The Essential Works of Norbert Davis

by Norbert Davis

"Okay," said Doan.

  "Just a minute here!" said Melissa. "Don't try to get off the subject. You're so concerned about this because you think--on account of the directory--that the prowler made a mistake in the apartments. You think he intended to get into Trent's apartment instead of mine!"

  "Yes," Doan admitted. "And I think that's why he was staring at your stockings in such a dumbfounded way when you came in, he naturally didn't expect to find a drawer full of women's stuff in Trent's apartment."

  "Well, what do you think he did expect to find?"

  "I don't know. That's what I'm worried about. This bird is no ordinary prowler--no garden variety of sneak thief. And anyway, Trent has no dough, aside from a big gob of back Navy pay which is in the bank. He hasn't any rajah's rubies or any secret plans for atomic bombs. I can't figure out what the prowler was after, and why he was willing to go to such lengths to keep from being caught. I mean, look at it this way. Suppose I had caught him--or rather, suppose Frank Ames had. The prowler hadn't stolen a thing. All he could possibly have drawn would be a couple of years for breaking and entering. And yet, he was willing--and ready to commit murder to dodge that. It doesn't make sense."

  "So you think it was a woman."

  Doan grinned. "Not for that reason. But sometimes they do funny things when they get bitten by the love bug, and Trent is dynamite in that direction."

  "Oh-ho!" said Melissa suddenly.

  "What now?" Doan demanded warily.

  "I'm just getting the drift of all these sly, snide questions of yours. I know who you're eyeing."

  "Just relax, now," Doan advised.

  "I won't. You're thinking about somebody whose name starts with H and who hangs around in Hollywood."

  "There's still a law against slander," Doan warned.

  "Pooh. No wonder you're worried. You're afraid you might be guarding Trent against your own boss."

  "You've got an evil mind, Melissa," Doan told her.

  "Haven't I, just? But it works, doesn't it? So Heloise is a crack shot with a pistol, is she?"

  "I don't know," said Doan, "but she used to juggle knives."

  "She did? Really? Where?"

  "In carnivals and at county fairs."

  "How do you know?"

  "I investigated her. I always investigate the people who hire me. I want to know whether their checks are good."

  "She must have millions!"

  "Maybe, now," Doan said. "But back in the thirties there was a time when she was on the ropes financially. Her outfit nearly foundered under her."

  "What happened?"

  "Her husband forged her name and misused a limited power of attorney to dribble all her assets into the stock market."

  "Her husband? You mean, another one? Has she been married before?"

  "Oh, yes. To a guy named 'Big Tub' Tremaine. He was a spieler on a sick pitch."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He sold medicines at carnivals and fairs--Kickapoo Joy Juice and Colonel Ouster's Calibrated Cure-All and stuff like that. Heloise was his come-on. She used to dress in spangled diapers and a necklace and juggle knives to attract a crowd so Big Tub could work them over. He was good at it, from all accounts."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He died."

  "Ah-ha," said Melissa. "Mysteriously, I'll bet."

  "Nope. He dunked himself in the drink of his own free will and accord--and right in front of about a hundred witnesses who were all chasing him to stop him."

  "Why did he do that? Kill himself, I mean?"

  "Because he was smart," said Doan. "He stole money from Heloise. That's just about as serious an offense as there is. If she could have laid hands on him she'd have had him boiled in oil or, at the very least, drawn and quartered."

  "Have you ever heard about the other guy who stole money from Heloise?"

  "No," said Melissa, "I haven't heard. Tell me about the other guy."

  "I've forgotten his name but he worked for her as a bookkeeper. He figured out a complicated and what he thought was a foolproof system for rigging the books. He'd embezzled the magnificent sum of one dollar and seventy-six cents when she got wise to him. He was bonded and Heloise forced the bonding company to prosecute, although they didn't want to. The court, however, threw the case out. They said stealing a dollar seventy-six was hardly a misdemeanor, much less a felony. Whereupon, Heloise decided to prosecute in her own way--not through the courts..."

  "Did she fire the fellow?"

  "No, she kept him on--raised his salary, in fact, so high that the poor guy's wife wouldn't let him quit. Heloise wanted him right under her thumb where she could torture him. But she didn't let him keep books any longer. She made him the manager of her complaint department, and if you want to live a life of hell and damnation just go get yourself a job in the complaint department of a cosmetics manufacturer."

  "I can imagine," said Melissa.

  "I wonder if you can," Doan told her. "This poor ex-bookkeeper, with the sensitive soul you'll find in most embezzlers, had to take lip from women all over the United States and some foreign countries who'd bought Heloise of Hollywood's beauty preparations and hadn't turned out as beautiful as the advertisements said they would. They stormed the poor guy by letter, telegram, telephone and in person. All of them were mad, some of them madder. His nerves gave out."

