Private Dick Casefile 01 - Lily White Rose Red

as Captain Billy Woods, but he just seemed so sad.
    Not the usual reaction of a crazed killer, and anyone who would strangle a woman had to be a little bit crazy. Or maybe it was the guilt weighing him down.
    I hoofed it back to the heap and headed for my office. I had stuff to think about. I wondered what stories Phil Martin could tell me about his piano player. I wondered what a girl like Marguerite Saint-Ville was doing singing in a secret club in a deserted warehouse district. If she wanted to be a dancer or a singer, why wasn’t she hanging around stage doors or using Lily McIntyre’s name to get some big-name choreographer to give her another job? Heck, she was pretty enough to go to Hollywood. And what did Miss Tina think about this white girl horning in on her turf? It seemed like a good idea to have a chat with her at some point.
    I wondered if the photos Reggie had to show me were going to lead anywhere. But most of all I wondered about Miss Lily McIntyre. I had a feeling she was leading me up a rose-covered path and she knew a whole lot more than she was telling me. But until I had some lever to pry her loose with, I suspected I’d be dancing to her tune.

    Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
    55

    WHEN I had tossed my hat at the hat stand, and scored, of course, I sat down in the only chair that really helps me think and put my feet on the desk, running over the usual motives for murder: greed, fear, revenge, attempted assault that went bad, silencing a witness, etc. After ten minutes, I realized that even the chair wasn’t getting me anywhere without some actual facts to think about, so I called my answering service. There was a message from Charlie.
    I dialed the front desk at the library, and Mrs. Fielding answered as usual. Maybe I called there too often, because she recognized my voice and put me on hold before I could even ask for Charlie.
    “Hello?”
    “Hi, Charlie, I hope I’m not getting you in dutch by calling.”
    “In trouble with who?” Charlie actually sounded surprised that I’d be asking.
    “Mrs. Fielding, your boss,” I reminded her.
    “She won’t care. She likes me.”
    Well. I had never noticed any visible signs of affection between the two, but Charlie was a good worker—when she wanted to be. And Mrs. Fielding didn’t look like she was equal to working the microfilm machine, anyway; I’m sure Charlie made it look hard. “So whaddya got for me?”
    “I just chanced upon this item, but Miss Saint-Ville was mentioned in the list of the chorus line in a show at the Jungle Room.
    It’s still running,” Charlie said. “I’ll probably have more for you later.”
    “Thanks, that’s great!” I checked my watch. It was early yet, but dancing isn’t all glamour and nightlife. Dancers have to practice, and I was hoping maybe I could catch them at rehearsal.
    The Jungle Room was one of the lesser clubs in Vegas, but it ranked way above a strip club. If Miss Saint-Ville rated a slot there, maybe she really was good. But seeing as I knew nothing about her at all, at least it was a place to start on her end.

    56

    CATT FORD

    I’d been to the Jungle Room before, not on business. It was the kind of theme club that hit you over the head with a club and dragged you back to its cave and held you captive, complete with fake trees, stuffed animals that looked faintly like monkeys swinging on mechanical arms, live parrots in cages, you name it. The drinks tended to have paper umbrellas in them. And rum.
    I went around to the stage door, where I slipped an old geezer a fiver to let me by. The dressing room was empty, so I wandered to the backstage area, watching girls in mismatched dance gear, but all wearing banana skirts, as they kicked and bumped and spun. I wouldn’t exactly have called it a dance myself, but what do I know about it? I can’t even do the foxtrot, although I’m a whiz at the tango. It was my mother’s favorite; she called it the dance of seduction, and she forced me—I mean, taught me how to do it so she had a victim to practice on.
    The choreographer was shouting insults and directions, and the girls were mostly ignoring him from what I could tell. Eventually it all came to a halt, and the girls started filing by me.
    “Hey, cutie, looking for a date?”
    “I might be,” I said to the dark-haired girl chewing gum who’d asked.
    “Will I do, sugar?”
    “I’m looking for Miss Saint-Ville,” I answered.
    She made a face.