And Dangerous to Know

by Elizabeth Daly

  The elevator came, and they all got in and rode down in silence. In the lobby, Bishop said, smiling: “You go along there and turn that corner; or do you know the place?”

  “I don’t at all, I’ve only lunched here in the main dining-room and the garden.”

  “No garden tonight.” He turned in the opposite direction, and gestured towards a passage down which Osterbridge had already disappeared. “For the help,” he explained, and walked away.

  Gamadge stood looking after him for a minute, and then turned left, rounded the corner, and went along a broad corridor to the supper-and-dance room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Request Number

  IT WAS A well-proportioned, pretty room, done in pale red and silver, very modern. The french windows were screened against the rainy night with silvered reed blinds; Gamadge realized that the celebrated garden must be beyond them. It was a big garden, running back from the parking lot to the next street. A good place to sit between dances on a pleasant night.

  The small stage at the far end of the room was already lighted, and the tables that ringed the dance floor were well-filled. They were comfortably spaced, too; the Stanton was not fashionable enough to pack the people in.

  It was early, and there were still some empty places. Gamadge was seated (at his own request) to the left of the doorway, at the rear of the room. He ordered a drink, and surveyed the company. The middle-aged ladies and couples were there, very handsomely turned out, too; so were some of the young people, with or without their families.

  The seven-piece band came on the platform, natty in their white coats and dark blue trousers; Osterbridge sat down at the piano. Then Bishop appeared, cast a serene glance over the audience, favoured it with the attractive smile and a half-salute with his baton, and leaned up against the left side of the proscenium. He pointed the baton languidly in the direction of the bass fiddle, the fiddler tapped and stroked out a rhythm, and the band was in full swing.

  It sounded all right to Gamadge. He leaned back, watched the dancing, and sipped his highball. Bishop looked casual, but he had the whole thing in the hollow of his hand.

  The dance ended, and Miss Bean came on the stage; she was quite pretty under the light they gave her. She sang, and Gamadge could only wonder how her smallish anatomy could produce the deep sounds of woe that proceeded from her larynx. The audience seemed to like her, and applauded until she gave an encore. Gamadge got the attention of a waiter, and handed him a card.

  “I wonder if Miss Bean would like to join me after she’s finished. Not against the rules, I suppose? I’ve met her socially.”

  The waiter looked considerably surprised; perhaps Miss Bean was not besieged by admirers in front. He took the card, however, and hurried away with it. She ended her song, smilingly bowed, left the stage, and the band lights came on again. In a few minutes she appeared in the doorway at Gamadge’s right. He got up.

  “Mighty nice of you, Miss Bean, to take pity on me. Here I am,” he said, “trying to make an evening of it. I didn’t get a chance to see much of you upstairs.”

  “No, it was a shame.” She sat down and glanced about her. “We don’t do this much here, it’s just a quiet kind of family place, you know. Nothing conspicuous.”

  Gamadge resumed his seat. “Nice place, though.”

  “A stepping-stone,” said Miss Bean, with her tight smile.

  “Well, let’s see. What would you like?” Gamadge passed her the supper menu. “There seems to be a speciality in the way of drinks, a summer punch they call it. Would you—”

  “Just lemonade, please; artistes can’t do much drinking, you know; not if they’re serious.”

  It wasn’t a whisky contralto, then, thought Gamadge. My God, what was it? He said: “You can eat, though, can’t you? Or do you sing again too soon?”

  “Not till after the intermission. I’d love a sandwich, one of these.”

  These were club sandwiches: Miss Bean was at least not going to stint her appetite. Gamadge ordered one, and the lemonade.

  “I hope you have plenty of time for it,” he said.

  “Oh yes, the intermission comes at eleven. They give us half an hour, because people like to eat something then.”

  Gamadge felt as if he had cut a slice of eternity for himself and a young lady in pink. But she added: “I have to go behind pretty soon, though; I don’t know yet what Jack’s going to sing tonight. I accompany him, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “He’s very talented.”

  “Yes?”

