beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust.”
“Who’s he?” I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
“A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn’t know him.”
“Tut, tut,” I said. “Come into my boudoir.”
She stood up and said: “We didn’t get along very well yesterday. Perhaps I was rude.”
“We were both rude,” I said. I unlocked the communicating door and held it for her. We went into the rest of my suite, which contained a rust-red carpet, not very young, five green filing cases, three of them full of California climate, an advertising calendar showing the Quints rolling around on a sky-blue floor, in pink dresses, with seal-brown hair and sharp black eyes as large as mammoth prunes. There were three near-walnut chairs, the usual desk with the usual blotter, pen set, ashtray and telephone, and the usual squeaky swivel chair behind it.
“You don’t put on much of a front,” she said, sitting down at the customer’s side of the desk.
I went over to the mail slot and picked up six envelopes, two letters and four pieces of advertising matter. I hung my hat on the telephone and sat down.
“Neither do the Pinkertons,” I said. “You can’t make much money at this trade, if you’re honest. If you have a front, you’re making money—or expect to.”
“Oh—are you honest?” she asked and opened her bag. She picked a cigarette out of a French enamel case, lit it with a pocket lighter, dropped case and lighter back into the bag and left the bag open.
“Painfully.”
“How did you get into this slimy kind of business then?”
“How did you come to marry a bootlegger?”
“My God, let’s not start quarreling again. I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here and at your apartment.”
“About Owen?”
Her face tightened sharply. Her voice was soft. “Poor Owen,” she said. “So you know about that.”
“A.D.A.’s man took me down to Lido. He thought I might know something about it. But he knew much more than I did. He knew Owen wanted to marry your sister—once.”
She puffed silently at her cigarette and considered me with steady black eyes. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have been a bad idea,” she said quietly. “He was in love with her. We don’t find much of that in our circle.”
“He had a police record.”
She shrugged. She said negligently: “He didn’t know the right people. That’s all a police record means in this rotten crime-ridden country.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
She peeled her right glove off and bit her index finger at the first joint, looking at me with steady eyes. “I didn’t come to see you about Owen. Do you feel yet that you can tell me what my father wanted to see you about?”
“Not without his permission.”
“Was it about Carmen?”
“I can’t even say that.” I finished filling a pipe and put a match to it. She watched the smoke for a moment. Then her hand went into her open bag and came out with a thick white envelope. She tossed it across the desk.
“You’d better look at it anyway,” she said.
I picked it up. The address was typewritten to Mrs. Vivian Regan, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. Delivery had been by messenger service and the office stamp showed 8:35 a.m. as the time out. I opened the envelope and drew out the shiny 4¼ by 3¼ photo that was all there was inside.
It was Carmen sitting in Geiger’s high-backed teak-wood chair on the dais, in her earrings and her birthday suit. Her eyes looked even a little crazier than I remembered them. The back of the photo was blank. I put it back in the envelope.
“How much do they want?” I asked.
“Five thousand—for the negative and the rest of the prints. The deal has to be closed tonight, or they give the stuff to some scandal sheet.”
“The demand came how?”
“A woman
“Who’s he?” I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained, but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.
“A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn’t know him.”
“Tut, tut,” I said. “Come into my boudoir.”
She stood up and said: “We didn’t get along very well yesterday. Perhaps I was rude.”
“We were both rude,” I said. I unlocked the communicating door and held it for her. We went into the rest of my suite, which contained a rust-red carpet, not very young, five green filing cases, three of them full of California climate, an advertising calendar showing the Quints rolling around on a sky-blue floor, in pink dresses, with seal-brown hair and sharp black eyes as large as mammoth prunes. There were three near-walnut chairs, the usual desk with the usual blotter, pen set, ashtray and telephone, and the usual squeaky swivel chair behind it.
“You don’t put on much of a front,” she said, sitting down at the customer’s side of the desk.
I went over to the mail slot and picked up six envelopes, two letters and four pieces of advertising matter. I hung my hat on the telephone and sat down.
“Neither do the Pinkertons,” I said. “You can’t make much money at this trade, if you’re honest. If you have a front, you’re making money—or expect to.”
“Oh—are you honest?” she asked and opened her bag. She picked a cigarette out of a French enamel case, lit it with a pocket lighter, dropped case and lighter back into the bag and left the bag open.
“Painfully.”
“How did you get into this slimy kind of business then?”
“How did you come to marry a bootlegger?”
“My God, let’s not start quarreling again. I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here and at your apartment.”
“About Owen?”
Her face tightened sharply. Her voice was soft. “Poor Owen,” she said. “So you know about that.”
“A.D.A.’s man took me down to Lido. He thought I might know something about it. But he knew much more than I did. He knew Owen wanted to marry your sister—once.”
She puffed silently at her cigarette and considered me with steady black eyes. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have been a bad idea,” she said quietly. “He was in love with her. We don’t find much of that in our circle.”
“He had a police record.”
She shrugged. She said negligently: “He didn’t know the right people. That’s all a police record means in this rotten crime-ridden country.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
She peeled her right glove off and bit her index finger at the first joint, looking at me with steady eyes. “I didn’t come to see you about Owen. Do you feel yet that you can tell me what my father wanted to see you about?”
“Not without his permission.”
“Was it about Carmen?”
“I can’t even say that.” I finished filling a pipe and put a match to it. She watched the smoke for a moment. Then her hand went into her open bag and came out with a thick white envelope. She tossed it across the desk.
“You’d better look at it anyway,” she said.
I picked it up. The address was typewritten to Mrs. Vivian Regan, 3765 Alta Brea Crescent, West Hollywood. Delivery had been by messenger service and the office stamp showed 8:35 a.m. as the time out. I opened the envelope and drew out the shiny 4¼ by 3¼ photo that was all there was inside.
It was Carmen sitting in Geiger’s high-backed teak-wood chair on the dais, in her earrings and her birthday suit. Her eyes looked even a little crazier than I remembered them. The back of the photo was blank. I put it back in the envelope.
“How much do they want?” I asked.
“Five thousand—for the negative and the rest of the prints. The deal has to be closed tonight, or they give the stuff to some scandal sheet.”
“The demand came how?”
“A woman
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