Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

Please Find My Sisters! by David H. Ross

The sister turned out to be a photographer’s model whose specialty was poses of a strictly “under-the-counter” variety. Under some pressure, Al Delaney took the job of finding her.

When the clatter of Elsie’s typewriter in the reception room ceased abruptly, Al Delaney heaved his six foot frame erect in his chair. A look of expectancy settled on Delaney’s face which was hard and tanned with white squint lines around the eyes.

Presently, Elsie’s smartly tailored figure slid around the door of his private office. Elsie had a flair for business in her dark, pretty head which never ceased to amaze Delaney.

He watched the relaxed, easy swing of her slim hips as she crossed the room. He grinned, whistling softly to tease her, and his gray, level eyes kindled appreciatively.

“Act your age, big boy. We’ve got a client in the other room,” Elsie snapped. She knew only too well what he was thinking.

“He or she?” Delaney asked hopefully.

“She,” Elsie snorted, glaring at him.

“What’s the pitch?” Delaney leaned back in his chair.

“She’s lost a sister in the big city. Wants you to find her.”

Delaney grunted and shrugged his shoulders. “What’s her name?”

“Blair. Eunice Blair. From Benson, Arizona.” Elsie wrinkled her nose at him and her luscious lips parted in a smile as she turned back to the door.

Delaney was stuffing some papers into his desk when the client entered. Without looking up, he said cheerfully: “Please sit down. Have a chair.”

He closed the desk drawer with a flourish and turned, smiling with anticipation. Delaney was shocked.

In his eyes, Eunice Blair was an unattractive little wren of twenty-four or five hiding behind a pair of horn rimmed glasses. She had a thin, pointed nose and thin, pale lips devoid of lipstick and a thin, pointed chin. She wore a frilly white blouse above a black jersey skirt, and her hat made him shudder mentally.

Eunice sat primly on the edge of her chair facing Delaney. She was nervously snapping the catch on a large leather bag while her eyes filled with tears. She worked her mouth wordlessly and dabbed at her nose with a piece of Kleenex.

Delaney thumb-nailed a match and lit a cigarette. He watched her for a moment, then growled: “Cut it out. That won’t buy you anything.”

Eunice’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief. Her mouth flew open, then closed with a snap and she glared at him furiously.

Before she could say anything, Delaney grinned: “That’s better. Now, Miss Blair — Eunice — your sister’s missing?”

“Yes—!” Eunice spat the word out and slammed her bag on his desk. Then she looked apprehensive and a flush mounted into her pointed face. She said, “I’m sorry. You made me mad.”

“We haven’t heard from my sister Mavis for six months. She used to write us — my mother and me — every week. Then she stopped.” Eunice’s voice was hesitant at first, then became firm and she spoke more rapidly as she gained confidence.

“When we didn’t hear from Mavis for so long, I came to Los Angeles to see her. But she’s moved. And that place where she was living is an awful, rundown place. Really. The land-lady is awful, too. I asked her where Mavis had moved, but she said she didn’t know and didn’t care. When I asked her how long ago Mavis had moved, she swore at me and slammed the door in my face. You’ve got to help me, Mr. Delaney. Mother will be so worried.”

“Yes — I imagine,” Delaney said drily.

“What do you mean?” Eunice asked.

“The time for your mother to get worried was six months ago,” Delaney said sharply. “Let’s start over again. Suppose you fill in the background this time.”

Eunice had a stricken look on her pale, fox-like face when she spoke again.

“Father passed away several years ago. Since then mother has operated a little cafe in Benson where we girls were born and raised. Mavis and I had to help mother in the cafe. But Mavis didn’t like it. She was too restless. Finally she went to stay with Uncle Jim Kennedy in Tucson.

“Mavis stayed with Uncle Jim for three years, then she came home. But she wasn’t happy. Mavis was home only a few weeks when she left again. This time she went to Los Angeles.”

Delaney grunted with impatience. “How long ago was that?”

“A... a little over a year ago,” Eunice replied.

“And—?” Delaney prompted her bruskly.

“Mavis wrote us every week. Such cheerful letters. Then she stopped writing.” Eunice looked at Delaney helplessly.

“Just like that? Her letters didn’t become fewer and farther between?” Delaney watched Eunice closely.

“They... they just stopped coming,” Eunice faltered. Then, lifting her chin, she added complacently, “So I came to Los Angeles to see Mavis.”

“But you waited six months to do it. You sure worried about your precious sister,” Delaney said disgustedly.

“I... I had to help mother,” Eunice protested tearfully.

Delaney shook his head. “I don’t get it. If you were so upset by what you found here, why didn’t you go to the police?”

“Oh no. Mavis wouldn’t like that,” Eunice said firmly.

“This is a big city,” Delaney said flatly. “There’s more than two million people here. The police have organization, manpower, equipment—”

“Please. Won’t you help me?” Eunice pleaded. Her hand dove into her purse and came up with a wad of money.

Taken back, Delaney stared at the roll of bills which had partially opened in her hand. He could see several fifties and some twenties. He estimated she was holding six or seven hundred dollars in her hand.

Eunice said cautiously: “I’m willing to pay you something in advance. How much will it cost?”

She peeled off three fifties, then hesitantly added one more. Eunice shoved the four bills across the desk and put the others back in her purse. When Delaney didn’t pick up the bills, she got a pinched, frightened look on her face. She patted the money, pushing it closer to him, and asked in a small voice: “What’s the matter — isn’t that enough?”

Delaney hesitated, looking at her narrowly. Then, without touching the money, he asked, “What does Mavis look like?”

Eunice eased back in her chair and let her breath out slowly. She smiled at him for the first time and crossed her legs.

Surprised, Delaney caught a glimpse of smooth satiny roundness — a flash of gleaming ivory above nylons tightly rolled to slim, shapely knees. He looked at Eunice more closely and noted the firm, natural fullness under her frilly white blouse.

Eunice spoke hurriedly, watching his eyes. “Mavis is taller than I am. She has brown hair, wavy and full of highlights — not dull and flat like mine. And... and she’s very pretty.” Eunice dove into her bag and came up with a snapshot.

The picture was clear, with good detail and definition. It showed a woman about three years older than Eunice with bold, striking features. The eyes were large and widely spaced above prominent cheek bones. The nose was large and slightly up tilted above full, sensual lips framing a generous mouth. It was the face of a woman given to reckless impulses, not restraint. Mavis was wearing a white linen dress which clung to her show-girl figure and accented an exciting collection of lush curves. Delaney decided Mavis was quite a dish.

He studied the features and a puzzled frown creased his forehead. He looked at Eunice. “Your sister—?”

“My — half sister. My mother was married before.”

Eunice spoke diffidently while a wave of color mounted into her face. She dropped her gaze and slowly uncrossed her legs, revealing more than was necessary. She dove into her bag again.

“Here’s Mavis’ address. The one I went to. You... you’ll start looking for her right away?”

Eunice left her chair and laid a pencilled slip of paper on Delaney’s desk. She stood expectantly while her eyes questioned him.

Delaney rose to his feet, slowly shaking his head. He picked up the money, folding it, and pressed it into her hand. He said: “You’d better go to the police, Eunice.”

“But why? I... I don’t understand,” she cried, her eyes filling with tears.

“Like I said before, this is a big city. I’m only one guy. I can’t take your money,” Delaney said flatly.

Putting the bills in her purse, Eunice turned blindly towards the door. Her figure sagged and her heels dragged across the floor.

Delaney started to speak, then shrugged his shoulders. He rounded his desk with a grin and lifted her hat from her head.

Startled, Eunice was too surprised to move.

