It was a stucco four flat on Mentone near the LA–Culver City border, a salmon-pink structure flanked by identical buildings painted light green and tan. There was a pay phone at the corner; I used it to dial Bad Breath Johnny’s number, an extra precaution to make sure the bastard wasn’t in. Twenty rings went unanswered. I walked calmly over, found a bottom floor door with “Vogel” on the mail slot, worked a double-over hairpin into the keyhole and let myself in.
Inside, I held my breath, half expecting a killer dog to leap at me. I checked the luminous dial on my watch, decided ten minutes was tops and squinted for a light to turn on.
My eyes caught a floor lamp. I moved to it and pulled the cord, lighting up a tidy living room. There was a tidy bargain basement sofa with matching chairs, an imitation fireplace, cheesecake glossies of Rita Hayworth, Betty Grable and Ann Sheridan Scotch taped to the walls, what looked like a genuine captured Jap flag draped over the coffee table. The phone was on the floor by the sofa, with an address book next to it; I allotted half my time right there.
I checked every page. There was no Betty Short or Charles Issler, and none of the names listed were repeats from the master file or the names in Betty’s “little black book.” Five minutes down, five to go.
A kitchen, dinette and bedroom adjoined the living room. I turned off the lamp, moved in darkness to the half-open bedroom doorway and patted the inside wall for a light switch. Finding one, I flipped it on.
An unmade bed, four walls festooned with Jap flags and a big, scuffed chest of drawers were revealed. I opened the top drawer, saw three German Lugers, spare clips and a scattering of loose shells–and laughed at the taste of Axis Johnny. Then I opened the middle one, and a tingling was all over me.
Black leather harnesses, chains, whips, studded dog collars, Tijuana condoms that gave you a bludgeon-headed extra six inches. Smut books with pictures of naked women getting whipped by other women while they sucked harness-clad guys with big dicks. Close-up photos that captured fat, needle marks, chipped nail polish and dope-glazed eyes. No Betty Short, no Lorna Martilkova, no _Slave Girls from Hell_ Egyptian backdrop or tie-in to Duke Wellington, but a parlay–whips to the coroner’s “light lash marks”–that was enough to nail Johnny Vogel as Dahlia suspect number one.
I shut the drawers, flicked off the light, tingle walked into the living room and turned on the lamp, then reached for the address book. “Daddy & Mom’s” number was GRanite-9401; if I got a no answer, B & E number two was a ten-minute drive away.
I dialed; Fritz Vogel’s phone rang twenty-five times. I turned off the light and hauled ass.
Vogel Senior’s small wood frame house was totally dark when I pulled up across from it. I sat behind the wheel remembering the layout from my previous visit, recalling two bedrooms off a long hallway, the kitchen, a rear service porch and a closed door across the hall from the bathroom. If Fritzie had a private den, that had to be it.
I took the driveway to the back of the house. The screen door to the service porch was open; I tiptoed past a washing machine to the barrier to the house proper. That door was solid wood, but feeling at the jamb I found it connected to the wall with a simple hook and eyelet. I shook the knob and felt plenty of give; if I could pop the little piece of metal, I was in.
I got down on my knees and patted the floor, stopping when my hand hit a skinny piece of metal. Pawing at it like a blind man, I realized I’d found an oil gauge dipstick. I smiled at my luck, stood up and popped the door open.
Thinking fifteen minutes tops, I moved through the kitchen, over to the hallway and down it, my hands in front of me to deflect unseen obstacles. A nightlight glowed inside the bathroom doorway–pointing me straight across to what I hoped was Fritzie’s hideaway. I tried the knob–and the door opened.