At the office, the lads in the drafting room gave me a double take. One of them said, “You shouldn’t run into doors, Kirk.”
I said, “I didn’t run into a door. I had a fight, and I didn’t do very well.”
That puzzled them. If I’d said I had run into a door, they’d think I’d been in a fight. Now that I said I’d been in a fight, the door theory was something for them to chew on. I took . off my coat, put on an eyeshade, arranged things on my drawing board and started to work.
Friday and Saturday I stayed away from the Caliente. I saw Dana once and talked to her on the phone several times. I suggested that inasmuch as I looked battered and Ricardo wasn’t entirely without scars, it would be better for people not to see us together. I wasn’t keen about advertising the fact that Ricardo and I had tangled.
Sunday morning I looked myself over. My appearance was practically normal. I decided to go to the club and have dinner there with Dana. Staying away too long wasn’t good, either. I was curious to see Ricardo, also. Not what he looked like, but what his attitude would be.
I waited until early afternoon and telephoned Arthur Maybank at the hospital. His voice sounded sleepy. I invited him to have dinner with me at the Caliente. He said he’d love to, but couldn’t. He said he had a date with Agnes Sheridan.
“So bring her with you. We’ll watch the show and then Dana will eat dinner with us.”
He said, “That sounds fine, but . . . well, let’s be honest. I can’t afford places like that.”
“Be yourself, Arthur. I’m inviting you and Agnes to be my guests. You and she can check out after dinner if you decide you want to be alone.”
His voice brightened. He said he’d be at the club with Agnes between 7:15 and 7:30. “It’ll be fun,” he said. “I’m off duty tonight, with nothing to worry about.”
I left home early. The temperature had dropped again. It was about eighteen. I had time to kill so I dropped into a newsreel theater. I did more thinking than watching.
I had used the last three nights to catch up on lost sleep. I was glad to fall into the groove again at the Caliente. In one way I didn’t like the place because every time I saw Dana on the floor it made me feel like excess baggage. But in another way it had become a habit, and habits are hard to break. I hoped Candy wouldn’t be there.
I was having a Martini at the bar when Arthur walked in with Agnes. They joined me in a drink, and we were spearing olives when Dana arrived. We went back to my pet table and made ourselves comfortable.
Arthur was cold. He complained that Agnes had walked him through Central Park and that she had made him stand on the shore of the lake and watch people skate.
Dana looked up with interest. “Do you skate, Agnes?”
The dark head nodded. “I love it. But I don’t get much chance.”
“Where do you go? The park?”
“No. I prefer rinks. I’m not too good at it . . .” The way she said it, I could tell that she was a wow. No Sonja Henie, maybe, but no dub, either.
Agnes said, “I haven’t skated once this year.”
“You did an awful lot of watching this afternoon,” grumbled Arthur.
“That made me hungry for it.” She beamed across at Dana. “Why don’t we go skating some night?”
“All right, you tell me. Why don’t we?”
I had never seen Agnes so eager. She said, “We could slip out right after the dinner show and go to the rink. We’d get a full hour and a half and be back in time for you to dress again.”
Dana said, “I’d like that.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Monday . . . ?” Dana nodded. “Perfect! I’ll bet you’re one of those experts who owns his own skates.”
“Yes. That is, I’m not an expert, but I prefer my own skates.”
“Bring them with you when you come to dinner. We’ll put them in my dressing room. After the dinner show we’ll go back there while I change, and then we’ll slip out through the other exit.”
Agnes turned to Arthur. “How about joining us?”
Arthur’s expression was ludicrous. “Me skate? Lady, you don’t know whereof you speak. I got on ice skates once in my life. I stayed on them for approximately two seconds. Then I swapped ends. I swore off for life.”
She said, “I’ll teach you.”
“You can teach me a lot of things, Agnes . . . but skating isn’t one of them. And it’s out on another count. I’m on duty tomorrow night.”
“Couldn’t you arrange . . . ?”
