one of those babies and she’ll break her neck getting to you.’
‘Which one of them is Lydia Forrest?’ I asked, reaching for the whisky. ‘Or isn’t she on show?’
The barman touched his thin lips with the tip of a white coated tongue. His deepset eyes took on a sleepy look.
‘You want Miss Forrest?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘You a friend of hers?’ he asked and I could sense his hostility like a wall between us.
I leaned my elbows on the bar and smiled at him.
‘If you must know I am a friend of a friend of hers,’ I said mildly. ‘Is she around?’
‘No, and if you took my tip, you’d skip it. She has friends who are touchy about guys asking for her.’
‘Is that a fact?’ I said and shook my head. I drank the whisky and pushed the glass towards him. ‘Don’t let us get our lines crossed. I’ve plenty of girlfriends of my own. I don’t have to muscle in on someone else’s preserves. I have a message for her - that’s all.’
He refilled my glass and relaxed a trifle.
‘A lot of guys come in here pestering her,’ he said. ‘If it’s only a message.’
‘That’s it. Where do I find her?’
He took my money and accepted the dollar tip.
‘She’ll be doing her act in half an hour. Stick around, mister.’
I peeled off four more of Fayette’s dollar bills and showed them to the barman.
‘If I stay here for a half hour this atmosphere will put me into an iron lung. Can’t I call on her in her dressing room?’
He pulled at his right ear while he examined the four bills.
‘I guess so,’ he said finally. ‘Second door by the band. Don’t make it too obvious.’
He collected the four bills as easily as a vacuum cleaner picks up fluff.
I carried my drink to a table near the band, sat down and smoked a cigarette. A platinum blonde with a complexion like crepe rubber, jumped the gun and came over without an invitation.
‘Hello, honey,’ she said, flashing me a smile that might have been dazzling if her teeth had been better. ‘Going to buy me a drink?’
I said I was waiting for my mother. The sneer that distorted her face was something to see. She flounced back to the others and told them. Two men in tropical suits and hand painted ties came in at this moment, and the girls shifted their attention from me to them. When I had finished my drink I got up, wandered to the second door by the band, opened it and stepped into a passage.
There were two doors at the far end of the passage: one of them had a star painted on it. I rapped and waited.
A contralto voice told me to come in.
I pushed open the door.
The girl sitting before triple mirrors was blonde and lovely if you like features that could have been chiselled out of granite. She had the usual curves that you’d expect of a girl in show business. Three years ago she would have been sensational, but now the wear and tear of nightclub life had frayed the edges of her freshness. She was wearing a low cut scarlet and black gown.
A flat Turkish cigarette hung from her glistening lips.
She raised arched eyebrows as she said, ‘Well? What is it?’
‘Miss Forrest?’
‘Yes.’
‘The name’s Low,’ I said, borrowing Bernie’s name. I eased myself into the room and closed the door. ‘Can you spare me a minute?’
‘About what?’
She twisted around in her chair, rested one slim arm on the chair back and examined me without interest.
‘You and I may have things in common, Miss Forrest. I’m making inquiries about Hamilton Royce.’
Her eyelids narrowed and she tapped ash off her cigarette before saying, ‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story: cutting corners, he’s connected in some way with the disappearance of a girl. I’m looking for information and I’m authorized to pay for it.’
‘What girl?’ she asked.
‘Fay Benson or Frances Bennett. Maybe you’ve heard of her?’
Her full lips tightened.
‘Who are you - a detective?’
‘A private investigator.’
‘Who are you working for?’
‘Someone who has lots of dough and isn’t scared of spending it.’
She stubbed out the cigarette, turned to look at herself in the triple mirrors.
‘We can’t talk here,’ she said and picking up a comb she ran it through her fine, silky hair. ‘I’ve an apartment on Lennox Drive: 246 C. I’ll be there just after one o’clock.’
I heard a door down the passage click open. She heard it too to judge by the way she put down the comb and by the way her face tightened.
A tap sounded on her door and she turned and looked at me.
Her eyes were scared.
‘You’ve made a mistake. I don’t know anyone of the name of Morgan.’ she was saying in a high-pitched voice when the door opened and the hard-faced bouncer came in.
He looked at me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in a hoarse croak.
‘What’s it to you?’ I asked, backing away.
‘Get him out of here, Sam,’ Lydia said breathlessly. ‘He’s pestering me.’
The bouncer reached out a huge hand and took in the slack of my coat front. I resisted the temptation to hang one on his jaw. He was wide open for a sucker punch, but I saw Lydia was anxious. She had given me the role of a Romeo and I was stuck with it.
‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘You don’t want it, pal, but you’re going to get it,’ the bouncer said and hauled me out of the room into the passage. He hustled me down the passage to the rear exit, opened the door and shoved me into the night.
‘If you show your snout in this joint again, I’ll take you apart and throw the bits to my dog,’ he said, giving me a push that sent me reeling across the sidewalk.
I got back my balance, straightened my coat and smiled at him. It’s not often I get mad, but right now I ached to sink my fist in his face.
‘You and who else?’ I asked and pushed out my jaw.
The temptation was too much for him. He started a swing from his left kneecap that was as ponderous and as slow and as violent as any slap happy bouncer could throw. I let his fist slide past my face, then stepping in, I hung a right hand punch on the side of his jaw that jarred me down to my heels.
He gave a stifled grunt, his eyeballs rolled back and he spread out on the sidewalk.
III
With two and a half hours to kill, I went back to Benn’s bar. He was going to bed, but came down to the hideout when I called him on the telephone.
He looked at my scraped knuckles, but didn’t ask questions.
‘I want a car,’ I said. ‘Know anyone who’ll rent me one at this hour?’
‘Take mine,’ he said. ‘The garage’s at the end of the alley,’ and he dropped keys on the table. ‘It’s a 1943 Lincoln, but I’ve taken care of it and it goes.’
‘That’s fine, and thanks,’ I said, putting the keys into my pocket. ‘One other thing: where’s Lennox Drive?’
