A blast of whisky-laden breath nearly took the skin off my face. He hadn’t been drinking whisky; he had been bathing in it.
‘Mr. Harley?’
‘Yes.’ He leaned a little more heavily against the doorpost. I saw then he was drunk.
‘I’m Chet Sladen. I write for Crime Facts. I wanted to talk to you.’
He frowned and half closed his eyes.
‘Crime Facts? You mean the magazine?’
‘That’s right. Can you spare me a moment?’
‘My dear fella, of course. Come in and have a drink.’ He stood aside. ‘I’m glad to see you. As a matter of fact I was getting as bored as a louse. Do you ever get bored?’
I moved into a hall full of fancy carvings, ski-sticks, a Swiss grandfather clock and ornate rugs.
I said I couldn’t remember ever being bored.
‘Lucky guy.’ He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Come on in.’ He crossed the hall, went down three steps into a large lounge. He only just made the steps. If he hadn’t clutched on to the back of a chair as he arrived he would probably have sat on the floor.
The lounge was comfortable but ornate. The architect had got the Swiss motive firmly in mind when he had set about this room. With snow heaped against the windows and the sound of an avalanche breaking loose somewhere it might have got by, but in a hot, sunny Californian town it was just crazy.
I had only time to take the room in with one quick glance before I became aware of a girl sitting on a divan looking at me as if I were some unpleasant casualty in a car smash.
She was tall and willowy; dark, haughty and very, very lovely. She had on a green sun-suit that failed to disguise her good points, and her long bare shapely legs were the nicest I had seen so far in Tampa City.
She got slowly to her feet. Her lips were parted in a cold, half smile, but her eyes glittered with well controlled rage.
‘But Hart dear,’ she said, ‘we were talking.’
‘This is Mr. - what did you say your name was?’ Lennox Hartley asked, screwing up his eyes and peering at me.
‘Sladen,’ I said, ‘but if I’m in the way...’
‘Of course you’re not.’ He put a hot, heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Suzy dear, this is Mr. Sladen. He has important business to discuss with me. Shall we meet tomorrow? Suppose I pick you up?’
The girl stared at him, then walked past him, up the steps and into the hall.
Hartley turned slowly to watch her. She went to the front door, opened it, passed on to the stoop, then slammed the door so violently one of the skiing sticks on the wall in the hall fell down.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t...’ I began.
Hartley laughed.
‘Forget it. You don’t know how glad I am you turned up. That girl drives me nuts.’ He went over to a cocktail cabinet loaded with bottles, and poured two enormous whiskies. He added ice and steered himself back with some difficulty to where I was standing, handing me one of the glasses, then he dropped languidly into an armchair and waved his glass at me.
‘Skoal!’ he said and drank deeply. He set down the glass, sighed and waved me to a chair. ‘Sit down, Mr. Sladen. Relax. Do you like women?’
‘I take them or leave them,’ I said, sitting down.
‘I wish I could,’ he said gloomily. ‘If I take them, they get in my hair. If I leave them, I’m lonely. It’s a hell of a life, isn’t it?’
I said it might be worse.
‘I guess so.’ He saw I was taking another look at the room and said hurriedly, as if he were anxious I shouldn’t think he was responsible for the decor, ‘The owner must be nuts. Don’t think I did this. I only rent the dump. One of these days I plan to go to Switzerland and put up a Californian sun bungalow. That’ll shake them as much as this dump shakes me.’ He ran fingers across his forehead, frowned, then went on, ‘What did you want, old fella?’
‘I understand you wrote to the Welden police about the photograph of Fay Benson that appeared in the press.’
He stared at me, blinked, then nodded.
‘That’s right. How did you know?’
‘I’m working with the police. We want to find out something about this girl’s background.’
‘Why have the police sent you for heaven’s sake? Why didn’t they come themselves?’
‘Tampa City is out of their jurisdiction. I said I would see you to avoid complications.’ I took Fay Benson’s photograph from my wallet and offered it to him. ‘That’s the girl. Do you still recognize her?’
He took the photograph, screwed up his eyes and peered at it. Then he reached out, turned on the table-lamp to see it better.
‘That’s the girl,’ he said, ‘I’d know her anywhere. Mind you, when I knew her she was dark; but it’s the same face. I’m an expert on women’s faces: I have to be. I’m a magazine cover designer.’ He waved the photograph at me. ‘This girl modeled for me. That haughty piece who went out just now also models for me. You’ve no idea what I have to put up with with these girls.’ He waved the photograph again. ‘This one cost me time and money. You wouldn’t believe it to look at her, would you? I thought when I met her she would be easy to handle, but no, she turned out just like the rest of them.’
‘Was her name Fay Benson?’
He shook his head.
‘No. Her name was Frances Bennett. She was one of the showgirls at the Golden Apple. That’s the plush nightery on Roosevelt Boulevard in case you don’t know.’
‘You say she modelled for you?’
‘That was the idea. She did quite a lot of work for me. I spotted her at the club way back in June of last year. She seemed to me to have just the right face and figure for a good cover design. I fixed for her to come out here and pose. She used to come regularly. Then suddenly, she was fixed to come one day and didn’t show up. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘When was this?’
‘Sometime in August last year.’
‘Could you give me the exact date? It’s important.’
‘I guess so.’ He groaned as he hoisted himself out of the chair and went unsteadily across the room to a big cupboard. He took from it a cardboard folder and returned to his chair. ‘I’ve the last drawing I did of her somewhere here. It’s not finished, but I’ve got the date on the back.’ He thumbed through a pile of half finished sketches, pulled out one and handed it to me.
‘That’s it. The date’s on the back.’
I looked at the sketch. He certainly could draw. Although the drawing was only half finished I recognized the girl. There was no doubt she was Fay Benson. I looked at the back of the sketch. The date was August 2nd. Fifteen days after she had posed in this room, she had disappeared from Welden. She had arrived in Welden on August 9th. What had she been doing between August 2nd and the 9th? I wondered.
‘Yes, that’s her all right,’ I said, handing back the sketch. ‘Can you remember if she gave you any hint that she might not turn up to finish her modelling?’
He shook his head.
‘No, it was a complete let down. She was pleased with the sketch as she should have been. She said she was looking forward to seeing it finished. I told her I’d only be one more day on it, and it was she who suggested she came the next day. She fixed the time too. Then she never turned up.’
‘Do you remember what time she left you on August 2nd?’
‘Around four o’clock. I don’t like working long hours. She came at twelve thirty. We worked until two, then we had a sandwich lunch, and she left at four.’
‘Did she show up at the Golden Apple that night?’
‘Yes. I happened to be there and I saw her. She took part in the show.’
‘Do you know where she lived?’
‘I can tell you. I’m a methodical cuss, Mr. Sladen. You might not think it to look at me, but I’ve got method.’ He produced a card index box from the cupboard, flicked through it, found a card and tossed it over to me.