She was young. I liked that. She was Chinese. I liked that, too. She was naked from head to foot. I liked that even better. I was looking at a snapshot.
But there was compensations. The girl was beautiful, with dark oriental eyes, high cheekbones, sleek black hair and a sharp pair of arrogant breasts.
The man sitting in front of my desk wanted me to find her. It certainly was something to which to look forward.
The man's name was John Fry. He was an important industrialist; he was fifty, and he had a new wife. He had gray hair, broad shoulders, and he was beefy. I knew about the new wife because he just had married her. When a man like John Fry sneezes, it usually makes the tabloids.
The gilt lettering on my office door said: William Harper-objects of art, and coins.
I picked up the snapshot and studied it closely.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" John Fry said.
"Very." I put the snapshot down. Not that I wanted to. But I didn't want to make a pig of myself.
"What do you know about me?" I asked John Fry.
"Not too much," he said. "You find things."
"Yes. Things. Pieces. Rare coins. I don't find people. It's out of my line."
"I heard you were good at finding things. If you can find a rare coin then you can certainly find a woman. A woman is bigger than a coin."
"I love your reasoning," I said. "I know coins. I know where to look. But I don't know this-this-"
"Her name is Sim Loo."
"How old is she?"
"I don't really know."
"You called her a woman."
"Yes," he reflected. "She could be twenty, or thirty. It's hard to tell, with some Chinese."
"Why do you want to find her?" I asked.
"It's a personal matter."
"But why come to me?"
"I told you. You have a reputation."
"For finding art objects, not people," I reminded him. "Okay. Now tell me why you don't hire some private agency to find her?"
"I did. I hired a man named Sebastian Colt. All he did was show me his expense accounts. I finally got rid of him."
"How long have you been searching?"
"A month."
"What is she to you?"
"That's personal."
"You just answered my question."
His eyes glittered. "I'm getting impatient. Do you want the job or not?"
"I wouldn't know where to look."
"I can give you some leads," he said. "Tell me, how would you look for an object of art or a coin?"
"I'd go to another dealer first, and if he didn't have what I want, then I'd try a collector."
"There are men who deal in women and there are men who collect women," he said, pointedly.
"You mean she was a bad girl?"
"You can put it that way."
"Have you contacted these men yourself?"
"Of course not," he snapped. "I have a reputation to think of. I can't be involved."
You have a new wife to think of, I said to myself. Aloud, I said, "Did your man, Colt, contact them?"
"He was the one who found out about them. In fact, that was all he found out."
"I see."
"What is your fee?"
"My fee? I didn't say I was going to take this job."
"No, you didn't. But you were asking so many questions that I naturally thought...."
"Naturally." I rubbed my chin the way Harry Carey used to in the movies. "Okay. I'll take a whack at it. But I can't promise anything. As for my fee-" I stuck a cigarette in my mouth. "There you have me. I don't know what to charge."
"What do you charge for finding an object?"
"I usually get ten-percent of what the object is worth."
"I see. All right. I'll give you five hundred now and five hundred when you deliver."
"And if I don't deliver? How much of the advance must I return?"
"Not a penny. That is, if I'm satisfied you did your best."
"You'll be satisfied. I built my reputation with satisfied customers."
He took a slip of paper from his wallet. "Here is a typewritten list that Colt gave me. I hope you can make some use of it." He also forked over five one-hundred-dollar bills. Nice crisp bills. And there were mates, still in his wallet.
"Shall I contact you?"
He gave me his card. "My home number is on the back." He got to his feet. "I wish you luck, Mr. Harper."
I stood up and we shook hands. He walked out, and I finally lit my cigarette.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Tony Stewart. He was tall with thin gray hair, and his sport jacket was cashmere. He smelled of money. He kept worrying his lower lip with sharp-looking white teeth.
We were in his apartment in the forties. It was a lush place with white wood furniture, oils on the walls.
"How did you find out about me?" he wanted to know.
"Does it matter?" I was comfortable in a fat armchair.
"I don't know where Sim Loo is. I haven't seen her in ages. I'm afraid you're wasting your time."
"I probably am. Like I told you, I'm looking for a friend. He wants to see her. He says it's important."
"And you won't tell me your friend's name." He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. "Just who are you?"
"I told you."
"Yes, you told me. Your name is Bill Harper and you find things. And a friend asked you to find Sim Loo. Well, I can't help you. Now will you please go?"
"Is there anyone who can help me?"
"Why ask me?"
"What about the other girls?"
He stiffened. "What other girls?"
"You're running a joint, Mr. Stewart. Sim Loo hustled for you. She-"
He took a step toward me, his hands out of his pockets and clenched into fists. "You get out of here."
"You don't want to start anything, do you? I'm sure you don't want any cops swarming about."
He was breathing heavily. But I had stopped him.
He licked his lips. "She had a roomate. My-my girls might have her address. She's not with me any more."
"Well you be so kind as to ask them?" He worried his lower lip, then went into another room. He came out shortly. "Her name is Josie Laurier." He gave me Josie's address. "Thanks." I got to my feet. His attitude had changed. "You seem like a right guy, Harper. But you can't blame me for acting the way I did. I had trouble with Sim Loo and-well, you know how it is."
"Sure."
"If you come back again, come back as a customer."
"How's the merchandise?"
"Terrific."
It was one of those small buildings that one finds in the middle seventies, just off Broadway. Josie's name and room number were listed in the lobby along with those of the other tenants. I walked up a flight of stairs and thumbed the bar set in the jamb.
A girl of about twenty-five opened up. She looked up at me. "Yes?" She had dark brown hair and her figure was full and lush. She wore a housecoat with buttons going up and down the front.
"Josie Laurier?"
"Yes."
"I'd like to talk to you."
She looked me up and down. "You look like a cop."
"That's because I'm tall and bright-looking. I'm not a cop. I'm allergic to cops. A cop once gave me a ticket."
"I'm not letting you in till I know more about you."
"My name is William Harper. You can call me Bill."
"There has to be more."
"Are you putting me on?"
"I think it's the other way around."
I grinned at her. I made sure she saw my white teeth. When that didn't impress her, I said, "Tony said you could help me."
"Tony?"
"Tony Stewart."
"I don't like Tony."
"Neither do I. He's my worst enemy."
"You are putting me on."
"I'm looking for Sim Loo. Tony thought you could help me."
Her eyes darkened. "Sim Loo? Why do you want her?"
"Must we talk out here in the hall?"
She made up her mind. She let me in.
It was a small cozy apartment, just right for a bachelor girl. I sat on the sofa and stretched my legs out.
"Make yourself to home."
"A friend asked me to look up Sim Loo," I said. "It's as simple as that."
"Nothing is that simple."
"Can you help me?"
"I don't know yet. Who is this friend?"
"Does that matter?"
"It matters very much."
"A friend who knew her. He wants to find her."
"Why?"
"I don't really know," I said, honestly.
That's when she got frightened. "This friend. Is-is he being blackmailed by Sim Loo?"
That stopped me cold. "Is she blackmailing anybody?"
"Name one."
"Ted Bannister."
"Name another."
"John Fry."
CHAPTER THREE
I never was much of a poker player. She had kept her big brown eyes on my face and my expression when she had mentioned my client's name had convinced her. "So. It's John Fry," she said. "I haven't said anything," I protested. "So she hooked the big one," she reflected. "You have to give Sim Loo credit. She has brains, that girl."
"You think Sim Loo is a blackmailer?"
She looked at me oddly. "Are you kidding? You sure act like the innocent country boy."
"I'm just getting my feet wet, honey. I still haven't learned to swim in this big pool."
"Once you get your feet wet, you're a goner."
"I hope not."
She smiled. "Let's have a drink. Then we'll talk."
"I'll have a highball. Do you have bourbon?"
"I have everything."
I looked at her figure as she moved about, and I had to agree with her. She did have everything. She had a full lush body. High round breasts, nicely-curved hips, and a long set of legs. I wondered if she had anything on under the housecoat.
The highball was just right. Women usually make lousy bartenders. They put in too much whiskey or too little. But Josie was an expert.
"What do you do for a living, Bill?" she asked.
She sat across from me and sipped at her drink.
"I deal in rare objects. Silver and gold pieces, rare coins. When a dealer or a collector gets a yen for a particular item, he calls me and I find it for him."
"Can't they find it for themselves?"
"The dealer is too busy going to auctions or filling orders. He's a businessman, and his time is valuable. The collector usually contacts the dealer or me. If the dealer doesn't have what the collector wants, then he contacts me." "And you find it?"
"Usually. There are some items that are impossible to get. The 1804 silver dollar. The Brasher Doubloon. The twelve ducats gold coin of 1632 which was issued under Ferdinand the Second of Bohemia. Shall I go on?"
"How did you ever get into that racket-business?"
"I inherited it from my uncle. I didn't think I could stick it out. My uncle sold coins over the counter and by mail. I decided to be different. Instead of a store, I used an office. Instead of minor and key coins, I decided to go after the real rare stuff. I sent out cards to other dealers and to some famous collectors. Whenever a rare coin was desired, they gave me the job."
I finished my drink. "Now I have some sort of reputation among coin dealers. Soon after I started hunting coins, I added other rare items, items like salt cellars, statuettes, candlesticks. I make a living by charging ten percent commission on what the object is worth."
She got up and made me another drink.
"I know all about you," she said, giving me the highball. "I guess you know something about me, too."
"I know you know Sim Loo."
"I haven't seen her in ages."
"When was the last time?"
She sat down again and crossed her legs. Her nice long legs. "About two, three months ago."
"Was she going with someone?"
"She was always going with someone."
"Look, I don't know much about finding people. It's out of my line. But if you can help me...."
"So Fry can kill her?"
That stopped me cold. "Why do you say that?"
"Why does he want her?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"You see?"
"No, I don't see. He's too important a man to resort to murder. He'd have too much to lose."
"He'd find a way. But first, he'd have to find her."
"I think you're wrong. Okay." I sighed. "If you can't help, you can't." I started to get to my feet. "Why don't you try Sal De Long?"
"Who is Sal De Long?"
"He's an artist. He paints and sculpts. He used to go with Sim Loo. I think he was in love with her. She used to model for him. Maybe he could help you. Maybe."
"Who is Ted Bannister?"
"Just someone who Sim Loo had her hooks in. I won't tell you any more."
"Will you give me De Long's address?"
"He's in the book."
"Okay." I was on my feet and finishing my second highball when I discovered her right up against me. There was a warm smile on her face.
I like women. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't. They lie and they cheat and they are bitchy. But you can't do without them.
She put her arms around my waist, and I bent my head and kissed her mouth. "I took a shine to you," she said. Which was possible. I started to work the buttons on her housecoat. She didn't try to stop me. Soon she was bare to the waist. Her breasts were big and solid with half-dollar-sized nipples. I fondled her breasts; they were smooth and cool. She wiggled, and the housecoat fell to the floor. She was completely naked. Somehow, we made it to the bedroom. We sank onto the bed and I started to kiss her breasts. There was a lot to kiss. I kissed the skin around a nipple, then the nipple itself. It seemed she was crazy about this. She kept running her hands through my hair and moaning like crazy.
She sat up suddenly and started to undress me. When I was naked she loomed over me, her heavy breasts dancing on my naked chest. I put my hands on her breasts and felt the nipples harden into twin diamonds.
She settled herself over me, her hips tantalizing me, teasing me. I smelled her perfume and clutched at her hips, determined to complete the act. But she laughed at me. She liked to tease, the bitch. She refused to let me pull her body down; she kept her body stiff till I begged.
Then she engulfed me. She came down smoothly, gliding into place, her white thighs pressing into my sides, her breasts swinging back and forth against my chest. It was exquisite.
Our bodies moved in rhythmic unison, keeping a steady smooth pace. Her eyes were closed; her face was gray with pleasure and maybe with pain. Then her hips started to work furiously, violently. I didn't want it to end right away. I wanted it to last. I told her so. But she was beyond hearing. All she could do was ... feel.
It was going to come soon, fast and furious. I joined her. I worked under her as best as I could. I was soon working at her speed. Her breasts danced like live animals over my chest.
She shuddered violently, and I let go. She collapsed over me, her breath hot against the side of my neck.
"I'm not even going to charge you," she said later, when I had dressed.
"That's awfully decent of you."
"I was going to," she said. "But I won't."
"I'm flattered."
"You'd better go. I have a customer coming soon."
"When can we get together again?"
"You liked it, huh?"
"I want to talk about Sim Loo."
"Oh." She was disappointed. "Any time, I guess."
"I'll call you."
"Sure."
"One thing." I then mentioned a name on the list John Fry had given me. The name of the man who collected women.
Josie's face suddenly hardened with hate. "Joe Black. I didn't know Sim Loo had ever met him."
"You know him?"
"We've met."
"I take it you don't like him very much?"
"I hate brutal men. He-he liked to whip his women. Look, I don't want to go into it."
"Okay, Josie." I kissed her cheek and she walked me to the door. "Maybe I'll call you this evening."
"You do that. I like you, Bill. You're a lover." I kissed her again, then I left.
CHAPTER FOUR
I had the businessman's special at a restaurant and took my coffee with me into the phone booth in back. I looked through the book, then dialed Sal De Long's number.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Sal De Long?"
"Yes. What can I do for you?"
"You don't know me, Mr. Long. But-"
"De Long."
"What?"
"Mr. De Long."
"Oh Sorry, Mr. De Long."
"Well, what is it?"
"I'm looking for Sim Loo."
"I see. And where did you get the idea that I was running a whore house?"
"A client wants to see her."
"A client? Are you a detective or something?"
"Or something."
"I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Can I see you?"
"If you promise to bring a few bottles of beer."
"I promise."
"In half an hour then."
He hung up and I finished my coffee.
As I drove to the Village, I kept thinking about what Josie had said. About John Fry wanting to kill Sim Loo. I wondered if that could be so. It was very possible that I was being used as a patsy.
I would have to talk to John Fry again.
I stopped for some cold beer, then went searching for the building where De Long lived.
It was an old brownstone, flanked on one side by a butcher store, on the other by a beauty salon.
Some dame under a dryer had her legs crossed and there were inches of thigh showing. I kept looking at that expanse of skin, intrigued. She glared at me.
I finally went into the brownstone and found De Long's name on his mailbox. He had room twelve.
Sal De Long was about thirty-two or-three. He was tall, and his hair was very black. He needed a shave and a haircut. He had on a short smock, and a pair of blue jeans. His feet were bare.
It was a studio apartment. It was big and sunny. Behind his back, I saw a life-sized statue of a nude woman, standing.
"Come on in," he said.
I walked in and he took the bag full of cold beer from me. "I live on beer," he said. "You can shove your solid foods. They don't interest me." He opened a bottle of beer. He drank deeply. "That was good."
Then he remembered his manners. He opened a bottle for me. I accepted. I kept looking at the statue. I walked over to it and studied it.
The statue was of a Chinese woman.
"Are you interested in sculpture?" he wanted to know. He had followed me.
"Did Sim Loo pose for this?" I asked.
"Yes. I have other stuff. Paintings. Maybe you'd care to buy a painting?"
"Why not?"
He showed me his paintings.
They weren't bad. But he didn't have the touch of genius. I tilted the bottle and drank some beer.
"Don't you have any paintings of Sim Loo?" I asked.
"I was saving them for last. I'll tell you the truth; I hate to part with any of them. You see this statue? It was the last thing I did of her. I'll never part with it." He went to get the paintings. "These are my best, I believe."
He was right. There were seven paintings. And Sim Loo was nude in each one. Maybe the model had inspired the artist. I didn't know. But De Long had outdone himself. These paintings were damn good.
"Well?" He seemed poised to capture my every word.
"You know they're good," I said.
"have to pay my rent," he said. "Can you imagine? I'm rich in many things but-" He sighed. "Do you want one of these paintings? Which one? I'll let it go at a sacrifice." I selected one.
"Ah, yes. My best. I really captured her inner soul."
"What are you asking?"
"A hundred dollars."
"I'll give you twenty-five."
He glared at me. "And I thought you knew something. You don't. You're a bum."
"You can buy a lot of beer with twenty-five dollars."
"You have my back against the wall."
"I'll make it thirty if you'll answer some questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"Where is Sim Loo?"
"I don't know. Give me twenty-five dollars."
I gave him thirty. We sat down on a broken-down sofa, drank beer, and talked.
He loved her. He was crazy about her. And she had walked out on him. I hoped he wouldn't start to cry.
"Where is she now?" I asked him. "I told you I don't know. If I knew, I'd go to her and tell her I loved her and wanted her."
"Do you know John Fry?"
"I heard of him. I don't know him. Why?"
"What about Joe Black?"
"He was one of Sim Loo's customers." He bit off every word as though it were torture to mention the fact that Sim Loo was a whore.
"Did she ever have any trouble with him?"
"I don't know. We never discussed such things. She knew I didn't care for her working the Johns. It was disgusting. I didn't want to share her with anyone. Oh, man. My Sim Loo!"
"Did she ever have any trouble with anyone?"
"Only with-" he stopped short.
"Who?" I urged.
"What good is it all? It's water under the bridge."
"She seems to have disappeared," I said. "Maybe she met with foul play. Maybe she's hiding. Isn't it obvious that she's afraid of someone or something?"
He licked his lips. Then he decided to talk. "When I met Sim Loo, I already had a girl. But Sim Loo got under my skin. I-I gave Abigail the air. She turned on Sim Loo, tried to scratch her eyes out. It was all I could do to pull them apart. Abigail swore she'd kill Sim Loo." "Who is this Abigail?"
"Abigail Home. She models."
"Where is she now?"
"I don't know. We haven't kept in touch. Abigail has a nasty temper. She doesn't forget things so easily."
"Do you think Abigail is capable of ... murder?"
He looked at me, strangely. "We're all capable of murder."
