Girl Running Read online

  “Just sick and tired of squatting here, waiting for you.”

  “Patience, patience. Things move at a crawl in France. I phoned Denise to meet me here. Wanted you to talk to her. She’s modeled at Zarchy’s Art School. She knows a lot of American art students. But she talks little English.”

  “With her equipment, who needs talk?”

  “She makes up for it as a free loader. She can eat you under the table.”

  “When can you arrange it?”

  Denise sat and smiled. She had a face full of Gallic charm. She had a little habit of slapping the table with her palm.

  “You are making the joke?” she asked.

  “Tell me about Zarchy’s Art School,” I suggested.

  She gave it to me in burlesque English, slow and deliberate and full of clipped phrases. It tied her up to talk. She closed her eyes and struggled for me, going down the line to explain her experiences as a model. Larry wasn’t listening. He whistled for a waiter and ordered drinks. He went into a big pantomime production concerning a sandwich he wanted. The waiter listened raptly. They exchanged hurried dialogue. The sandwich was a special item, enough to contain the elements of a horse opera, hand-waving, eye-shutting, lip-pursing verbiage, about a thousand words between two slices of bread.

  But the waiter nodded and understood. They continued to discuss it. Larry was as French as the air we breathed. In the old days we used to laugh at this kind of performance. After the battle of the Bulge, we came into Paris together. Larry was loaded with high-school French and did all right even then. But now, after ten years as a citizen of Paris, Larry Frick gurgled the Gallic tongue with mastery. He had stayed on in France to study under the GI Bill. He wanted to be an artist then. Later he switched to writing after his painting talent ran out, and picked up a job with a big press service covering the fine arts front for the papers. On the side he continued in his old habits, eating and drinking and testing mattresses in the approved French style. He was older and balder, but no wiser. He would continue to live life as a gag until all laughter died in his throat.

  “Show her the picture,” he said when he finished his one-act play with the waiter. “Maybe Denise will recognize her.”

  So I took out the photo of Judy Martin.

  “An American girl,” I said, “who used to be a student at Zarchy’s school. She could have changed a bit, Denise. This picture was taken a long time ago. Five years or so. She came over here then.”

  “A pretty one,” Denise said. “But of course I remember her.”

  “You knew her well?”

  “A funny one. I posed for her on many occasions.”

  “At her studio?”

  “But of course. A talented girl.” She fingered the photo, frowning at it. “And very popular with the men.”

  “Who was her boy friend?”

  “Not one especially, mon petit. She likes all men, if you know what I mean. Judy is full of the gayety, a girl who loves the parties, drinking and laughter.”

  “She lived alone?”

  “Mais, non,” Denise said slowly. “In the beginning, she was with a woman, an old one called Susan Bannerman. After the old one, there was Velma Weston for a little while.”

  I stopped her there. “You know Velma?”

  “Velma, alors?” She threw her head back and laughed. “Everybody knows le chat, everybody in Paris. Velma is what you would call a queer one, perhaps? A girl of few inhibitions, a girl of great fire, especially for the pants.”

  “Are you trying to tell me she’s a whore?”

  “Nonsense. It is the same with all you Americans. If a girl decides to favor the men, she is at one once a whore. This is ridiculous. Sex, in France, is not a secret cult, mon ami. Perhaps Velma has become slightly French in her habits. There is no sin in the body. Only in small minds.”

  Larry nudged me. “Now do you see why I stay in Paris? Where else can you find a broad with a figure like Denise and a better excuse for using it?”

  “You knew Velma when Judy roomed with her?” I asked.

  “But yes.”

  “Why did Judy leave her?”

  “It is difficult to recall,” Denise said. “As it comes back to me, the girls argued about their personal habits. Judy was first and foremost the artist. She loves to paint and this is her life. Velma, au contraire, loves life first and all else afterwards. Velma is a late one. Always she stays out until dawn. Whereas Judy can be found with her paints at most times. This does not mean Judy does not love the liquor, the gayety also. To be sure, Judy herself drinks much. But Velma, alors—it is a nightly event for her, this staying out and always with the men. Perhaps this was why Judy and Velma parted. What other reason could it be?”

