by Ed Lacy
10
Bobo and I started driving around, looking for the tennis courts I'd seen from Will's window. When I finally found them, they were empty except for a girl in white shorts hitting a ball against the side of a one-story building. I watched her legs moving around, realized this was the same gal I'd seen through Will's binoculars... and that she must be Laurie Shelton. Merely looking at her was a pleasure... she was short, but unlike most short girls wasn't bony or overfat, rather she was a lot of hard, healthy curves, and so well proportioned, she looked tall. Her face was almost pretty, dark hair cut close around the clean features. But it was a tired face, a little strained and hard—with the deadpan look of an athlete going through the monotony of the daily training grind.
Watching the smooth ripple of muscles as she moved about, the small pointed breasts shaking under her tight blouse... left me confused. There wasn't anything sexy about her. I almost suspected she had a lot of man in her —yet I found myself completely forgetting Louise, had that tight-hot feeling inside me I get when I want a girl real bad. I was as warm as a...
Bobo nudged me in the ribs. “That little hunk of fine stuff on our suspect list?”
“I'm sure going to find out,” I called over my shoulder as I stepped out of the car. Walking through the wire-fence doorway, I stopped about ten feet from her, watching the sure way her legs moved, the determined expression on her face as she whacked the ball—and she could really punish the pill.
The ball hit a warped plank of the wooden wall, went off at an angle. She reached too far to her right for it, lost her balance. As she fell, she neatly tossed the racket aside, broke the fall by slapping the hard court with her outstretched right hand, and with her left hand down by her strong hips. I ran over as she sat up, asked, “Hurt, Miss Shelton?”
She shook her head, jumped up. I got the racket. “Where did you learn how to fall? Judo?”
“You know judo?” she asked, looking me over coolly.
“Black Belt, First Degree,” I said and her eyes said she thought I was a liar.
“How did you know my name? Tennis fan?”
“Going to be. I'm Hal Darling. The janitor at your house said I'd find you here.”
She went over to a bench in the shade of the shack she'd been bouncing the ball against, brushed herself off, tossed a sweater on her shoulders as she sat down. She was sweating a little, but not as much as she should, a sign she was overtrained. But even her sweat smelt like perfume to me.
“All right, Mr. Darling—what is it?” Her voice was hard and tough, yet I had a feeling it was all a sham—an old act.
“I'm a detective and...”
“Christ, I've seen enough detectives.”
“Private dick. Have ideas about your father's murder.”
“Not interested in hiring you. The police are handling the hold-up and...”
I wanted to jar her. “I didn't ask you to hire me. And it wasn't a hold-up, it was deliberate murder.”
Nothing happened, except her eyes narrowed and her large mouth tightened. “The police will be interested in you—your ideas.”
“Going to the police when I can prove my... eh... ideas. Look, I was working on another case, but it keeps crisscrossing your father's murder, so I...”
“Murder?” she snapped. “I guess a hold-up killing can be called that.”
I wanted to reach over and stroke her tense face, or slap the coldness out of it. “Two more killings make it out-and-out murder. Interested in finding the killer...?”
“Yes!” she said with a savage fierceness that made me jump. “I must find the killers!”
I waved my hands. “We have a lot in common, same size, judo, now this. I'd like to ask you some questions, frank ones that may...”
“Be as frank as you wish.”
“Thanks. Mr. Shelton come into any money before he died? Talk of expecting any?”
“No.”
“Did he gamble, play the market, seem in debt... have any women...?”
She looked away as she said, “If you knew my father....”
“Hear he was a tight guy with a buck. Was he in any kind of money trouble?”
“Never.”
“Did a phony detective search your place week or so before the shooting?”
Now she stared at me. “Why, yes, a man from some insurance company. How did you know?”
“Upset your father a lot?”
She nodded. “His life followed a certain mold, anything out of way upset him.”
“Then why didn't he report it to the banks, to the cops?”
“Dad wasn't the kind to start trouble.”
I had to take a quick guess. “Why didn't you tell the cops this after the shooting?”
She stared at me with hard eyes, her mouth a sullen smear... and I was so nervous my legs were trembling. “What are you getting at?”
“That your father was dipping in the till, was shot because of that,” I said, giving it to her without any gloves.
She jumped up. “If this is your idea of a joke....”
Our eyes were on the same level. It was a relief not to have to look up at a girl. “Two dead women are hardly a joke.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. But I'll tell you about my father: he was a good man, devoted his life to me. Everything he did was for me. We played tennis, went hiking, hunting, fishing together. Ever since mother died, all we had was each other. Does that sound like a man who would rob?”
“Nope, but that's how the thing has to add up. Unless... you have a boyfriend in a jam or...?”
“I have no time for... boys.”
I smiled at her.
“What's so damn funny, Mister...?”
“Darling. I like you.”
“Now isn't that just peachy! You walk on the court, tell me Father was murdered, that he was a thief, and now that you like met What am I supposed to do, turn handsprings!”
“Bet you can, too. Look, Laurie, we're both driving at the same goal, and we can either work together or bat our heads together and...”
“You'll get nowheres thinking Father was a crook!”