"I suppose so."
"But I don't think Abigail would kill anyone. And I don't think anything has happened to Sim Loo."
"Then where is she?"
"I don't know. If I knew, I'd go to her."
"Has anyone else been here, asking for Sim Loo?"
"A man named Colt. He said he was a private detective. A very nervous type. Couldn't sit still."
"No one else?"
He shook his head. "Why?"
"People just don't drop out of sight," I said. "If she's hiding, there's a reason for it."
"If you find her you'll tell her I love her, won't you?"
"Sure."
He opened up another bottle of beer. "I think about her all the time. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy."
"You'd better learn to relax."
"I suppose so."
"Did Sim Loo have an apartment or did she live here with you?" I wanted to know. I shook my head when he offered me another beer.
"She used to live with a girl named Josie Laurier, then she moved in with me. She didn't say where she was going when she left me She didn't leave any forwarding address."
Sal De Long was a very bitter man. The girl he loved just didn't have it for him. I suppose that would make a lot of men bitter. And artists are a sensitive lot.
When I saw he was getting ossified from the beer, I decided to make my farewell. I put the painting under my arm and he showed me to the door.
"You're a pal," he said.
"And you can't drink," I said.
"I suppose not. But I'm learning."
I went down into the street where the sky was darkening, the day dying. I put the painting on the back seat and got behind the wheel. I drove past Washington Square, into Waverly Place, then up University Place.
My phone was ringing as I entered my apartment.
I put the painting on the sofa and picked up the phone. It was Josie.
Her voice was excited. "Listen, Bill, do you pay your debts? Are you sure there are no bill collectors after you?"
"I'm sure. What is it?"
"There was a mug here, looking for you. He left about an hour ago. I've been calling your number every ten minutes, hoping I'd catch you before he did."
"What did he want?"
"He wanted you."
"I realize that," I said, impatiently. "He didn't say why he wanted you. But he acted awful tough. He looked ... mean."
"You're sure he. wasn't a cop?"
"He was no cop."
"All right, Josie. Don't worry about it."
"Will I see you this evening?"
"We'll have dinner together," I said. "Okay?"
"Fine. Pick me up about seven."
"Will do." I hung up and turned as the front door opened. I would have sworn I had locked it.
CHAPTER FIVE
There were two men standing by the door; one was tall and thin with a sardonic-looking face while the other looked as though he had just stepped out of a Warner Brothers gangster picture.
The tall, thin man came well into the room while the other man remained where he was.
"I wasn't sure whether anyone was to home," he said.
"How did you get in?" I wanted to know. "Archie is a whiz with locks. Can open anything."
"Okay. Now you're here. Who are you and what do you want?"
"You Americans. Too blunt. That's the trouble with you."
"And you English stall around too much."
"I'm not English. I'm a New Zealander." He wasn't offended; he just was correcting me.
"Okay. You're a New Zealander. So what can I do for you?"
"I wanted a friendly chat."
"You didn't have to break in," I said. "Not for a friendly chat. Okay, pal. Let's sit down and we'll have a couple of drinks. Does Archie drink?"
We sat down.
"Not when he's working."
"And he's working now?"
"Archie is always working."
"I know Archie's name; I don't know yours."
"Dule. Jeremy Dule. They say I'm descended from a line of bloomin' dukes. But I never checked."
"I've got you beat, my boy. I'm descended from kings."
"Really?"
"Well, royalty anyway."
"What house?"
"The Stuart line."
"Queen Anne, I believe."
"It goes further back," I said. "To James the First. The line was broken by the House of Orange, in 1689. Then Anne took the throne, in 1702."
"You are descended from kings. Unless you're pulling my leg."
"I checked my family tree. I can't get beyond Queen Anne's time."
"A poor relation then," he concluded.
"I suppose."
"You said something about drinks," he reminded me.
I got to my feet. "What'll it be?"
"Whiskey and water."
I made two drinks, gave him his whiskey and water.
"Okay." He spoke when I was settled again. "I'll lay my cards right on the table. I'm looking for a Chinese girl named Sim Loo. I know she's here in New York. I know you're also looking for her. I thought we could help each other."
"How do you know I'm looking for her?" I asked.
"I did some checking and found out she was working for a pimp named Tony Stewart. I went to see him this afternoon. He swore he didn't know where she was. Then he volunteered the info that a man named William Harper also was looking for Sim Loo. It's as simple as that, laddie."
"Sweet guy, Tony."
"Stewart also volunteered the information that he'd mentioned a girl named Josie Laurier to you. I sent Archie to talk to this jane and she said she never saw you. She acted scared ... as though Archie would hurt a fly."
"I'm sure Archie wouldn't hurt a fly. He might pull its wings off and cut it in half with his teeth, but hurt it-I'd say not. Not a bloomin' bloke like Archie."
"Archie looks meaner than he is."
"I'm sure of it."
"Well, now, let's get back to Sim Loo." He sipped at his whiskey and water. "Why are you looking for her?"
"I was hired to look for her. There's a man who wants her." I finished my drink and studied his face over the rim of the glass. His face didn't tell me a thing.
"Who is this man and what does he want?"
"He wouldn't volunteer the information," I said, coldly.
"What's his name?" he persisted, unabashed.
"I don't think I'll tell you that."
"Why did he go to you? You're a coin dealer, aren't you?"
"I see you've been checking up on me."
"I always like to know who I'm dealing with."
"Do you mind telling me what your racket is?" I asked, acidly.
"In due time."
"And why do you want Sim Loo?"
"It's a personal matter," he said, brusquely.
"You're not saying much."
"Neither are you," he shot back.
"How did you know Sim Loo was in New York?" I asked. "You can't incriminate yourself by answering that question, can you?" I finished my drink. "And where does Sim Loo come from? I'd like to know."
"Her husband told me. He got a letter from Sim Loo, asking for money. The poor slob was broke. He came to me and asked me for the money. I told him I'd give him whatever he wanted if he'd show me the letter. He showed me the letter and I gave him the cash. The bugger sent her money, all right, but not all of it. He used the rest to come here."
"Her husband is here in New York?"
"Yes. He thinks she'll go back to him. Not bloody likely."
"What's his name?"
"Carpy Justin. But he doesn't know where she is."
"You asked him?"
"Archie asked him. In his own way. Sometimes Archie gets out of hand. But what can you do?"
"Where is Carpy Justin?"
"The Hotel Manx. On Broadway, near Seventy-sixth Street. Or is it Seventy-seventh?"
"I'll find it."
"I wish you'd be a bit more cooperative, Mr. Harper. You know, I could leave you here alone with Archie."
"I'm not a fly."
"Maybe you need time to think things over."
"Maybe."
"I'm in no great hurry, Mr. Harper." Jeremy Dule put his glass down and got to his feet. I got to mine.
"Did you ever meet Sim Loo?" he wanted to know.
"Never met the girl."
"A witch," he said. "And charming."
"I'm sure of it."
"She can't be trusted. Let me tell you."
"Did she give you the two exes?"
"What?"
"Did she cross you up or something?"
"You can't know what that girl did to me. It was disgusting. I think she hates all men. She acts like she hates us. But I guess most women act that way."
I nodded my head wisely, as though I were an expert on women.
"You be careful if you meet up with her," Dule advised me. "She'll slit your throat for a Hong Kong dollar."
"I asked you where she came from?" I reminded him. "Was it Hong Kong?"
"We knew each other in Hong Kong," he admitted. "But she wasn't born there, nor did she grow up there. She never told me where she came from. I guess I never asked her. Maybe Carpy knows."
"Maybe."
He went to the door and Archie joined him. "So long, girls," I said.
"We'll see each other again," Dule said. "And soon." They went out.
CHAPTER SIX
The department stores were open late. I bought a bracelet for Josie. I picked out one that had nine English coins strung on a gold plated chain. One of the farthings had turned a nice patina. Josie just didn't appreciate my taste.
"They don't even look like diamonds," she said.
"Diamonds are cold; these coins are history."
"I'd rather have diamonds."
I grimaced. "Let's go eat."
"What did they want?" she asked over a plate of fried chicken after I had told of my guests.
"They wanted Sim Loo. At least, one of them did. The other man, the one who visited you, was just along for the ride. That's Archie."
"You're sure it wasn't Dracula?"
I finished a steak smothered with mushrooms.
"Did Sim Loo ever talk about herself?" I asked.
She shook her head, no. "They say the orientals are close-mouthed. It must be true."
"You weren't the least bit curious?" I pressed her.
"Well...."
"Yes?" I prompted.
"She once said something about Hong Kong. I never kept after her; I could see she wasn't the kind who's forever talking about herself. In fact, she was the exact opposite."
"I thought women liked to talk."
"She was different." Josie chewed the last bite of her chicken. "I never met anyone like her before. I hope you find her before anyone else does."
"I might not be able to find her without your help."
"I don't know where she is. Honest."
I paid the check, left a tip, and we went out. Josie snuggled up close as I drove to her flat. I'm an expert when it comes to one-arm driving.
She moaned deliciously as my hand probed her breast, seeking out a nipple under her dress, then her bra.
She kissed me under the chin. "I wish we could stop someplace. I just can't take it."
"We're almost there."
She squeezed my thigh.
I parked and we went up to her place.
I rediscovered her breasts, her belly, her hips and her thighs. I buried my face in the warmth and softness of her bosom. She couldn't keep still, she was that hot. She kept on twisting and moaning and telling me to get on with it. I wanted to wait. I wanted to play with her, to fondle her breasts more, to stroke her thighs.
But she was too damn hot.
So I went into her. She gasped and her body got wild. I grasped a breast and bent my head so that I could taste it. I let the nipple slide into my mouth and my teeth bit down hard on the crinkled flesh. Her body got wilder.
Her middle crushed against mine, her hands clutched at my ears, driving my face deeper into her breast. The nipple swelled in my mouth. I got one hand under her, felt her buttocks, pushed them against me.
Little cries came from her quivering throat.
Her fingers were hurting my ears. She was a live hot wire under me, writhing like a snake, electrifying me, creating a furnace-hot passion that shook me to the core.
She screamed in my ear.
Later, she said, "This is costing me."
"You can take all the fun out of love by talking like that," I admonished her.
"Can I help it if I'm a working girl?"
"I guess not."
"You're going to spend the whole night, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Maybe I'll get a diamond out of you yet."
"Maybe. A small diamond, perhaps."
"You bastard."
CHAPTER SEVEN
I drove home the next morning, shaved and showered, read my mail, dressed, and drove to my office.
I had three orders. I filled one. The second would have to wait; an old customer wanted a gold coin: a 100 ducats from Sigismund the Third, of Poland. I looked it up in my Friedberg. It was priced at nine thousand dollars. I knew I wouldn't be able to get it at that price; I wasn't that lucky.
The second order would be a bit easier. A gold coin. 25 Tomans from Persia. I didn't have it in my office vault, but it wasn't that much of a difficult item.
I sent a wire to a source in Canada and explained what I wanted.
Then I put in a call to John Fry.
A woman answered. I told her I wanted to speak to John Fry.
"This is Mrs. Fry? Can I help?" she asked.
"I don't think so. Isn't your husband home?"
"He should be at his office."
"I thought no tycoons showed up for work till the middle of the afternoon."
"My husband is different," she said, coolly.
"Well, I'm sorry if I disturbed you."
"Do you want to leave a message?"
"That's all right, Mrs. Fry. I'll try his office."
"Do I know you? Have we ever met? Your voice is very familiar. Oh, yes, I know. We met at Lady Kendrick's last fall."
"We did?"
"Yes, of course. You're Jonathan Sprague."
"Boy, you sure hit the nail on the head." This dame was putting me on. I thought I would play along.
"What?" she said.
"You're right. This is Johnny Sprague."
"Oh," she said, confused. "Well, uh-"
"And how is Lady Kendrick? And how is Lord Kendrick?"
"Uh-You see-" She was more confused than ever.
"Oh, yes," I said. "There is no Lord Kendrick. He passed away five years ago. The measles, wasn't it? Or was it boils? No, no. I remember now. It was the green thumb. He was a gardener in his spare time, I believe. And he had the green thumb. And it spread."
She didn't know what to do, so she laughed. When she finally stopped, she said, "I thought I'd catch you. I just wanted your name. Some women are very curious."
It had to be more than that. "My name is William Harper," I said. "All you had to do was ask."
"I'm sorry. You forgive me, don't you?"
"I'll think about it."
"Let's both think about it," she said, boldly. "Over cocktails. I know a nice place on Madison Avenue. It isn't noisy at all. And they have comfortable booths."
"That sounds promising."
"Well?"
"Isn't this sort of unorthodox?"
"I don't think so. Maybe I have something you want."
I was shocked. And I said so.
She laughed some more. "I have a Cellini I want to sell. Are you interested?"
"Very," I said. "Yes, I'd like to meet you. How about this afternoon? Will that suit you?"
"Fine. The Silver Chalice. That's the name of the bar. Rather a stupid name for a bar, but the drinks are heavenly."
"We'll make it about one."
"Till then. Goodbye."
I hung up.
Now how the hell did she know I would be interested in a Cellini? I would bet dollars to doughnuts she didn't have anything to sell. But I was pretty sure she was out to buy. Information, that is. Information on her husband. This dame had been doing some checking. But how and why? Well, tune in tomorrow for the further adventures of Millie Klutz, girl lumberjack.
I put in a call to John Fry at his office.
It took a good seven minutes to get past the switchboard, the secretary, the executive secretary. Fry finally got on the phone.
"Yes?" he said, brusquely.
"This is Harper," I told him.
"Any progress?"
"Not much. I've talked to people. It seems our friend has disappeared. People haven't seen her."
"Well, keep with it," he urged. "When can we meet?"
"Not today, I'm afraid."
"Well, can I talk?"
"What the hell are you doing now?" he demanded.
"Can I say whatever I want?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. I suppose you can talk freely. I'm sure my phone isn't tapped."
"Why do you want to find Sim Loo?"
"It's personal."
"Is she blackmailing you?"
"What?"
"Is she blackmailing you?" I repeated. "Are you crazy, young man?"
"Do you want to find her so that you can kill her?"
There was a stunned silence for a half a minute. Click.
The phone went dead. John Fry had hung up. And all I did was ask him if he was going to kill someone.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Hotel Manx looked respectable enough. But I knew it had been raided by the police twice during the past six months. That was the type of story the New York papers loved. Sex and violence, in that order. And when there was the combination of both-well, the papers had a field day. So did the readers.
There was a desk clerk who was busy reading a racing sheet. There was a girl, very young, standing by the elevator and talking to a bellhop. There was a young man busily eyeing up the young girl. And there was I. The girl calmly looked me over. She said something to the bellhop and he, in turn, stared at me.
I finally got the clerk's attention away from the racing sheet.
"Yes?" he said.
"Can you tell me the room number of Mr. Justin?"
"Mr. Justin is in room 67." He looked at the pigeon holes, discovered Justin's key. "He's in."
"Thank you."
"That's the sixth floor."
"Thank you." I went to the elevator.
The bellhop took me up. "The regular man is sick. He always gets sick after payday. And I get stuck with his job." He looked at me, and I looked sympathetic.
"I don't get paid extra for this," he said.
"I'll tip you a dime."
"I ain't looking for no tip. I could make a couple of extra bucks, though. You saw that lady I was talkin' to?"
"I saw her."
"Her old man threw her out, the poor kid. She's been forced to hustle for a living. She charges ten bucks a throw. You interested?"
"How do you know I'm not a cop?"
"You look intelligent."
We made the sixth floor. When I didn't get out he looked as though he was sure he had hit pay dirt.
"I'm not interested," I said.
"Oh." He waited for me to walk.
Instead, I said, "But you can still make your two dollars."
He looked suspicious. "How?"
"Do you know Mr. Justin in room 67?"
"Yeah, I know him. He ain't been with us too long."
"I'd like some information."
"Sure. Go ahead and ask me."
"Has he had any visitors?"
"Some big bastard just the other day." He described Archie. "A real big bruiser. And ugly."
I took out my wallet, extracted two dollars and folded the bills. Just like they do in the movies. "Anyone else?"
"Nope."
"No dames?"
"Well...."
"Chinese?"
"Huh? Myrtle isn't Chinese."
"Who the hell is Myrtle?"
"The dame I was talkin' to."
"Oh. The poor kid."
"Yeah. You sure you ain't interested?"
"I ain't interested in Moitle."
"Well, that's the only dame he's seen. On business. Otherwise, there ain't been no other skirts."
"Does he ever go out?"
"Sure, to the bar around the corner."
"What about personal calls?"
"I wouldn't know about that."
"Okay." I gave him the two dollars. "Thanks."
"Yeah. Now you can have that operation on your arm so you can play the violin again." I found room 67 and knocked. "Who is it?"
"Mr. Justin?" I asked. "Who is it?" he repeated.
"Mr. Justin, I'd like to speak to you."
The door opened a crack. The first thing I was aware of was a beautiful black eye. It was a real shiner. A lulu.
"Who're you?"
"I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Justin."
"What about?" His voice sounded belligerent. "Your wife, Sim Loo."
"You know where she is?" There was excitement in his voice. "You know where Sim Loo is?"
"No. I wish I did."
"Oh." His disappointment was evident. "Can I come in?"
"Sure. Why not?" He opened the door wider and I walked in.
It was a sunny room with a low sofa, two club chairs, a bed that needed fresh sheets, and a chest of drawers. The bathroom was to the left of a television set.
I sat and lit a cigarette and studied Carpy Justin. He was about forty, with most of his hair gone. He had ruddy face, a vein-streaked nose, a pudgy body.
He sat on the bed. "I watch the telly every night. That's the best thing about America. Otherwise, you can have it. Too much noise, too many people."
I looked at his black eye. "Did Archie do that?"
He stiffened. "You know Archie?"
