Bedrooms Have Windows

Nine

The apartment house had originally been built to cater to the type that wanted to make an impression. The front of the place looked like a million dollars. There was an ornate lobby with a desk and a private switchboard. A solemn-faced clerk took care of both and there was even a lift boy clad in blue livery with gold braid and the crest of the apartment house embroidered on the collar and sleeves.

The clerk looked up as I came in. I said, “Mr. Elgin, please.”

“Robert Elgin?”

“Yes.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Yes.”

“Your name, please.”

“Lam.”

The clerk turned to the switchboard, stabbed a plug into one of the receptacles, waited a moment until the light went off, then said, “A Mr. Lam to see you. He says you’re expecting him... Thank you.”

He pulled out the plug, slipped off the earphones, said, “You may go up. Apartment 825.”

The lift boy took me up, stopped the lift and indicated the apartment.

The place was just as I had expected it would be, plenty of swank in front and all cut up into small apartments. Bob Elgin stood in the doorway, wearing a dressing-gown, pyjamas, and a look of complete, utter weariness. I don’t think I have ever seen a man who looked so thoroughly tired; not the fatigue of exhaustion, but simply a complete and utter weariness with himself, his surroundings, his life and his job.

He had a cigarette dangling listlessly from loose lips. It was as though the mouth simply didn’t have strength enough to hold the cigarette up, but let it dangle at an angle that emphasized the utter weariness of his features.

“You’re Lam,” he said.

“That’s right.” I extended my hand.

“Bertha Cool’s partner?”

“Right.”

He gave me a listless hand. For a moment there was a slight tightening of the fingers, then his hand became putty.

I dropped the hand, and Elgin said, “Come in.” Technically, it was a double apartment. If the bedroom could be judged by the living-room, it was just about big enough to hold a bed, a dresser and the door to the bathroom. The living-room had a sofa, two chairs and a table, a badly worn carpet, dejected lace curtains, and a few pictures. At one end was a miniature breakfast nook, an electric refrigerator and a small electric range. Above that were some cupboards.

The sink-board held a few dirty dishes and there were two glasses on the table in the living-room. The half inch of water in the bottom of each glass could have been left by ice cubes that had melted during the night. The ash-trays were filled with cigarette stubs and the open window hadn’t been able to get the atmosphere of stale tobacco and liquor fumes out of the room. There was a copy of VARIETY on the table, and another one on the sofa. The Sunday newspapers, still folded, were also on the sofa, as though Elgin had picked them up straight after he had answered Bertha Cool’s telephone call but had decided not to read them.

He was, however, shaved, and his hair was combed. Glossy black hair, combed straight back.

“Sit down,” he said, “make yourself at home. The place is a mess. I had a couple of drinks last night before we rolled in.”

I nodded, and sat down.

He was around fifty, hollow-cheeked, pinch-waisted, fairly broad-shouldered. He had high cheek-bones, and his black eyes were spread far apart. He had a trick of lowering the lids over those eyes, tilting his head back and looking out from half-closed eyes. It gave him a peculiar expression of not giving a damn about anything.

I said, “I suppose you have to keep pretty late hours.”

“It’s pretty close to daylight before I get home.” The weariness of the voice showed how he felt about it.

“I understand you put on quite a show at the Cabanita,” I said.

He made a little gesture of disgust, drew deeply on the cigarette, blew out twin streams of smoke from his nostrils, said, “It’s a job.”

“You own the place?”

“I lease it.”

“You have a steady trade?”

“Steady business, not steady trade. You want to buy the dump?”

“No, I was just interested in the way it runs.”

“We see a lot of the same faces,” Elgin admitted, “but with a place like that, you try to build it up so it has a reputation. I put on an act of fast talking, slip in some double-meanings so fast it takes them a while to get it, and go right on without waiting for the laughs, until I get my first titter. Then I stop and look surprised, and that usually brings down the house.”

“Women go for that stuff?” I asked.

“They eat it up.”

“The first laugh usually comes from a woman?”

