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The click click of heels on the wooden floor outside announced a dame. I’d pay attention when I was good and ready.
“Kick the door shut behind you. Damn thing, it sticks.” I waved my hand vaguely towards the door, catching a flash of a red dress coming through it.
I turned to the back page of the newspaper to check the horses. The fifth at Rosedale might make a buck, and I made a mental note to see Lenny.
I heard the drag of the visitor’s chair pulled across the floor and the soft swish of stockings as she sat, crossing her legs. I heard the snap of a lighter and smelled the tang of cigarette smoke. Lucky Strikes, menthol. Pushing the ashtray across the desk, I looked up.
To find myself looked over. The dame was a beauty, her lips scarlet, her eyes dark under the tilted brim of a pill-box hat. She dragged on her cigarette.
“You takin’ visitors, or just takin’ your time?”
Her voice was low and rough; a two pack a day gal, I guessed. Or too much whiskey on a southbound train. Whatever the cause, she sounded fine. Looked fine, too.
“You Arbogast, Daniel Arbogast?”
“That’s the sign on the door, Ma’am, so I must be.”
“You always got a smart mouth, Dan?”
“No, Ma’am. If the sign fits, wear it. You know what they say.”
She studied me with a steady eye, then blew a stream of smoke towards me. She leaned forward to ash the cigarette, spotting me an eyeful of a fine deep cleavage. I breathed in a drift of the smoke, catching at the same time a purple plum scent with a hint of musk.
“Femme Rochas?” I enquired, remembering a French girl in Paris who wore it with nothing else on.
“You do know what they say. I’m impressed, Dan. You know a gal’s perfume. I need a nose like that.” She sat back, then opened her purse and took out a photograph. “We can do business.”
“I figured that. A gal coming up in the elevator on a Tuesday afternoon can only mean business.”
She turned the photograph over, studying it. She ran a finger over its surface, then slid it across the table towards me. She tapped it twice with her forefinger, the nail painted red the same color as her lips.
“Who’s the boy?” I asked. He looked familiar. A good looking kid in a sharp suit, his hat pulled down rakish with a cheeky tilt and a smile in his eye. Kinda like a movie star, kinda like some punk in a two bit bar.
“Milo. Milo Jones, my kid brother. Was my kid brother.” She gazed at me steadily, her eyes gone darker, more severe. She stubbed out the cigarette. “I want you to find out who killed him.”
That’s why he looked familiar. I remembered a bad picture in The Times. The kid had been found dead in a movie theatre, a stiletto right through the seat he was sitting in, right through the back of his heart. You’d think him being a reporter, the damn paper could have found a decent picture. At least they didn’t show the corpse. Not in the paper, anyway.
“Tell me about him, this kid brother of yours.”
She could tell me about herself later, but this was business. I pulled a notebook towards me.
As she told me about Milo I watched her, the way she’d pause in the telling as if to gather her thoughts, or to conjure up a picture in her head. She’d stop talking, sometimes take a slow, dark-eyed look around the room, sometimes taking a longer time to light another cigarette.
After two smokes, I saw the routine. She’d turn the pack towards her, flip the lid with one finger, extract the cigarette with two. She’d take the smoke, place it in a precise place in the air, and at the same time pick up the lighter. Her eyes would go far away and I might as well not have been there. She’d click on the flame once to test it, twice to light the cigarette. She’d lick her lips twice to wet them, then take the first long drag.
Her breasts rose as she did so, filling full and high as she breathed the smoke in. She arched her neck to release that first drift of smoke up into the air, then turned her eyes to look back at me, contemplative.
I looked down at the notebook and wrote something in it. I’d read what I wrote later.
“What was he working on, Milo?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” She reached into her purse one more time and extracted a set of keys. “These are the keys to his apartment. And his car. Go see what you can find.” She pushed them across the desk, and her finger tips brushed mine. “You can drive a car, can’t you, Dan?”
I laughed. The dame sure knew how to measure up a man, and I decided I liked being measured.
She smiled at me with a tiny smirk on her lips but an honest crease in her eyes.
“What are your rates, Dan? I’ll write you a check, and spot you twenty for expenses.”
I told her, and she wrote out a check for twice the amount, signing her name with a curl of her cigarette hand. Ruby Jones.
“It’s a pleasure, Ma’am, to meet you.”
“You know my name now, Dan. You should use it.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She laughed, with a bright look in her eye.
“Walk me out and whistle me a cab. You can whistle, can’t you, Dan?”
