The Body Lovers (4 page)

“Maybe it has a secret compartment,” she laughed.

But I didn’t laugh. I stared at the wallet a long moment, then felt around the folded edges until I found it, a cleverly contrived secret pocket that cursory examination would never uncover.

That’s where the note was.

It was written in pencil, printed in tiny caps on toilet paper. I read it twice to make sure of what I had, digesting every word.
Dear Mike, Heard about that redhead on the radio. My sister knew her and the Poston dame. Didn’t think much about it when the Poston kid died, but this one bothers me. I ain’t heard from Greta in four months. You find her and make her write and I’ll pay you when I get out. It was signed, Harry Service.

Velda took the note from my fingers and read it over, frowning. “Poston,” she said softly. “Helen Poston. That was the schoolteacher who committed suicide.”

“That’s the one.”

“But this Harry Service ... wasn’t he the one ... ?”

“Yeah, I got him sent up.”

“Why would he write to you?”

“Maybe he doesn’t hold a grudge. Besides, he’s not the type to confide in cops. He wouldn’t give them the sweat off his butt.”

“What’re you going to do about it, Mike?”

“Damn it,” I said, “what can I do?”

“Let Pat have it.”

“Great. Then word gets around I’m a first-class fink. Harry went to all that trouble to get this to me. The insurance adjuster bit was supposed to tip me and I’m thick-skulled about it.”

Velda handed the slip back to me. “You don’t owe this Service any favors.”

“Not in the ordinary sense. Even though I nailed him in that robbery and he tried to kill me, he still figures I’m square enough to deal with.” I glanced at the note again. “It’s a crazy request.”

“What you’re thinking is even crazier.”

“A wild kind of a client.”

She gave a little shrug of resignation. “Pat doesn’t want you playing with this thing. You’re only asking for trouble.”

“Hell, all I’m doing is locating a missing person.”

“You’re rationalizing,” she said. “But go ahead, you’ll do it anyway. Only don’t start tonight, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay then,” she repeated with an impish grin and came int( my arms. On the way she tugged at the belt and I felt wild little fingers crawl up my spine.

The file on Harry Service listed his sister Greta as next-of-kin. He had taken a seven-to-fifteen-year fall on that armed robbery rap a year and a half ago and at that time her address was listed as being in Greenwich Village. I never remembered her being at the trial, but when I went through the back issues of the paper there was one photo of the back of a woman in a dark coat squeezing Harry’s arm after he was sentenced.

It was a little after two when Hy Gardner got to his office. He waved me into a chair and sat down behind his typewriter. “What’s on your mind, Mike?”

“The Service triaL”

“You did him a favor slamming him in the cooler. That way he won’t make the chair. You’re not trying to spring him now, are you?”

“Not me.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“When he was sentenced there was a dame there to see him off. It may have been his sister. Your paper had a picture of her back, but that’s all. If you know any of the photogs who covered the thing, maybe one of them might have clipped a shot of her face.”

“Something doing?”

“She might be a witness in something else, but I want to be sure.”

“I can check,” he said. “Hang on.”

Twenty minutes later a clerk came up from the morgue with two four-by-five glossies that showed her face. One was a partial profile, the other a front view. The last one was the best. The coat hinted at the fullness of her body and the wide brim of her hat didn’t conceal a face that devoid of makeup was pretty, but with it could have been beautiful. They hadn’t printed the picture because Harry Service’s face was turned away, but the notation on the back of the photo named her as
Greta Service, sister.
Three others were identified as Harry’s lawyer, the D.A. and the owner of the store he was trying to rob.

“Can I have this, Hy?”

“Be my guest,” he said without looking up from his notes. “When you going to tell me about it?”

“It’s just a little thing. Might be nothing at all.”

“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. “The 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 daughter 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 soirée 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.”

“Gold digger?”

“What an archaic term,” Cleo told me. “No, not quite that.

She just was determined to get money. Several times she said she had enough of scraping by. It was there to be had if you looked hard enough.“ Cleo slid off the stool and stretched elegantly, the sheer silk of the kimono pulling taut across the skin beneath it. ”She was a determined kid,” she said. “She’ll make it somehow.”

“But how?”

“Women have ways if they want something badly enough. There are always hidden talents.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“Cynic.”

“Anybody around here who might know where she’d be?”

She gave me a thoughtful look and said, “Possibly. I’d have to ask around some.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Cleo grinned at me. “How much?”

“What’re you asking?”

“Maybe you’d like to pose for me.”

“Hell, I’m not the still-life type,” I said.

“That’s what I mean,” she said impishly.

I got up with a laugh. “I’m going to squeal to your boss.”

“Oh, you’d like her.”

“Dames,” I said. I walked to the door and turned around. Cleo still had the window at her back and the shadow effect of her body was a tantalizing thing. “I’ll check back later,” I told her.

“You’d better,” she said.

 

The R. J. Marion Realty Company on Broadway owned the Village building Greta Service had occupied. The receptionist introduced me to a short, balding man named Richard Hardy who handled the downtown rentals and after he waved me to a chair and I explained what I wanted he nodded and said, “Greta Service, yes, I remember her, but I’m afraid I can’t help you at all.”