“Not a chance, even if I wanted to. And I don’t.”
Agnes invited me. I grinned and said Yes. “I’ll spend half the time on my ear,” I said, “but I’ve got the soul of a clown.”
“We won’t eat anything here,” said Agnes. “There’s a nice lunch counter at the rink where we can get sandwiches and coffee and pie.”
Dana looked at her watch, said, “Oh dear!” and was off like a shot. I didn’t see her again until she and Ricardo swept onto the dance floor.
I took a good look at Ricardo. Even allowing for the camouflage which make-up could provide, he didn’t show a bruise. I was a little disappointed. I had hit him plenty, and I preferred to believe that when I hit ’em, they stayed hit.
Dana rejoined us after the show. As soon as we finished, I shooed Arthur and Agnes out. I knew that was what they both wanted. Dana watched them until they reached the checkroom. She said, “They’ve got it bad, haven’t they?”
There was the usual buzz of dinner checks being paid before the 10:30 cover charge went on. During all of it, Dana sat quietly. I knew she had something on her mind, and that she’d tell it when she got ready. I didn’t have long to wait.
She leaned across the table and touched my hand. Just a touch. She said, “I’ve got news for you, Kirk.”
“Good news?”
“I hope you think so.” She reached for one of my cigarettes and I held the match for her. She said, “I’m quitting the act.”
It didn’t register right away. Then I frowned. “You’re what?”
“I’m quitting. I told Ricardo yesterday that I’d give him a reasonable time, but no more, to find himself another partner.”
“Divorce?” I asked eagerly.
“No. As a matter of fact, Ricardo says if I throw him down like this, he’ll never give me one.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“I’ve been spineless, Kirk. I’ve been reaching for the thing I wanted most without being willing to let go of the thing I had. Ricardo has been stalling. I don’t mean anything to him as a woman, but I’m egoist enough to believe that I rate pretty high as a dance partner. He wasn’t even looking for anybody else. He thought I’d let things rock along.”
I said, “There are two sides to that Dana. Dancing means a lot to you. Being half of one of the world’s best dance teams is important.”
“There’s something else that means more.”
“I wish we were alone,” I said. “I’d like to kiss you.”
She smiled. “I know Ricardo. He’s hopping mad. He thinks I’m an ingrate and a fool. Even yet he doesn’t quite believe me. He won’t believe me until I actually leave. Then he’ll lose interest in me. He’ll find another partner. And he’d have no reason then for not giving me a divorce.”
I said, “Has it ever occurred to you, sweetheart—that he may have another reason?”
“What sort of reason?”
“He could be in love with you.”
“You suggested that once before. But he isn’t. He’s in love with himself and with his profession.”
“That isn’t the way he’s acted. He’s impressionable. Yet as far as we know, there’s been no other woman in his life.”
“How about Candy Livingston?”
“Twenty million dollars,” I said. “There’s your answer,” I traced a pattern on the tablecloth with my fingernail. I said, “I’m not sure you’ve done the right thing.”
“That’s why I didn’t discus
s it with you in advance, Kirk. The way things were, I couldn’t see anything but a future that offered nothing. This way, there is at least a chance.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll get another partner, too. That won’t be difficult. He won’t be as good as Ricardo. But I’ll find one.”
I looked at her steadily. “Does Ricardo associate your decision with our battle royal the other afternoon?”
“Probably.”
“Has he made any further mention of his lost luck piece?”
She frowned. “Yes. He’s superstitious enough to believe that it ties in with my decision to quit.”
“Does he know why you were looking for it?”
“No. He asked, of course. I merely told him that I saw the box on his make-up table and opened it. He doesn’t believe me, but he can’t prove different, either.”
I said, “He has lost his luck piece and his dance partner. I wouldn’t blame him for being upset.”
Dana said, “You haven’t told me that you’re glad.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, darling. I’m glad and I’m worried. I’m glad because I agree with you that so long as you stayed with Ricardo our problem wouldn’t ever be solved. I’m worried . . .”
