“I’m taking your word, Conacher.”
“The name,” I said. “Give me his name.”
“Lawrence Fanchon.”
He dropped it and it bounced against the wall of my intellect, striking hard at my memories of the recent past. Lawrence Fanchon! The name sang in my brain. The skip-trace expert has a head for names, because names are the bread and butter of his business, to be filed and catalogued, to be surveyed and inspected, to be memorized and stored away in the hidden chambers of the mind. Names were my meat and fish. Over the years I had studied them in a variety, of source sheets, from the city directories to the phone book lists. The tough ones were the Smiths and Browns, the Cohens and Kellys, the Tuckers and Flynns and their friends the Rosenblums, Bakers, Joneses, Blacks, Greens and Whites. A man named Arthur Miller had led me up a dozen blind alleys before I landed him. A woman named Gwen Fisher had teased me in seven states before I finally made the locate on her.
But I had caught a character named Hestie in record time, because his moniker was odd.
As odd as Fanchon!
I said, “The name rings a bell.”
“Larry Fanchon is a big wheel in the steel business.”
“You handle his advertising?”
“For the past five years.”
“And he runs the business by himself?”
“Not exactly,” Plummer said. “His father has a few words to say.”
“That would be Eric Fanchon?”
“The same.”
“The art fancier?”
“Do you know him?” Plummer asked.
“Slightly,” I said. “But I’m going to know him better from here on out!”
CHAPTER 12
Joy Marsh’s apartment had been vacated a month ago. The rheumy old bag who was her landlady interviewed me in a moth-eaten parlor, a relic of the horse and bustle days, overstuffed with Grand Rapids furniture and smelling of the dank and soulless odors of antiquity. The rooming house was of the respectable variety—a dozen rooms or so, leased to tenants who could afford to pay slightly higher rates for an easy walk to Fifth Avenue and the fresher air of Central Park.
“Where did Miss Marsh go?” I asked.
“I didn’t ask her,” sniffed the landlady. “I mind my own business.”
“How about mail? She’d need a forwarding address for her mail.”
“That’s no concern of mine. Maybe she didn’t expect letters.”
“Why not? She was a popular girl.”
“That she was. Very.”
“How do you mean it?” I asked, softly and with no show of antagonism. The wrinkled old heifer was the nervous type, almost encouraging a chance to explode with words. “She had lots of visitors?”
“She was out is what I mean.” She fixed me with her icy eyes, adjusting her spectacles so that they balanced on her nose tip, as precarious as a bicycle on a tightrope. “I don’t allow any men visitors upstairs. This is a respectable house, mister.”
“Of course it is. But you must have seen some of the men who took her out?”
“Some? I saw them all.”
“Can you describe them?”
“Oh, nonsense,” she snapped. “How can you describe the men? There were two of them, mostly. One was tall and big boned, and the other was shorter—maybe a mite taller than you, but short just the same. He wore glasses and he dressed well.”
“And the taller one, was he ever in your parlor?”
“Of course he was.”
“A mustache?”
She thought back and then nodded her head vigorously. “That’s him. But he stopped coming after a while and the other one began. Look here, young man. This is my busy time of day. Are you all finished? I have work to do.”
“You’ve been grand,” I said. “Just one thing more—and I know you’ll be honest with me because you’re just naturally sweet. Tell me—what did you think of Joy Marsh? Did you like her?”
She melted under the flattery. She fiddled with her apron and made sly faces at her hands, moving her mouth around in a silent exercise as she deliberated her conclusions.
“Well, now, I can’t really say anything against the girl,” she admitted. “She was certainly a pretty child, and I suppose all girls of that age have friends visiting them. But she never did anything wrong—not in this house.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” I said, and started for the door.
“Wait a minute,” said the old lady, before I reached the vestibule. “There was a thing that happened one night, maybe it was something I wasn’t supposed to hear. But I couldn’t help it, and it might mean something to you.” She removed her glasses and rubbed her fingers along the bridge of her needle nose, closing her eyes on the memory and shaking her head sadly. “One night, rather late, I happened to be in the hall, close to her bedroom. Not that I wanted to snoop, mind you. It was just that I heard her inside there. She was sobbing as though her heart would break. It was an awful thing to hear. For me, I mean, because I had children of my own. Of course, they’re all gone now, a long time ago—”
“What happened?” I asked. “Why was she crying?”
“She didn’t say. I went in to her and tried to comfort her, but she just wouldn’t tell me a thing about it. It was a shame, I thought—her not having anybody to talk to, I mean. And I never did find out what was bothering her, because she left a few days later.”
“And the men, did either of them come back?”
“The one with the mustache did.”
“How did he act?”
“He was surprised to find out she’d moved.”
