The Body Lovers

by Mickey Spillane

“Brother rat, with an attitude like that, you can’t miss. Cleo just can’t stand indifference. How’d you ever meet her?”

  “Looking for Greta Service. She lived in the same building.”

  The guy gave me a surprised glance. “Greta? Good grief. She’s long gone.” His eyes ran up and down me. “She give you the brush too?”

  “Never even met her.”

  “That’s good. Guys flipped for that one and she wouldn’t go the route. A few hearts are still bleeding around here. Sol saw her once uptown but she shook him loose in a hurry. Didn’t want anything to do with her old buddies.”

  “Who’s he?”

  He indicated a lanky kid in a red plaid shirt curled up against the wall, chin propped in his hands while he contemplated the trio whanging out the folk songs. “Wait a minute, I’ll go get him.”

  Sol Renner turned out to be a sometimes-writer of ads and captions for the women’s trades and had met Greta Service through a mutual account. My story was that I had a message from a friend who had a job lined up for her, but Sol grimaced and told me to forget it.

  “She didn’t need a job when I saw her last. She was coming out of a fancy restaurant with some joe, all decked out in furs and diamonds and all I got was a quick ‘hello, glad to see you’ and out. I asked her if she heard about Helen Poston, but she just gave me a funny look and nodded, then got into a cab.”

  “Helen Poston?”

  “Yeah. Crazy kook drowned herself. She and Greta did a couple of jobs for Signoret Fashions where I worked and kind of hit it off like dames do. Guess they were friendlier than I thought. So I boo-booed. She sure picked herself a beauty, though.”

  “Who?”

  “Greta,” he said. “The duck she was with was a Charlie Chan type, short, dark and dumpy with b.b. eyes and a mustache. He hustled her in the cab in a hell of a hurry.”

  “Got any idea where I could find her?”

  He grinned and said, “Try New York.”

  “Great.”

  “Maybe some of the others might know?”

  “Ixnay. I’m the only one around here who saw her. The kid’s found her mark. My guess is she doesn’t want to be disturbed. Anyway, she’s not with the working masses any more, that’s for sure.”

  The singers got started on a new theme about war and I finished my drink. Cleo was cornered in the alcove by two straggly-haired kids sucking on beer bottles, trying their damndest to make man talk. I eased them apart; smiling so as not to hurt their feelings and took Cleo’s arm.

  “Time to go, sugar.”

  One of the kids grabbed my hand and said, “Hey!” indignantly, so I wrapped my fingers around his forearm and squeezed a little bit. “Yes?”

  My smile showed all the teeth and he read me right. “Nothing,” he said, so I let him go. Cleo forced back a laugh and hooked her arm under mine and we headed for the door.

  “Big man,” she said. “Big, big man. Come home for coffee. I have something to show you.”

  I kicked the door shut and she flowed into my arms, her mouth a wild little volcano trying to pull me into its core. Deliberately, she took my hand, pressed it against the warmth of her belly, then forced it up to cup her breast Beneath my fingers she hardened, her body twitching spasmodically, pressing against me in a plain language of desire.

  Very gently I pushed her away and held her hands in mine. Her eyes were full of soft fire, lovely and wise, her lips moist and trembling. She looked at me for a long second, then said, “No coffee?”

  “Rain check?”

  She smiled ruefully and touched my face with her fingertips. “How can you do this to me, big man?”

  “It isn’t easy.”

  “The next time I’ll make it real hard for you.”

  “Shut up,” I grinned.

  chapter 4

  I came in out of the rain, threw my coat over the back of the desk chair and picked up the coffee Velda had waiting for me. She let me finish half of it before she came over and laid a two-page report down in front of me. “Rough night?”

  Women. I didn’t bother playing her game. “Not bad. I got a line on Greta Service.”

  “So did L”

  “Brief me,” I said.