“Leave it off when you go to the cops,” he suggested softly.

“Oh—!” she gasped, snatching her hat from his hand, her tears gone, her face flaming. “I never met such an impertinent man.”

Delaney watched her flounce out of the room then settled in his chair. He started to drop the snapshot of Mavis and the pencilled slip of paper in the waste basket, then carelessly tossed them into a desk drawer. He was just closing the drawer when Elsie’s slim elegant figure slid into the room.

“Al — what happened?”

“I passed her on to the cops,” Delaney grinned. Then, as Elsie’s eyes widened with surprise, he quickly summarized Eunice’s story.

“Something’s fishy,” he finished firmly. “It smells. I wouldn’t touch the deal with a ten foot pole.”

After Elsie returned to the reception room, Delaney settled back in his chair and put his feet on the desk. He stared unseeingly out the window while his thoughts turned to Eunice and her half sister Mavis. He was trying to find the gimmick.

The soft swoosh of the reception room door didn’t register with Delaney, nor Elsie’s startled, half smothered cry. But the sharp, metallic click of the latch on the door of his private office penetrated his thoughts. Before he could move, an enormous hand sent his feet crashing to the floor.

A bald, bullet shaped head with thick, beetling brows and a heavy, undershot jaw faced Delaney across his desk. The head was sunk into wide, sloping shoulders above a thick, muscular body. A hounds-tooth sport jacket, over a black, turtle-neck sweater, threatened to burst its seams at the shoulders and around the massive arms.

Then the slight, twisted figure of a crippled ex-jockey eased into the room and leaned back against the closed door. The figure was draped in a green, sharkskin suit. The dead pan face owned a pair of dark, beady eyes set in thin, wizened features. One claw like hand wore a blue-black Luger pointed unwaveringly at Delaney. To Delaney, the 9 mm bore looked like the mouth of a cannon.

“Some guys are dumb — and you’re it, pal.” Baldy was grinning at Delaney.

“You’re so tough — why the stooge with a gun?” Delaney glared, starting from his chair.

Baldy put his enormous hand in Delaney’s face and shoved him back.

“Easy, pal. We’ll find out how tough we are. Only first I wanna tell you why you’re stupid.” Baldy was grinning but there was little humor in his eyes.

“Okay, wise guy. What’s on your mind?” Delaney snapped. He had seen neither of the men before.

A rasp crept into Baldy’s voice. “You been around. You should know better than to take on a deal like that.”

“What deal — and what makes it your business what deal I take on?” Delaney’s voice rose in anger.

Suddenly Baldy laughed. “Such a homely little broad.”

“Such a scared little mouse — and now I know why,” Delaney snapped. He knew then the visit tied in with Eunice, with her sister Mavis.

“Sure she’s scared,” Baldy agreed. “But her coming to you was a dumb play. First she goes snooping around in something that ain’t her business. Then she comes to you.”

“And that ain’t all,” Baldy straightened up, “then you gotta take her on. You gotta find her sister for her she says. That makes you stupid.”

“You gonna yak all day?” The figure by the door spoke for the first time. “Let’s get goin’.”

“My, my — it’s got a voice. It can talk,” Delaney said sarcastically.

“It’s got a gun, too, and it can shoot,” Baldy warned flatly. He crossed the room and looked out the window. Over his shoulder he added, “It’s snowed to the gills, and it’s trigger happy. So sit still — very still — and don’t get ideas.”

“Shut up and get goin.” The wizened features developed a nervous tic and the dark, venomous eyes glared at Delaney. The twisted figure leaned forward in a crouch and moved the Luger threateningly.

Delaney let his breath out carefully and sat very still.

Baldy closed the Venetian blinds and turned to the file cabinet by the window. He pulled the top drawer open and emptied its contents on the floor. He threw the metal drawer into a corner of the room and turned to the next one. Baldy repeated the performance with each file drawer until he had emptied the cabinet.

“You damn fool. I didn’t take her on. I turned down the deal,” Delaney exploded.

“Too bad — you should’ve told us when we came in, pal.” Baldy grinned, returning to the desk. His scalp glistened with perspiration.

Delaney’s face was white with rage. He swore and, bracing his feet under his chair, glared at Baldy.

“Go on, jump. Take a swing at him.” The twisted figure took two steps from the door, pausing in a crouch, egging Delaney on, the Luger steady in the claw like hand.

Delaney sank back in his chair.

Baldy laughed. His enormous hands twisted the desk lamp until its metal frame snapped. He dropped the pieces on the floor and picked up the telephone. He yanked the phone cord loose and threw the telephone into the corner of the room with the file drawers. The client’s chair followed it. Baldy rested his hands on the desk and leaned over. He was no longer grinning. He said:

“There’s just one reason for all this, if you ain’t already guessed it, pal. You never heard of Mavis Blair, and you ain’t lookin’ for her.”

Baldy moved around the end of the desk and reached for the top drawer on that side. He hesitated as Delaney’s muscles tensed and warned, “Don’t be a damn fool.”

Delaney’s eyes slid to the twisted figure midway between his desk and the door. The knuckles of the claw like hand were white around the Luger.

“Go ahead,” the figure invited.

Delaney cursed and froze in his chair.

Without taking his eyes from Delaney, Baldy eased the drawer open and removed Delaney’s .45. He slipped the magazine clip from the handle and worked the slide, ejecting the cartridge from the chamber. He hefted the gun on the palm of his hand, half turning as though to leave the desk, then wheeled and with a full arm swing slammed the gun in Delaney’s face.

The room exploded in a red haze as Delaney went over backwards in his chair. A club like fist smashed into his belly with the force of a sledge hammer. Delaney retched and tried to roll free. But Baldy straddled him with arms working like pistons. Delaney tried to lash out with his foot, but a massive knee pinned his legs to the floor. He could only cover his face with his arms and roll his upper body from side to side as heavy, jarring blows smashed into his rib cage. Then the barrel of the Luger landed on his head and Delaney fell into a bottomless pit of black silence.

The black silence changed to a gray silence, then to a silence filled with light and pain. Delaney opened his eyes. The two men were gone. He dragged himself to his feet and staggered into the reception room. Delaney swore bitterly.

Elsie lay where she had been slung across the leather sofa. Her hands were bound behind her back with adhesive tape. Her ankles were crossed and similarily bound, and a wide strip of adhesive was plastered across her mouth. Her dress and slip were caught up across her thighs and she writhed with shame. Her eyes were wild with hate.

A cold rage filled Delaney as he pulled Elsie’s dress down and ripped the adhesive from her mouth.

“Goddamnit, Delaney, can’t you protect me even in your own office?” Elsie stormed, tears of helpless anger streaming down her face.

“Take it easy, baby. Take it easy,” Delaney stripped the adhesive from her wrists and ankles.

“You get those filthy pigs!” Elsie sobbed and shuddered with revulsion.

“I’ll get them. Don’t worry — I’ll get them, baby,” Delaney promised, his voice thick, grating.

“Oh, Al—! Why—? What was it all about?” Elsie wept.

Delaney sank into her chair and pulled her phone across the desk. He dialed and fought back a wave of nausea. While the receiver made its usual sounds in his ear, he said:

“I don’t know, Elsie. It ties in with that Eunice Blair.”

Then a tired voice at the other end of the line said, “Yeah—?”

“Hello, Gus. This is Al Delaney. Two guys just worked me over and wrecked my office. I want to make a locate on them.”

“The hell you say—!” Surprised, Gus’ voice lost its lethargy. “Who were they?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen either of them before, but they shouldn’t be hard to find.” Tersely Delaney described the pair.

“Can do,” Gus said after a pause. “Where are you now?”

