Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  I took a sip and burnt the roof of my mouth. ‘What about you? Selling up?’

  Thelma shook her head. ‘Nobody’s booting me out of my home before my time. They try it, they’ll be sorry.’ She suddenly fixed her bright eyes on me. ‘Say, you can help me find Rhondie!’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Rhondie’s just fine. Gone off with a pal.’ I snapped. I put the cup down, feeling the roof of my mouth swell up. ‘Did you tell the cops about her?’

  ‘One of them said to call in a day or two if there was no sign of her.’

  I needed to give her something to hang on to. ‘Well, there you go. Call the cops, like he said.’

  ‘They won’t lift a finger. Especially when they hear she got Mexican blood. She can pass as white, mind you. Her mom was Mexican, pretty thing. Gladys’ son, Thomas, his family line was Welsh. Miners. A lot of them came over here for a better life. Did I say that already?’ She was rambling again. I curbed my irritation.

  ‘How about getting a private investigator to look into it?’ A private detective could take Thelma and her problems on.

  She gawped at me. ‘I don’t have a bean.’

  ‘Call one up, see what they charge.’ I stood up. ‘Now we ladies should be getting our beauty sleep. I bet you Rhonda is safe and sound.’

  Thelma’s watery eyes followed me but she seemed miles away. ‘Could sell my wedding ring?’

  ‘Do that.’ I edged back towards the door. ‘So long. Nice meeting you.’

  She looked up, her eyes red. ‘You say you’re her pal. So help me. I don’t get out of the house. I don’t know the first thing about investigators. You call one for me!’

  I’d done my bit by coming here, assuaged my conscience. Now it was Thelma’s turn to feel she hadn’t done enough. ‘All right. I’ll speak to one for you. Give me your number and I’ll let you know what they say.’

  Thelma smiled. ‘You’re a good girl. I always can tell from the look of someone.’

  Well, that was a first.

  39

  The office of Falaise Investigations was shielded with heavy double glass doors, the kind that forced you to slow down and compose yourself. Beyond, a Hedy Lamarr look-alike sat behind a stenograph in the office. She wore a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. Her glossy walnut curls arranged themselves on her shoulders like dollops of forest honey. Her dress was like pewter, a heavy chenille trim little number, with dark blue piping on the cuffs, the pockets, and the bodice. A serious look, but sexy with it. She would certainly cheer up any jealous husbands.

  The glamour-puss secretary looked up, pulling her glasses down to survey me.

  I’d put on a black wool skirt topped with one of my more decorative Manhattan purchases, a black silk blouse printed with white cobwebs and pink roses all over. It had a pussy bow necktie and puffy long sleeves with neat pleats at the wrist. Its flamboyance reminded me of my Hollywood dreams before they were crushed. I’d even stopped at a florist and bought a fresh pink rose corsage, now pinned to my pink jacket. I’d bought a cheap string of pearls and matching earrings at the same time. Totally inappropriate for Lauder’s errands but today, I had a use for it. The outfit said ‘stylish do-gooding lady about town’.

  It felt good to dress up. Screw Lauder.

  ‘May I help you?’ Her accent was French.

  I walked up to the desk, confident. ‘I’d like an appointment with Mr. Falaise.’

  ‘Mrs. Falaise?’

  ‘Okay. Mrs. Falaise then.’

  ‘For why, please?’

  ‘It’s a missing person situation.’

  She frowned. ‘Oh, for the vacancy?’

  ‘What? No. I’ve come about finding a missing person.’

  ‘Oh. Mrs. Falaise only does the divorce.’

  Suddenly the intercom system buzzed. A gruff female voice said ‘Send her in, Therese.’

  The girl got up, a little miffed to be overruled. She towered over me, a giant in her heels. She pointed at a closed door at the end of the office.

  I walked past a large framed photograph above a mantelpiece showing a motley assortment of suited women. Association of Women Private Investigators of Southern California was embossed in bold gold capitals at the base of the photograph. Smaller brass frames housed various certificates, duly stamped and sealed, testifying to various achievements in the snooping business. A large mirror, with open curtains, sat on a dividing wall. This had to be the double mirror.