"We met. He and a man named Jeremy Dule paid me a visit yesterday. Very friendly chaps."
"That Archie is a mean one, he is. You have to watch him. He's the type who'd bash whiskey if he had the chance."
"Bash whiskey?"
"Water it."
"Oh."
"Jeremy is a decent bloke unless he's crossed. Then he turns mean, he does."
"Tell me about Sim Loo."
"Why are you interested?"
"Well, uh-I'm looking for her. For a friend."
"Are you doing a moody on me?"
"A who?"
"Putting one over on me?"
"No. Oh, no."
"This geezer. This friend. Was he a customer of my bint?"
"Bint means wife?"
"Woman."
"Oh. Well, yes, he was a customer."
"Why is he looking for her?"
"I think he fell for her," I said, blandly. Then he started to giggle. "Sim Loo. She sure had a way with the men."
"You-uh-don't mind?"
"Mind?" He glared at me. "Why should I mind? I got her started as a brass."
That was one slang word I knew. Brass meant prostitute. And this son-of-a-bitch was proud of the fact that he had started Sim Loo in as a whore.
"Where did you meet her?" I asked.
I was wondering if I could get out of this interview without smashing him one.
"Shanghai. That was almost ten years ago. She was a bird. A starving bird. I was doing the blueys. I was making plenty of nicker then. I was younger, of course, and-"
"Blueys?"
"Films." He winked. "The real stuff."
"Stag films."
"On the button, mate."
"And nicker means money, I take it?"
"Pounds sterling, to be exact."
"Okay."
"Well, I got her started in the blueys, see and-"
"You made Sim Loo-" I felt anger rising like a swelling river inside me.
"She was starvin'. She needed money. Listen, mate, you keep interruptin' me all the time."
"Sorry," I managed to say.
"Well, things got out of hand at one point. I was sending the blueys across the sea and the cussies got wise. Customs to you, mate. Had to make my nicker so I got Sim Loo to kip with the bloods. That's how she met Dule."
I put my cigarette out. "And Dule took a fancy to her?"
"He did. But I was the one who married her. I got plonked one day and when I woke I was married to her. Couldn't live it down, so I hopped it to Hong Kong. That's where she met Dule."
"And he fell for her?"
"In a way. But she did a scarper with his lolly and left him skint."
"Hold it. Let me catch up to you. I know what Lolly is. That's money. But for the rest...."
"Plonked means drunk, scarper is to go, skint means out of money. Broke. You know?" I sighed. "Was Dule in some racket?"
"Smuggling."
"You came here to find her?"
"I did. She's my wife."
"Did you expect to find her in the bar around the corner?" I wanted to know.
"You checked me out, I see. Well, I don't know where to look. I tried the address on the letter she sent me-She wrote me a letter, asking me for money. That's how I knew she was in New York. I tried this address but no mozzle."
"What?"
"Mozzle means luck."
"Yes, I know but-you're sure that's English slang?"
He became indignant. "Listen-"
"Okay, okay."
He calmed down a bit. "This artist fellow told me she'd done a scarper. I had no other lead. I left word with him if she should show up, he should call me."
"Was his name Sal De Long?"
"That was the bloke."
"Did you tell him Sim Loo was your wife?"
"I told him. He didn't look surprised."
"Okay." I got to my feet. "What if you do find her? What will you do with her?"
"Do? What do you mean, do? She's my wife. I'll set up a knocking shop. She's my wife, ain't she? I got rights."
"Knocking shop. Is that a whore house?"
"You guessed it."
"I see."
"You seem like the right sort. If you can scrounge up a bottle, we could make like a pair of chinas."
I shook my head, bewildered.
"Chinas. Pals."
"I wish I had the time, Mr. Justin. But I have an appointment soon, with a frill."
"Gotcha."
"I wonder if you could have soured Sim Loo on men?"
"What?"
"Nothing. Goodbye, Mr. Justin."
"Ta."
CHAPTER NINE
The Silver Chalice was like a thousand other bars. There was a steam table, booths or tables for waiter service, stools at a small counter near the steam table if you wanted to save a tip, and a long bar where two men in white jackets mixed drinks, poured shots, and uncapped beer bottles.
There was no draft beer.
I noticed the bottles along the back bar; this joint had nothing but expensive booze.
I found an empty booth and ordered a highball. Before it arrived, Mrs. John Fry showed up. She came right up to the booth and sat down.
"Hello," she said.
The waiter brought my highball. He asked if she wanted anything, and she ordered a champagne cocktail.
"Do I call you Mrs. Fry, or what?" I asked, when the waiter left.
"Call me Paula."
She was close to thirty, with very blonde hair, almost the color of watered lemon juice. She was slim, Vogue slim.
"Now that we've met," I said, "perhaps you will explain a few things?"
"If I can." Her expression was amused.
"How did you know what I looked like?"
"What do you mean?"
"You made a beeline for this booth, soon as you walked in," I said. "You knew what I looked like. Otherwise, why didn't you try the booth further down? There's a man there, all by himself. And there's another-"
"Okay. So I knew you. You're not angry, are you?"
"I'm not angry. Just don't try to be shrewd with me. And how did you know I'd be interested in an art object?"
"I know the business you're in."
"How did you know?"
"A man told me."
"What man?" I felt as though I were going around in a circle.
"A private detective. I've been having my husband followed for some time. Of course, this conversation is confidential. You understand that, don't you?"
"I don't understand any such thing."
"I don't expect to enlist you as an ally," she said. "But at least, stay neutral. My husband is a tyrant. I want to be rid of him. It's strictly a personal matter between my husband and me."
"Okay. Maybe I'll stay out of it." I drank half of my highball. "But why did you want to meet me?"
She had to think a while about that one. Finally I guessed, "You do want me as an ally, don't you?"
She licked her lips. "You had a conversation with my husband in your office yesterday morning. I want to know what it was about. It's important."
"Strictly confidential."
"You talked to him about Sim Loo, didn't you?"
"What do you know about Sim Loo?"
"I know she was my husband's mistress."
"How do you know we talked about her?" I wanted to know.
"Because this man I hired followed you to an apartment where Sim Loo once worked at being a prostitute."
"And you won't tell me this man's name?"
"I won't."
I finished my highball. "Then I'll tell you. He's a private detective named Sebastian Colt."
She drew a sharp breath. "How-how did you know?"
"Colt gave your husband a list with Tony Stewart's name and address on it. He knew Stewart had employed Sim Loo as a call girl. He followed me to Stewart's apartment, and he knew then that your husband had come to me about Sim Loo. It has to be Colt. He knew about Stewart; he was the one who found out about Tony Stewart."
"Pretty smart, aren't you?"
"I don't think so. I just think you're stupid."
For a second, I thought she was going to throw her drink in my face. Then she calmed down.
"Your husband gave Colt the sack," I went on. "So he went to you. He's just a cheap mug out to make a fast buck any way he can."
"You're right. The bad thing is, he doesn't have any real evidence for me, not evidence enough to show a judge."
"Do you want a divorce so bad?"
"Yes," she said, softly. "I want out. I thought I'd have it made being married to the great John Fry. But I was wrong. I have a big house, with nothing to do. I'm bored, and I want out. Only Paula wants her hands on some of that Fry money. I want a big chunk of it."
"Well, good luck to you. But don't count on me for any help. I never mix in domestic affairs."
"I can pay you."
"Forget it."
"All right," she said, sounding as though she were giving up. "Will you take me out to my car?"
"You're sure you don't want another drink?"
"No. I don't think so. I'm beginning to feel faint."
I became alarmed. "Should I call someone?"
"No, it's all right. Will you please help me out?"
"Sure."
I paid the check and took her arm. Her car was behind mine. I opened the door, and she slid in. Her skirt hiked up over her knees for an instant, showing part of a slim white thigh. She pulled her skirt down, then looked at me. "Thanks anyway," she said. "That's okay."
She faced the wheel and she shook her head. She licked her lips and fumbled with the ignition key.
"You don't seem to be in any condition to drive," I said.
"I-I don't know what's the matter with me."
"Maybe you'd better sit for a while and rest?"
"Oh, no. I ... I don't want to stay here. Do ... do you live far from here?"
"Not too far."
"I hate to ask...."
"What is it?" This really was getting interesting.
"Do you think I can rest by you? I promise not to be a nuisance. I feel so faint."
"I can drive you home," I offered.
"No. Everybody would worry."
"What if you need a doctor?"
"I don't think so. Please. Your place. I know it's a lot to ask but if you'd be so kind...."
I couldn't make up my mind whether she was acting or not. But who can refuse a damsel in distress?
"Please," she said again.
I walked around the car and she moved over. I got behind the wheel, started the motor.
"You're so kind," she said.
I drove to my apartment. I had to help her in. She kept brushing her breast against my arm. A coincidence, of course.
The divan looked inviting. She sat down and sighed. "I could use a drink." Her skirt was above her knee. This time, she didn't bother to pull it down.
"I have no champagne," I said.
"Just give me anything."
I made her a highball. And one for myself.
She managed a weak smile. She sipped at her highball, staring at me over the rim of her glass.
"It's nice here," she said, looking around. "Is that a Ming vase?"
"A bit earlier."
"You have a nice Pollack."
I was surprised that she recognized the painting.
"He died before his time," she said.
"Many of us do," I agreed.
She put her glass aside. "Can I lie down?"
"Of course." I stood up.
"Not here," she protested.
"The bedroom is that way," I pointed.
"Will you help me up?"
I put my glass down and helped her to her feet. She stumbled against me. I put one hand on her waist, just over a boyish hip. She looked up at me, her smile weak and apologetic.
"You'll have to help me," she murmured.
I helped her into the bedroom. She sat on the bed, one hand against the side of her head. "I guess it's too much for me. My life with John and Caroline."
"Caroline?"
"My step-daughter. She hates me. She thinks I married her father for his money."
"No!" I exclaimed, in mock astonishment.
"My blouse. I don't have the strength to remove it," she said.
"Of course not." I was convinced she was putting on an act. But how far would she go?"
I sat down on the bed and unbuttoned the blouse. It gaped. There was no slip underneath. The bra was black and lacy. The shadows of her nipples could be seen through the material.
"Okay now?" I asked.
"My-my skirt."
I had wanted to play it cool, but I felt excitement mounting in me. Her body was good; her skin was pale, as if it never had been kissed by the sun. But it was clear, without blemish.
"The skirt," she said, again.
"Yes." My voice was a bit husky, like a school boy's. I started to unzip the skirt. She lay back and the skirt came away, off her long legs.
Her panties also were black and lacy. Her thighs were slim but with a fullness that was tempting. Her legs were beautifully tapered, like a model's.
"I'll leave you now." I started to rise.
She put her arms over her head. Her breasts in their sheer cups moved gently.
"Don't go," she said, throatily.
"But you're a married woman," I said, half-mockingly.
"I want you," she said, simply.
I read the invitation in her eyes.
I turned her on her side and unhooked her bra. I got rid of her panties. She rolled back, looked up at me. Her naked breasts were sharply nippled and very firm. Her belly was flat.
I leaned over her and took a breast in one hand. My lips encountered a nipple. My tongue caressed it.
This was what she wanted, what she needed. She was a passionate woman, with a red-hot nature, a burning, living witch who fed on men. Her hands pulled me down and her lips burned my mouth.
"Let me get undressed," I said, after a scorching interval.
"I can't wait," she moaned.
I pulled away from her and got rid of my clothes.
Her body was twisting as though she were with an invisible lover. I went to her, hot and eager, my loins on fire, and my mouth sought the tender flesh of her inner thighs. She whispered to me, demanding more. I wanted to do what she wanted. My mouth took possession of her flesh and she screamed. I stayed at it for a long time.
Then I crawled over her body, separated her inviting thighs. Her eyes were half shut with ecstasy, her hair was loose around her face and on the pillow. Her wanton body was there, pulsing, waiting, eager.
I moved in, slowly, surely, and her body stiffened as it took my invasion. She whimpered like a hurt child, then her mouth opened and I saw her even white teeth. I buried my face in her neck and bit at her perfumed flesh. She moved under me, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I kept moving with her, our bodies like one white machine, breathing fire, gripped in lust, trembling with passion.
Her balled fists beat against my chest, my back, her knees dug into my sides, hurting me. She made claws of her hands and stripped skin from my shoulders. I bled.
It came with a rush, a sudden, startling awakening, surprising me with its ferocity. It was unexpected. It drained us, leaving us empty, exhausted, but enormously satisfied.
CHAPTER TEN
We were dressed and were drinking highballs when she said, "I wasn't going to go through with it. I was going to get you good and hot and then tell you to go to hell unless you told me what I wanted to know."
"What made you change your mind?"
"I don't know. I got carried away."
"I'm glad I carried you away."
"You still won't help me?" she asked.
I shook my head, no.
She made a face. "You're mean."
"I suppose I am."
"After my divorce, I expect to have plenty of money. I'd be generous to anyone who had helped me get that divorce. We could go away together."
I started to answer when the phone rang. It was John Fry.
"I have to see you," he said.
I heard excitement in his voice. "All right."
"Can you come out here?"
"If that's what you want. But what will you tell-"
"I'm interested in buying a Rodin. One of those things. You sell them, don't you?"
I winced. Money, but no culture. A Rodin. One of those things. "Just tell them you're interested in a Cellini."
"Will do."
"All right, Mr. Fry?"
I heard Paula gasp behind me. It was the first time I had mentioned my caller's name.
"Do you know how to get to my estate?" Fry asked.
"I think so. Southhampton, isn't it?"
He gave me directions, then hung up.
She came to me. "What is it? What does he want?"
"He wants to see me."
"What about?"
"He didn't say."
"Was it about Sim Loo?"
"He didn't say," I repeated.
"You won't help me then?"
I shook my head, no. Determinedly.
"All right. I'll drive you back to where you parked your car. Of course, we can't go back together."
"You go home," I told her. "I'll wait fifteen minutes, then start out."
"I'll have to act as if I didn't know you."
"You can swing it; you have a knack for acting."
"You'll want me again," she said. "But you won't find me so easy the next time."
"No?"
"But definitely no. Unless you help me."
She gave me her empty glass.
"Shall we start?" I asked, a bit wearily.
There was a wicked smile on her face. "All right, Bill. I do so admire the people who work for my husband. They show such loyalty."
"Almost as much loyalty as you do."
She started. She wanted to say something, thought better of it. "You're so right, Bill. I can't afford to talk."
We went down and got into her car. She drove me to where my car was parked. I got out, and she drove away.
I spent fifteen minutes in The Silver Chalice, fortifying myself with three highballs.
It was a nice day for a ride. The sun was high and round, like an orange.
A caretaker opened a gate for me, and I drove another quarter of a mile before I came to the house.
It was big and white and looked like something from the Old South. There was no old colonel on the front porch with mint julep in hand, and that sort of surprised me. An old colonel sort of went with that house.
That, and wagons of cotton rolling by.
You find everything on the island.
I parked the car and looked for signs of life. I honked the horn.
The house fascinated me. It was straight out of Gone With The Wind.
As I got out of the car, the front door opened. A man in dark blue suit approached me. "Mr. Harper?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Fry is expecting you. I'll park your car in the garage, if you wish. Mr. Fry told me you were staying for dinner."
I went into the house and discovered the interior of a museum. Everything was marble and chintz, and there was a coldness which one couldn't escape.
A door opened, and a girl appeared. She was a buxom thing, something Rubens would have enjoyed painting. She had on a sun dress which left her shoulders bare. There was the hint of a valley between her round breasts. Just a hint. The dress hugged her breasts and hips. She was nicely rounded.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was soft, like summer rain.
"I'm looking for John Fry."
"My father is in the study." She pointed. "Just go through that door, Mr.-"
"Harper. William Harper."
"Oh, yes. My father mentioned something about a dealer coming down to sell him a Cellini. I didn't know my father knew about such things."
"Oh, your father definitely has a cultured mind."
"Really?" She raised her brows. "Then you know something that I don't." I shrugged.
The door that she had come through opened again and a young man joined her. He was tall and good-looking, with blond hair.
"Oh, Mr. Harper, this is my fiance, Ted Bannister."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Josie Laurier had mentioned Ted Bannister when I had asked her to name people who were being blackmailed by Sim Loo. And here was Ted Bannister, in person, the fiance of John Fry's daughter. That was one for the book.
I went into the study. John Fry looked up from behind a desk. He had the Wall Street Journal in front of him. He didn't bother to get up.
"I'm glad you got here," he said. "What happened?"
"I'm being blackmailed."
"I guessed that."
"You're talking about Sim Loo, aren't you?" he said. "Well, you're wrong. This is a different party, altogether."
"How did the blackmailer get in touch with you?"
"By phone. Just before I left my office. It was a man."
"Did he give a name?"
"Mr. Dule."
"We've met."
"You know him?" John Fry acted surprised. "He's also looking for Sim Loo."
"This is beyond me." He sighed. "But sit down, won't you?" I sat.
"Why does he want Sim Loo?" he asked, as though I knew everything.
"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to kill her."
"Kill her?" That jarred him.
"Sim Loo double-crossed him. Now he's looking for her. I think he wants to kill her."
"That's-that's a drastic step," he ended, lamely.
"Yes, isn't it?"
"You-you think he'll find her?"
"I don't know. But what if he does? You'll still have him to deal with."
"Yes. You're right. I'm in a corner."
"Don't you think it's about time you came clean?"
"What do you mean?" He looked at me sharply.
"Sim Loo was blackmailing you, wasn't she?"
His sigh was deep. "Yes."
"She threatened to go to your wife and tell her of her relationship with you, is that it?"
"Yes. My wife, Paula, would love something like that. I knew what Paula was when I married her. But I didn't care. I love her. I want her. And I'm going to keep her."