  “A man?”

  Denise shrugged. “You may be correct.”

  “Can you recall which man it might be?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Her favorite?”

  “I could not judge. There are women who do not discuss their amours. Perhaps none of them were serious for her. Or is it the way you Americans think? I refer to sex, alors. To most American girls, is not sex one big sin? They die a thousand deaths when a man suggests that he is, after all, anxious to go to bed with a woman. Is this strange? Is this bad? It is impossible to say what Judy thinks. She has her little secrets, her little treasures. I can only guess how she felt about her men. I can only tell you that she would favor only one with her body. One at a time, that is, while blaming it on pure love, if you understand me?”

  “I’m way ahead of you.”

  “All in all, however,” said Denise thoughtfully, “a girl of great beauty and talent.”

  “You liked her?”

  “I admired her. Let us put it like that.”

  “You mean she wouldn’t encourage close girl friends?”

  “She did not encourage me.”

  “You can think of none? Any others?”

  “Loretta, perhaps. She went often to Loretta’s.”

  “A Bohemian bistro,” Larry explained. “Loretta’s is the hangout for artists, writers, musicians and general cruds. She’s been pulling them away from the older dumps like the Rotonde and the Dome. Loretta’s loaded with charm, a Brooklyn gal with an Italian accent. She’s been here since the war, I knew her when her joint opened. I’ll take you there. Loretta is something to see.”

  “Now I go,” said Denise, leaning down to kiss Larry on his bald skull. “I will think more of this Judy Martin. You will see me soon, Larry, no?”

  “Keep the front door open, baby.”

  We watched her sway down the street. A few hundred Frenchmen broke their necks to study her hips. She had a smoothly rigged frame, plump but not fat. She turned at the corner, just once, to smile back at us. Larry blew her a loud French kiss.

  “What a package,” he said. “You like the merchandise?”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “She likes you. You’re a new type for her.”

  “Save it,” I said. “Did you get me the pass?”

  “Naturally. But it called for a mastery of the finest of French arts. Bribery. I had to bypass three petty bureaucrats to get into the main office. At one hundred francs per bureaucrat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them I was a member of the team?”

  “My way was easier and faster. In Paris only one item impresses people. Loot. I paid. Now you reimburse.”

  I called him a thief and paid him. He finished his snack, devouring it in the approved European style, smacking his lips and stuffing his mouth hungrily. He was French all the way. He wore a simple outfit, rigged in the current fashion for expatriate intellectuals—a dirty pair of brown pants, a checkered sweater, and a silk neckerchief tied loosely. You’d pass him in the street and call him Parisian. You’d disregard him as just another frog. Until he opened his face and talked ba
sic Brooklynese.

  “Speaking of money,” he said. “What do you think of our client? Is she a doll?”

  “Nice broad,” I said.

  “And loaded! Peggy Martin’s stacked both ways. Did I tell you about her Uncle Ulysses?”

  “I read the papers.”

  “U. S. Martin,” Larry sighed. “Ulysses left the Martin gals a couple of millions.” He rubbed his hands briskly. He always rubbed his hands this way when talking about women, food or money. It was a boyhood habit. “But that Peggy. I’d go for her even if she didn’t have a nickel.”

  “You went for her?”

  “The full treatment. Last year, when I met her. But she’s saving it, Steve. She won’t move until the prince on the white horse comes along. Interested in one thing only—finding her damned-fool sister, Judy. Looked me up as soon as she landed this time. Wanted me to play detective for her again. I didn’t have the heart to take her dough. Not that she can’t spare it. But I’m no detective. That’s why I remembered you, chum. That’s why I had her import the great Conacher.” He rubbed his hands again. “She pay you much?”

  “A good advance.”