“The fast talking, double-meanings get the women,” he said. “Usually some dowager who knows all the answers titters hysterically. Then I stop talking and look at her in surprise. By that time the joke in the situation has caught up with the rest of the audience and they start laughing.”

“On the jokes that are a little more raw, there’s usually some loud-voiced guy gives a belly laugh first. I don’t pay any attention to him, simply go on talking, and then stop when the general laughter develops… It’s a job of timing. The main thing is never to stop long enough for the audience to catch up. Some of them might get shocked if you did. Just keep on going.”

“They fall for it, eh?”

“I tell you, they eat it up. Women who would slap your face if you tried to say anything off-colour in private, sit out there right in front of the whole damn dining-room and laugh their heads off at stuff I tell them that’s just as close to the borderline as I can get by with it. What the hell do you want?”

“I wanted to find out something about a woman.”

“Oh, my God!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Getting me up at this hour over a woman. God, I can give you the names and telephone numbers of five hundred of them.”

“You know a lot of them?”

“I know every hustler in town.”

“This may not be a hustler. She has been in the Cabanita recently.”

“What about her?”

I said, “She’s a pocket edition — warm eyes, light hair, very small, but perfectly formed. High cheekbones, full lips. Sort of a baby stare, and…”

He interrupted me, to make a motion with his hand, a lazy motion which pivoted at the wrist, much as a swimming seal would casually twist a flipper.

“Know her?”

“Hell, yes. I know a hundred of them. They all come in. They all look the same. It’s a model you’re describing, not an individual.”

“This one’s an individual.”

“Well, we’ve got lots of them. I can’t help you on that. You’ll have to look the joint over for yourself.”

I said, “This little number has lots of fire, quite a bit of individuality.”

“Know her name?”

“I know the name she gave me — Lucille Hart.”

“Don’t know her.”

“I think the ‘Lucille’ may be okay,” I said. “The ‘Hart’ may or may not have been made up.”

He said, “Wait a minute. I want to think.”

He took another pull at the cigarette, then pinched it out and dropped the stub into an ash-tray that was just about full. I noticed other cigarette stubs in there with lipstick smears on them.

“Lucille,” he said almost musingly.

He waited a while, his eyes on the faded carpet, then he tilted his head back so that he could look down his nose at me through half-closed lids. “What’s it to you?” he asked.

“I want to find her.”

“So I gathered,” he said dryly. “Professional or personal?”

“You might say it’s a little of both.”

“Tell me about the personal angle.”

“She took me to a motor court, then stood me up and left me holding the sack.”

Elgin yawned.

There was silence in the room. A fly was buzzing around in sleepy circles, looking for a patch of sunlight and not finding any.

Elgin reached for another cigarette. “Want one?”

“No, thanks?”

“What’s the professional angle?”

“I don’t know. She may be mixed up in a case I’m investigating.”

“What sort of a case?”

“Suicide. A love-tryst. It’s in the papers,” I said, jerking my hand towards the folded newspapers.

“Never read that kind of crap,” Elgin said. “I look at the foreign news, then study the sporting pages, particularly the horse race stuff. Lots of times you can get a chance for a good gag on a horse race.”

“You don’t read the funnies?” I asked.

“Good God, No. When you have to be comical three shows a night, seven days a week, you don’t want to even think of some guy who tries to be funny every day in a comic strip. I have to be funny. It’s a business. He has to be funny; it’s his business. I sympathize with him too much. What else do you want to know?”

“Suppose this Lucille hangs around your place? How would I be apt to find her?”

“Just by hanging around the dump. I wouldn’t ask any questions, though, if I were you.”

I said, “Here’s a folder of matches from the Cabanita. Is this the latest type you’re using?”

“That’s right. Never have used any other. Only the one folder.”

I said, “There was something folded on the inside of a cigarette package that went with it.”

I took out the torn slip of cardboard on the back of which were the words, KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.

Bob Elgin looked it over.

I said, “Look at the front of the thing now. What do you make of it?”

I pushed the torn scrap of cardboard over to him. I said, “I think this may have come from your place.”

He turned it over and said, “I think so, too.”