"Okay. Well, you couldn't pay Sim Loo if she was missing, now could you? You should have been happy knowing she'd disappeared. But you weren't. You wanted her found. Why?"
"I knew she'd turn up again and start to squeeze me. I wanted to ... to...."
"To kill her?" I said.
He licked his lips. "I-"
I looked at him and saw a broken old man. "Tell me the truth. It's silly to keep on lying."
"Yes." His voice was low. I could hardly hear him. "Yes. I wanted to kill her. She was bleeding me dry. She-she just disappeared one day. I knew she'd come back eventually and it would all start over again. I wanted her found so that I could kill her."
"Did you think you could get away with it?"
"There are ways. I'm rich. You can do things when you're rich. Money can make the most complicated things very simple." He looked at me. "I've told you more than I thought I ever would. I hope I can trust you."
"I won't be party to a murder."
"I realize now it would be futile. Even if I got rid of Sim Loo, I would still have this Dule person to contend with. And"-he looked at me sharply-"you."
"You make me nervous when you talk like that."
"I do sound ominous, don't I?"
"Very."
"I'm really a harmless old man. And helpless."
"You're not so helpless," I said. "About Dule. I may be able to get him off your back."
"Can you?"
"I'll give it a try."
"I-uh-don't want you to do this for nothing."
"Do you have a thousand dollars handy?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me."
He took a thousand dollars from his wallet. "Do you always carry so much with you?" I asked.
"I never know when I might find something I want."
"Yes, of course."
He looked at his watch. "You'll be staying for dinner. Which should be ready in five minutes. Shall we start?"
There were five for dinner. Mr. Fry, Mrs. Fry, Caroline Fry, Ted Bannister, and myself. There was what Caroline called Veal Stoganoff en Casserole, with mushrooms, noodles, sour cream, and a sprinkling of Parmesan. Delicious. I had two helpings.
Caroline started asking me questions about Cellini. It was obvious she didn't believe I was an art dealer who had come to sell her father a Cellini. She knew something about the Italian craftsman, but not much. I answered her questions glibly, much to her surprise and disappointment.
After dinner I found myself alone, except for Paula, at my side.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.
"Why don't you ask him?" I countered.
"Because I'm asking you."
"Wise up. I'm not playing today."
"That bitch is watching us," she hissed.
I turned my head and saw Caroline staring at us. When her eyes focused on Paula, they hardened with hate.
Ted Bannister came up to Caroline, hooked his arm through hers, and they walked off, together.
"What did you do to her?" I asked Paula.
"I took over her role as lady of the house. She was a spoiled brat. And she thinks I married her father for his money. But I already told you that."
"But we know better, don't we?" I mocked.
She took my arm and we went past a French window and into the garden. Moonlight played on the water of the swimming pool.
Paula turned her head quickly, peering into the darkness.
"What was that?" she asked, sharply.
"What was what?"
"I thought I heard someone."
I searched the darkness. All I could see were thick hedges behind which an elephant could hide, night-blooming iris, the swimming pool, beach chairs.
"I didn't hear anything," I said. "It must be my nerves."
"Who'd spy on you? Your husband doesn't know we know each other. Caroline doesn't suspect a thing. You're just hearing things."
"Caroline would love to get something on me. I don't trust her, the bitch."
"Why don't you try to relax?" I suggested.
"I'd rather try something else," she said, boldly.
"My, how you talk."
"Tonight. At midnight. I'll come to your room. I'll undress in the dark and crawl into your bed and-"
"Take it easy, kid."
"I'd better seek out that wonderful husband of mine. After all, as an adoring wife, my place is near him." She squeezed my hand, quickly.
"Midnight," she said, and went away.
I smoked a cigarette, then went back into the house. I found Ted Bannister in the study, a drink in one hand, looking over a wall of books.
He turned as I walked in. "Have you seen Caroline? She said she'd meet me here and that was a good twenty minutes ago."
"The last time I saw her she was with you."
He shrugged, brought his attention back to the books, finally selected one.
"I'm crazy about Elliot Paul," he told me.
"And I'm crazy about Sim Loo," I said.
I thought he was going to drop his drink. His face was ashen.
"Who?" His eyes studied, me, carefully.
"Sim Loo. A lodge brother of mine. During a conversation recently, your name popped up. I didn't know you at the time-"
"Just who are you?" he demanded. "Someone who's looking for Sim Loo."
"Did she-did she tell you about me?"
"No. Someone else did."
"Are you going to tell-"
"I'm not going to tell anyone anything," I said. "I want to find Sim Loo."
"I don't know where she is."
"Was she blackmailing you?"
"Yes."
"How did you meet her? At Tony Stewart's?"
"That pimp! Of course not. I once met her outside John Fry's office. We struck up a conversation and-well, one thing let to another. I didn't know then she had blackmail in her heart."
"With a girl like Caroline on your arm, how could you possibly look at anyone else?"
"It's hard to explain. Caroline is okay. Charming and all that. But Sim Loo-there's mystery and passion and-" He hesitated. "I suppose I sound like a high-school boy, reciting something from Browning."
"No. You don't sound like a high-school boy. Tell me, were you in love with her?"
"I-I though I was."
I would have sworn there was a sudden sharp intake of breath, behind me. I turned. There was nothing there, but the door was slightly ajar.
"Why are you interested in Sim Loo?" Bannister wanted to know. "Did you know her?"
"I know of her," I said. "And I'm interested because of a friend. Nothing personal, I'll have you understand."
"And what happens when you do meet her? Do you think it won't get personal?"
I didn't answer him.
Sim Loo. When would I meet her? Would I ever meet her?
Where was she? Was she alive? Or dead?
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was in bed, naked and waiting. According to the luminous dials of the electric clock on the night table, it was almost midnight.
But I wasn't thinking of Paula Fry.
I was thinking of a Chinese girl named Sim Loo. A girl who posed nude for her artist lover, a girl who worked in a cat house for a man named Tony Stewart, a girl who wasn't beyond a little blackmail. Sim Loo.
A night breeze wafted through the half-open window, cooled my bare chest. With it came the scent of night iris.
The door slowly opened and I heard the flop-flop of bedroom scuffs approach. I smelled her perfume before I felt her body next to mine.
She didn't say a word. Her arms went around my neck, and her mouth suctioned at mine.
I forgot about Sim Loo. Sim Loo was a dream, a faraway dream. This was alive, this was reality. Here was passion, energy, a pulsing female with hot lips, with full breasts.
I took off the nightgown in the dark so that I really could get at those heavy breasts. I fondled them while she moaned.
Heavy breasts. Perfume. Seduction.
Paula was slim, her breasts were smaller than the ones I was now caressing. It wasn't Paula's perfume I was smelling.
"Caroline!" I said, aloud.
She laughed. And her hands were all over me, demandingly, possessively, knowingly.
My body responded.
I kissed her mouth, harshly, slipping my tongue between her lips, the tip touching the tip of her tongue. Her teeth bit at my tongue, adding perverse pleasure. I finally broke the kiss and my mouth wandered down to her breasts. I took one breast in both my hands and my mouth wandered over the surface of it, licking and kissing. I laved the skin with my tongue. The nipple popped into my mouth and I bit gently on it. I sucked, greedily.
One hand explored her belly and her inner thighs. I touched her everywhere. I found her moist and warm and ready. I took her hand and put it on me. Her fingers were exciting. She touched me, fondled me, caressed me. She gripped me till I hurt. Then I shifted my body over hers and she guided me to her.
She worked furiously against me, her live flesh hitting against me with every lunge. Then she started to talk. Her words were the filthiest ever invented. The more she talked, the hotter she got. Her body slammed against mine ... and her words were straight out of the gutter.
I didn't need the added stimulus but, apparently, she did. She kept on talking and talking and butting against me, her body naked and hot, her breasts brushing against my chest.
"Give me all you've got," she screamed suddenly.
I worked faster, my hips going a mile a minute. We convulsed together.
I wanted to turn on a dim light but she said no.
"It's nice this way," she said.
"Very nice."
"Were you surprised?"
"Yes. And shocked."
"You didn't kick me out of bed," she pointed out. "Oh, I couldn't have done that. I'm a gentleman."
She caressed my chest. "I'm glad you're a gentleman."
"But-uh-look, how come?"
"I knew you were expecting Paula. I decided to take her place. I hope you don't mind."
"You heard us in the garden."
"Yes. I didn't know what to do. I thought about telling Father but-well, there would have been an ugly scene. So I decided to ask Ted's advice. I-I was about to enter the study when I heard Ted's confession. His affair with this Sim Loo woman. Well, I...."
She broke off and I said, "You decided to get even with Ted."
"Yes," she said, harshly.
"Don't bite my head off."
"I went to Paula's room. I told her I knew about your rendezvous together. I told her if she didn't stay in her room I'd tell my father. Paula may be man-crazy but she likes money more." She suddenly pressed her curvaceous body against mine, flattening her breasts against my chest, her mouth glued itself to mine.
I started to caress her full thighs. They opened, invitingly. I stroked her warm, pulsing flesh.
"We've talked enough," she said. "I want you again."
I fed on her breasts. I tried to swallow one nipple. I tweaked the other nipple with my fingers. I started to get between her thighs when she turned on her side.
"Rape me," she said, harshly.
I pushed her over on her back and her thighs were pressed together. My knee tried to separate them, but it was no use. I knew what she wanted. I suddenly slapped her face. She gasped. I put my knee between her thighs and they opened. I got between them, captured her breasts in my hands, handled them roughly, pressed my body against hers, forced an entrance. I was brutal. It was what she wanted. I took her violently, while her gutter words rang in my ears.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Just after breakfast, I managed to talk to Paula. She was wearing a yellow halter and a pair of yellow shorts. She looked good in yellow. Caroline was busy, talking to Ted.
"I'm sorry I couldn't make it last night," Paula said, "but something unforseen came up."
"We'll make it another time."
"Were you disappoined?"
"What do you think?" I h-edged. "Maybe I'll drive into the city this week. I'll find you. Wherever you are, I'll find you."
"Don't let your husband get wise. Or you'll find yourself out in the cold."
"I can keep warm, in sable and in mink, if you would only help me."
"I already gave you my answer to that."
"All right, Bill. But I won't stop trying."
I went into the house and saw John Fry before I left.
"You'll call me when you have something to report?" He had that anxious look about him, the look of a man who knew he was going down for the third time.
"I'll call you," I promised.
"If you need more money...."
"That thousand isn't for me," I said.
"You're going to buy someone off," he guessed.
"That's the general idea."
"But a thousand won't be enough," he protested.
"I think it will be."
"If you need more...."
"Sure."
Someone had filled my tank to the brim. I gunned the motor and took off.
I wondered if it was time to bring the police into it. But I had to do it without involving John Fry. Besides, was it the time to alert the police?
I wasn't making much headway. The cops probably could do a much better job and in much less time.
There still were people I had to talk to. Joe Black. A collector of women. A man who liked to beat them. A brutal man. A rich man. Had Sim Loo tried to blackmail Joe Black? And if she had tried to blackmail him, what had been his reaction?
There was Abigail Home. Sim Loo had taken her place with Sal De Long. And what woman could stand that?
And Sebastian Colt. Had he told John Fry everything? He had switched from Fry to Paula. A private eye. A nervous one, too, according to Sal De Long. I wanted to talk to Colt. Where was Sim Loo?
Had she left the city? Was she still alive?
This was the question I hadn't want to ask: was she still alive? It had been in the back of my mind, hidden because I had wanted it hidden. I didn't want Sim Loo dead.
I was fascinated by this Chinese girl. This girl who had seen bad times, who had posed nude for an artist, who had acted in lewd films, who had worked in a cat house. I wanted to smell her perfume, to watch her walk. I wanted her alive.
I didn't have to see, to know I was back in the city. I could hear city noises. I could smell the delicate aroma of gas fumes.
I went to my office, went through the mail, packed up two orders and shipped them out. Then I went to my apartment. I had company.
Archie looked meaner than ever.
"Why don't you fellows move in?" I asked.
Jeremy Dule said, "I was considering it. This is a very attractive apartment. And you've furnished it with some interesting art objects. Archie should have brought a sack. But then, I'm not a common thief."
"Of course not." I sat down. "Just a common smuggler."
Dule smiled. "You've been talking to Carpy."
"And you've been talking to John Fry-isn't blackmail a little out of your line?"
"Nothing is out of my line. But I didn't-"
"Wait a minute," I cut in. "You can forget about Fry. Lay off him."
Dule raised his brows. "Giving me orders?"
Archie started moving toward me.
"I have a thousand dollars for you from Fry. That's it. There won't be any more."
"I want much more than that," Dule said, flatly.
"You'll take the thousand and like it. And then you're hopping it."
Archie was closer now, his face meaner and uglier.
"You talk big," Dule said.
"You'll play ball," I told him. "Or I'll ask the police to check up on you. You're a smuggler, and I'll bet you've got a record."
Archie snarled and got ready to throw a punch.
"Hold off," Dule delayed.
"Make up your mind," I said.
"I have to think."
"Sure. You can have two minutes."
"That's very generous of you, Mr. Harper."
"I am being generous. I don't have to give you a penny. But I suppose you deserve something for your trouble. Let's chalk if off to nuisance value."
"I'll take the thousand."
"I want to know a couple of things," I stalled. "Sure."
"Why are you after Sim Loo?"
"I wanted to kill her," he said, candidly.
"Why?"
"She was sort of a junior partner in a business enterprise," he said. "There was a sum of fifteen-thousand dollars Straits. To make a dull story short, the money disappeared ... and so did Sim Loo. Now you know why I was so anxious to see her again."
"The business enterprise?" I prodded.
He shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"You're sure you didn't find Sim Loo, do away with her, and pretend you're still looking for her so-"
"What an imagination. No, I didn't find her," he interrupted.
"Okay. The search is over, as far as you're concerned."
"Agreed."
I gave him the thousand.
"One other thing," I said. "How did you know about John Fry and Sim Loo?"
"A man named Colt. Tony Stewart told us about him so we paid him a visit. He's supposed to get a third of whatever I collected from Fry."
"The nervous private eye," I said. "Too scared to do his own blackmailing."
"Can we go now?" Dule asked.
I saw them to the door.
"It's been pleasant," Dule said.
After I drank a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, I went through the phone book for Colt's number. I dialed. There was no answer. Then I tried Joe Black's number.
"Yes?" A woman's voice.
"I'd like to speak to Joe Black."
"Who is calling, please?"
"My name is William Harper. Mr. Black doesn't know me, but we have mutual friends."
"Just a second, please." The line was silent for a minute, then: "Can you call back in an hour, Mr. Harper? Mr. Black is terribly busy right now."
"Sure. I'll call back.
The phone rang ten minutes later. It was Josie Laurier.
"Hi, you bastard!" she shouted.
"What's the matter?"
"Where were you all night?"
"On the Island."
"Oh, yeah?" she jeered.
"I was visiting some friends."
"I'll bet." Her tone was disbelieving.
"What's wrong? Is something up?"
"Can't a girl call a fella?" she bristled.
"Relax. I'm glad you called. Did you have lunch?"
"No."
"We'll have lunch together."
"I'll have lunch with you, you big lug."
"I'll pick you up in ten minutes."
"Can't you make it twenty?"
"Twenty. Be downstairs."
"Okay, master."
I drove to Josie's place and parked. I waited ten minutes. She was in blue. She got in and kissed my cheek. I studied her. She looked good. Even her shoes and her handbag were blue.
"Where are we going?" she asked, as I pulled away from the curb.
"There's a Spanish place on Fourteenth Street. You walk up one flight and you're greeted by an aroma of delicious spices. We can sit out on a balcony and eat fried chicken with saffron rice."
I parked on Seventh Avenue and we walked towards Eighth. In the middle of the block, we entered, a large building, climbed a flight of stairs and found ourselves in a restaurant where the food was out of this world.
The tables on the balcony all were taken, so we sat near the back. We ordered a bottle of Port and the fried chicken with saffron rice.
"Making any progress?" she asked.
"Not much."
"She'll show up."
"Will she?" I was dubious.
She searched my face. "What do you mean?"
"I don't exactly know. But I have a feeling she may be dead."
That threw her. "What are you talking about? What makes you say that?"
"Too many people after her. And she's nowhere to be found."
"Maybe she got scared?"
"But she didn't know anyone was after her," I pointed out. "She disappeared before anyone started to look. Don't you see? There was no reason for her to vanish."
"Maybe-maybe there's someone after her-someone we don't know about?"
"Maybe."
We finished eating and we left. I ducked into a cigar store to make the call to Joe Black while Josie waited outside.
This time a man answered.
"My name is William Harper. I called-"
"Yes, I know. I'm Joe Black. What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if I could talk to you."
"About what?"
"Sim Loo?"
"What's that? A Chinese dish?"
"Yeah. A Chinese dish." I emphasized the last word.
"Are you trying to make trouble?" Joe Black asked.
"I don't think so."
"My time is valuable, Harper. You won't be able to stay long. I'm a busy man."
"I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
"Okay. Be here in twenty minutes."
"Will do." I hung up and joined Josie. "Now what?"
"I have to pay a call," I told her. "Shall I take you home or do you want to tag along?"
"Pay a call on who?" I told her.
Her lips thinned. "You're crazy. You're fooling with dynamite. That man-he's dangerous."
"I won't light any fuses."
"You think you won't."
"Look, I'll take you home first. All right?"
"No. It's all right. I'll wait outside in the car." I took her arm, and we walked to the car.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Joe Black opened the door. He was tall and thin, and he wore a blue bathrobe with wide pockets. He kept one hand in the right side pocket the whole time we were together. I was sure he had a gun in that pocket and I believed he had many enemies to make him cautious, extremely cautious, because there was someone else in another room, with an eye on us.
We sat, and I noticed the door that was ajar and the eye that peered out at us.
"Invite her in?" I said. "I have no secrets."