  She waited a minute, and then said without looking at him, “That’s why Mrs. Tanner likes to have him come up there—in the intermissions, you know, when she has people in; evenings when she doesn’t go out herself. He can do imitations. He’s very interesting.”

  “Is he? I should have said Mr. Bishop was the interesting one of the two.”

  She faced him quickly. “Oh no! Jack’s been to college, he’s been in the theatre—musicals. This is just a—”

  “Stepping-stone.” Gamadge, always rested by platitudes, had relaxed in his chair. The sandwich and the lemonade came, and Miss Bean fell to with zest.

  “How long’s he been here?”

  She looked up, swallowed, drank some lemonade, and said: “Only about a year. Longer than I have.”

  “Bishop too?”

  “Oh, he’s been here ever since the war. He likes it.”

  Gamadge allowed her to enjoy her supper in peace for a while; quite obviously she was a single-hearted woman, who could not even pretend interest in any man but one. Must he begin to feel sorry for her? Hoping that he needn’t, he asked: “What’s the schedule here for the band? Lunch music, tea music, so on?”

  “Not in summertime. I mean they do play at lunch, but not after that. In winter they play from four to six, but I don’t sing. I can sing anywhere else I like.”

  “That’s good,” said Gamadge vaguely. After another pause, during which she finished the last corner of the sandwich and emptied the lemonade glass, he asked another question: “How did you leave Mrs. Tanner?”

  She put down her napkin. “I shouldn’t have talked like that up there. It wasn’t nice of me. But it does make me so mad to see people behave like that.” Miss Bean looked at him primly. “I think people get out of life what they put into it.”

  “Oh no,” said Gamadge. “That one’s no good.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “They put a lot of fun into it, and sometimes all they get is grief.”

  “I mean spiritually.”

  “That’s the stuff, you remember that if things seem disappointing later on.”

  Miss Bean, bored by her own sermon, had been looking about her again. Now she rose hurriedly, said thank you ever so much, she’d had a lovely time, and made for the doorway. She went through it sidelong, passing Mrs. Lynch without visible signs of recognition. Mrs. Lynch came in, saw him, and approached laughing.

  “She thinks I’m the devil. You been entertaining her? Fast worker.” She slipped into the chair next his. “Hope you liked it.”

  Gamadge sat down. “I rather like to talk to different kinds of people. Where’s a waiter? Oh, there you are. What are you having, Mrs. Lynch?”

  “Nothing for me.”

  “Great Heavens, Jennings ought to be here. He’d get all his illusions back again. Miss Bean drinks lemonade. Won’t you have some root beer even?”

  “Oh well, a Tom Collins then. Thanks. Did Beanie sing a request number?”

  “I don’t think so, I didn’t hear anybody ask for the thing.”

  “It’s a homey way they have at the Stanton. After the first song you can request something; John Osterbridge knows everything. It’s quite a regular clientele, you know; most of these people have been coming here for ages, and they’re very fond of the band.”

  “When does Osterbridge give out?” asked Gamadge gloomily.

  “Just before the intermission.” Mrs. Lynch was perched in a fu
gitive kind of way on the edge of her chair. When the waiter had removed Miss Bean’s plate and glass she clasped very white and ringless hands on the edge of the table, looked down at them, and said: “I can only stay a few minutes. Gail’s all right, sleeping the sleep of the just, but I’ve got to get back.”

  “You’ll certainly be needed tomorrow when she wakes up.”

  “I’ll be there with first aid. But what I mean is, I got hold of a nice maid that takes care of the suite, and she’s sitting for me, but she needs her sleep and I can’t ask her to stay late. And I got the house detective to hang around up there, see that nobody rings the bell.” She glanced at Gamadge. “That Osterbridge!”

  “He undoubtedly wants a word with Mrs. Tanner.”

  “Thinks he’s so soothing. I really came down because I wanted to ask you not to think anything of it; I mean these people”—she raised her eyes to the bright platform across the room—“they’re just entertainers to Gail. I mean she likes them personally, too, but there’s no intimacy. Not that there’d be any harm in it; she rather enjoys different kinds of people—as you do.” She smiled at him.

