The Body Lovers Read Online Free PDF Page A

all.”
    “Don’t con me, kiddo. I’ve seen you with that look before.”
    “Maybe I better not play poker.”
    “Not with me. Or Pat.”
    I got up and stuck on my hat. “So you want to come along?”
    “Not me. I’m cleaning up here and heading for Miami. I know when to cut out. Write me about it when it’s over.”
    “Sure thing,” I said. “Thanks.”
    The Greenwich Village number was a weatherbeaten brownstone that was part of the old scene, a three-story structure that could have been anything once, but had been converted into studio apartments for the artists and writers set. Inside the small foyer I ran my fingertip along the names under the mailboxes, but there was no Greta Service listed. It wasn’t surprising. In view of the publicity given her brother, she could have changed her name.
    Now it was all legwork and luck. I pushed the first bell button and shoved the door open when the latch began to click. A guy in a pair of paint-stained slacks stuck a tousled head out the door and said, “Yeah?”
    “I’m looking for a Greta Service.”
    He gave me a twisted grin and shook his head. “Now friend, that sure ain’t me. I’m the only straight man in this pad. This is a dame you’re talking about, ain’t it?”
    “That’s what I was told. She lived here a year and a half ago.”
    “Before my time, feller. I’ve only been here six weeks.”
    “How about one of the other tenants?”
    The guy scratched his head and frowned. “Tell you what... as far as I know that kookie bunch on the next floor moved in about four months ago. Student type, if you know the kind. Long hair, tight pants and loose, and I mean like loose, man ... morals. Me, mine are lax, but not loose. They’re real screamers up there. Odd jobs and checks from home to keep them away from home. If I was their old man ...”
    “Who else is there?”
    He let out a short laugh. “You might try Cleo on the top floor. That is, if she’s available for speaking to. She ain’t always. They tell me she’s been around a while.”
    “Cleo who?”
    “It’s whom , ain’t it?” he said. “Anyway, who cares? I don’t think I ever heard any other name.”
    “Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”
    When he had ducked back behind the door I picked my way up the stairs to the second-floor landing and stood there a few seconds. Inside the apartment a couple was arguing the merits of some obscure musician while another was singing an accompaniment to a scratchy record player. It was only ten A.M., but none of them sounded sober. I took the guy’s advice and followed the stairs up to the next floor.
    I knocked twice before I heard the languid tap of heels come toward the door. It opened, not the usual few inches restricted by a guard chain women seem to affect, but fully and with a single sweeping motion designed to stun the visitor. It was great theatrical staging.
    She stood there, hands against the door jambs, the light from the French windows behind her filtering through the silken kimono, silhouetting the matronly curves under it. Poodle-cut hair framed a face that had an odd, intense beauty that seemed to leap out of dark eyes that were so inquisitive they appeared to reach out and feel you, then decide whether you were good enough to eat or not.
    For a second the advantage was hers and all I could do was grin a little bit and say, “Cleo?”
    “That’s me, stranger.” Then the eyes felt me a little more and she added, “You look familiar.”
    “Mike Hammer.”
    “Ah, yes.” She let a little laugh tinkle from her throat. “The man on the front page.” Then she let her hands drop, held one out and took my arm. “Come in. Don’t just stand there.”
    This time I let my own eyes do the feeling. They ran up and down the length of her asking questions of their own.
    Cleo laughed again, knowing what I meant. “Don’t mind my costuming. I’m doing a self-portrait,” she said. “It does kind of rock you at first though, doesn’t