A wall directory listed S. Saddon and nine other names—but no Linda Martin—in apartment 604. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor, walked down a hallway smelling faintly of marijuana and rapped on the door. Big band music died out, the door opened and a youngish woman in a sparkly Egyptian outfit was standing there, holding a papier máché headdress. She said, “Are you the driver from RKO?”

I said, “Police.” The door shut in my face. I heard a toilet flushing; the girl returned a moment later, and I walked into the apartment uninvited. The living room was high-ceilinged and arched; sloppily made-up bunk beds lined the walls. Suitcases, valises and steamer trunks were spilling out of an open closet door, and a linoleum table was wedged diagonally against a set of bunks without mattresses. The table was covered with cosmetics and vanity mirrors; the cracked wood floor beside it was dusted with spilled rouge and face powder.

The girl said, “Is this about those jaywalking tickets I forgot to pay? Listen, I’ve got three days on Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb at RKO, and when I get paid I’ll send you a check. Is that all right?”

I said, “This is about Elizabeth Short, Miss—”

The girl put out a big stage groan. “Saddon. Sheryl with a Y-L Saddon. Listen, I talked to a policeman on the phone this morning. Sergeant something or other with a bad stutter. He asked me nine thousand questions about Betty and her nine thousand boyfriends, and I told him nine thousand times that lots of girls bunk here and date lots of guys, and most of them are fly-by-nights. I told him that Betty lived here from early November to early December, that she paid a dollar a day just like the rest of us, and I didn’t remember the names of any of her dates. So can I go now? The extra truck’s due any minute, and I need this job.”

Sheryl Saddon was out of breath and sweating from her metallic costume. I pointed to a bunk bed. “Sit down and answer my questions, or I’ll roust you for the reefers you flushed down the toilet.”

The three-day Cleopatra obeyed, giving me a look that would have withered Julius Caesar. I said, “First question. Does a Linda Martin live here?”

Sheryl Saddon grabbed a pack of Old Golds off the bunk and lit up. “I told Sergeant Stutter already. Betty mentioned Linda Martin a couple of times. She roomed at Betty’s other place, the one over on De Longpre and Orange. And you need evidence to arrest someone, you know.”

I took out my pen and notebook. “What about Betty’s enemies? Threats of violence against her?”

“Betty’s trouble wasn’t enemies, it was too many friends, if you follow my drift. Get it? Friends like in boyfriends?”

“Smart girl. Any of them ever threaten her?”

“Not that I know of. Listen, can we hurry this up?”

“Simmer down. What did Betty do for work while she was staying here?”

Sheryl Saddon snorted, “Comedian. Betty didn’t work. She bummed change from the other girls here, and she cadged drinks and dinner off grandfather types down on the Boulevard. A couple of times she took off for two or three days and came back with money, then she told these fish stories about where it came from. She was such a little liar that nobody ever believed a word she said.”

“Tell me about the fish stories. And about Betty’s lies in general.”

Sheryl stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immediately. She smoked silently for a few moments, and I could tell that the actress part of her was warming to the idea of caricaturing Betty Short. Finally she said, “You know all this Black Dahlia stuff in the papers?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Betty always dressed in black as a gimmick to impress casting directors when she made rounds with the other girls, which wasn’t often, because she liked to sleep till noon every day. But sometimes she’d tell you she was wearing black because her father died or because she was mourning the boys who died in the war. Then the next day she’d tell you her father was alive. When she was out for a couple of days and came back flush, she’d tell one girl a rich uncle died and left her a bundle and another that she won the money playing poker in Gardena. She told everybody nine thousand lies about being married to nine thousand different war heroes. You get the picture?”

I said, “Vividly. Let’s change the subject.”

“Goody. How about international finance?”

“How about the movies? You girls are all trying to break in, right?”

Sheryl gave me a vamp look. “I have broken in. I was in The Cougar Woman, Attack of the Phantom Gargoyle and Sweet Will Be the Honeysuckle.”

“Congratulations. Did Betty ever get any movie work?”

“Maybe. Maybe once, but then again maybe not, because Betty was such a liar.”

“Go on.”

“Well, on Thanksgiving all the kids on the sixth floor chipped in for a potluck supper, and Betty was flush and bought two whole cases of beer. She was bragging about being in a movie, and she was showing around this viewfinder that she said the director gave her. Now lots of girls have got chintzy little viewfinders that movie guys give them, but this was an expensive one, on a chain, with a little velvet case. I remember that Betty was on cloud nine that night, talking up a blue streak.”

“Did she tell you the name of the movie?”

Sheryl shook her head. “No.”

“Did she mention any names associated with the movie?”

“If she did, I don’t remember.”

I looked around the room, counted twelve bunk beds at a dollar a night apiece and thought of a landlord getting fat. I said, “Do you know what a casting couch is?”

The mock Cleopatra’s eyes burned. “Not me, buster. Not this girl ever.”

“Betty Short?”

“Probably.”

I heard a horn honking, walked to the window and looked out. A flatbed truck with a dozen Cleopatras and pharaohs in the back was at the curb directly behind my car. I turned around to tell Sheryl, but she was already out the door.

The last address on Millard’s list was 1611 North Orange Drive, a pink stucco tourist flop in the shadow of Hollywood High School. Koenig snapped out of his nose-picking reverie as I double-parked in front of it, pointing to two men perusing a stack of newspapers on the steps. “I’ll take them, you take the skirts. You got names for them?”

I said, “Maybe Harold Costa and Donald Leyes. You look tired, Sarge. Don’t you want to sit this one out?”

“I’m bored. What should I ask them guys?”

“I’ll handle them, Sarge.”

“You remember the kitty cat, Bleichert. Same thing happened to him happens to guys who try to jerk my chain when Fritzie ain’t around. Now what do I roust them guys for?”

“Sarge—”

Koenig sprayed me with spittle. “I’m ranking, hotshot! You do what Big Bill says!”

Seeing red, I said, “Get alibis and ask them if Betty Short ever engaged in prostitution”; Koenig snickered in reply. I took the lawn and steps at a run, the two men moving aside to let me through. The front door opened into a shabby sitting room; a group of young people were sitting around, smoking and reading movie mags. I said, “Police. I’m looking for Linda Martin, Marjorie Graham, Harold Costa and Donald Leyes.”

A honey blonde in a slacks suit dog-eared her Photoplay. “I’m Marjorie Graham, and Hal and Don are outside.”

The rest of the people got up and fanned out into the hallway, like I was a big dose of bad news. I said, “This is about Elizabeth Short. Did any of you know her?”

I got a half dozen negative head shakes, shocked and sad looks; outside I heard Koenig shouting, “You tell me true! Was the Short bimbo peddling it?”

Marjorie Graham said, “I was the one who called the police, Officer. I gave them Linda’s name because I knew she knew Betty, too.”