Page 38 of Hanging and Burning

People in wealthy areas often put up hedges to keep spying eyes out. This strategy works for passive invasions, but when a more aggressive trespasser pushes his way through the flora, he is also hidden from external witnesses.

The residents of the four-story Tudor home that hid behind the hedge must have thought that the sheer depth of the plant would deter burglars and spies. Maybe the wall of bushes was originally put in for decorative purposes.

I forced my way through with a minimum of scratches and scrapes.

There was only one light on in the house, that at the front of the home, on the third floor.

Hoping that the single light and the lovely friend meant that Malto and she would be alone, I made my way around to the back of the house, found a ladder next to the garage and used it to climb up to a second-floor window. Most burglar alarms are set on first-floor points of entry. As a rule, the upper-floor windows were neither wired nor locked. The casement I ascended to was actually ajar.

I made my way to the third floor and walked almost silently toward the light.

The man, Malto Lamming, was standing next to a portable bar mixing drinks for him and his guest. She was a lovely raven-haired young woman, no older than twenty, with milky skin. He wore a medium brown suit over a midnight-blue shirt that was unbuttoned to the diaphragm. His sixty-something-year-old chest was both hairy and muscular.

“If you like limes, you’ll really love this Gin Rickey,” Malto was saying. I recognized his voice and New York accent from our one phone conversation. “It’s so simple. Gin, soda, lime juice, and—the secret—a jigger of fresh cherry juice.”

“That sounds delicious,” she said.

Her voice was deeper than I expected it to be, what they call throaty. Her dress was made from semi-opaque linen fabric with various splotches of pastel coloring placed here and there to keep her from out-and-out indecency.

I had a daughter near her age.

Malto brought the drinks, in tall frosty glasses, and offered her one.

With a grin and a giggle, she took her drink and sipped.

The host sat down next to her on the long green sofa. He didn’t crowd her or put a hand on the knee that she hoisted up on the couch when turning to him.

“Your name is Greta?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Were you named after someone?”

“Greta Garbo,” she said. “I was born Winifred Owens, but if you want to get a job in film you need to give ’em something to remember.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t forget you.”

“Maybe not how I look, but if some casting director was looking for some girl they’d seen at an audition and they asked about her, saying ‘the pretty one with the black hair,’ whoever they were talking to would ask, ‘Which one?’”

He laughed by way of agreement and took a swallow of gin.

Hopefully swathed in shadow, I was standing against a wall in a hallway that led from the large room. I was willing to wait. I had witnessed more illicit or inappropriate sexual negotiations than I could count; that kind of work was a policeman’s and the private detective’s bread and butter. Maybe he’d put her in a taxi after they’d finished whatever they were trying to accomplish. Maybe I’d have to get at him after she’d fallen asleep.

“I like the word jigger,” she said. “A jigger of cherry juice sounds really sexy.”

Malto was in his late sixties, tallish, and in seemingly good shape. His gray hair was well-coiffed, even dashing.

“You young people are so—so sensual,” he stated. “A man of my age couldn’t possibly keep up with your young men.”

Leaning forward, she replied, “But what good is a six-pack if you use it like a splashboard?”

They were both very good at this kind of conversation.

Her phrasing impressed the nightclub owner. “Where you from?” he inquired.

“Oklahoma. Why do you ask?”

“It just surprised me that you would compare anything to a splashboard, or that you’d even know what it was.”