Chapter 8

IT WAS almost two weeks before I decided that I was ready to put my plan into action. During that period I had not been idle, though, having turned out four fairly good articles for Car Skill.

"Hey," Sam Terry exclaimed when I dropped the articles off at the Central Building. "What gives with the crew cut and the moustache?"

I told him that I was considering running down to Florida for a few weeks and that I was of the opinion the change made me look younger. More attractive to the ladies, I said. I felt it unnecessary to add that I had also acquired a pair of glasses.

"Well, hell," he said, shaking his head. "All writers are nuts. Believe me."

I asked him about some money that was overdue and he phoned downstairs and had it sent up from the accounting department.

"I need a favor," I told Sam. "And I think you can swing it for me, if you will."

"Just let me know what it is."

"This Florida trip is going to cost me a few bucks," I explained. "I thought if you would call one of the foreign car agencies in the city and put in a good word for me, I might be able to pick up a few extra dollars."

"So close to the holidays?" he wanted to know. "Hell, who's got money to spend for imported loads at this time of the year?"

I told him I had some friends, people with plenty of gelt in their checking accounts, and I said I felt pretty certain that I could swing a deal or two. Finally, he agreed to do what he could for me and on the third phone call he located a dealer in the West Sixties who had four Mercedes on hand and the bank on his neck.

"No salary," Sam informed me as I got ready to go. "Just straight commission."

I told him that was fine, thanked him for his efforts and left.

The owner of the car agency, a fat little man by the name of Hymie Rudolph, was quite enthusiastic about the prospects of unloading at least one of the glorified monsters on his showroom floor.

"Jesus Christ," he complained, "I never knew there were so many people in the whole damned world who didn't have ten grand to spend on a car."

I selected a red and black model as the one which I would like to use for demonstrations. He said that was okay, that the car had been out on the road before, and then he had the girl from his office complete a bond application.

"I know Sam Terry or I'd wait until this thing went through," he told me. "Just don't crack it up, is all."

Once the car was out on the street and a mechanic had installed the dealer plates I couldn't wait until I was off. I informed Hymie that I would be back in a day or so, or that I would call, and then I pushed the Mercedes toward the river-front section.

It was a good car, there was no doubt about that. Whether or not it was worth a shade under ten thousand was a matter of personal opinion but it had plenty of fire and gallop under the hood. I admitted, on my way downtown, that I would have style to spare when I visited Eudora Channing.

Eudora. The mere sound of the name fascinated me. It meant, I knew, "good gift." Most names, as you may realize, have some definite meaning. William, for instance, is supposed to indicate the strong "protector" type of individual. Just thinking about that made me grin. I didn't feel at all like a protector. I felt, in a sense, like a man who wanted to run away from something.

Although I had not as yet-met Eudora Channing I knew quite a bit about the woman. Fortunately, one of my old contacts from the insurance business had been glad to see me again and he had consented to work up a credit report on her. She was, the information had revealed, thirty-nine years old and she lived at Forty-four Westminister Drive in the Panther Ridge section. Apparently wealthy, she never bought anything on credit but made all of her purchases on a cash basis. Occasionally, she left the city for periods of two or three weeks but with the exception of these infrequent trips she had lived at the same address for more than six years. There was no evidence that she had ever been married or that she had any living relatives.

The only questionable mark against her character was an arrest in Atlantic City, on May 7, 1950, for indecent exposure during a night club singing act. She had been fined twenty-five dollars for this offense but there was no record of any further arrests or convictions. She had not, since moving to the city, acquired any life insurance and, as far as could be ascertained, she did not own any. She had been involved in two motor vehicle accidents, one in 1952 while driving a Sunbeam Talbot, another the following year in which a Jaguar XK120 had been demolished. Her bank accounts, the report had stated, were not known and there were no clues as to her banking affiliations.

Not much, I thought, as I parked the Mercedes in front of 22 Arlington Square. No, not much at all. Rut enough to get me started. More than enough to take me up to Panther Ridge and get me inside of her house.

