Lay Her Among The Lilies

“What’s the matter with her?” I repeated, when we had saluted each other.

“She’s no good,” Mrs. Bendix said, and scowled. “Just a goddamn lazy bum.”

“We haven’t got our lines crossed, have we? I’m talking about Janet Crosby’s personal

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maid.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Bendix said, and fed three more coffee beans into her mouth. “Eudora

Drew. That’s her name. She’s gone haywire. I wanted a good personal maid for Mrs.

Randolph Playfair. I took the trouble to contact Drew to tell her I could fix her up. She told

me to jump in a cesspit. That’s a nice way to talk, isn’t it? She said she wasn’t ever going to

do any more work, and if one cesspit wouldn’t hold me anyone would dig me another if I told

them what it was for.” Mrs. Bendix brooded darkly at the insult. “At one time I thought she

was a good, smart girl. Just shows you can’t trust them further than you can throw them,

doesn’t it? It’s my bet she’s living on some man. She’s got a bungalow in Coral Gables, and

lives in style.”

“Where in Coral Gables?”

“On Mount Verde Avenue. You interested?”

“I might be. What happened to the rest of the staff?”

“I fixed them all up. I can give you addresses if you want them.”

I finished my drink.

“I may want them. I’ll let you know. How soon after Janet’s death did this Drew girl get the

sack?”

“The next day. All the staff went before the funeral.”

I eat a coffee bean.

“Any reason given?”

“Maureen Crosby went away for a couple of months. The house was shut up.”

“Not usual to sack all the staff when you go away for a couple of months, is it?”

“Of course it isn’t usual.”

“Tell me more about this Drew girl.”

“The things you want to know,” Mrs. Bendix said, and sighed. “Give me that glass unless

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

you want another.”

I said I didn’t want another, and watched her hide the Scotch and the two glasses. Then she

dug her thumb into the bell-push again.

The bunny-faced girl came in and gave her another coy smile.

“Dig out Eudora Drew’s card, honey,” Mrs. Bendix said. “I want to have a look at it.”

The bunny-faced girl came back after a while with a card. She gave it to Mrs. Bendix the

way an adoring Bobbysoxer might give Frank Sinatra a posy.

When she had gone, Mrs. Bendix said, “I don’t know if this is what you want. Age twenty-eight. Home address, 2243 Kelsie Street, Carmel. Three years with Mrs. Franklin Lambert.

Excellent references. Janet Crosby’s personal maid from July 1943. Any good to you?”

I shrugged.

“I don’t know. Could be. I think I’d better go and talk to her. What makes you think she’s

living with a man?”

“How else does she get her money? She’s not working. It’s either a man or a lot of men.”

“Janet Crosby might have left her a legacy.”

Mrs. Bendix lifted her bushy eyebrows.

“I hadn’t thought of that. She might, of course. Yes, come to think of it, it might be the

answer.”

“Well, okay,” I said, getting up. “Thanks for the drinks. Come and see us some time for a

change. We have drinks too.”

“Not me,” Mrs. Bendix said firmly. “That Bensinger girl doesn’t approve of me. I can see it

in her eyes.”

I grinned.

“She doesn’t approve of me, either. I don’t let that worry me. It shouldn’t worry you.”

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“It doesn’t. And don’t kid yourself, Vic. That girl’s in love with you.”

I considered this, then shook my head.

“You’re wrong. She isn’t in love with anyone. She isn’t the type to fall in love.”

Mrs. Bendix pursed up her lips and made a loud, rude noise.

VI

Coral Gables is the Dead End district of Orchid City, a shack town that has grown up

around the harbour where an industry of sponge and fish docks, turtle crawls and markets

plus a number of shady characters flourish. The water-front is dominated by Delmonico’s bar,

the toughest joint on the coast, where three or four fights a night is the normal routine, and

where the women are more often tougher than the men.

Monte Verde Avenue lies at the back of Coral Gables: a broad, characterless road lined on

either side by cabin-like houses, all more or less conforming to the same pattern. As a district

it is perhaps one step above Coral Gables, but that isn’t saying a great deal. Most of the

cabin-like houses are occupied by professional gamblers, light ladies, flashy-looking toughs

who lounge on the water-front during the day and mind their own business after dark, and the

betting boys and their dolls. The only two-storeyed house in the road is owned by Joe Betillo,

mortician and embalmer, coffin maker, abortionist and fixer of knife and bullet wounds.

I drove the Buick along the road until I came to Eudora Drew’s cabin on the right and about

three-quarters of the way down. It was a white and blue five-room wood cabin with a garden

that consisted of a lawn big enough to play halma on and two tired-looking hydrangea plants

in pots either side of the front door.

I stepped over the low wooden gate and rapped with the little brass knocker that hadn’t

been cleaned in months.

There was about a ten second delay: no more, and then the door jerked open. A solid young