BERNHARDT SWITCHED OFF THE engine and sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking across the street at Betty Giles’ apartment building. The building was almost exactly what he’d expected: probably about ten years old, plainly planned for profit. The construction was stucco, three stories high. The color scheme was beige and pink. La Canada Arms, in raised letters, was featured prominently above the lobby’s aluminum-framed glass doors. Three palm trees were planted in a small grassy area in front of the building. White-painted rocks described a circle around each tree, and redwood chips filled the circle. Three spotlights sprouted from the redwood chips, one spotlight for each tree. The grass was improbably green, immaculately trimmed. A small vacancy sign was propped on the low brushed aluminum sill of the lobby’s plate-glass window.
He locked the car, walked across the street, and studied the apartment listings. There were twelve apartments in the building. Opposite number nine, “B. Giles” was listed. Opposite number one, he saw “E. Krantz, Mgr.” After a moment’s thought, he pressed the button for number nine. He waited, tried again, then pressed number one. Standing in the midday heat of hazy, smog-sulphered September sunshine, he took a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his damp forehead. The handkerchief came away wet and grimy, one infinitesimal tracery left by millions of automobiles confined in an airless basin of land that should have been left a desert.
“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, loud and brassy, coming from a small speaker set into the wall beside the building directory.
“My name is Alan Bernhardt,” he said, speaking into the perforated disc. “I’m a private investigator, and I’m inquiring about Betty Giles. I’ll just take a few minutes. Ten, at the most.”
“A private investigator?” She spoke on a sharply rising cadence, as if she were registering a complaint.
“It won’t take long. I promise.”
“Just a minute.”
The glass door allowed him to see into the ground-floor hallway, where the first door was opening. E. Krantz was a small, thin woman. She was middle-aged—and desperately resisting. Her hair was dyed a dark, muddy brown. Her purple toreador pants were skintight. Her face was aggressively overdrawn: too much bright red lipstick, too much iridescent purple eye shadow, too much eyebrow pencil. Over the toreador pants she wore a large, loose-fitting, off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that fell to her mid-thigh, according to the latest teenage fashion whim. As she came closer to the outside door, the penciled eyebrows drew together in a suspicious frown as she looked Bernhardt over twice, head-to-toe. Finally, grudgingly, she half opened the door. Bernhardt was ready with an outdated plastic identification plaque and a business card. She examined the plaque, squinting suspiciously as she compared Bernhardt’s face with the picture. Next she examined the business card, newly printed.
“You can keep the card,” Bernhardt said.
“About two months ago,” she answered, “some guy came around saying he was a private detective. It turned out he was a bill collector.”
“Some private investigators collect bills,” Bernhardt answered. “I don’t.” He smiled.
Still studying him, transparently suspicious, she stood with her thin body aggressively blocking the entrance. Plainly, E. Krantz was a person who would welcome a confrontation. But when Bernhardt continued to simply smile, offering no resistance, she finally asked, “Is Betty in some kind of trouble? Is that it?”
“No,” he answered, “that’s not it. But she’s traveling, and apparently can’t be reached. Her employer’s got some questions—things they need to know, about her job. They want to talk to her, but they don’t know where to look.”
Accusingly, she raised his card. “This says you live in San Francisco. So what’re you doing in Los Angeles?”
“The last contact we had from her was in San Francisco. Her mother lives there.”
“Hmmm—” As E. Krantz pondered, a man and a woman, laughing together, excused themselves as they left the building, walking between them. The diversion seemed to help E. Krantz come to a decision. Grudgingly she stepped back into the foyer, gesturing for Bernhardt to enter. The all-glass entryway was decorated with a life-size pink plaster Venus and a white-and-gilt Grecian-style bench. E. Krantz sat on one end of the bench, abruptly gesturing Bernhardt to a seat on the other end.
“I haven’t got much time,” she said. “The pool man’s coming in about a half hour. And an upholsterer, too.” She shook her head. “It’s always something with a job like this. There isn’t an hour, I swear to God, that there isn’t something to do. Yesterday one of the tenants asked me to walk her dog. Honest to God.”
Projecting a broad, bogus sympathy, Bernhardt dolefully shook his head. “People take advantage, there’s no question. Aren’t there dog walkers? Have you looked in the Yellow Pages?”
