Find This Woman (12 page)

"What!"

He blinked some more. "What's the matter? Didn't you know she was Mrs. Dante?"

I didn't say anything for a full ten seconds. I couldn't. Then I said, "Bartender, give me a drink."

He shook his head, but started mixing a water-high for me. I swung my poor dazed head around for another look, and for one panicky moment I thought she'd gone, but then I saw her moving away from the dice table, turning away from me, walking to the far end of the bar. Even as rattled as I was, I couldn't help thinking that a walk like hers couldn't have been an accident: It had to have been planned, practiced, and perfected.

She slid up on the stool and ordered a drink, and the other bartender fixed her a stinger.

Mrs. Dante, Mrs. Dante, Mrs. Dante; it went ricocheting around in my skull. But the bartender had said, "Looks a
little
like her." There was no point in continuing to leap at conclusions. But if she were Mrs. Dante, maybe others of the Dante clan might be around. But how the hell. . . I stopped thinking about it for a moment and looked at every face I could see in the crowd. And, still at the dice table where I hadn't seen him before because I'd been looking at something much prettier than his stupid face, was Dante's right-hand man with the long dry hair swelling out over his temples, and the deep bronze skin, and the frightened eye. He hadn't seen me, apparently, and I didn't want him to see me. I asked the bartender, "Who's that mug?" and pointed him out.

"Guy from the Inferno. Lloyd something or other. Don't know just what he does down there."

"I know what he does. Thanks."

I took my drink and photo with me, walked along the bar, and sat down right next to Isabel Ellis or Mrs. Victor Dante or Julie-Belle Smutch or whoever the hell she was. She barely glanced at me, but I looked at her good.

I didn't know. Could be, though. The girl in the picture was a brunette with lots of hair, and this one had a feather cut that was blonde, almost platinum, but that could have been peroxide and scissors. And the girl at the bar was a few years older, apparently, than the one in the photo, but she was still a year or two either way from thirty as near as I could tell. The features seemed much the same; there was a difference, but it might have been accounted for by make-up. That trim figure looked as if she were careful about keeping it in shape: like a gal who played tennis, or took a lot of exercise, or visited masseurs regularly. But I didn't have a picture of her figure for comparison. Wish I had.

But just looking was telling me nothing, so I sat my drink on the bar, said, "Pardon me," and when she turned to me I handed her the photograph.

She had a pleasant look on her face, half-smiling as she took the photo, and I said bluntly, "Is that you?"

She looked at the picture in her hand, laid it slowly on top of the bar, and the pleasant look faded, washed right off her face, and she didn't make a sound. She just fainted dead away and slid off the stool to the floor.

Chapter Eleven

SOMEBODY YELLED.

I grabbed the picture in one hand and bent over the woman. People crowded up around me and I didn't know what the hell was happening. All I could think of was that pretty face getting blank, and her toppling, and me watching her, too startled even to grab her as she fell.

I backed away as somebody picked her up and carried her over to one of the flat leather seats beyond the tables. She was starting to come around. And then I saw that the guy carrying her was goon-boy Lloyd. I didn't know if he'd noticed me in the excitement or not, but if he hadn't, he was likely to in a minute. I also realized that it hadn't been my job in the first place to barge up to the gal even if she
was
my client's daughter. When I'd been hired, Bing said if I found her and she was O.K. he didn't want her bothered; he merely wanted to be sure she was all right. But there was something I could do right now. I could call that guy and give him a piece of my mind before I got a hole in it.

I went across the lobby and up to my room without looking back. Inside, I grabbed the phone, fished in my pocket for the card Bing had given me, and gave the number he'd written on it to the operator.

He was in. After he said hello, I lit into him. "Listen, you old—" I busted it off and started over. "Listen, Mr. Bing, what the hell did you get me into up here?"

"What? Who is this?"

"This is Scott, Shell Scott, remember? Have you heard from your daughter?"

"Isabel? Why, no. What's the matter? You sound excited."

"Excited! You damn bet I'm excited. People keep trying to kill me, and I think I might have just seen your daughter."

He busted in right there. He practically swooned.

