This Dame for Hire (32 page)

I started to repeat myself about the keys. Also useless, so I cut it short. “Tell me what he looked like.”

“Oh, a beauty. Nice dark hair and eyes like an angel.”

“What was he wearin?”

She shrugged. “Wearing? A suit. A shirt. A tie. What else would a nice boy be wearing?”

“This key he had, did he use it to go inside?”

“He didn’t need to once we’d met and I said I’d be glad to give a note to you.”

I counted to ten. “Where is it?”

“In my pocket.” She felt around in her right sweater pocket. “No.” Then in her left. “Nope.” She unbuttoned her sweater and reached into a pocket on her blouse. “Ah! I got it.” She held it out to me. “I gave him the paper.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

She shrugged. “He wanted paper to write you a note, so I gave him paper. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin. What does it say?”

“You think I read it?” She was genuinely horrified.

“Sorry, Dolores. Course not.” I took the paper and unfolded it.”

Dear Faye,

Sorry I missed you. Maybe next time.
Why am I saying maybe? Next time will
definitely come.

The signature, if that’s what it was, was scribbled. I couldn’t make it out.

“So?” Dolores said.

“I don’t know who this is from.”

“He didn’t sign it?”

I showed it to her.

“Oy. Who could read that? So how many boyfriends you got, Faye, you don’t know which one?”

“Dolores, I know ya don’t believe me, but I don’t have any.”

“So why’d ya give this fella keys to your apartment?”

“I didn’t. That’s what I’ve been tryin to tell ya. Nobody but me has keys.”

“Ya mean he was tryin to break in?”

“I think so. Tell me again what he looked like.”

“Nice lookin.”

“Is that the best ya can do?”

“I didn’t pay attention to the pieces, I just thought, Faye’s got a good-looker for a boyfriend.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dolores.”

“I’m sorry, Faye, if I done a dumb thing.”

“No. No. Don’t worry, it’s okay.”

“I shoulda called the cops, huh?”

I put a hand on her sleeve. “How could ya know?”

“Oy. I gave him paper.”

“Forget about it. It’s all okay.”

“You think he’ll come back?”

“Nah.”

“He could murder us in our beds.”

“Calm down, Dolores. He’s not comin back.”

“How can ya be so sure?”

“I’m a detective. I know these things.” I didn’t know anything. But I wanted to make her feel better.

“I think I’ll go in now,” she said.

“Good idea.” I gave her arm a squeeze, and we each turned toward our doors. My hand was shaking a little when I put my key in the lock. Then Dolores cried out.

“Faye.”

I turned.

“Maybe this’ll help. He looked like Cary Grant.”

“Oh, thanks, Dolores. Yeah, that’ll help.”

“Ya know who he is now?”

“No. But it gives me somethin to go on.” At least she’d feel she’d done something for me. “G’night, Dolores.”

Inside my apartment, for the first time, I didn’t feel home free. This had always been my safe haven. No matter what else was going on in my life, being in my crib made me feel better. But now I felt scared. I wondered if my gate-crasher had wormed his way into my place somehow. Okay, so I had only two rooms and a bathroom. I could see the little kitchen and living room from right inside my door. He coulda been hiding behind a piece of furniture, but I didn’t think so. That left the bathroom and bedroom. I placed my pocketbook on the floor. And then I couldn’t move. It was like I was glued in place.

Hey, I had my gat! Yeah, but it was up in the bedroom closet. I leaned down and took off my pumps, then forced myself to tiptoe over to one of the drawers in the walk-through kitchen and slowly pulled it open. I reached in and took out the carving knife. It had a nice bone handle, and I got a good grip on it. I started to close the drawer before I realized how stupid that was.

The bathroom was the closest room but also the smallest and I might get caught in tight quarters, so I decided to give the bedroom a once-over first. My heart was thumping, but I didn’t feel like doing the conga all by myself.

I made my way to the open door of the bedroom. Once again I felt paralyzed.

