"Don't con me, kiddo. I've seen you with that look before."
"Maybe I better not play poker."
"Not with me. Or Pat."
I got up and stuck on my hat. "So you want to come along?"
"Not me. I'm cleaning up here and heading for Miami. I know when to cut out. Write me about it when it's over."
"Sure thing," I said. "Thanks."
The Greenwich Village number was a weatherbeaten brownstone that was part of the old scene, a three-story structure that could have been anything once, but had been converted into studio apartments for the artists and writers set. Inside the small foyer I ran my fingertip along the names under the mailboxes, but there was no Greta Service listed. It wasn't surprising. In view of the publicity given her brother, she could have changed her name.
Now it was all legwork and luck. I pushed the first bell button and shoved the door open when the latch began to click. A guy in a pair of paint-stained slacks stuck a tousled head out the door and said, "Yeah?"
"I'm looking for a Greta Service."
He gave me a twisted grin and shook his head. "Now friend, that sure ain't me. I'm the only straight man in this pad. This is a dame you're talking about, ain't it?"
"That's what I was told. She lived here a year and a half ago."
"Before my time, feller. I've only been here six weeks."
"How about one of the other tenants?"
The guy scratched his head and frowned. "Tell you what...as far as I know that kookie bunch on the next floor moved in about four months ago. Student type, if you know the kind. Long hair, tight pants and loose, and I mean like loose, man...morals. Me, mine are lax, but not loose. They're real screamers up there. Odd jobs and checks from home to keep them away from home. If I was their old man..."
"Who else is there?"
He let out a short laugh. "You might try Cleo on the top floor. That is, if she's available for speaking to. She ain't always. They tell me she's been around a while."
"Cleo who?"
"It's whom, ain't it?" he said. "Anyway, who cares? I don't think I ever heard any other name."
"Thanks, I'll give it a try."
When he had ducked back behind the door I picked my way up the stairs to the second-floor landing and stood there a few seconds. Inside the apartment a couple was arguing the merits of some obscure musician while another was singing an accompaniment to a scratchy record player. It was only ten A.M., but none of them sounded sober. I took the guy's advice and followed the stairs up to the next floor.
I knocked twice before I heard the languid tap of heels come toward the door. It opened, not the usual few inches restricted by a guard chain women seem to affect, but fully and with a single sweeping motion designed to stun the visitor. It was great theatrical staging.
She stood there, hands against the door jambs, the light from the French windows behind her filtering through the silken kimono, silhouetting the matronly curves under it. Poodle-cut hair framed a face that had an odd, intense beauty that seemed to leap out of dark eyes that were so inquisitive they appeared to reach out and feel you, then decide whether you were good enough to eat or not.
For a second the advantage was hers and all I could do was grin a little bit and say, "Cleo?"
"That's me, stranger." Then the eyes felt me a little more and she added, "You look familiar."
"Mike Hammer."
"Ah, yes." She let a little laugh tinkle from her throat. "Me man on the front page." Then she let her hands drop, held one out and took my arm. "Come in. Don't just stand there."
This time I let my own eyes do the feeling. They ran up and down the length of her asking questions of their own.
Cleo laughed again, knowing what I meant. "Don't mind my costuming. I'm doing a self-portrait," she said. "It does kind of rock you at first though, doesn't it?"
"Pretty interesting," I agreed.
She gave a disgusted toss of her head. "Men like you have lived too long. Nothing's new. I could slaughter you." She grinned again and ran her fingers through her hair. "But you should see what it does to the other kind."
"I don't know the other kind."
"Naturally."
She led me inside and slid up on a wooden bar stool in front of an easel while I looked around the room. Unlike most of the village pads, it was a completely professional setup. The windows and skylight were modern and cleverly arranged for maximum efficiency, wall shelves stocked with every necessity, and on the far end, equipment for engraving and etching stretched from one side to the other.
Every wall was covered with framed pictures, some original art, others black and white or full color glossy reproductions. Every one bore the simple signature, Cleo.
"Like them?"
I nodded. "Commercial."
"Hell yes," she told me. "The loot is great and I don't go the beatnik route. I don't expect you to recognize them...you don't look the type to read women's fashion magazines, but I happen to be one of the best in the field."
I walked over to the easel and stood beside her. The picture she was painting would never make any family magazine. The face and body were hers, all right, but the subject matter was something else. Even unfinished you knew what she was portraying. She was a seductress for hire, promising any man anything he could possibly want, not because money was the object, but because she desired it that way herself. It was a total desire to please and be pleased, but whoever succumbed to the lure was going to be completely devoured with the excesses she could provide to satisfy her own pleasures.
"How about that," I said.
"You got the message?"
"I got the message," I repeated. "Still life."
"Drop dead," she smiled.
"It isn't commercial."
"No? You'd be surprised what some people would buy. But, you're right, it isn't commercial...or rather, not for sale. I indulge myself in the hobby between assignments. Now, you didn't come up here to talk art."
I walked over and eased myself down into a straight-backed chair. "You ever know Greta Service?"
There was no hesitation. "Sure. She lived downstairs for a while."
"Know her well?"
She shrugged and said, "As well as you ever get to know anybody around here. Except for the old-timers, most are transients or out-of-towners who think the Village is the Left Bank of New York."
"What was she?"
"An out-of-towner. I forget where she came from, but she was doing some modeling work and moved into the Village because it seemed the thing to do and the rent comparatively cheap."
Casually, I asked, "What are you doing here?"
"Me," Cleo smiled, "I like it. I guess I read too many stories about the place years ago too. Right now I'm one of the old-timers which means you've been here over ten years. Only thing is, I'm different."
"Oh?"
"I make money. I can support my habit of fine foods and a big bar bill. Around here I'm an oddball because of it. The others dig my hobby but sneer at my crass commercial works, yet they still take the free drinks and stuff their pockets as well as their stomachs whenever I toss a neighborhood soiree up here." She glanced at me seriously. "What's with this Greta Service?"
"A friend wants to locate her. Got any ideas?"
Cleo thought a moment, then shook her head. "You know about her brother?"
I nodded.
"Not long after that she moved out. As far as I know, she never said a word about where she was going. Her mail piled up in the box downstairs, so apparently she never left a forwarding address."
"How about her friends?"
"Greta wasn't exactly the friendly type. She was...well, remote. I saw her with a few men, but it wasn't like...well, whether she cared they were there or not. I did get an impression however. Unless they were wealthy, she wasn't interested."