“I can be wrong, but you still haven't explained why he didn't go to the police after that phony detective searched your flat. The point is, I don't care what he was—I only want to find the killer... want to find him worse than you do.”
“No one wants to find the killer worse than I...”
“Two women are dead, I got both of them mixed up in this mess. Feel responsible for...”
“I know how you must feel,” she said, her voice changing suddenly, becoming gentle. “All right, we have to work together, trust each other. What do you want me to do?”
“I have things about figured out—except for one piece: there has to be a bundle of green some place. Certain you never heard of...?”
“If we're going to work together, get one thing straight, Pop would never steal a bank blotter, much less money. Had a fetish about honesty, the value of money. Why the bank was part of him, in his blood.”
“One more question, did he ever mention an Ed Franklin? 'Cat' Franklin?”
“No.”
“If you're done bouncing balls around, let's have lunch, talk some more.”
She hesitated. “All right, but one thing more; there's nothing personal in our... eh... relationship. I mean don't start...”
“Have a car that comes complete with a chaperon. Get dressed. That outfit is a bit brief for the street, although I like it.”
“I hardly give a damn whether you like it or not!” she said, disappearing into the shack.
11
Laurie came out a minute later, wearing plaid slacks, the same blouse. As we walked toward the car I asked, “They leave these tennis courts open all day, nobody around?”
“The manager is inside, restringing some rackets. Why?”
“Merely curious as to what's left guarded and unguarded in this world. Here's your chaperon. Bobo Martinez, meet Laurie Shelto
n.”
They said hello and the three of us squeezed into the front seat. As I drove I kept watching the windshield mirror to see if any other car took off at the same time; didn't see a thing.
I parked in front of the first decent-looking luncheonette we passed, told Bobo, who was in the midst of explaining his face to Laurie that we were going to have lunch. He said, “I'll wait.”
It was nearly one. “Best you go back to the office. Shirley said she'd return around three and I'm not keen on leaving her alone. I'll call in later, but if you don't hear from me by five, both of you take off.”
“Sure thing, Hal. Well, so long, Miss Shelton.”
“Goodbye, chaperon.”
Bobo did a slight double-take, then walked away. Laurie said, “Large fellow, good shoulders. Was he really a famous fighter?”
“Yeah. You go for large men?” I asked, as we went inside, sat down in one of the booths.
“Only an idiot picks a man by size,” she said smugly.
The fat counterman waddled over to us with water and silverware and we each ordered a sandwich and iced tea. Sitting directly opposite her I examined Laurie's face with great care. She had high cheek bones and the angles of her face were so severe, they gave her an exotic look. It was an exciting face, but also strained and unhappy, the eyes restless. And every movement, even raising a glass of water to her mouth, was a movement of supple muscles. There wasn't anything “feminine” about her, not a thing that could be called sultry or sexy, yet she had me on edge.
As we ate, I kept examining her face, wondering why she gave me a fever, and glad she did.
She suddenly put her sandwich down, said, “If you don't stop staring at me, I'll throw my tea in your face!”
“Stop the tough act, Laurie, you don't have to impress me or...”
“Impress you? Why you...” She was so mad she couldn't talk. She started to get up but I grabbed her hand, held it on the table, hard. “Just stop it,” I said. “Remember, we're out to get a murderer—that's all that matters, for now.” I let go of her hand.
She rubbed the top of her hand, touched the callus on the side of my hand with her short nails. “You really are a judo man.”
“Told you, Black Belt...”
“I don't believe everything you tell me, Darling... Hal. Can't stand calling you darling! As I said before, don't try any mush stuff with me, this is purely business.”
“Sure is, and one of us has to be honest all down the line. I'm telling you I like you, and I'm going to try as much... mush stuff... with you as I can.”
“How dare you!”
“Laurie, cut the corn. 'Mush stuff' and 'how dare you.' We said we'd play it on the level, fine, but let's get two things straight: First, and most important, I want to get the killer. Second, I like you. That's no crime. Any relationship is a fifty-fifty deal. My fifty per cent goes for you, if your fifty per cent says no, then that's that. But it doesn't stop me from trying. Now, let's get down to cases. You sure...”
“Let's get to cases, in the romance department you're wasting your time.”
“But it's my time, so let me worry. Think carefully, anything you haven't told me?”
“I have a feeling I'm being watched all the time. Also, think my apartment has been searched. I can't prove this, but small items don't seem to be in their proper places.”
“Tell this to the cops?”
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Told you,” she said too quickly, “I'm not sure about these things. Could be all my imagination.”
I didn't believe that, but let it go. She finished her sandwich, asked, “What's the next step in finding the murderers?”
“Murderer—one guy. I know who he is, what I don't know is the motive—yet.”
Her eyes turned animal—hard and bright. “You know? Who is he?”
“Tell you in time.”
“Thought we were going to be oh so honest with each other?”
“We have to be, remember that,” I told her gently. “Not telling you who he is because the less you know the safer you are. Don't forget, I'm two killings and a couple of pastings up on you. Tell me, your father leave you any money?
