Doctor Alcazar looked after her. He wondered, idly, whether he would ever see her again.
He never did.
But three days later, and two hundred miles farther up the coast, he saw a picture of her.
It was a big photograph on the front page of the morning paper, and over it dark heavy letters spelled out Murder Victim. Doctor Alcazar raised his eyebrows and read:
Gloria Druce, former luminary of stage and screen and now Mrs. Clinton de Vries, today expressed dissatisfaction with police progress in investigating the brutal murder last Saturday night of her personal maid, Lily Morton.
“The murderer must be brought to justice!” Miss Druce declared. “Lily had been with me for years, ever since my first visit to London. She was more than a maid, she was my constant friend and companion...”
It was at this point in his reading that Doctor Alcazar’s friend and luncheon-host, the Weight-Guesser, jogged him in the ribs and said, “Wanna ’nother barker, Doc?”
Doctor Alcazar didn’t look up, but he said, “Thanks, Avvie,” and devoured the remains on his plate and went on reading.
He came to an end several minutes later, and folded the paper and put it down on the counter by his coffee-cup. He stared at it vacantly.
The little man called Avvie could restrain himself no longer. He said, “What’s eatin’ you, Doc?” and reached out and picked up the paper and unfolded it. “Somep’n here?”
“Um-hmm!” said Doctor Alcazar. “To my ears, Avvie, has come a far-off, delightful crackling of moola. And,” he added, “I mean moola.”
“Huh?” Avvie’s quick brown eyes scurried over the page. “This?” His finger pointed to “$5,000 Reward.”
“Ye-es,” said Doctor Alcazar. “Maybe. But it’s a general scent I’m getting...”
A frown wrinkled Avvie’s small face, and he pointed to Lily Morton’s picture. “Mean ya know who blotted this dame?”
“No,” said Doctor Alcazar. “No, I don’t. But... well, listen to me a minute...”
They reached Los Angeles late that night and took up residence at the Hollyhock Motel. They had a working capital of eighty-two dollars and seventeen cents, seventy-five dollars of which had been supplied by Avvie and the balance by Doctor Alcazar.
They went to bed. They waked early, and made for Hollywood, where Avvie set out for the Public Library and the newspaper-files, and Doctor Alcazar went about other business...
By two in the afternoon they were on their way to Beverly Hills. They traveled in style this time — in a big, black, shiny, Cadillac sedan, the rental of which had grievously reduced their capital.
Avvie was driving, still in his nondescript gray suit, but with a dark-blue, shiny-visored cap surmounting his squirrel-like little face.
Doctor Alcazar sat in the back seat at regal ease, a credit to the Western Costume Company and a very different picture from the be-slacked and sport-shirted figure of the early morning. Doctor Alcazar, to whose lean cheeks the interesting pallor seemed to have returned, wore a loose, dark, expensive-looking suit of faintly old-fashioned cut; around his neck, in place of collar and tie, an elaborate stock of black silk pinned with a single pearl-like stone. And his unfathomable eyes looked out at the world from beneath a wide-brimmed hat of deep-napped black felt, indescribably dashing.
Turning into the quiet magnificence of Fairbanks Drive, Avvie slowed the pace, and leaned out of the window. The house he was looking for was Number 347 — but suddenly, opposite the neo-Spanish portico of Number 345, Doctor Alcazar leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hold it,” said Doctor Alcazar.
“This ain’t it,” Avvie said. “Next one up.”
“Stop, will you!” said Doctor Alcazar and then, when Avvie obediently pulled into the curb, “Those notes you made at the Library? Still got ’em on you?”
“Sure.” Avvie produced a small black notebook and handed it over. “The address is first — then the dope on this Druce—”
“No, no,” said Doctor Alcazar, flipping over the pages. “I want the newspaper stuff — finding the body — all that... Ah! Here it is...” He read rapidly, and then shook his head and looked at Avvie. He said, “I’m going to ask you once more. Are you sure there was nothing, anywhere, about what she had in her pocket-book?”
“Sure I’m sure!” Avvie was aggrieved. “All it said any place was it wasn’t robbery because there was still dough in it.”
Doctor Alcazar shrugged. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay.” And he gave the notebook back.
Avvie shrugged, and drove on to the entrance of Number 347, and through big, wrought-iron gates, and up to the front of a large, white, opulently haphazard house.
Doctor Alcazar descended from the car, looked around him with lordly approval, and ascended the steps. He pressed a bell and turned again to survey the gardens.
The door opened behind him, and he slowly revolved to impel the force of his presence upon a white-coated, vaguely European manservant.
“Mrs. de Vries?” said Doctor Alcazar, with Olympian glance. “Is she at home?” He produced a card, only slightly over-sized, one side of which bore in blackest copperplate the two words Doctor Alcazar. He took a pen from his pocket and wrote upon the reverse side of the card, Concerning Lily Morton.
He handed the card to the servant. He said, “If you would give this to Mrs. de Vries—”
The man looked at the card, then at Doctor Alcazar again. “Will you come in, sir,” he said, and held the big door wider and led Doctor Alcazar across a hallway and ushered him into a long pleasant room, with French windows which looked out upon a flower-framed terrace and a tree-framed pool.
Left alone, he took it all in with a slow and comprehensive sweep of his eyes, and then, as the door opened again, turned to meet the woman who was coming towards him.
She was small and slim and straight, and in the slacks and shirt and sandals she was wearing, her body might have belonged to a girl. But the close-cut hair which lay in tight curls all over her small well-shaped head was iron-gray, and underneath it was a lined and impish little face which made no pretense of disguising what must have been its more than fifty years.
Doctor Alcazar bowed, and unobtrusively his eye swept over her.
H’mm. Friendly. Forceful. Intelligent. But difficult to start. Watch it.
Doctor Alcazar straightened. He said, “Miss Druce—” and caught himself. “I beg your pardon — Mrs. de Vries.”
The elfin face split in an enormous, delightful smile.
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “Please!” Her voice was surprisingly deep, and ever so slightly husky. “I like to be reminded. In fact, I love it.”
Doctor Alcazar smiled gravely. “It is hard to think of Gloria Druce by any other name...”
The smile began to fade, and Doctor Alcazar became aware that the blue eyes were regarding him shrewdly.
Oh-oh! Not so good. How to start? How to start?
She said, “Thank you, Doctor. You wanted to see me about poor Lily?”
Doctor Alcazar inclined his head.
She said, “What is it, then?” and her tone was changing, not auspiciously. “If you know anything that would help them, you should really have gone direct to the police.”
Bad. Try something. Anything. Maybe—
Doctor Alcazar raised a deprecatory hand. “No, no,” he said. “Please, Miss Dr— Mrs. de Vries! I’m afraid I’m not here to give help — but to ask for it!”