"It's a he," Joe Black said. "And he stays put till you leave. After all, I don't know you from Adam. You could be some irate hubby or some doll's big brother, out to get some blood on his hands because little sister fouled up."
"It's nothing like that," I said.
"Sure," Joe Black said. "You mention Sim Loo, and I think you're just some character looking for an ex-playmate. But maybe you used the name just to get up here."
"Have it your way."
"You got a gun on you?"
"No. Do you want to frisk me?"
"I see you know the proper words."
"The movies. A great educational medium."
"Stand up. Just for fun, see?"
We stood up and Joe Black satisfied himself that I wasn't packing a rod.
We sat down again and I said, "I won't take up much of your time, Joe, so I'll make it short and sweet. You knew Sim Loo. Maybe she was blackmailing you-"
Joe Black stiffened.
"She was blackmailing a lot of people," I said quickly. "So don't feel let out."
"Get to the point," he said, harshly.
"Where is she, Joe?"
"What are you talking about?"
"She's gone. Vanished. Disappeared."
"So you come runnin' to me, huh? Well, I won't wipe your nose. You're a big boy. If you want her that bad, go look for her."
"I have looked. I can't find her."
"You a friend of hers?"
"Sort of."
"How much do you know about me?"
"Not too much," I said. "You like women. You like to hurt them. You collect them like a numismatist collects coins."
"And she was part of my collection, huh?" There was a broad grin on his face. "It looks that way."
"So I got rid of her. A guy can get rid of a coin or a stamp, once he's tired of lookin' at it no?"
"But how did you get rid of her?" I wanted to know.
"I sent her packing."
"Did she have anything on you?"
"I won't deny or admit anything. You see, I don't know how much you know, so it don't pay for me to lie. So I just won't say anything. I'll let you think and figure it out."
"Do you know a private investigator named Sebastian Colt?"
Again he stiffened.
"You get around," he said, finally.
"Did Colt take her place in the role as blackmailer?" It was a shot in the dark, but I knew Colt wasn't above a bit of blackmailing.
His face was gray. "You take too many chances, Harper."
"I hope this place is soundproof," I said, lightly.
"It isn't," he said. "You know, I was beginning to think you were harmless. But now I'm not so sure."
"I told you I was looking for her. I don't care what I have to say or do to find her."
"You're ten kinds of a fool."
"Maybe."
"Well, she's not here," he said, flatly. "I believe you."
"So look elsewhere," he grated.
"You won't help?"
"I can't. I don't know where she is. You don't want to believe me? Then, it's tough ice."
"What about Sebastian Colt?"
"What about him?" he countered.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Blackmail? Again, you think and figure it out by yourself."
"Okay, Joe," I sighed.
"What's your racket anyway, buster?"
"I'm a coin dealer."
"Ain't lookin' for a hustler a little out of your line?"
"I'm doing it for a friend."
"My, everybody's got friends these days. A real epidemic of friends. I wonder if Colt sent you?"
"Why should he?"
"To pump me. To find out if I bumped the Chinese dame. Maybe he wants more stuff-" Joe Black stopped short.
"So he is blackmailing you," I said. "Are you "paying off?"
"You'd better git," he said, his eyes like a snake's, beady, watchful, dangerous. His face still was gray, as though all the blood had left it.
"All right, Joe." I got to my feet.
He didn't show me to the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
While Josie secured a back booth, I used the phone in a public booth to call John Fry. I told him I had paid Dule off.
There was a long drawnout sigh from his end of the line. "I'm glad it's over."
"I hate to throw cold water on the fire," I said, "but don't get your hopes up too high."
"What is it? What's wrong?"
"There's still Sebastian Colt."
"Colt? But what has he got to do with this?" Fry demanded.
"I'm afraid he's been doing a lot of talking ... to the wrong people. He and Dule were sort of partners. Now he's playing tricks with another of Sim Loo's ex-customers."
"That bastard."
"I'm trying to find him," I said. "There's no answer from his office, and his home phone isn't listed."
"I can tell you where he lives and I have his telephone number. Hold on a bit ... here it is."
I wrote the address and phone number on a pad. "Okay, Mr. Fry. I'll talk to him."
"You're doing more than you were supposed to. I won't forget this. I'm already mailed you a check. It should be in your office tomorrow morning."
"I'm just trying to find a girl."
"I want you to have that check," he insisted.
"All right, Mr. Fry." I hung up and went to the booth where Josie was sipping a Rob Roy. There was a Scotch and water waiting for me.
"I'm glad Joe Black didn't mess you up," Josie said.
"I think he came close to it a couple of times."
"I told you to stay away."
"I never listen to good advice," I said lightly.
Under the table, her knee pressed against mine. "I know it's early but why don't we go to my place and play some games?"
"I have things to do."
"Now what?"
"Another call. And maybe another visit."
"You know, my time is valuable too. I could be making money now instead of keeping you company," she complained.
"I'm sorry, Josie. Shall I drop you off somewhere and call you tomorrow?"
"You can call me tonight." She looked at her watch. "Drop me off in the Times Square area and call me about ten. I'll be home, waiting to hear from you."
"What if you're ... busy?"
"I won't be. I'm going to see a movie and then I'm going home like a good little girl. I think I'll stay good ... for a little while. At least, till you get tired of me. You probably will."
I looked at her, but I didn't say anything. What was there to say? She was right, of course.
We had another round of drinks, then I let her off on Broadway and Forty-third, and drove up to Eighth Avenue. I parked and used a phone in a cigar store.
"Yes?"
"Is this Sebastian Colt?" There was a pause. "How did you get this number?"
"John Fry gave it to me."
"Oh."
"Can I see you?"
"Who are you?" he asked. "My name is William Harper and I'm working for John Fry."
"Looking for that Chinese chick?"
"That's right," I told him. "How can I help you?"
"I don't know yet. Can I come over?" I persisted. "I got company."
"I won't look."
There was a slight hesitation, then, "Okay. Can you be here in twenty minutes or so?"
"In less time than that."
"Okay." He hung up, and I bought a pack of cigarettes.
I drove uptown, cut into Central Park, got out on Fifth Avenue. When I parked I knew that Sebastian Colt was doing all right for himself. A tree-lined street, service entrances for the hired help, French poodles and tall, long-legged women. It was a street for the rich.
A doorman let me in, asked my name, and showed me to a private elevator. Obviously, Colt had told him I was arriving.
I got out on the fourth floor and found Colt's apartment near the end of the hall. I thumbed the door jamb button, the door opened, and a small, clean-shaven face showed itself. Thin lips opened. "You Harper?"
"Yes."
The doorway widened and I walked in. Colt shut the door and I turned to face him. He was a small man, in slacks and a short-sleeved blue shirt. He had a button nose.
"Is this where all the blackmailing is going on?" I asked.
He studied me, thoughtfully. "Dule called me, told me what had happened. The bum left me high and dry. He walked, just like that. Can you imagine?"
"I suppose I can."
"Rosita," he called.
A small woman, about thirty-four, came into the room. She had on a thin robe. She didn't look at me. "Yes?"
"Let's have some drinks."
She went away, and I sat down.
"So you deal in coins, huh?" Colt sank into the divan. "Dule told me ... just before he gave me the horselaugh."
"So you admit you were trying to blackmail Fry?"
"There's no crime in admitting anything ... as long as I don't do it in front of witnesses."
"What about Rosita?" I asked, just to be sure.
"She's my woman. I don't have to worry about her."
"You're an awfully brave man, Colt."
"I ain't worried about Fry. I haven't made a move yet, against him. Not on my own, anyway. But since Dule stepped out of the picture with my share of the loot, then I've got to show my hand."
"There wasn't much loot," I said. "A thousand dollars."
"That all? Why, that phony told me you handed over five grand. That slob tried to make out like a big shot. And all the time he was small potatoes."
"Aren't you afraid you're going to step on the wrong person's toes?" I asked.
"Naw. I know what I'm doing ... all the time."
"What about Joe Black? Aren't you afraid of him?"
He stared at me.
Rosita came back with bourbon and two glasses. She filled both glasses and went away again.
"What's she doing back there?" I asked. "Plucking a chicken?"
"I told Fry about Joe Black," Colt said. "I guess that's where you got the name?"
"That's right."
"Why should I be afraid of him?"
I could see he was fishing.
"I'll tell it to you straight, Colt. I saw Joe Black. He wouldn't come out and admit that you were squeezing him, but that was the impression I got."
Colt picked up his glass and drank.
I didn't touch mine.
"What did you come up here for?" he asked, finally. He had finished half the drink.
"Did you tell Fry everything you know?"
"Sure," he answered, laconically.
"And you don't know where Sim Loo is?"
"If I knew, I would have told him."
"Maybe Sim Loo paid you off to keep quiet?" I suggested.
"You're nuts. I never found her. Besides, I wouldn't doublecross a client."
"You wouldn't, huh?"
"Naw. But a little blackmail-well, that's different."
"Colt, I happen to know you're now working for Mrs. Fry."
He picked up his drink and finished it.
"You can have my drink if you want it," I offered.
"How did you know about-"
"Does it matter?"
"Well, business is business."
"But isn't that unethical?" I asked, quietly.
"Can't you lose your license for something like that?"
"Now listen, Harper-"
"You're sweating. It isn't that hot in here, is it?"
"What do you want?" he demanded, angrily now.
"Some answers to some questions. Honest answers."
"I haven't lied about anything," he swore. "Where's Sim Loo?"
"I don't know."
"This is a nice place. I'll bet you pay a helluva lot of rent. You must do an awful lot of blackmailing."
"You can't prove anything."
"I don't want to prove anything. I just want you to get off John Fry's back." .
"I haven't approached him."
"You were going to."
He licked his lips.
"You need your license, Colt. You won't be able to do much without it," I warned.
He looked at me. "Can you prove I'm working for Mrs. Fry?"
"Now you're playing games. Great day, how much cash did you expect to get out of Fry? Would it be worth it? Knowing you might lose your license for unethical practices?"
"You're right. Right as rain. What the hell? It's only money. So I'll chalk it up to experience."
"And why don't you tell Mrs. Fry to go get herself another boy while you're at it?"
"Why should I give up a client?" he countered, belligerently.
"It's safer," I said. "Stay away from the Frys. You'll only find yourself in a mess of grief."
"I'll think about it."
"Listen to poppa. He knows what he's talking about.
He sighed. "Okay, poppa. You win. Feel better?"
"Much."
"If you won't drink your drink then I'll-" The doorbell sounded.
Colt took the drink I hadn't touched and went to answer the door. I craned my neck to watch. I saw Colt open the door, then start to back away. The liquor fell from his hand.
Two men walked in. I didn't know them. They both were big. They both had guns pointed at Colt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rosita came in. She stopped short when she saw the men and the guns. Her face was without expression.
"What is this?" Colt said, his voice shaking.
"Stand for a frisk," one of the men said. He had thick blonde hair, and his eyebrows were bushy.
The other man, a bull-necked individual in a sloppy suit, ran his hands over Colt. "He's clean," the man reported. He looked at me. "What about this character?"
"The boss already frisked him," the blonde giant said.
The other man grimaced.
"We don't have to keep secrets," the blonde said. He glared at Sebastian Colt. "You're buggin' Joe Black. And he doesn't like it. And I'm the man who's gonna stop you buggin' him, see?"
"It's all a mistake," Colt whimpered. "There won't be no trouble. I'll lay off."
"He scares easy, don't he?" the blonde said. He looked at me. "It'll be better for you if you stay away from this monkey."
I didn't answer. I sat where I was, wondering what the hell was going to happen next. They wouldn't dare shoot Colt. Not with two witnesses present. Of course, there was a remedy for that, a grim one. There needn't be any witnesses, not live ones.
"It was just a joke," Colt said. "I'll never go near Joe Black again. Honest."
"We have to make sure of that," the blonde said.
"Why don't we toss 'em out of a window?" his burly companion suggested. "We could watch 'em bounce."
"Don't be crude."
"Well, let's do somethin'. I got a date with a chick. Not as nice as this one though." The brute leered at Rosita.
The blonde's eyes gleamed. "You like this dame?"
"She looks okay to me."
The blonde walked to Rosita. He stared down at the small woman.
"You got anything on under that robe?" he asked.
She didn't answer; her face was like stone. He put his hand on her breast. Rosita slapped him.
The big man laughed. Then he slapped her back, viciously. Rosita cried out, put a hand to her face.
I was on my feet, ready to pounce.
The gorilla warned the blonde of my action.
"Just stay put," the blonde told me. "If you think we won't use these guns, you're crazy."
"She's my woman," Colt cried. "Leave her be."
"Shut up," the blonde said. He turned to Rosita. "Take that robe off or I'll whip you with this pistol. I'll cut your face to ribbons. Now which is it gonna be?"
Rosita slowly took her robe off. She was nude to the waist. She had on a pair of clinging white panties. Her breasts were small but very firm; the nipples were dark.
"Take the panties off," the giant said.
Rosita took her panties off. She was a slim woman, but she was built nice. Her skin was dark, flawless. Her thighs were smooth; her belly was flat, her breasts stuck out without a sag.
"She's all yours," the blonde told his partner.
"Man!" the other man said. "Where the hell is the bedroom?"
"No!" the blonde man said. "Right here, on the floor."
"Are you crazy?" the gorilla protested. "You do it my way or you don't get a thing."
"Listen-"
"I mean it." Clearly, it was an ultimatum.
Rosita openly sneered at the thug. "You ashamed? You afraid of raping me in front of witnesses?"
"I'm not afraid of anything." The man started to undress.
"I don't want anyone to interfere," the blonde warned. "Or I'll pop everybody here."
"Except me," his partner said.
"Rosita," Colt begged. "I-I don't know what to do."
"Just what can'you do?" Rosita said. "You'd better watch."
"Yeah," the blonde said. "Maybe you'll learn something."
"This is rape," I put in.
"That's an ugly word," the blonde said, just commenting.
"Please," Rosita said. "Don't interfere. What is another man, more or less? Let him gratify himself. You can't argue with an animal. Let him have his way."
"So I'm an animal, huh?" The gorilla approached Rosita, his body big, hairy, naked. He slapped her face, then twisted her arm till she slumped to the floor. He got down on one knee and .took hold of her breasts.
"I like 'em bigger," he said. "But I guess you can't have everything."
She looked up at him. "Have fun, you bastard."
"I will," he promised. He stroked her thighs, her belly, her breasts.
"I can't look," Colt cried, averting his eyes.
"You'll look all right," the blonde giant snarled and rammed the gun in Colt's side.
The little man winced. He looked at the couple on the floor.
The man wasn't going to rush things. He was going to take his time, enjoy every minute of it. His hands were big, and they completely covered the woman's breasts. He spread the fingers of one hand and the nipple appeared. His head lowered and his mouth covered the nipple. It was obvious he fancied himself a lover.
It was also obvious that Rosita was starting to feel a hot response. At first she had kept her face stony, unemotional. Now, she licked her lips and her thighs quivered.
I lit a cigarette and watched the man come away from her breasts and move to caress and to kiss her flat belly. He reached her thighs and Rosita couldn't keep it in any longer. She gasped with pleasure, and I saw Colt bite his lips.
The blonde giant was grinning from ear to ear.
His partner, hot and ready, looked at Rosita's face and saw the passion there. He loomed over her and she spread her thighs. He took her, violently. Rosita screamed, partly in pleasure, partly in pain.
His body worked industriously over the thin woman, Rosita put her hands on his waist and dug her fingers into his flesh. Her body worked sensuously, under his. They both finished, in a dead heat.
"Them bastards," Colt cried, after the men left. "I'll get that Joe Black," he sobbed.
"Sure, you will." I went out.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I went downstairs, sat in my car, and thought about Joe Black. He was of that particular breed that managed to stay out of the newspapers but, nevertheless, got to be so well-known that he was almost a household word. By word-of-mouth, everybody knew Joe Black. And everybody knew what he was.
A wencher. A sadist.
But how did he get to be rich? There were many stories about that, and I didn't think any one of them was the truth.
There was one fable of Joe Black, the gunrunner. In the early thirties, and the scene was the expanse of water between Florida and Cuba. And of course, there were fables stemming from that fable: exchanging gun shots with G-men, taking over the gunrunning business, and a few dozen other items stemming from the big story of Joe Black, Gunrunner.
And there was Joe Black, white slaver, gambler, policy king. Joe Black had come in contact with Sim Loo. Now she was gone, disappeared.
Was Joe Black responsible?
Had Sim Loo been blackmailing him, and had he killed her for that reason?
She must be dead, I reasoned. Why should she disappear? To get away from her enemies? There were too many enemies. Too many people wanted her dead.
Was it accomplished? She knew what she was letting herself in for. Blackmail is a dangerous game.
I wondered what her perfume smelled like. Probably something exotic. Sandalwood, maybe.
I put my face in my hands. Was I going crazy. A Chinese girl, a whore, a blackmailer. Most likely dead. And she was bugging me. What was wrong with me? Why did I take John Fry's money? I'm a coin dealer, not a detective. I find coins and objects of art, not women. It was out of my line.
But when I saw that picture of her-
Sure, that was it.
I wanted to see her in the flesh. Maybe I was sex-crazy. Maybe. That was the best answer. The only answer. I didn't want it to be anything else. Like what? Well-
It can't be ... love.
It can't be. How could it? Just from looking at a picture?
Maybe I just feel sorry for her. Sure. Look at the life she had. That must be it. I feel sorry for her.
I want to find her, to tell her that she has a friend.
Sure. That's all there is to it. I'm not emotionally involved. I couldn't be. Besides, the girl is probably dead. I have a feeling she's dead. A feeling I can't shake.
And if she's dead-like I think-well, I can't possibly be in love with her. What the hell! I kicked the motor over.