  "What finally happened to him?"

  "He went off his bat, which is what Heloise had counted on. They've got him stuck away now in a nuthouse somewhere in a room wallpapered with mattresses. The doctors say he'll never get any better."

  "Ugh," said Melissa. "This Heloise must be plenty tough."

  "She is that," said Doan, "but a good businesswoman. She built up her business all on her own, although she did and does use the sap bait Big Tub taught her. He had nothing to do with the management of it. She supported him in relative luxury until he started giving her money to the stockbrokers."

  "Where did he kill himself?"

  "At Ensenada. He dove off a fishing pier after loading himself down with most of the liquor in the nearest bar and bidding all the patrons a fond farewell. They just thought he was crocked, until he actually did heave himself overboard, and then they had a hell of a time fishing him out again. When they did, he was deader than a kippered herring."

  "I'd really like to see Heloise," Melissa said ruminatively. "I mean, in person. She interests me."

  "Is that a fact?" Doan inquired politely. "Heloise interests you?"

  "Don't get funny."

  "You'd better forget Trent. He's out of your league."

  "Oh, is that so?"

  "I'm just telling you," Doan said. "I'm your friend."

  "Ha!"

  "Now just think. Suppose by some freak of chance you did manage to land him. He looks just as good to other gals as he does to you, remember."

  "I could handle that angle, all right. And without hiring a detective to watch him. Does Heloise give her personal attention to that salon of hers on the Strip?"

  "Yes," Doan admitted. "But if I were you, I wouldn't show up around there."

  "I will if I please, and I think I please."

  "Well, take Carstairs with you, anyway."

  "I can't. I haven't a car. It's against the law for dogs to ride on buses."

  "Let him handle that situation. I've never yet run across a bus driver who could keep him off a bus or put him off once he got on...Carstairs!"

  Carstairs raised his head languidly.

  "Go with her," said Doan. "Watch it." Carstairs lifted his upper lip and sneered at hint in an elaborately bored way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SUNSET STRIP IS A SECTION OF THE county, not incorporated into the city of Los Angeles, which points like an accusing finger directly at the heart of Hollywood. It is inhabited by actors and actresses and their exploiters or victims, and by people who have been run out of Beverly Hills, and by bookmakers, saloon keepers, unsuccessful swindlers, antique dealers and interior decorators of one
kind or the other, but mostly the other. It is considered quite fascinating by the sort of people who like to go on bus rides through the Bowery.

  Heloise of Hollywood had a building all of her own in the center of this streamlined slum. The building featured glass brick and chrome and pink plaster and dainty gestures in the air, and taken over all it was as slick and as screwy as one of Salvador Dali's copyrighted hallucinations.

  There had been a certain amount of opposition to Carstairs' presence on the bus, and Melissa was feeling a little frazzled out when she went up the steps and pushed open the pink, padded door that was billed as "The Pathway to Perfection--Entrance."

  "Well, for goodness' sakes, come on," she said impatiently.

  Carstairs ambled up the steps and looked inside. He grunted, and the hair stood up on his back.

  Melissa kicked him. "Go on!"

  Carstairs went in reluctantly. Melissa followed him, and her hair stood up, too.

  The foyer was a passageway about five miles long and lined with mirrors. These weren't distortion mirrors--not quite. They were just very, very clear and brilliantly lighted, and they magnified matters just enough. Melissa watched herself walk, because there was nothing else she could do. She saw herself highlighted from fore to aft and from top to bottom and from some other odd and interesting angles. It was the most sadistically efficient sales promotion for beauty treatments she had ever run across.

  Even Carstairs had begun to cringe by the time he had reached the mirror door at the end. Melissa held it open for him, and they entered a plush-lined cubicle which featured a tall, round ebony desk placed in its exact center. There was a girl behind the desk, and she was beautiful. She really was. She had black, glistening hair and a corpse-like pallor and a face so perfectly contoured it was frightening.

  Women who look like this usually sound like crows, but this one had been trained. Her voice was soft and insinuatingly confidential.

  "How do you do?" she said, as though she were actually interested. "May I help you?"

  "I think so," said Melissa. "Can you do something about my cheek?"

  "Your cheek?"

  "Yes. Right here. My husband beat me last night."

  "Of course. Do you wish it to look worse or better?"

  "What?" said Melissa.

  The girl smiled at her. "Those incidents happen so rarely to some of our more unfortunate clients that they often wish to capitalize on them when they do."

  "Capitalize?" Melissa repeated.

  The girl moved her right hand casually, and the big diamond on her fourth finger sparkled.

  "Oh," said Melissa. "No. I want it to look better. It always irritates my boyfriend when my husband beats me, and I want the two of them to stay pals."

  "Naturally. May I have your name?"

  "Susan Halfinger."

  "And who is sponsoring you?"