  “She had six hundred dollars in charges she had been paying off monthly. She cleaned them all up at once with cash payments, didn’t draw on any more purchases and never left a forwarding address. One woman in the credit department knew her from when she was a saleswoman and waited on her. From what she hinted at, Greta Service was wearing finer clothes than the store supplied. Where were you last night?”

  “Working.” I synopsized the details of last night for her, emphasizing the relationship Greta Service had had with Helen Poston. Velda made a few notes on a scratch pad, her face serious. “Want me to follow it up?”

  “Yeah, ask around her neighborhood. They’d remember a suicide, all right. Lay on a few bucks if you have to grease anybody. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a reporter doing a follow-up yarn. Just be careful.”

  “Like you?” She gave me a poke with her elbow.

  I looked up at her and a teasing smile was playing with the corner of her mouth. “Okay, I won’t bug you,” she said. “Only you could have put on a clean shirt without lipstick on the collar.”

  “I’m a show off,” I said.

  “That you are, chum. Sometimes I could kill you.” She refilled my cracked cup from the quart container and asked, “What do you think?”

  “A pattern’s showing. Greta came up with money from some area. It looks more like she found a sponsor than a job.”

  “That’s what the credit manager suggested. Did you check the m.p.’s with Pat?”

  “No good. Who’d report her missing? Harry came directly to me. From now on it’s legwork around probable places she might spend time in.”

  “Would they recognize her from that photo Hy gave you? It isn’t very good.”

  “No, but I know where I can get a better one,” I told her.

  Velda picked up her coffee and sat on the arm of the chair beside me. “And I’ll do the work while you carouse ... is that it?”

  “That’s what I got you for, baby,” I said cheerfully.

  “You’re asking for it,” she growled back. “All this for a con.”

  “It goes further than that. Has Pat called?”

  “No, but Hy has. He washed out the Miami trip for a few days to do a couple of features on Mitch Temple. You’d better buzz him.”

  “Okay.” I finished the coffee and reached for my coat. “I’ll check in this afternoon.”

  “Mike ...”

  “What, kitten?”

  “It’s those negligees....”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget. Mitch Temple wasn’t killed for nothing. Pat’ll run that lead right into the ground. When he has something I’ll know about it.”

  The Proctor Group was located in the top half of a new forty-story building it had just built on Sixth Avenue, a glass and concrete monument to commercialism with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital.

  Dulcie McInnes was listed on the lobby directory as Executive Fashion Editor with offices on the top floor. I got in the elevator along with a half dozen women who eyed me speculatively and seemed to pass knowing little glances between them when I pushed the top button.

  It was a woman’s world, all right. The decor was subtle pastels, the windows draped with feminine elegance and footsteps were muted by the thick pale green carpeting. Expensive oil paintings decorated the walls of the reception room, but something seemed to be missing.

  The two harried little men I saw scuttled around like mice in a house full of cats, forcing badgered smiles at the dominant females who wore their hats like crowns, performing their insignificant tasks meticulously, gratefully acknowledging the curt nods of their overlords with abundant thank you’s. What was missing were the whips on the wall. The damn place was a harem and they were the eunuchs. One looked at me as if I were a peddler who came to t
he front door of the mansion, was about to ask me my business when he caught the reproving eye of the receptionist and drifted off without a word.

  She was a gray woman with the hard eyes and stern mouth of the dean of a girls’ school. Her expression was one of immediate rejection and no compromise. She was the guardian dog at the portals of the castle, not there to greet, but to discourage any entry. Her suit had an almost military cut to it and her voice held a tone of total hostility.

  “May I help you?”

  Help? She was wanting to know what the hell I was doing there in the first place.

  “I’d like to see Dulcie McInnes,” I said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’m afraid it’s impossible.” The dismissal was as fast as that. To make it more pointed, she went back to sorting her mail.

  Only she had the wrong mouse this time. I walked to the side of the desk, leaned over and whispered in her ear. Her eyes went wide open almost to the point of bursting, her face a dead white, then a slow flush began at her neck and suffused her cheeks and the stammer that came out of her mouth had a little squeak to it.

