more sway amidships than necessary. She was the luscious type, the smoldering sort that the out-of-town buyers who frequented La Rumba would get hot about. Her evening dress encompassed an interesting assortment of curves that were, for my tastes at least, a shade too adequate. Her hair, bleached almost white, and her peaches-and-cream store complexion gave her a youthful appearance that appeared somewhat forced. She wore too much eyeshadow, and her finger nails flashed blood red as her hands moved in the light, flicking cigarette ash to the floor.
Gavigan had an astonished look on his face. “Hello, Babe,” he said, “I didn’t know you were married.”
The dark, too thin line of her eyebrows flattened. “Do you have to bring up that Babe stuff?”
“Haven’t seen you lately. Not since we had to close the Elite Burlesque house. Gentlemen, meet Babe Colette, Queen of Strippers, the gal with the Tiffany G-String. Or was that a publicity gag?”
“Skip it, Inspector! I’m not in that racket now. So lay off.”
Gavigan indicated a chair, and she sat, crossing her legs and looking up at him as if he were a news photog with a flash bulb ready.
“Okay, forget I mentioned it. Let’s hear your story.”
“My story?” she asked, her blue eyes turned on full.
“Yes. What are you doing here? Where were you when Sabbat was killed? That sort of thing. You can start with last night about this time.”
She seemed more used to policemen than had Alfred. Gavigan didn’t pull his punches, and she took it as a matter of course. Her story began like Alfred’s.
“I left ten or fifteen minutes after Al did, took the subway home, and…”
“Seventh Avenue to Times Square and change there for Queens, crosstown on 42nd?”
“Yes. I got home just before three. Al came in plastered and woke me up at 5 A.M. trying to undress himself. I got up at the usual time, around eleven, and spent the afternoon getting a permanent. At five Al and I came in to a cocktail party in Tudor City. When we left there we came over here.”
“Why did you stop in here?”
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the purse in her lap. “We thought maybe Sabbat might furnish another drink.”
“Known him long?”
She shook her head. “Six months, maybe. Eugene Tarot introduced us. Sabbat was interest in mental telepathy. We’ve seen him off and on since.”
“Who do you think might have killed him?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Anything else you’d like to tell me?”
She shrugged. “What else do you want to know?”
Gavigan’s eyes were hard. “Who did you phone before you left the club last night?”
If she reacted, I didn’t catch it. “Who did I phone…? I don’t know what…”
“Listen, Babe. You’re a good actress. You always were more than just a strip artist. But don’t try it on me. I’m not guessing. Come on, spill it.”
She sat up straighter in her chair.
“Nuts! I didn’t just blow in from the sticks. I don’t have to answer questions like that. And you know it.”
“So that’s your line. Okay. Suppose I know who you phoned? What if I’ve got a witness who heard you talking to Sabbat? Anything to say to that?”
Zelma’s mouth was a thin hard line. She stood suddenly on her feet, and her voice was harsh, biting. “This washes me up with that dirty, lying———! Al handed you that line, didn’t he? I haven’t phoned Sabbat all week. Put me on the spot, will he! The…” Her phrasing was masculine.
As she slowed, Gavigan stepped in quickly. “Then you have phoned Sabbat before?”
“Yes, but it’s none of your business.”
“If you weren’t talking to him last night, who did you call?”
“No one, and that’s straight! Alfred thought I did, because…”
There would have to be an interruption at a spot like that! I should have expected as much. Merlini had wandered over to the radio and had tuned out the police calls. Mrs. LaClaire was cut short when he suddenly
Gavigan had an astonished look on his face. “Hello, Babe,” he said, “I didn’t know you were married.”
The dark, too thin line of her eyebrows flattened. “Do you have to bring up that Babe stuff?”
“Haven’t seen you lately. Not since we had to close the Elite Burlesque house. Gentlemen, meet Babe Colette, Queen of Strippers, the gal with the Tiffany G-String. Or was that a publicity gag?”
“Skip it, Inspector! I’m not in that racket now. So lay off.”
Gavigan indicated a chair, and she sat, crossing her legs and looking up at him as if he were a news photog with a flash bulb ready.
“Okay, forget I mentioned it. Let’s hear your story.”
“My story?” she asked, her blue eyes turned on full.
“Yes. What are you doing here? Where were you when Sabbat was killed? That sort of thing. You can start with last night about this time.”
She seemed more used to policemen than had Alfred. Gavigan didn’t pull his punches, and she took it as a matter of course. Her story began like Alfred’s.
“I left ten or fifteen minutes after Al did, took the subway home, and…”
“Seventh Avenue to Times Square and change there for Queens, crosstown on 42nd?”
“Yes. I got home just before three. Al came in plastered and woke me up at 5 A.M. trying to undress himself. I got up at the usual time, around eleven, and spent the afternoon getting a permanent. At five Al and I came in to a cocktail party in Tudor City. When we left there we came over here.”
“Why did you stop in here?”
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the purse in her lap. “We thought maybe Sabbat might furnish another drink.”
“Known him long?”
She shook her head. “Six months, maybe. Eugene Tarot introduced us. Sabbat was interest in mental telepathy. We’ve seen him off and on since.”
“Who do you think might have killed him?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Anything else you’d like to tell me?”
She shrugged. “What else do you want to know?”
Gavigan’s eyes were hard. “Who did you phone before you left the club last night?”
If she reacted, I didn’t catch it. “Who did I phone…? I don’t know what…”
“Listen, Babe. You’re a good actress. You always were more than just a strip artist. But don’t try it on me. I’m not guessing. Come on, spill it.”
She sat up straighter in her chair.
“Nuts! I didn’t just blow in from the sticks. I don’t have to answer questions like that. And you know it.”
“So that’s your line. Okay. Suppose I know who you phoned? What if I’ve got a witness who heard you talking to Sabbat? Anything to say to that?”
Zelma’s mouth was a thin hard line. She stood suddenly on her feet, and her voice was harsh, biting. “This washes me up with that dirty, lying———! Al handed you that line, didn’t he? I haven’t phoned Sabbat all week. Put me on the spot, will he! The…” Her phrasing was masculine.
As she slowed, Gavigan stepped in quickly. “Then you have phoned Sabbat before?”
“Yes, but it’s none of your business.”
“If you weren’t talking to him last night, who did you call?”
“No one, and that’s straight! Alfred thought I did, because…”
There would have to be an interruption at a spot like that! I should have expected as much. Merlini had wandered over to the radio and had tuned out the police calls. Mrs. LaClaire was cut short when he suddenly
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