Kept Women Can’t Quit

I walked out, hailed a taxicab and looked at the paper the clerk had given me.

The name was Bernice Glenn and the address was an apartment house not too far out.

I settled back against the cab cushions, looked at my watch and did some mental arithmetic. I couldn’t count on being very far ahead of pursuit. I had to make every minute count, but there was bound to be a period of inactivity between the time I exhausted the leads in San Francisco at night and the time the photographic store opened in the morning.

I put the cab on waiting time, took the elevator up to the third floor and knocked on the door of Bernice Glenn’s apartment.

The door was opened a crack by a horse-faced young woman who seemed embarrassed when she saw me there.

“Bernie is out,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Ernestine Hamilton, her roommate. We share the apartment.”

“How did you know I wanted Bernie?”

“Why... they... I... well, I just assumed it.”

She laughed in a high-pitched, nervous manner.

“Actually,” I said, “I wanted to talk with both of you. How long before Bernie will be back?”

“She’s on a date — you know what that means.”

“Late?”

“Early.”

“A.M. or P.M.?”

“A.M.”

“May I come in and talk with you?”

“I’m a mess. The apartment’s a mess. I was cleaning up after dinner.”

“I’m good at washing dishes.”

“Not in an apartment of this size, you aren’t. Two people in the kitchenette would cause collisions. Why do you want to see us both?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Well, come on in and sit down. You can’t wait for Bernie because that’ll be too late and I need my beauty sleep, but I’ll be glad to talk with you if you’ll pardon me a minute.”

She opened a closet door, grabbed some clothes off a hanger, shot into the bathroom and closed the door.

I looked out in the kitchenette. The smell of recent cooking clung to the place. The dishes had been washed and stacked on the sink but not rinsed or dried. There was a kettle of steaming-hot water on the gas plate.

I rinsed out the dishes with hot water, picked up a dish towel, dried the dishes and stacked them.

I was just finishing up when I felt someone behind me and turned.

Ernestine Hamilton had taken off her glasses, had put on a cocktail gown and there was a heady trace of scent in the air.

“What in the world are you doing?” she asked.

“I’ve done it,” I said, hanging up the dish towel. “What have you been doing?”

“I always change after dinner,” she said. “Somehow it breaks the monotony. I... you caught me unexpectedly. You shouldn’t have done those dishes. What in the world? Who are you, anyway? What do you want?”

I carefully adjusted the folded dish towel on the rack, walked over to the davenport, took her arm and said, “I crave to talk. I want information.”

“Who are you? You... oh, I’ll bet you’re a police officer... but you don’t look the least bit like any police officer I ever knew.”

“How many have you known?” I asked.

“Not very many,” she said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Mostly on television.”

“Were they real cops or actors?”

She laughed and said, “All right. I’ll yield the point.”

I said, “It’s a temptation to ride along with the gag and let you go on thinking I’m an officer but I’m not. I’m a private detective.”

Her eyes widened. “Ooh,” she said, “a private eye!”

I looked over at the television set in the corner and made a little bow to it.

“What’s that for?” she asked.

“For the build-up,” I said. “Now tell me about Bernie.”

“What about her?”

“What did she tell you about the dead man?”

“You mean the one that was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“I... why, why should she tell me anything?”

“People in a hotel aren’t exactly dumb, you know. They come pretty close to knowing what’s going on. Now, was Evelyn Ellis expecting him this morning or not?”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Donald,” I said.

“No other name?”

“Donald does it,” I said.

“I can’t figure you, Donald.”

“Don’t try,” I said. “Tell me about Standley Downer.”

“I never saw him in my life.”

“I know,” I said. “Tell me what Bernie told you about him.”

“What makes you think she told me anything?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Could I hear it?”

“Well,” I said, “you’re interested in people. You’re interested in things, but you don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. You’re not the kind of girl who goes out on casual dates and lets men paw you. When you give a man your friendship it means something.”

She looked at me in surprise, then said after a moment, “What... what does all that have to do with Bernice?”

“Well, now,” I said, “there’s a peculiar situation. Bernice is just the opposite from you. Bernice likes to go out and have a good time. She likes to keep in the swim. Men don’t mean very much to her except as escorts. She plays the field. She goes out with one one night and another the next night.”