I was going through the want-ads (Miscellaneous for Sale), when I heard the key in the front door, the sound of the door opening, and a light, feminine tread along the carpeted hallway.
She stood in the archway a moment later. Blue-black hair and dark eyes, the hair up, the eyes gravely considering me. About twenty-five. I’d say, with a slim, arrogant figure, high breasted, fairly long legged. A fine morsel in the arch-way.
She smiled, a friendly smile. “You’re the detective...?”
I rose. “That’s right. And you’re Mrs. Randolph?”
The smile again, and there was some bitterness in it now, I thought. “For the time being. It’s nothing I’d care to make a career of. Aren’t you drinking?”
I must have looked startled, for she chuckled. “I thought all private detectives drank,” she said, “all the time. And talked out of the corners of their mouths. I thought they were all big hulks.”
I’m not short, but then again I’m not tall. I’d like to be tall. I said: “I drink as often and as heavily as most, I guess. This didn’t seem to be the proper time nor place.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “Sit right there. I’ll get us something. Curtis doesn’t use it. He should, poor dear, but his hands, you know, his marvelous, steady hands—” She went back into the hallway.
When she came back, she had discarded her wrap. The dress she wore was some pale shade of blue. A filmy material, and cut low, with a bare midriff. She was tanned in all the places I could see. She went over to a cabinet at the shadowed end of the room and brought back some bottles. One of them was a squat, pinched bottle of Scotch.
She held it high. “This all right?”
It tastes like liquid smoke to me, but I nodded agreeably.
“Ice,” she said. “I’ll need some ice. Is Juan back in the kitchen?”
I said he’d gone out — to dance.
“Well, would you run back, then? I can’t seem to master those trays at all.”
“After seven o’clock,” I answered. “I can’t move away from that door until then.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I’ll be right here.” Her smooth forehead wrinkled. “Or am I under suspicion, too?” The chuckle again. “The sinister female, huh? Sending the poor gullible detective back to the kitchen while she slips into her husband’s bedroom, gun clutched firmly in hand—”
I lighted a cigarette, and yawned, covering my mouth politely.
“All right” she said, “all right—” She went out, through the archway. She moved with just a suggestion of a swagger. It was entirely possible she’d had quite a few drinks already, tonight. Though the aroma from one is about the same as that from many. There was the sound of water running, and the clank of the closing refrigerator door.
Then she was back with a silver bowl of ice cubes.
“Will you mix them? You’ll be sure, that way, that they’re not drugged, and it’s a man’s job, anyway, you know.”
I mixed them, Scotch and seltzer. She didn’t use much seltzer, I was told. When she came to sit on the davenport, I caught another odor, her perfume. I stared at my drink. There is a lot of goat in me; there is also in me a decent regard for my trade. The two could come into conflict any moment now, I thought.
“Well,” she said, “to success.” She lifted her glass high.
We drank. I tried to think of something to say, but nothing came, nothing bright, at any rate.
“No bumps, no grinds,” she said.
I stared at her doubtfully.
She laughed quietly. “I was thinking aloud. I was remembering a sign in the old Bijou. They were very strict at the old Bijou.”
“That’s a burlesque term, isn’t it?” I asked.
She nodded. “And the Bijou was a burlesque house, one of the best. That’s where Curtis first saw me. Three years ago.”
She was getting into that alcoholic-confidential mood, I saw. She must have been three-quarters gone when she got home.
“And you gave up your career for marriage,” I said.
She looked at me suspiciously. “I suppose you think that’s cute. I suppose you don’t know about all the entertainers who’ve come up from the burlesque stage.”
“Gypsy Rose Lee, I’ve heard of,” I admitted. “But you’re doing all right, now. You’ve come pretty far, from what I can see.”
She said scornfully: “Married to that?” Her dark head inclined toward the bedroom door. “I like my men with a little life. If he wasn’t rolling in the long green, I’d have left him. I’ll leave him yet, when I get a better deal, when I get the kind of settlement I want.” She considered me gravely. “Am I boring you?”
“You’re embarrassing me,” I answered. “And you’ll be embarrassed, yourself, in the morning when you remember this conversation.”
“You think I’m drunk?”
“A little.”
Her full lower lip rubbed her upper lip now. “Maybe I am.” She was staring into the darkness at the other end of the room. She rose, finally, and put her empty glass on the coffee table. “I like you, Philo,” she said softly, “but I won’t bother you, tonight.” Her hand ruffled my hair.
Then she was gone, through the archway.
She bothered me all right, but only mentally the rest of the evening. I’d brought a pocket-sized edition of Saroyan along to kill time, but even he had nothing for me this night. I began to get sleepy around four, but I fought it off.
Jack Carmichael was on time, and I told him to phone me at home if anything happened I should know.
That was the routine for a week, and nothing happened. On Tuesday night made some house calls with him, but I didn’t go in. I stayed in the car.
Jack told me that most of his time was spent in the doctor’s outer office with his receptionist. The receptionist admitted to the inner office only those patients she knew. Any doubtful arrivals were checked with the doctor before admittance to the inner office.
Twice, Jack had accompanied the doctor to some small, lodge-like building in the country. Where it was, however, Jack couldn’t say. “I had to sit in that damned rear deck, with the lid down, both ways,” he told me. “Something mighty fishy cooking up there, Jonesy.”
I could guess what it was, but I didn’t tell Jack that.
On Friday, Mac told me that Ed Byerly had been around again, and asking for me. Mac said: “I don’t see much of you, Jonesy. You find a better spot?”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” I said, “but the truth is, I’m working all night and sleeping days.”
“Huh,” Mac said, “a night watchman. I figured you’d have to find honest work one of these days.”
I didn’t see Mrs. Randolph much that week. She came in late, usually, and she’d go right back to her bedroom, after a few words of greeting.
The doctor’s brother, a short, squat man named Alex, I had the doubtful pleasure of meeting Saturday night. He was some sort of promoter, I learned. He and the doctor spent Saturday night over a chessboard. They were both very good. Their openings I could follow, and their end game. The moves in between were too subtle to follow at the time, though I could enjoy them, after I saw what they led to. Either one of them could have given me his queen and beaten me.
The doctor was the master, here.
Mrs. Randolph came in while they were playing. I mentally compared her body to the doctor’s brain, and thought, it’s the old, old story. Of Human Bondage, I thought. But said nothing.
There was some three-sided dialogue, yours truly not participating, and then Mrs. Randolph retired, as the phrase goes.