I took my hand out of my pocket. “Maybe if you concentrate on this it might help,” I told her.
She stared at the twenty I held in my palm, then sat down again.
“You on the level about having money for her?”
I nodded. “I’m no cop, you ought to know that. If I was, I’d have put the cuffs on you the minute I came in and took a sniff. That tea on the stove isn’t the only kind you serve here.”
“You’re crazy.” Her upper lip was wet.
I held out the bill. “Knock it off,” I said. “I’m just interested in saving time. All I really have to do is start rapping on doors. But like I said, I’m in a hurry.”
She reached for the money. “Yeah. But if there’s any trouble.”
“There won’t be. I’m not even going to say where I found out.”
“Crap.” It must have been an old Gypsy expression of some sort, and I wondered what it meant.
“Well, if you won’t tell me where to find her, at least you might be able to tell me something about her. What she’s doing nowadays, and—”
“Oh, ast her yourself!” she sighed. “Number eight. Second floor rear.”
I stood up and made for the door.
“You won’t say nothin’ about who told you?”
“No. How could I? I’ve never been here. Let’s both try to remember that, shall we?”
I went out and closed the door on the mustiness behind me. Then I walked upstairs.
Number eight was easy to find. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I tried the door gently, turning the knob and pushing. It was locked, all right.
Well, there was only one thing to do—wait, sit it out. And perhaps it would be safer downstairs, across the street.
I turned and walked down the hall, started down the stairs. Somebody was coming up. There was the clatter of heels, the swish of skirt, a glimpse of a broad olive face with high cheekbones surmounted by dark curls. This was type casting if I’d ever seen it. She started to brush by me. I stuck out my arm.
“Miss Juarez,” I said.
“Yaiss?”
“I’ve been looking for you. My name’s Clayburn, Mark Clayburn.”
“So?”
“Can’t we go somewhere and talk?”
“I do not onnerstand. Why for we talk?”
“We’ve got mutual friends to discuss. Such as Joe Dean.”
“You know heem?”
“He sent me.”
She hesitated, then turned. “We go to my place, eh?”
I followed her up the stairs. The view was a distinct improvement over the pink posterior of my downstairs hostess.
Estrellita Juarez unlocked her door. “Come een,” she invited.
Her parlor was a cut above the average for a joint like this: new furniture, and in fairly good taste. I noted the door to a closet and a bedroom, both shut. There was a kitchen and a bath in back.
“Seet down.” She put her purse and gloves on the table, then turned. “Now, what ees all thees?”
“Friend of Joe’s, like I say. He told me about you.”
“How ees Joe? I ’ave not seen heem for long time.”
“Funny. He talked like he’d been in touch with you regular. As if you’d know all about me.”
“No. Heem I ’ave not seen for months.”
“Quarrel?”
She didn’t answer.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Main thing is, he told me you’re the one to contact about the stuff.”
“Stoff? What you talk about?”
I tried my hands-in-pocket routine again, but this time I came out with a fifty.
“What’ll this buy?” I asked.
“I doan know what you talk about.”
“Business must be better than I thought, if you can turn down this kind of money.” I grinned and kept my hand extended. “All right, if you don’t want to help me out, there’s other places I can go. Right downstairs, for instance. She pushes a pretty good brand of weed, I hear. Or does she get her supply from you?”
Estrellita Juarez licked her lips. Then she took the money and put it in her pocket. She walked over to the closet door, opened it, and took out an upright vacuum cleaner. I watched her unfasten the dust bag attachment. She began to shake packages out on the floor.
“That’s enough,” I said. “This is all I need.” I stooped and picked up the manila-wrapped carton of muggles.
“Bot for feefty dollair—”
“This is all I need,” I repeated. “One package. So when I walk in and tell them where I got it, they’ll have evidence.”
Her mouth opened. “Why, you lousy, double-crossing stoolie!”
She came at me, trying to grab the refers. I got her arm and twisted it back.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You forgot the accent.”
“Never mind the accent,” she panted. “Give me that before I—”
“Before you what? Call the police? Or try to kill me?” I shook my head. “Better not. You’re mixed up in enough killing so far.”
“Who told you that? Joe?”
“No. He didn’t tell me. I lied to you. Joe hates my guts.” I let her arm go. “But I’m not lying to you now. And if you don’t lie to me, I’ll forget about going to the cops.”
“So that’s it, huh? Shakedown. I might of known.”
“No shakedown. All I want from you is a little information, information you should have given to the law a long time ago. You’ll have to sooner or later anyway, you know. They’re looking for you right now, Estrellita, or whatever your real name is.”
“Never mind about my real name. Suppose you tell me who you are, instead.”
“I already did. My name’s Mark Clayburn. Didn’t Joe tell you about me?”
“I haven’t seen Joe, honest I haven’t. Not since—”
“Not since Ryan was murdered?” I nodded. “That’s what I’m really here to talk about.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you. I already talked to the D.A.’s office.”
“Sure you did. But where were you when they tried to find you after Polly Foster’s death?”
“I had nothing to do with that setup.”
“Nevertheless, they wanted to question you, and you hid out here, in Joe Dean’s old apartment.”
“That’s no crime.”
“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
She shook her head. “I tell you, not since Ryan died.”
“He didn’t die. He was murdered.” I had to keep reminding people of that, it seemed. “Was that the reason for the quarrel? Were you afraid of Dean because you knew too much about what happened?”
“I didn’t know anything.”
“Yes you did. And you’re still getting information from some place. Enough information so that you called Tom Trent the night he was murdered, warning him to get out of town.”
“Who told you that?”
“His sister.” I pushed her back into a chair. “It’s bound to come out sooner or later, just like I told you. All you’ve got to decide is whether you want to talk to me or to headquarters.”
“What’s your angle?”
“I want to solve this case, that’s all. I’ve got no axe to grind, nothing against anyone except the killer. Which means you’re safe, as far as I’m concerned, unless you happen to be the guilty party.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “No. I’m not. Honest.”
“That’s the way I want it,” I said. “Honest. All right, let’s get on with it. How long have you been pushing this stuff?”
“Two years.”
“You work for a syndicate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Quit that talk.”
“I said I don’t know. I get it from a guy. I pay him when I make delivery. He tells me where to take it.”
“You’re a runner, in other words.”
“That’s all. I don’t have anything to do with the stuff, where it comes from. They wouldn’t be fools enough to tell me.”
“What about Dean? Does he push, too?”