“In Van Nuys?” Scornfully, she snorted. “You must be kidding. Beverly Hills, maybe. Malibu. But not Van Nuys.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Van Nuys,” Bernhardt protested, keeping the smile resolutely in place. “It’s nice, here. Very quiet.”
She snorted again, shrugged, laid his business card on the bench between them, absently plucked at the folds of her sweatshirt. “Personally,” she said, “I’ve about had it, with L.A., I mean, everywhere you go, you’ve got to drive. And I’ve got asthma, too. When there’s smog, I can’t breathe. Like now. Today. There’s a first-stage smog alert, today. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Elaborately sympathetic, Bernhardt fervently nodded. “I noticed, all right.” Then, tentatively: “About Betty Giles…Do you remember how long she’s lived here?”
“Two years and three months,” she answered promptly.
“Was—is she a pretty good tenant, would you say?”
Grudgingly she nodded. “Yeah, she was—is. Like, when she went away, she left a note saying that she expected to be gone about a month. And she left a postdated check, for the next month’s rent. Most people wouldn’t do that. At least, not these tenants here.” Resentfully, she glanced over her shoulder. “Los Angeles—” Petulantly, she shook her head. “You can have it.”
“Do you have the note that Betty left?”
“No. I’ve got their check, not the note. It didn’t say much, just that they were going away, and asking me to—you know—pick up newspapers from in front of her door, take packages, things like that. See—” Exasperated, she gestured. On the third finger of her left hand, a large diamond ring sparkled. Or was it a zircon? “See, that’s what I mean, about being a servant. I can’t tell you how much time I spend, just picking up after people.”
“You say ‘they’ were going away. She and Nick Ames, you mean.”
“Right.” Scornfully, she accented the single word. “Nick Ames.” Contemptuously, she grimaced.
“You don’t like him, I gather.”
“Well,” she answered, pursing her mouth, “I can’t say he ever gave me any problems. It wasn’t that. In fact, to be fair, he was better than most, around here. He and Betty, they’re the best tenants I’ve got, except for the MacLeans, and maybe the Finks. But he was always hanging around. You know what I mean?”
“He didn’t work. Is that what you mean?”
“Right,” she answered heavily. “That’s it exactly. He’s one of those men that just don’t like to work, I guess. He said he used to drive stock cars, until he crashed. And maybe he did, I don’t know.” She considered, then added thoughtfully, “He’s a good-looking devil, though. I’ll give him that.”
“Betty works, though,” he prompted.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Quickly she nodded. “She has irregular hours, sort of. But she must have a good job. A real good job, judging by her furniture, and everything.”
“What’s her work? Do you know?”
E. Krantz shook her head. “No. I never found out. She’s pretty closed mouth. Nice, but closed mouth. You know?”
Bernhardt nodded. “Yes, I know.” He let a beat pass, hoping that she would elaborate. When she offered nothing more, but instead looked pointedly at her wristwatch, he asked, “When did they leave, exactly? Do you remember?”
“It was, lessee—” Frowning, she touched the tip of a pink tongue to the bright red of her upper lip. “It was eight days ago. Or maybe nine, depending on how you count.”
“You didn’t actually see them leave, then.”
“No.”
“Did anyone else see them, do you know?”
She shook her head, then shrugged. “Not as far as I know, no one saw them.” She looked again at her watch. “That poolman’s due any minute.” She rose to her feet.
Rising with her, he said, “Can I ask you just one more question, Ms. Krantz?”
“What’s that?” Once more, suspicion puckered her eyes, pulled at her mouth.
“You say they left in the night. So I was wondering, did you get the impression that they left in a hurry?”
“As a matter of fact,” she answered, “I did. The kitchen was clean, and they took the garbage out, and everything. But the place wasn’t picked up—and the bed wasn’t made. Which wasn’t like Betty, at all. She’s always been—” She broke off, looked quickly at Bernhardt. As if he hadn’t noticed her landlady’s lapse, he blandly continued to smile encouragement as she caught herself, explaining: “Sometimes, you know, apartment managers have to enter the tenant’s place. If there’s—you know—running water, anything like that. It’s the law.” As she said it, her voice hardened defensively.
“Oh, sure,” he answered, turning toward the outside door. “You’re right, it’s the law. Absolutely.”
“Absolutely,” she repeated vehemently.