Bertha glanced at her wrist watch. I got up, walked over to the door, and went out.
There was a flight of noisy stairs down to a patio, then a long passageway. I made a right-angled turn past another patio, and came out on Royal Street. I walked down to the corner and saw a sign, Bourbon House. I walked over there.
It was typical of the real French Quarter restaurant — not the tourist-trap affairs that put on a lot of glitter and charge all the traffic will bear, but a place where the prices were low and the food good. There were no frills or la-de-dah, and the place catered to regular customers.
I knew I’d struck pay dirt. Anyone who was living in that section of the Quarter would hang out there pretty regularly.
I walked over to the door that led to a bar, then turned back to the room that had the lunch counter, a couple of pinball machines, and a juke box.
“Want something?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Cup of pure coffee and some nickels for the pinball machine,” I said, tossing four bits on the counter.
He handed me the nickels and drew off the coffee.
Two or three men were hanging around one of the pinball machines, giving it a good play. I gathered from their conversation they were regulars around the place. The juke box clicked into noise. A feminine voice said, “May I have your attention, please. This song is dedicated to the management.” Then the juke box started playing Way Down Upon the Swanee River.
I took from my pocket the pictures Hale had given me. Just as I tasted the coffee, I gave an exclamation of disgust.
“What’s the matter?” the man behind the counter asked. “Something wrong with the coffee?”
“No,” I said. “Something wrong with the photographs.”
He looked puzzled, but sympathetic.
I said, “The photographer gave me the wrong ones. I wonder where mine are.”
There was no one else at the counter at the moment. The man leaned across the bar, and I casually swung the pictures around so he could take a look.
I said, “I suppose now I’m out of luck. They’ll have mixed the films up, given mine to someone else, and I’ll never see them again.”
“Perhaps they just switched the orders,” he said. “You got this girl’s pictures, and she got yours.”
“That isn’t going to help any. How am I going to find her?”
He said, “Say, I’ve seen that girl! I think she used to eat in here once in a while. Wait a minute. I’ll ask one of the boys.”
He motioned to the colored waiter, handed him one of the pictures. “Who’s this girl?” he asked.
The waiter took the picture, turned it toward the light, and said instantly, “Ah don’ know her name, but she ate heah about two-three years ago quite regular. Ah don’ think she comes heah no mo’.”
“Left town?” I asked.
“No, suh. Ah don’ rightly think so. Ah seen her on the street about a month ago. She just ain’t been in heah, that’s all.”
I said, “Well, there’s a chance the photographer may know. She seems to have been in there recently with this roll of pictures. They’re nearly all of her.”
“Ah’ll tell you where Ah seen her,” the colored boy said. “Ah seen her about a month ago comin’ out of Jack O’Leary’s Bar. Somebody was with her.”
“Man?” I asked.
“Yes, suh.”
“You didn’t know the man?”
“No, suh, Ah don’. He was a tall man with kinda big hands, carryin’ a briefcase.”
“How old?”
“Maybe fifty, maybe fifty-five. Ah don’ remember rightly, suh. He was a stranger to me. Ah just happened to remember the girl and that she didn’t eat here no mo’. Ah used to wait on her when she was here.”
“Can you tell me anything more about this man?” I asked.
The waiter thought for a minute, then said, “Yes, suh.”
“What?”
“He looked like he was holdin’ somethin’ in his mouth,” he said.
I didn’t press the inquiry any further. I paid for the coffee, went over and stood watching the boys who were playing the pinball machine, and after a few minutes walked out.
I went down to Jack O’Leary’s Bar. At this hour there wasn’t so much of a crowd. I climbed up on one of the stools and ordered a gin and Seven-Up.
The bartender brought my drink, waited on another customer, then drifted over my way.
“What’s the picture?” I asked, showing him the photograph.
“Huh?”
I said, “It was here on this stool next to me, face down. I thought it was a piece of paper and was going to crumple it up. Then I saw it was a photograph.”
He took a good look at it and frowned,
I said, “She must have dropped it here — must have been someone who was here a minute ago, sitting on that stool.”
He shook his head, even while he was trying to think, said, “No. She wasn’t there a minute ago, but I’ve seen her. Wonder how that picture got there. She was in here — seems like it was quite a while ago. I’m certain she hasn’t been in today.”
“Know her?” I asked.
He said, “I know her when I see her, but I don’t know her name.”
I put the picture in my pocket. He hesitated a moment as though debating the ethics of the situation, then moved away.
I finished my drink and went out to stand on the street corner, thinking things over.
I put myself in the position of a young woman-hairdresser, manicure, cleaning and dyeing.
There was a beauty shop across the street and part way down the block. A woman who seemed bubbling over with good-natured friendliness came to the door when she saw me fumbling around with the knob.
“What is it?” she asked.
I said, “I’m trying to find out something about a woman. She’s a customer of yours,” and pushed the best picture of Roberta Fenn in front of her.
She recognized the picture instantly, said, “She hasn’t been here for as much as a couple of years, I guess. She used to come in quite regularly. I can’t think of her name now, but she was a good customer — came down here from Boston or Detroit or some place up north. I think she was looking for work when she first came here, and then she didn’t seem to worry about it any more.”
“Perhaps she got a job.”
“No. She didn’t. She used to come down weekdays around the middle of the day. I used to see her going out for breakfast around eleven o’clock, sometimes not until afternoon.”
“You don’t know whether she’s still in town?”
“I don’t think she is, because she’d have been in. We were friends — well, you know, she liked my work and liked to talk with me. I think she was-say, why do you want to know?”
I said, “I — well — she’s a nice girl. It means a lot to me — I should never have lost track of her,”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ve got a customer in there. In case she shows up again, do you want to leave a message for her?”
I shook my head and said, “If she’s in town, I’ll find her myself,” and then added with a little smile, “I think it would be better that way.”
“It would for a fact,” the woman said.
I trudged on down the street to a cleaning establishment. It was a combination residence and business place, with a counter half across the front room. I pulled out the picture, said, “Know this girl?”
The woman who was in charge of the place looked at the picture, said, “Yes. She used to place a lot of work through me. That’s Miss Cutler, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Know where she is now?”