they’d have to come off of the wall when Hank entered into this little swindle. Some of the boys had seen his display of art. He could figure that no one would be likely to recall that some of these pix were Nola when the publicity broke, but he’d damn well know that if any of the lifeguards happened up here and saw them later there would be recognition. Recalling a picture or a face is often hard, but it doesn’t take a genius to do pretty well on recognizing a person once a picture is in front of him.
So maybe he ripped them off and burned them—unless they were a clue to whatever he had over Nola that might push her to murder—something far more damaging than a gimmicked beer tin and an exposed publicity stunt; something Nola could have been talking about when she put out the feeler to see if I had any evidence other than the Lucky Lager can.
The answers to a lot of my problems might be quickly solved if I could find the pictures.
In the next hour I turned up nothing of importance. A dresser drawer contained an album of pictures, almost all of Hank himself. None were of Nola. By two o’clock I had decided that if the police were unable to find those pictures, and they had looked, probably I wouldn’t either. But they weren’t looking especially hard—this wasn’t more than an accidental death so far, and since they had already combed the apartment, maybe my time would be better spent in the garage. Maybe Hank figured that Nola might make a forage through the house. At any rate I couldn’t do any worse in the garage. I snapped off the light, pulled down the blankets, rolled them up, checked the alley for stray citizens, and carried the blankets down to the garage.
By three o’clock my score was still zero. Working against time and daylight, I turned over boxes, sorted through drawers, poked through the debris, and pulled things off of shelves. By four o’clock I was getting desperate, and along about then I remembered that photographs aren’t always stored flat; they can be rolled. I went to work with renewed vigor, shining my light into the ends of the pieces of iron pipe scattered around. I checked the cans of nails along the wall.
It was almost five when I flashed my light down the open end of the heavy steel shaft of the old drill press. Something glittered and I fished it out—a package wrapped in aluminum foil. I stripped away the wrappings and looked at the pictures. I flattened the first one out on the workbench. A younger Nola Norton—at least ten years younger. Seventeen or eighteen years old probably. Not filled out quite as nicely as the present edition, but still Nola. Her hair was short. A bob job, and honey colored. And all five pictures had one thing in common—they were carefully posed cheesecake.
We were getting there now. I couldn’t see outside but the darkness was due to fade into a gray dawn before long. I didn’t have a lot of time to waste but I rolled the pix back up, put them into a pocket, and pushed the facts around for a few minutes. Either Hank had known her a long time or he’d come onto something out of her past. He came from Oceanside. Or at least when he got lubricated at the only shindig we’d held, he had talked some about the rough rip tides he’d worked down there. And if I was going to try to run that down, I might as well go with all the ammunition I could get.
Glancing around, I decided to leave the blankets down here. Time was important. I kicked the blanket aside, snapped off my light, slipped out of the garage, and hurried up the side stairs. Letting myself into the house again, I went to the bedroom, jerked open the dresser drawer, and pulled out the photograph album once more. Ten years ago. I’d have to guess at it. I cupped the light over the book and turned pages until I found a couple of snapshots of Hank which I judged to be about the right vintage. I stripped them off and slipped them into a pocket. Seconds later I went down the steps,
So maybe he ripped them off and burned them—unless they were a clue to whatever he had over Nola that might push her to murder—something far more damaging than a gimmicked beer tin and an exposed publicity stunt; something Nola could have been talking about when she put out the feeler to see if I had any evidence other than the Lucky Lager can.
The answers to a lot of my problems might be quickly solved if I could find the pictures.
In the next hour I turned up nothing of importance. A dresser drawer contained an album of pictures, almost all of Hank himself. None were of Nola. By two o’clock I had decided that if the police were unable to find those pictures, and they had looked, probably I wouldn’t either. But they weren’t looking especially hard—this wasn’t more than an accidental death so far, and since they had already combed the apartment, maybe my time would be better spent in the garage. Maybe Hank figured that Nola might make a forage through the house. At any rate I couldn’t do any worse in the garage. I snapped off the light, pulled down the blankets, rolled them up, checked the alley for stray citizens, and carried the blankets down to the garage.
By three o’clock my score was still zero. Working against time and daylight, I turned over boxes, sorted through drawers, poked through the debris, and pulled things off of shelves. By four o’clock I was getting desperate, and along about then I remembered that photographs aren’t always stored flat; they can be rolled. I went to work with renewed vigor, shining my light into the ends of the pieces of iron pipe scattered around. I checked the cans of nails along the wall.
It was almost five when I flashed my light down the open end of the heavy steel shaft of the old drill press. Something glittered and I fished it out—a package wrapped in aluminum foil. I stripped away the wrappings and looked at the pictures. I flattened the first one out on the workbench. A younger Nola Norton—at least ten years younger. Seventeen or eighteen years old probably. Not filled out quite as nicely as the present edition, but still Nola. Her hair was short. A bob job, and honey colored. And all five pictures had one thing in common—they were carefully posed cheesecake.
We were getting there now. I couldn’t see outside but the darkness was due to fade into a gray dawn before long. I didn’t have a lot of time to waste but I rolled the pix back up, put them into a pocket, and pushed the facts around for a few minutes. Either Hank had known her a long time or he’d come onto something out of her past. He came from Oceanside. Or at least when he got lubricated at the only shindig we’d held, he had talked some about the rough rip tides he’d worked down there. And if I was going to try to run that down, I might as well go with all the ammunition I could get.
Glancing around, I decided to leave the blankets down here. Time was important. I kicked the blanket aside, snapped off my light, slipped out of the garage, and hurried up the side stairs. Letting myself into the house again, I went to the bedroom, jerked open the dresser drawer, and pulled out the photograph album once more. Ten years ago. I’d have to guess at it. I cupped the light over the book and turned pages until I found a couple of snapshots of Hank which I judged to be about the right vintage. I stripped them off and slipped them into a pocket. Seconds later I went down the steps,
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