“Your comedy team is Meyer and McGee,” he said. “I am Meyer, known as Meyer. The pretty one is McGee, known as Travis, and this is his simple little unassuming houseboat, Jane Doe.”
“Delighted,” she said, barely moving her lips, and stood up and brushed by us and went into the bath and closed the door.
I went into the guest stateroom which Meyer was occupying. There is a big drawer under the bed. An ironic type had once named it the broad bin, and unfortunately I have been unable to think of anything else to call it. I found girl’s pajamas, roomy flannelette in blue and white stripes. I found some black Dacron sailcloth slacks in size twelve, and a white pleated Dacron shirt with long sleeves and with an edge of Dacron lace on the collar and cuffs. I found a pair of tennis shoes that looked about the right size. And I took out one of those little packages, seal unbroken, the better hotels provide for female guests whose luggage has been taken to some highly unlikely place by their friendly airline. The essential toiletries, with a stylized picture of either a blonde or a brunette imprinted on the flexible plastic.
I put them in on the big bed of the boat’s owner, debated making the bed up fresh, remembered that the linen had had but one night’s use by McGee, and she was not exactly in a condition to be overly fastidious. As I came out of the master stateroom, Meyer came out of the bath after delivering the drink.
“Come take a look,” he said. I followed him to the galley.
He had drawn a small washtub of fresh water, put her clothing in it to rinse the salt out of the fabric. Mother Meyer.
“What we have, Doctor Watson,” he said, “is a raw silk sleeveless blouse in natural color, and an OrIon fleece wraparound skirt, both items with the label of something called, God help us all, The Doll House, in Broward Beach. And we have these lacy little blue briefs, and the matching bra, about a B-cup size 34 I would judge, excellent quality and unlabeled, possibly from a custom house. No shoes. And, as you may have noticed, no jewelry, no wristwatch. But pierced ears, indentation of a ring on the ring finger of the right hand, and though she’s no sun bunny, a stripe of pallor on the left wrist where the wristwatch was worn.” I followed him into the lounge. “Age, Mr. Holmes?”
“Some oriental blood. Complicates the problem. I’ll say twenty-six, but give me two years either way.”
“How about the long decorative fingernails, Mr. Holmes? Too long for useful work, no? And broken practically down to the quick on the third and fourth fingers of the right hand, possibly from a struggle.”
“Very good, Doctor Watson, my dear fellow. Is there not one other thing worth consideration?”
“Uh… the scar on the right cheekbone?”
“Meaningless in itself. Come, man!” I looked blank. He said, “I shall give you a little help, Doctor. Imagine how some other young woman might react to the same set of circumstances.”
I thought of Vidge. She wouldn’t have endured so placidly the pain of removing the fish hooks. She would have been bleating and hooing and thrashing, and she would have been demanding doctors and policemen. When I said Jane Doe’s acceptance of our help seemed significant, he beamed at me and said that her muscle tone, the rich trimness of her figure, her acceptance of the situation all seemed to point to some aspect of the entertainment world, probably one of the more sleazy segments of it, a so-called exotic dancer, a hinterland belly dancer, a bunny at one of the more permissive key clubs, a singer on one of the little cut-rate cruise ships. All her symptoms of near-death had been physical, but emotionally she seemed to have an acceptance of it so placid as to be a little eerie. As if she knew the world as a place where sooner or later they heaved you off a bridge.
We heard a door open, the gargling sound of the tub water running out, the sound of the stateroom door closing. In a few minutes we went as a committee of two, rapped on her door, and heard her call to us to come in. She lay in the middle of the giant bed under the coverings in the striped pajamas, her head, turbaned in a maroon towel, resting on two pillows. Her color had improved. We stood at the foot of the bed. “Much better, eh?” Meyer said.