  “They must be quite a change for her.”

  “Do you happen to know the family? No? Well, if you did you might understand that she’d like anybody who was as different as possible. I know she ought to be at home, but they’re the kind of people that have to have prestige, or they’re helpless. They go on and on, asking why, asking what they’ve done to deserve it. They can’t face things. I’m just explaining.”

  “They’d be trying. Somebody else was saying so recently.”

  “Anybody’ll tell you.” She was looking at Osterbridge, who swayed to and from his piano like a reed in the wind. “Poor John is rather a phoney, I suppose.”

  “But Bishop’s the real thing.”

  “Yes, he is.” She frowned at Gamadge. “I know what you mean. But you’d be surprised how civilized he is in his own way.”

  “Would you care to cross him up?”

  “I don’t think he’s so alarming. Oh Lord, that’s thunder. Let’s hope it clears the air. I hate this weather.”

  A voice behind them said: “Hello, Nellie; may I sit down?”

  She twisted to look up. “Bruce darling, where did you spring from?”

  “Well, are you surprised that I caught a train?”

  Gamadge had risen. Mrs. Lynch said: “Mr. Gamadge, Mr. Dunbar. He’s a friend of Artie Jennings, Bruce. Artie brought him down, but poor Gail gave out and people had to leave.”

  “They said at the desk that she was in bed, and that you were staying. And they sent me in here.”

  “Yes, I told them where I’d be.”

  Dunbar had hardly looked at Gamadge yet. Now he turned to him and they nodded. A well-set up young man, thought Gamadge, good-looking, full of vitality. He said: “Do have a chair, Mr. Dunbar, and something to drink.”

  “Nice of you.” They sat down, Dunbar on Mrs. Lynch’s other side. He asked: “Gail all right? I mean of course she can’t be, but is it serious?”

  “I’m afraid she just passed out, Brucey.”

  “Very wise of her.” He became aware of a waiter hovering, and said: “Double Scotch, please, with water.”

  Gamadge caught his eye. “You’ll rather wonder where I fit in, Mr. Dunbar. Only as a friend of Bob Macloud’s.”

  “Oh yes. You know him?”

  “Very well. He was up at my place this afternoon, and Mrs. Tanner wanted to hear what he had to say. I really couldn’t tell her more than she knew, but people always think the police are keeping things up their sleeve.”

  “Why should they? They told me all they knew, over long distance, as soon as they found her—found my cousin Alice.” His agreeable face was sombre. “It’ll kill them, Nellie; the old people. I went straight up there.” He smiled without amusement. “Had an escort. They met me at the train.”

  “Why on earth?”

  “They have to do things like that. But they’d picked me over pretty thoroughly before, so there wasn’t much more they could ask me—only about a million questions over again. The trouble is there’s no answer to the big question—why?”

  “Oh, Bruce, it’s a nightmare.”

  “Isn’t it, though? Well, they told me Gail was back here, so down I came. Poor old girl, she has more feelings than people give her credit for.” He glanced up at the dancers, and his eyes moved to the stage where the band played with energy. “Those the bums she likes so much?”

  “They’re not bums, Bruce,” protested Mrs. Lynch. “At least Bishop isn’t, or the man at the piano. Those are the only ones she knows at all.”

  He gave her a faintly amused look. “I didn’t suppose she was teaming up with the drummer. Funny thing,” he went on, studying the band again, “they never can learn how to dress.”

  “They’re very smart, Bruce, you know they are!”

  “The beautiful character at the piano looks as though he wore corsets.”

  “Richie was the one that knew all the jazz artistes and took Gail around.”

  “That so?”

  The waiter came with his drink. He lifted it in Gamadge’s direction and smiled. “Next on me.” He drank, set the glass down, and said: “That makes me feel better. Reason I chased in here after you, Nellie—they had some news up at the house, and I thought you’d pass it along to Gail tomorrow, if you’ll be so kind. Then she won’t get it from cops, and it may come easier.”

  “News, Brucey?”

  “Yes.” He glanced across her at Gamadge. “No secret about it, it’ll be in the papers tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll keep it to myself until then,” said Gamadge.

