I said, “None.”
She started to poke the levers and the smile faded from her eyes. “Did you say one?” she asked.
“I said none.”
She took her fingers away from the levers, looked at me, and said, “Well?”
“I want to buy twenty dollars’ worth of information,” I said.
“What about?”
“About the days when you were working in the Mermaid’s Roost.”
She said, “I never worked there.”
I said, “Just a little information between friends.”
“You’ve been talking with Ranigan,” she said, “and he’s cuckoo. I never worked in his place in my life. He thought I did, and it’s part of my duties to kid the customers along.”
I gently slid the twenty-dollar bill back and forth. “Couldn’t you use twenty bucks?” I asked.
“Of course I could, but — what do you want to know?”
“Nothing that’s going to hurt you,” I said. “There was a hostess, Amelia Sellar. Do you remember her?”
She reached out with long, tapering fingers, and placed coral-tinted nails on one edge of the twenty-dollar bill. She said, “Yes.”
“How well?”
“I knew her quite well.”
“Where did she live?”
“At the Bickmere Hotel. She and Flo Mortinson roomed together. Flo was contact girl for a bootlegging ring. She and Amelia were great friends.”
“Where’s Amelia now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for a long time.”
“Did Amelia ever tell you anything about her past?” She nodded.
“What was it?”
“A small-town background somewhere. She was too fast for the burg. Her husband caught up with her and sued for divorce. She outsmarted him, got all the property, and headed for the bright lights. She had a wad of dough with her. Some man got it.”
“Were they married?” I asked.
“I doubt it.”
“And you don’t know where she is now?”
“No.”
“How about Flo Mortinson? Have you heard from her?”
She said, “I saw Flo about three years ago, ran into her on the street — in Los Angeles.”
“What was she doing?”
“Hostess in some night spot.”
“Did you ask her anything about Amelia?”
“No.”
“Know anything else that might help me to locate Amelia Sellar? She’s come into a bunch of money — if she can furnish proof that she was never divorced from her first husband.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think she ever was divorced,” she said. “There was a divorce action filed somewhere, but she walked out on it. Her husband ran away with his mistress. I guess he was entitled to, from what Amelia told me. She certainly wasn’t overlooking anything. It was a hick town, but it didn’t cramp her style — much.”
“Did she ever say anything about where her husband was located or what he was doing?”
“No. I don’t think she knew, I think her husband went away.”
I said, “Okay. Thanks a lot,” and released my hold on the twenty-dollar bill.
She said, “Listen. This is under your hat. I’ve been married twelve years, and my husband thinks I was just out of kindergarten when he married me.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s okay by me.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Listen, you’re a regular guy, and this just between you and me. If a spotter saw me going south with this twenty, he’d think I was embezzling company funds. Stand up close to the ticket window, will you? Put your arms up on the shelf there.”
I did. My shoulders pretty much blocked the window. She raised up her skirts and put the twenty-dollar bill down her stocking. “Thanks,” she said.
I said, “I know what Ranigan meant now.”
“What?”
“He said if he had Myrtle’s legs back, he’d clean up a fortune.”
I saw her flush, but she laughed and was pleased. She started to say something, then changed her mind, and, as a customer came up, her face became a smiling mask, with innocent, wide blue eyes, looking up past my shoulder I stepped away from the window.
From my hotel I called the clerk at the Palace Hotel in Oakview. “How about those glasses that were ordered for Mrs. Lintig?” I said. “What happened to them? You were going to send them to me.”
“Gosh, Mr. Lam,” he said. “I don’t know. They never showed up. I guess she must have picked them up herself.”
I said, “Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know,” and hung up.
In the morning I hired a girl to call up every oculist, every optometrist, and every lens supply house in San Francisco to find out what doctor had sent a pair of lenses to Mrs. J. C. Lintig at the Palace Hotel in Oakview or had a client by the name of Amelia Sellar. I told her to wire me the information at the agency as soon as she had it. I climbed aboard a night bus and caught up on some of my sleep all the way to Santa Carlotta.
I’d left the agency car in an all-night garage that was within two blocks of the bus depot. I walked to the garage and handed my storage ticket to the attendant. He looked it over, then went to the office.
“When did you leave this car?” he asked.
I told him.
“It’ll take a minute or two,” he said.
I saw him go behind a glass partition and dial a number on the telephone. When he came out, I said, “Listen, buddy, if it’s all the same to you, I’m in a hurry.”
“Coming right now,” he said. He glanced at my ticket and went off on the run. I sat up in front and waited.
A minute or two later he came back and said, “I seem to have some trouble getting your car started. Did you know the battery was run down?”
I said, “No. I didn’t know the battery was run down, and if it is, it’s because someone here left the ignition switch on.”
He said, “Just a moment. We’re fully responsible. If there’s any trouble like that, we’ll give you a rent battery and charge yours up, but you’ll have to write out a claim.”
I said, “Better give me a new battery because I’m not coming back, and I’m not writing out any claims.”
He said, “just a minute,” and ran back towards the rear of the garage. I followed him.
The agency car was back in a corner. The attendant hopped in and started grinding away on the starter.
I said, “Just a minute, buddy. That doesn’t sound to me as though the battery was run down. But if you keep on working that starter, it will be.”
“The motor doesn’t seem to take hold.”
I said, “Tell me how much the storage is, and I’ll start it. You might try turning on the ignition. That always helps.”
He grinned sheepishly, turned on the ignition, and stepped on the starter again. The agency car rattled into life.
I said, “Never mind the stalling. Tell me how much storage I owe, and I’ll pay it.”
“I’ll have to take a look at the books,” he said.
“The books be damned,” I told him. “Here’s two dollars. That’ll cover storage. You can fix up the books any way you please. I’m on my way.”
He pulled a rag from his pocket and started polishing off the steering-wheel. “Your windshield needs a little attention,” he said.
I said, “Never mind the windshield. just get out from behind that wheel and let me get started.”
He fumbled around with the choke for a minute, and looked back towards the door. I said, “Do you want this two bucks or not?”
“Of course I want it. Just a minute, and I’ll give you a receipt.”
“I don’t want the receipt. I want the car, and I want to get going.”
He got out from behind the steering-wheel and stood by the car, looking at the door. I said, “If you’ll get away from that car door so I can get in, I’ll drive out.”