It was my turn to smile. antalya escort I pushed my chair back and walked around the desk to ease her chair back too. Ruby stood, and in her heels was near as tall as me. Shapelier though, with more curves than the Santa Monica mountain highway, curving down to the sea.
She took my arm and we walked out the door. She kicked it shut. “Damn thing, it always sticks.” She’d remembered.
Outside, the street was busy, and it didn’t take long to spot a Yellow Cab. Ruby climbed in and wound the window down. She looked up at me.
“Say, do you mix business with pleasure, Dan? Any time?”
“Sometimes, Ma’am.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied.
“What are you starin’ at, fool?” she admonished the driver. “Just drive the damn car.”
As the cab moved off, Ruby’s black gloved hand rose up from the window in a first farewell. I lit my own cigarette, tilted my hat against the sun, and set off down the side-walk.
* * * *
That evening I made my way to Milo’s apartment down near Venice. Police tape criss-crossed over the door, denoting a crime scene. It wasn’t, but the cops were too lazy to tidy up after a quick search. I was banking on really lazy cops, taking five minutes to search the place when they should have taken at least ten. Deadbeats, the lot of them. It was no wonder Miss Jones thought a private eye would find out more.
I cased the joint, but all seemed clear. I’d parked my old Ford a block away, figuring the walk would allow me to spot anyone watching – but why would they? But I was quick up to the porch, dodging the street lights, keeping in the shadows.
I let myself in and clicked on my flashlight, angling it down so the beam hit the floor. I looked around, then methodically went through each room, taking anything that struck me as odd out to the kitchen table. Not much struck me as odd. Milo seemed to be a plain shooting kinda guy, most of his money going into clothes and neat shoes, a few books on a shelf: westerns and such, gun-slinger stuff, nothing daring.
Under the bed though, what’s this? I dragged out a cardboard box full of movie magazines: Photoplay, Modern Screen, a few other monthlies, and a couple of recent annuals. Flicking through them, I noticed slips of paper marking pages with stories and articles about Maven Quinn, one of the new glamour stars. Then I found a box full of newspaper cuttings. Seems our Milo had quite an interest in Miss Quinn, right up to the day he died. I took the papers to the kitchen, and settled down to read.
It was a typical story. A girl from a small prairie town with a pretty smile and big ambitions, and a one-way ticket west. Signed up to a small studio, she put on her dancing shoes and played herself, with hot lights and a sultry eye. The stories matched her up with her leading men: Geoffrey Clements, Robert Reid, some kid in a fast car. Jimmy someone, I didn’t know him.
I knew Reid was a nance, a belle boy, so that was the publicity department talking. They made a striking couple though, him in his crisp linen pants and cream jacket, her wearing straight pants too, the type with two rows of four buttons up the hips. They were meant to look friendly, maybe even lovers, but the photographers couldn’t hide their dislike for each other.
I wondered what Milo’s interest was, but I couldn’t find a notebook, nothing. I sat and pondered, turning pages in the magazines. Maven was a striking girl, a wave of blond hair hiding one eye, falling past her shoulders. She was a slim one, not hour-glass like Mae West or those Italian girls, but attractive all the same. I’d not seen any of her movies, so had no idea if she could act. Probably didn’t matter – her movies, so far, were Bs.
There was an oddity though. I flicked through a few more rags to make sure. Yes, that was it: she always wore tailored trousers, never a pretty skirt. Then I turned a page and there she was, sensational in a tight, clinging dress, split right up her thigh. On the arm of Aaron Philips, her producer. Fat guy, fat cigar, thin moustache, thin lips. Looked like an asshole, frankly, with a big car. You know what they say.
I turned the page, to find more pictures of Maven Quinn. I’d found a connection of sorts between Milo and the actress, close to an obsession, but not enough to kill the boy. I sat back in the chair and kicked my feet onto the table, still thinking. A story. Milo must have been onto a story, something about Maven Quinn.
I pushed back, and as I did so, my heel caught on a drawer handle on the table I’d not noticed before. I pulled it open, and found a strike of matches lying there, all by itself. It was one of those courtesy give-aways that you find on the bar in fancy clubs and lounges. The Peacock Club, wherever that was. I flicked the cover open, to see a telephone number written there in pencil.
I stood up and went out into the hall, where there was a call phone on the wall. I slung a nickel into it, and gave the number to the operator. She put me through.
“Miss Quinn’s residence. antalya escort bayan How may I help?”
I didn’t expect that. “Ahh, sorry, you’ve got 69 in the number. I’m after 66. Sorry to disturb.”
“Not a problem, sir. I hope you get through to your number. Goodnight.”
“Yes, thank you. Sorry again. Goodnight.”
