Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir 2

I read the rest of the news that interested me in the Times and drank another cup of coffee. I was staring down at the street below around noon when my door opened.

It was Cheryl. She must have been coming up as I was looking down. She had driven in for a sale at I. Magnin, she told me. “And as long as I was in the neighborhood—”

“You dropped in on your favorite person,” I finished for her. “What’s in the bag, something from Magnin’s?”

“In a brown paper bag? Lox and bagels, my friend, and cream cheese. I noticed how low your larder was this morning. Did Les Denton phone you?”

I shook my head.

“I bumped into him in front of the UCLA library this morning,” she said, “and gave him the old third degree. He swore to me that he and Janice were alone over the weekend, so she couldn’t have given her house key to anybody . I was right, wasn’t I?”

“I guess you were, Miss Marple. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea for me. I can’t stay long. Robinson’s is also having a sale.”

“How exciting! Your mama must have given you a big fat check again when you were up in San Francisco.”

“Don’t be sarcastic! I stopped in downstairs and asked your uncle if you’d ever had a dog named Norah.”

“And he confirmed it.”

“Not quite. He said he thought you had but he wasn’t sure. Of course, he probably can’t even remember half the women he’s—he’s courted.”

“Enough!” I said. “Lay off!”

“I’m sorry. Jealousy! That’s adolescent, isn’t it? It’s vulgar and possessive.”

“I guess.”

“You’re not very talkative today, are you?”

“Cheryl, there is a young girl out there somewhere who has run away from home. That, to me, is much more important than a sale at Robinson’s or whether I ever had a dog named Norah. This is a dangerous town for seventeen-year-old runaways.”

“You’re right.” She sighed. “How trivial can I get?”

“We all have our hang-ups,” I said. “I love you just the way you are.”

“And I you, Petroff. Do you think Janice is in some kind of danger? Why would she leave Les’s place without even leaving him a note?”

“ That I don’t know. And it scares me.”

“You don’t think she’s—” She didn’t finish.

“Dead? I have no way of knowing.”

Five minutes after she left, I learned that Janice had still been alive yesterday. Les Denton phoned to tell me that a friend of his had seen her on the Santa Monica beach with an older man, but had not talked with her. According to the friend, the man she was with was tall and thin and frail, practically a skeleton.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s not the first time she’s run away,” he told me. “And there’s a pattern to it.”

“What kind of pattern?”

“Well, I could be reading more into it than there is. But I noticed that it was usually when her mother was out of town. Mrs. Bishop is quite a gadabout.”

“Are you suggesting child molestation?”

“Only suggesting, Mr. Apoyan. I could be wrong.”

And possibly right. “Thanks again,” I said.

A troubled relationship is what Mrs. Bishop had called it. Did she know whereof she spoke? Mothers are often the last to know.

Ismet Bey phoned half an hour later to tell me he had located a three-by-five Kerman owned by a local dealer and had brought it to his shop. Could I drop in this afternoon?

I told him I could and would.

And now what? How much did I know about antique Kermans? Uncle Vartan would remember the rug he had sold, but he sure as hell wouldn’t walk into the shop of Ismet Bey.

Maybe Mrs. Bishop? She could pose as my wife. I phoned her unlisted number. A woman answered, probably a servant. Mrs. Bishop, she told me, was shopping and wouldn’t be home until six o’clock.

I did know a few things about rugs. I had worked for Uncle Vartan on Saturdays and during vacations when I was at UCLA.

I took the photograph of Janice with me and drove out to Santa Monica. Bey’s store, like the building Vartan and I shared, was a converted house on Pico Boulevard, old and sagging. I parked in the three-car graveled parking lot next to his panel truck.

The interior was dim and musty. Mrs. Bey was not in sight. The fat rump of a broad, short, and bald man greeted me as I came in. He was bending over, piling some small rugs on the floor.

He rose and turned to face me. He had an olive complexion, big brown eyes, and the oily smile of a used-car salesman. “Mr. Stein?” he asked.

I nodded.

“This way, please,” he said, and led me to the rear of the store. The rug was on a display rack, a pale tan creation, sadly thin and about as tightly woven as a fisherman’s net.

“Mr. Bey,” I said, “that is not a Kerman.”

“Really? What is it, then?”

“It looks like an Ispahan to me, a cheap Ispahan.”

He continued to smile. “It was only a test.”

“I’m not following you. A test for what?”

He shrugged. “There have been some rumors around town. Some rumors about a very rare and expensive three-by-five Kerman that has been stolen. I thought you may have heard them.”

What a cutie. “I haven’t heard them,” I said. And added, “But, of course, I don’t have your contacts.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Maybe you should have. How much did you plan to spend on this rug you want, Mr. Stein?”

“Not as much as the rug you described would cost me. But I have a rich friend who might be interested. He is not quite as—as ethical as I try to be.”

“Perhaps that is why he is rich. All I can offer now is the hope that this rug will find its way to me. Could I have the name of your friend?”

I shook my head. “If the rug finds its way to you, phone me. I’ll have him come here. I don’t want to be involved.”

“You won’t need to be,” he assured me. “And I’ll see that you are recompensed. You were right about this rug. It is an Ispahan. If you have some friends who are not rich, I hope you will mention my name to them.”

That would be the day. “I will,” I said.

I drove to Arden from there, and the boss was in his office. I told him about my dialogue with Bey and suggested they keep an eye on his place. I pointed out that they could make some brownie points with the Santa Monica Police Department.

“Thank you, loyal ex-employee. We’ll do that.”

“In return, you might make some copies of this photograph and pass them out among the boys. She is a runaway girl who was last seen here on your beach.”

“You’ve got a case already?”

“With my reputation, why not?”

“Is there some connection between the missing girl and the rug?”

“That, as you are well aware, would be privileged information.”

“Dear God,” he said, “the kid’s turned honest! Wait here.”

He went out to the copier and came back about five minutes later. He handed me the photo and a check for the two days I had worked for him last week and wished me well. The nice thing about the last is that I knew he meant it.

From there to the beach. I sat in the shade near the refreshment stand with the forlorn hope that the skeleton man and the runaway girl might come this way again.

Two hours, one ice cream cone, and two Cokes later, I drove back to Beverly Hills. Uncle Vartan was alone in the shop. I went in and related to him my dialogue with Ismet Bey.

“That tawdry Turk,” he said, “that bush-leaguer! He doesn’t cater to that class of trade. He’s dreaming a pipe dream.”

“How much do you think that rug would bring today?” I asked.

“Pierre, I do not want to discuss that rug. As I told you before, that was a sad day, maybe the saddest day of my life.”