“Didn’t you let her know about DeCoudre’s reputation?”
“Of course, but it was a mistake. For the past three months we’ve had only brief notes from her, and she ignores any direct questions.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Doctor Bressette sounded just faintly embarrassed. “I want my daughter to come home, Mr. Carmody. I don’t know how that can be accomplished, but I wish you would talk to her. If that fails, perhaps a talk with DeCoudre will help.”
I said: “It sounds more like a job for Dorothy Dix than for a private detective.”
“I know it does, but somehow I feel you can do it.” He said something to the effect that my fast work on DeCoudre’s past had given him a great deal of confidence in me.
I made modest sounds into the receiver, but in the face of such faith I had to agree to hunt up Laurie Bressette and give her a fatherly little talk. The only address the doctor had was a P.O. number, but I knew I could get in touch with her through DeCoudre’s new office on Vine Street. Then I thought of something. “What does your daughter look like?”
“She has dark hair and brown eyes. Small, around a hundred pounds. A very lively, reckless girl.”
“O.K.” I said. It would have been too good to be true. Even a Hollywood make-up man couldn’t make a big blue-eyed blonde out of that. I told the doctor not to worry about a thing, I’d have a report for him in a day or two at the latest.
He thanked me and hung up. He sounded like a very nice guy. He’d talked for nearly fifteen minutes long-distance without worrying about the charges we were running up. That suggested he would pay my fee without quibbling...
I went back and joined O’Leary. “I just got hired to shepherd a wayward daughter back to East Peoria. She’s under contract to DeCoudre and the family doesn’t like the idea. That knocks out the Randolph job.”
O’Leary said: “Why don’t you go out and clinch Randolph’s job first? Then you could let it slide until you had more time. She said she lost at least ten thousand dollars worth and you’d get ten per cent. That would be a thousand dollars.”
“I’ve already got a thousand dollars.” I reached for the check to show her that the subject was closed. I was not going to fool around with any more movie stars. I didn’t see what I’d ever accomplish anyhow. Somebody had prowled Randolph’s Beverly Hills’ mansion one night when she was out and if there were any clues, the cops would have them. Besides, it was one of a long series of burglaries by the same gang apparently, and the police ought to be getting a pattern by now. They’d do Randolph a lot more good than I would. I said: “You dig up some more dope on DeCoudre in case I have to argue with him. I’ll split the fee with you.”
“I refuse to accept your charity,” O’Leary said haughtily. “I have my pride.” She left me standing in the bright warm sun on Hollywood Boulevard, scratching my skull. Now what had I done? Sometimes I find women, even Mrs. O’Leary’s nice daughter Margaret, a difficult proposition.
Presently, I gave up and walked over to Vine Street to do some fast work on finding Laurie Bressette. I’d swallowed all the nice things her old man had told me about being a good detective, a human bloodhound. Ten minutes later I was William Carmody again, a second-rate private eye...
At DeCoudre’s office a secretary, with shell-rimmed glasses and a coax-me-to-take-them-off look, said Laurie’s option had expired months ago and she was no longer under contract to DeCoudre. Furthermore, she hadn’t the least idea where Laurie might be now. With a little bit of urging she did hunt up the file and discovered that Laurie had gone to work in a film rental library on Selma Avenue. That was the best she could do. I said thanks, and left without coaxing her to take off her glasses. I wanted to talk to Laurie before she left for the evening.
I walked seven blocks to the address on Selma. I should have saved the wear and tear on my new thirty-dollar shoes. The Anselmo Film Library was out of business. The windows were covered and the furniture had been taken out. I stood there and muttered a few dirty words under my breath. Maybe there was a fast way of locating Laurie, but all I could think of was to cover the P.O. box in the Hollywood post office and that could turn out to be a very long and very dull vigil.
Not very hopefully I went next door, which was a bar. A fat, curly-haired barman said immediately and positively that he knew nothing whatever about the Anselmo Film Library. I said: “Did a little dark-haired, brown-eyed girl ever come in here?”
“Yeah. At least fifty of them.”
“From next door?”
“I wouldn’t be knowing,” he said. “Maybe she did. I just wouldn’t remember. Care for anything to drink?”
I said no, and went back to the phone booth. The yellow telephone directory listed the Anselmo Flm Library: 16 mm Sound and Silent — Travel — Educational — Religious — Operators Furnished With Complete Equipment.
But Anselmo’s first name wasn’t given, so I couldn’t get his home address. In disgust I went back to my office.
After I had killed the remaining two inches of whiskey in a pint I kept stashed away in the file cabinet, my cares lightened slightly. I carefully set the bottle on the floor and debated the question of going out for another one and really latching on to a real binge.
Then the phone rang. I thought it was O’Leary calling to apologize for being so shirty with me. Instead, a voice as cold and implacable as a grave digger’s spade said: “A word to the wise, Carmody. If you want to live, forget about Laurie Bressette. You can’t do anything for her now!”
Then the phone started humming in my ear again. My hands were suddenly wet with perspiration, but the office was cold. I could have used another pint of liquor right then. That voice was straight out of my worst nightmare. I’d never before heard anything so menacing. Not that I was scared — I told myself. But when I stood up, my foot accidentally knocked the empty bottle clattering across the floor and I damned near fainted.
I spent the following forenoon in the United States Post Office, Hollywood Station, waiting for Laurie to show. There was a letter in her box — probably from Doctor Bressette — so she’d likely be in some time today. If she were coming. That voice on the telephone yesterday had given me a bad night.
What worried me most was how he’d gotten on to me so fast. I’d only taken the job a couple of hours before he called. There was a leak somewhere.
But all I could do was stand there in the post office and stew. I couldn’t do anything for her now, he’d said. Maybe that meant she’d never come. But there wasn’t anything I could do but wait.
At twelve o’clock she hadn’t come, so I stepped out to a drugstore. I had a sandwich and a cup of coffee. All the time I was watching the post office entrance through the window. Nobody resembling Laurie Bressette’s description went in. I took a chance and had a shoeshine in a barber shop before going back.
The moment I entered the P. O. again, my sixth sense told me I’d pulled a boner. Laurie had been there and gone, my bones told me. Mumbling some bad words, I went over and peered into Box 4972... A sixth sense is a valuable asset to the successful private detective — if he has it.
I didn’t have it. The letter was still there. I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or scared.
A post office, I discovered, is not an entertaining place to spend a day. After awhile you get tired of watching screwballs; counting the number of boxes; or doodling on the backs of money order forms. Finally, to keep from jumping the rails altogether, I sat down at the United States Army Recruiting desk and let a sergeant give me his pitch. I still think I’d have ended up back in the Army if the girl hadn’t come for the letter in Box 4972.