Traffic hummed and the sun worked and I read. Traffic hummed and the sun went away for a while and I read on.
A chime sounded and I came out of the Hemingway world to this one.
It was a telegram from Sally. She’d be here around seven.
I was on the way back to the patio when the door opened and Max came in. His face was pale; he stared at me with horror and some wonder in his brown eyes. He had a newspaper in his hand.
“What’s wrong, Max? You sick?”
“I’m sick. We’re in trouble, kid.” He waved the paper at me. “Nobody’s been here — no — cops?”
“Hell, no. What is it, what’s the story?”
He looked past me. “The clerk, damn it — ” He turned toward the door. “I’ll be back.” He threw me the paper. “Read that, and ask if we’re in trouble.” The door slammed behind him.
There was a picture of a girl on the front page, a girl with a badly battered face. She was wearing a negligee from which one breast was about to emerge. She was sprawled awkwardly on what seemed to be a studio couch, her puffed mouth hanging open, her dead eyes staring.
The headline read: Model Found Slain. The story under the headline identified her as former B girl who had recently enjoyed exceptional success as a photographer’s model and had been offered a contract by a small producer.
It was a Hearst paper and the writer called this the promise of a new and fabulous career cut short by the brutal hand of a lustful and vicious killer.
The girl’s name was Mary Kostanic.
But her professional name was Brenda Vane.
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