“You’re worried about what?”
I didn’t dare to tell her what I was worried about. What good would it do for her to know that Arthur believed that Ricardo had killed Ethel Brower in the dark believing her to be Dana. Arthur might be wrong.
“Skip it,” I said. “The important point is that I feel closer to you already. And I love you more than ever.”
She reached for my hand. Her eyes were soft and lovely.
“That,” she said, “is what I’ve been waiting to hear.”
CHAPTER XIX
MONDAY AFTERNOON Dana telephoned me at the office. She reminded me that the skating party was still on for that night, said that she still loved me and asked whether I’d drop by her apartment when I knocked off. I said I would and hoped she wouldn’t laugh too much when I started punching holes in the ice with my face.
I left the office on the dot and got to her apartment in nothing flat. She opened the door for me, let me kiss her, handed me a long, tall, cool drink and told me to make myself comfortable. She said she had something to show me. I said, “Are you telling me!” and it rolled off her like a duck. I told her she was supposed to laugh at my funny cracks, and all she did was to push me down on the sofa and shove a magazine in the hand that wasn’t holding the drink.
She looked beautiful and happy. She moved the bridge lamp to the doorway which connected the living room and bedroom, turned it on full and placed it carefully. Then she went into the bedroom and closed the door, leaving me alone with a lot of nice ideas.
I looked at drawings of pretty ladies in the magazine. My interest in them was entirely clinical. I wondered what was going on in the other room. I didn’t wonder very long, because suddenly the door opened and Dana confronted me. She was standing in the cone of light cast by the bridge lamp and she took my breath away.
I had suspected from her manner that something extra special was brewing, but I wasn’t prepared for this. If she had planned to knock me silly, she had succeeded. I knew that this was being staged for my benefit, and that what she wanted was a verdict, so I tore my eyes away from her face and tried, in my masculine ignorance, to concentrate on her costume.
She was wearing a purple dress. Undoubtedly the modiste who designed it wouldn’t have called it purple. She’d have used whatever the trick name was they were using for purple. The portion of it that was in shadow looked midnight black, but wherever the light touched it, it looked like moonlight on water.
The top part was one of those strapless arrangements which defy the law of gravity. It emphasized the smooth whiteness of her throat and shoulders and the curve of her breasts. Deep folds, crossed in front and pulled snugly into the waist, didn’t do any injustice to the charms they only partially concealed.
Below the waistline, the skirt billowed out: smooth purple satin, and stiff, crisp net in alternating sections. It spread wider and wider as it approached the floor. I knew that it was designed to swirl away from her body while she was dancing. At the moment, it fell soft and full about her feet.
Long purple gloves covered her hands and arms, up to the line of the bodice. But the ultimate artistry was achieved by two touches—dramatic in their simplicity.
Peeping from under the hem of her skirt were dancing pumps of ruby-red satin, and fastened in the mass of tight little curls at the side of her head was an enameled clip which shaded from deepest purple to the same vivid red.
She smiled and turned. She turned slowly, like a model. She finished the manœuver and her eyes rested on mine. I said, “Good Lord! you’re beautiful!”
Her eyes sparkled. She said, “Go on.”
“There’s nothing to go on with. Except that you’ve been holding out on me. I never dreamed you could look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . like . . . how can I say it? Like something out of this world. Like an angel who has been living on a diet of nectar. And at the same time like a warm, exciting woman.”
“The gown, Kirk. What about the gown?”
“I—I don’t know. It isn’t the gown and it isn’t you. It’s the combination. It’s the ultimate carried to infinity.”
She threw herself into my arms and did things that I liked. She said anxiously, “You really mean that, darling?”
“Of course I mean it. What’s it all about?”
