“Bitchy.”
“We’re all bitches. Some smile more than others, that’s all. Show business. There’s something cheap about it. There always has been. There was a time when actors went in at the back door. Most of them still should. Great strain, great urgency, great hatred, and it comes out in nasty little scenes. They don’t mean a thing”
“Cat talk,” I said.
She reached up and pulled a fingertip down the side of my cheek. It burned like a hot iron. “How much money do you make, Marlowe?”
“Forty bucks a day and expenses. That’s the asking price. I take twenty-five. I’ve taken less.” I thought about Orfamay’s worn twenty.
She did that with her finger again and I just didn’t grab hold of her. She moved away from me and sat in the chair, drawing the robe close. The electric heater was making the little room warm.
“Twenty-five dollars a day,” she said wonderingly. “Little lonely dollars.”
“Are they very lonely?”
“Lonely as lighthouses.”
She crossed her legs and the pale glow of her skin in the light seemed to fill the room.
“So ask me the questions,” she said, making no attempt to cover her thighs.
“Who’s Steelgrave?”
“A man I’ve known for years. And liked. He owns things. A restaurant or two. Where he comes from—that I don’t know.”
“But you know him very well.”
“Why don’t you ask me if I sleep with him?”
“I don’t ask that kind of questions.”
She laughed and snapped ash from her cigarette. “Miss Gonzales would be glad to tell you.”
“The hell with Miss Gonzales.”
“She’s dark and lovely and passionate. And very, very kind.”
“And exclusive as a mailbox,” I said. “The hell with her. About Steelgrave—has he ever been in trouble?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“With the police.”
Her eyes widened a little too innocently. Her laugh was a little too silvery. “Don’t be ridiculous. The man is worth a couple of million dollars.”
“How did he get it?”
“How would I know?”
“All right. You wouldn’t. That cigarette’s going to burn your fingers.” I leaned across and took the stub out of her hand. Her hand lay open on her bare leg. I touched the palm with a fingertip. She drew away from me and tightened the hand into a fist.
“Don’t do that,” she said sharply.
“Why? I used to do that to girls when I was a kid.”
“I know.” She was breathing a little fast. “It makes me feel very young and innocent and kind of naughty. And I’m far from being young and innocent any more.”
“Then you don’t really know anything about Steelgrave.”
“I wish you’d make up your mind whether you are giving me a third degree or making love to me.”
“My mind has nothing to do with it,” I said.
After a silence she said: “I really do have to eat something, Marlowe. I’m working this afternoon. You wouldn’t want me to collapse on the set, would you?”
“Only stars do that.” I stood up. “Okay, I’ll leave. Don’t forget I’m working for you. I wouldn’t be if I thought you’d killed anybody. But you were there. You took a big chance. There was something you wanted very badly.”
She reached the photo out from somewhere and stared at it, biting her lip. Her eyes came up without her head moving.
“It could hardly have been this.”
“That was the one thing he had so well hidden that it was not found. But what good is it? You and a man called Steelgrave in a booth at The Dancers. Nothing in that.”
“Nothing at all,” she said.
“So it has to be something about Steelgrave—or something about the date.”
Her eyes snapped down to the picture again. “There’s nothing to tell the date,” she said quickly. “Even if it meant something. Unless the cut-out piece—”
“Here.” I gave her the cut-out piece. “But you’ll need a magnifier. Show it to Steelgrave. Ask him if it means anything. Or ask Ballou.”
