“All right, then, but Evelyn Merrick matters. The police might be able to find her for you.”
“They might, if they bothered to look.”
Blackshear knew she was right. The police would be interested in the theft but there wasn’t the slightest evidence that Evelyn Merrick was the thief. And as far as the phone call was concerned, the department received dozens of similar complaints every day. Miss Clarvoe’s story would be filed and forgotten, because Evelyn Merrick had done no physical harm, had not even voiced any definite threats. No search would be made for the woman unless he, Blackshear, made it himself.
I could do it, he thought. It isn’t as if I’d be investigating a major crime where experience is necessary. All I have to do is find a woman. That shouldn’t require anything more than ordinary intelligence and perseverance and a bit of luck. Finding a woman is better than collecting stamps or talking to old men on benches in the park.
He felt excitement mounting in him, followed by the sudden and irrational idea that perhaps Miss Clarvoe had contrived the whole thing, that she had somehow tricked or willed him into this reversal of his plans. “Do you believe in extra-sensory perception, Mr. Blackshear?” “No.”
No? He looked at her. She was smiling.
“You’ve changed your mind,” she said, and there was no rising inflection of doubt in her voice.
Chapter 3
The following afternoon, after spending the morning at the telephone, Blackshear arrived at the establishment advertised in the yellow pages of the Central Los Angeles phone book as the Lydia Hudson School of Charm and Modeling. It was one of two dozen similar schools listed, differing only in name, location and degree of disregard for the laws of probability: We will make you a New Person... Hundreds of Glamorous Jobs awaiting our graduates... We Guarantee to Improve your personality, poise, posture, make-up, figure, and mental outlook... Walk and Talk in Beauty, our Staff will teach you...
Miss Hudson performed her miracles on the second floor of a professional building on Vine Street. The outer office was a stylized mixture of glass brick and wrought iron and self-conscious young women in various stages of charm. Two of them were apparently graduates; they carried their professional equipment in hat-boxes, and they wore identical expressions, half-disillusioned, half-alert, like travelers who had been waiting too long for their train and were eyeing the tracks for a relief car.
They spotted Blackshear, and immediately began an animated conversation.
“You remember Judy Hall. Well, she’s finally engaged.”
“No! How did that happen?”
“I wouldn’t dare to guess. I mean, her methods are pretty stark, aren’t they?”
“They have to be. She’s let herself go terribly in the past year. Did you notice her complexion? And her posture?”
“It isn’t her posture that’s so bad. It’s her figure.”
“I bet Miss Hudson could do wonders...”
Walk and Talk in Beauty, our Staff will teach you.
Blackshear approached the reception desk and the travelers stopped talking. Another train had passed without stopping.
“I have an appointment to see Miss Hudson. The name is Blackshear.”
The receptionist’s eyelids drooped as if from the weight of her mascara. “Miss Hudson is in Conversation Class at the moment, Mr. Blackshear. Will you wait?”
“Yes.”
“Just have a seat over there.”
She undulated across the room, walking in beauty, and disappeared behind a frosted glass door marked, Private. A minute later a short woman with hair the color of persimmons and a mouth to match came out of the same door. She didn’t undulate. She walked briskly with her shoulders back and her head thrust forward at a slightly aggressive angle, as if she expected to be challenged by a high wind or a disgruntled client.
“I’m Lydia Hudson.” Her voice was incongruously soft and pleasant, with a faint trace of a New England accent. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Blackshear.”
“You didn’t.”
“I was rather surprised by your phone call. You sounded so mysterious.”
“Let’s say mystified, not mysterious.”
“Very well.” She smiled a professional smile, without disturbing her eyes. “You’re not a policeman, are you, Mr. Blackshear?”
“No.”
“Maybe you’re a lawyer, and the Merrick girl is a long-lost heiress. That would be fun.”
“It would.”
“But that’s not it, eh?”
“No.”
“It never is.” Miss Hudson glanced at the two models who were making a noble pretense of not listening. “Your call hasn’t come through yet, girls. Sorry.”
One of the models put down her hat-box and started across the room. “But, Miss Hudson, you said be here at two and here we...”
“Patience, Stella. Patience and poise. One moment of distemper can be as damaging to your skin as two éclairs.”
“But...”
“Remember, you’re a graduate now, Stella. You can’t afford to behave like a freshman.” To Blackshear, she added softly, “Come into my office. We can’t talk here in front of these morons.”
Miss Hudson’s office was artfully devised for the acquisition of new students. On each side of the desk where she sat was a lamp with a pink shade that flattered her complexion and made her hair look almost real. The other side of the room, reserved for prospective clients, was illuminated from the ceiling with fluorescent rods that gave a dead white light, and two of the walls were decorated with full-length mirrors.
“This is our consultation room,” Miss Hudson said. “I never give the girls any personal criticism. I simply let them study themselves in the mirrors and they tell me what’s wrong. That way, it makes for a more pleasant relationship and better business. Please sit down, Mr. Blackshear.”
“Thanks. Why better business?”
“I often find that the girls are much harder on themselves than I would be. They expect more, you see?”
“Not quite.”
“Well, sometimes a very pretty girl comes in and I can’t find anything the matter with her at all. But she can, because she’s probably comparing herself to Ava Gardner. So, she takes my course.” Miss Hudson smiled dryly. “Results guaranteed, naturally. Cigarette?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, now you know as much about my business as I do. Or,” she added, with a shrewd glance, “as much as you care to, eh?”
“It’s very interesting.”
“Sometimes the whole thing makes me sick, but it’s a living and I’ve got three kids to support. The youngest is fourteen. When I get her through college or married off to some nice, steady guy, I’m going to retire. I’m going to loll around the house all day in a bathrobe and bedroom slippers and I’m never going to open another jar of face-cream as long as I live, and every morning when I get up I’m going to look in the mirror and chortle myself silly over a new wrinkle and another gray hair.” She paused for breath. “Don’t mind me. I’m only kidding. I think. Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to my blatting. What do you want to know about this Evelyn Merrick?”
“Everything you can tell me.”
“It won’t be much. I only saw her once and that was a week ago. She read my ad in the News offering a free consultation for a limited time only, and in she came, sat in the same chair you’re sitting in now. A scrawny brunette very poorly dressed and made up like a tart. Pretty impossible, from a professional point of view. She had one of those Italian boy haircuts gone to seed. They’re supposed to look casual, you know, but actually they require a lot of expert care. And her clothes...” Miss Hudson stopped sharply, “I hope she’s not a friend of yours?”