“I’m still in my office.”

“Okay, Al. Wait there. I’ll call you back inna hour.”

Delaney wearily pushed the phone away. Elsie had regained her composure. She said contritely:

“I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to carry on like that. I... I just couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Delaney’s voice was grim as he rose from her chair. His face was pale under the tan and his eyes glittered. He asked, “Just one thing — did that Eunice leave an address?”

“No, but she did give me a phone number where she can be reached.”

“Good.” Delaney went to the wash basin in the cloak closet. He tore off his tie and started to unbutton his shirt, then turned solicitously:

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—”

“Oh no,” Elsie protested. “I’m all right, Al.”

“Okay. Then go rest for a while and fix yourself up. When you get back, get Eunice on the phone. Have her here in the morning.”

When Elsie left the office, Delaney stripped to his waist, splashed cold water over his head and face. His face was bruised on one side, his teeth in his upper jaw ached with a dull throb and his body was mottled with angry red blotches where the hammer like fists had bruised his flesh. He took a sponge bath and dressed.

Delaney put the file drawers back in the cabinet and straightened up the office as well as he could without trying to sort and refile the papers. He loaded the .45, slipped on his harness and nested the gun under his arm. He had just finished when the phone in the reception room rang.

Gus wasted no words. “The big ape is a slob named Kostka — strictly strong arm. The gunsel is Ziggy Weitzel. Watch out for him. He’s got a monkey on his back and he’s unpredictable. I hear the boys are working for a syndicate — dope, smut and flesh. So be careful.”

“To hell with that. Where can I find them?”

“They hang around the Can-Can Club in Gardena. You can find them there any night after eleven.”

“Thanks, Gus. I’ll see you tomorrow or the day after.”

The address which Eunice had given Delaney was in Sawtelle. The street ran north from Santa Monica Boulevard a few short blocks to the Veterans’ Home. It was a street of old frame dwellings behind ancient palms, set in small, littered yards behind sagging picket fences.

Delaney cruised slowly along the street until he spotted the number Eunice had given him, then parked the Chrysler at the curb.

The house was a bungalow with board and batten sides almost hidden under lantana which mounted to its tar papered roof. A faded room for rent sign was in one front window. A covered porch sagged across the front of the house two broken steps above the ground.

Delaney entered the house and waited for his eyes to make their adjustment from the bright sun outside. Two doors, once white, faced each other from opposite sides of the dingy hall. One of them was labelled “Manager” in crudely drawn letters. He shattered the somnolent quiet with hard knuckles rapping on a loose panel in a door which rattled against its latch.

There was no response.

Delaney heard muffled sounds in the room, meaningless because they lacked the direction of motion. Then he heard the faint creaking of spring cushions protesting the slow shifting of imposed weight. He heard the dull thud of a hard object striking a thinly carpeted floor. Then the silence descended again. He swore under his breath and tried the door. It wasn’t locked.

The woman was fat, frowsy and drunk. She sprawled soddenly on an ancient davenport, glaring at Delaney with little pig eyes deep set in a bloated face. Thin strands of black, oily hair escaped from a bun loosely gathered on top of her head. A shapeless house dress rode above massive knees carelessly exposed. The woman made only a feeble effort to pull her dress down.

“To hell with it,” she said hoarsely. “Gimme a drink.”

Her eyes searched a lamp table at the end of the davenport littered with papers and bric-a-brac. She grunted with disappointment and looked at the cushion beside her where an ashtray lay face down in a Welter of cigarette butts. She muttered a curse and looked at Delaney.

“Where is it?” she asked helplessly.

Delaney closed the door and crossed the room. A half empty wine bottle had spilled the remainder of its contents on the worn carpet beside her feet. Delaney squatted in front of her and held up the bottle. He shook his head, “Too bad. It’s all gone, sister.”

The woman wiped her fore-arm across her mouth and pushed her hair back with a defeated gesture.

“More in the kitchen,” she grunted. “Gimme...”

Delaney found the bottle of cheap wine in a cupboard over the sink. He rinsed out a glass and took the wine and the glass back into the room. He half filled the glass and handed it to the woman.

She grabbed it eagerly, cupping the glass with both hands, and gulped the wine, spilling some of it past the corners of her mouth. When it was gone, she held out her arm.

“More,” she panted.

Delaney tilted the bottle towards the glass, then deliberately drew it back without pouring any. He said: “Ixnay. First we talk about Mavis Blair.”

The woman’s eyes followed the bottle, then came up to meet his. Her face was mottled and contorted with anger. She shoved out the glass and snarled, “Gimme a drink, dammit.”

Delaney drew the snapshot of Mavis from his pocket and held it out for the woman to see.

“Mavis Blair,” he said. “Where’d she move?”

The woman ignored the snapshot and gestured with her glass.

Delaney shook his head. “Come on — give. This babe lived here. Where’d she move?”

The woman squinted at the snapshot, wiping her mouth with her fore-arm again. She looked up blandly at Delaney and grunted, “Never seen her.”

He snorted and waited until his anger subsided a little then carefully poured two fingers of wine into her glass.

“Take another look,” he suggested evenly, holding the snapshot just beyond the woman’s reach.

“To hell with that,” the woman snarled, squinting at the wine while she tilted the glass back and forth to gauge the amount. Suddenly she drew back her arm and flung the glass at Delaney’s head.

“Gimme the bottle,” she cried hoarsely.

Delaney ducked in time to avoid catching the glass with his face. He set the wine bottle on the table and grabbed the woman’s wrist as she reached for it. He jerked her erect on the davenport and swung his other arm from the shoulder. His open hand smacked across her face with a resounding slap.

“Let’s stop horsing around,” he said flatly. “We’re going to talk about Mavis Blair. Where’d she move?”

The woman spat at him and hurled the ashtray. She lurched to her feet, cursing obscenely, and came at him with fingers hooked like talons.

Delaney knocked her arms down and pushed her back onto the davenport. He rocked her head back and forth with hard, stinging slaps then crossed her wrists, pinning them together with one hand while he raised the other ready to strike. He thrust his face close to hers, his lips skinned back from clenched teeth, and his voice cut like a whip.

“Wise up. Either you talk, or I’ll slap you silly!”

Panting from her exertions, the woman glared defiantly at him until the cold menace in his eyes reached her wine soaked brain. Then she quailed and her eyes veered to the bottle on the table.

“Not yet,” Delaney snapped, moving the bottle out of her reach. He held up the snapshot again. “Let’s talk about Mavis.”

“That tramp,” the woman grunted. “She’s moved. How do I know where she’s gone?”

“How long ago?”

“Week — two weeks. I dunno. Her rent was paid ’til a Saturday. Then one day in the middle of the week she’s gone. So what.”

Delaney handed her the bottle. He saw a rent receipt book on the table and leafed through it. He found the carbon of Mavis’ last receipt, dated ten days back, and noted the room number. He turned to the woman.

“Her room rented?”

The woman leaned back against a grimy pillow at the end of the davenport and looked at Delaney. She raised the bottle and let the wine pour down her throat without visibly swallowing it. Finally she lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth.

“I ain’t had time to clean it up,” she answered, while a lascivious expression stole over her face. She moved, as if to make room for him on the davenport beside her, and gestured with the bottle. She grinned crookedly, “Sit down. Take a load off your feet.”

Delaney swore under his breath and strode from the room followed by the woman’s raucous, drunken laughter.

The girl stood in the opposite doorway, leaning against the jamb. A dressing gown, carelessly open at the top, was wrapped tightly around her full hips and long, tapering thighs. There was nothing under the dressing gown but a firm body covered with smooth, finely textured, milk-white skin. She was above average in height: a bottle blonde with hard features softened by a nice smile.

