up the liquor aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“If she’s busy I can wait. Mind giving me her name? I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
“You didn’t ask for no girl.”
“No, but I must have looked lonely. You sent one up anyway. Remember?”
“Sorry, Jack. I didn’t send nobody up. But I can get you a nice redhead…”
I didn’t say anything.
“Okay…you don’t like redheads. Don’t get sore about it. I can get you a brunette, the friendly type.”
“Never mind,” I said, “I’ll go out and take a run around the block.” I put the receiver back and forgot to take my hand away. It had grown suddenly cold. I stood up and had a drink. I looked around the room, at the bare walls, the blank windows. The rain that night was slow and endless.
* * * *
THE next morning I checked on the woman at Jefferson and, sadly enough, she was just what she had seemed. She got me Margaret Bleeker’s last known address and I went out there. The block where Margaret Bleeker had lived was taken up now by a machine tool manufacturing company. There weren’t any houses for two blocks around. None of the merchants remembered any Bleekers.
That evening I saw Keller again. I went down there early and George let me go up to the plush office on the third floor. I told Keller about being dry-gulched ten blocks away from his place.
He laughed in his big barrel belly and said. “Anybody who wanders around down in that neighborhood at night deserves what he gets.”
I said: “I thought maybe you might have been looking for something.”
Keller was surprised first, and it looked genuine enough. Then he was hurt, rather elaborately. He said:
“I’m sorry to have given you that kind of impression, sir. I don’t employ sand-lot tactics. If I were at all interested in you, which I am not, I’d have used more effective methods. Good day, sir.”
I got up. I had just sat down, but I got up. I went halfway to the door and turned and said, “How about asking George to tell me where to find the girl—the one who told him I was coming down here last night.”
Keller looked at George and nodded. George said: “Hell, she’s just a little hustler that comes in now and then. Calls herself Candy. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her last name, and I don’t know where she lives.”
There didn’t seem to be anything more for me there. I wandered out. Outside, the mist and the narrow darkness of the street were waiting for me. I hadn’t called a cab. I wanted to walk. I tried to find the street I had taken the night before, but the slow drizzle and the drifting fog made the world a kind of eyeless gray infinity. I walked with fists lying free in my pockets and the muscles crawling restlessly across my back. It was a long walk. Sounds from the river and from the city off to the south came to me with a lost and distant lowing. Now and then small and fleeting noises sounded close by, behind me, across the street, at my side where alleys split the darkness. But nothing happened. On Fourth Street I found a two-by-four cigar store and called a cab and went back to the hotel.
The next day, before my train left, I tried to find Candy. I never found her.
* * * *
I STEPPED out of Los Angeles’ Union Depot into thick rain. The lights from the burlesque houses cut deep orange chasms across Main Street, and the little dark people hugged the building walls and hurried through the downpour with an air of incipient panic. I went home and called Johnston. He wasn’t in, so I sat down and typed up a report on the trip and went to bed.
The next morning the sun was warm and friendly and the mountains off behind Burbank were cutting the washed sky with a hard bright edge. I was driving east on Sunset. I turned at Virgil just as the signal flashed red. I drove south about a quarter-block and something in the rear-view mirror caught my eye and held it. It was a car wheeling into Virgil from the direction I had come. After the wild turn it slowed and stayed a comfortable half-block behind me. It was a green Dodge coupe. I pulled up and went into a drug store and bought some filters for my pipe. I drove off again. He wasn’t doing a bad job. I was over a block away before the Dodge pulled out from the curb and rolled along after me.
I didn’t have time to play with him. If it was important, he’d be around again. I turned onto Beverly. At the intersection where Second runs into the Boulevard there is some tricky six-way traffic. I timed the signal to catch him. It did, and I cut over to Wilshire and downtown to the Security Building.
Johnston gave me a warm greeting, put a highball into my hand, settled me on his tan leather casting couch, got behind his desk and said,
“Well? Let’s have it. You weren’t gone long enough for the news to be bad.” His eyes were smiling, but there was a strained, guarded expression behind their brightness that said he didn’t expect the news to be at all good.
I took the report out of a pocket and handed it to him. He opened it, looked at me briefly, and settled back to read. When he had finished he stood up and walked over to a wastebasket and began tearing the report into small pieces, dropping them slowly. “Don’t write any more reports,” he murmured. “Let’s just keep it oral.”
He sat down and regarded me quizzically. “I don’t think they were talking about Margaret at all,” he said simply. “You didn’t show the picture around, did you?”
“No. But they showed me one.” I got out the 1938 version of Peg Bleeker and gave it to him. “Keller gave me that one.”
He studied it for a long time, while a slow flush came and went away again under the heavy tan of his face. “It’s Margaret, all right. She’s beautiful.” There was a kind of mournful wonder in his tone.
I played with my drink. It was too early for us to get really friendly. He stood up and clinked the ice around in his glass. The slow drone of the air conditioner and the ice clinking against thin glass were the only sounds in the quiet room.
Johnston murmured: “That puts her in Los Angeles six years ago instead of only two as she says. What the devil does it mean?”
“Not much,” I said. “A lot of show girls, the ones who don’t yearn to marry millionaires, have complexes about education. I’ve known a couple. They used to get drunk and tell me about how they were really just doing this to get a college degree. I’ve heard of one or two that actually did it.”
Johnston looked at me with the rapt expression of a county sheriff listening to a side-show grinder.
I went on: “After all, she used her own name. So she can’t be hiding from anything serious. She’s probably just getting the grease paint out of her blood.”
* * * *
JOHNSTON went on looking skeptical. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t believe it myself. Why had she put on weight and made herself up to look like an apple strudle? Why the blackout at U.C.L.A.? Using her real name didn’t impress me at all. Even in Portland it had been “Peggy” Bleeker. When she got to Los Angeles it probably became Clare deLune, or maybe something even prettier. And I couldn’t think of a better place for a second rate show girl to hide than in bobby socks and glasses on Sorority Row. But that kind of a hideout needs a real name, one with a high school record.
And she wasn’t running from her imagination. It was something that counted. A bell captain was bought off, a little blonde apprentice in the most ancient of professions had been made to disappear — probably to keep me from finding out who asked her for my room number. The wires had hummed and some marginal workers in the torpedo trade were on my tail. Blackmail slipped in a tentative hand. Something was in motion. How big, how dark, I didn’t know.
That’s how it added up to me, but I hadn’t put it to Johnston that way.
He frowned and said, “I can’t agree with you.