Willis moved away from the door. He walked back to the elevator banks, and then flipped open his pocket pad and jotted down the number and name that had been on the door. He rang for the elevator and went down to the lobby. He checked the building to make sure there was only one entrance, and then went to the phone booths from which he could watch the elevators. Rapidly he dialed Frederick 7-8024.
“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” the voice answered.
“Dave, this is Willis. Is Hawes upstairs?”
“Hold on a second, Hal. I’ll check.”
Willis waited.
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Hawes,” Hawes said.
“Cotton, this is Hal.”
“Hi. How’s the tail?”
“Fine. You should see it.”
“Pretty?”
“A diamond, once you chip away the coal.”
“Where are you?”
“In the city.”
“Where’s she?”
“1612 Independence Avenue. That’s below the Square, midtown. She’s in Room 806 with a quote photographers’ representative unquote named Patrick Blier. Shall I hit him or maintain the tail?”
“Stay with her, Hal. Buzz me when she leaves, and I’ll go down to see him.”
“I’ll leave the message with the desk,” Willis said. “I won’t have time to exchange cordialities or I’ll lose her. She travels like a bunny.”
“Okay. I’ll ask Dave to let me know as soon as he gets your call. Stay with her, Hal.”
“I’d love to,” Willis said.
“You horny bastard.”
“Horny? I’m red-blooded.”
“I’m tired-blooded,” Hawes said. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Patrick Blier, Photographers’ Representative, was a bald man with a hooked nose. The first impression he gave was of a giant bald eagle. He sat behind his desk in a cubbyhole office the walls of which were covered with photographs of girls in various stages of dress and undress. A metal plaque on his desk announced the fact that he was
“So what do
“Didn’t your receptionist tell you?”
“She said a detective was here. You a city cop or a private eye?”
“City.”
“I get a lot of private eyes. They want my clients to take pictures for divorce cases. I explain to them that I ain’t in the habit of breaking down bedroom doors. Private eyes are disgusting. Ain’t nothing sacred? What do you want?”
“Some answers.”
“You got the questions?”
“Loads of them.”
“Speak. I’m busy. I got requests up to here. I’m gonna have to get a bigger office, so help me God. Phones ringing all day long. Editors coming up day and night. Models pestering me. Jesus, what a rat race. What do you want? Speak. I’m busy.”
“Why was Lucy Mencken here?”
“Who the hell is Lucy Mencken?”
“She was here a little while ago.”
“You’re nuts. Lucy Men-you mean Mitchell? You mean Lucy Mitchell? Is that who you mean?”
“Yes.”
“So where the hell did you get this Mencken from? Say what you mean, will you? I’m busy.”
“Why was she here?”
“Why, what’d she do?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why should I tell you?”
“Why not?”
“First tell me what she done.”
“Blier, I don’t have to bargain with you. I asked a question. I’ll ask it one more time. Why was she here, and what did she want?”
Blier studied Hawes for a long moment.
“You think you scare me?” he said at last.
“Yes,” Hawes answered.
“You’re right, you know that? You scare the hell out of me. Where the hell did you get that white hair? You look like the wrath of God, I swear to God. Jesus, I’d hate to meet you in a dark alley. Boy!”
“Why was she here?”
“She wanted some pictures.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“Cheesecake.”
“What was she going to do with them?”
“Paste them in her scrapbook, I guess. How the hell do I know? Do I care what a dame does with her own pictures? What do I care?”
“These were pictures of
“Sure. Who’d you think? Marilyn Monroe, maybe?”
“What kind of pictures?”
“I told you. Cheesecake.”
“Nude?”
“Some were nude. The rest were almost nude.”
“How nude is
“Pretty nude. As nude as you can get without getting nude. As a matter of fact, nuder than if she was entirely nude, if you know what I mean.”
“Who took these pictures?”
“One of my clients.”
“Why?”
“To try to sell, what do you think? I sell to all the men’s magazines. I handle other stuff, too, not only cheesecake. I don’t want you to get the idea I only handle cheesecake. I do photographic essays. That is, I handle them. My clients shoot the actual stories.”
“Which client took these pictures of Lucy Mitchell?”
“A guy named Jason Poole. He’s a good man. Top-notch. Even these pictures were good, and he took them a long time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“Ten, twelve years ago.”
“Which?”
“How do I know? Who remembers that far back? She walked into the office today, I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
