Which did not preclude them from smelling.
Anna consoled herself that at least the linens were boiled weekly to keep lice at bay. “You don’t have lice do you? I’d hate to shave those lovely locks. But I could wrap your head in lard.”
“No.”
She ushered Matilda to the cow ring and unlocked the steel door. Thirty-eight eyes rose to meet them. Unlike male prisoners, the ladies wore street clothes—either their own shabby garments or cast offs provided by the matrons. Most lacked coats, though the station got cold at night and jail blankets were thin. Each lady shared her three-foot-wide cot with another lady inmate. Women lounged or sat on their cots with little space in between them. About half were sewing. A few shelled peas or peeled potatoes. No one tried to escape when Anna opened the box and came in with her charge.
“Good evening, ladies.” Anna graciously inclined her head. “May I present Miss Matilda Nilsson of the Iowa Nilssons. Matilda, these are, well, ladies.”
There were nods, mutterings of “hello,” and one drunken cackle that sent shivers up Anna’s spine.
A tall wicker basket overflowed with unfinished linens, and a broad, short basket held sewing things. Anna dug through the linens and found the young lady a sheet that needed hemming, a thimble, a needle, and some thread. This was the limit of Anna’s sewing ability, though virtually every woman who came through the jail seemed an expert. “You know how to do this, right? Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”
The girl stared grimly at her cellmates. “Thank you.” She took the sewing things from Anna, walked to the last empty space on a cot, and sat down.
It occurred to Anna that, Martian or no, the man at the Jonquil Apartments should be investigated. The girl was underage, at least on this planet, and Anna would bet her last jeweled hatpin that the girl had been wronged. Anna wanted to do the investigating, as detective work was her true vocation, but someone might need to be arrested, and matrons had no power of arrest. Still, wronged girls would not speak to male cops, at least not the savvy girls. She would ask to accompany whichever cop she could persuade to go to the Jonquil—hopefully Joe. She wished she had a twin sister, or two triplet sisters even, so one Anna could solve the murder in Griffith Park, one could investigate at the Jonquil, and one could handle the myriad of other tasks stacking up on her desk.
Anna made a general announcement to the women in the cow ring. “Excuse me, ladies. A young man’s been murdered in Griffith Park. I don’t suppose any of you know anything about it?”
The ladies shook their heads, no. Of course, they didn’t know, but she had to do something. She had not yet had a chance to ask Joe about the men he had collared.
Anna did a quick walk-by to check on the rest of the lady prisoners and refugees from the streets who were paired among five smaller cells. They also knew nothing of the murder. They seemed peaceable, each sitting on their cot, crowded so close together their knees almost touched. One jailbird was giving pickpocketing lessons to the others in the cell. Anna watched intently, and then practiced.
At six o’clock, a jailer would come and take the real prisoners downstairs to eat in the dining room. The room had long white tables and smelled like a jail, a hospital, vegetable peels, and an old mop, all mixed together. Certain male criminals, those deemed trustworthy, prepared the food. The cops called such helpful prisoners “trustees,” and they paid for their good behavior by becoming slaves.
Jail food was slop by any measure and there was no dessert. Even so, refugees from the streets weren’t invited to dine. The city paid for food for criminals and hospital patients only. Anna would have to feed Matilda and the others by some different means, or they would get air pudding. She checked the donation closet in the storeroom. There were crackers, moldy cheeses, and great, fat dill pickles. Anna thunked her forehead with her fist. She should have made a pitch at the Friday Morning Club before the debacle, but she’d missed the chance and now they’d be disinclined to give. Perhaps Matron Clemens had money left over from a previous collection. They could buy bread and lard, or something.
All this woe and Matilda’s insanity weighed heavily on Anna’s heart. There was no end to it, no solution, beyond offering women wages they could live upon. But even that wouldn’t help the crazy women, the suicides, and the drunks. Anna said a silent prayer to Saint Dymphna, Patron Saint of the insane, that she would . . . that she would . . .
Anna didn’t know what to pray for, so she simply said, “Do something!”
She hoped the saint would act fast. Drunk, dissolute, and criminal women were getting in the way of Anna’s true calling—what she really wanted to be doing—solving the mystery of the kneeling man. And making love to Joe Singer. Making love to Joe Singer would make it all go away.
Anna glided down the cold stone stairs with the grace of a duchess, as was her custom when being observed. The station’s veterinarian and the police surgeon were blustering in the corridor. They watched Anna closely, both coming and going. She averted her eyes and flounced to the administrative part of the building, leaving a trail of Ambre Antique perfume in the stale air.
In a room full of uniformed cops, through a haze of tobacco smoke, she saw Joe. He sat at his desk in plain clothes, filling out paperwork, pausing, tapping his pen on his delectable lips, tugging on his well-shaped ear, writing again.
The sight took her breath away.
“Detective Singer, may I speak with you?”
When he saw her, he gave her a naughty smile that turned her all to jelly. “The kitchen,” he mouthed.