“What’d you expect — Lady As-tor?” Surprisingly, her voice was low pitched, not hard. “You spare a cigarette?”

“You hear that drunken sot?” Delaney demanded, offering the girl a cigarette and lighting it for her.

“Tastes good,” she said, gratefully dragging on the cigarette. Her smile broadened, “I think they heard her down at the corner.”

Delaney grunted.

“You looking for Mavis?” the girl asked.

“Yes. Are you a friend of hers?” Delaney’s eyes narrowed.

The girl shrugged. “Mavis isn’t a girl to make friends with other girls. Kinda high-hat where women are concerned, if you know what I mean.”

“But you knew her?” Delaney persisted. “I’d like to talk with you. May I come in?”

“Look, mister,” the girl hesitated. Her eyes took stock of Delaney from his head to his feet, then came up to search his face. “Maybe you’re a cop. Maybe you’re an all right guy. I don’t know. But I don’t want trouble — either now or later.”

Delaney smiled. “No trouble, and I’m not a cop. How about it?”

Her room was like any other in a cheap rooming house in an unsavory district. It contained a minimum of furniture, a piece of worn carpeting on a linoleum floor, a few pathetic splashes of color to relieve the dreariness. But it was clean — unlike the room across the hall.

Delaney lowered himself into a chair and watched the girl cross the room. His eyes kindled and he expressed his appreciation with a sharp intake of breath.

The girl settled on a studio couch and smiled at him with amused tolerance. Her smile grew up to a laugh and she warned: “No trouble — and no wrestling. This was your idea, not mine.”

Delaney grinned. “Okay. What can you tell me about Mavis? Where’d she work? Who’d she know?”

The girl stirred uneasily and studied her finger nails. “You say you’re not a cop, but you ask a lot of questions. Who are you? What’s your interest in Mavis?”

“I’m Al Delaney, a private investigator. Here—” he pulled his chair closer and flipped open his billfold to show her his license. “What’s your name?”

“Gladys.” She dragged on her cigarette, her eyes searching his face. “What’s this all about, Al?”

“I’ll give it to you straight, Gladys.” Delaney lit a fresh cigarette and leaned forward. “I’ve got a client who wants to locate this Mavis Blair, but doesn’t want a lot of cops nosing around. But all I get to work on is her background, her picture and this address. If I knew where she worked, I might get a lead. You know?”

“Mavis didn’t have a steady job, Al.” Gladys lowered her eyes to avoid meeting his.

“But what did she do? Waitress? Car hop in some drive-in?”

“No — nothing like that.”

Delaney grunted with impatience. A slight edge crept into his voice: “What’s the matter — she a sidewalk angel?”

“Mr. Delaney!” Gladys laughed, but an angry gleam lurked in her eyes.

“Okay,” Delaney grinned. “So I opened my big mouth and put both feet in it. But a girl has to live. The question is how? And you don’t seem to want to tell me.”

He tried another tack. “Let’s quit playing games. Did Mavis have a steady boy-friend?”

“Keeping her in a dump like this?” Gladys snorted and shook her head.

“What does she do?” Delaney asked softly.

“Mavis is a model — a photographer’s model,” Gladys replied with a tone of finality, as though she need say no more.

Delaney looked at Gladys narrowly for a moment. Then he said slowly: “I don’t suppose Mavis poses for what the trade calls ‘high fashion’ shots. No pictures for Vogue or Harpers Bazaar?”

Gladys laughed shortly.

“Lengerie? Foundation garments?”

Gladys shook her head.

“Pin-ups? Cheesecake?” Delaney probed a little deeper.

“You could call it that — if you want to, Al.”

“But you don’t,” he grunted. “I’m beginning to get the idea. Who’d she pose for, Gladys?”

“Not any one guy. Several.” Gladys rose to her feet. She said nervously: “Look, Al, I can’t tell you any more. I’ve said too much already.”

“But you haven’t told me anything,” he protested, leaving his chair and following her across the room.

“Yes I have,” she paused with her hand on the door knob and looked at him. “I... I don’t want trouble. Guess I can’t take it any more.”

“But the town is full of photographers — amateur, professional, legitimate and otherwise,” he pleaded, placing his hand over hers.

Gladys shook her head. “That’s asking for it. Believe me — I know. This racket is organized. A girl who speaks out of turn can get in real trouble.”

“Please, baby.” Delaney was getting desperate. He said, “I’m only one guy.”

Gladys hesitated.

Delaney reached into his pocket, then studied her face. He drew his hand out empty and placed it on her shoulder. He said softly: “I know it’s tough. I know what you mean by trouble. But I know how to protect my sources of information. If somebody had given you a break when you were starting out, maybe—”

“Damn you,” she breathed. Then leaning closer to him, she said rapidly in a low voice:

“There’s a joint on Cahuenga near Santa Monica Boulevard. They don’t shoot the pictures there. It’s a processing plant and distribution center. But the jerks who bring their film in to be developed and printed, book their models through the guy on the counter. He has pictures of all the girls — their names, addresses and phone numbers.”

“Thanks, baby.” Delaney squeezed her shoulder, then dropped his hand. He said, “If you need—”

Gladys interrupted him by opening the door and pushing him into the hall. Her face was flushed and her eyes avoided his. She tossed her head and said stridently: “Don’t try to soft soap me. On your way. Blow!”

The door slammed in his face.

When Delaney pulled the Chrysler away from the curb, he glanced in the rear-view mirror just in time to see a gray Ford two-door pull out a half a block behind. Delaney turned west on Santa Monica Boulevard, driving with one eye on the mirror. There were two men in the Ford following him. He turned south, off the boulevard, and lost them in the back streets of the business district of Sawtelle.

Delaney cut back to the boulevard and turned east. Once he was out of the business district, he headed for the nearest gas station with an outside phone booth. He didn’t know whether he had been followed from his office or whether he had been picked up at Mavis’ address. One thing was sure: whoever “they” were, they knew now that he was looking for Mavis. When Elsie answered the phone, he said:

“Put a cover on that typewriter, gorgeous. You’re going to take a trip.”

“Me—?” Elsie gasped.

Delaney laughed, then explained. “You’re going to Tucson this afternoon. Make your reservation on American Air, Flight 12.”

“But why—? What do you want me to do?”

“I want a complete run down on that Uncle Jim Kennedy Eunice mentioned. I want to know his business, his bank, what property he owns. Also I want to know his standing in the community and, if you can find out, his relations with the Blairs in Benson. I’ll meet you at the airport at five.”

“Five o’clock—?” Elsie squealed.

“Sure,” Delaney laughed. “I’ll—”

“My hair—!” Elsie wailed. “What’ll I wear?”

“You’ve got time to go home, pack and get to the airport by five. This trip should take only a couple of days. You won’t need many clothes. I’ll have some money for you at the reservation desk.”

Delaney stepped out of the booth and stopped with a curse. The gray Ford was parked alongside his Chrysler and the two men were out of the car. They were smarter than he had given them credit for. Apparently they, too, had cut back to the boulevard, after losing him, and had spotted his car in the gas station.

One was tall and lean and the long bladed switch knife in his hand glittered in the hot sun. He had a long, sharp boned, swarthy face under dark, duck-billed hair. His expression was impassive but his eyes were as sharp and coldly calculating as the eyes of a cobra.

The other one was shorter, heavier and the brass knuckles glinted on his right hand. He had a wide, slavic face topped with a blond crew-cut. He looked as poised and as competent as his companion — but not as impassive. His lips were parted in a grin of anticipation.

