“Does he generally use taxis to get around?”
“Only the first day. After that he had a rental car.” He saw that his answer was a disappointment to me. “I can describe it,” he added quickly. “The car wasn’t one of your standard rentals like Avis or Hertz. It was a green Ford Granada from one of those cheapie independents over on Van Ness.” He paused, thinking. “Yeah, I remember. It had a bumper sticker advertising the company. Dime-A-Mile, that’s it.”
I reached out. The money changed hands. The doorman palmed it out of sight with the expertise of a stage magician. A short bleep from his whistle summoned a cab. As it moved forward I asked, “Did you ever see anyone in the car with General Martin?”
“Just once. Matter of fact, the last time I noticed either the car or General Martin. He came out of the hotel with Miss Stevens and they drove away together.”
“The woman — Stevens — is she registered here?”
A corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Not quite.” He moved closer. “She’s in business for herself, but not in the hotel. We don’t permit anyone to work the premises, but we do allow a couple of special girls to meet our male tenants here. We try to accomodate all of our guests’ needs. The girls have to take them to their apartments.” He spoke faster when he saw my growing interest. He didn’t know it had nothing to do with my wanting to use the services of a call girl. “You’re not dealing with your run-of-the-mill stable stock, you understand. They’re professional model caliber and... ah... charge the same kind of prices. It’s strictly private, though, and real first-class merchandise.”
I recognize a sales pitch when I hear one. “Could you arrange an appointment for me with Miss Stevens?”
“As soon as possible,” I added from the edge of the seat while he bent over, open door in hand.
“This afternoon?” he asked, eyebrows arched. I nodded. “When will you be back, sir?”
“I’ve got to go to the bank and run another errand. I’ll call in a half hour or so.”
Following a visit to the Bank of America, my next stop was the Dime-A-Mile car rental office. My first impression upon seeing the shoddy appearance of the office, set up in an abandoned Phillips service station, was that Dime-A-Mile featured automobiles which were candidates for demolition derbies. The gum-chewing, acne-faced teenager on duty pushed the contract form at me to fill out. I wondered if the kid could write. I put down my driver’s license information from memory. The cash advance payment for two weeks use of a car and the Fairmount Hotel address apparently negated the requirement to show a valid driver’s license. I added an extra five dollar bill to the pile and asked about the car Keith Martin had rented.
The record was easy to find. Few Dime-A-Mile cars went long without some trouble being reported by the renter. The car was still out. It must be running and in use — a fact that seemed to be a surprise to the attendant. He had no idea where the car might be. He suggested checking with the operator of the Fairmount Hotel parking garage. His boss wasn’t worried. Like myself, Martin had made a good-sized cash deposit based on the highest daily rate. The advance would cover the next four days.
While the car was being topped off with gas, I used the phone. I could hear nearby street traffic in the background when I was connected with the Fairmount doorman. “The lady says she doesn’t normally accept afternoon clients, Mr. Carter, and she has an evening engagement. She will see you, however, provided your visit is concluded by six o’clock.”
Learning that the girl was not tied up told me that Keith Martin hadn’t moved in with her. She had seen him, though. It was going to cost plenty just for me to question someone who had gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of the elusive general. I asked for and got Miss Stevens’ address. It was on Fulton Street close to the San Francisco College for Women.
The building was an imposing, new high-rise apartment. I had to stare into a TV camera and identify myself to get in. A remote control unlocked the street level entrance. A haughty-looking male receptionist in the posh lobby gave me a critical visual examination as I walked past him to the elevators. A smooth ride carried me up to the fifteenth floor. The strains of Schubert’s Entr’acte No. 2 in B-flat coming from an overhead speaker kept me company.
I tread noiselessly down a wide corridor with thick pile carpeting underfoot. One of a pair of wide apartment doors opened to my ring. I stepped into a room worthy of a frontispiece position in an illustrated copy of Arabian Nights. A foyerlike entry way was bathed in soft, amber light. The tile floor was patterned in large black-and-white squares, so highly polished that the grillwork of the gold-painted wrought iron room divider beyond was reflected in the mirrorlike surface.
Through the grillwork I looked upon a sunken living room half the size of a regulation tennis court. Except where covered by black tufted throw rugs, its matching black-and-white checkerboard floor reflected a sparkling, heavy crystal chandelier overhead. The entire decor in the two spaces consisted of stark white and jet black contrasts enriched by gold accents. Displays of Moorish swords, shields, pennoned lances and beautifully framed prints of Arabian stallions lined the white walls. Handcarved ivory pieces and decorative brass pitchers containing fresh white flowers adorned oversized ebony end tables. It was a room planned to please the eyes of men.
So was the sight of Melissa Stevens.
She was a beautiful, olive-skinned girl whose Greek ancestry was evident in her large, dark eyes. Her well-groomed black hair glistened with highlights even under the subdued lighting of her luxurious apartment. Her full, crimson lips were as eye-catching as her remarkable thrusting breasts. The low-cut, richly embroidered caftan she wore showed ample expanse of flawless skin.
“You are Nick,” she said for a starter. “Please come in.” Her voice was throaty. It had a strong, distinctive accent which I recognized immediately. She turned and stepped down into the living room.
“Would you rather call me Nikko?” It came out ‘Neekko.’ She stopped dead in her tracks. When she spun around, a look of pleasant surprise on her face, I spoke again in her native tongue. “Apo pyo meros stin Elladha iste? Thessaloniki?” I’m not as proficient in Greek as other languages, but I can make myself understood.
“Dhipla!” she replied brightly. Her delighted smile showed white, even teeth. “To khoryo mu eenay Kozani.”
I’d never been to that part of Macedonia, but I knew all northern Greek villages were of the same mold. Once started, the intrigued girl rattled on. After five minutes, I was comfortably seated in a white upholstered chair, a cut-crystal glass of ouzo in my hand, and a lot of personal information about Melissa Stevens in my head. Her true name was Marika Stephanopoulos. She was in the United States on a visitor’s visa. Expired, I found out. She didn’t mean to let that slip out. She was really an illegal alien in hiding. I didn’t think she was aware of the consequences. If the law ever got onto the way she was making a living, she’d have bigger trouble than just facing a prostitution rap.
That gave me the lever I needed. Switching back to English, I told her I worked for the government. A frightened look filled her luminous eyes. “Don’t worry, Melissa. I’m not interested in making trouble for you. I want to know about a man you saw here a few days ago. His name is Keith. Keith Martin.”
“Yes. Him I remember.” The words came out fast. “A handsome man. Like a gladiator.” She sighed. “A disappointment, that one.”
I had to ask. “You mean he couldn’t—?”
“He didn’t want to. He was here all night. Sitting up, I think. He told me to go to bed and leave him alone.”