Lay Her Among The Lilies

anyway?”

“Never heard of him. Want me to find out?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you went along and saw this Parmetta girl and Sherrill. Tell

them you used to be an old friend of Janet in her San Francisco days. You’ll have to get the

background in case they try and trip you. Paula will get that for you. What I want, Jack, is

their reaction to her having heart trouble. Maybe she did have a wacky heart, but if she didn’t,

then we really have something to work on.”

“Okay,” Kerman said.

Paula came in.

“Nothing much,” she said. “Salzer started his sanatorium in 1940. It’s a luxury place. Two

hundred dollars a week.”

“Nice profit,” I said enviously.

“Some people must be crazy. Imagine paying all that dough for a glass of fruit juice,”

Kerman said, horrified. “It sounds the kind of racket we should be in.”

“Nothing else?”

“He’s married. Speaks French and German fluently. Has a Doctor of Science degree. No

hobbies. No children. Age fifty-three,” Paula said, reading from the card. “That’s all, Vic.”

“Okay,” I said, getting to my feet. “Give Jack a hand, will you? He wants the dope on this

Parmetta girl and Sherrill. I’m going downstairs to have a word with Mother Bendix. I want

to check on the Crosbys’ staff. That butler struck me as a phoney. Maybe she got him the

job.”

V

At first glance, and come to that, even at second glance, Mrs. Martha Bendix, executive

director of the Bendix Domestic Agency, could easily have been mistaken for a man. She was

big and broad shouldered and wore her hair cut short, a man’s collar and tie, and a man’s

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tweed coat. It was only when she stood up and moved away from her desk you were surprised

to see the tweed skirt, silk stockings and heavy brogue shoes. She was very hearty, and, if you

weren’t careful to keep out of her reach, she had a habit of slapping you violently on the

back, making you feel sick for the next two or three hours. She also had a laugh as loud as the

bang of a twelve-bore shot-gun, and if you weren’t watching for it, you jumped out of your

skin when she let it off. A woman I wouldn’t want to live with, but a good-hearted soul,

generous with her money, and a lot more interested in nervous, frail little blondes than a big

husky like me.

The timid bunny-faced girl who showed me into Mrs. Bendix’s cream and green office

edged away from me as if I were full of bad intentions, and gave Mrs. Bendix a coy little

smile that could have meant something or nothing depending on the state of your mind.

“Come on in, Vic,” Mrs. Bendix boomed from across a paper-littered desk. “Sit down.

Haven’t seen you in days. What have you been doing with yourself?”

I sat down and grinned at her.

“This and that,” I told her. “Keeping the wolf from the door. I’ve looked in for a little help,

Martha. Done any business with the Crosbys?”

“Not for a long time.” She leaned down and hoisted up a bottle of Scotch, two glasses and

half a dozen coffee beans. “Make it snappy,” she went on. “I don’t want to shock Mary. She

doesn’t approve of drinking in office hours.”

“That Mary with the rabbit teeth?”

“Never mind about her teeth. She’s not going to bite you with them.” She handed me a

glass half full of Scotch and three of the coffee beans. “You mean the Crosbys on Foothill

Boulevard?”

I said I meant the Crosbys on Foothill Boulevard.

“I did a job for them once, but not since. That was about six years ago. I fixed the whole of

their staff then. Since Janet Crosby died they cleared out the old crowd and put in a new lot.

They didn’t come to me for the new lot.”

I sampled the Scotch. It was smooth and silky, and had plenty of authority.

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“You mean they sacked everybody?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“What happened to them?”

“I fixed them up elsewhere.”

I chewed this over.

“Look, Martha, between you and me and the coffee beans, I’m trying to get the lowdown

on Janet’s death. I’ve had a tip, and it might or might not be worth working on. I’m not

entirely sold on the idea she died of heart failure. I’d like to talk it over with some of the old

staff. They may have seen something. The butler, for instance. Who was he?”

“John Stevens,” Mrs. Bendix said after a moment’s thought. She finished her drink, tossed

three beans into her mouth, put her glass and the Scotch out of sight and dug her thumb into a

bell-push on her desk. The bunny-faced girl crept in.

“Where’s John Stevens working now, honey?”

The bunny-faced girl said she would find out. After a couple of minutes she came back and

said Stevens worked for Gregory Wainwright, Hillside, Jefferson Avenue.

“How about Janet’s personal maid? Where’s she now?” I asked.

Mrs. Bendix waved the bunny-faced girl away. When she had gone, she said, “That bitch?

She’s not working any more, and I wouldn’t give her a job if she came to me on bended

knees.”

“What’s the matter with her?” I asked, hopefully pushing my empty glass forward. “Let’s

be matey, Martha. One drink is no use to big, strong boys like you and me.”

Mrs. Bendix sniggered, hoisted up the bottle again and poured.