  “If you will. You look as if you would, and how you come to be a pal of Artie Jennings, I don’t know.”

  Gamadge said, raising his eyebrows, “Classmates.”

  “Oh. That accounts for it. I had some pretty damn funny ones in Switzerland.” He glanced about him, then said in a low voice: “They’ve just found out how she was killed.”

  Mrs. Lynch’s hands tightened on the table edge.

  “She was shot twice in the back,” said Dunbar in an expressionless tone. “Close range. They found the bullets in that apartment at Scale’s—the Fuller place; in the wainscoting of the kitchen passageway. Old cracked wood, nothing showed until they really began to look. There’s no window there, so that’s why the shots weren’t heard. It’s a well-built old dump, they weren’t noticed above or below either.”

  “Oh Bruce.” Mrs. Lynch was very pale. “Will that help them?”

  “Well, the bullets came out of a thirty-eight-calibre automatic. They’re that much further on.”

  The dance music stopped, Osterbridge got up from the piano and came to the front of the stage, Miss Bean fluttered on from the wings; she smilingly took Osterbridge’s vacated place in front of the concert grand.

  “Oh God,” muttered Dunbar, “is he going to sing?”

  “Looks as if he was going to sing a hymn or something,” said Mrs. Lynch. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “You know,” said Gamadge. “He wanted a private word with Mrs. Tanner and he isn’t going to get it—until tomorrow.”

  Dunbar’s expression showed nothing beyond a faint surprise.

  “Don’t be so uppish,” said Mrs. Lynch irritably. “If she isn’t, it’s because she has a good heart. Perhaps you don’t know that I was about down to my last cent once, and no fault of mine either. It was Gail Tanner that came through with the cash—cash, mind you. Do you see much of that laying around at the disposal of hard-up friends nowadays? And if you think she wasn’t kind to Alice, Bruce—”

  “She was rotten to Alice.”

  “All right, that happens in families.”

  “Shush, we might miss some of the bel canto.”

  They sat while Osterbridge crooned mournfully. He had great applause, and then stood as if waiting, a sad smile on his face; Mrs. Lynch whispered: “Request number. Any requests,
boys?”

  “Request?” Gamadge leaned forward and bellowed cheerfully: “Stephen Foster! Stephen Foster!”

  Mrs. Lynch jumped in her chair, Dunbar looked at him in pleased astonishment, people turned their heads and smiled. But the band seemed at a loss. Osterbridge stood looking in the direction of the petitioner, his mouth slightly open. Bishop, in profile to the audience, leaned back with a hand in his pocket, his baton idly swinging. Miss Bean’s hands were poised helplessly over the keys. The horn tried a ragged sequence from “Oh Susannah,” and ceased.

  Mrs. Lynch giggled: “You’ve got them stumped. They never heard of him.”

  “Only the nice man with the horn,” said Gamadge. “Would you believe it?”

  “No, and I can’t stand it,” said Dunbar, getting up. “Such inanity.”

  He began to sing in a clear, light, untrained baritone; as if he were doing something unimportant, inevitable, natural. Faces turned to him, everybody was smiling. A hand on the back of his chair, the other in his pocket, he went through the first stanza and refrain; the red rose dropped sweetness all over the room.

  By the time he had asked the plaintive question: “Why should the beautiful die?” there had been slow tentative whines from the electric guitar, a note or two from the saxophone; the bass fiddle was gently beating out the rhythm. Bishop’s baton was really swinging now; Osterbridge had taken Miss Bean’s place at the piano and was trying chords. Now, at the end of the verse, Dunbar was about to sit down; but there was tumultuous applause, in which the band joined. Sentiment, recognition, fidelity to a national demi-god, had captured the audience.

  Dunbar got up again, grinning from ear to ear. Bishop pointed his wand; Osterbridge played a chord; at first there was only a skeleton accompaniment from the platform, but at the last words: “Why should the innocent fear?” there was a crescendo and a roll of drums that would have startled Stephen Foster out of his wits. That ballad had never had such a finale. The audience was clapping wildly.