  Beatty Falaise was like a tropical parrot. She wore a jade suit and a chartreuse silk skirt with lots of ruffles forming huge downy plumage over her substantial bosom. Neither color did much for her putty skin and fuchsia lipstick. Her hair was blue-gray, scraped back into a severe bun. Her gold-rimmed glasses glinted, the thick lenses magnifying her green eyes. Her hands were weighed down with an assortment of gold rings with turquoise and yellow stones that matched her earrings and bracelet. She had a style all of her own – if not giving a damn what anyone thinks is a style.

  Her office was simply done but with quality fittings. In the corner, an exotic plant grew in a large Chinese-style pot, standing on a brass and marble stand. The venetian blinds were of a rich reddish wood. The whole effect was sophisticated and civilized. A box of tissues discreetly lurked in a brass holder on a low table between the chairs.

  A fog of smoke swirled up from a short, fat pipe. The smoke subsided. She thrust out her other hand over the desk. ‘Beatty Falaise. How do you do?’ Her handshake was firm and hearty.

  ‘Elvira Slate.’

  ‘Pull up a pew, Miss Slate, and tell me all about your missing person.’ She nodded at the two high-backed leather chairs, positioned in front of her desk.

  I jerked my head at the internal window, edged with short velvet drapes on a brass pole, where Therese and the office were in full view. I asked, ‘You can hear through that as well?’

  ‘I’m not a bad lip-reader. Be a doll and close those drapes.’ I did as she asked and sat down.

  ‘Well, what’s your trouble?’

  I began. ‘A certain party is missing, and another certain party is worried about her. I’m helping the concerned party. I offered to help secure the services of an investigator. The concerned party hasn’t much money, and is elderly. Not to mention that the missing party might be just fine, and all the concerned party needs is reassurance. A recommendation of someone good but affordable is all I need.’

  ‘Good and affordable don’t gel like Fred and Ginger in this town.’ Falaise grunted, tapping her pen on the blotter. ‘How long has the missing person been gone?’

  ‘It’ll be thirty-six hours by tonight.’

  Falaise whistled. ‘All right.’

  ‘Can you help?’

  She raised a hand to silence me. It looked quite an effort with all those rings on. ‘You said ‘her’. How old is the missing person?’

  ‘She’s around eighteen, twenty? I met her one time.’

  Falaise leant back. I could spot a hair on a small mole. She surveyed me like she was vetting me. ‘Have the police been notified?’

  ‘Kind of. A cop said to give it time. Besides, the girl was seen leaving with a suitcase and with somebody else. Without a struggle.’

  Falaise eyeballed me over her spectacles. ‘Could the missing girl be in some kind of trouble?’

  Straight to the jugular. I shifted in my seat. ‘I wouldn’t know.’ I couldn’t mention Shimmer’s death yet, or the fact the pair had pinched dough from a shady nightclub boss. That was one big can of worms I didn’t want to open, let alone discuss with a P.I. I began to regret coming here. ‘Look, she’s probably fine.’

  Falaise considered this, tipping out the ash of her pipe into a green marble dish before refilling it. She said, ‘True. Could be a false alarm. But here you are anyway, helping out the broke but elderly concerned party who’s fretting. Unfortunately, my associate, Gloria, who handled this type of case, has run off to the circus. Not literally, but she got it in her head to set up an alpaca farm, God help her. K
ind of thing that happens when you hit the big five-zero. But you don’t have to worry about that. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-six.’

  Falaise drummed her nails on the blotter. ‘A few folks could take it on. Lanie Shaw, but she could still be in Chicago. Then there’s Celeste Rogers… But she let rip at a client a few weeks ago. Unprofessional behavior. Ruffled clients toss their complaints up the food chain to the president, yours truly. Tedious for me to handle, but I can’t have any of our members losing their license. Too few of us girls in this business already.’ She shot me a wicked smile; it rejuvenated her careworn face. ‘Exactly how much – or should I say how little – can the client afford?’

