Private Dick Casefile 01 - Lily White Rose Red

him?
    “Grey!”
    “What!”
    “Are you even listening to me?”
    Always go with the safe answer, in case of snap quizzes. “No, sorry, Charlie. This photo is giving me some funny ideas about the case.” She didn’t have to know how funny.
    She seemed to accept that. “From 1931 on, when Lily McIntyre made her comeback, until 1946, when this was shot at the opening of the Lucky Star, I wasn’t able to find a picture with Miss McIntyre together with Mr. Hamilton. It was like they always avoided each other.”
    “Well, he is married. Isn’t he?” I tried to remember. I seemed to recall hearing that he had a couple of kids with his wife.
    Charlie frowned disapprovingly. “That hasn’t stopped him from being photographed with hordes of beautiful women. Usually dancers.”
    “Doesn’t his wife like to party?” I asked flippantly.
    Charlie shoved another magazine under my nose. “She does a lot of charity events.”
    I expected to see a gray-haired motherly woman, innocent of her husband’s licentious ways, but the photo showed a raven-haired beauty, sleek enough to have been a dancer herself. Maybe she was, once upon a time. The chorus line seemed to be Max Hamilton’s preferred dating pool and he dove in the deep end. “Does she know about him running around?”
    “The papers are hardly likely to print that, even if it’s true.
    Perhaps she looks the other way,” Charlie said impatiently. “But notice how he is with her and when he’s with Miss McIntyre.”
    “You’d make a good detective,” I said.
    “He’s happy with Miss McIntyre,” Charlie said. “Not like in 1930. Something happened between them then. And now, he still dates a lot of other women, but it seems as if he’s not willing to put her in the spotlight. He’s protecting her. The caption there says she was escorted to the party by Vic Urban and is seen here with host, Max Hamilton.” Lily White, Rose Red: Grey Randall, Private Dick Casefile #1
    99

    “How many casinos does Max Hamilton own?”
    “Two,” Charlie said.
    “And other business ventures? Nightclubs? Dinner clubs? Betting parlors?”
    “It could take me a year to track down all of his business dealings,” Charlie said in dismay. “He’s got a finger in every pie as long as there’s money in it.”
    “What about Topaz, the club on Fremont?”
    “If I find out, will you take me there sometime?” I stared at her blankly. “Why would you want to go there?”
    “I’ve never been, and it’s supposed to be the most popular club in Vegas right now.”
    “You’d have to wear a dress,” I blurted out before stopping to strap my tact on.
    “I know how , Grey! I have worn a dress before.” Charlie folded her arms and glared at me. “I even own some.”
    “All right, I’ll take you. If I can afford it.” What could I say? I was desperate. “But if I’m buying, I get to approve the dress.” I had this feeling that if Charlie owned a dress, as she claimed, it might not be one that would get her into the club.
    “As if you’re an expert!” she exclaimed huffily. “And I want champagne!”
    “You like champagne?”
    “I don’t know. I’ve never had any, but I want to try it. And to dance!”
    “Only the tango. That’s the only dance I know,” I said firmly.
    Charlie lifted the magazine and pulled out a typed list she’d hidden inside it. She grinned at me. “I figured you’d ask. I found twenty-four clubs so far where he’s part owner. Betting and racetrack interests, real estate, and he owns some racehorses. I also jotted down Marguerite Saint-Ville’s address and phone number for you.”
    “You should go on the grift,” I said bitterly.

    100

    CATT FORD

    “I played you all right,” Charlie crowed.
    “Enjoy your victory while it lasts.” I scanned the list quickly.
    Topaz was on it, Zircon, another of Phil Martin’s clubs, and other names I couldn’t tie him to. Not surprisingly, Lambda wasn’t on it. I wondered if Mr. Hamilton even knew of its existence or whether it was a sole venture for Mr. Big.
    “Did you find out who did it yet?” Charlie asked.
    “Not yet, but this helps,” I said, tucking the list into my pocket.
    No wonder Mr. Big didn’t want to make any waves by telling me who Mr. X was. He wouldn’t want to get his financing yanked out from under him, but I was thinking that now maybe I knew who the big cheese was. Maybe Phil Martin was how Max kept his finger on the criminal pulse of Vegas. I was onto