What I needed was a woman flat on her back in bed. There's nothing like a session of good old-fashioned sex to straighten a guy out. And Josie was waiting. Good old Josie.
It was getting cool. Summer was dying fast. Soon all the green would disappear and the trees would be bare. The seasons came and went, but sex stayed on, the basic need of man, the driving force that leads to peace of mind. Here I come Josie.
She was waiting, glass in hand.
I didn't talk. I just took her in my arms and kissed her, thoroughly. I then took her glass, finished her drink for her, put the glass aside, and kissed her again.
"What's this all about?" she asked.
"I need you," I said.
"For how long?" She studied my face.
"Don't get serious," I begged.
"I won't."
I kissed her again, then we went into the bedroom where we both got naked. Her body was beautiful, utterly seductive. It was soft and white and there were patches of delicious pink as if a painter had dabbed here and there, trying to perfect something which already was perfect. I kissed her breasts and her nipples while I caressed her thighs. Her fingers ran through my hair and I buried myself in this hot, ready woman flesh, this lustful opening to forgetfulness, this wonderful perfumed body.
And in the throes of passion, in the spine-tingling final seconds, I moaned, "Sim Loo."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I was in my office bright and early the next morning, even before the mail arrived. I called John Fry's office but he wasn't in yet.
When the mail did arrive, I went through it quickly, hoping to get any orders out of the way. There was a request for a 1961 English gold sovereign. I typed out a letter, explaining patiently that it is illegal to import or to sell any gold coin minted after 1933 except where a gold license has been issued. I found a check from John Fry.
I made out one order, put one order aside. I glanced through my copy of Numismatic News, then dialed John Fry's office again. He was in.
I told him that Colt had agreed to lay off and that it hadn't cost a cent.
"I'm glad it's finally over." There was relief in his voice.
"I got your check. I think you overpaid me."
This wasn't like me.
"Nonsense. You did me a great service. I-uh-I think it best we forget everything. In other words, you can forget about Sim Loo."
"You think she's no longer a threat?"
"I haven't heard from her. Colt didn't find her. You didn't find her. She must have skipped out. Things probably got too hot for her. I believe Sim Loo is out of my life ... finally."
"And if she shows up again?" I asked.
"I'll handle it ... my way." His tone was ominous.
"Your way? I thought you'd forget that idea."
"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone."
"It's all right. I think she's dead," I tried to reassure him. "But you're not sure."
"Can we ever be sure of anything?" I countered.
"I suppose not," he conceded.
"All right, Mr. Fry, I won't be keeping you."
"Thanks again, Harper." There was a click and the line went dead. As dead as Sim Loo, maybe.
I thought about the episode in my car last night, the turmoil I had been in, thinking about Sim Loo. I had to snap out of it. I didn't want to end up in bughouse.
John Fry was out of it. He hoped.
There was no reason for me to mix in. I had a business to take care of. But I knew it wouldn't be quite that simple.
I didn't know what to call it. An impulse. A desire. Curiosity. The hope of seeing her in the flesh. I did know that I had to find out what had happened to her. I had to find out whether she was alive or dead. I had to be sure.
But where was I? I had questioned everybody who had been connected with her. Everybody about whom I knew. No. That wasn't so. I still had to talk to Abigail Home, Sal De Long's former mistress.
And the others? Had they all told the truth or was some of it half-truths? Should I backtrack, talk to them again?
And the police? They had all the facilities for finding people. I got on the phone, got the number of the Missing Persons Bureau.
I made an appointment with a Sergeant Phil Bromley for one that afternoon.
The phone rang, minutes before I was ready to leave. It was Paula Fry.
"Can I see you?" she wanted to know.
"Not now. I've got a busy schedule."
"I'm in town," she purred, suggestively.
"Maybe this evening."
"I'll take a room at the Martinique. Under the name of Prentiss. Jane Prentiss."
"All right."
"You'll call me this evening?"
"Yes," I promised. Why the hell not? I had lunch, then went to meet Sergeant Bromley.
There was a big room with six desks, three of which were occupied. One man got up as I walked in and asked if he could help me.
"I'm looking for Sergeant Bromley."
He pointed at a frosted glass pane set in a door. I thanked him, knocked on the door, and went in when a voice told me to do so.
Sergeant Phil Bromley looked like a college student. He had a crew-cut, his face was tanned, almost boyish, his body was tall and slim. He was wearing an ivy league suit. He didn't look like a detective. But then again, none of the newer detectives I had met looked like detectives. It was as though a new streamlined breed had taken over.
He got up and we shook hands. Then he suggested that I take a seat.
"Now what can I do for you?" he asked.
I had to choose my words carefully; I didn't want to drag John Fry into this.
"I don't suppose that what I tell you could be kept off the record?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not. If you want me to help you, then it has to be on the record, otherwise I'd be working on my own time. And I'm not kidding."
"Well ... I'm looking for a girl. She's disappeared."
He nodded, but he didn't say anything.
"She was a prostitute," I added. "Her name was ... is ... Sim Loo. She may be dead. I don't know."
"Does she have an address?"
"No. She-uh-worked for a man named Tony Stewart." I started to give him Stewart's address.
"I know about Tony Stewart," he said. "The name Sim Loo isn't familiar though. Tell me, were you her John?" He wasn't embarrassed about asking.
"I never met the girl."
"Oh?" That threw him. I could see that. This was something new, something different. It no longer was routine. It no longer was something which happened every day.
"A friend of mine knew her. He doesn't want to become involved so he asked me to speak to you. Or, rather, to someone from the Missing Persons Bureau."
"But you don't mind being involved, is that it?"
"He's a married man with a family," I explained. "I'm not."
"That doesn't tell me anything." He looked down at a pad at his desk. "You told me over the phone your name is William Harper and you're a dealer in rare objects of art and in coins." He looked up at me. "A respectable business, I imagine. A man in a respectable business usually doesn't go looking for trouble. Which is exactly what you're doing. So there's one conclusion: you're holding out on me. You're either involved with this girl yourself or you're just a damn fool."
"I'm a damn fool," I admitted.
"Well, don't boast about it." His tone was contemptuous.
"Listen, if you're not interested-" I half rose.
"Oh, I'm interested, all right. It's my job to be interested. But I need the whole truth, not what you're willing to shell out. There's usually a pattern, when a man or a woman disappears. Nine times out of ten, they're found. Human behavior. The pattern. We're all creatures of habit. But this is something else again. You're not a relative, you're not even a friend, so you can't give me the information I'll need. The real intimate stuff. And the girl is a whore. Whores can be unpredictable."
"What do you want me to tell you?"
"Who's your friend?" He settled back, watching me.
"I can't tell you. I won't."
He could see I meant it.
"Did you ever meet this girl, Sim Loo?"
"I told you before, no."
"That's right, you did tell me. So I'll ask it again. Did you ever meet her? Were you her customer? Her lover?"
I leaned forward, mashed my cigarette against the bottom of a glass ash tray. I looked at him. "I never met her. And I'm not going to tell you again."
"Okay. Tell me this: did she have a record?"
"I don't know."
"How old is she?"
"I don't really know. It's hard to tell."
"Can you give me any names besides Tony Stewart? Names of people who had contact with her?"
"There's Sal De Long. He's an artist. They were lovers at one time. There's Joe Black-" His head lifted and there was the interest in his eyes. "Did you say Joe Black?"
"I did."
"Is this the Joe Black who's got a red-hot reputation as a lady killer? The one who lives for sex, alone? Do you know who I mean? Do you know the Joe Black I'm talking about?"
"Yes. I know. It's the same one."
"I think you came to the wrong office. What you're looking for is the Vice Squad."
"I'm not interested in bringing anyone to justice. Unless, of course, someone killed her."
"Why would anyone want to kill her?"
"I believe she wasn't above a little blackmail."
Sergeant Bromley stared at me for a long time. Then: "Do you think she's dead?"
"I think so. A hunch."
"What have you got to go on?"
"I told you. A hunch."
"Which is nothing," he said. "You'll have to do better than that. Was she definitely in any danger?"
"Isn't any blackmailer in danger?"
"Can you prove she was blackmailing anyone?"
"No. I can't prove it. People won't come out and admit they're being blackmailed."
"That's right. And I can't prod them into admitting anything. People know their rights, it seems."
"What are you going to do?"
"Talk to Joe Black and Tony Stewart. Try to find out who this friend of yours is."
"I wish you'd leave him out of it."
"We'll see." He picked up a pencil, poised it over the pad. "Where are Sim Loo's folks? Does she have any relatives in New York? And where do they-"
"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "I don't even know where she came from. Hong Kong, maybe. Or Formosa. Or Red China. I don't know. I don't think we'll ever find out. I don't know anything about her folks. I don't think we'll ever find that out, either."
"Oh, great." He was disgusted. He threw the pencil down. "Mr. Harper, you've spoiled my day."
"Sorry," I said.
"Sure, you are." He sounded bitter. "Shall I go out and come in again?"
"I don't think that'll help. Unless you come up with a different story?" I shook my head, no. "I thought not."
"If I run across something else I'll let you know."
"I would appreciate that," he said, but not sincerely.
"Is there anything else?" I asked. "Well, yes. But I don't think you'd help."
"I do the best I can."
"I'm sure you do. Well, Mr. Harper, if I get any information I'll let you know." He started to get to his feet.
"You don't have to get up."
"Thanks."
"Thank you." I stood up. "I wish I could tell you I'll more. But I really can't."
"If I get anything from what you've told me, or haven't told be, I'll be surprised as all hell."
Out in the street, it had started to drizzle.
I went to my car, found a parking ticket. I wondered whether Sergeant Bromley could fix it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I couldn't find Abigail Home in the phone book. I tried Sal De Long's number. His voice was cheerful. "Yes?"
"William Harper."
"Oh, yes. The coin dealer. I suppose you've hung my painting of Sim Loo. It's certainly worth more than the thirty dollars you gave me."
"I'm sure. Mr. De Long. I'm trying to find Abigail Home. Perhaps you can help me?"
"Abigail Home? First you're looking for Sim Loo, now it's Abigail you're after. You'll wear yourself out, man."
"Her number isn't in the book."
"You think I can help you? I'm afraid not. I don't know where she is. She hasn't been around her usual haunts. Maybe she got married. You can never tell with Abigail."
"There's no one who can help me?"
"Well, let me see. There's Virginia. Abigail used to pose for her. They were rather chummy."
"Virginia paints?"
"Photography. Good, too. Uses lights, shades, shadows, moods. Sells to the men's magazines and to two of the top photography mags. A swell person."
"What's her last name and her phone number?"
"Brusac. Virginia Brusac. I don't know her phone number. You'll have to look it up."
"That name is familiar. Brusac. Of course. She also writes articles on photography. I once bought a Leica, and I read every photography mag I could find. I even wrote to her once, and she answered me. That was a good six or seven years ago."
"How she got ahead in this rat race without losing her natural charm and good manners is something I'll never know."
"It happens. Look at me. Many thanks, Mr. De Long." I hung up. I looked up Virginia Brusac's phone number, dialed it. The phone rang almost a dozen times before it was picked up.
"Virginia Brusac?" I asked.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"A friend named De Long gave me your name, Miss Brusac. He thinks you may help me in locating Abigail Home."
"Abigail? Is she missing?"
"Well, De Long hasn't seen her and-"
"Look, Mr-"
"Harper. William Harper."
"Mr. Harper. I'm working right now. While I'm in the proper mood, I don't wish to be distracted. Look, either you call later or you hop over here and wait till I'm finished. What do you say?"
"I'll come over."
"All right. I'll leave the front door open." She hung up and I went out to my car.
It still was drizzling. I got my windshield wiper working and headed uptown. It was something like a merry-go-round. I had to talk to Miss Brusac to be able to find Abigail to be able to find Sim Loo. Of course, Miss Brusac might not be in a position to help me. And if she did help me, and if I did find Abigail, there was no guarantee that Abigail knew where Sim Loo was.
But I had to do something.
I could just forget the whole thing and to hell with it. After all, I had a business to attend to. If I were smart I would do just that: shuck it all and forget that Sim Loo, John Fry, and the rest of them ever existed. If I were smart. I guess Mrs. Harper didn't raise any smart children. I would have to speak to her about that, some day.
It was one of the newer buildings along Third Avenue, complete with a doorman, huge glittering glass doors, a bank of elevators, potted snake plants, and well-dressed tenants, leading poodles.
The self-service elevator took me up to the ninth floor where I went hunting for Virginia Brusac's apartment. Near the end of the corridor I found it, her name in gold on the slot near the door.
The door was open, so I went in.
The front room was spacious, warm, with an elaborate fake fireplace. I walked into another room and pulled up, short.
This room was bare, except for a long table laden with tubes of paint, a bottle of benzine, brushes. A woman stood in front of an easel, brush in hand. A dusky-skinned girl posed on a small dais in the middle of the room, her arms raised. She was a beautiful coffee-with-cream-colored girl. Beautiful and naked. Her breasts were full, with long nipples. Her belly was flat, her thighs lush, the legs supple with finely-curved calves. She stayed the way she was, as though I didn't exist.
Virginia Brusac looked at me, with raised eyebrows.
I hurriedly backed out, mumbling an apology. I went into the front room and stayed there.
Miss Brusac obviously used her apartment as a studio. I suppose it was one way of saving money by not paying extra rent.
I wanted to light a cigarette but there were no ashtrays in sight. I decided I would skip having a smoke.
I relaxed in a fat club-chair I was in, stretched my legs, and closed my eyes. It was quiet in the room except for the pleasant murmuring sound the light rain made against the window pane. Quiet and warm. I was just about ready to fall asleep when approaching footsteps alerted me.
I got to my feet as Virginia Brusac came up to my chair. She was about forty, with short blonde hair, a trim figure, a heart-shaped face, vermillion lips. Her perfume smelled good, like gardenias.
She put out her hand and I took it.
"Now be seated," she said. "Of course, you're the Mr. Harper I was talking to on the phone. The one who's looking for Abigail. I wish I could help you, but I haven't seen Abigail since-since she moved in with Sal De Long."
"But that was some time ago."
"I know. We just haven't kept in touch."
"What about her friends? Surely-"
The gorgeous model walked in, fully dressed. She didn't look at me. Virginia Brusac showed her to the door.
"Tomorrow, dear, at the same time," Virginia said. She closed and locked the door, came back to me.
"Someone should know where Sim Loo is," I said. "She had to keep in touch with someone."
"I know some of her friends," Virginia said. "But they haven't mentioned Abigail in some time."
I took out my cigarettes. "Can I smoke?"
"I wish you wouldn't. I hate cigarette or cigar smoke."
"Of course." I put my cigarettes away, resignedly.
"Is it very important that you see Abigail? I mean, is it a matter of life and death?"
"It could be. Do you know a Chinese girl named Sim Loo?"
"Sim Loo? I met her, once or twice. Sal De Long took her in as a mistress and chased Abigail. It was an awful blow to Abigail. She loved De Long
-or thought she did."
"I thought Abigail could help me find Sim Loo."
"I see." She smiled. "So it's not really Abigail you're looking for, but Sim Loo. You thought Abigail could help you find her. Well, I don't see how. After Abigail left De Long-or rather after he chased her-Abigail wasn't exactly on the best of terms with Sim Loo."
"And there's no one who could help me find either of the girls?"
She shrugged. "I suppose you've tried Sal De Long?"
"I did," I said. "He doesn't know."
"That's funny, in a way. Sal once swore he'd keep Sim Loo with him forever."
"A man very much in love. Or he gives that appearance."
"Oh, he loves her, all right. I think he fell in love for the first time in his life when he met Sim Loo. At least, that's what the crowd says."
"The crowd?"
"You know. The artists and models who know them both. I don't mix too mell with them or I'd have met Sim Loo more than twice. I'm really a very shy woman."
"A lovely woman too," I said, sincerely.
"No compliments, please. They make me dizzy."
I stroked my chin, felt the stubble. Was I neglecting my appearance in my quest for Sim Loo? I realized I was hungry. I got to my feet.
She looked up at me. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more help to you."
"Can you give me the names and addresses of some of the crowd?" I wanted to know.
"I'm sure they can't help. But if you insist...."
"I need something to go on."
"Of course." She stood up, walked to a writing table, sat down, wrote names and addresses on the top sheet of a pad. "I hope you find them."
"I hope so too." I folded the sheet, put it away. "Thank you, Miss Brusac."
I left the apartment. Looking out at the drizzle through the glass front doors, was Miss Brusac's model. The doorman was outside, an umbrella shielding his head.
"Are you waiting for a cab?" I asked her.
She turned, her eyes went over me, slowly.
"No," she said, in a soft voice. "I was waiting for you."
CHAPTER TWENTY
In my car, driving to her apartment, she explained. "I heard you mentioning Abigail to Virginia. I knew she couldn't help you. Maybe I can. But I want to know a few things first."
"Shoot."
"Why are you looking for Abigail?"
"I'm really looking for a girl named Sim Loo. I thought Abigail might help me in locating her."
"I see. It was Sim Loo who moved in with Sal De Long, leaving Abigail high and dry."
"That's right. I don't know whether Abigail can help me or not. But I'm trying everything. Maybe Abigail can help me, maybe not. But I have to try."
"Did Virginia tell you where Abigail was?"
"No. Besides, you just said she couldn't help me."
The girl shrugged. "Virginia could have been lying all this time, saying she didn't know where Abigail was and that she didn't care."
"She gave me a list of names and addresses. They might be able to help me."
"Let me see."
I gave her the list.
She laughed, shortly. "This list is useless. These idiots don't know a damn thing."
I took the list back, put it away. "And you can help me?"
"I don't know. We'll see."
"Do you have a name?"
"Sandra."
"I'm William Harper."
"Good. Now you can give me a cigarette."
We lit up. "I wanted to smoke by Virginia, but she was adamant about it. Can't stand smoke."