  “I could use a few quid, lad.”

  “Nice build-up.” I gave him a bundle of francs. How could I refuse? Larry had grabbed this plum for me, because of our sentimental friendship in the army. And I needed him at my side. He would break down the language barrier for me.

  “Too much,” he said, licking his lips over the money. “I should give you some change.”

  “You should, but you won’t, you fraud.”

  “Buy you a drink?”

  He yelled for the waiter, hell bent on getting rid of the cabbage. That was Larry. He would be living from hand to mouth for the rest of his life. He would be shooting the bankroll on wine, women and sport. But he’d be happy along the way. I envied him his quick lust and easy attitude. You couldn’t dislike Larry Frick.

  “Where are we?” he asked, trying for a serious note.

  “Behind the eight ball, as usual.”

  “You didn’t find Folger?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I made a locate on him, all right. Got next to a man in the American Express office. Folger booked his flight from New York by way of American Express. He wanted a hotel of the family type, quiet and cheap. He was recommended to three places. Folger picked a dump called Founard’s.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “A dump. Complete with detours.”

  “Can’t we forget about Folger?” Larry asked. “Why not find Judy first?”

  “Our client says Folger first. Her reasons make sense. Judy’s been in Paris for more than five years. Talented artist who left home because small town life was too stifling. Folger’s a local boy from the old home town. He’s hoping to grab Judy before sister Peggy finds her. Hopes to marry her and net himself a basket of cabbage. Our job is to locate Folger first and side track him.”

  “Buy him off?”

  “Peggy’ll do the buying. We do the finding.”

  “Why not let him roam?” Larry asked. “If we can’t find Judy, how in hell can Folger?”

  “You never know. He may have an inside track. Peggy doesn’t guarantee that Folger hasn’t been in touch with Judy. Maybe he wrote her letters. Maybe she answered. That would mean he might know exactly where she is.”

  “Smart,” Larry whistled. “Clever.”

  “Also we can’t rule out the possibility of Judy being in love with Folger, can we?”

  “You talk like a Sherlock, friend.”

  “And if they’re in love, they’ll be tricky. Nothing’s tougher to locate than emotional hiders. Lovers have a secret source of mental power. They’re sneaky and smart.”

  Larry thumbed the photo of Judy Martin. I handed him the snapshot of Folger, told him the incident at Founard’s. He studied Folger for a long, time. He shook his head at the photo.

  “You’re off the beam,” he said quietly.

  “Come again?”

  He flipped the picture to me. “Take a good long gander at the kid’s face, Steve. He just isn’t the type.”

  “You artists are all alike. Forever typing people.”

  “Look at his kisser, stupid.”

  I looked. What do you search for in a face? What are the signposts of a louse? Big ears? A crooked smile? A lecherous glint in the eye? Folger’s face showed me the profile of a kid in his early twenties, crew cut and wide open in the smile. The camera couldn’t hide the small army of freckles that marched across his cheeks and over the ridge of his small nose. He could have been a college football player, somebody’s kid brother, a comic strip hero, a shipping clerk with Horatio Alger ideas. But I had seen too many of these juveniles in the police files and the Wanted Posters. I was prejudiced only out of caution.

  “There was a kid named Baby-Faced Hurley who had the same type of mug,” I said. “He used to go around whipping young girls to death in Brooklyn. When they caught him he cried like a baby. Said he only wanted to show them love and affection.”

  “Extremes,” said Larry patiently. “Work Folger’s face against the norm and you’ll believe in him. He’s a true Rover boy.”

  “Not according to Peggy Martin. And she should know.”

  “He wants to marry money? Is that all? A perfectly normal impulse in the youth of all lands.”

  “It’s deeper than that. Listen to his history:

  “Folger grew up with the Martin gals. In his late high school years he fell in love with Judy. When she left for Paris, Folger was entering the army. That was almost five years ago. Now let’s bring Folger up to date. He just got out of the army a few months ago. He returned to the old home town and Peggy saw him again. All of a sudden he was the hot lover. All of a sudden he was scramming to Paris to find his lady love.”