I sat a while longer, pondering this and that and Maven Quinn’s number in Milo Jones’ kitchen drawer.
I resolved to visit the Peacock Club the next day, whenever that was. Milo had obviously been there. And, I guessed, so had Miss Quinn. I took Milo’s car. It was newer than mine, a DeSoto.
‘You can drive, can’t you Dan?’ I laughed out loud, hit my hand against the wheel, and was in a good mood all the way to my house. Ruby Jones in a tight red dress, hearing her voice in my head! I thought of that big long zipper down the back, and what I’d do with it.
* * * *
I made my way to the Peacock the next day, mid afternoon. I figured the staff would be pretty relaxed at that time, with a few early customers getting ready for the night. With a bit of luck, I’d find someone who recognised Milo, might spill the beans.
Turns out the club was just down from the Pantages Theatre, east of Vine. I went down narrow stairs into a long basement, dim and discreet. A glass topped bar ran down half of one side, a dozen tables down the centre, curtained booths opposite. Up the far end was a small stage and a dance floor. Half after three in the afternoon, the joint was deserted.
“Hat check,” I called out, to get some attention.
“Hold up,” a voice called back, “won’t be a moment.”
A slip of a thing entered the room from a door half way down, from the conveniences I guessed, or the kitchen. She was a tidy little cookie with her hair in a curl, wearing a flouncy dress. She came to the counter and looked up at me.
“You open?” I asked.
“Not really,” she replied. “Not yet. Getting ready though, before Miss Alexandra gets here.”
“Miss Alexandra? She the owner, or manages the place?”
“The owner. Or the boss, anyway. I’m never rightly sure. She ‘presides’, is what she does.”
I nodded. The girl was friendly, but I needed to arrive at my questions in a circular way, not ask them directly. I remained silent, an old trick, to see what she’d say next.
“Kittie,” she offered. “My name’s Kittie.” She glanced down at herself, and ran her finger along the top of a name badge, nicely angled on her left breast. Or perhaps it was the curve of her breast that was nice, and the badge went along for the ride.
“Arbogast, Dan Arbogast.” I lifted my hat, and passed it to her.
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Arbogast.” She did the tiniest curtsey. “Now, what can I get you?”
“Memories,” I replied, picking up a packet of strikes from a box on the counter. “Wondering if you ever remember seeing this fellow?” I placed the photo of Milo before her.
Kittie looked around quickly before turning the photograph over, pushing it back to me.
“Not here,” she whispered. “Take a booth. I’ll bring something over. Put that away.”
I went to one of the curtained booths, and a few minutes later Kittie brought me a coffee. She sat on the other side of the table.
“Show me again. The picture.”
I did, and she placed it on the table between us. She looked from the photograph up to me.
“What’s your connection? How do you know Milo?” Kittie’s lip trembled.
I decided half the truth was best with the girl, seeing the emotion bubbling up inside her.
“I don’t. I’ve been hired to find out who killed him.”
No need to mention Ruby – Kittie had her own version to tell, and I figured she’d tell me what she could.
“Milo. He was a good guy. Kind, funny. Made no sense, him being a reporter. He didn’t have the bite.”
“What was he working on, did he say?” I didn’t want to mention Maven Quinn, not yet, but a few prompts might encourage the girl.
“He wanted the big Hollywood exposé. A scandal and all. You know, Casey Clements, that sort of thing.”
“Was he on to anything, was he chasing anyone down?” I still didn’t want to mention Miss Quinn.
“I think…” Kittie paused. “Milo knew I knew where the ladies go, you know, private dance parties. He asked me to get him into one.”
I listened good.
Kittie continued. “Can you find out who killed him? Can I help you do that?”
The girl was pleading, her fingers nervously turning the cuff of her sleeve.
“Where did they go, the ladies?” I pushed a little harder. She wanted to help.
“La Casa Blanca, up in the hills. Invitations only, but regular, you know?”
I nodded, as if I did know. I didn’t, but I had fingers to count on, and I was getting pretty close to putting two and two together.
“And you, Kittie, where do you fit in to all this?”
“I’d waitress there. Alexandra knew I could keep my mouth shut, so she took me the first time. That’s how I got Milo in, as a waiter.”
But Milo got himself killed. I wasn’t sure if Kittie knew she was on edge escort antalya of a dangerous circle, but here was a clue. I decided to keep quiet about Milo’s interest in Maven Quinn. The girl was a sweetie, obviously fond of the dead boy, and perhaps she was safer if she didn’t know too much.
I was different. I had a shooter, and was ugly enough to look after myself if things went sideways, but I didn’t want to look after this little girl when I did it.