I said, “You’ll notice on the torn part there’s a place where it says, ‘Minimum check $5.00 per person.’” Over on the other corner appeared the words, “A la Cabanita, special.”

I said, “That looks to me as though it had been torn from a menu in your place.”

“So it does.”

“Any ideas?”

“No.”

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“I’m here. I’ve got the place open. I’m talking to you. I’m answering questions. This Lucille of yours may be a regular patron. She may have been someone that just dropped in. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more help. It isn’t because I don’t recognise her description. I do. I told you before, there are a hundred of them who answer that description.”

“Where do they all come from?”

He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Where does dust come from when the wind’s blowing?” and then abruptly said, “How many men do you know who have really beautiful wives?”

“What does that have to do with it?” I asked.

He said, cynically, “A beautiful woman doesn’t want to go through life bending over a wash-tub. A beautiful woman doesn’t want to spend her time scrubbing floors. You don’t see a really beautiful woman get enthusiastic over darning socks. They don’t want to do any of those things. They know it’s going to impair their beauty. They’ve learned to live for their beauty. They can’t preserve it past a certain point. The lucky ones become picture actresses and the grass widows of wealthy husbands. They live on alimony and opportunity.

“The ones that aren’t so lucky make a pass at alimony. They get cheated out of it. They have to live. They have a lot of self-discipline when it comes to watching their diet. You’ll find them hovering around any night-club, sometimes with one escort, sometimes with another, sometimes temporarily not escorted. They’re the slinky type with the smooth hips, the full lips, the ready smile and the watchful eyes. I get so I hate the bitches.”

The bedroom door opened. A smooth, slinky blonde, wearing well-tailored powder-blue slacks, a blouse cut so low in front that the V stretched almost to the belt, sandals which showed crimson toe-nails, came gliding into the room.

The slacks had been tailored across the hips so that every seductive motion, every wiggle showed to the greatest advantage.

“What the hell is this?” she asked. “What’s coming off here?”

Bob Elgin bowed. “My dear,” he said, “may I present Mr. Lam. Lam is a private detective.”

He turned to me and said, “My wife, Mr. Lam.”

She looked me over with calculating eyes that started with my face, went down to my feet, then back up again. She twisted the full lips in a smile, and gave me her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Lam,” she said.

I noticed her left hand. There were no rings on it.

“Darling,” she said, rolling the R’s. “Aren’t we going to have some coffee?”

“Yes, dearest, I’ll put some on right away.”

He walked over to the kitchenette, poured water into a coffee percolator, dumped in coffee and switched on the electric stove.

“You should have done that long ago,” the blonde said.

“Yes, dear.”

She regarded me with cool grey eyes that were impudently frank in their appraisal.

She took a cigarette from a packet, tapped it gently on the arm of the chair, placed it between full red lips and tilted her head back to wait for my light.

I crossed the room, struck a match and held it to the tip of her cigarette. She reached up with her hand and held it cupped over mine, furnishing guidance for the flame.

She held the hand longer than was necessary.

I blew out the match. Her eyes met mine.

“Thanks,” she said throatily.

I went back over to the sofa and sat down.

In the kitchen, I could see Bob Elgin’s back and hear the rattling of cups and saucers. Bob Elgin said, “Want to join us in a cup of coffee, Lam?”

“No, thanks. I’ve been drinking coffee off and on all day.”

“What are you detecting, Mr. Lam?” the blonde asked.

“I was just trying to get a line on a cute blonde.”

“So many people do,” she assured me.

“This one is a pocket edition — short, well-formed, high cheekbones, dark brown eyes, not much over five feet tall, and her first name may be Lucille.”

She sat absolutely rigid for a moment, then she looked out towards the kitchenette and said, “Do we know her, Bob?”

“We don’t,” Elgin said.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”

I said, “You might also try this one. A man about thirty-five, about five feet eleven, long, straight nose, good features, dark hair, grey eyes, weight a hundred and ninety-five, wears grey double-breasted suit, smokes cigarettes through a long carved ivory cigarette holder. Know him?”