  "Sponsoring? Oh. T. Ballard Bestwyck. He's the president of--"

  "Oh, we know T. Ballard here."

  "You do?" Melissa said, startled. "Oh, of course. His wife "

  "Wife?" said the girl, just as startled. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed His wife."

  "Hmmm," said Melissa thoughtfully... "Would your dog like something to play with while he is waiting? We have some very enchanting rubber mice that squeak."

  "No," Melissa said judicially. "I don't believe he'd care for that sort of thing."

  "Then if you'll just step into the anteroom...Through that door...Yes...Our bruise specialist will be prepared for you in just a few short moments."

  "Thanks," said Melissa.

  She opened the door and ushered Carstairs through it into a long, narrow room cluttered with dusty pink lounges with scrolled gilt legs.

  There were three fat women sitting in a row on one of the lounges. The nearest one bounced up and down and pointed a pudgy, admiring finger at Carstairs.

  "Ooooh! Look!"

  The middle one patted her hands and cooed.

  "Darling!" said the third one. "Just delicious!"

  Carstairs backed up against Melissa. Melissa pushed him away and sat down on one of the lounges. Carstairs crept up and huddled against her legs.

  "He's so pretty!" said the nearest fat one.

  "Ippy-ippy-ippy-tweeeeet," said the middle one.

  "Those divine brown eyes," said the third one.

  Carstairs moaned in a soft, terrified way.

  Another door opened, and a girl looked in. This one was a cool tall blonde. She was dressed in a white uniform, but it was white silk, and it had been made just for her. She looked like nurses should look but never do.

  "Miss Halfinger," she said. She waited for a moment and then said more pointedly: "Miss Halfinger."

  "Eh?" said Melissa. "Oh! Yes."

  She got up and started for the door. Carstairs started right after her.

  "You stay here," Melissa ordered.

  Carstairs stared at her in incredulous dismay.

  "Lie down," Melissa said. "Wait."

  Carstairs whimpered piteously.

  Melissa stamped her foot. "Lie down!"

  Carstairs began to fold himself up reluctantly.

  "Ippy-ippy," cooed the middle fat one.

  "Just too precious," said the third fat one.

  Melissa closed the door and followed the blonde down a passageway that had dark brown cork flooring and beige walls and a yellow ceiling. Along each side, at staggered intervals, there were doors curtained with white oiled silk. From inside of the rooms came sharply distinct slaps, the grisly cracking of reluctant joints, retchings and gaggings and moans, and sobbing pleas for mercy.

  Melissa and her guide turned a corner and went past a hideous place full of malignantly coiling serpents of steam vapor and pinkly parboiled things that squeaked and jibbered in their agony.

  "Right in here," said the blonde, swishing aside one of the oiled silk curtains.

  This wasn't a cubicle. It was as large as an ordinary hotel room. It contained a desk and a chair and a couch equipped with smelling salts and a telephone. It was as obtrusively antiseptic as an operating amphitheater.

  "Just take off your clothes," said the blonde. "The shower is behind that door."

  "What?" said Melissa. "Wait a minute. My husband fights fair. He just pasted me one. He didn't kick me after I was down."

  "The Pathway to Perfection," said the blonde, "lies in the complete realignment of all the component parts of the body to express the poetry of true beauty."

  "Okay," said Melissa.

  "The towels are on the table. The water is electronized and energized. I will return."

  "Do that," said Melissa.

  She took off her clothes and put on a rubber bathing cap that came in a sealed cellophane container. She opened the frosted door the blonde had pointed out. The shower was about eight by eight, all black shiny tile, and was worked by a control panel as complicated as a transport plane's. Melissa twisted some knobs and turned others for a while and finally got the right combination. There were approximately one thousand water jets of varying capacity and intensity, and some of them apparently gave out with cologne instead of water.

  Melissa walked right in and luxuriated. She stayed until she began to feel washed away and then came out and selected one of the towels. It was as big as a bed sheet and as fluffy as a cloud. Melissa was all tangled up in it when she heard the first scream.

  She didn't pay any attention.

  Immediately there were some more screams. They were very loud, very terrorized screams in different voices that blended in a sort of chromatic progression that was not unpleasing to the ear. Melissa stopped rubbing to listen. The screams kept mounting in volume and in pitch, and now there were some other noises--metallic clanging and the crash of shattered glass.

  And through all this--as a sort of a minor undertone--something was howling. Melissa suddenly isolated that last sound and identified its source. She ducked out into the hall dragging the towel behind her.

  The screams now were mult
itudinously deafening. They had begun to echo and meet each other in midair. The air began to quiver and palpitate.

  Carstairs spun around the corner down the hall, leaning far over and scrabbling for his footing. His mouth was wide open, and he was making a lot of noise.

  "Here!" said Melissa, waving the towel.