Dorothy smiled-the first time since we’d begun talking about her late friend-and it was a bittersweet smile, at that.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, snapping her gum. “Funny coincidence, I mean.”
“What is?” I asked.
“You coming to talk to me when The Blue Dahlia is playing.”
“Why’s that?”
She blinked, batting long lashes. “Don’t you know? Maybe you haven’t heard… I guess maybe Mother didn’t know, or didn’t think it was important enough to mention.”
“What?” Fowley asked.
“Beth had this nickname, some guys in Long Beach gave it to her, she said, ’cause of her black hair and lacy black dresses, and ’cause she was… this is so silly… in ‘full bloom.’ And, anyway, The Blue Dahlia was playing at the moviehouse around the corner from the drugstore where these guys and Beth hung out, so it was a takeoff on that.”
“What was?” I asked.
She batted her eyelashes again. “Her nickname-‘The Black Dahlia.’ ”
Fowley looked at me and I looked at him. Then Fowley jotted that down in his notepad. I had a strong suspicion the days of “The Werewolf Slayer” tagline had just ended.
“The only other thing I can think of,” Dorothy said, “is her memory books.”
“Memory books,” I said. “Scrapbooks, you mean? Or diaries…?”
The usherette shrugged and her blonde curls bounced. “I dunno for sure-I never saw them. Beth just said, one day, she was sorry she’d left them behind, her memory books, wishing she could show us pictures of her late husband, and maybe paste in a few new pics of Mom and me.”
Fowley pressed. “Left them behind where, did she say?”
“In her trunk.”
“Did she say who she left it with-a friend, maybe?”
“It was in storage.”
“She say where in storage?”
“Los Angeles-the American Express office.”
If a trunk had been sitting awhile, unclaimed, it might be in a nonpayment warehouse by now. That should be easily tracked. I wondered if Beth Short’s “memory books” had any entries about a private detective she’d met in Chicago.
“What can you tell us about Robert ‘Red’ Manley?” Fowley asked.
“Not much,” she said, shaking her head, chewing her gum dejectedly. “I really wish I had something more to tell you. Oh, I do know the name of the motel where Red took Beth, after he helped her move out of our place.”
My mouth dropped open, and two words managed to tumble out: “The motel?”
“Yes, where he and Beth stayed, the night before he drove her to Los Angeles.” Lashes batted; gum snapped. “Would that help?”
10
Maybe Red Manley was new at cheating on his wife. Or maybe he needed a receipt, to make a claim against an expense account. Or maybe he was just a goddamn idiot.
Whatever the reason, Robert Manley had broken the first rule of philandering: on the evening of January eighth, at the Pacific Beach Motor Camp, he had signed his own name on the motel register; and so, incredibly enough, had his companion for the night, Elizabeth Short. Manley’s address was listed-8010 Mountain View Avenue, Huntington Park-as was his automobile license number.
Elizabeth Short had given only “Chicago” as her address. The lack of anything further-say, the St. Clair Hotel, or the A-1 Detective Agency-was small consolation.
“Chicago again,” Fowley said, as we looked at the register at the motel check-in counter. He grinned at me wolfishly. “Sure this ‘Dahlia’ dame ain’t some old girl friend of yours?”
“You never know,” I said, and grinned back at him, back of my neck prickling.
Huntington Park was five miles south of downtown Los Angeles, in the midst of an industrial district, and while Mountain View Avenue may not have lived up to the scenic promise of its name, the quiet residential street was a sizable step up from the tract housing of Bayview Terrace. At dusk, bathed in the dying sunlight Hollywood moviemakers called “magic hour,” the little Manley home seemed California idyllic: a modest green-tile-roofed pale yellow stucco in the Spanish-Colonial style with a well-tended lawn, a cobblestone walk bordered by brightly flowering bushes, and thorny shrubs that hugged the house like prickly bodyguards.
Fowley rang the bell, and-almost supernaturally fast-the door opened and a lovely young woman was standing there, raising a “shush” finger, the fingernail painted the same candy-apple red as the lipstick glistening on her full red lips. She was a honey-blonde with a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, upturned nose, peaches-and-cream complexion and a trim, shapely figure wrapped up in a red-striped white seersucker sundress that left her smooth shoulders bare.
“Please be quiet,” she said, her voice hushed. “My baby’s sleeping.” I glanced at Fowley and he glanced at me-we each knew what the other was thinking: what kind of lunatic runs around on a dish like this?
“Sorry, ma’am,” Fowley said, almost whispering. He held up a badge-an honorary deputy’s badge the L.A. County Sheriff issued to certain reporters, which those reporters often used to imply they were law enforcement officers. “Are you Mrs. Robert Manley?”
After barely glancing at the badge, the big blue eyes blinked at us. She must have been about twenty-two, a kid herself-her pretty face still had a pleasing baby-fat plumpness.
“Yes, I am,” she said, alarm swimming in those big blue eyes.
I said, “Is your husband home, Mrs. Manley?”
“No, he isn’t. He’s in San Francisco on business-he’s a traveling salesman. In hardware.”
There was a joke in there somewhere, and it wouldn’t have taken much looking to find it, but I didn’t bother.
“Could we ask you a few questions, ma’am?” Fowley asked. “Would it be possible for us to step inside?”
Her eyebrows tightened and a vertical line formed between them, a single crease in an otherwise perfectly smooth face. “This is about that girl Robert picked up, isn’t it?”
Again, Fowley and I glanced at each other.
Nodding, I said, “Her name was Elizabeth Short.”
“I know,” Mrs. Manley said wearily. “I read the papers… Why don’t we sit in the kitchen? I have some coffee made. Just please be quiet-Robert, Jr., is sleeping, and believe me, you don’t want to wake him.”
She led the way through the sparsely but nicely appointed bungalow, venetian blinds throwing slashes of shadow across gleaming hardwood floors. A playpen scattered with stuffed toys sat amid a wine-colored angora mohair living room suite, and vaguely Spanish, mahogany-veneer furnishings-everything looked new, suggesting a young couple buying on the installment plan.
The kitchen was a compact, streamlined affair of white and two tones of blue; a scattering of the latest appliances lined the countertops, as did baby bottles. Another baby bottle warmed in a pan on the gas range, and a red telephone on the wall was like a splash of blood against the white tile. We sat at a white-trimmed blue plastic-and-chrome dinette set and sipped the coffee she provided.
“My name is Fowley,” the reporter said, his notepad out, “and this is Mr. Heller.”
“I’m Harriet Manley,” she said, sipping her coffee, her eyes wide and rather glazed-and, I noticed, slightly bloodshot. She had a lovely speaking voice, a warm alto, but-right now at least-her inflections were negligible, emotionless. “Bob is due home tonight. He and his boss, Mr. Palmer, are on their way back right now, from San Francisco… Did I say that already? I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Manley,” Fowley asked, “what do you know about your husband and Elizabeth Short?”
“Bob phoned me from San Francisco this morning,” she said, in that same near-monotone. “He saw the story in the papers up there, and said he recognized the girl’s picture. Of course, I’d read about the, uh… read about it myself-it’s all over the front page.”
Fowley gave me a look that indicated he would take the notes, and I should ask the questions.
So I asked one: “What did Bob say about this girl?”
She was staring into her coffee. “He had given her a ride back from San Diego-just as a favor, he said. Nothing between them.”