I said, “Okay, get the pictures and we’ll call it square.”
She went to a cupboard, rummaged around in a drawer, came out with an envelope of the kind put out by concerns that specialize in developing and printing pictures. There was a pocket on one side for films, a pocket on the other for prints.
She took out the prints and started running through them. A half-smile played around the corners of her mouth as she hastily put six of the prints back in the pocket. Then she handed me two.
I looked at the photographs. They were good, clear photographs of Claire Bushnell and another girl in very skimpy bathing suits. The pictures showed that Claire Bushnell had a neat little figure. The girl with her was the one I’d seen in the cocktail lounge the night before, the red-headed girl with the contemplative eyes.
“That’s Minerva Carlton?” I asked.
“The one with me, yes.”
“Nice figure,” I said.
“She gets by.”
“Yours, I was looking at.”
“Is this part of the service I get for two hundred dollars, or do you throw this in?”