“I guess I don’t pass as a waiter?”
Kittie responded with a cute little smile. “I’m guessing you don’t, Mister Arbogast. But I’m guessing you’d look smart in a tux. Maybe you could dress up nice and get in.”
She looked at me with clarity in her eyes. “But I’m thinking you might not fit in, if you know what I mean.”
“Huh!” I reckon I did know what she meant.
“Do you know if Milo had family?” I asked, as if I was changing the subject, getting back to Milo.
“I don’t think so. He never said.”
“When’s the next ladies’ dance?” I thought I might have a way in. I could bluff my way through the door pretty easy, with a dame in a tight dress on my arm.
Kittie told me.
“Listen,” I said, “if you see me there, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you. Capiche?”
“Capiche.” Kittie looked at me all knowing.
I got up to go, giving her a dime for the coffee. She walked with me to the hat check counter and returned my hat.
Her face hardened, all of a sudden. “Find them, Mister Arbogast. Find out who killed Milo.”
I nodded, tipping my finger to the brim of my hat. “Reckon I just might, Miss Kittie. Reckon I just might.”
I went up the stairs, then turned back.
“Milo. How come he came here, to the Peacock?”
“He liked that hep-cat music, the bop. He was quite the smooth dancer, but he’d sit mostly, right up front near the singer. He was more a dreamer, I’d say; the wrong type of boy to be a reporter.”
I nodded. “Uh huh.” I turned my head towards the far end of the club. “Might come and listen myself, sometime.”
“First one’s on the house, if you do.”
“That would be swell. Good to know ya, Kittie.”
She smiled. There was soft sorrow in her eyes, and her smile struggled through it. I touched her hand. Such a little thing in a big ugly world, it didn’t seem right.
“Find them, Dan.” Her voice was soft up the stairs. “Kill them, maybe.”
I went out into the afternoon light thinking, that’s two ladies want me to track down a killer. I’d better go clean my gun.
* * * *
That Saturday night Miss Jones and I drove up towards Benedict Canyon in Milo’s DeSoto, heading for La Casa Blanca. I’d told her what I’d found out from Kittie, and from Milo’s kitchen drawer.
“So you want me to scope out this Quinn broad, see if she’s easy around women, reluctant around men, is that it?”
“That’s the plan about now, Miss Jones. Milo seemed very interested in her, so we need to find out why she’s interesting.”
I glanced across at her, and I gotta say, Ruby sure looked interesting to my eye. But I had to keep my eyes on the road, my hands on the wheel. She was my employer right at that moment and, well, I had to be some kind of a gentleman. She gazed across at me with a smile. She’d seen my quick look.
“You gonna call me by my name yet, Dan? Or is it always going to be Miss Jones?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She threw her head back with a delighted laugh, and leaned against the door of the car, looking at me. I glanced at her with my own grin.
“But look at you in your tux, Dan! Quite the dreamboat, with badness on your mind, I’d say.”
I’d say it too, but we had a job to do. I flicked the headlights on and gunned the car into fast corners. Fifteen minutes later we joined a short queue of cars making their way up a long drive into the Casa Blanca estate. We parked in between a big brougham and a neat little boat-tail speedster up from the coast.
“Look at the cute ass on that one,” said Ruby, as I opened the door to help her out of the car. I did, and she looked back at me as I did so. Kittie was cute, Ruby more voluptuous, but I wasn’t going to argue with the dame. I ran my hand over the smooth timber on the boat-tail as I walked past it.
“Come on, Dan, concentrate,” said Ruby, and she looped her arm through mine. Up ahead, I could see a footman by the door, checking what I assumed to be invitations.
“Let me do the talking,” said Ruby sotto voce as we reached the door.
“Ah goodness,” she exclaimed, “I’ve brought the wrong purse.” She ostentatiously flicked through it, faking a look for the invite. She held the eye of the guy on the door. “Will you look at that! I changed my mind at the last minute, changed my dress. This midnight blue shows off my figure much better, don’t you think?” Ruby kept walking, didn’t give the guy time to think, let along reply. I dragged along.
“He’s with me,” said Ruby, stroking my arm. “He’s my pet for tonight, aren’t you sugar?” She winked at the door guy, and we were inside.
“Well done,” I whispered, impressed with Ruby’s quick thinking.
“Hush, you,” she whispered. “Stay in role, babe. We might need to do some play acting.” She looked around at the various guests, a mix of elegant women and a variety of men, all flavours. “You might want to watch your back. There are boys here who’d fancy a big man like you.”
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