Since that night I had left my apartment I had been living in a furnished room on a little street on the South Side. The change, I had assured myself, had been more practical than dramatic, since it had become evident that the people I sought might resort to drastic means to stop me. I had not, following my move, been in contact with either Elsa or, with the exception of Sam Terry, any of my former associates. I had phoned Reverend Call once, the week previously, and he had broken down and cried bitterly as he told me he had not heard from his daughter. I had left the telephone more firmly determined than ever that I would some day locate her.

The room wasn't much to look at; just a double bed, a couple of chairs and a dresser with one missing caster. Most of my typing had been accomplished with a great deal of effort by putting one of the dresser drawers, upside down, on top of the bed and using that for a desk. The man who occupied one of the adjacent rooms worked on the railroad and he coughed much of the time. On the other side, a young waitress kept running the hot water all hours of the night, causing the pipes to thump and bump, as she made a laborious task out of washing her unmentionables. It was, to put it mildly, an unsatisfactory arrangement but I consoled myself with the fact that it was much better then living in comfort and exposing myself to further attack.

I stripped out of my clothes and proceeded to dress with great care. For a suit I chose a dark charcoal number which set off my wide shoulders and went well with my dark brown hair. The bow tie, which was dark maroon, blended conservatively with the white shirt and gave me, I thought, a college grad appearance. My moustache, now that I noted it in the mirror, not only altered my looks considerably but added a welcome touch of distinction. This, of course, was somewhat lessened by my crew cut but once I put on my glasses, which were the horn -rimmed type that so many businessmen wear, the effect was more than gratifying. Satisfied, I picked up my overcoat from the bed and shrugged into it. Few people, unless they knew me well, would be able to recognize me. I could, for the time being, assume the identity of Bill Gordon, ex-photographer and foreign car salesman. It was the only way I knew how to approach the job which I felt that I had to do.

I reached Forty-four Westminister Drive a few minutes before five o'clock. Already the long shadows of an early November evening crept across the hills and plunged down into the valleys. Dark clouds which raced across the face of the setting sun held the promise of possible snow. The wind, blowing briskly out of the east, was blustery and cold. It was, in all respects, a typical winter night.

As I walked up to the huge front door I noticed that the high fence surrounded a considerable portion of the spacious yard. Past an open gate I could see an Olympic-sized swimming pool, now drained of water. Beyond the pool was a miniature jungle of jack pines and, beneath these, a cluster of small, one-room cottages. It was quite an impressive lay-out.

The woman who opened the door didn't look to be thirty-nine. She didn't look to be twenty-nine. Rather, she resembled a well cared for movie starlet who had climbed out of bed following a ten hour rest.

"Yes?"

Her voice was throaty, deep, as luxurious as the jet black hair that tumbled down across her shoulders.

"Miss Channing, I'm Rill Gordon."

The name, of course, meant absolutely nothing to her. I had a feeling that she wasn't looking at me at all but, rather, at the Mercedes which was parked at the curb.

"I'd like to talk to you, Miss Channing. May I step in?"

The one thing you learn, if you've ever sold anything, is that the easiest way to get into a house is to come right out and ask. Few people will refuse you, unless you give them the impression that you're either a thug or a bill collector. But Eudora Channing was different. She didn't move an inch.

"What is it about?" she inquired, still looking at the car. "What is it you want?"

"I'm told you like nice things. And the Mercedes out there is very nice, don't you think? I had hopes that I might be able to interest you in a truly sensational offer."

"

Her glance moved away from the car and crept up to my face. "Who told you?"

I gave her my best smile and took one step forward.

"Actually, no one told me, Miss Channing. But beautiful women always like nice things. That much I know."

The compliment pleased her and she smiled. She had white, perfectly developed teeth and her mouth was generous and just the right shade of red. As she stepped aside, opening the door wide, her white sweater and skin-tight blue slacks developed some interesting characteristics.