Delaney angled to his left, away from the booth, towards his car. As the two men converged on him, Delaney dropped to the pavement, landing half on his side, on hip and shoulder as the swarthy one made his lunge. Delaney’s foot came up under the knife thrust in a savage, driving kick. The toe of his shoe landed solidly in the knifer’s groin.

In an almost continuous motion, Delaney rolled and pushed from the pavement, coming up inside the vicious hook of the brass knuckles. He caught the right wrist of the man and twisted it behind the man’s back, forcing the arm up, forcing the big body to jack-knife as muscles and tendons were wrenched and torn. At the same time, Delaney cupped the back of the man’s head with his free hand.

Delaney’s face twisted in a grimace of ferocity as he threw his whole weight against the man, rushing him across the pavement, shoulders and head down to slam into the nearest gas pump. The pump clanked and gave off a dull, sickening crump under the impact. The thug’s body sprawled grotesquely at the base of the pump as Delaney stepped back.

Two gas station attendants, who had deserted the nearby grease rack when the action started, stood ten feet away. They stared at Delaney, at the thug lying by the pump, at the other writhing on the pavement. Their eyes were wide and scared, their mouths open in shocked amazement. One of them drew a long, unsteady breath and asked, “Jesus, mister, where did you go to school?”

“In a place too rough for these jerks,” Delaney snapped.

The big blond hadn’t moved. His head was broken and his face lay in a slowly widening pool of blood. He would lie there, Delaney decided, until the cops picked him up for a free ride to the morgue. The knifer was on his hands and knees, his arms rigidly braced, his head hanging between them, his body wracked with pain. His face was the color of wet cement and saliva drooled in long, elastic threads from his open mouth as he breathed in hoarse, agonized gasps.

A woman on the sidewalk, who had watched the action with unbelieving eyes, began to scream. Her voice rose in a thin keening sound above the traffic noise to break and rise again.

“You better call the cops,” Delaney said. He walked to his car and drove out of the station. Nobody tried to stop him.

The building was on the east side of Cahuenga, and Delaney looked it over as he drove slowly past. It was painted a dark, decorators gray, and the large windows on each side of the entrance had been replaced with glass brick. Next to it, on the north, and separated from it by a narrow passageway, was a vacant building. Beyond that, and extending to the end of the block, was a drive-in restaurant. Delaney parked his Chrysler in front of the vacant building and walked back.

The lettering on the door read FILM ENTERPRISES and inside was a small lobby filled with cheap reception room furniture. A counter faced with combed plywood ran the length of one side.

Behind the counter was a sallow face with a receding chin above a prominent adams apple in a scrawny throat. The face owned a pair of spaniel eyes, separated by a knife-blade nose, and red, over-ripe lips. The face was topped by black, kinky hair plastered to an under sized head.

Delaney rested his elbows on the counter and rolled a wad of paper back and forth between the palms of his hands. He leaned forward confidentially and said:

“So I’m in a hotel room in Phoenix, and this guy’s showing me some pictures. Girlie pictures.”

Spaniel eyes wet his lips nervously and looked at Delaney. He asked, “Are you fired?”

“Girlie pictures,” Delaney repeated firmly. “Hot stuff.”

“You must be off your rocker,” spaniel eyes was watching Delaney’s hands.

The wad of paper began to get unwadded. It was green and it had a pattern with a greenish white border. It was like a conjurer’s trick: an edge of the pattern showed, then a little more. Then a numerical figure in one corner — only the figure couldn’t be read because the paper curled back over itself to show more pattern. It was tantalizing.

And spaniel eyes was fascinated.

Delaney said, “High class, too. Not like the trash that comes out of Nogales or Tia Juana. Beautiful stuff.”

Spaniel eyes could read the figure on the paper now. It was slowly emerging from between Delaney’s hands — rising tenuously above them, turning and twisting. Spaniel eyes nervously wet his lips again. He swallowed, and his adams apple bounced in his throat threatening to choke him. He asked hoarsely:

“What’re you trying to say, mister? Whatcha want?”

“I try to buy the pictures off the guy, but he won’t sell,” Delaney’s voice was soft. He kept his eyes on spaniel eyes while his hands slowly stretched and ironed the ten spot on the counter. “So we toss the breeze some more, and I say I’m coming to L.A. Then the guy tells me he got the pictures here.

“ ‘Film Enterprises on Cahuenga,’ he tells me. ‘There’s a sharp cookie on the counter who knows the score,’ he says.”

Spaniel eyes shook his head regretfully. Then it seemed he owned a pair of hands. They appeared on the edge of the counter with softly white, spatulate fingers which crept towards the bill, then retreated. Only they wanted to creep out to the bill again, and their owner had to pull them back. He said:

“The guy gave you a bum steer. He sold you a three dollar bill, mister.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Delaney protested quickly, pained surprise in his voice. “He was a right guy.”

“Look, mister,” spaniel eyes interrupted flatly, “we don’t sell nothin’ here. This is a processin’ plant. We develop negatives. Print positives. Black and white, or full color.”

Delaney grunted. He turned the bill over and began to iron the other side. He said, “What d’you take me for — a square?”

White, spatulate fingers did an adagio along the edge of the counter while spaniel eyes tried to read Delaney’s face, then watched Delaney’s hand move back and forth over the green pattern.

Delaney said: “So I come to L.A. and rent an apartment in a dump on DeLongpre. I get a 4 x 5 Graflex and some film packs. For lighting, I get a couple of floods and a baby spot. I get a lot of ideas and I think I’m in business. But I need a model.”

“You slay me,” spaniel eyes licked his lips and swallowed. When his adams apple stopped bouncing, he added, “I’m screaming with sorrow for you.”

“There’s a model in one of the pictures the guy showed me I could really go for,” Delaney lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Beautiful. I mean she’s really thrown together. Guy said her name’s Doris, or Iris, or something like that. You know her?”

“You kiddin—?” spaniel eyes sneered, but he avoided meeting Delaney’s gaze.

Delaney moved his hands from the bill and let them rest palms up on the counter. He said:

“Guy tells me there’s a book under the counter with pictures of girls in it. Lots of girls. Names, addresses, phone numbers, everything. How about it?”

“This guy seems to know a hell of a lot,” spaniel eyes complained, white, spatulate fingers very still on the edge of the counter. “He have a name?”

Delaney slowly shook his head and looked away. When he looked back, the ten spot was gone.

“Okay. You couldn’t know all that ’thout talkin’ with somebody who did,” spaniel eyes came up from under the counter with a book in his hands. “So I’ll take a chance on you. But of all the screwy approaches — that beats anything I ever heard.”

Delaney grinned.

The book was a black, three ring binder, and the fillers were cheap, lined paper. On each page was pasted a 5 x 7 glossy print of a nude girl. A different girl on every page, and lots of pages. Each girl had struck a pose calculated to show to best advantage her most outstanding attractions. All of the “studies” were full figure: some girls faced the camera directly, others didn’t, but none of them were suffering from an excess of modesty.

Under each picture were neatly typed the girl’s statistics. Under each description were her name, address and phone number... Selma... Ruth... Gladys... Cynthia...

And Delaney leafed the pages slowly, pausing to comment on one girl, then another.

Dorothea... Frances... Mildred... Mavis...

Delaney snapped his fingers in simulated excitement. “That’s the one. That’s the babe! Mavis. How do I go about lining her up?”

“You don’t. Not if it’s the chick I think it is.” Spaniel eyes turned the book around to see.

“Why not?” Delaney groaned.

“She’s moved. Week or so ago, she up and disappears. I get calls for her, and I’m tryin to contact her. See? I go way out to Sawtelle where her address is,” white, spatulate fingers tapping the page, sliding caressingly over the picture of Mavis, “but she’s gone.”