  “So what? Why get all hopped up about it?”

  “For a fat fee, I’ll get hopped up about anything you can name,” I said. “We’ve got to locate Folger because he may know where Judy is.”

  “A clever deduction. And if he doesn’t?’

  “We’ll find Judy without Folger.”

  “Confidence,” laughed Larry. “You’ve got it in carload lots.”

  “A job is a job. In my business you make the breaks for yourself, or the breaks break you. There’s been a lot of slop written about investigators; too much fiction and too little fact. A skip-trace hound works like an accountant. He runs his eye down a long list of little statistics. He gropes for the errors. If he’s on the ball, he grabs himself weak spots. Then he follows through, building on the small mistakes. Sooner or later, I’ll find a flaw, an opening. If Judy’s alive and in circulation, I’ll put the finger on her.”

  I asked him about Founard’s. Larry didn’t know the place. It was too far off his usual beat, the kind of hotel tourists don’t favor. I told him about Velma Weston. He remembered her name. She was a renegade character, one of the inner-circle Bohemians.

  “Any idea who hit you in Folger’s bathroom?” he asked.

  “It was too quick for even a look at the bum.”

  “Bum? It could have been Folger.”

  “You’re beginning to think like an investigator,” I said. “It also could have been Velma.”

  “You may never know.”

  “I’ll know,” I said. “I’m going to find out one of these days. And when that happens somebody’s going to get his face kicked in. I don’t like getting slugged blind. That’s why we’re going to move, Larry. That’s why we’re checking the Préfecture. Now.”

  “Slow down. Why the files now?”

  “A wise eye always makes sure he’s got something to look for. If this happened in New York, I’d make a quick visit to the Midtown Precinct. I’d look through certain files. Certain pictures. The gallery of the missing.”

  “N
ow I’m really tied in knots.”

  “I’ll draw you a diagram—later.”

  But I needed no diagram for Larry Frick. An hour after we entered the Central Bureau, he knew what was bothering me. We stood over a long table, under a bright light. We stared down at a photo of a man’s body. He was lying on a cobbled pavement. Beyond his naked figure, the thin line of a dark and mirrored surface showed clearly. It was the river—the Seine. The man’s face was gashed and mauled. His eyes were shut tight, his arms limp, his legs spread in a grotesque pose. No trace of boyish life remained. The mouth sagged and there was an ugly cut along the rim of his jaw. Somebody had kicked his face in.

  Somebody had butchered Douglas Folger.

  CHAPTER 3

  Préfecture de Police—7 Boulevard du Palais

  Inspector Malencourt was slow and soft, a Frenchman who moved on well-oiled hinges, a veteran who wrapped himself in bureaucratic gestures. He was friendly but firm. He milked me of everything I knew about Folger. He spoke a formal English in between sucks on his long dead cigar, a stump that seemed as much a part of his face as his nose. Once in a while he would turn to Larry and shift into French, asking for a clear translation of my remarks.

  When he was finished, I said: “How do you figure Folger, Inspector? Any ideas how it happened? Why it happened?”

  “A few,” said Malencourt. “The man quite obviously died of submersion. This much our medical men tell us.”

  “But the cuts and bruises?”

  “A mystery, perhaps. The unfortunate man may have been cut falling into the river. The report shows much alcohol in him. Therefore, he might have slipped on one of the shore stairs and fallen down to the base of the steps, perhaps, where he crawled until he fell into the Seine.”

  “Naked?”

  The Frenchman shrugged. He exchanged an understanding smile with Larry.

  “The Americans,” he said, “are fond of parties, is not that so? We have found others, not dead, to be sure, but altogether naked, wandering on the Boulevard Montparnasse, or sleeping in the Luxembourg, or even trying to enter restaurants in such condition. When a certain type of party begins, nobody can predict the ending.”