"There's a lot she can't stand. She's sweet though. I like her. A lot of people like her."
"How come you're ready to help me when no one else will or can?"
"I didn't say I was going to help you; I said I may help you. You see, I like Abigail. I don't want to see her hurt."
"I have no intention of hurting her. I have no intention of hurting anyone."
"We'll see. Now make a right."
I made a right. When she told me to pull up, I did. We were in front of a brownstone building flanked by a liquor store and by an appetizing looking delicatessen.
Which reminded me, I still was hungry.
"Look, let me get some food," I said. "I'm starved. Or would you rather eat out? I'm presuming you haven't had dinner."
"I haven't eaten. But I've plenty of stuff in the refrigerator. I can whip up something."
We got out of the car.
"On second thought," she said, "You can buy a bottle of wine, if you want."
We went into the liquor store, bought two bottles of white port and a bottle of brandy.
I sipped at the brandy while she stuck two TV dinners in the oven.
"Gosh, you're a great cook," I jibed, forking a piece of chicken. I swigged some wine.
"Don't get smart. We modern women live by the can opener and the TV dinner."
"And so we men must suffer."
"Learn to cook for yourself. Women are getting tired of catering to men. Hooray for the TV dinner." She cleared up the tin dishes, made coffee laced with brandy, and we relaxed.
"Where is Abigail?" I asked, into a brief silence.
He stared at me. "I'll call her. If she wants to talk to you then she will. If not-" She shrugged. "I won't tell you where she is."
"But why not?"
"I promised her."
"Can I speak to her over the phone?"
"She may not be able to."
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain later." She got up. "I'm going to use the phone in the bedroom. There's an extension in here. I want you to promise not to listen in."
"I promise."
She walked into the bedroom. I sat and watched the swaying of her lithe hips. She was an exciting girl, there was no doubt of it. She was a sleek, exciting feline, with amazing breasts and body. I had seen her naked, and I knew.
I lit a cigarette, drank some coffee and brandy, and she came back, eventually.
"Well?" I said.
"She's coming over. It'll take an hour, at least."
"Did you tell her why I wanted to see her?"
"Yes. But I couldn't speak for long. Her husband was there. She gave me a sign. We have a little code between us."
"Her husband?"
Sandra sat down, crossed her knees. "Yes. She's married. That's why she dropped out of sight."
"But she didn't do anything to be ashamed of."
"She was living with Sal De Long. She posed nude for many artists. She-well, there's more."
"But isn't her husband curious about her friends?"
"He thinks she's from Chicago. He's pretty strait-laced. He's a bore from what I gather, but Abigail loves him."
"And she's kept in touch with you?" I asked. I put out the cigarette.
"I'm the only one. We were very close."
"I see. Well, her secret is safe with me."
"I hope so. Anyway, you won't know her new name. Or where she lives. That's final."
"As long as I can talk to her," I conceded.
"Do you want to watch some TV while we wait?"
I looked at my watch. "It's too late for the Mickey Mouse Club."
She put on the TV anyway and sat on the divan near me. Her hip pressed against mine. She didn't move away.
We watched a badly-directed, badly-acted half-hour play, then she turned the TV off.
"That was awful," she said. She sat down again, near me, and faced me.
Her face was close to mine; there was a half-amused smile on her ripe lips.
"Are you uncomfortable?" she asked, softly.
"No; why should I be?"
"Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Go ahead."
"A very personal question?" 'Ask away."
"Have you ever been in bed with a girl other than white?"
"Yes."
"Many times?"
"I don't keep records."
"A pity."
"Any other personal questions?" I was wondering where all this was leading to.
"When you saw me posing for Virginia, in the nude, what did you think?"
"I didn't have time to think."
"Did you take a good look?"
"Yes."
"Did you like what you saw?"
"Yes." Boy, what an understatement. "Maybe you appeal to me," she said candidly. "I keep seeing us in bed. Are you shocked?"
"No. I'm beyond that."
"What are you going to do about it?" she said. "Are you going to do anything at all? Are you a virgin?"
I put my hands on her waist, drew her up close to me and kissed her mouth. Her lips were warm and moist. Her hands came up and started to unbutton my shirt. Our lips pulled apart.
"Touch me," she commanded.
I put my hand on a breast.
My shirt was open and she ran her hand over the I shirt, feeling for my nipples.
I squeezed her breast, then brought up my other hand. I now had both breasts to play with.
Her lips opened, and she started to moan. "I like that." She was squeezing my nipples, hurting them. "Put your hand inside my dress. Quick."
I slipped a hand inside her dress, encountered a bra cup. I managed to get inside the cup, feel a large pointy nipple come to life.
Her eyes were closed now. "That's good. That's so good."
There was a knock on the door.
"Oh, damn!" She opened her eyes and my hand came out of her dress. She looked as though she were about to cry. "That must be Abigail. Button your shirt. I'll go let her in."
She moved her hungry, sexy body to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Abigail Home, now Mrs. Abigail Something-Or-Other, was a tall brown-haired girl of about twenty-seven. She took off her coat, revealing that she was wearing slacks and a man-tailored shirt. Her face looked as though it had just been scrubbed. No make-up, not even lipstick or rouge.
"Shall I leave you two alone?" Sandra said.
"I don't care," Abigail said. "In fact, I'd rather you stay." She looked at me. "Do you mind if Sandra stays?"
"I don't mind. Why should I?"
"Would you like some brandy?" Sandra asked Abigail.
"Nothing for me, thanks. I can't stay long." I offered Abigail a cigarette but she declined that, too.
"I won't keep you long," I promised. "I want to know about Sim Loo."
"Sim Loo? What about Sim Loo?"
"I want to find her," I said.
Abigail shrugged. "I didn't even know she was missing."
"I've talked to everybody that had any connection with her. At least, the ones I know about. You're about the last lead."
"Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Harper. Just who are you and why are you interested in Sim Loo?"
I told her everything, except the name of John Fry.
"I see," she said, when I had finished. "You think I can help you? I wasn't exactly her best friend."
"I'm clutching at straws."
"I'm sorry, but I can't help you." She sounded apologetic. "Sim Loo wasn't exactly my cup of tea."
"Did you know Sim Loo was a blackmailer?" Her face whitened. "Yes. She-she even tried it on me."
"I see. That's why you practically disappeared."
"One of the reasons. My husband wouldn't understand the life I led. It was somewhat sordid."
"It wasn't that bad."
"Sandra will explain it ... after I've gone."
"You don't mind if I talk to him?" Sandra asked Abigail.
"No, I don't mind. But don't call again for such a reason. It wasn't worth the trip."
"You mean there's nothing you can tell me?" I asked.
She looked at me. "Do you think she's alive?"
"No, I don't," I said, honestly. But I hoped I was wrong.
"She isn't the type to commit suicide," Abigail said.
"So she was murdered," I said.
"If she's dead," Abigail said.
"And if she is dead, where's the body?"
Abigail shrugged again. "Buried someplace, maybe tossed in the drink. If she's dead. I won't commit myself."
"How well did you know Sim Loo?" I asked.
"Not too well. She-she took my place with Sal De Long and I never saw her again."
"You never threatened her?"
"I did. But it was in a heated moment. I had an outburst in Sal's studio after he told me she was going to move in. He told me in front of her. I told them both off. I guess I threatened them both. I ran out and-well, I ended up in a bar. I had a few drinks, and I cooled off."
"I see."
"I had boy friends. I started going out. Through one of them, I met my husband. It was a quick romance, a quicker marriage. I never want to see any of them again, De Long, Sim Loo, the rest." She smiled at Sandra. "Except Sandra, here. I feel she's the only one I can trust."
Sandra smiled back. "This man is okay. You can trust him too. But not too far. You can't trust any man too far."
"Thanks a lot," I said, dryly.
"I wish I could tell you more, but I can't," Agi-gail said. "Sim Loo didn't have many friends. She got along with a girl named Josie Laurier. In fact, they used to room together before she moved in with De Long."
"I talked with Josie."
"She and Josie were whores," Abigail said. "That's why I couldn't understand why Sal wanted her. Until-" She hesitated, looked at Sandra. "Do you think I could have that brandy now?"
"Sure." Sandra poured a brandy.
"You were about to say," I prompted Abigail.
"Before I broke up with Sal, I asked him about Sim Loo. I knew he was using her as a model and that he was going with her. He told me that she inspired him. That being with her gave him confidence. Maybe it was true. I've heard that his paintings lately are strictly lousy. Sim Loo isn't with him any more, so he can't paint any more. Maybe there was something in what he said."
She sipped her brandy, appreciatively.
"You think he wasn't really in love with her?" I asked. "You think he wanted her just so he could paint better?"
"It's very possible."
"When I saw, him he seemed all broken up because she was gone. He seemed like a guy in love," I said, reflectively.
"Maybe I'm wrong." Her tone said she could care less.
"What about Joe Black?" I asked.
"You know about Joe Black? I guess Sim Loo thought she could catch herself a big pigeon. But Joe Black plays rough. He wouldn't go for a shakedown."
"Is it possible he killed Sim Loo?"
"Certainly, it's possible." She spoke as though to a retarded child.
"Did you ever meet Joe Black?"
"No. And I wouldn't want to, either."
"What about Tony Stewart?"
"I don't bother with pimps." The question obviously annoyed her.
I showed her the list Virginia Brusac had given me.
"Can any of these people help me in finding Sim Loo?" I asked.
She studied the list, thoughtfully. "They know less than I do. Virginia tries to be kind but actually-well, she just gave you some red herrings."
"She gave me this list to help find you," I said. "I thought some of these people might know something about Sim Loo."
"You can try. But I still say it's a red herring."
"Well, I won't bother them except as a last resort." I put the list away.
Abigail got to her feet. "This is the last time we'll ever meet, Mr. Harper. I'm settled now and I don't want to be reminded of the past. I hope you'll respect my wishes."
"I won't bother you again. I promise." I rose and thanked her.
Sandra walked her to the door. They kissed each other, then Abigail went out and Sandra closed and locked the door. She turned and looked at me.
"Oh, yes, where were we?" she teased.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
We went into the bedroom, our arms around each other. Then we faced and kissed. I started to undress her. I pulled her dress down to her waist and unhooked the bra. Her breasts were bare. I stroked them till the nipples quivered.
"No more," she begged. "Not till we're in bed."
"Are you sensitive there?"
"Yes. Very."
I took off the rest of her clothes. I then undressed, while she crawled into bed.
She was waiting for me, eager, passionate, warm, moist, her sleek body smooth and shiny, her breasts thrusting, her hips inviting, her thighs ready.
She drew my head down to a breast and I took a nipple into my mouth.
It nearly drove her crazy. Her hands clutched at the sides of my head, her body started to twist, her lips opened so that her sighs could escape. I kept at it for a while, then I went to the other nipple. While I sucked on the nipple, I started to stroke her thighs. Her body now was heaving like an active volcano. I left the nipples and my mouth trailed down between her breasts to her belly.
"Oh, baby, baby," she moaned.
I kissed her thighs and the inner thighs where the skin was most tender.
After a while I pulled up over her, lowered my body to hers, my mouth capturing her mouth, my hands taking hold of her firm sharply-nippled breasts. Her body worked like a well-oiled machine, pistoning away, receiving and giving. She made a claw of her hand and raked my chest, nipple to nipple.
Her body was a volcano and I had erupted it.
Her head twisted back and forth on the pillow, her eyes were glazed from the passion that swept over her. Her small firm breasts hardly moved as her body jerked away, giving, giving, taking, taking. She bit my ear and we soared like two jets.
When the lava stopped flowing and she was relaxed, she clutched me to her breast.
"I wish I could put you away somewhere," she said. "And every time I wanted you I'd take you out, wind you up, and have you make love to me."
She suddenly sat up, passed her hand over my body, down my chest, down my belly to where it counted the most.
"Do you like me to touch you?" she asked.
"Yes."
I relaxed under her gentle administrations.
Two relaxed, satisfied bodies. She had her head cradled on my chest and I had one arm around her shoulder, my hand resting on a full warm breast. "You're staying the night," she said, firmly. "I can't. I have to meet someone."
"A woman?"
"Yes, as a matter-of-fact. But it's business."
"I'll bet," she said. "Listen, I'll wear you out so that you wouldn't want to see her."
"I'll come back," I promised.
"No. You're staying put." It was final.
"I won't argue with you. At least, let me call her."
"All right. But don't make any plans for tonight. You're not going anywhere."
I got out of bed, used the phone. I asked the clerk at the Martinique for Miss Prentiss. He switched me to Paula Fry's room. She sounded angry.
"Where the hell are you? I expected you to call ages ago," she snapped. I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. "I got tied up," I said. "I'm sorry."
"But-listen, I wanted to see you."
"Not tonight. It's impossible."
"Well, when then?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"I can't stay here overnight."
"I'm sorry."
"All right. I'll give up my room. I'll come back tomorrow. But how do I know-Oh, hell! I'll call, tell someone at the house that I can't get back. I don't feel like driving to Southampton tonight. You'll call me tomorrow afternoon?"
"Yes." I hoped I could make her wait worthwhile.
"I know you don't owe me anything but-"
"No hearts and flowers," I begged. "All right. I suppose I'm acting foolish. I don't have anyone I can depend on."
"Why don't you try your husband?" I suggested. She said a dirty word.
"Tomorrow afternoon," I said and hung up. I went back to bed.
"She was disappointed?" Sandra asked. "Slightly."
"I would be too if you stood me up." She kissed my chest. "It's been such a long time since I've been with a man."
"What do you mean, such a long time? A passionate girl like you?"
She looked at me. "I've had to depend on Virginia Brusac to satisfy me."
She stared at the look on my face.
"Didn't you know? Couldn't you guess?"
"No, I didn't know," I said.
"Abigail, too. But she said it was all right if I told you. Yes. Abigail and myself. And there's more. Virginia doesn't like men. That is, as sex partners. She's a swell person, but awfully jealous. That's why I've been careful to stay away from men. But a girl can take just so much punishment."
"But why?"
"Virginia is very generous with her girl friends," Sandra said. "Why not? Besides, I'm built along those same lines. Not to the extreme where I can do without men, altogether. But I have it in me. So does Abigail. Abigail more so than me. Didn't you notice that man-tailored shirt, those slacks? She thinks she won't slip, but she will. She'll make a pass at a female neighbor, and that will be that."
She snuggled up against me, her brown, lithe, sleek body against mine, her firm breasts jutting into me, one hand sweeping down my side, over my buttocks. "Tonight, we'll forget about the other side of me. We'll concentrate on the side you've awakened. If you still want to stay?"
"I want to stay." My hands roamed over her back, feeling the sharp shoulder blades. Her knee came up, caressed me. She knew how to make love, how to bring a man to fever pitch. She knew all the tricks.
Her thighs opened and I entered that warm harbor, that safe place that had a life of its own, that welcomed me, greeted me. It was electrifying; the moist heat, the clinging, pulsing flesh.
I went in deep. It was good. It was what I wanted, what I needed. I kissed her mouth. I bit her lower lip. I wanted it to last a long time.
We made it last as long as possible. She kissed my face and my neck, in gratitude. And the night still was ahead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I met Paula in Herald Square. We sat on a bench and watched women walk into Macy's. No one was paying any attention to us.
"Can't we go to a bar?" she wanted to know.
"If you want."
"I wanted to see you. I wanted to make one last try."
I gave her a cigarette and lit it for her. She had on a light vine-green dress, a bolero with wide pockets, black flats. She took a bit of tobacco from the tip of her tongue and stood up.
We found a bar on Thirty-third Street.
I took our drinks to a booth and said, "You're not going to pull a fainting spell on me again, are you?"
She smiled, faintly. "No, of course not. But you had fun, didn't you?"
"I had fun," I admitted.
She sipped at her drink, stared at me over the rim of her glass. "That private detective I had hired-Sebastian Colt-he quit. Now there's no one I can turn to."
"That private detective of yours would eventually have turned on you," I told her.
"But I have to get some evidence-"
"No, you don't," I interrupted. "You don't have it so bad. You've got a lot more than most women I know."
"If you don't help me-"
"I won't."
She reached out her hand, took mine. "I'm good in bed. Aren't I? I can promise you that ... and money. A lot of money. Help me get enough evidence for a divorce. You won't be sorry."
"How many times must I tell you-"
She sighed. "Do you think I'll stop trying just because you won't help me? There are other men."
"Then you'll have to try other men."
"You have no right to treat me like this." Her voice rose, dangerously. Her face was white. "You can't leave me-"
"Keep it down," I warned.
"You think I have it made, do you?"
"Don't go off on a tantrum."
"He's a tyrant. And that daughter of his. That high and mighty snob. She acts so pure but-"
"Leave me out of it." I stood up. "I have my own problems."
She looked up at me. "Let's go to my room."
I shook my head, no.
"Why not?"
"I'm not in the mood for it."
"I won't say anything about-"
"You will," I said. "It's preying on your mind-you're neurotic already. You'll end up in the booby hatch if you don't ease off. Either see a doctor or leave him and forget about the money."
"I'll never forget about the money. I've earned it."
"How? By cheating on him?"
"He's done some cheating, too."
"Then call it even."
"No. I have to get away. If you won't help me, then somebody else will."
"Then it'll be somebody else. Goodbye, Paula."
"I'll see you again," she said. "I don't think so."
I walked out of the bar, into the street.
After yesterday's rain, the streets were extra clean. The sun was out in full force. The shoppers in Herald Square carried their jackets and coats over their arms. It was between seasons. Warm afternoons, cool nights.
I drove to my office where I caught up with the mail, then I called Sergeant Bromley.
"How come you're not out working?" I asked.
"I'm resting."
"Have you found anything?"
