I said, “There was something folded on the inside of a cigarette package that went with it.”
I took out the torn slip of cardboard on the back of which were the words, KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.
Bob Elgin looked it over.
I said, “Look at the front of the thing now. What do you make of it?”
I pushed the torn scrap of cardboard over to him. I said, “I think this may have come from your place.”
He turned it over and said, “I think so, too.”
I said, “You’ll notice on the torn part there’s a place where it says, ‘Minimum check $5.00 per person.’” Over on the other corner appeared the words, “A la Cabanita, special.”
I said, “That looks to me as though it had been torn from a menu in your place.”
“So it does.”
“Any ideas?”
“No.”
“You’re not being very helpful.”
“I’m here. I’ve got the place open. I’m talking to you. I’m answering questions. This Lucille of yours may be a regular patron. She may have been someone that just dropped in. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more help. It isn’t because I don’t recognise her description. I do. I told you before, there are a hundred of them who answer that description.”
“Where do they all come from?”
He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Where does dust come from when the wind’s blowing?” and then abruptly said, “How many men do you know who have really beautiful wives?”
“What does that have to do with it?” I asked.
He said, cynically, “A beautiful woman doesn’t want to go through life bending over a wash-tub. A beautiful woman doesn’t want to spend her time scrubbing floors. You don’t see a really beautiful woman get enthusiastic over darning socks. They don’t want to do any of those things. They know it’s going to impair their beauty. They’ve learned to live for their beauty. They can’t preserve it past a certain point. The lucky ones become picture actresses and the grass widows of wealthy husbands. They live on alimony and opportunity.
“The ones that aren’t so lucky make a pass at alimony. They get cheated out of it. They have to live. They have a lot of self-discipline when it comes to watching their diet. You’ll find them hovering around any night-club, sometimes with one escort, sometimes with another, sometimes temporarily not escorted. They’re the slinky type with the smooth hips, the full lips, the ready smile and the watchful eyes. I get so I hate the bitches.”
The bedroom door opened. A smooth, slinky blonde, wearing well-tailored powder-blue slacks, a blouse cut so low in front that the V stretched almost to the belt, sandals which showed crimson toe-nails, came gliding into the room.
The slacks had been tailored across the hips so that every seductive motion, every wiggle showed to the greatest advantage.
“What the hell is this?” she asked. “What’s coming off here?”
Bob Elgin bowed. “My dear,” he said, “may I present Mr. Lam. Lam is a private detective.”
He turned to me and said, “My wife, Mr. Lam.”
She looked me over with calculating eyes that started with my face, went down to my feet, then back up again. She twisted the full lips in a smile, and gave me her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Lam,” she said.
I noticed her left hand. There were no rings on it.
“Darling,” she said, rolling the R’s. “Aren’t we going to have some coffee?”
“Yes, dearest, I’ll put some on right away.”
He walked over to the kitchenette, poured water into a coffee percolator, dumped in coffee and switched on the electric stove.
“You should have done that long ago,” the blonde said.
“Yes, dear.”
She regarded me with cool grey eyes that were impudently frank in their appraisal.
She took a cigarette from a packet, tapped it gently on the arm of the chair, placed it between full red lips and tilted her head back to wait for my light.
I crossed the room, struck a match and held it to the tip of her cigarette. She reached up with her hand and held it cupped over mine, furnishing guidance for the flame.
She held the hand longer than was necessary.
I blew out the match. Her eyes met mine.
“Thanks,” she said throatily.
I went back over to the sofa and sat down.
In the kitchen, I could see Bob Elgin’s back and hear the rattling of cups and saucers. Bob Elgin said, “Want to join us in a cup of coffee, Lam?”
“No, thanks. I’ve been drinking coffee off and on all day.”
“What are you detecting, Mr. Lam?” the blonde asked.
“I was just trying to get a line on a cute blonde.”
“So many people do,” she assured me.
“This one is a pocket edition — short, well-formed, high cheekbones, dark brown eyes, not much over five feet tall, and her first name may be Lucille.”
She sat absolutely rigid for a moment, then she looked out towards the kitchenette and said, “Do we know her, Bob?”
“We don’t,” Elgin said.
“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”
I said, “You might also try this one. A man about thirty-five, about five feet eleven, long, straight nose, good features, dark hair, grey eyes, weight a hundred and ninety-five, wears grey double-breasted suit, smokes cigarettes through a long carved ivory cigarette holder. Know him?”
From the kitchenette, I heard the clatter of crockery. “What was that?” the blonde asked.
“A cup, my dear. I’m sorry.”
“Bob, you’ve got the jitters. You drank too much last night.”
There was the sound of running water.
“Now what are you doing?” she asked.
“Washing a cup. I broke the last clean one.”
She turned to me and smiled wearily.
I said, “This man could go by the name of Tom.”
“We don’t know him,” Elgin said from the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”
I waited for Elgin to come back from the kitchenette. Then I opened the Sunday paper which was lying on the sofa, found the section which gave the account of the mysterious suicide pact in the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.
The pictures were fairly good.
“How about these people?” I asked.
An exclamation burst from the woman’s lips. “Bob,” she said impulsively, “that’s the same girl who objected to having her picture taken last week!”
Elgin’s elbow nudged her so hard I could see her head move.
“What girl?” he asked.
The blonde said vaguely, “You know, the girl we saw while we were walking in the park. No, I guess it isn’t either. I thought for a minute she was the same person, but she isn’t.”
“Ever seen either of them around the Cabanita?” I asked.
“Not around the Cabanita,” the blonde said hastily. “I haven’t seen them anywhere. I thought I had for a minute, something about the girl’s eyes.”
“We were walking in the park. This girl was seated on a bench and someone had a camera. She didn’t want any pictures taken.”
“This girl?”
“No, I’m certain it wasn’t the same one. I just thought it was for a minute.”
“Do you,” I asked the blonde, “spend a good deal of time at the Cabanita?”
She nodded, looked over at Bob Elgin.
Bob Elgin said, “My wife does an interpretive Egyptian dance. She’s on the programme. The rest of the time she sort of mingles around and helps keep the party moving.”
“I see,” I said.
Elgin looked at me. The blonde smiled.
“Anything else?” Elgin asked.
“Not a thing,” I told him. “You’ve been a great help. Bertha will certainly appreciate it.”
The blonde shook hands with me. “Better stay for some coffee,” she invited.