I smiled into her eyes and said, “Nice. Very nice. The Doll House complete with doll.”
The twinkle took precedence over the attentive politeness. “In the seventh month, that’s good for the morale.”
“Should you be working? Or are you the owner?”
“I’m hired help. The owner is Miss Gates. And it’s good for me to keep working, thank you. This one is the sixth.”
“And the little note of pride is well earned. I figured you for a child bride.”
“I’ll treasure that too. You’re improving my day. Are you looking for a gift?”
“No. As a matter of fact I’ve got a fairly strange problem. And maybe I’m wasting my time, but I have a little extra time.”
“You’re not alone.”
“I’ve got the problem because I have a terrible memory for names. I tied up down at the city pier over a year ago. I had a friend who lived here then. He’s moved away. He rounded up a batch of people and we had drinks aboard, and it turned into a long loud evening. There was one girl in the group I thought I’d like to see again some day. She had a date that night. But… you know how it goes, she found a chance to let me know she’d be happy to have me give her a ring next time through. She gave me a picture of herself. Some kind of publicity shot, I guess. I threw it into a drawer aboard the boat. This morning it took me about a half hour to locate it. Her name is gone completely. I tried to think of some kind of a clue, and all I could remember was overhearing her talk to my date about her favorite place to buy clothes in Broward Beach. The Doll House. So I thought I’d take the outside chance. Maybe you people know her name.”
I took out the small picture, one without inscription, and handed it to her, and followed her slowly as she took it over under one of the spotlights. She examined it, gave me a quick glance which could have been a disappointed reappraisal, and said, “She’s not a charge customer. But she does come in quite often. Andra… Miss Gates always takes care of her.”
“How do I find Miss Gates?”
“She’s back in the office, sir. If you will wait a few moments I will get you the information.”
The chill was obvious. She had withdrawn and slammed the gates. I stood and stared into the glossy photograph of a girl’s face of a plastic mannequin. She stood on a round pedestal that lifted her almost up to eye level with me. She held her arms and hands in a position which looked as if somebody had just snatched her banjo away, and she hadn’t had time to react. She wore a brief little shift in a coarse blue weave with a huge brass zipper from throat to hem, a little brass padlock fastening the zipper at the neckline, and, pinned to the bosom, a little spring-tension reel key. the padlock key snugged up against it. An overhead spot shone on her straight, thick, cream-colored Dynel hair.
“Sweetie,” I said to her, “your message gets through. May one day a plastic chap unreel your little key and tousle your plastic locks.”
I felt fairly confident of the degree of risk I was taking.
Vangie had spoken of her darling little ear, of having a place to live. And if she had a record, and if it was a dangerous and conspiratorial game she was playing, it had to be under a different name. Otherwise the police would have had the local address very quickly.
Little Mother came silently back across the carpeting, handed me the picture and an unlined file card. I had heard a distant clicking of a typewriter. On the card was written Miss Tami Western, 8000 Cove Lane Apartment 7B, Quendon Beach.
“Sorry to take so long, sir. As Miss Western pays cash, Miss Gates had to look through the delivery file. Some things which had to be altered were delivered. It would be three miles or so south of the city line.”