Lay Her Among The Lilies (5 page)

I said I meant the Crosbys on Foothill Boulevard.

"I did a job for them once, but not since. That was about six years ago. I fixed the whole of their staff then. Since Janet Crosby died they cleared out the old crowd and put in a new lot. They didn't come to me for the new lot."

"You mean they sacked everybody?"

"That's what I'm telling you."

"What happened to them?"

"I fixed them up elsewhere."

I chewed this over.

"Look, Martha, between you and me and the coffee beans, I'm trying to get the low-down on Janet's death. I've had a tip, and it might or might not be worth working on. I'm not entirely sold on the idea she died of heart failure. I'd like to talk it over with some of the old staff. They may have seen something. The butler, for instance. Who was he?"

"John Stevens," Mrs. Bendix said after a moment's thought. She finished her drink, tossed three beans into her mouth, put her glass and the Scotch out of sight and dug her thumb into a bell-push on her desk. The bunny-faced girl crept in.

"Where's John Stevens working now, honey?"

The bunny-faced girl said she would find out. After a couple of minutes she came back and said Stevens worked for Gregory Wainwright, Hillside, Jefferson Avenue.

"How about Janet's personal maid? Where's she now?" I asked.

Mrs. Bendix waved the bunny-faced girl away. When she had gone, she said, "That bitch? She's not working any more, and I wouldn't give her a job if she came to me on bended knees."

"What's the matter with her?" I asked, hopefully pushing my empty glass forward. "Let's be matey, Martha. One drink is no use to big, strong boys like you and me."

Mrs. Bendix sniggered, hoisted up the bottle again and poured.

"What's the matter with her?" I repeated, when we had saluted each other.

"She's no good," Mrs. Bendix said, and scowled. "Just a goddamn lazy bum."

"So am I," Mrs. Bendix said, and fed three more coffee beans into her mouth. "Eudora Drew. That's her name. She's gone haywire. I wanted a good personal maid for Mrs. Randolph Playfair. I took the trouble to contact Drew to tell her I could fix her up. She told me to jump in a cesspit. That's a nice way to talk, isn't it? She said she wasn't ever going to do any more work, and if one cesspit wouldn't hold me anyone would dig me another if I told them what it was for." Mrs. Bendix brooded darkly at the insult. "At one time I thought she was a good, smart girl. Just shows you can't trust them further than you can throw them, doesn't it? It's my bet she's living on some man. She's got a bungalow in Coral Gables, and lives in style."

"Where in Coral Gables?"

"On Mount Verde Avenue. You interested?"

"I might be. What happened to the rest of the staff?"

"I fixed them all up. I can give you addresses if you want them."

I finished my drink.

"I may want them. I'll let you know. How soon after Janet's death did this Drew girl get the sack?"

"The next day. All the staff went before the funeral."

I eat a coffee bean.

"Any reason given?"

"Maureen Crosby went away for a couple of months. The house was shut up."

"Not usual to sack all the staff when you go away for a couple of months, is it?"

"Of course it isn't usual."

"Tell me more about this Drew girl."

I said I didn't want another, and watched her hide the Scotch and the two glasses. Then she dug her thumb into the bell-push again.

The bunny-faced girl came in and gave her another coy smile.

"Dig out Eudora Drew's card, honey," Mrs. Bendix said. "I want to have a look at it."

The bunny-faced girl came back after a while with a card. She gave it to Mrs. Bendix the way an adoring Bobby-soxer might give Frank Sinatra a posy.

When she had gone, Mrs. Bendix said, "I don't know if this is what you want. Age twentyeight. Home address, 2243 Kelsie Street, Carmel. Three years with Mrs. Franklin Lambert. Excellent references. Janet Crosby's personal maid from July 1943. Any good to you?"

I shrugged.

"I don't know. Could be. I think I'd better go and talk to her. What makes you think she's living with a man?"

"How else does she get her money? She's not working. It's either a man or a lot of men."

"Janet Crosby might have left her a legacy."

Mrs. Bendix lifted her bushy eyebrows.

"I hadn't thought of that. She might, of course. Yes, come to think of it, it might be the answer."

"Well, okay," I said, getting up. "Thanks for the drinks. Come and see us some time for a change. We have drinks too."

"Not me," Mrs. Bendix said firmly. "That Bensinger girl doesn't approve of me. I can see it in her eyes."

I grinned.

"It doesn't. And don't kid yourself, Vic. That girl's in love with you."

I considered this, then shook my head.

"You're wrong. She isn't in love with anyone. She isn't the type to fall in love."

Mrs. Bendix pursed up her lips and made a loud, rude noise.

Coral Gables is the Dead End district of Orchid City, a shack town that has grown up around the harbour where an industry of sponge and fish docks, turtle crawls and markets plus a number of shady characters flourish. The water-front is dominated by Delmonico's bar, the toughest joint on the coast, where three or four fights a night is the normal routine, and where the women are more often tougher than the men.

Monte Verde Avenue lies at the back of Coral Gables: a broad, characterless road lined on either side by cabin-like houses, all more or less conforming to the same pattern. As a district it is perhaps one step above Coral Gables, but that isn't saying a great deal. Most of the cabin-like houses are occupied by professional gamblers, light ladies, flashy-looking toughs who lounge on the water-front during the day and mind their own business after dark, and the betting boys and their dolls. The only two-storeyed house in the road is owned by Joe Betillo, mortician and embalmer, coffin maker, abortionist and fixer of knife and bullet wounds.

I drove the Buick along the road until I came to Eudora Drew's cabin on the right and about three-quarters of the way down. It was a white and blue five-room wood cabin with a garden that consisted of a lawn big enough to play halma on and two tired-looking hydrangea plants in pots either side of the front door.

