The detective double-parked near the newsstand at the corner, and Conway got out and bought the papers, reflecting that police transportation had its advantages. When he got back in the car, Bauer snatched one of the papers and turned to an inside picture page, which was devoted entirely to the murder.
“Look at that,” he said, pointing to a picture of Conway and himself. “That’s the only one of me in the lot that’s even halfway decent. And seeing it again now, even that isn’t any too good.”
How does he shave? Conway wondered. How can he do it without looking in a mirror? Conway turned to the news story in the other paper, but the detective continued looking at the picture.
“Wait till you see the ones they got in there,” he said, indicating the paper in Conway’s hand. “My girl says I ought to raise a row, but what good would it do? The damage is done now.”
“It’s a shame,” Conway said. Some of the cars stalled behind them, unaware that a police car was causing the tie-up, began honking. Bauer handed the paper to Conway and started up.
“Next time, though, I’m going to speak to those camera monkeys — tell ’em to use a little discretion with the pictures they print. After all, it’s my career.”
Conway decided that some interest in that career would not seem amiss.
“Tell me,” he said, “how did you happen to become a detective? You didn’t start out pounding a beat, did you?”
“I should say not,” Bauer said emphatically. “I was an M. P. in the army.” The instinct of the combat soldier, even though four years in the past, made Conway gag slightly. “Made quite a record for myself, so naturally they were tickled to death to get me here in L. A. Reason I came out here was because Greta was here.”
Oh, no, Conway thought. He’s not going to tell me— “Greta?” he asked.