“I fail to see what business that.... Oh, you keep harping on money! Yes he had a few hundred in the bank, a Long Island plot he always wanted to build on—and never got up stick one—and a fifteen-hundred-dollar policy the bank broke its heart by giving all its employees.”
“You don't like the bank?”
“They sucked my father's life dry. Oh, I suppose it wasn't all their fault. Pop was too... conservative.”
“You work?”
“I work damn hard—I'm a tennis bum.” She almost smiled and it did wonders to her face, made me realize Laurie was only a scared kid, made me want to reach over and hug her. “I'm not on the big time, but I will be. But there aren't too many women players, so I get an invite to most of the tournaments—with expense money.”
“Tennis must mean a lot to you. I never...”
“I'm sick and tired of it!” she said in that odd, explosive way she had of blurting out things. “Day after day, the same dull grind. But I'm twenty-two and tennis is all I really know, so I keep at it.”
She told me about playing tennis with her father when she was a youngster, becoming a star in high school. When I asked why she'd never gone to college, she said, “Couldn't afford it. Anyway, Father had old-fashioned ideas about education and women.”
“Couldn't your tennis bring you a scholarship?”
“Did get one offer, from a California university, but that meant I'd have to be away from Father and that... was that.”
“Poppa ever talk about retiring soon?”
“Will you please stop insinuating my father was a thief!”
“Laurie, detective work means running down each and every minor clue. There has to be a wad of dough in this, and I have to find it. That's why...”
What about those two girls you said were... were killed?” she asked, not so neatly changing the subject.
One of them was in the papers yesterday, Anita Rogers, my secretary. The other—police haven't found her body yet, but I did, and that's why I have to get this solved, but on the double.”
“You found the body...? Aren't you afraid I'll tell the police?”
I looked her square in the eyes, said, “No,” and wondered if I'd gone completely looney, trusting her and knowing she was lying to me!
She flushed, her sun-tanned face turning dark. “Stop staring at me like a kid. What do we do now?”
“I don't know. See what breaks in the next couple hours.” She stood up. “I'm going home to get some sleep, then back to the court.”
I paid the check. As we got into my car I asked, “Still feel you're being watched?” I looked around, casually. The street was too busy to make a tail.
“Yes. I've felt it all the time, since the... killing.”
“Yet you live alone. Sometimes being brave is the same as being stupid.”
“What else can I do?” Laurie said, almost desperately. “No family, no friends.”
I had to stop myself from going into a routine about the one friend she had now. It would have sounded very corny. I drove her home, didn't spot anybody following us. Outside her house I gave her my card, said, “Anything comes up, call me. Give me your phone number, I'll check with you around six.”
Driving downtown, I kept snaking in and out of streets, but if I was being tailed, the guy was damn good. I parked as near Margrita's hotel as I could, finding a space only three blocks away. When I asked the hotel clerk if she was in, he answered in that indifferent, chilly voice hotel clerks must be born with, “I'll see. Who shall I say is calling?”
I wrote on the back of one of my cards, “I've found Marion Lodge. She wants to see you. I'm in the lobby.” Handing the card to the clerk, I told him, “Send this message up.”
“I did not say Miss de Mayo was in.”
�
��And neither did you say she was out. Send this up.” He rang for a bellhop and I put half a buck on top of the card. I only had to hang around the lobby a few minutes before the desk phone rang and the clerk told me, “Kindly go up to Penthouse B. Front elevators.” He sounded as bored as ever.
Margrita opened the door herself, wearing a bright-red robe that clung to her fine body. I nodded and stepped inside. She had an expensive suite of rooms, all the furniture very modern and correct—and all of it the hotel's. Atop a wire and glass table there was a cheap china statue of a baby doll, kind of junk you win at Coney Island, and probably the only thing Margrita had added to the place.
She didn't have any make-up on and her face looked hard. Judging from the tiny balls of pus in the corners of her eyes, she must have just gotten up. She motioned toward a stuffed chair and I sat down. She squatted on a blue-leather hassock opposite me, her robe falling away, those wonderful legs pointing at me. I glanced at them once, comparing them with Laurie's muscular stems. Margrita lit a cigarette without offering me one, asked, “How's Marion?”
“I don't know, how are you?”
She blew out a dainty stream of smoke, asked, “Where did you get that dopey idea?”
“Cut it, baby. I stumbled on it, but if you want me to prove it the hard way, I can.”
“You're a lousy detective. Made a big mistake, I'm not..”
“Look, I'm tired, don't make me work. Marion was once pinched for hustling, her prints are in the police files. I can get yours any.... What's the point of going through that routine? All I want you to do is get in touch with my client, tell him what you want done with the farm.” I wrote Guy Moore's name and address on a card, dropped it in her lap and started for the door.
She ran over, grabbed my shoulder, spun me around like I was a toy top. “Stop the crap,” she said. “I'll pay you once, that's all!”
“Already been paid for locating you. Far as I'm concerned, the case is closed.”
“You think I'm simple? You have me over a barrel, with my past—”
“Look, your past is exactly that—past. Whoring is a crummy job and a person takes a crummy job only because they're hungry. I'm no Boy Scout, but neither do I set myself up as a judge of anybody's personal business. Only...”
