, a passing figure, going away fast.
I pressed the bell again.
Now the figure returned, unsure of itself. Then, in a burst of movement, he was coming toward the door.
“For the Lord’s sake,” he said in a high-pitched whinny. “What do you want at this hour?”
“Only a few words, Eric.”
I had him by the arm before he could slam the door. He hit the wall and slid away, the wind knocked out of him. His hand started up, but I was in no mood for fresh games. I pushed hard. He fell back ahead of us.
We were in the square foyer. Eric kept backing away, moving toward the big room on the right. He seemed unconcerned with my presence in the dump. But his crazy eyes were loaded with fear at the sight of Peggy. She could have been a murderess, holding a knife to his face.
“Get her out of here,” he whined.
“Sit down, Eric,” I said. “She won’t touch you.”
He sat hard, in a big red chair. We were in the showroom section of Vince’s establishment. I flipped the wall switch and the room burst into light. The decor popped your eyes, a symphony of red and black done with a masterful touch. The color and style brought wonder to Peggy’s eyes. Or was it the little gallery of paintings in the alcove beyond Eric Yale’s chair?”
Peggy walked slowly into the alcove.
In the next minute I knew why. There were four oils hanging there, three of them landscapes, the last a nude. The somber colors grabbed you and held you. It was another sad pose, another model who looked at you out of a world of blues and grays. The flesh was painted well. The head itself had been drawn slightly out of scale, so that you caught the brooding, sleepy languor of the face first.
Girl Running Page 5