Anna went first. She posed seductively, draping herself across a chair, waiting for Joe, ready for a kiss.
The door swung open and Detective Wolf walked in. He quickly shut the door behind him. “Matron Blanc, will you marry me? I’m serious.”
Anna straightened up. “You can’t court me. I’d get fired.”
“I think we could work around that.”
Joe banged open the door and glared poisonously at Wolf.
“I’m going,” Wolf said, grinning. And he did.
Joe locked the door behind him. “I want you.”
“Have me.”
“When? This is killing me. I need a distraction.”
“We have a distraction—our kneeling deado. He’s our number one priority. You haven’t told me about your collars.”
“Yeah. I took some men and did a dragnet in the park after you left. We caught some hoodlums and three bank robbers, but nobody I like for the killer.”
“You actually found those bank robbers? Those idiots. That robbery was weeks ago. I thought they’d be long gone.”
“And, I got a partial print off the gun. It doesn’t match our deado.”
“I knew it!” On the inside, Anna turned slightly green with jealousy. She wanted to do a dragnet. She wanted to catch bank robbers and like or dislike the catch for the killer. She wanted to take prints. She wanted to trap criminals.
And so, she did. “We need the deado’s photograph to show to people to identify the body. I could help.”
“I know, Anna. Do you think I’m right off the boat? But we can’t use the ones with ants covering his head. Think about his mother. The coroner took new photographs once he’d washed the body. But the coroner’s backed up, so it took him a while. They haven’t been printed yet.”
“We need to send the photographs to the police in Oklahoma City.”
“Oklahoma City?”
“The headache medicine in the deado’s pocket was from a pharmacy in Oklahoma City. He didn’t have time to use it all. There was still a little left. How long does a bottle of headache medicine last? He carried it with him; he obviously used it. Not more than a few months. Our deado must be new in town. The pharmacist might recognize him.”
“You are one hanging detective.” He kissed her for a full minute. Anna responded with enthusiasm. Joe made a sound of frustration. “Oh, God. I need another distraction. Something completely unromantic.”
“All right.” She reluctantly pulled away. “A young girl just came in, clearly underage. She said she was bewitched and seduced at the Jonquil Apartments, and that the man paid her. It sounded like she’d been drugged.”
Joe’s mouth turned down. “Okay.”
“The landlady took the money. She said half was her cut, the rest was compensation for the girl’s keep.” Anna decided not to mention the part about the man being a Martian. “I thought a matron should go with a cop to investigate. I think you should be the cop.”
“I think so too, because Lord knows no one else is going to do it.” He pulled her close. “And afterward?”
“Come to my apartment tonight.” She planted a chaste kiss on his lips. “Just, dress like a girl.”
CHAPTER 7
The Jonquil Apartments looked clean, though modest, had three stories, and was nicer than Anna’s own apartment building. Above the door, carved in the stone, were the words, “The Jonquil Apartments for Professional Ladies.” The place stood on South Hill Street across from a pawn shop adjacent to a grander building, which, according to Matilda, had a café on the first floor and a bath house and massage parlor on the upper levels. This building had no sign, but Anna could see people dining through the window. Anna and Joe stepped off the trolley at one o’clock—she in her lovely hat and ugly matron’s uniform, he in a dapper suit.
“Why wouldn’t the café have a sign? Because they don’t want customers.” She answered herself. “Or they want particular customers, but not others, and rely on word of mouth. Perhaps it’s even a private dining club.”
Joe linked his arm through hers. “Let’s see if they’ll seat us. We can pretend we’re courting.”
“But I’m in uniform.”
“You look like a nurse.” He eyed her feather hat. “Sort of. And aren’t these apartments for career girls? I’m sure some of them are nurses.”
Anna unpinned her hat and held it in her hand. She smoothed her hair. “All right. Let’s try.”
They passed through oak doors into warm air laden with the enticing fragrance of dinner. The café had potted ferns, white tablecloths, and a quiet elegance. While Anna preferred loud elegance, as did most girls bred in the upper class, it was entirely presentable. The maître d’ greeted them. He did not match the décor. Though dressed in a maître d’s black tails, he was as broad as an ox and had a broken nose, like a prize fighter.
A waiter in a white jacket seated them, and when Joe looked at the menu, he said ominously, “No prices.”
In Anna’s experience, “no prices” meant the establishment catered to loaded people who didn’t care about prices. And yet, when she glanced around, the ladies dining didn’t look like they could afford “no prices.” They appeared to be career girls from the apartments next door—stenographers or shop girls—in homemade frocks or dresses off the rack. Then she remembered what Matilda had said. Matilda had eaten in the café, presumably as part of her room and board. But the restaurant was clearly open to the public as well. It was both the dining room of a boarding house and a public café.
“Very curious,” she said.
“If I tell them I’m a cop, we’ll eat for free,” said Joe.
“No. Not yet. I don’t want to blow our cover. We’ll just order something cheap, like coffee.”
“Too late in the day. It will keep me awake.”