  “Now,” I said.

  Her head bobbed and she tried to wet her lips with a tongue just as dry. She pushed back from the desk, got up and edged around me nervously and stepped inside the door marked Private beside her. In ten seconds she was back, holding the door open timorously to let me in, then closed it quickly with a short gasp of horror, when I grinned at her.

  The woman on the couch wasn’t what I expected at all. She had a mature beauty only middle age can bring when nature cooperates with fashion demands and scientific treatment. A touch of gray added a silvery quality to hair that fell in soft waves around a face that held a gentle tan. Her mouth was full and rich, curved in a welcoming smile. She put the layout sheets on the coffee table and stood up, sensing my immediate approval of the way the black sheath dress encompassed the swell of her breasts and dipped into the hollow and flare of her hips.

  But it was her eyes that got you. They were a bright, unnatural emerald green full of laughter.

  “Miss McInnes?”

  Her teeth sparkled white under her smile and she held her hand out. “Whatever did you say to Miss Tabor? She was absolutely terrified.”

  “Maybe I’d better not repeat it.”

  “She never even got your name.”

  Her hand was firm and warm in mine, enthusiastic for the few moments she held it. “Mike Hammer,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”

  “Now that’s a novelty up here,” she laughed. “No wonder Miss Tabor was so upset. Haven’t I read about you?”

  “Probably.”

  She walked back to the couch and sat down, held out a box of cigarettes to me when I took the chair opposite her and lit us both with an ornate gold lighter.

  “You’ve got me curious about your visit. Who’s being investigated?”

  I blew out a cloud of smoke and took the photograph from my pocket. “Nothing spectacular. I’m trying to find this woman. Greta Service ... she’s a model.”

  Dulcie McInnes took the photograph from my hand and studied it a minute. “Should I know her?”

  “Probably not. She applied here for photographic work one time at Cleo’s suggestion and ...”

  “Cleo?” Her head tilted with a gesture of interest. “She’s one of our finest contributors.”

  “Think you may have some test pictures of her?”

  “Undoubtedly. Just a moment.” She picked up the phone, pressed a button on the base and said, “Marsha? See if we have any photos of Greta Service in our personnel files. No, she’s a modeL Bring them up, please.”

  When she hung up she asked, “Did she work for us?”

  “Opinion is that Greta was, well ... a little too stacked for high fashion jobs.”

  “Luckily for us we’re only concerned with the woman’s opinion. You men ... all you want is pin-ups.”

  I looked at her and felt my mouth twist into a smile.

  She threw back her head and laughed, her eyes sparkling in the light. “No, I’m not the high fashion type either, thank goodness. I’d hate to have to starve myself into a size six.”

  “I don’t think that would help much either. When you’re endowed, you’re endowed. Don’t knock it.”

  “Words like that rarely pass through these portals.” Her eyes were filled with a mocking challenge. “I assume you’re an expert on these matters.”

  “I haven’t heard any complaints.”

  Before she could answer there was a knock on the door and a tall, slim girl walked in with a folder, handed it to her boss and threw a nervous little glance toward me before she left. “You made quite an impression outside,” Dulcie McInnes said and handed me the folder after examining it.

  Inside was a typed resume listing Greta Service’s statistics and qualifications. Her address was the one in the Village. Several news clippings from the garment industry’s trade papers showed her in various costumes with her face partially obscured by either a coat collar or wide-brimmed hat, and there were four composite photos with the Proctor Group stamp on the back.

  Greta Service was all that was said about her. No dress could do justice to a body that was so obviously made for a bikini. There was no way of erasing the odd, sensual appeal of her face so beautifully framed by long jet black hair, and no matter how she posed, you got the impression she would rather be naked than in a dress of any price.

  “You see it too?” she asked me.

  “Lovely.”

  “I didn’t mean that. She just isn’t a Proctor Girl. It’s one of the hazards of the business.”

