“These pictures I have are pictures of a dead man.”
“He’s dead?”
“Not only that. He’s pretty badly smashed. I thought you should be warned.”
“Mabel can take it.”
“Take what, Jason?”
A woman had quietly entered the room behind us. She was slender and tall in a black evening-sheath. Her graying brunette head was small and handsome, set off by fine tanned shoulders.
“What can I take? What are you letting me in for now?” She was smiling.
“The officer here – Mr. Cross? – has some pictures of a dead body.”
“What on earth for, Mr. Cross?”
“I think it’s the man who burglarized your house.”
“He didn’t exactly burglarize–”
“No,” Richards said. “You invited him over and practically handed him the stuff on a silver platter. If it wasn’t for the insurance, I’d be out fourteen hundred and twenty dollars. No.” The adding machine in his head clicked, almost audibly. “Twelve twenty, after they recovered the wristwatch for me.”
His wife laid a hand on his arm and regarded him with calm tolerance: “But you did have insurance, so you’re not out a penny. I admit I was taken in, though.”
“How did it happen, Mrs. Richards?”
“Oh, quite naturally. This very pleasant-voiced young man called me up one morning early in February.”
“It was January,” her husband said. “January the twelfth.”
“January, then. He said he was a photographer with some home magazine, and he’d heard about our house, how beautifully done it was, and would I mind if he came and took some pictures. I said certainly not. I’m a notorious sucker, and oh so very house-proud.”
“Naturally,” her husband said. “You’ve got a fine big house, why shouldn’t you be proud of it? It cost into six figures…”
“Be quiet, Jason. He turned up later in the morning with his equipment. I showed him over the house, and he took his pictures, or pretended to. It never occurred to me to be suspicious, and I admit I was pretty careless leaving him alone in some of the rooms. Well, to make a long story short, he picked up everything loose and thanked me and bowed himself out. I even gave him a bottle of beer to drink.”
“Ale,” her husband said. “Bass Ale, imported from the old country.”
“At fabulous cost,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t mind Jason, Mr. Cross. He’s not really avaricious. He just expresses his feelings in money terms. How much am I worth, Jason?”
“To me, you mean?”
“To you.”
“One million dollars.”
“Piker,” she said, and pinched his cheek. “Does anybody bid a million one?”
He flushed. “Don’t say that. It isn’t ladylike.”
“I’m not a lady.” She turned to me, her smile fading. “I’m ready to see your pictures, Mr. Cross.”
I showed them to her, looking from them to her face. She had become very grave.
“Poor man. What happened to him?”
“He was run over. Do you recognize him?”
“I think it’s the chap, all right. I couldn’t swear to it.”
“You’re reasonably sure?”
“I think so. When was he killed?”
“Last February.”
She handed the pictures back and looked up at her husband. “You see. I told you the man in Pacific Palisades wasn’t the one. He is older and darker and heavier, an entirely different type.”
“I’d still like to talk to him,” I said. “Where is his shop, exactly?”
“I don’t recall the address. Let me see if I can describe it to you. You know the stoplight where Sunset Boulevard runs into the coast highway? It’s half a mile or so north of there, one of those slummy little buildings crowded between the highway and the beach.”
“On the left-hand side as you go north?”
“Yes. I don’t think you can miss it. It’s the only photography studio anywhere along there, and there’s some kind of a sign, and photographs in the window. Old dirty photographs, colored by hand.” She shrugged her bare shoulders as if to shake off an atmosphere. “It was one of the most depressing places I’ve ever been in.”
“Why?”
“It was so obviously a failure – everything was in a mess. The man didn’t even know his business.”
“Mabel can’t stand failure,” Richards said. “It reminds her of her early life. My wife had a very rough time as a young girl, before I discovered her.”
“Before I discovered you, Jason.”
“Your husband told me you talked to the man.”
“I did. The insurance investigator suggested I go in and pose as a customer, in order to have a good look at him, and hear his voice. I made a few inquiries about sizes and prices. He couldn’t even answer them without asking the girl.”
“What girl?”
“He had a little blonde assisting him, probably his wife. Heaven knows he couldn’t be making enough in that shop to pay her a salary. The girl was rather nice, at least my vanity thought so. You see, she recognized me. Apparently she’d been catching some of my old pictures on television–”
“Don’t mention that awful word!” her husband cried.
“Sorry. She asked me for my autograph, can you imagine? Nobody’s asked for my autograph for ages.”
“Can you describe her?”
“She was a rather pretty little thing, with a turned-in page-boy bob. I noticed her eyes. She had lovely dark blue eyes, but the general effect was spoiled by her paint job. She wore too much of everything – too much lipstick and powder, even eye-shadow. Now that I think about it, I’m certain she was his wife. I remember she called him Art.” Art Lemp and Molly Fawn. The inside of my mouth went dry. “And the man, Mrs. Richards? What did he look like?”
She sensed my excitement, and answered with great care: “The best word I can find for him is amorphous. He had one of these loose, rubbery mouths – how can I describe it? The sort of mouth that can turn into anything. I pay attention to mouths, they’re so important in expressing character–”
“Age?”
“It’s hard to tell. About fifty-five or sixty.”
“Did he have a bald head?”
“No. I do recall wondering if he was wearing a hairpiece. His hair was too sleek and neat, you know? It didn’t go with the rest of him.”
I moved towards the hall. “Thank you very much, both of you. You’ve been extremely helpful.”
“I hope so,” she said.
Richards followed me to the front door. “What is this all about, Cross? Is he a receiver of stolen goods?”
“The story’s a little too long to tell you now. I’m pressed for time.”
“Whatever you say.” He stepped out onto the porch and filled his lungs with air. “Wonderful night, great view. I like to have the university down there. That cultural atmosphere, it makes me feel good. I’m a bear for culture.”
“Physical culture,” his wife said from the doorway. “Good night, Mr. Cross. Good luck.”
chapter 17
I made a left turn on to Sunset and joined the westward flight of automobiles. I passed a few cars, came up behind a fast Cadillac and let it pace me on the unbanked curves. The depression that had blanketed me all day, ever since I learned the boy was stolen, was lifting at the corners. The boy was as lost as ever, but at least I was doing something about it, moving in a long, descending curve towards the heart of the evil.
A straight length of road coincided with a gap in the eastbound traffic. I passed the Cadillac, and held the accelerated speed. Approaching headlights rushed up out of the night like terrible eyes and passed with a grunt and a sigh. I slid down the final slope to the coast highway and turned right when the light changed.