I stepped over the low wooden gate and rapped with the little brass knocker that hadn't been cleaned in months.

There was about a ten second delay: no more, and then the door jerked open. A solid young woman in grey-green slacks and a white silk blouse, her dark hair piled to the top of her head, looked me over with suspicious and slightly bloodshot eyes. She wasn't what you'd call a beauty, but there was an animal something about her that would make any man look at her twice, and some even three times.

"Spare your breath if you're selling anything," she said in a voice a little more musical than a tin can being thrown downstairs, but not much. "I never buy at the door."

"You should have that put on the gate," I said cheerfully, "look at the time it would save. Are you Miss Drew?"

"What's it to you who I am?"

"I have business with Miss Drew," I said patiently. "Important business."

"Who are you?"

"The name's Vic Malloy. I'm an old friend of Janet Crosby."

A muscle in her upper lip suddenly twitched, but otherwise there was no reaction.

"So what?"

"Does that make you Miss Drew or doesn't it?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"I was hoping you might help me," I said, resting one hand on the wall and leaning on it. "The fact is I'm not entirely satisfied about Miss Crosby's death."

This time a wary expression came into her eyes.

"Excavating ancient history, aren't you? She's been dead long enough. Anyway, I don't know anything about it."

"Were you there when she died?"

She took hold of the front door and drew it against her side.

"I tell you I don't know anything about it, and I haven't the time to waste on something that doesn't concern me."

I studied the hard, suspicious face.

"You screwy or something?"

"Some people can hear it two miles away. Have a guess?"

She lifted her solid shoulders impatiently.

"Okay, I'll buy it—what?"

"A hundred-dollar bill, folded in two and rustled gently between finger and thumb."

The sullen look went from her face. Her eyes opened a trifle wider.

"Do I look as if a hundred-dollar bill would be of any use to me?" she said scornfully.

"Even Pierpoint Morgan could use a hundred dollars," I said. "Still, I might raise the ante if you have anything worth buying."

I could see her brain at work. At least now we were talking the same language. She stared past me, down the path into a world of dollar signs and secrets. She smiled suddenly, a half smirk, not directed at me, but at a thought that had come into her mind.

"What makes you think there's anything wrong about her death?" she asked abruptly, her eyes shifting back to me.

"I didn't say I thought there was something wrong. I said I wasn't entirely satisfied. I have an open mind about it until I have talked to people who were with her about the time she died. Did you notice if she suffered from heart trouble?"

"It's a long time ago, mister," she said, and smirked. "I have a lousy memory for things like that. Maybe if you come back at nine to-night I'll have had time to remember, and it's no use coming back with a hundred dollars. I'm a big girl now and I have big ideas."

"How big?" I asked politely.

"More like five. It would be worth my while to shake up my memory for five, but not for a nickle less."

I made believe to consider this.

"About then."

"I wouldn't want to spend all that money unless I was sure the information was of value."

"If I can get my memory working," she said, "I wouldn't be surprised if the information was of value."

"See you at nine, then."

"Bring the money with you, mister. It has to be cash on the line."

"Sure. Let's hope this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

She gave me a long, thoughtful stare and then closed the door in my face. I walked slowly back up the path, climbed over the gate and got into the Buick.

Why nine o'clock? I wondered as I trod on the starter. Why not now? Of course the money had something to do with it, but she wasn't to know I hadn't come heeled with five hundred dollars. She didn't ask. This was a smooth, bright baby: a baby who knew all the answers, and could make four and four add up to nine. I sent the Buick down the road so the speedometer needle flickered up to seventy after the first hundred yards. At the bottom of the road I crammed on the brakes to make the turn into Beach Road, gave an elderly gentleman about to cross the street three different kinds of heart disease, straightened out of the skid and went on until I saw a drug store. I swung to the kerb, ran across the sidewalk into the store and into a phone booth.

Paula answered the phone after the second ring.

"This is Universal Services," she said in her gentle, polite voice. "Good evening."

"And this is your old pal Vic Malloy calling from a drug store in Coral Gables. Grab your car, bright eyes, and come arunning. You and me are going to hold hands and make love. How does it sound?"

There was a momentary pause. I'd have given a lot to have seen her expression.

"Where exactly are you?" she said, and sounded as unexcited as if I had asked her the time.

I left the Buick outside the drug store and walked to the corner of Beach Road. From there I could see Eudora Drew's cabin. I propped myself up against a lamp standard and kept my eyes on the gate of the cabin.

Nine o'clock. I had three hours to wait, and I wished I had asked Paula to bring some Scotch and a sandwich to help while away the time.

For the next twenty minutes I lolled against the lamp standard and never took my eyes off the cabin. Nobody came out. Nobody went in. Several tough-looking homhres emerged from other cabins and either walked away or drove away. Three girls, all blondes, all with strident voices, came out of the cabin next to Eudora's and strolled down the road towards me swinging their hips and ogling anything in trousers within sight. As they passed me they all looked my way, but I kept my eyes firmly on the cabin.

A nice neighbourhood this, I thought. Not the kind of road Mrs. Bendix's bunny-faced pal would care to walk down.

Paula's smart little two-seater came bustling out of Princess Street and headed towards me. It pulled up and the door swung open. Paula looked very trim and slightly glacial in her grey, pin-head suit. She was hatless, and her brown eyes looked at me enquiringly.

"Where now?" she asked, as I settled beside her.

"Drive up here nice and slow and stop on the bend. Eudora's place is that white and blue abomination on the right," I said, and as the car moved forward I rapidly told her what had happened. "I have an idea she might communicate with someone," I concluded. "I may be wrong, but I think it'll be worth while keeping on eye on her for the next couple of hours. The only way to watch the house without getting the neighbours in an uproar is for us to be a courting couple. That's something they all understand in this district."