She stood up again and backed into the light. “I’ve been worried. All my life I’ve been sold on the idea that purple simply wasn’t for me. My dress designer insisted on making this for me with the understanding that if it weren’t becoming—the color, I mean—I wouldn’t owe her a cent. That’s why I asked you to come over. The dress was delivered less than two hours ago. I want to wear it at the dinner show tonight . . . but only if I’m sure it looks right.”
I tried to tell her how right I thought it looked. She said, “I was concerned about the color. When you’ve always believed you couldn’t wear something, and then you consider stepping out on a dance floor in that color . . . well, you’re afraid you might look grotesque.”
I was amused. She had counted so much on my verdict. I talked for a long time. I talked until I was fresh out of words. It took me that long to convince her that the color was right for her, and that she’d create a sensation.
She finally got the idea. She was walking on air when she went back into the bedroom to change into street clothes. When she returned, she had a long, wide pasteboard box under her arm. The new purple dress, the shoes and the hair ornament were in it. We taxied to the club.
There weren’t many people inside. We walked toward the rear, and somebody called me. It was John Ferguson. He was dining with another man at a wall table. They stood up and Ferguson introduced the other man to Dana. She chatted briefly, then excused herself and started for her dressing room.
Ferguson invited me to join them for dinner. I said No, and explained about the skating party. Just to make it good, Agnes Sheridan chose that moment to come in, carrying her skates which were attached to white skating shoes.
Maybe I was in an unusually appreciative mood tonight, but Agnes looked prettier than I’d thought was possible. She had on some sort of a brown tweed suit with a white sweater underneath. Her beaver coat was swung over her shoulders with the sleeves dangling empty at her sides. A tiny little white hat—a beanie—was perched jauntily on her head and, instead of gloves, she was wearing white, woolly mittens.
There were more introductions. Then Agnes and I got away and made for my corner table near the corridor. Ferguson smiled and made a flattering comment about the work I was doing for him. I liked that. I liked Ferguson. I liked his friend. I liked almost everybody.
Dana showed up in the archway and grabbed Agnes. She said, “Better bring your skate
s back to my dressing room. We’ll pick them up after the show. And besides . . .”
“Besides,” I said, “she wants your opinion about a gown.”
The two girls disappeared. The show had started by the time Agnes came back. She had seen the purple dress and was slightly hysterical about it.
Just to make it one big, happy family, Candy Livingston swept in at the head of a party of six. Once again she grabbed the attention which rightly belonged to the show girls. She saw us and came over. She insisted that we join her. I went into my routine. No could do. Skating party. I didn’t ask her to go with us. There was too much danger that she’d accept.
As the time for the Ricardo & Dana act approached, I found myself getting excited. Suppose I’d been wrong? Suppose Agnes and the modiste had been wrong? I was commencing to understand how such a thing could be important.
The emcee gave them the usual ritzy build-up. I deliberately had refrained from looking at Dana while she was waiting for her cue. My first glimpse of her was on the floor, in Ricardo’s arms, the big spot beating down on the purple gown.
There was a hush over the place, then a spontaneous burst of applause. It wasn’t the dancing; they hadn’t gone far enough into the number. It must be the gown. I felt relieved.
They went through three routines and finished to an ovation. While they were waiting to let the applause die down, Candy Livingston swept past our table and into the corridor. Headed for the powder room, I gathered, but I was resentful of the fact that she was walking out before the end of the act.
There was more applause after the encore number. The team took a half dozen bows, then I saw Ricardo go toward his dressing room. Dana stopped at our table. We all talked about the gown, and then Dana beckoned to Agnes. “Come on back while I change. You, Kirk, can join us in ten minutes.”
The show was over. The regular orchestra was starting a loud, thumping rhumba which the relief combo would finish.
The girls went into the dim, drafty corridor and turned left. Then something happened. Something loud, but not too loud. There was no mistaking that sound.
It was a shot.
There was a split-second of silence, then a choked scream. I was on my feet. I knew who had screamed. It was Dana.
Love Has No Alibi Page 13