I thanked her again and made my usual check-ups in the neighborhood. There are possible leads by way of the trades people: the druggist, the shoe-repair man, the stationer and the laundry. Sometimes a subject leaves traces of his whereabouts inadvertently. Sometimes a bag of old wash can help track down the most proficient deadbeat. But the threads were cold. A druggist and a stationer remembered her and waxed pleasantly reminiscent about her figure and her beauty. A news vendor near the subway station recalled her morning smile. And there the trail died. And there Joy Marsh faded into the fogged oblivion that teases the mind of a skip-trace man and manufactures headaches in his odd moments. The search for the missing can be a tortuous road, leading over the hills and far away, through trains or buses, planes and ships, a thousand veins in a skein of haphazard evidence. But when the beginning clues are dead, the challenge screams at the intellect of the pursuer.
I visited Slip Keddy at his hotel, immediately.
I woke him up and he came to life after a few drags on a cigarette. He spilled an inventory of information, closing his bagged eyes and reciting his news as though he were reading a detailed summary off invisible index cards tucked away in some secret corner of his brain.
“I met Rose, from over at Mary Ray’s—both of them,” Slip began. “Rose and I got along well together. She’s a cozy piece and old in the trade.”
“She didn’t look old to me.”
“She’s a five-year tart and that’s considered the average in pro standing, chum. Don’t fight me—I’m quoting Rose herself, all the way down the line. She was quite cooperative, especially because she was one of Mary’s first girls, and she loved her boss. She told me all about Mary’s house. Did you know that it was something special?”
“In what way?”
“It was a combination operation, a modem outfit. Years ago, when Mary got started, she entered the field of the bagnio with about a dozen girls and the customers coming in from key places. At first, when Mary had so many girls, there were plenty of outlets for snaring business. In those days, everybody came to call at Mary’s. But during the past five years, a big change took place. How come you didn’t know about it? You and Mary were great friends.”
“We never talked business.”<
br />
“She had a business worth talking about. According to Rose, the managerial end of the deal has always been handled by King Barchy, who always gets his cut, all the way down the line. He has agents out in the field to contact the girls, most of whom live in a state of semi-respectability and don’t broadcast the fact that they are to be had for a fee and a phone call. The deal works in a rather simple way. Mary Ray took calls for the use of her bedrooms from only two places: the Rebus, and another bistro of the same standing further downtown, called George’s. These two dumps were responsible for shipping all the cash customers up to Mary’s for the use of her rooms and her two steady girls, Anita and Rose.”
“How about Tiny?”
“They didn’t talk about her.”
“She didn’t service any callers?”
“She was for the outside trade,” Slip said. “And the send-out trade was fabulous. King Barchy operates a central clearinghouse, in which all of his call girls are indexed and neatly filed. If you want a girl, of any type or any size, and you know the switchboard number, you simply phone in your needs and sit back to await the special number sent out for your amusement. The girls will travel anywhere within reason, because King Barchy arranges transportation. They move around like salesmen and will accommodate you for a set price, made known to you when you phone in. Of course, the tariff is high for these girls, because they’re all special stuff. The average gal earns between twenty-five and fifty bucks a call, but there are the ultra-specials who can demand as high as a C-note an hour because of their special skills for queer customers. The madame waxes rich on the profits from her little birds. She gets a straight fifty per cent of their take. Then she splits her dough with King Barchy and his henchmen, for protection in all emergencies. Everybody is happy, since the dough is steady and the payments are dropped in cash. It eliminates the old routine of hooking the suckers in the streets by way of the ancient street-walking techniques. The overhead is high for Barchy, but you can imagine how much it bothers him. His gross is reported to be fifty grand a week.”
I whistled. “That’s big dough.”
“It’s big for some of the girls, too. Rose mentioned the names of a couple of fancy girls who net an estimated grand a week for their exertions. These characters are choice and lush. They live in respectable houses, passing themselves off as respectable chippies. Some of them even hold down minor jobs of one sort or another, just to keep their reputation clean. But at night they can be had for a proper fee and a phone call to the right clearing house.”
“How about Joy Marsh?” I asked.
“She was on call only.”
“Rose said that?”
“Rose knows,” Slip said. “She met Joy when she walked in to Mary’s place. They got to be pretty good friends for a while. She claims that Joy Marsh wasn’t built for the business.”
“What does that mean?”
“Joy was young at it—and she didn’t like it.”
“But she did it?”
“Rose says she had to do it for a while. She came in from out of town, a bright-eyed kid who wanted to be a model. She got tied up with one of the phony model schools and they took all her dough in exchange for a few souped-in lessons on how to walk with a book on your head. After that they sent her to a smart apple who ran a fake booking office for models. But he was shipping out the young girls on party dates, where they could either earn a fee on their backs, or go home to Winnipesaukee and the old folks. Joy got her come-uppance at one of those shindigs. A drunken stiff attacked her in a back room and started her rolling into the prostitute army. She broke up completely after that, mostly because she’s a sensitive kid who considered herself ruined forever. After that, she found her way to King Barchy’s index file easily. And the rest you know.”
“How long was she at it?”
“Not too long.”
“A month—six months—a year?”
“A couple of months,” Slip said. “Does that make you feel any happier about her?”
“I’ll never be happy about her. Not anymore.”