  ‘She’s broke. She might need to sell a ring.’

  Beatty cracked up. ‘Jeez, haven’t heard that in a while. Can’t you lend her any money?’ She looked me up and down. I probably looked well-heeled.

  ‘No. I’m new to town and looking for a job myself.’

  She said, ‘I can put in some calls. The going rate’s twenty-five a day minimum, and a retainer of fifty.’

  I whistled. ‘That settles it. We’ll have to leave it to the cops.’ I stood up.

  Falaise waved her hand for me to sit back down. I obliged but this was a waste of time. She swiveled around in her chair to look at the view through the blinds. ‘You ever heard of a blue-footed booby?’

  I said I hadn’t.

  ‘A seabird. Shows its face every few hundred years and then disappears again. I saw one the other day, at the Marina where Mr. Falaise and I moor our little boat. Couldn’t believe my eyes. But twice in one week is something again.’

  I raised my head to peer out. ‘Where?’

  She spun back. ‘Right here. You are a blue-footed booby.’ Falaise eyeballed me. ‘Forty years’ experience tells me you aren’t just a worried go-between, no more than I’m Deanna Durbin on a bad day.’

  I stiffened. ‘Whatever are you insinuating?’

  Beatty pulled off her spectacles and wiped the lenses with a tissue. ‘Sweetheart, you’re awful good but you’re dealing with Beatty Falaise. I didn’t get where I am today by being dumb. You feel obligated.’

  ‘Very entertaining, but I’m kind of busy.’ I stood up.

  ‘Oh, get off your high horse. I might have a proposition.’

  I sighed, impatient. ‘What?’

  ‘You do it.’ Beatty Falaise looked straight in my eye, rather pleased with herself. ‘You want a job, right? I have a vacancy. I could train you up. You’re no dumb blonde, you’re quite a gal. But mousy would be better. Take off that getup, wash your face and you could have the bland P.I. look in no time.’

  That was rich, considering her rainbow outfit.

  ‘Take off those pretty gloves. Let me see your hands.’ She shoved her specs back on her nose.

  ‘My hands?’

  ‘Mitts speak volumes. Time in the slammer. Liver spots. Narcotics. You got something to hide, Booby?’

  Beatty Falaise had made me, in minutes. Probably seconds, with the two-way mirror. I was impressed and horrified. ‘Some imagination you got,’ I said.

  ‘Helps in this game. But hear me out. Drink?’

  A drink. Why the hell not? Playing along wouldn’t hurt and I was intrigued. She had my fake name, but that was all. And I bet her liquor was good. ‘Sure. I could use a drink.’

  Beatty buzzed the intercom. ‘Two bourbons on the rocks, Therese. Oh, and bring the bottle.’

  She relit the pipe. ‘I got my fair share of honey trap girls but I’m choosy as hell about who I work with. Gloria had what it takes but I’m done with pleading with her to come back. Missing person work pours in for her, but I can’t do it. Too old, too fat, too rich. You hear the number of times that darned telephone rings?’

  On cue, in the next office, the telephone began again.

  Beatty went on. ‘I like divorce. Town’s riddled with it and I’m top of the game, making sure neither party is too injured. Always takes two to tango. In my younger days, I’d jump at the chance of a missing person, hooch wars, embezzlement.’ She had a misty-eyed look as she reflected. ‘Those jobs sure get old when you get old.’

  Therese flounced in with a silver tray bearing a couple of glasses, a bottle of bourbon, an ice pitcher and some olives in a dish. She carefully placed the olives on the side, and passed us each a substantial cut glass tumbler.

  ‘Merci beaucoup, sweetheart.’ Beatty grinned. She waited for Therese to leave the room. Then she raised her glass. I did the same. We chinked over the dark green leather.

  ‘I trust my instinct. Never lets me down. I depend on that more than I do on my darling husband, an angel incarnate. My instinct tells me you’ve got a lot going for you.’

