I said, "Hello, Greta."
It was her. It wasn't the Greta Service of the photographs, but it was her. Some of the beauty had eroded from her face, showing in the texture of her skin and the momentary void of her eyes. Her jet black hair was tangled and fell around her shoulders while she clutched the front of a cheap bathrobe together to keep it closed.
I pushed her inside, took Dulcie with me and closed the door. Greta had gone pretty far down the line. The room was bare as the law allowed. One closet showed only a few clothes and an empty gin bottle lay on the nightstand beside the bed with a broken glass on the floor.
She looked from me to Dulcie, then back to me again. "What do you want?"
"You, Greta," I said.
"What for? What the hell do you mean by..." She stopped, took a longer look at me, then added, "Don't I know you?"
"Mike Hammer."
Then she knew me. "You bastard," she hissed.
"Ease off, kid. Don't blame your brother's fall on me. He was the one who wanted me to find you."
Greta took a step back, faltering a little. "Okay, you found me. Now get out of here." For some reason she avoided looking at my eyes.
"What's with this bit?" I asked her.
Her head came up hesitantly, her lips tight. "Leave me alone."
"Harry wants to see you."
She spun around, staring dully into the dirty glass of the window. "Like this?"
"I don't think he cares."
"Tell him for me that I'll see him when I'm ready."
"What happened, Greta?"
We exchanged glances in the reflection of the glass. "I didn't make it, that's all. I had big ideas and they didn't work out."
"So what do I tell Harry?"
"I'm working," she said. "I make a buck here and there. My time will come." There was a funny catch in her throat. When I didn't answer she spun around, her hands going to her hips. The robe came open as she stood there glaring at me and under the nightgown her body was outlined in lush perfection. "Just tell him to stay off my back until I'm ready, you hear me? And quit following me around. I'll do what I want to do my own way and I don't need any interference. He didn't do so good his way either, did he? All right, at least I'm on the outside doing what I can. Now lay off me and get out of here!"
"Greta...want to talk about Helen Poston?"
There was no physical reaction at all. "She's dead. She killed herself."
"Why?"
"How would I know? She'd been brooding over some man. If she was stupid enough to kill herself over one she deserved it."
"Maybe she didn't kill herself," I said.
A small shudder crossed her shoulders and her hands were clenched into fists. "When you're dead you're dead. What difference does it make any more?"
"Not to her. It could to somebody else. Feel like talking about it?"
She turned angrily and walked to the closet, tore the clothes from the hangers and threw them into a suitcase on the floor. "Damn it," she muttered, "I'll go someplace where nobody can find me." She looked back over her shoulder, eyes blazing. "Go on, get out of here!"
Dulcie said, "Can't we do something?"
"No use. This is what I came for. Come on, let's go."
On the street there were a pair of cabs parked off the corner. I put Dulcie in the first, told her to wait a second, then walked back to the other cab. I wrapped a five-spot around my card and handed it to the driver. He took it cautiously, his eyes wary. I said, "There may be a woman coming out of that hotel in a few minutes. If she takes a cab, you pick her up. Let me know where she goes and I'll make it worth your while."
He held the card under the dash light and when he looked up there was a big grin on his face. "Sure, Mike," he said. "Hot damn."
Dulcie McInnes lived in a condominium apartment that rose alongside the park with quiet splendor that only the very wealthy could afford. I knew some of the names of others who owned their premises there and I was surprised Dulcie could afford it. She saw the question in my face and said, "Don't be surprised, Mike. The Board of Directors of Proctor insisted on it. Something to do with image-making, and since they own the building, I am happy to comply with their wishes."
"Nice. I should have a job like that."
"At least you can share my luxury after taking me to that...that place tonight?"
"It's pretty late."
"And it's coffee time...or are you a little old-fashioned?"
I let out a little laugh and followed her into the elevator. The air whooshed in the tunnel we were being sucked up in, the quiet sound of unseen machinery humming in some distant place. Little voices, I thought. They were saying something, but were too far away to be heard. It wasn't like the old days any more. I could think faster then. The little things didn't get by me. Like tonight at the Sandelor Hotel. Everything was fine. I could tell Harry that. I did what he wanted me to do. Greta was on her uppers, but well enough and I couldn't blame her for not wanting Harry to see her. She could have known the dead girls, but that wouldn't be unusual at all. Greta was alive. She wanted it the way it was. Then what was so damn peculiar?
I hadn't realized the elevator had stopped and I was staring past Dulcie, who stood in a small foyer, past the arch into a magnificent living room whose windows looked like living pictures of New York with its myriad of winking lights.
"Remember me?" she smiled. "We're here." She reached her hand out, took mine and led me inside. "Drink or coffee?"
"Coffee," I said. "You sure your friends won't object to me being here?"
"Friends?"
"Some of the company you travel in ranks pretty high."
Dulcie giggled again, a disturbing quality that made her seem schoolgirlish. "Some are just rank. Now sit down while I put the coffee on." She disappeared into the recesses of the house, but I could hear her making domestic sounds, unconsciously whistling snatches of a new show tune. I turned the record player on, slipped a few Wagnerian selections on the spindle and turned the volume down so the challenging themes were reduced to mere suggestions of their intent.
She came back with the coffee and set it on the marble-topped table in front of the sofa and sat down beside me. "You're awfully pensive. Do I affect you that way?"
I took the coffee from her and studied her face. Even this close, maturity had only softened her beauty to classic form. Her breasts swelled beneath the sweater, melted into hips poised in an arrogant twist, with her legs crossed, one in gentle motion. "Not you," I grinned.
"Thinking about Greta Service, weren't you?"
"A little."
She stirred her coffee and tasted it. "Weren't you satisfied?"
"Not really. I wish I knew why."
Dulcie put her cup down and leaned back thoughtfully. "I know. Unfortunately, I've seen it happen before. Some of these girls never realize what a tough world this is. There are thousands of beautiful faces and gorgeous bodies. They aspire for greatness and when it doesn't happen to them they can't understand it. The road downhill is steeper than the one going up."
"It's not that. She's been kicked around before. I thought she was a more determined type."
"Frustration can be a pretty terrible thing," she said. "What can you do?"
"Nothing, I guess. I'll just lay it out the way it is. Her brother will have to be satisfied with it."
"And you'll never have another reason for disrupting my routine again," Dulcie smiled impishly.
"Maybe I'll think of one."
The light glinted from her eyes when she stared at me, the pupils dark little pools under long, curling lashes. Her tongue stole out, moistened her lips and very softly, very directly, she said, "Think of one now," then reached up and turned off the light above us.