"You're quite a flatterer," she said. "And, while I'm sure that I'm not in the market for a new car, it won't do any harm to talk about it."

"Thank you, Miss Channing."

The interior of the house was even more pretentious than the exterior had led me to expect. The bright red carpet in the long, wide hall was rich and thick and the living room into which she led me was, in one word, massive. All of the furniture was ultra-modern and plentiful and a bright fire burned cheerfully in the huge fieldstone fireplace at one end. Expensive native chestnut lined the four walls and long red drapes hung at each window. The two table lamps which glowed at either end of the davenport nearest the fireplace gave the room a homey, intimate atmosphere.

"Please be seated, Mr. Gordon."

I thanked her, removed my overcoat and sat down on the davenport. The warmth of the fire washed across my face.

"Now, tell me about the car," she invited, standing with her back to the flames. "It is very attractive, I must admit. Just what make is it?"

I told her it was a Mercedes, the best of the imported models, and that my boss, Hymie, was over the barrel with it and had to do something in a hurry.

"I think eight thousand would swing the deal," I added. "That is if you were interested."

"Rut I'm not overly fond of foreign cars, Mr. Gordon. I almost killed myself with one."

"People used to get killed in Model T Fords."

She liked that and she laughed. Maybe she wasn't enthusiastic about sports cars but I could tell, from the way she looked at me, that she wasn't finding sports car salesmen exactly repulsive.

I told her some more about the car, how half of the roof lifted up when you opened the door, and the way it responded to the slightest pressure on the gas pedal.

"Rut you'd have to drive it to know," I said. "You have to get the feel of all that power under you. Could you take time for a little drive now? It wouldn't take more than fifteen minutes."

She was waiting for someone, she said, and, anyway, she really didn't feel that she was in a buying mood. I stressed, once again, the fact that Hymie would give her a good offer and it seemed to make some impression on her. I began to relax, feeling that I was making some real progress, and when she offered me a drink I accepted. I wasn't out to sell cars, anyway. I had to sell myself. And if she bought the car that would come pretty close to finishing it.

"I'm a terrible salesman," I confided, part way through my drink. I smiled, answering the question in her eyes. "Here I am with a good prospect and I can't get the sale off the ground. I guess I should have stayed in business for myself."

"And what was that, Mr. Gordon?"

I dug a cigarette from my pocket and held the match for a long time. This had to be solid, had to go over smoothly, or everything I had done so far would be for naught. There just wasn't any compromise with the facts. Either the young fellow in the Caddy had called upon her as a friend or he had come on business. I was, of course, gambling that it had been for the latter purpose.

"I had a little model agency," I said, watching her very closely. "In Allentown, Pennsylvania. Have you ever been there?"

"No, I've never been to Allentown." Her deep blue eyes widened slightly and focused upon my face. "You say you had a model agency. That must have been quite fascinating, Mr. Gordon."

"And that's about all you can say for it. We didn't make very much money. There didn't seem to be any great demand for our services."

"How long ago was that?"

"You mean, when I gave it up?" I grinned and adjusted my glasses. "Oh, three weeks. I guess that's why I'm not so good at selling cars-too new at it. But it was the only thing that I could pick up while I'm looking around. The girls-I had five of them-still hope that I'll be able to get going here in the city."

I had hit it dead center and I knew it. I could see it in the way she threw her head back, her eyes half closed, the twin points of her breasts rising and falling rhythmically.

"These girls," she said. "Were they from-Allentown?"

"Two of them. The others were from near by, from the coal mining sections."