I got off the bed and walked away from him, aware of the sudden queasy pitch in my stomach, an end of the world feeling that would take a long time to shake off. But the picture of Joy Marsh was too strong to be brushed aside. “Does Rose ever see her anymore?”
“Joy Marsh faded—completely. When she quit Mary’s.”
“Maybe not. Have you got King Barchy’s switchboard number?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Phone it.”
“At this hour? They’ll think you’re crazy. You don’t phone in for call girls at this hour of the day, Steve.”
I jerked the slip of paper out of his hand and went to the phone. The dame at the other end was as sweet as the information clerk in a maternity hospital; she had a cool, smooth voice that telegraphed refinement and dignity.
“Good morning,” she said. “This is Rudy’s.”
“How about sending someone up here?” I asked. “Or is it too early in the morning?”
“Rudy’s is known for good service. Where are you?”
“The Hotel Montcliff. Room eight-oh-two.”
“It can be arranged.”
“I want the same girl I had before.”
“Kindly give me her name and I will see if she is available.”
“Joy Marsh,” I said.
“Hold the wire, please.”
There was a long pause while I fiddled a cigarette into my mouth and sucked at it hungrily. If Joy’s name was still in the file, I would be nearing the end of the road. But the prospect of finding her in such a place worked against the hope inside me and killed it with the bitter emptiness involved in the finding. I didn’t want Joy in Barchy’s file. I wanted her where she belonged, out in the world, in a respectable job. Because she was no tart. Because she existed in my memory as something good and fine.
And then the voice on the wire said, “I am sorry, sir. There is no record of a Joy Marsh in our files. Will somebody else serve as well? We have—”
I hung up.
“Dead end?” Slip asked.
“She’s out of the Barchy file. Yet she must have been pretty close to Mary Ray. She saw Mary last night.”
“You’re stabbing. She might have talked to Mary on the phone.”
“I doubt it. You’d have to meet Joy to understand why I’m so sure of her.”
“I can’t wait,” Slip said. He rolled over on his side and sat up and began to rub his big hands through his hair. “I also can’t wait to make the locate on the chauffeur. Finding a special-sized chauffeur in this town is like looking for a virgin in Mary Ray’s. Chauffeurs usually hole up out of town. They come in from the big estates out on Long Island or up in Westchester or Connecticut. How in hell are we going to sift and sort them?”
“The parking lots,” I said. “Try the ones in the midtown area, where I first saw the big slob. It may be that he comes in every day and parks in the same lot. That would be in the section around Forty-Fifth Street.”
“It’s a pretty crumby lead.”
“But it’s a lead. Keep after it.”
“And what are you keeping after? Joy Marsh?”
“I’ll find Joy Marsh. But I’ve got other fish to fry now. I’m heading down to the Village for a session with a model named Gloria Vola.”
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“I’m not going to paint her.”
“Keep your nose clean,” Slip said, and rolled out of bed toward the john. “Some of those Greenwich Village gals strike the funniest poses.”
CHAPTER 13
Gloria Vola sat across her kitchen table from me. Her kitchen wasn’t really a kitchen at all. Her flat was a middle-sized room, with a low ceiling and naked plaster walls decorated with an assortment of large reproductions, clipped from the art magazines. T
here was a zany bookcase near her brass bed, enough to hold three volumes and a variety of small bottles of a medicinal nature. The bed was unmade and well tossed. Three colored cushions sat in odd positions on the bright coverlet. Gloria’s underthings hung over the foot of the monstrosity, the silk stockings draped alongside her peach silk underwear, as though she had climbed into bed in a hurry last night. There were two windows in the place, one on the street and the other in the exposed closet that was the kitchenette. A variety of odors filled the place, a combination of stale coffee and ancient whisky.
I said, “You’re a late riser, Gloria.”
“I can afford it. They don’t call me for posing before noon, usually. Have some more coffee?”
I waved it away politely. Her coffee was as black as the inside of my hat, as pungent as gall. She was alert and fresh-looking, an unusual combination in a suddenly awakened woman. I had undoubtedly roused her from her bed of rest when I rang the bell ten minutes ago. The Greek bartender in the Barrel warned me that she might be fast asleep when he gave me her address. He also indicated, in his stuttering English, that she might be more difficult to get along with when she was sober. But he was wrong. The memory of our friendship last night was still alive in her eyes. She was smiling at me prettily, as coy as an ingénue. She looked at me with an open-eyed regard, making up her mind about me.
Her hair was frizzled and uncombed. She was wearing a quilted robe of light blue material. She wore it casually, unwrapped around the midriff. She wore nothing else. She was a model, accustomed to letting the slips fall where they may.
I said, “You’re mad at me because I left you at Eric Fanchon’s?”
“It’s got nothing to do with Fanchon.”
“You were out as cold as a clam when I left you.”
“I stayed that way,” she said evenly. “Eric Fanchon doesn’t bother me, ever.”
“He has no taste.”
“He’s got nothing, brother. Absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing but money?”
“Dirty money,” she said. “I wouldn’t touch it.”
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