Delaney began to curse under his breath.

“Wait—! I’m tryin to tell you,” spaniel eyes complained, eager to please, having committed himself. “Yesterday I get a call from her. From Mavis. She’s in Long Beach, and she’s on her way back here. But she’s gotta find a place to live. An address. And a phone. She tells me she’s coming in as soon as she gets located. And she wants a job right away. Needs the dough.

“So you’re it, mister. Come back tomorrow or the next day. I’ll fix you up.”

“Swell,” Delaney grinned. “Like the guy said — there’s a smart cookie on the counter. Thanks.”

Delaney saw Elsie off on the plane to Tucson then ate an early dinner at the Buggywhip on his way back from the airport. He caught a news flash on his car radio describing the fight in the gas station in Sawtelle. He learned one man was dead and the other was in a hospital where his condition was listed as critical. Police reported they were seeking the intended victim of the assault whose identity was unknown. After listening to a purported description of himself, Delaney concluded the police were not about to hang a tag on him. Apparently nobody had noted the license number of his car which was described merely as a late model sedan.

The figure of a can-can dancer, outlined in red neon tubing, identified the building on the outskirts of Gardena, a suburb of Los Angeles. The parking lot was nearly full, but Delaney found a vacant slot facing the street. He checked his gun, then entered the club.

A bar with a low back bar extended across the front of the building. A wide passageway at one end led to a crescent shaped area beyond. The area was jambed with tables, with a crowd of people packed in knee to knee, elbow to elbow. In the center of the crescent was a dance floor stage raised to table top level.

At one end of the stage was a four piece combo beating out a rhythm number. In the center of the stage was a tall, red headed stripper with an over-ripe figure. She was nearing the end of her routine — down to a G-string and a few spangles glittering on a mesh bra. But the crowd was in a frenzy, and the red head was in no hurry to leave the stage.

Delaney elbowed his way to the bar and ordered bourbon over ice. While sipping his bourbon, he scanned the crowd around him. The two he was seeking were at the end of the bar watching the stripper. When she finally finished her number, they turned back to their drinks.

Delaney watched the dark, beady eyes in the thin, wizened features move along the row of faces. They slid past him, then jerked back — wide with recognition. He saw the thin, pipestem elbow nudge Kostka, and the look of surprise cross Kostka’s face. Then Kostka grinned.

Delaney leaned back. Off the far end of the room, he saw a hallway with marked doors on each side. The first door on the left was the one he wanted. He pushed through the door and noted with satisfaction he was alone in the room. A moment later Kostka and Ziggy entered.

“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, pal,” Kostka grinned, standing just inside the door. He was facing Delaney who stood with his back to the opposite wall.

“I suppose not,” Delaney’s answering grin was tight lipped. “But I’m blowing the whistle on you. I’m going to show you how a real tough job is done.”

“Don’t be that way, pal. We got nuttin’ personal against you.” Kostka’s grin was bland. He casually moved from the door to Delaney’s right.

Ziggy started to edge away from the door to Delaney’s left. When he spoke, his voice was wooden and flat: “you know how’t is. We got a call, we do a job.”

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re glad to see you’re okay, pal,” Kostka moved again.

“Sure, I know,” Delaney moved closer to Ziggy. He was watching both men, but of the two, he knew Ziggy was the most dangerous. “Only you never should have roughed up that girl in my office.”

“Aw — don’t be that way, pal,” Kostka protested again. “We didn’t hurt the broad.”

Ziggy tried to edge past Delaney, but Delaney moved closer and Ziggy stopped. His thin, wizened features became set and his dark, beady eyes began to blaze with venom.

“What’s the matter, buster, you getting nervous? You got to go?” Delaney sneered.

Ziggy swore obscenely and one claw-like hand started under his coat. But he was too slow.

Delaney whipped out his .45 and slugged Ziggy, then turned.

Kostka lunged forward in a crouch, his head hunkered down between his shoulders, his massive arms swung out in front of him. He stopped abruptly when he saw the .45 in Delaney’s hand.

“Whatcha gonna do?” Kostka straightened slightly and tried a grin on for size. “Don’t be a sucker. You’d never get away with it. Lotsa guys outside — they’d tear you apart.”

“Why don’t you call them?” Delaney asked thinly. Then his face became white with rage, his lips skinned back from his teeth and he moved closer. “Come on, you gutless slob. Why don’t you yell?”

“Take it easy — take it easy, pal,” Kostka’s grin was sick with fear. He straightened up and stretched out one hand in a placating gesture. “No need for us to be this way. We can—”

Delaney kicked him in the belly and Kostka doubled over with an explosive grunt of pain. Delaney swung the .45 hard against the side of Kostka’s head, then caught him under the arms. Kostka was stunned, but he wasn’t out. Delaney heaved him upright and let go. As Kostka sagged on rubbery legs, Delaney slammed the .45 across the bridge of his nose. Kostka bellowed like a bull in mortal pain and blood streamed down his front. Delaney beat him into insensibility, pistol whipping him mercilessly all the way to the floor.

Delaney turned in time to see Ziggy lurch to his knees. Ziggy was mouthing curses and shaking his head to clear it. He dragged the Luger from under his arm and swung its muzzle in a wavering arc. Before he could steady the gun, the toe of Delaney’s shoe broke his wrist. A bewildered expression crossed Ziggy’s face and he stared in wonder at his broken wrist. Then his other hand snaked out to the Luger on the floor. But Delaney stamped on the crooked fingers, breaking them, and kicked the gun out of reach. He jerked Ziggy to his feet and pinned him against the wall. He drove his knee into Ziggy’s groin and stepped back.

Ziggy was writhing and screaming on the floor. Delaney backed to the side of the room and pointed his .45 at the door. He wondered how long the screaming could continue unnoticed by the crowd around the bar. Then the door flew open.

Both of them were big, both were ill-fitted in tuxedos, both had bouncer written all over their coarse features. They came into the room with a rush, and the doorway behind them was immediately filled with the faces of a crowd attracted by the screaming. But the two stopped in their tracks when they saw the .45 in Delaney’s fist.

For a moment they stared at the gun as though fascinated, then, moving in unison, their eyes swung to the broken figures on the floor.

“Ziggy Weitzel—!”

“And Kostka!”

Their eyes swung back to Delaney. One of them said slowly:

“You’re dealing, mister. What’s the play?”

Delaney pointed with his chin, “Over there. Move.”

When the two moved, as directed, away from the door, he said flatly, “You know Ziggy and Kostka, so you must know who they work for. Tell their boss I don’t like being pushed around.”

The crowd fell back silently to let Delaney pass. He left the club unmolested and holstered his gun as he got into the Chrysler.

Delaney grinned when Eunice walked into his office the next morning. She was dressed in another frilly white blouse above the same black jersey skirt. But she was hatless. She had been to a hair dresser for a permanent and she was wearing lipstick. Delaney whistled softly and said:

“I knew it. Now, if you’d just change the shape of your glasses—”

“Mr. Delaney — please. It hasn’t made that much difference.” Eunice preened and laughed selfconsciously. She settled into a chair, placing her large leather bag on the corner of his desk and crossed her knees. Then her eyes widened.

“What... what happened to your face?”

Delaney gingerly touched the large bruise on his cheek and smiled wanly.

“Well, it seems I got into a little argument—” he let his voice trail off.

“Drinking, I suppose,” Eunice sniffed disdainfully.

“Bourbon,” Delaney answered gravely. “Lovely stuff.”

