Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“Okay,” Delaney grinned. “So I opened my big mouth and put both feet in it. But a girl has to live. The question is how? And you don’t seem to want to tell me.”

He tried another tack. “Let’s quit playing games. Did Mavis have a steady boy-friend?”

“Keeping her in a dump like this?” Gladys snorted and shook her head.

“What does she do?” Delaney asked softly.

“Mavis is a model — a photographer’s model,” Gladys replied with a tone of finality, as though she need say no more.

Delaney looked at Gladys narrowly for a moment. Then he said slowly: “I don’t suppose Mavis poses for what the trade calls ‘high fashion’ shots. No pictures for Vogue or Harpers Bazaar?”

Gladys laughed shortly.

“Lengerie? Foundation garments?”

Gladys shook her head.

“Pin-ups? Cheesecake?” Delaney probed a little deeper.

“You could call it that — if you want to, Al.”

“But you don’t,” he grunted. “I’m beginning to get the idea. Who’d she pose for, Gladys?”

“Not any one guy. Several.” Gladys rose to her feet. She said nervously: “Look, Al, I can’t tell you any more. I’ve said too much already.”

“But you haven’t told me anything,” he protested, leaving his chair and following her across the room.

“Yes I have,” she paused with her hand on the door knob and looked at him. “I... I don’t want trouble. Guess I can’t take it any more.”

“But the town is full of photographers — amateur, professional, legitimate and otherwise,” he pleaded, placing his hand over hers.

Gladys shook her head. “That’s asking for it. Believe me — I know. This racket is organized. A girl who speaks out of turn can get in real trouble.”

“Please, baby.” Delaney was getting desperate. He said, “I’m only one guy.”

Gladys hesitated.

Delaney reached into his pocket, then studied her face. He drew his hand out empty and placed it on her shoulder. He said softly: “I know it’s tough. I know what you mean by trouble. But I know how to protect my sources of information. If somebody had given you a break when you were starting out, maybe—”

“Damn you,” she breathed. Then leaning closer to him, she said rapidly in a low voice:

“There’s a joint on Cahuenga near Santa Monica Boulevard. They don’t shoot the pictures there. It’s a processing plant and distribution center. But the jerks who bring their film in to be developed and printed, book their models through the guy on the counter. He has pictures of all the girls — their names, addresses and phone numbers.”

“Thanks, baby.” Delaney squeezed her shoulder, then dropped his hand. He said, “If you need—”

Gladys interrupted him by opening the door and pushing him into the hall. Her face was flushed and her eyes avoided his. She tossed her head and said stridently: “Don’t try to soft soap me. On your way. Blow!”

The door slammed in his face.

When Delaney pulled the Chrysler away from the curb, he glanced in the rear-view mirror just in time to see a gray Ford two-door pull out a half a block behind. Delaney turned west on Santa Monica Boulevard, driving with one eye on the mirror. There were two men in the Ford following him. He turned south, off the boulevard, and lost them in the back streets of the business district of Sawtelle.

Delaney cut back to the boulevard and turned east. Once he was out of the business district, he headed for the nearest gas station with an outside phone booth. He didn’t know whether he had been followed from his office or whether he had been picked up at Mavis’ address. One thing was sure: whoever “they” were, they knew now that he was looking for Mavis. When Elsie answered the phone, he said:

“Put a cover on that typewriter, gorgeous. You’re going to take a trip.”

“Me—?” Elsie gasped.

Delaney laughed, then explained. “You’re going to Tucson this afternoon. Make your reservation on American Air, Flight 12.”

“But why—? What do you want me to do?”

“I want a complete run down on that Uncle Jim Kennedy Eunice mentioned. I want to know his business, his bank, what property he owns. Also I want to know his standing in the community and, if you can find out, his relations with the Blairs in Benson. I’ll meet you at the airport at five.”

“Five o’clock—?” Elsie squealed.

“Sure,” Delaney laughed. “I’ll—”

“My hair—!” Elsie wailed. “What’ll I wear?”

“You’ve got time to go home, pack and get to the airport by five. This trip should take only a couple of days. You won’t need many clothes. I’ll have some money for you at the reservation desk.”

Delaney stepped out of the booth and stopped with a curse. The gray Ford was parked alongside his Chrysler and the two men were out of the car. They were smarter than he had given them credit for. Apparently they, too, had cut back to the boulevard, after losing him, and had spotted his car in the gas station.

One was tall and lean and the long bladed switch knife in his hand glittered in the hot sun. He had a long, sharp boned, swarthy face under dark, duck-billed hair. His expression was impassive but his eyes were as sharp and coldly calculating as the eyes of a cobra.