  I avoided her gaze. ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘And this town needs more lady P.Is. A P.I. is like an invisible public service. Underappreciated, for sure. But the real job satisfaction comes from in here.’ She tapped her heart. Then she put her pipe down and looked me straight in the eye. ‘So how about it, Booby?’

  Private investigator? The suggestion was mad. I had to stop myself laughing. A secret life that Lauder wouldn’t ever know about? As if. But when he was done with me, if he ever was, I’d either be dead or need some kind of living. Investigating could pay; it would certainly beat learning the stenograph and serving coffee to a creep with wandering hands. And it might lead me quicker to Rhonda.

  ‘I don’t know. A lot to get my head around.’ I said, finishing the delicious bourbon. I couldn’t work out her game. She didn’t know me. I had done time in the slammer. I didn’t have liver spots as far as I knew but at this rate, they were only a matter of time. Besides, I’d never met anyone like her. It felt like spending too long in a fortuneteller’s cave and getting sucked into a magical world of drama and exciting potential. How long before the effects wore off?

  When I walked out of here, that’s when. That’s when reality would bite.

  Trust me to find the most eccentric P.I. in town.

  Beatty motioned me to slide my glass over to her. She generously refilled it. ‘Maybe I sprang this on you a little too quick. I’m not one to beat about the bush.’

  ‘Say I’m interested. How exactly could it work?’

  ‘I could train you, show you how to handle a missing person case. Step by step. You’d be my protégé! You can operate under my agency’s license. Your concerned party won’t have to pay a penny. Or your interested party sells her ring and pays you. If she does, you throw me a small percentage. If you like the work, stay on and work for me, or set up your own establishment. P.I. licenses are issued by City Hall. They’ll check you are a bona fide individual, no record, no debts, the whole enchilada. A reference from yours truly and you’ll be in business.’

  In-house operative, licenses, credentials, associations.

  The legitimate world I’d never inhabited. This is exactly what the lost blue-footed booby felt like in an alien human world.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Beatty peered over her specs.

  I acted blasé. ‘Not at all.’

  Beatty lit her pipe and took long languid puffs. ‘See how you like the gig. In the meantime, you better make a decision fast. If something bad is gonna happen to your missing girl, it already has, or it will soon.’

  I met her eyes. The clock was ticking.

  40

  It was almost lunchtime when I walked out of the office block. The city was gently humming, business being done, relative calm. It reminded me of how London could make me feel in the days before the war, the way only a big city can make you feel – at the heart of life, that you counted, that your life mattered.

  And Beatty Falaise was offering me a chance to be part of it.

  Traffic roared past me. I wasn’t interested in catching a taxi.

  The fact was Beatty’s offer had stunned me. It was the second time somebody had done that, shown me a fork in the road.

  It hadn’t been Billy, as much as he’d like to have t
hought so. No, he’d just caved to my pressure to let me join him in his world. I was his woman, just the piece on his arm and I’d been happy with that.

  It had been my foster mother Gwendoline, a high-brow romantic from a posh family, who had seen something in me. I’d been fifteen when Gwendoline plucked me out of reform school to fulfill her maternal instinct. She gave me an education. She thought I could achieve.

  But what the hell was Beatty’s motive?

  Was she just bored shitless of disintegrating Hollywood marriages and up for a gamble? Maybe I was some kind of surrogate daughter. In her colorful getup and flashy jewels, she looked like the biggest hustler in town, probably sailing each weekend to Catalina Island. Surely, with me, she was just betting on a hunch. Right from the moment I’d walked into her office, she’d read me like a large-print book. When she made her outlandish suggestion, any normalperson would have told her to get lost. But I hadn’t. I’d pricked up my ears and she knew then and there I was her match, the latest player to the table. She knew damn well I could be anyone. But she was running the game and it was her job to vet the players.

  The real test would be telling Beatty Falaise the truth about Lauder’s grip on me, and my murky past, but that wasn’t going to happen. Say too much now, the offer would go up in a puff of pipe smoke. She didn’t want to know the truth, she wanted the gamble, the danger. You only declare a hand when you’re either bust or winning and so far, I could play on. She would want me to stick to the rules of the game.