Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

Delaney knocked her arms down and pushed her back onto the davenport. He rocked her head back and forth with hard, stinging slaps then crossed her wrists, pinning them together with one hand while he raised the other ready to strike. He thrust his face close to hers, his lips skinned back from clenched teeth, and his voice cut like a whip.

“Wise up. Either you talk, or I’ll slap you silly!”

Panting from her exertions, the woman glared defiantly at him until the cold menace in his eyes reached her wine soaked brain. Then she quailed and her eyes veered to the bottle on the table.

“Not yet,” Delaney snapped, moving the bottle out of her reach. He held up the snapshot again. “Let’s talk about Mavis.”

“That tramp,” the woman grunted. “She’s moved. How do I know where she’s gone?”

“How long ago?”

“Week — two weeks. I dunno. Her rent was paid ’til a Saturday. Then one day in the middle of the week she’s gone. So what.”

Delaney handed her the bottle. He saw a rent receipt book on the table and leafed through it. He found the carbon of Mavis’ last receipt, dated ten days back, and noted the room number. He turned to the woman.

“Her room rented?”

The woman leaned back against a grimy pillow at the end of the davenport and looked at Delaney. She raised the bottle and let the wine pour down her throat without visibly swallowing it. Finally she lowered the bottle and wiped her mouth.

“I ain’t had time to clean it up,” she answered, while a lascivious expression stole over her face. She moved, as if to make room for him on the davenport beside her, and gestured with the bottle. She grinned crookedly, “Sit down. Take a load off your feet.”

Delaney swore under his breath and strode from the room followed by the woman’s raucous, drunken laughter.

The girl stood in the opposite doorway, leaning against the jamb. A dressing gown, carelessly open at the top, was wrapped tightly around her full hips and long, tapering thighs. There was nothing under the dressing gown but a firm body covered with smooth, finely textured, milk-white skin. She was above average in height: a bottle blonde with hard features softened by a nice smile.

“What’d you expect — Lady As-tor?” Surprisingly, her voice was low pitched, not hard. “You spare a cigarette?”

“You hear that drunken sot?” Delaney demanded, offering the girl a cigarette and lighting it for her.

“Tastes good,” she said, gratefully dragging on the cigarette. Her smile broadened, “I think they heard her down at the corner.”

Delaney grunted.

“You looking for Mavis?” the girl asked.

“Yes. Are you a friend of hers?” Delaney’s eyes narrowed.

The girl shrugged. “Mavis isn’t a girl to make friends with other girls. Kinda high-hat where women are concerned, if you know what I mean.”

“But you knew her?” Delaney persisted. “I’d like to talk with you. May I come in?”

“Look, mister,” the girl hesitated. Her eyes took stock of Delaney from his head to his feet, then came up to search his face. “Maybe you’re a cop. Maybe you’re an all right guy. I don’t know. But I don’t want trouble — either now or later.”

Delaney smiled. “No trouble, and I’m not a cop. How about it?”

Her room was like any other in a cheap rooming house in an unsavory district. It contained a minimum of furniture, a piece of worn carpeting on a linoleum floor, a few pathetic splashes of color to relieve the dreariness. But it was clean — unlike the room across the hall.

Delaney lowered himself into a chair and watched the girl cross the room. His eyes kindled and he expressed his appreciation with a sharp intake of breath.

The girl settled on a studio couch and smiled at him with amused tolerance. Her smile grew up to a laugh and she warned: “No trouble — and no wrestling. This was your idea, not mine.”

Delaney grinned. “Okay. What can you tell me about Mavis? Where’d she work? Who’d she know?”

The girl stirred uneasily and studied her finger nails. “You say you’re not a cop, but you ask a lot of questions. Who are you? What’s your interest in Mavis?”

“I’m Al Delaney, a private investigator. Here—” he pulled his chair closer and flipped open his billfold to show her his license. “What’s your name?”

“Gladys.” She dragged on her cigarette, her eyes searching his face. “What’s this all about, Al?”

“I’ll give it to you straight, Gladys.” Delaney lit a fresh cigarette and leaned forward. “I’ve got a client who wants to locate this Mavis Blair, but doesn’t want a lot of cops nosing around. But all I get to work on is her background, her picture and this address. If I knew where she worked, I might get a lead. You know?”

“Mavis didn’t have a steady job, Al.” Gladys lowered her eyes to avoid meeting his.

“But what did she do? Waitress? Car hop in some drive-in?”

“No — nothing like that.”

Delaney grunted with impatience. A slight edge crept into his voice: “What’s the matter — she a sidewalk angel?”

“Mr. Delaney!” Gladys laughed, but an angry gleam lurked in her eyes.