“Did Beth ever mention any enemies? Anybody she was afraid of?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Late October, the day she moved out. She said, ‘I’ve found more simpatico digs’ in her best California girl voice.”
“Did she say where she was moving to?”
Miss Janeway said “No,” then leaned toward me confidingly and pointed to Koenig, loping back to the car tugging at his crotch. “You should talk to that man about his hygiene. Frankly, it’s disgusting.”
I said, “Thank you, Miss Janeway,” walked to the car and got in behind the wheel.
Koenig grunted, “What did the cooze say about me?”
“She said you’re cute.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“What else did she say?”
“That a man like you could make her feel young again.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I told her to forget it, that you’re married.”
“I ain’t married.”
“I know.”
“Then why’d you tell her that?”
I pulled out into traffic. “You want her sending you mash notes at the Bureau?”
“Oh, I get it. What did she say about Fritzie?”
“Does she know Fritzie?”
Koenig looked at me like _I_ was mentally defective. “Lots of people talk about Fritzie behind his back.”
“What do they say?”
“Lies.”
“What kind of lies?”
“Bad lies.”
“For instance?”
“Lies like he got the syph fucking hooers when he worked Ad Vice. Like he got docked off a month from duty to take the mercury cure. Like he got bounced to Central dicks for it. Bad lies, even worse stuff than that.”
Chills were tickling my spine. I turned onto Cherokee and said, “Such as?”
Koenig slid closer to me. “You pumping me, Bleichert? You looking for bad things to say about Fritzie?”
“No. Just curious.”
“Curiosity killed the kitty cat. You remember that.”
“I will. What did you get on the Sergeant’s Exam, Bill?”
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Fritzie took it for me. Remember the kitty cat, Bleichert. I don’t want nobody saying nothing bad about my partner.”
1842, a big stucco apartment house, came into view. I pulled over and parked, muttered, “Talk job,” then headed straight for the lobby.
A wall directory listed S. Saddon and nine other names–but no Linda Martin–in apartment 604. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, walked down a hallway smelling faintly of marijuana and rapped on the door. Big band music died out, the door opened and a youngish woman in a sparkly Egyptian outfit was standing there, holding a papier mâché headdress. She said, “Are you the driver from RKO?”
I said, “Police.” The door shut in my face. I heard a toilet flushing; the girl returned a moment later, and I walked into the apartment uninvited. The living room was high-ceilinged and arched; sloppily made-up bunk beds lined the walls. Suitcases, valises and steamer trunks were spilling out of an open closet door, and a linoleum table was wedged diagonally against a set of bunks without mattresses. The table was covered with cosmetics and vanity mirrors; the cracked wood floor beside it was dusted with spilled rouge and face powder.
The girl said, “Is this about those jaywalking tickets I forgot to pay? Listen, I’ve got three days on _Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb_ at RKO, and when I get paid I’ll send you a check. Is that all right?”
I said, “This is about Elizabeth Short, Miss–”
The girl put out a big stage groan. “Saddon. Sheryl with a Y-L Saddon. Listen, I talked to a policeman on the phone this morning. Sergeant something or other with a bad stutter. He asked me nine thousand questions about Betty and her nine thousand boyfriends, and I told him nine thousand times that lots of girls bunk here and date lots of guys, and most of them are fly-by-nights. I told him that Betty lived here from early November to early December, that she paid a dollar a day just like the rest of us, and I didn’t remember the names of any of her dates. So can I go now? The extra truck’s due any minute, and I need this job.”
Sheryl Saddon was out of breath and sweating from her metallic costume. I pointed to a bunk bed. “Sit down and answer my questions, or I’ll roust you for the reefers you flushed down the toilet.”