“George,” she murmured more to herself than to me, “was cold long before they put him in his coffin.”
“He didn’t seem that way last night,” I pointed out.
“He was fine in group situations. But person-to-person, he was strictly deep-freeze.”
“What do you want?” Phil demanded. He strode over to Helen and put his arm around her protectively.
“Touching,” I remarked. “Very touching. And,” I added to Helen, “I admire your widow’s weeds very much.”
“What do you want?” she echoed Phil’s question. Her voice was braver now, but she was still frightened.
I came right to the point. “Hortense went to some sort of discipline group with Barry and Elsa tonight. I want to know where they meet.”
Helen and Phil both looked blank.
“Barry once brought a girl named Carrie here. He took her to the same place. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing.” Helen sounded like she was telling the truth.
“If Barry swings that way, he keeps it quiet.” Phil backed her up.
“Honest,” Helen said, “he wouldn’t tell any of us. George was very strict. He wouldn’t have had Barry and Elsa in the house if he thought they were spankers. He didn’t dig that.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“No.”
“What about you, old buddy?” I asked Phil.
“Not my dish.”
I thought about whether or not to believe them. I decided I might as well. As far as I knew, they had no reason to lie. But before I could get on to the next question, Helen came up with one of her own.
“How did you get out of jail?” she asked.
“I had Tonto back Silver up to the window and kick the bars in,” I told her blithely. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Yes. Why did you kill George?”
“He had post-nasal drip. It was incurable. He didn’t want you to know. I did him a favor.”
“How can you talk to her that way?” Phil asked indignantly. “Don’t you have any sensitivity?”
“I guess I’m just not as broken up over poor old George as you two are,” I told him pointedly.
He flushed, and they both fell silent.
“What about your Frau tonight?” I asked Phil.
“What about her?”
“How come she didn’t come along with you to help console the widow?”
Now it was his turn to shoot me a who's-kidding-whom look.
“I withdraw the question. But tell me, where is Ingrid?”
“She went out.” Phil shrugged. “I don’t know where."
“You don’t sound like you care much, either.”
“We don’t get on each other’s backs.”
“Very sensible. But surely you must have some idea of where she’d be likely to go on her own.”
“Why should you be interested in Ingrid?” he wanted to know.
“That’s my business. Let’s just say I am. Now answer the question.” I wiggled the gun to encourage him.
“I’m really not sure.”
“Do you know at friend of hers named Knute Hajstrom?” I tried another tack.
“Yeah. I’ve met him. I don’t know him very well, though.”
“What’s his connection with Ingrid?”
“She’s a Svenska-—or, at least, her parents were. She met him at some affair thrown by an outfit called Friends of Sweden. She goes there every so often, and I guess she sees him there.”
“Don’t you go with her?”
“I went a couple of times. I didn’t dig it. Now she goes by herself.”
Noticing the way he dropped his eyes, I played parlor psychiatrist. “You’re not telling me something, Philsy,” I tutted at him. “If you hold back, I’m going to get very angry.”
“Oh, all right. There’s an angle to this Swedish group. Ingrid got involved with them through Velvet’s mailing service, the same as we got involved with Helen here and George. Only they swing a different way.”
“Like how?” I wanted to know.
“The body beautiful. They dig voyeurism more than anything. They go for stripping and chasing each other around in the buff with polaroids and stuff like that. But the hang-up is there’s never any personal contact. I just can’t see it.”
“But Ingrid can. Right?”
“I guess so. She gets some kind of narcissistic kick out of watching the guys ogle her and get all hot and bothered. I think she gets more of a kick out of that than out of any other kind of sex.”
“And that’s where she might be tonight, hey?” I ignored his noncommittal shrug. “Well, Philsy-boy, suppose you just give me the address and tell me how I get into the place.”
“If I do, will you get out of here and leave us alone?”
“Scout’s honor,” I assured him.
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t.” I wiggled the gun at him. “But you don’t have much choice, now do you?”
“I guess not.” He sighed. “All right.” He rattled off an address. “Just give them this.” He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to me.
It was a business card from the Velvet Book Mart. On the back of it were the letters “sw.” with “O.K., M.V.” scrawled underneath. “The ‘sw.’ stand for Swedish’?” I asked Phil.
“Yeah.” He stuck his chin out. “You going to go away and leave us alone like you said you would now?” he asked.
“I’m on my way,” I assured him. “Anything I can tell your wife for you?”
“Yeah. Tell her you never saw me. She can be sticky when it comes to Helen here.”
I thought you said she didn’t care.”
“You’ve got it backwards,” he told me. “She doesn’t care about me. It’s Helen she gets jealous about.”
“Gee, it must be nice to be loved by so many people,” I told Helen sincerely.
“And in so many different ways,” she giggled.
“Ingrid could have fooled me,” I admitted.
“She did fool me,” Phil said with a touch of bitterness. “But don’t get the wrong idea. She’s not a real Les; just a switch-hitter; and pretty particular about it, too. Helen’s the only woman I ever saw her really go ape for. Not that I can blame her,” he added, giving Helen a little squeeze.
“Well, at least it’s all in the family,” I said philosophically as I started out the door.
“Hey, what about giving me back my gun,” Phil called after me.
“Some other time,” I yelled back. “You’ve got your hands full now.”
I slammed the door behind me and started down the driveway. I must have walked for twenty minutes before I finally found a taxi. It was another twenty before it dropped me off at the address Phil had provided.
It was a rundown factory district, deserted and quiet with the lack of activity that came with the night. There was a sign painted on the door of the building the cab dropped me at. It said Swedish Massage Parlor. I knocked and the door opened just enough so that a nose-tip could stick out.
“Ja?” the nose-tip asked.
I slipped the card Phil had given me through the crack. The door opened all the way, and I followed a pair of muscle-bound shoulders down a long, dingy hallway. Another door was opened, and my guide stood aside to let me through.
It was a large, brightly lit room. There were twenty- odd people of both sexes bouncing around it. About half of them were completely nude. The other half were getting there. A few of the men were running around with cameras. They were very enthusiastic. They were chasing three or four squealing girls, who occasionally paused to pose coyly and then gamboled out of range.
As I was taking it all in, a healthy Nordic type bounced a breast off my elbow and whispered a greeting into my ear. “Why don’t you get comfortable?” she suggested. “I will,” I assured her. “But first I’m looking for some friends. Knute and Ingrid. Do you know them?”
“Oh, sure. They're in the trophy room.” She pointed. I crossed over to the archway she’d indicated and paused to read the plaque nailed over it. Swedish Sport Club, it said. I pushed through the curtains and went into the trophy room.