“Are you her father?”
“Just a friend,” I said. “Has she been here?”
“I think she was, a couple of days ago. I haven’t seen her since. Anyway,” he said with a slanted grin, “you got your two dollars’ worth.”
I left him and moved along the railed gallery. A high tide was slapping disconsolately at the pilings. The reflection of the neon from the service station floated on the water like iridescent waste.
I knocked on the door and made its tin 7 rattle. The narrow band of light which rimmed the door widened as it opened. The woman behind it tried to close it again when she saw my face, but I put my arm and shoulder in the opening and slid inside.
“Go away,” she said.
“I only want to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Sorry. I lost my memory.” She seemed to mean it literally. “Some days I can’t remember my own name.”
Her voice was flat. Her face was without expression, though it was marked by the traces of past expressions around the eyes and at the corners of the mouth. She looked both young and old. Her body was muffled in a quilted pink robe, and I couldn’t tell if she was a well-preserved middle-aged woman or a dilapidated girl. Her eyes were the color of the darkness in the corners of the room.
“What is your name?”
“Elegant.”
“That’s a striking name.”
“Thank you. I picked it one day when I was feeling that way. I haven’t felt that way for quite some time now.”
She looked around the room as if to blame her environment for this. The bedclothes were tangled and dragging on the floor. Empty bottles stood on the dresser among tooth-marked pieces of old hamburgers. The chairs were hung with her discarded clothing.
“Where’s Al?” I said.
“He should be back by now, but he isn’t.”
“What’s his last name?”
“AI Nesters, he calls himself.”
“And where’s he from?”
“I’m not supposed to tell anybody that.”
“Why not?”
She made a vague impatient gesture. “You ask too bloody many questions. Who do you think you are?”
I didn’t try to answer that. “How long ago did Al leave here?”
“Hours. I don’t know exactly. I don’t keep track of the time.”
“Was he wearing his longhair wig and mustache and beard?”
She gave me a blank look. “He doesn’t wear any of those things.”
“That you know of.”
She showed a flicker of interest, even a little anger. “What is this? Are you trying to tell me he’s doubletiming me?”
“He may be. When I saw him tonight, he was wearing a black wig and a beard to match.”
“Where did you see him?”
“Northridge.”
“Are you the man who promised him the money?”
“I represent that man.” It was true in a way – I was working for Stanley Broadhurst’s wife. But the statement made me feel as if I was mediating between two ghosts.
Another flicker of interest appeared in her eyes. “Do you have the thousand for him?”
“Not that much.”
“You could leave me what you have.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Enough for a bindle anyway.”
“How much is that?”
“Twenty dollars would fix me up for tonight and all day tomorrow.”
“I’ll think about it. I’m not sure Al delivered on his side of the bargain.”
“You know he did, if you’re with it. He’s been hanging around for days waiting to be paid off. How much longer do you expect him to wait?”
The answer was forever, but I didn’t say it. “I’m not sure what he did was worth a grand.”
“Don’t tell me that. It was the figure mentioned.” Her vague eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re fronting for the money man? What’s his name – Broadman?”
“Broadhurst. Stanley Broadhurst.”
She relaxed on the edge of the bed. Before she got suspicious again, I showed her the photograph of Susan which Mrs. Crandall had given me. She looked at it with a kind of respectful envy and passed it back to me.
“I was almost as pretty as that at one time,” she said.
“I bet you were, Elegant.”
The sound of her name pleased her, and she smiled. “Not so long ago as you might think.”
“I can believe it. Do you know this girl?”
“I’ve seen her once or twice.”
“Recently?”
“I think so. I don’t keep good track of time, I’ve got too much on my mind. But she was here in the last two or three days.”
“What was she doing here?”
“You’ll have to ask Al. He made me go out and sit in the bug. Fortunately, I’m not the jealous type, that’s one good quality I have.”
“Did Al make love to her?”
“Maybe he did. I wouldn’t put it past him. But mainly he was trying to get her to talk. He made me mix up some acid in a Coke. That was supposed to loosen her up.”
“What did she talk about?”
“I wouldn’t know. He took her away someplace, and that was the last I saw of her. But I guess it had to do with the Broadman business. Broadhurst? That was what Al had on his mind all week.”
“What day was she here? Thursday?”
“I don’t remember offhand. I’ll try to figure it out.” Her lips moved in calculation, as if between that day and this she had crossed some sort of international dateline. “It was Sunday when we left Sac, I know that for certain. He took me to San Francisco to answer the ad, and we spent Sunday night there and came down here on Monday. Or was it Tuesday? What day is this again?”
“Saturday night. Early Sunday morning.”
She counted on her fingers, the days and nights crossing her eyes like shadows. “I guess he made his contact Wednesday,” she said. “He came back here and said we could cross the border by Saturday at the latest.” She looked at me in sudden alienation. “Where is the money? What happened to it?”
“It hasn’t been paid yet.”
“When do we get it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what Al was supposed to do for it.”
“It’s simple enough,” she said. “There were this guy and this girl, and Al was supposed to locate them. You know that if you work for Broadhurst.”
“Broadhurst doesn’t confide in me.”
“But you’ve seen the ad from the Chronicle, haven’t you?”
“Not yet. Do you have a copy?”
I was moving too fast for her, and her face closed up. “Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t. What do I get out of it?”
“I promise you’ll get something. But if the ad came out in the San Francisco Chronicle, a million people must have seen it. You might as well show it to me.”
She considered this proposition. Then she got a worn suitcase out from under the bed, opened it, and handed me a folded and refolded clipping. It was a two-column ad about six inches high, reproducing the pictures I had found in Stanley Broadhurst’s rolltop desk. The accompanying text had been changed in part:
Can you identify this couple? Under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Smith, they arrived in San Francisco by car on or about July 5, 1955. It is believed they took passage for Vancouver and Honolulu aboard the Swansea Castle, which sailed from San Francisco July 6, 1955. But they may still be in the Bay area. A thousand-dollar reward will be paid for information leading to their present whereabouts.
I turned to the woman who called herself Elegant. “Where are they?”
“Don’t ask me.” She shrugged, and the movement disarranged her robe. She pulled it close about her. “I think maybe I saw the woman.”
“When?”
“I’m trying to remember.”
“What’s her name?”