A skinny man in his fifties opened the door and said, “Cops, huh?” He had dark hair and pale eyes similar to the girl in the mug shots, but that was it for familial resemblance. Elizabeth Short was a knockout; he looked like a knockout victim: bony frame in baggy brown trousers and a soiled undershirt, moles all over his shoulders, seamed face pitted with acne scars. Pointing us inside, he said, “I got an alibi, just in case you think I did it. Tighter than a crab’s ass, and that is _air_ tight.”
Mr. White Hat to the hilt, I said, “I’m Detective Bleichert, Mr. Short. This is my partner Sergeant Blanchard. We’d like to express our condolences for the loss of your daughter.”
Cleo Short slammed the door. “I read the papers, I know who you are. Neither one of you would have lasted one round with Gentleman Jim Jeffries. And as far as your condolences go, I say _c’est la vie_. Betty called the tune, so she had to pay the piper. Nothing’s free in this life. You want to hear my alibi?”
I sat down on a threadbare sofa and eyeballed the room. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves spilling dime novels; there was the couch, one wooden chair and nothing else. Lee got out his notebook. “Since you’re so anxious to tell us, shoot.”
Short slumped into the chair and ground the legs into the floor, like an animal pawing the dirt. “I was Johnny on the spot at my job from Tuesday the fourteenth at two P.M. to five P.M. Wednesday the fifteenth. Twenty-seven straight hours, time and a half for the last seventeen. I’m a refrigerator repairman, the best in the west. I work at Frost King Appliances, 4831 South Berendo. My boss’s name is Mike Mazmanian. You call him. He’ll alibi me up tighter than a popcorn fart, and that is _air_ tight.”
Lee yawned and wrote it down; Cleo Short crossed his arms over his bony chest, daring us to make something of it. I said, “When was the last time you saw your daughter, Mr. Short?”
“Betty came west in the spring of ’43. Stars in her eyes and hanky-panky on her mind. I hadn’t seen her since I left that dried-up old ginch of a wife of mine in Charlestown, Mass., on March 1, 1930 A.D. and never looked back. But Betty wrote me and said she needed a flop, so I–”
Lee interrupted: “Cut the travelogue, pop. When was the last time you saw Elizabeth?”
I said, “Back off, partner. The man is cooperating. Go on, Mr. Short.”
Cleo Short dug in with his chair, glaring at Lee. “Before punchy here got wise, I was gonna tell you that I reached into my own savings and sent Betty a C-note to come west on, then I promised her three squares and a five-spot a week mad money if she kept the house tidy. A generous offer, if you want my opinion. But Betty had other things on her mind. She was a lousy housekeeper, so I gave her the boot on June 2, 1943 A.D., and I ain’t seen her since.”
I wrote the information down, then asked, “Did you know she was in LA recently?”
Cleo Short quit glaring at Lee and glared at me. “No.”
“Did she have any enemies that you knew of?”
“Just herself.”
Lee said, “No cute answers, Pops.”
I whispered, “Let him talk,” then said out loud, “Where did Elizabeth go when she left here in June of ’43?”
Short jabbed a finger at Lee. “You tell your pal he calls me Pops I call him stumblebum! Tell him disrespect’s a two-way street! Tell him I repaired Chief CB Horrall’s Maytag 821 model myself, and I mean _air_ tight!”
Lee walked into the bathroom; I saw him chasing a handful of pills with sink water. I put on my calmest white hat voice: “Mr. Short, where did Elizabeth go in June of ’43?”
Short said, “That palooka lays a hand on me, I’ll fix his wagon _air_ tight.”
“I’m sure you will. Would you ans–”
“Betty moved up to Santa Barbara, got a job at the Camp Cooke PX. She sent me a postcard in July. It said some soldier beat her up bad. That was the last I ever heard from her.”