“Mr. Delaney, I’m not sure you’re very nice,” Eunice was shocked. After a pause, she asked, “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes — thanks for coming in. Now tell me, have you been to the police yet?”

“Oh no. I told you Mavis wouldn’t like that.” Eunice looked at Delaney hopefully. “You’ve changed your mind — you’re going to help me?”

Delaney nodded. “I went to that address you gave me yesterday. I had more success talking with the landlady than you did. I—”

“You know where Mavis moved? You’ve found her?” Eunice broke in eagerly.

Delaney shook his head. “No. I haven’t found Mavis yet.”

“Oh...” Eunice was let down and worried again. Then she asked hopefully, “But—?”

Delaney smiled. “I have a lead. I can’t tell you more than that. But I do have a lead and I hope to contact Mavis soon.”

“Contact her. Where?” Eunice leaned forward, her eyes wide, her lips parted eagerly.

Still smiling, Delaney answered, “I can’t tell you. It’s too indefinite yet.”

“But you must tell me. You must!” Eunice’s face was suddenly flushed and her eyes grew strained behind her glasses. Her fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the edge of his desk, then dove into her purse. She looked at him speculatively while she slowly pushed four fifty dollar bills across his desk.

Delaney’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face. After a moment, he picked up the bills and put them in his pocket. He said evenly:

“Your sister left that dump in Sawtelle to get out of town. Now, it seems, she’s coming back. I don’t know where she’s going to stay — or if she even has a place to stay. I do know that if I am in a particular place sometime during the next two days I may be able to contact her.”

Eunice glared at him, then forced herself to relax. The tension slowly left her slim figure, and she even achieved a smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely.

“That’s the way it’s got to be,” Delaney said flatly.

Eunice picked up her bag and left her chair. She smiled apologetically and turned towards the door. She said, “You understand, it’s just I’m so worried about her.”

“Of course,” Delaney answered perfunctorily without rising. He watched the deliberate swish of her hips as she left his office. Then his face hardened and he stared thoughtfully at the door.

Delaney waited until nearly noon, and made sure he was not being tailed, before driving to Film Enterprises on Cahuenga. He was uncertain of his reception. He didn’t know if the syndicate which operated the racket had tied him in with Film Enterprises. But he had no alternative. The model booking activities at the processing plant were his only lead to Mavis. He pushed open the door.

Spaniel eyes grinned a welcome in memory of the bill Delaney had slipped him the day before, then slowly shook his head.

“No sign of her yet,” he said regretfully.

“Damn. I hoped she’d been in,” Delaney rested his elbows on the counter.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be in. Mavis is a good chick, and she needs the dough.” Spaniel eyes looked at Delaney hopefully.

Delaney grinned and lowered his voice: “I sure go for that babe. I hope somebody else doesn’t get to her first.”

Spaniel eyes greedily licked his lips and swallowed. When his adams apple stopped bouncing, he said:

“You say the word an’ I’ll see nobody gets to her. Only, it’ll cost you.”

“That stuff doesn’t grow on trees,” Delaney complained. “But there might be another ten spot for you.”

“It’s a deal,” Spaniel eyes was all smiles. “What’s the phone number on DeLongpre?”

Taken by surprise, Delaney said hastily, “Don’t have a phone.”

“Well, what’s the address? I’ll send her over as soon as she comes in.”

“That’s just a dump I rented to take some pictures in,” Delaney grunted.

“Then how’ll I—?”

“I’ll contact you tomorrow,” Delaney said smoothly. “When she comes in, you’ll have her new address. So you tell me and I contact her.”

“Okay...” But spaniel eyes was worried. He raised one hand, sliding his thumb suggestively back and forth across the ends of his white, spatulate fingers.

“Not so fast,” Delaney laughed easily. “Time enough for that when I get her address. Besides — how else do I get her new address?”

“Yeah,” spaniel eyes grinned, “that’s right. Come back tomorrow. I’ll fix you up.”

Leaving spaniel eyes, Delaney waited in his car where he could watch the entrance, until Film Enterprises closed for the day. But Mavis didn’t come in — of that he was sure.

He spent the evening in his apartment and he was worried. In reviewing events in his mind, Delaney became convinced the men behind the lewd picture racket also were looking for Mavis. Several things pointed to that conclusion. Mavis’ sudden departure before her rent was due was one item. Gladys’ statement the racket was organized, and that a girl who stepped out of line would get in trouble was a second item. The reporting, by the drunken housekeeper, of Eunice’s search for Mavis was a third item. The attempt to pressure him out of the search, having followed Eunice to his office, was another item. When that failed, the attack on him by the thugs at the gas station proved the racket boys weren’t playing games. Why Mavis was coming back, he didn’t know. It was obvious Mavis didn’t know what she was walking into, else she never would have contacted spaniel eyes. Then the model booking activities at the processing plant were the key to the situation. Whoever got there first got to Mavis. He was confident of only one thing. So far, the racket boys hadn’t tied him in with Film Enterprises. With that thought in mind, he went to bed.

Delaney groaned and rolled over.

The bell jangled harshly. It was insistent. Delaney began to swear. He turned on the reading lamp by the bed and looked at his watch. It was 2:10 AM and the bell rang again. He thought it would drive him nuts. He picked up the phone, and suddenly he was wide awake.

It was Elsie. She had returned from Tucson on the midnight plane. Delaney listened carefully while Elsie reported what she had learned. Jim Kennedy was a prominent citizen in Tucson. He maintained a five figure balance in the Southern Arizona Bank and Trust. He owned a successful mining property and a large acreage planted in cotton. Only Jim Kennedy had died three weeks ago. Delaney asked some questions, then told Elsie what had transpired while she was gone. After Elsie hung up, he went back to sleep.

By eight-thirty the next morning, both sides of Cahuenga were lined with parked cars. Delaney’s Chrysler was just south of the entrance of Film Enterprises on the same side of the street. A black Oldsmobile two door, with two men sitting in the front seat, was parked at the street corner behind him.

By nine o’clock, Delaney was wanting a cup of coffee and the drive-in restaurant beyond Film Enterprises beckoned him. By nine-thirty, he thought he had never wanted a cup of coffee so much before in his life. In the hour he had been staked out in his car the only people who had entered the door he was watching were men. By ten o’clock, he could stand it no longer. He stepped from the car and glanced down the street behind him. The black Oldsmobile was coming slowly up the street in his direction. He noticed the car without really looking at it, and turned towards the restaurant. He had taken only a few steps when he saw the woman.

She was wearing a white, peasant blouse above a multi-colored dirndl and her feet were clad in thonged sandals. Her brown, wavy hair was partially covered by a silk bandana worn gypsy fashion with the ends trailing over one shoulder. She had striking features with eyes widely spaced above prominent cheek bones. Her attire was a far cry from a white, linen dress, but Delaney had no need to refer to the snapshot in his pocket to recognize Mavis Blair.

Mavis was in front of the vacant building beyond Film Enterprises and Delaney quickened his pace to stop her before she reached the entrance. She started along the face of the film Enterprises building, a brightly colorful figure against the dark gray of its painted wall.

Out of the corner of his eye, Delaney saw the black Olds move slowly past. Something about the car attracted his attention and his eyes left Mavis. Delaney shouted hoarsely, and his hand streaked under his coat.

The muzzle of a blue-back Luger was showing in the open window of the right hand door of the car. It began to buck, and each time it did, a finger of orange flame stabbed the air. And the noise of its bucking slammed against the buildings.

Delaney leaped into the street. But even as he cleared the cars parked along the curb, the Olds accelerated with a roar of exhaust and a sharp, tortured chirping of tires. Delaney blasted with his .45. A frost white pattern of splintered glass appeared on the rear window of the car, then another. Without slowing, the Olds swerved to the left across the street. It side-swiped a parked car, careened wildly, and smashed into a second parked car with a sickening crash.