"A lot. But not what you're after. I had the Vice Squad check on Tony Stewart. He's operating pretty openly. He was pulled in and I was there when he was being questioned. I put my two cents in and asked about Sim Loo. He denied knowing her. He's being held right now, will probably be booked later this afternoon."
"And Joe Black?"
"Dead." , "What?"
"Some two-bit private detective named Sebastian Colt filled him full of holes."
"I'll be damned. The worm turned."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"And I paid Sal De Long a visit this morning. All he did was cry on my shoulder. And he gave me her clothes."
"Her clothes?"
"Yes. It seems she left her clothes behind when she took off. She left her jewelry, too. De Long gave me the pawn tickets."
"She must have been awfully scared."
"So it seems," Sergeant Bromley said. "But it still doesn't make sense that she should leave clothes and jewelry behind. Especially a girl like Sim Loo, one who has to live by her wits. They were good clothes and, I imagine, good jewelry."
"Could someone have called her, made an appointment-"
"De Long says she gave him the gate. She upped and left him. Walked out. And she left her stuff behind."
"It's crazy."
"It's a deep mystery, all right. Either somebody bumped her off or she's hiding someplace, scared to death."
"From what I've learned of her," I said, "she's the type who'd take an hour to reason things out before acting."
"Meaning what?"
"The jewelry. The clothes. She'd take her stuff with her. Her jewelry, anyway."
"So it's a mystery," the sergeant said. "A big mystery."
"What are you going to do next?" I wanted to know.
"Talk to the girls who worked with her when she was under Tony Stewart's wing," Sergeant Bromley said. "Check the morgue, the city hospitals. Check the hotels."
"You'll call me if something turns up?"
"You'll probably get in touch with me before I get in touch with you," Sergeant Bromley said.
"You're probably right."
"All right, Harper. And thanks for leaving this mess in my lap. It's a lulu." He hung up, hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I smoked a cigarette and stared out the window at the busy city. Joe Black was dead. Shot to death by Sebastian Colt. That was a hot one. I didn't think Colt had it in him.
What a crowd. Joe Black, Sebastian Colt, Sal De Long, Jeremy Dule, Carpy Justin. Each one more than a bit neurotic.
And what about myself?
Wasn't I neurotic? Or getting there fast? This obsession of mine to find a girl I never had seen. This drive to keep butting my head against brick walls, and for what? What was I getting out of it? Not even money, now.
I don't remember how long I stayed there. Or how many cigarettes I smoked. I just stared at nothing and thought deep thoughts.
I felt tired, drained. Exhausted.
The noise of the city kept roaring in at me, but I heard nothing. It was as though everything had stopped, and I was in a vacuum. I was alone, all alone. There was no Joe Black, Sal De Long, Sebastian Colt, no neurotics, no policemen, blackmailers. No one.
Yet ... I wasn't alone. There was someone to my left. It was a girl. I couldn't see her face. It was vague. She stood there, and she was trying to talk. She looked familiar. And I remembered the statue Sal De Long had done of Sim Loo. I remembered the painting I had bought. I remembered the picture John Fry had showed me.
I called her name, but she didn't hear me. I called again, but still she didn't hear me. She kept trying to say something and I tried to reach her. I wanted to go to her, but I couldn't.
Her face was vague. I wanted to see her face.
Slowly, as a cloud drifts, she started to move. First her legs, then her torso. But she wasn't walking. Her body was floating away, to my right, then away from me.
I wanted to go to her. I called again.
Soon there was just a speck.
Sim Loo.
Where are you, Sim Loo?
The noise of the street hit me, shocking me. It startled me. I looked around the office; I still was alone.
What had happened to me? Was I going nuts?
Or was it a sign? Was Sim Loo, from the beyond, trying to get in touch with me, trying to tell me something?
That was nonsense. I didn't believe in ghosts.
I was going crazy, plain and simple. That was all there was to it. I was going nuts.
Well, it happens to the best of us.
I went down to eat, walking as though in a heavy fog.
People brushed against me, shoved me, stepped on my toes. I smelled sweat, perfume, underarm deodorant. It didn't bother me. I was glad I wasn't alone. I was glad I was alive. Among people. Real live people.
I ate a good meal, stew and dumplings. Before I left the restaurant, I called Josie. "Hi," she greeted me. "Busy?"
"Kind of."
"Will you be free this evening?"
"I think so."
"Let's go out. Let's do something."
"Like what?"
"Anything," I said. "You name it."
"We could see a movie."
"Good. Shall I pick you up?"
"Meet me in front of the Astor about nine."
"Will do." I hung up.
I drove down to Nassau Street, visited a couple of coin shops. I bought an 1831 English penny in proof condition for twenty dollars. It was getting dark when I finished my coin hunting.
I filled my tank with gas, drove out to Coney Island, just for the ride. I felt the wind in my face.
I smelled the sea air and tried to keep my mind from wandering.
I wished I could forget about Sim Loo. I wanted to call it quits.
But I knew better.
This was a temporary escape.
I drove around Coney Island, stopped for a hot dog and a root beer, then headed back to Manhattan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Josie was dressed to the nines. She practically glimmered.
"What's the idea?" I asked.
"Aren't you proud of me?"
"Sure. You look swell. But I hadn't planned on the Stork Club or Twenty-One."
"I wanted to look good for you."
"Maybe I'd better take you to a night club. I'm not dress for a fancy one."
"I don't care."
We parked on Sixth Avenue, found a night club where all they served were steaks and french fried potatoes. The floor show was worthwhile. The steaks were so-so.
"Having a good time?" I asked Josie.
"Yes. And you?"
"That last stripper should have taken off more."
"Complain to the management."
"It's noisy. You can say that." She drank half of her champagne cocktail. "Shall I get up and do a strip?"
"Later."
"Not now?"
"Not now."
The waiter brought over more drinks.
Later, we went to the Radio City Music Hall to see a movie. It was a comedy. It was supposed to be a comedy. Maybe it was just my mood.
We walked to the car. "Shall we call it a night?" I asked.
"I guess so."
"Do you have any liquor in your place?"
"Loads and loads."
"Just one load will do."
"It's a nice night," Josie said. "A million stars."
"Josie, how would you like to go away for a weekend?"
"Where?"
"Canada. Montreal." 'I'd like that."
"The week-end coming up then. Okay?"
"Sure."
I stopped for a red light.
She put a hand on my knee. "Have you made any progress in finding Sim Loo?"
"No progress at all. In fact, I think I'll forget the whole business."
"One of the girls called me this afternoon. Some detective was asking her questions about Sim Loo. It seems the police are looking for her."
"I hope they have better luck than I did."
"I'm beginning to think she's dead."
"Maybe we'll never know."
"Don't say that," she cried.
"There isn't a trace of her. It's as if the earth opened up and swallowed her. We'll never find her, I tell you."
She stared at me. "Why do you get so upset?"
"Why talk about Sim Loo? As far as I'm concerned, it's a dead issue."
"You're not going to look for her anymore?"
"Let the police handle it."
I knew I was kidding myself. But I had to talk that way, perhaps in an effort to fight that crazy obsession of mine.
The light turned to green and I took off.
Josie's hand tightened on my knee. "You're so tense."
"I'm going through hell," I said. "I wish I could tell you ... you'd think I was crazy."
"I wouldn't think that."
We got to her apartment. She leaned over me, whispered in my ear, "I'll fix you up."
We went upstairs. She made drinks and sat on the divan, her legs crossed. She looked up at me.
"Do you feel like talking?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Then we won't talk. We'll make love."
I finished my drink, waited for her to finish hers then I pulled her to her feet, kissed her, wantingly. My hands found her breasts.
She walked into the bedroom while I put out the lights.
She was naked before I was more than half undressed.
"Slowpoke," she laughed.
I got into bed and kissed her belly and her full thighs. "Bill," she said. "Bill."
I put my tongue in her navel and she moaned.
She brought my face up so that I could kiss her breasts. I sucked on her nipples while she played with the hairs at the back of my neck.
She brought one hand between us, fondled me, squeezed me, stroked me. My mouth left her breasts and moved slowly down her body, pausing at the navel, dipping my tongue once again into that soft dark well. She moaned again and I licked all around the trembling belly, circling the decorative navel. I went to her full thighs and kissed and licked at the white flesh; her thighs opened and I found the sweet tender flesh of the inner thighs.
One of her hands was at my buttocks, squeezing and probing, digging nails into the flesh.
I turned her over and started to kiss the backs of her thighs. Her middle rubbed against the bed. I kissed her trembling flesh while she moaned into the pillow. I bit gently, then harder. Her middle moved violently against the bed, her buttocks heaving up and down, around.
I turned her over again and slipped between her thighs. Her hands palmed my nipples. Her fingers felt for and pinched them. She was hurting me, but I didn't care.
We were joined now and our bodies twisted violently; little cries reached my ears as if from far away. Teeth fastened on my ear lobe. We were deep in the rhythm of love, of sex, and the sensation was strong and good.
Her eyes were birght and shiny. I noticed them as her body grew rigid suddenly and I let go and we collapsed into completion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was somewhere in the middle of the night when we awakened. It was dark, with moonlight streaming in. She played with the hairs on my chest.
"Do you feel like talking?" she said.
"It's crazy."
"Go ahead and talk."
I told her about my obsession. I told her about the daydream in my office. What else could it have been?
When I had finished, she said softly, "Sim Loo seemed to draw men to her. It was her fatal fascination. You saw a statue, a picture, a snapshot. Through those things, you were drawn to her. You want to see her in the flesh. Nothing else matters now except that. You won't ever have a moment's peace till you know what happened to her. If she's dead, you want to know. If she's alive, you want to see her. In a way it's crazy. But isn't life itself crazy?"
"I'm in bed with a philosopher," I remarked.
"You know I'm speaking the truth."
"And how I know it," I agreed.
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. I do know we're going away for the weekend."
"I'll be happy to spend the weekend with you. Of course, it won't be much fun if you keep thinking about Sim Loo."
"I'll try not to."
"You're a very emotional person," she said, seriously. "You probably don't even know it."
"Well, I know it now," I said, lightly.
"I think you're making fun of me."
"Oh, no, Joaie, not that." I kissed her chin. "I wouldn't make fun of you. You're very sweet."
"Thank you. I love compliments."
"And you're a darling for putting up with me."
"I don't mind." She kissed my mouth. "I almost forgot. Did you know that Joe Black was dead?"
"Yes. I know."
"The papers said a shamus killed him. That's slang for a private eye, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh."
"I shouldn't say it, but I'm glad Joe Black is dead. He was no good. He once gave Sim Loo a beating."
"I didn't know that."
It was funny, the chain of circumstances that followed Sim Loo's disappearance. I found her room mate and we became lovers. For how long, who could tell? Joe Black, a big shot, gets shot to death by a two-bit nobody, Sebastian Colt. Colt was following Sim Loo's trail, came across Joe Black's name and started a little game of blackmail. Colt gets beaten up, sees his girl raped, and in turn, he kills Black.
And all because a Chinese prostitute disappears.
Death and circumstances.
Some would say it was in the cards; that the future was predetermined and that nothing could have prevented Joe Black's death or my meeting with Josie. I didn't know. It was all beyond me.
Too many twists and turns. And some dead ends too.
Thieves, blackmailers, whores, pimps, lesbians. The whole damn thing was sordid. Sim Loo had come in contact with all of them, and had left her mark on every last one.
I thought about Virginia Brusac. The lesbian photographer.
"Josie," I said.
"Yes, baby?"
"Do you know Virginia Brusac?"
"I met her once. Why?"
"How did you meet her?"
"Sim Loo brought her to the apartment once. She's queer. Virginia, I mean. She wanted a party. You know. The three of us. She, Sim Loo, and myself. I don't play that way, so I walked out. I spent the night in a hotel."
"And Sim Loo?"
"I hate to say it, but I think Sim Loo wanted to get something on Virginia. She ordinarily didn't go for women."
"Thanks. I saw Virginia. She claims she met Sim Loo once or twice. She never said anything about them going to bed together."
"Why should she? Did you expect her to admit she was a dyke? Virginia is a nice person. She really is. But-well, she can't help being what she is. She had a long talk with me at a party once, tried to convince me I should try it her way. I told her flatly, no. And that was that. She never bothered me again. She even sent me a little gift."
"A very generous woman," I remarked.
"Very. There's nothing she wouldn't do if she really liked you."
"I think I'll have another talk with her."
"If you do, don't tell her that I told you-"
"Don't worry; I won't."
"You know, I don't feel sleepy any more. In fact, I feel very refreshed."
"Well, you can't get up and go wandering about. It's the middle of the night."
"Who wants to wander?"
"My dear girl-"
Her mouth closed on mine. I wasn't sleepy either.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was ten in the morning and Virginia Brusac had on pajamas and a robe.
"I'm having coffee," she said, after she closed and locked the door. "Won't you join me?"
I watched her pour a cup of coffee for me. We were sitting by a formica-topped table in the kitchenette. Her face was a little puffy from sleep; otherwise she looked good.
We had our coffee, then she said, "Now what's on your mind? You sounded so solemn over the phone."
"I never sound solemn."
"Well, serious then."
"The same subject. Sim Loo."
"I thought it was Abigail Home you were after? Oh, that's right. You needed Abigail to find Sim Loo."
"You said you only met Sim Loo once or twice," I said. "Under what circumstances?"
She stared at me. "At a party."
"Did you ever give her any money?"
"I beg your pardon." Her voice still was calm but her eyes were angry. "Why should I give her money?"
"Gifts?"
"Mr. Harper, I don't understand-"
"Was she blackmailing you?"
"See here. I don't like this." Her voice was angry now.
"I know you slept with her."
Her mouth opened and closed like that of a beached fish.
I felt a little sorry for her. I said, "Miss Brusac, I don't want to hurt you. And I don't want to embarrass you. I want the truth. Don't you see? I'm looking for a girl, a girl who disappeared, a girl who may be dead. I'm trying to talk to anyone who ever had any contact with her. Can't you help me?"
With a shaking hand, she poured herself another cup of coffee. "I-I don't know where she is."
"You have no idea?"
"I'm not lying."
"Was she blackmailing you?"
"Yes."
"You gave her money?"
"I gave her some money. And some jewelry."
"Expensive stuff?"
"Rather expensive. She was crazy about the jewelry. She never had any when she was on the other side. Before she came to this country, I mean. I think the jewelry meant more to her than the money."
"You must know something about human nature," I said. "Would Sim Loo have disappeared without taking that jewelry with her?"
"Never. She was keen on it. It meant something to her, something symbolic. I can't really explain it."
"I understand."
She looked at me. "Even though Sim Loo blackmailed me, I'm still fond of her."
"She had a way with men ... and with women."
"Is there anything else?"
"No. Thank you, Miss Brusac." She walked me to the door.
Downstairs, I got in touch with Sergeant Bromley. He told me he had checked the morgue and the city hospitals. No Sim Loo. He had checked some hotels, not all. No Sim Loo.
I asked him to meet me.
"What's up?"
"I think I have something. If you want, I can pick you up."
"That will be fine."
I told him where to meet me and he hung up.
I drove to the Village, parked, lit a cigarette. Within ten minutes Sergeant Bromley drove up, parked, and got out. There was another man in the car; he stayed put while Bromley joined me.
We were in front of the building where Sal De Long lived.
"I already talked to De Long," he said.
"Let's both talk to him."
He shrugged and led the way.
The artist was in. He greeted us, warmly. Then he inquired if I had brought any beer. I told him no.
His disappointment was evident.
"I have nothing to drink," he said, regretfully.
"I'm sorry," I said. "But maybe the sergeant will stop at a bar on the way back and buy you whatever you want."
"On the way back?" De Long said.
"Yes. The sergeant would love to have your company, De Long."
"Is this a joke?" He glared at me. "Are you saying I did something, perhaps something to my love, Sim Loo?"
"I'm saying you killed her."
He was stunned. "Killed her? My precious? You're mad."
"Sim Loo wouldn't walk out, leaving her jewels behind. You say she left you. Well, if she did, she'd have packed first. But you gave the sergeant her jewels and her clothes."
"Maybe there was another man," De Long said. "A rich man?"
"He gave me the pawn tickets," Bromley corrected me.
"So I pawned her jewels," De Long shrieked. "You want to arrest me for that? Go ahead."
"I don't think you pawned all the jewelry," I said. "I'll bet there's still some around."
"How about it, De Long?" Bromley said.
"You can't search the place," De Long said, heatedly. "You need a warrant."
"So that's the way it's going to be," Bromley said. "Well, I have a man downstairs with a warrant, just in case. What'll it be?"
"All right," De Long said. "There's more jewelry. But I'm holding it for when she comes back."
"She won't come back," I said. "You killed her."
"Why should I kill her? I loved her."
"She was going to walk out on you," I said. "You needed her. She was your inspiration. You believed you couldn't paint unless she was close to you. Maybe you loved her too. I don't know. But I do know you're a bit crazy. You didn't see her as a woman but as a symbol. A goddess, maybe."
"How did you know?" he whispered.
"Because she affected me the same way," I said, dryly.
"You never met her."
"No. I never met her."
Bromley took De Long's arm. "Are you admitting that you killed Sim Loo?"
"I admit nothing."
"You killed her, De Long," I said. "You were the last one to see her alive. No one saw her, after you did. Isn't that sort of remarkable? You say she left you. But without taking her clothes and jewels. That's baloney. She didn't leave you. She was going to, but you stopped her. You killed her."
"Prove it," he said, his eyes wild. "I dare you."
"You need a body," Bromley said. "What the hell did he do with her body?"
"Her body?" I said, dully.
I went to a bench where De Long had his artists' supplies. I found a small hammer and a chisel. I showed the tools to Bromley.
"De Long also is a sculptor," I said. "You see that statue of Sim Loo? He did that."
I walked to the statue of Sim Loo and started to chisel away. At last I was going to see Sim Loo.
