Delaney handed her the bottle. He saw a rent receipt book on the table and leafed through it. He found the carbon of Mavis’ last receipt, dated ten days back, and noted the room number. He turned to the woman.
“Her room rented?”
The woman leaned back against a grimy pillow at the end of the davenport and looked at Delaney. She raised the bottle and let the wine pour down her throat without visibly swallowing it. Finally she lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth.
“I ain’t had time to clean it up,” she answered, while a lascivious expression stole over her face. She moved, as if to make room for him on the davenport beside her, and gestured with the bottle. She grinned crookedly, “Sit down. Take a load off your feet.”
Delaney swore under his breath and strode from the room followed by the woman’s raucous, drunken laughter.
The girl stood in the opposite doorway, leaning against the jamb. A dressing gown, carelessly open at the top, was wrapped tightly around her full hips and long, tapering thighs. There was nothing under the dressing gown but a firm body covered with smooth, finely textured, milk-white skin. She was above average in height: a bottle blonde with hard features softened by a nice smile.
“What’d you expect — Lady As-tor?” Surprisingly, her voice was low pitched, not hard. “You spare a cigarette?”
“You hear that drunken sot?” Delaney demanded, offering the girl a cigarette and lighting it for her.
“Tastes good,” she said, gratefully dragging on the cigarette. Her smile broadened, “I think they heard her down at the corner.”
Delaney grunted.
“You looking for Mavis?” the girl asked.
“Yes. Are you a friend of hers?” Delaney’s eyes narrowed.
The girl shrugged. “Mavis isn’t a girl to make friends with other girls. Kinda high-hat where women are concerned, if you know what I mean.”
“But you knew her?” Delaney persisted. “I’d like to talk with you. May I come in?”
“Look, mister,” the girl hesitated. Her eyes took stock of Delaney from his head to his feet, then came up to search his face. “Maybe you’re a cop. Maybe you’re an all right guy. I don’t know. But I don’t want trouble — either now or later.”
Delaney smiled. “No trouble, and I’m not a cop. How about it?”
Her room was like any other in a cheap rooming house in an unsavory district. It contained a minimum of furniture, a piece of worn carpeting on a linoleum floor, a few pathetic splashes of color to relieve the dreariness. But it was clean — unlike the room across the hall.
Delaney lowered himself into a chair and watched the girl cross the room. His eyes kindled and he expressed his appreciation with a sharp intake of breath.
The girl settled on a studio couch and smiled at him with amused tolerance. Her smile grew up to a laugh and she warned: “No trouble — and no wrestling. This was your idea, not mine.”
Delaney grinned. “Okay. What can you tell me about Mavis? Where’d she work? Who’d she know?”
The girl stirred uneasily and studied her finger nails. “You say you’re not a cop, but you ask a lot of questions. Who are you? What’s your interest in Mavis?”
“I’m Al Delaney, a private investigator. Here—” he pulled his chair closer and flipped open his billfold to show her his license. “What’s your name?”
“Gladys.” She dragged on her cigarette, her eyes searching his face. “What’s this all about, Al?”
“I’ll give it to you straight, Gladys.” Delaney lit a fresh cigarette and leaned forward. “I’ve got a client who wants to locate this Mavis Blair, but doesn’t want a lot of cops nosing around. But all I get to work on is her background, her picture and this address. If I knew where she worked, I might get a lead. You know?”
“Mavis didn’t have a steady job, Al.” Gladys lowered her eyes to avoid meeting his.
“But what did she do? Waitress? Car hop in some drive-in?”
“No — nothing like that.”
Delaney grunted with impatience. A slight edge crept into his voice: “What’s the matter — she a sidewalk angel?”
“Mr. Delaney!” Gladys laughed, but an angry gleam lurked in her eyes.
“Okay,” Delaney grinned. “So I opened my big mouth and put both feet in it. But a girl has to live. The question is how? And you don’t seem to want to tell me.”
He tried another tack. “Let’s quit playing games. Did Mavis have a steady boy-friend?”
“Keeping her in a dump like this?” Gladys snorted and shook her head.
“What does she do?” Delaney asked softly.
“Mavis is a model — a photographer’s model,” Gladys replied with a tone of finality, as though she need say no more.
Delaney looked at Gladys narrowly for a moment. Then he said slowly: “I don’t suppose Mavis poses for what the trade calls ‘high fashion’ shots. No pictures for Vogue or Harpers Bazaar?”
Gladys laughed shortly.
“Lengerie? Foundation garments?”
Gladys shook her head.
“Pin-ups? Cheesecake?” Delaney probed a little deeper.
“You could call it that — if you want to, Al.”
“But you don’t,” he grunted. “I’m beginning to get the idea. Who’d she pose for, Gladys?”
“Not any one guy. Several.” Gladys rose to her feet. She said nervously: “Look, Al, I can’t tell you any more. I’ve said too much already.”
“But you haven’t told me anything,” he protested, leaving his chair and following her across the room.
“Yes I have,” she paused with her hand on the door knob and looked at him. “I... I don’t want trouble. Guess I can’t take it any more.”
“But the town is full of photographers — amateur, professional, legitimate and otherwise,” he pleaded, placing his hand over hers.
Gladys shook her head. “That’s asking for it. Believe me — I know. This racket is organized. A girl who speaks out of turn can get in real trouble.”
“Please, baby.” Delaney was getting desperate. He said, “I’m only one guy.”
Gladys hesitated.
Delaney reached into his pocket, then studied her face. He drew his hand out empty and placed it on her shoulder. He said softly: “I know it’s tough. I know what you mean by trouble. But I know how to protect my sources of information. If somebody had given you a break when you were starting out, maybe—”
“Damn you,” she breathed. Then leaning closer to him, she said rapidly in a low voice:
“There’s a joint on Cahuenga near Santa Monica Boulevard. They don’t shoot the pictures there. It’s a processing plant and distribution center. But the jerks who bring their film in to be developed and printed, book their models through the guy on the counter. He has pictures of all the girls — their names, addresses and phone numbers.”
“Thanks, baby.” Delaney squeezed her shoulder, then dropped his hand. He said, “If you need—”
Gladys interrupted him by opening the door and pushing him into the hall. Her face was flushed and her eyes avoided his. She tossed her head and said stridently: “Don’t try to soft soap me. On your way. Blow!”
The door slammed in his face.
When Delaney pulled the Chrysler away from the curb, he glanced in the rear-view mirror just in time to see a gray Ford two-door pull out a half a block behind. Delaney turned west on Santa Monica Boulevard, driving with one eye on the mirror. There were two men in the Ford following him. He turned south, off the boulevard, and lost them in the back streets of the business district of Sawtelle.
Delaney cut back to the boulevard and turned east. Once he was out of the business district, he headed for the nearest gas station with an outside phone booth. He didn’t know whether he had been followed from his office or whether he had been picked up at Mavis’ address. One thing was sure: whoever “they” were, they knew now that he was looking for Mavis. When Elsie answered the phone, he said: