I parked behind the limousine and went in too.
The lobby was no smaller than an ice-skating rink, but cosier. There was a reception desk, an enquiry desk, a flower-stall, a cigarette kiosk, and a hall porter's cubby hole. It was class; the
carpet tickled my ankles.
I looked around.
The three dizzy dames had gone over to the elevators. One of them pulled down her gridle with both hands and gave me the eye. She had too much on the ball for me to be more than mildly interested. She was the kind of dame who'd pick out your good inlays without an anaesthetic. I took myself over to the hall porter. He was a sad old man dressed up in a bottlegreen uniform. He didn't look as if he had much joy in his life.
I draped myself over the counter of his cubby-hole.
"Hi, dad," I said.
He looked up and nodded. "Yes, sir?" he said.
"Miss Spence. Miss Lois Spence. Right?"
He nodded again. "Apartment 466, sir. Take the right-hand elevator."
"She in."
"Yes, sir."
"That's fine," I said, and lit a cigarette.
He looked at me and wondered, but he was too well bred to ask why I didn't go up and see her. He just waited.
"How are you going off for holding money, dad?" I asked casually.
He blinked. "Always do with some, sir," he said.
"Kind of tough here?" I asked, glancing around. "All silk for the customers and crepe for the staff?"
He nodded. "We're supposed to make it in tips, sir," he said bitterly. "But they are so mean here they wouldn't give a blind beggar the air."
I took out a five spot and folded it carefully. He eyed it the way I eye Dorothy Lamour.
"Miss Spence interests me," I said. "Know anything about her?"
He glanced around uneasily. "Don't flash that money so anyone can see it, sir," he begged. "I wouldn't like to lose my job."
I hid the note in my hand, but I let the end show in case he forgot what it looked like.
"Do you talk or do you talk?" I asked pleasantly.
"Well, I know her, sir," he said. "She's been here three years, and you get to know them after a while." He said it as if he hated her guts.
"Nice to you?"
"Maybe she doesn't mean it, sir," he said, shrugging.
"You mean she doesn't kick you in the face because her leg doesn't stretch that far?"
He nodded.
"What's her line?" I asked.
His old face sneered. "Tom—he runs the elevator—says she'd flop at the drop of a hat. Perhaps you know what he means. I don't."
"It's a cynical way of saying she's a push-over," I said. "Is she?"
He shook his head. "Maybe the first time, but not after that. She kind of whets a guy's appetite and then holds him off. It comes kind of expensive the second time. I've seen guys climb walls and gnaw their way across the ceiling because they couldn't make the grade."
"She kind of gets in your blood, huh?"
He nodded. "One sap shot himself because of her."
"Tough."
"I guess he was crazy."
"How did Herrick make out with her?"
He eyed me narrowly. "I don't know whether I should talk about him, sir. The boys in blue have been buzzing around here today like wasps."
I showed him the other end of the five spot, hoping it would look more interesting that way.
"Try," I said.
"Well, he was different. He and the Basque."
"The Basque?"
He nodded. "He's up there now."
"She played around with Herrick?"
"Well, they went around together. Herrick had a lot of dough, but I wouldn't say they played, if you mean what I think you mean, sir."
"You wouldn't, eh? How about the Basque?"
He shrugged. "You know what these women are like. They have to have one regular among the many. I guess he's it."
"And not Herrick?"
"He was different. He never stayed nights with her. I guess they were on a different footing. Maybe they were in business or something together."
"You wouldn't swear to that?"
"No, but she didn't take any trouble to hide up the Basque from Herrick. He'd be with her when Herrick called. It seemed to make no difference."
"Who is this Basque, anyway?"
"Name's Juan Gomez. He's a jai alai player. The local champ around here."
"What does he do beside play?"
The old man's eyes rolled. "Gets out of training with Miss Spence, I reckon."
"Did the cops pay her a visit?"
He nodded.
"Hear anything?"
"No, but Gomez was with her." A wintry smile crossed his face. "I bet she had to do some fancy talking to explain what that dago was doing in her room at eight o'clock in the morning."
"Probably said he'd come to fix the refrigerator," I said. "Ever see Killeano in here?"
"No."
"Right," I said, and slid him the five spot. He snapped it up the way a lizard nails a fly.
I was moving away when he leaned forward and whispered, "Here they come now."
I looked over my shoulder and saw them. Being interested in women, I looked first at Miss Spence. She had on a pair of long-waisted, rust-coloured slacks, Bata shoes, a brown and white print shirt and an orange scarf. Apart from being a trifle heavy in the beam, she had a longlimbed languorous figure. Her red hair was as artificial as her long-spiked eye-lashes. Her mouth was wide and glistening, and her eyes were the colour of forget-me-nots, and as expressionless. She wore Revlon's "Fatal Apple" make-up (the most tempting new colour since Eve winked at Adam). As she wafted past me on a cloud of No. 5 Chanel, I observed the utterly disdainful expression on her face and the strange sins that lurked in her eyes.
I decided it'd be interesting to have a session with her, providing two strong men were outside the door to rescue me if the going got too tough, and if she left me enough strength to scream for help.
The Basque was a turn on his own. He was tall and broad and unpleasantly strong looking, and as lithe as a jungle cat and twice as dangerous. His brown, lean face was coldly savage, and there was a chilled expression in his eyes that didn't make you feel you wanted to slap him on the back.
Miss Spence handed over the keys to the hall porter as if he was the invisible man, and then strolled across the lobby, with Gomez tailing her.
As she walked, she managed to make her hips quiver, and all the men in the lobby, including me, peeped at them.
Half way across, she paused to ask her boy friend for a cigarette. He was lighting it for her when a loudspeaker extension crackled into life.
"Paradise Palms Police Department," said a tinny voice. The loudspeaker hummed slowly, then spluttered to sound: "Repeat as of nine fifteen on Herrick killing. Wanted: Chester Cain. Description: six foot one—a hundred and ninety pounds —about thirty-five—dark hair—sallow complexion—wearing grey suit, grey soft hat. Probably trying to get out of town . . . don't take any chances—he's dangerous. Anyone recognizing the wanted man should report at once by telephone to the Police Department. No attempt should be made to apprehend this man unless you are armed. That is all."