One of the big windows at the rear of the bedroom was open halfway. The thing was, I couldn’t remember if that’s the way I left it or somebody else had. But it didn’t matter who opened it, it was a way in. On the one hand, if I could remember if it was me who did it, then I could be less scared. On the other hand, if I didn’t, then I could be more scared and almost certain some crumb was in there waiting for me.

I couldn’t just stand there with the knife in my hand. Well, I
could,
but that wouldn’t get me very far.

I pictured myself frozen in place forever. Would anyone come looking for me? I almost laughed out loud.

All I had to do was take one step forward. If anyone was in my bedroom I’d see him right away. Unless he was in the closet.

I took the step.

Nobody.

Now I had to deal with the closet. I walked quietly around the bed and to the door. Had I left it closed that morning? I tried to picture myself getting ready for the day.

Nothing.

I knew what I’d worn cause I was still wearing it. But whether I left the door open or closed was a blank.

I reached out with my free hand, and it hovered over the glass doorknob. I raised my right arm and held the knife above me. If he had a gun I was a goner, but I had to make a move.

In one swift motion I turned the knob and pulled open the door.

Nothing.

Nobody.

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until I let out what sounded like the sigh of a lion.

There was still the bathroom.

Again I crept around my bed and through the doorway into the kitchen. From there I could see the bathroom door. Closed, the way I always left it. I could hear my mother’s voice telling me it wasn’t proper to leave a bathroom door open. Funny, her telling me what was decent when she spent most of her life zonked on morphine.

I crept up on the door like it was a living being. Then I took the same position I’d taken at the closet in the bedroom and turned the knob with my left hand.

Nothing.

But there it was, the closed shower curtain. I didn’t like the echoes I was getting from the last shower curtain I’d stumbled on. And when I was in the bedroom I’d forgotten to get my piece. Should I go back for it, get up on a chair, get the gun? Or should I keep going the way I was? I was in the home stretch, but it wasn’t mopped up yet. I decided going back to get the gat was gonna put more strain on me.

Okay, knife high. Pull back the curtain.

I couldn’t move.

I heard Woody’s voice:
Ah, Faye, put it to bed.

So I did. I flung back the curtain.

Nobody.

Woody said,
That’s all there is, there ain’t no more.

I dropped my knife hand to my side. I was bushed and slumped against the cool tiles on the wall. So Dracula wasn’t in my crib. At least I felt safe again.

I put the knife on the kitchen table and started to fill the coffeepot with water. It was then that Dolores’s words hit me:
He looked like Cary Grant.

I stood there, the pot in my hand, the water running from the tap.

“What a knucklehead,” I said out loud.

I set the percolator on the stove, turned off the water, grabbed the phone, and prayed he’d be home.

“Hello, Bridgett, how ya doin?”

“Just fine, Faye. You?”

“Fine. Is Marty home by any chance?”

“No, he’s workin late. Ya want I should have him call ya when he comes in?”

I started to say no, that I’d find him, but that wouldn’t a been too smart.

“Sure, Bridgett. That’ll be good.”

We said goodbye and hung up. I dialed Smitty’s bar. Coburn answered. I asked for Marty, and we went through the routine so Marty wouldn’t be snagged by Bridgett. I wondered when he had time for his turtledove between work and his time at Smitty’s bar.

A few seconds went by, and then Marty was on the phone. I asked him if he’d do something for me.

He said he’d take care of my request, then asked where to meet.

I told him.

He said sure, he’d be there soon as he could. I knew he wouldn’t let me down.

After I hung up, I marched straight into the bedroom and headed for my gun.

THIRTY-SIX

How many times in the past week had I stood outside the Wests’ building? Once again I hadn’t made an appointment. I didn’t want to give them advance notice.

The doorman rang their apartment and told whoever picked up I was there. He told me it was okay.

Myrna met me at the door. Maid’s night off. Or maybe they struggled through the nights alone.

“You should have called, Miss Quick.”

“I know. But I wasn’t in my office, and I didn’t have your number with me.”

“I see. Well, come in. Be careful what you say; Porter’s got his dander up.”

Poor, poor Porter, I thought, as I walked behind his wife on the way to the living room.

When I said hello, there was no response. He stared at me for a few secs.

