“What does that have to do with it?” I asked.
He said, cynically, “A beautiful woman doesn’t want to go through life bending over a wash-tub. A beautiful woman doesn’t want to spend her time scrubbing floors. You don’t see a really beautiful woman get enthusiastic over darning socks. They don’t want to do any of those things. They know it’s going to impair their beauty. They’ve learned to live for their beauty. They can’t preserve it past a certain point. The lucky ones become picture actresses and the grass widows of wealthy husbands. They live on alimony and opportunity.
“The ones that aren’t so lucky make a pass at alimony. They get cheated out of it. They have to live. They have a lot of self-discipline when it comes to watching their diet. You’ll find them hovering around any night-club, sometimes with one escort, sometimes with another, sometimes temporarily not escorted. They’re the slinky type with the smooth hips, the full lips, the ready smile and the watchful eyes. I get so I hate the bitches.”
The bedroom door opened. A smooth, slinky blonde, wearing well-tailored powder-blue slacks, a blouse cut so low in front that the V stretched almost to the belt, sandals which showed crimson toe-nails, came gliding into the room.
The slacks had been tailored across the hips so that every seductive motion, every wiggle showed to the greatest advantage.
“What the hell is this?” she asked. “What’s coming off here?”
Bob Elgin bowed. “My dear,” he said, “may I present Mr. Lam. Lam is a private detective.”
He turned to me and said, “My wife, Mr. Lam.”
She looked me over with calculating eyes that started with my face, went down to my feet, then back up again. She twisted the full lips in a smile, and gave me her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Lam,” she said.
I noticed her left hand. There were no rings on it.