I had used the name Allentown because I knew a little bit about the place, in case somebody got curious and asked me. I had worked at a hot-rod show there one spring, out in Dorney Park, and I'd been in the city for more than a week. Besides, I was hoping that my mention of the coal mining region would have the same mental effect on Eudora Channing as it had on most people. I don't know why it is, but when you speak of the Pennsylvania coal mining sections almost everybody makes a joke about the whorehouses in Scranton, or they infer that any girl within fifty miles of a coal mine spends ninety percent of her time flat on her back. Hardly any of this, you can be sure, is at all true. It's like saying that every chorus girl has to lay the dance director before she can get a spot in the line. I guess people say and think these kinds of things because it gives them some sort of private, cheap excitement.

"Were your girls pretty, Mr. Gordon?"

"Yes. Very."

"And what kind of modeling did they do?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

"Would you care for another drink?"

I told her I would, observing her as she moved over to the tiny bar. She had a compact, fluent body and when she returned, leaning forward to hand me the glass, I arrived at the conclusion that she did not wear a brassiere beneath the sweater.

"Would they pose for nudes, Mr. Gordon? You know, art studies?"

I shrugged and pretended to deliberate the matter. "One of them did that type of work," I said. "She didn't seem to mind. I don't know about the others, though. You know how it is with that sort of work, Miss Channing. If a girl is overly modest she can't be of much assistance to the artist."

"Yes," she said, thoughtfully. "You're quite right."

"It's funny," I remarked casually. "But I came in here to sell you a car and now we're talking about models. Do you, by any chance, know of anyone who might be interested in my other venture?"

"It's quite possible, Mr. Gordon."

"I'd like to see the girls get ahead. And that's a fact. It's pretty tough for them to make a dent into the business by themselves."

Eudora Channing agreed that this was so and she said she would be happy to discuss my problem with one of her friends. I inquired about when she would be able to do this, since my girls were getting impatient, and she assured me that she would go into the matter that very evening.

"You could stop around tomorrow," she said. "I could tell you more about it then."

I asked her the name of her friend, if she thought it was better that I looked into it myself, but she was quite evasive.

"There may be nothing to it," she said. "I'll have to let you know."

I had pushed my luck about as far as it would go for one day and I decided to leave. She walked with me to the door and, to make the whole thing seem more natural, I put in another plug for the Mercedes.

"Perhaps when you come back tomorrow we can take a ride in it," she said. She swung the door back and forth, kid style, and smiled prettily. "But I'm not making you any promises, Mr. Gordon."

I told her that was okay, that I'd be happier if she could do something for at least one of my girls. She said that she would do her level best and she held out her hand. I grasped it briefly and found it warm and soft. She stood in the open door, watching me, until I reached the car. I turned and lifted my hand. She waved once and closed the door.

I did not immediately return to the city. Instead, I drove up the road a short distance, turned around and came back, running with the lights out. About three hundred feet above the Channing house I pulled off the road and parked the car deep in the shadows of an overhanging maple tree.

During the next hour several cars came up the road but none stopped at the white colonial house on the hill. Suffering from cold and boredom I was ready to abandon the project when, about seven-thirty, a car slid over to the curb and extinguished its lights.

The driver reappeared about forty-five minutes later and, after two attempts, managed to turn around in the shaled driveway. I started the Mercedes and followed the car down off the mountain. It was not, I discovered when we reached the intersection, the Caddy convertible.

We made two stops upon reaching the city, one at a fashionable brownstone on Tenth Street and the last at an exclusive apartment building not far from Pershing Hill. I assumed that this was where the driver lived since he exercised great care in locking the car, a late model Packard, before hurrying up the steps.

I waited five minutes and then entered the apartment building. A tired-looking woman pulled her dust mop out of the way as I came in.

"Aw, I missed him," I said to no one in particular. "Wouldn't you know it?"

"Missed who?" the woman wanted to know.

"That man who just walked in. He damned near hit me with his car, down at the corner."

"Who? Mr. Miller?" The woman shook her head.

"It's your own business, mister, but I wouldn't bother him about it. Not if you're not hurt, I wouldn't. He's a detective in the police department."

I didn't have to feign surprise at this revelation. It was genuine.

"You've got a point there," I admitted. "I guess I'll forget about it."