"You did? Then she's all right? Where was she, Mr. Scott? Is she all right? You didn't talk to her, did you?"

"Slow down a minute." I slowed down, myself, thinking. Then I said, "Actually, Mr. Bing, I'm not a damn bit sure of anything yet. You might say I'm confused. I may have seen Isabel and I may not. I simply don't know. Can you give me a better description of her? And how about this: Do you know of any reason why she might change her appearance? Dye her hair, things like that?"

He was silent for a few seconds, then he said, "Change her appearance? No, Mr. Scott. I don't understand. Is she—is she in trouble?"

"Frankly, you've got me. But listen to this, and listen good. If you know of any reason why she might be, you damned well better not hold out on me if you want me to stay on the case, and you know what I mean. I don't care if it makes you so uncomfortable or embarrassed you can't stand it. Now, why the hell didn't you tell me that Isabel's husband was an ex-con?"

There was another of his silences, then he said, "I'm sorry you found that out, Mr. Scott. I don't see how that could be important. The fact that my son-in-law is a criminal is hardly the type of thing I'd care to—"

I broke in on him again, trying to keep my voice level. "Mr. Bing, please listen carefully. Anything, believe me, anything at all might be important. If you'll let me decide what is and isn't, I might stay alive longer."

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing else you don't already know. Nothing.
Tell
me, is she up there? Is she all right?"

There we were again. I said, "I honestly don't know. Can you tell me any way of positively identifying her? You know, defects, scars, habits?"

He said hesitantly, "No-o. You have her picture."

"Yeah, I know. That's not good enough. I mean something else. Something positive."

"Well. . . I'm afraid the only scar she has wouldn't do you much good. When she was a little girl part of a tin can hit her—you know how children play with firecrackers, putting them under cans. Well, the can blew apart and cut about a four-inch gash on her cheek. But that's all I can think of."

"What's the scar look like?"

"Just a straight scar with a sort of sharp hook at the end, a bit like an arrowhead. But I'm sure that can't help you."

"That takes care of that, anyway. The gal I was thinking about didn't have any scar. Smooth complexion, for that matter."

"Ah, that's not exactly what I meant. The scar is on her. . . posterior."

I blinked. "You mean her fanny?"

"Well, yes, you might say that."

This time
I
was quiet for a while. There might be a scar on that superior posterior, but I didn't know what good that did me. Finally I said, "Nothing else, huh?"

"No. Just what is the situation up there, Mr. Scott?"

"I'm going out to do some more checking right now, Mr. Bing. I don't have much, but I can tell you one thing: William Carter, my predecessor on this case, is dead."

"Dead? What? Not—"

"Yeah. Dead, killed, murdered. Shot in the back. Does that help you think of anything else you could tell me about this mess?"

"Shot! Good Lord!" Then silence for a few seconds. "No, I'm sorry, Mr. Scott. There's nothing else." Then, "Shot. . . " he said again.

"O.K., then. O.K., Mr. Bing, I'll keep in touch with you. I'm afraid I don't have anything else definite, but I'll call you as soon as I do. I'll try to phone tomorrow, anyhow, one way or another."

"Well," he hesitated, "all right. You know my instructions."

"Sure."

"Please phone as soon as you can, Mr. Scott."

"I will." I hung up.

I sat thinking for about a minute, then stopped thinking about
that
and called another cab and had it sent to the Desert Inn. I was still going around in circles, and this one led right back to the courthouse.

This time I went clear up to the top and into the county clerk's office. I walked up to the wide counter and while I waited for the middle-aged lady with a well-fed and jovial appearance to finish making entries on a form at one of several desks behind the counter, two young couples came in behind me.

The lady finished scribbling and walked up to me. I nodded toward the four others and said, "I can wait. I'm just looking for information."

She smiled at the young people and said to them, "Just fill out one of these forms."

One of the men, a young, dark-haired fellow about twenty-two, grinned stiffly and reached convulsively for a pen in his coat pocket. He picked up one of the printed forms, "Information for Marriage License," which were spread along the counter.