From the kitchenette, I heard the clatter of crockery. “What was that?” the blonde asked.

“A cup, my dear. I’m sorry.”

“Bob, you’ve got the jitters. You drank too much last night.”

There was the sound of running water.

“Now what are you doing?” she asked.

“Washing a cup. I broke the last clean one.”

She turned to me and smiled wearily.

I said, “This man could go by the name of Tom.”

“We don’t know him,” Elgin said from the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”

I waited for Elgin to come back from the kitchenette. Then I opened the Sunday paper which was lying on the sofa, found the section which gave the account of the mysterious suicide pact in the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT.

The pictures were fairly good.

“How about these people?” I asked.

An exclamation burst from the woman’s lips. “Bob,” she said impulsively, “that’s the same girl who objected to having her picture taken last week!”

Elgin’s elbow nudged her so hard I could see her head move.

“What girl?” he asked.

The blonde said vaguely, “You know, the girl we saw while we were walking in the park. No, I guess it isn’t either. I thought for a minute she was the same person, but she isn’t.”

“Ever seen either of them around the Cabanita?” I asked.

“Not around the Cabanita,” the blonde said hastily. “I haven’t seen them anywhere. I thought I had for a minute, something about the girl’s eyes.”

“We were walking in the park. This girl was seated on a bench and someone had a camera. She didn’t want any pictures taken.”

“This girl?”

“No, I’m certain it wasn’t the same one. I just thought it was for a minute.”

“Do you,” I asked the blonde, “spend a good deal of time at the Cabanita?”

She nodded, looked over at Bob Elgin.

Bob Elgin said, “My wife does an interpretive Egyptian dance. She’s on the programme. The rest of the time she sort of mingles around and helps keep the party moving.”

“I see,” I said.

Elgin looked at me. The blonde smiled.

“Anything else?” Elgin asked.

“Not a thing,” I told him. “You’ve been a great help. Bertha will certainly appreciate it.”

The blonde shook hands with me. “Better stay for some coffee,” she invited.

“No, thanks, I’m going to try and get some rest for the balance of the day. I’ve been putting in enough of my Sunday on work.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Elgin said. He was reading the account of the love-tryst, suicide-pact in the newspaper.

“What is it, Bob?” the blonde asked with languid disinterest.

“Just the same old murder-suicide business in a motor court.”

“My God,” she drawled, “why do the men have to kill ’em?”

“Because they love ’em,” Elgin said.

Her comment consisted of one word.

I said, “Well, I’ll be going.”

“Nice to have seen you,” the blonde said. “Come to the club sometime, Mr. Lam. I’d like to have you see my dance.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Bob Elgin walked to the door with me. I shook hands. The blonde’s impudently appraising eyes met mine over Elgin’s shoulder.

I took the lift down and went over to the clerk’s desk. “Do you,” I asked, “have any vacancies coming up?”

His smile was a weary attempt at being pleasant. “Not a thing,” he said.

I took out my note-case and picked out some notes. I started counting them casually. “Not a thing?” I asked.

He eyed the money avariciously. “Not a thing. Gosh, I’m sorry!”

I fingered through the money and said, “If I could get an advance tip on some apartment that was going to be vacated I…”

“Just a minute,” he said.

He moved over to the switchboard.

I saw that the call was coming from Bob Elgin’s apartment.

“Just a moment,” he said. “What was that number again? — All right, I have it — Waverley 9-8765.”

He made a note of the number, then dialled, after a moment said, “Here’s your party,” made the connection on the telephone and came back to the desk. “I’d like to be of help,” he said. “I might have a tip on something later on.”

“Later on isn’t going to help,” I said. “I’m in a jam.”

His mouth fairly watered as he saw the outside note. “I — gosh, I don’t know of a thing. I might get in touch with some of my friends and…”

I said, “I have another lead — in fact, I think I can get a place in another apartment house, but it isn’t as desirable as this. This is a nice place.”

“We try to keep it so.”

I sat around and chatted with him until Elgin’s call was completed. There weren’t any more calls, so I went out.