As I drove to the brownstone on Tenth Street I tried to evaluate the full meaning of a detective assigned to the city police department paying a call upon Eudora Channing. It could not, I felt sure, have any relation to official business since the Channing woman lived outside the jurisdiction of the city. And, I felt equally certain, it could have no possible connection with me; or, at least, no association with Bill Morgan, hot-rod article writer and dabbler in affairs which did not directly concern him. But, in spite of all of these assurances which I was able to give myself, I was disturbed. I had expected, if anyone came to the Channing house, the man in the Caddy convertible. I had, instead, drawn a detective. It was not, as far as I was concerned, a healthy compromise.

Lights burned brightly in several of the windows in the brownstone on Tenth Street. I thought, once, of simply ringing the bell and asking for Detective Miller but quickly discarded this as being both too risky and amateurish. I settled, eventually, for a quiet drink in a tiny bar at the end of the block.

There were only four people in the place, all of these seated at a booth in the rear, and the bartender, an elderly man with a limp, seemed to be talkative and friend-ly.(

"Hell of a place for a stranger," he said, agreeing with my previous observation about the city. "Nothing to do and a million and one possible holes where you could do it.

I told him, while he poured the second rye and soda, that I had spent some time in the city during the war, on a ten-day pass,-and that I had known a fellow who had lived in the neighborhood.

"It was a pretty casual thing," I explained. "Hell, I don't even remember his name. He was a writer, or something. Tall, lean-looking. It seems to me that he lived in that big brownstone, the one with the old geranium pots in front."

The bartender smiled and accepted my offer of a drink. He said that he had ulcers and only took ginger ale but that he appreciated the gesture, anyway.

"Won't find many men in there these days," he informed me. "Not for long. They just come and go. Know what I mean?"

"I don't think I do."

"Everybody says it's a-a-oh, you know...." The old man finished the ginger ale, rinsed out his glass and placed it carefully beneath the bar. "But I don't know anything about it, not for sure. A few of the girls come in here once in a while. Not often and not enough to get to know them. They change around a lot."

I pushed my glass across the bar and ordered another drink. I began to feel better. I was, I felt, heading in the right direction at last.

"You wonder how they must feel," I said, trying to draw him out. "Doing things like that."

"Most likely you won't believe me when I tell you this, but some of them enjoy it. They even make jokes about it, comparing the men, and sometimes I hear them talking about it when they're in here. There's one girl, a pretty redhead, and I heard her saying ... well, it's disgusting."

"I think if I had a daughter like that I'd kill her," I said. "I really do."

"No, you wouldn't, either," the bartender insisted.

"These girls-most of them, I mean-are driven into it, or they fall into it because everything is all tangled up in their homes, get me? Why, just last week-I think it was Tuesday night-there was three of the girls in here, sitting right where you're sitting at the bar, and one of them said her old man was a minister. Can you imagine a minister's daughter becoming a-a--" He choked on his own indignation.

I closed my eyes. Excitement was pounding at me.

"Was she-pretty?"

"Well, yes, pretty. Not beautiful. Just pretty. And dark-haired, cut short. Just a kid. I hadn't seen her before."

A few minutes later I told the old man goodnight and left the bar. It was cold outside and tiny flakes of snow filled the shadows of the night. I walked slowly up the block, past the brownstone with the lights in the windows, and wearily got into the car.

There was nothing I could do for Judith Call-not at the moment anyway. She'd made a terrible mistake coming to the city and she would have to pay for her lack of judgment by selling her flesh to all those who might be willing to buy it. I was only one man and, it was evident, it would be useless for me to turn to the police for help. I had started out to do the job alone and I would have to continue to work that way. Judith's future, as well as the futures of countless other girls, could very well depend, on how swiftly I could accomplish a task which, at the moment, seemed almost impossible.

I couldn't resist wondering, as I drove away from the curb and past the lighted brownstone, if any of the girls would really care.