I showed the lady my investigator's license, explained that I was from Los Angeles, and said, "I'd appreciate it if you'd check, when you have time, and see if there's an application for the marriage of Victor Dante and Isabel Ellis, or Isabel Bing, on file here."

She nodded. Apparently only two of the young people were getting married and the other two were witnesses. The nervous, dark-haired fellow swallowed and said, "Uh," and pushed the form across the counter. The tall blonde with him presented another form. My pleasant lady nodded to me, took the papers, and went to a typewriter. Soon she was back before the four young people and had the bride and groom sign some larger forms.

"That will be five dollars," she said.

The dark-haired one moved convulsively again and managed to come up with five dollars. "Let's get this over with," he mumbled. The blonde squeezed his arm hard. "Raise your right hands," the lady said. They did so and she asked them if they swore that all statements were true and so on.

"Yes," said the blonde.

"I guess so, sure," said her husband-to-be.

The jovial-looking lady said, "We wish you a great deal of happiness and it's just down the hall, the second door."

The four of them went out. I hoped they didn't wind up in the rest room.

In a few minutes, after checking the files, the lady was back in front of me. "Here you are," she said. "There is no record of an Isabel Ellis or an Isabel Bing. Mr. Dante was married here by Judge Orton on January third."

I needed a cigarette at this point so I lit one and asked, "Whom
did
he marry?"

"It's right here." She showed me on the marriage application. "Victor Dante and Crystal Claire."

I dropped my brand-new cigarette and stepped on it. I looked at the application. It was there, all right, just as she'd said. I told her, "Thanks. Thanks very much. I'd like this information and a copy of the marriage certificate if it's available."

She smiled. "Surely. You can get a photostatic copy of the certificate at the county recorder's office."

I thanked her and left. The four young people were already going down the stairs ahead of me. Holy vows had been made, and let no man put them asunder.

When I got back to my room at the Desert Inn I draped my coat over a chair, unstrapped my holster, and stuck it, gun and all, under the bedspread and pillow, then flopped on the bed to look over the stuff I'd accumulated.

All I knew from looking at the Nevada marriage application was that this Crystal Claire was twenty-six years old, this was her first marriage, and she resided in the City of Las Vegas, County of Clark. About Dante I learned that he was thirty-six years old, marrying for the second time, his first wife was deceased, and he resided in the City of Las Vegas, County of Clark. And that was all except that the application had been sworn and subscribed on January 3, 1951, and the license had been issued the same day. They'd been married, all right. I'd seen the marriage certificate and copied the information from it.

I noted that January 3, the marriage date, was almost a month from December 6, the date on which Isabel Bing-Ellis-Dante-Smutch or whatever had sold her house and then apparently vanished. That sure did me a lot of good.

I shook my head. Right now the only thing I was sure of was that I wasn't sure of anything. But obviously I had to find out if the lovely who had fainted was my client's daughter. Well, at least I knew what to look for. Also, if there were some way I could get her fingerprints, I'd know for sure. That seemed to sum it up: fingerprints or fanny.

I tossed a coin and it came up just the way I'd hoped it would, and that settled that, but how did I go about it? It just wouldn't do to rush up to her and say, "Ah, there you are, Mrs. Dante. What ho! I say, old girl, would you swish off your bloomers and give me a bally old squint at your fanny?" No, that wouldn't do at all.

I needed a feminine viewpoint, and all these ideas running through my mind had made me want to see Colleen again, anyway. I picked up the phone and gave her a ring.

"Hello." It was that cute, crackly little voice again, and I could almost see her misty-eyed, innocent face. I could almost see more than that.

"How's my Irish Colleen, Mrs. Shawn?"

"Shell?"

"Sure it's Shell. Who else have you got calling you?"

She laughed. "Jealous? Nobody important, Shell. I missed you at lunch. Where were you?"

"In bed. I missed you, too."

She laughed again. "You must have gone to bed late. What were you up to?"

"Oh, I—" I shut up fast. I sure as hell couldn't tell her that. "I was investigating things. I'm still a detective."

"Shell," she said softly, "it is good to hear you talk. I was worried, honest. After last night—you know. Are you still in trouble with whoever. . . did that?"