I saw that the call was coming from Bob Elgin’s apartment.
“Just a moment,” he said. “What was that number again? — All right, I have it — Waverley 9-8765.”
He made a note of the number, then dialled, after a moment said, “Here’s your party,” made the connection on the telephone and came back to the desk. “I’d like to be of help,” he said. “I might have a tip on something later on.”
“Later on isn’t going to help,” I said. “I’m in a jam.”
His mouth fairly watered as he saw the outside note. “I — gosh, I don’t know of a thing. I might get in touch with some of my friends and…”
I said, “I have another lead — in fact, I think I can get a place in another apartment house, but it isn’t as desirable as this. This is a nice place.”
“We try to keep it so.”
I sat around and chatted with him until Elgin’s call was completed. There weren’t any more calls, so I went out.
Ten
It was after nine o’clock when I located the girl who had the photographic concession at the Cabanita. Her name was Bessie and she lived in a trailer. She worked several of the night spots, going from one to the other in the trailer, which also served as a dark-room. Just now it was at the Red Rooster, a country road-house joint about three miles from the Cabanita. It was out away from things and rumour had it the place capitalized on its isolation to put over things that wouldn’t get by elsewhere.