Then he said, “Not only haven’t you phoned me every day as we agreed, once again you’ve arrived here unannounced.”

“I thought the doorman announced me,” I said.

“Don’t be facetious, Miss Quick. You know exactly what I mean.” He took a deep drink from what looked like a mean martini. Cocktail hour. How nice. How genteel.

“Would you like a cocktail, Miss Quick?” Myrna asked.

“No thanks. Not while I’m workin.”

“Oh,” Porter said, “you’re actually working?”

“I didn’t come here for a social chat, Mr. West.”

Porter pointed to a chair for me to sit, then took a spot on the sofa while Myrna perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

“All right, what
did
you come here for? Surely, you haven’t solved the case. I know that’s too much to ask for.”

I realized Porter sounded slightly soused.

He wasn’t finished. “Actually, Miss Quick, I was thinking of firing you.”

“Porter,” Myrna said.

“Yes, Myrna, that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr. West.”

“Fortunately, my dear, you’re not.”

“Porter, you haven’t discussed this with me.”

He waved a hand at her like she was a pesky mosquito.

“In fact, Miss Quick, you’re fired.”

I knew I had to stall until Marty got here. “Would ya mind tellin me why?”

“I’d like to know that, too,” Myrna said.

“Because for one thing you don’t follow rules. Rules are very important. They’re the basis of our society. Without rules we’d be savages.”

“Seems to me some people are savages even with rules.”

“Those people break them, Miss Quick. That’s exactly my point.”

“What kinda rules are we talkin about?”

“Basic rules. Perhaps you don’t know them, Miss Quick. I don’t know anything about your background. It’s possible you weren’t brought up . . . the way . . . Claudette was.”

I couldn’t believe it, but he started crying in this weird gulping way. I didn’t think I’d ever see that. Myrna went to him.

“Oh, Porter, you’re going to make yourself sick.”

He pushed her away, and she stumbled, falling over the cocktail table to the floor.

Porter and I jumped up, and we went to her.

“Get away from my wife,” he said.

“I’m all right.”

“It was an accident, Myrna. You know I’d never hurt you.”

He gently lifted her up.

“Yes, dear. I know it was an accident.”

Porter led his wife to the sofa. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

He patted her on the shoulder like she was a pet. “Do you want anything?”

“No. I’m fine.”

I went back to my chair, and Porter sat down and picked up his drink. He said, “It
was
an accident.”

“I could see that, Mr. West.” I wondered why he would care what I thought? I also wondered where Marty was.

“What were we talking about?” Porter asked.

“Ah, you mentioned Claudette and that she was brought up with rules.” From what I’d learned of her she didn’t pay much attention to her father’s rules or anyone else’s.

“My little girl,” he said.

Porter was more than slightly soused. He was getting good and drunk. And it seemed to bring out his sentimental side. I thought it might be a good time to throw some info his way.

“Mr. West, did you know a man named Warner Garfield?”

“Oh, Miss Quick,” Myrna said.

I hadn’t really promised her I’d never bring his name up to Porter. “I have to, Mrs. West.”

“What’s going on? Have you two been up to something?”

“Nothing like that, Porter.”

“Then what? It sounds like collusion to me.”

“Let’s get back to the question. Warner Garfield. Name ring any bells?”

“No.”

“What if I told ya that Garfield was an abortionist.”

“I’d say he was barbaric. I suppose you’re going to tell me that he performed one on Claudette, aren’t you? But you can’t because she was pregnant when that bastard Cotten murdered her.”

“That’s true. He never performed an abortion on Claudette.”

“Then why should I know his name or care about him?”

“Your daughter knew him. She told some people he was her boyfriend and others that he was hounding her. Do ya know why she’d do that, Mr. West?”

“She wouldn’t even know a person like that. I refuse to believe it.”

“She met him at the HeartsinArts actin company.”

“Claudette didn’t belong to any acting company.”

Myrna gave me a warning look that I took to mean I shouldn’t say she knew about the group or Garfield. I gave her a tiny nod.

“Mr. West, I don’t think you knew your daughter as well as you think ya did.”

“I fired you,” he said. “Get out.”