  I picked the best of the lot and held it up. “Can I have this?” “Certainly, if it will help. We keep the negatives on file downstairs. Occasionally we do have requests from certain manufacturers for this type, but not often.”

  I rolled it up and slipped it in my pocket. “Think anybody here might know anything about her?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “Her application date was quite a few months ago and they interview girls daily down there. Women are such a common commodity in this business you can’t tell one from the other after a while. I remember getting Cleo’s note about this girl, but I passed it on to personnel to handle. She wasn’t the first Cleo submitted and we have used several others she suggested. Top-notch free-lancers like Cleo aren’t easy to find and they usually make a good choice. In this case, I imagine Cleo was doing a little wishful thinking. The Service girl would do better with one of the men’s magazines.”

  “What’s the going rate with them?”

  She shrugged, thought a moment and said, “Only a fraction of ours. Once a Proctor Girl, the sky’s the limit. Quite a few have wound up in Hollywood.”

  I got up and pulled my coat on. “That’s it then. Thanks for your time, Miss McInnes.”

  “Glad you came.” Her emerald eyes seemed to dance with my own. “It’s made for an enjoyable morning.” A tiny furrow creased her forehead. “Would you mind letting me know if you find her?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s ridiculous, I know, but I get a maternal feeling about these girls. It isn’t a bit easy for them at all.”

  She held out her hand and I wrapped my own around it. I squeezed too hard, but she didn’t wince and her own grip was firm and pleasing. “You’ll hear from me,” I said.

  “Don’t forget.”

  The receptionist made a frightened, crablike move to get out of the way when I stepped through the door, her face flushing again when I looked at her. Then she sniffed with indignation and faked ignoring me. She was the only one. The other few in the room looked at me with open curiosity, their eyes full of speculation.

  I pushed the down button and waited, listening to the rush of air in the elevator well behind the door. The noise stopped and the doors parted sullenly. A swarthy man clutching a black attaché case stepped out, his sleepy eyes sweeping over me ca
relessly before he headed toward the reception desk. I got in and pressed the lobby button, picked up several employees and a few who were obviously models on the way down and reached the street smelling of assorted imported perfumes.

  Sixth Avenue had lost its identity over the last ten years. It was an empire now.

  The lunch crowd had left the Blue Ribbon Restaurant when I met Hy Gardner and we had the corner table in the bar to ourselves. I sat with my back to the wall while Hy dug out a sheaf of notes and laid them on the table while he fished for words. He looked like a guy who couldn’t scratch his itch and finally he said, “What the hell are you into now, Mike?”

  “Ease off, buddy,” I told him. “Clue me in first.”

  “Okay.” He sat back and shoved his glasses up on his forehead. “You’re on top of the Delaney kill, you had a contact with Mitch Temple before he was knocked off, then you were there with Pat at the apartment after Mitch was bumped and we couldn’t even get in.”

  “Wait a minute ...”

  “Quit dicing. One of the guys saw you take the side exit out.

  But you wanted something on Greta Service and if you think I don’t think this is all part of one of your packages, you’re crazy.”

  “Hy...”

  “Look,” he interrupted, “my Miami trip is loused up, one of our own guys got killed and you’re playing footsies with me. Since when?”

  “Can you cool it if I spell it out?”

  “What am I, a kid? Man, after all we’ve been through...”

  “All right, I’m not even sure there’s a connection.” I took five minutes and laid out the details for him while he jotted them down on the back of one of his papers. When I got done I said, “Make anything of it?”

  “According to Harry Service his sister knew both the Poston and the Delaney girL Your report verified the Poston tie-in, anyway. In their business it wouldn’t be unusual—they probably have plenty of mutual friends. Dozens of them line up for one job and they’re always meeting at the agencies. So far as you know, Greta Service is around someplace and the only one worried is her brother, and that’s because he heard about the two deaths and the fact that his sister knew both of them.”