“Thank you,” I told her.
A telephone book in a near-by drugstore showed me that Benjamin C. Cosgate was a lawyer, Frank Glimson was a lawyer, and there was a firm of Cosgate & Glimson.
I started to call them, then thought better of it and postponed it until after I’d driven once more to the courthouse.
This time I looked at the Register of Actions, Plaintiff, and read through so many names that I all but passed up the one I wanted, but there it was: Irma Begley versus Philip E. Cullingdon. I made a note of the number of the case, told the deputy clerk I was a lawyer looking up some of the old records and asked for files on the case.
There was a neat little complaint, a demurrer, an amended complaint, a demurrer to an amended complaint, and a notice of dismissal. Attorneys for the plaintiff were Cosgate & Glimson.
I skimmed through the complaint. It stated that on the fifth day of April, 1942, while the plaintiff had been driving and operating a motor vehicle in a careful and law-abiding manner, the defendant, without due or any regard for the safety of other vehicles or the occupants thereof, had so carelessly, negligently, and unlawfully driven and operated his automobile over, along, and upon a certain public highway known as Wilshire Boulevard, that he had caused his said automobile to collide with the automobile driven by the plaintiff; that as a result of said collision, plaintiff had sustained a permanent injury of the spine which had necessitated the payment of doctor’s bills in the amount of two hundred and fifty dollars, nursing and medicine in the amount of eighty-five dollars and twenty cents, X-rays in an amount of seventy-five dollars and specialist fees in an amount of five hundred dollars; that plaintiff was permanently injured, and that the careless driving of the defendant’s automobile as aforesaid was the sole and proximate cause of said injury. Wherefore. Plaintiff prayed judgment in an amount of fifty thousand dollars and for her costs of suit incurred herein.
The suit had been filed on the thirty-first day of March 1943.
I made a few notes from the papers, getting the names and addresses of the defendant’s lawyers, and looked in the telephone book for Philip E. Cullingdon. I found him listed as a contractor and made a note of his residence. Then I went down the hall to a telephone booth, called the office, found Bertha Cool was out, told Elsie Brand I was going to drop around for a cocktail at the Rimley Rendezvous; that if anything important turned up, Bertha could reach me there. Elsie asked me how I was doing on the case, and I told her I was making a little progress — nothing to write home about, but getting a few leads, and hung up.
3
At one time the Rendezvous idea had swept the country like a plague. Night clubs built up a fine afternoon trade, catering to women between thirty and forty who wanted romance. Some of these women were grass widows on the make. Some of them were married women who kidded their husbands, and perhaps themselves, pretending they’d been shopping and had “just dropped in” for a drink.
It was a nice racket for the night clubs who found themselves suddenly catering to a very profitable afternoon business — for a while. Then the grief began to catch up. The men who hung around didn’t do the places any good. The general nature of the setup began to leak out, and the first thing these places knew, they were writing the answers in red ink.
Most of them began to put drastic regulations into effect — no unescorted women, no table hopping.
The Rimley Rendezvous kept open and, as nearly as I could tell, there were no restrictions, which was interesting.
Because the Stanberry Building was on the edge of a congested business district, it was hard to find a parking place. There was a parking lot in the middle of the next block, and I was heading for it when I got a break. A taxi moved out from in front of the entrance to the building and I spotted a space between the painted strip of curb which marked the loading zone and taxi stand and a big Cadillac parked just behind. There was barely room to squeeze in. I didn’t intend to stay long and acted on the assumption the big Cad might belong to one of the big shots. I squeezed the agency car up pretty close. After I got out, I saw it was even closer than I’d thought, but I left it there anyway.
The elevator shot me up to the Rimley Rendezvous — a faint hint of heady perfume, deep carpets, subdued lights, dreamy music, swift-moving, solicitous waiters — an atmosphere of clandestine class, coupled with security and stability.
A swell setup.
I had a Scotch and soda. It was served in an amber glass so I couldn’t see how pale the drink was. Even if Pittman Rimley was paying twenty dollars a bottle for his Scotch, he could still make money at the prices he was charging and the amount of liquor he was putting in the drinks.
The place had a marvelous orchestra, quite a few women and a sprinkling of men — the fat-faced executive type who had stayed over from the merchant’s lunch, the poker-faced guys with long sideburns who kept their stomachs lean and hard, and tried to look like movie actors. It never had been much of a spot for the younger type. That class couldn’t stand the tariff.
A voice came drifting over my shoulder. The accents were those of routine seduction, “Cigars — cigarettes?”
I turned around and got an eyeful. She was about twenty-three with a skirt that stopped two or three inches before it reached her knees, a fancy white apron, a blouse with wide, flaring collar and a low V in front. The conventional tray suspended from the shoulder harness held an assortment of cigars, cigarettes, and bonbons.
I paid two-bits of Georgia Rushe’s expense money for a package of cigarettes ostensibly on the theory that I might open up a contact, actually because I was enjoying the scenery.
She had whimsical light gray eyes that smiled a sophisticated “thank you,” and seemed to have a somewhat detached, philosophical consideration for men who liked to look at legs.
She didn’t move away, but waited to strike a match for me.
“Thanks,” I said.
“It’s a pleasure.”
I liked her voice, but that was all I heard of it. She gave me another smile and moved away.
I looked the place over and wondered if by any chance Mrs. Ellery Crail might be among those present. I didn’t see any women who would have fitted the description and the part. Anemic, female droops didn’t go in for afternoon romance. It took women with a restless sex consciousness to patronize a place like that.
There wasn’t any use losing any sleep over it. I had a routine chore of detective work at ten bucks per day, and there was no occasion to use a lot of finesse. I walked out to the telephone booth and called the agency.
Bertha was out. I gave careful instructions to Elsie Brand. “I’m at the Rimley Rendezvous. I want to get a line on a woman here. Take a look at your watch. Wait exactly seven minutes, then call the Rendezvous and ask if Mrs. Ellery Crail is here. Say that you’d like to have her come to the telephone, to page her if they don’t know her, that it’s important. Wait until they go to get her and then hang up.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope. That’s all.”
“Any messages you want to leave for Bertha?”
“Tell her I’m down here.”
“Okay, Donald. Good to hear your voice.”
“Good to hear yours. Good-by.”
I went back to my table. The waiter was hovering around as though I hadn’t been drinking my liquor fast enough. So I finished it up and ordered another.
The drink came just about at the expiration of the seven minutes.
I started looking around. The head waiter summoned one of the underlings, said something to him and the man nodded, moved very unobtrusively over to a table where a woman and a man were sitting. He said something to the woman and she got up and excused herself.