The right hand door of the Olds swung open. A man lurched from the car, saw Delaney, and started to run. Delaney yelled at him, then took careful aim. The .45 blasted again and the man went down with a shattered leg.

Delaney ignored the man in the street. Already people who had witnessed, or heard the gunfire from nearby buildings, were gathering in a knot before the dark gray wall of Film Enterprises. As he shouldered his way through the crowd, Delaney welcomed the sound of police sirens converging on the scene.

Mavis was face down on the sidewalk, a crumpled figure in a multicolored dirndl and a peasant blouse no longer white. Kneeling, Delaney pressed her throat, then the wrist of her outflung arm, seeking a pulse no longer there. Mavis was dead, and he swore bitterly.

Delaney looked up as a police car slid to a stop, its siren moaning through a descending scale. Before he could rise, a uniformed policeman broke through the ring of white and silent faces. The officer’s face was grim and the 38 special in his hand was leveled at Delaney. He snapped:

“Put the gun on the pavement. Stand up and clasp your hands behind your head.”

Surprised, Delaney realized his hand still held his gun. He laid it carefully on the sidewalk and rising to his feet, clasped his hands as directed.

Another police car slid to a stop its uniformed officers breaking up the crowd, pressing the people back from the principals in the shooting. A black Ford sedan pulled over to the curb with four men in it. Only the driver wore a uniform, and he remained behind the wheel when the others got out.

A slight, gray haired man with lean, hawk-like features paused at the side of the car while his eyes surveyed the scene. Then he crossed to Delaney and said: “You can put your arms down. I’m Lieutenant Davis, homicide.”

Lieutenant Davis accompanied Delaney to his office after the questioning at the Hollywood Precinct Station. There was little in the office the Lieutenant missed before he settled into a chair and lit a cigarette. He looked at Delaney and said:

“Okay. That was quite a story you told over at headquarters. Now let’s have the rest of the story. Let’s have the real reason you were on Cahuenga this morning.”

Delaney grinned, then his face sobered and he leaned forward in his chair. Quickly he outlined his activities and what he had learned. He gave the address in Sawtelle. He described Gladys and told of his interview with her, as well as that with the drunken housekeeper. He told how Kostka and Ziggy had worked him over and wrecked his office. He told what happened in the Can-Can Club. He identified himself as the intended victim in the donneybrook at the gas station in Sawtelle.

“I wasn’t parked on Cahuenga by accident when the shooting started. I was staked out in my car waiting for Mavis to show,” Delaney concluded.

Lieutenant Davis swore softly and his face was hard. “You’re still holding something back.”

“I am—?” Delaney waited expectantly.

“You’re no boy scout. Who’s your client? What’s his angle?”

“He’s a she,” Delaney settled back in his chair. “I have a right to protect her interest, but I’m going to give you her name: Eunice Blair. I’m expecting her here this afternoon.”

Delaney described Eunice’s visit and how she had retained him to find Mavis. He gave the background on Mavis as Eunice had given it to him. He finished:

“I have only one favor to ask. Eunice is young and alone here in Los Angeles. This is going to be rough. Let me break the news to her.”

“Okay,” Lieutenant Davis shrugged and looked at his watch.

It was after two when Eunice walked in. Delaney rose to greet her. As Eunice settled into a chair, he said, “Miss Blair, this is Lieutenant Davis of the Los Angeles Police.”

“Police—?” Eunice’s face went white and her fingers fumbled with the clasp on her large leather bag.

“But I... I told you—” she faltered, her eyes wide with distress.

“Yes, I know,” Delaney said quickly, “and I didn’t call them in.” He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “Eunice, I have some bad news for you. I want you to be—”

“You’ve found her? You’ve found Mavis and something’s happened?” Eunice interrupted in a small voice.

Delaney nodded. “I saw Mavis this morning. But—”

“You saw her? She’s hurt?” Eunice started from her chair.

Delaney said slowly, “Mavis is dead. She was killed. I saw it happen and couldn’t prevent it.”

“Oh no. Oh, no!” Eunice whispered, shaking her head and sinking back into her chair. Her face was chalk-white and her hand moved into her bag. It came out with a piece of Kleenex which she mechanically shredded in her lap without being aware of what she was doing.

Lieutenant Davis said gruffly, but not unkindly: “You should have come to us, Miss Blair. But if it’s any comfort to you, we’ve got the man who killed her. His conviction is open and shut.”

“No, it isn’t,” Delaney said evenly.

“What the hell do you mean?” Lieutenant Davis demanded.

Delaney’s eyes narrowed and he was tense in his chair.

“The guy didn’t kill Mavis. She was already going down when he shot. Have you had the medical examiner’s report yet?”

“Not yet,” Lieutenant Davis admitted, slack jawed with amazement. “But what’s the—?”

Delaney interrupted harshly. “Oh the gunsel scored from the car all right. But I’m betting the medic’s report will show death resulted from a shot fired into her back!”

Lieutenant Davis glared at Delaney and banged his fist on the desk. “Are you out of your mind? Do you know who killed her?”

“You’re damn right I do!” Delaney came out of his chair like a steel spring uncoiling and dove across his desk.

Eunice screamed and grabbed her large leather bag, but Delaney savagely twisted her wrist and she let go. She sprang to her feet, clawing for his face and trying to fight her way free. Delaney slammed her back into the chair and dropped her bag into the Lieutenant’s lap.

Lieutenant Davis dipped into her bag and came up with a snubnosed .25 caliber automatic. For a moment he stared at the gun increduously, then his eyes went to Eunice. He turned back to Delaney.

“You mean—?”

“That’s the gun. It’s got to be,” Delaney said grimly.

Eunice gasped and her face was mottled. Her eyes strained behind her glasses and darted from Delaney, to Lieutenant Davis, to the door. She moved her feet as though to spring from the chair again, but a look from Lieutenant Davis stopped her.

Delaney lit a cigarette.

Lieutenant Davis had a speculative look on his lean, hawk-like face as he considered Delaney’s words. He challenged:

“Okay — how did she get to Mavis?”

“Me. I was the bird dog,” Delaney’s voice was charged with disgust. “Yesterday, I told Eunice I expected to contact Mavis. But I didn’t say where. Eunice must have followed me from my office. That gave her the location of Film Enterprises. The fact I spent the afternoon there, staked out in my car, told her that was where I expected to meet Mavis.

“This morning Eunice hid in the passageway between Film Enterprises and the vacant building next to it. I think she saw the two men in the car. She couldn’t know who they were gunning for — Mavis or me. But she didn’t care. When she saw the gun in the window of the car, she let Mavis have it — in the back. Her shot was unnoticed, or unremembered, in the shooting which followed.”

“It’s a lie!” Eunice hissed through clenched teeth, straining forward in her chair, her face livid.

“Is it?” Delaney looked at her coldly. Then he asked slowly: “Did you remember to pick up the empty cartridge ejected from your gun?”

Lieutenant Davis led Eunice to the door, his hand around her arm. Then he stopped and turned. “But the motive—?”

“Money. Lots of money,” Delaney sighed. “Money Mavis didn’t even know she had. Jim Kennedy left it all to Mavis when he died. Only Mavis didn’t know that — didn’t know he was dead. But this greedy little bitch beside you knew. And she knew, as next of kin, she and her mother would inherit if something happened to Mavis.”

As the door closed behind Lieutenant Davis and Eunice, Delaney muttered bitterly:

“Yeah — mother will be so worried.”