“You’re not going to sleep anyway.” She winked badly and whispered, “You’re coming to my apartment, remember?”
“Anna, it’s all I can think about.”
The waiter reappeared.
“Two coffees,” said Anna cheerfully. “And I’d love a word with Mrs. Rosenberg, if she’s in. I’m looking for a room.”
The waiter took in Anna, top to bottom. “Mrs. Rosenberg isn’t here, but I do expect her soon. Can you wait?”
“Yes,” said Anna.
The waiter bowed off.
“Mrs. Rosenberg?” Joe asked.
“The evil proprietress.”
“I see,” he said.
As they sipped their coffee, Anna secretly touched ankles with Joe while scanning the vicinity. It was the best sort of double tasking. Though her eyes traveled the café, her mind was on the touch of Joe’s wool sock and the feel of his warm leg underneath. She wanted to tangle legs with him. Bare, hairy legs. She rebuked herself—not for wanting to make love to Joe—that was natural given his deliciousness. She imagined that every girl in the world, including nuns, would want to make love to Joe Singer, if they knew him. She rebuked herself because she wasn’t paying attention. She pulled her leg away, though it felt like moving an anchor. Joe shook his head and hooked her foot with his ankle.
Two men entered who looked to be of the “no prices” variety, with Homburg hats and cashmere coats. One wore an extravagant mustache. It sprouted three times thicker than any other mustache she knew. She wondered if other men were envious—his companion, for instance, whose stringy mustache barely warranted wax. She glanced at Joe, but he didn’t seem to envy the mustache. He was heavy-lidded, staring at her mouth.
The bushy man and stringy man gave their hats and coats to the host and slid into a booth, close enough for eavesdropping. They seemed jolly and began to talk about an architectural project down by the shore—some fancy new hotel. Shortly, four ladies swished over and joined them at the table. One looked forty and had lines sprouting from her lips as if she often pouted.
The waiter returned and refilled their cups. “As you can see, Mrs. Rosenberg is back.” He glanced toward the pouty woman.
“Yes, I see. Thank you. Two sugars, please.” She sat back and let the waiter drop the cubes into her cup.
Joe helped himself to two sugars and added cream. Anna smiled at him from beneath feathered lashes.
He smoldered back.
The second lady was about Anna’s age and wore her hair long, like a bohemian. Anna quickly learned her name, Claire, and that she was wild about ice cream and taught piano. The third and fourth girls were identical twins, clearly underage. They dressed with no imagination and mumbled when they spoke. They seemed rather shy but did admit they liked Parcheesi. The well-heeled men doted on the twins, whom Anna found exceedingly boring.
She leaned close to Joe and whispered, “Why do two important men want to chitchat with dull girls about Parcheesi?”
“It’s fishy.”
Anna frowned, worried for the girls. “Can we arrest Mrs. Rosenberg?”
“We can arrest anybody on suspicion, but the question is, do we have enough for an indictment. What did Matilda say exactly and is she willing to testify?”
“Like I told you. Mrs. Rosenberg found her at the train station and brought her back to the Jonquil Apartments pretending to be a good Samaritan. You know the routine, helping a poor girl, alone in the world. She took Matilda to the café and introduced her to . . . to . . .” Anna blushed.
“What?”
“A green man from Mars.”
Joe threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. He made a long, slow hissing sound, like a tire losing air.
Anna lifted her chin. “He bewitched her, and she woke up with him naked and in bed.”
“We got nothin’.”
“Don’t dismiss it. Possibly Matilda is dingbatty, but possibly the man wasn’t from Mars, but just an ordinary masher who drugged her, and the shame of this has made Matilda crazy.”
“Prove it, Anna.”
Anna knew Joe had a point. Matilda’s testimony would never stand up in court. There were no Martians evident at the Jonquil Apartments. She would have to dig deeper.
Mrs. Rosenberg stood and disappeared into the back of the café just as the waiter returned with the check. Joe examined the bill and blew out a breath. “It’s triple what I normally pay for coffee.”
“That’s what no prices generally means.” Anna stood. “Mrs. Rosenberg is getting away. Let’s go after her, at least get your money’s worth.”
Joe took her hand. “Not so fas
t, Anna. Don’t tip her off. Not until we have some proof.”
Anna and Joe returned to the station, Anna somewhat downcast, Joe slightly exasperated. Mr. Melvin manned his post at the front desk behind the shiny brass rail, having just received the new City Directory. The book lay on the counter like a walrus. Each consecutive volume grew fatter than the one before, like the city it represented. Los Angeles was a magnet, attracting thousands, good and bad from all over the world, including young girls seeking their fortune, running away from something unspeakable, from emptiness, or toward some illusive dream. What were the girls dreaming about? Their choices were so limited. Love and the fruits of love—children? Anna didn’t care for children. Certainly no one was dreaming of being a scullery maid or a shop girl. Maybe that is what Mrs. Rosenberg lured them with. The promise of love.
In the language of flowers, Jonquils stood for a return of affection.
Mr. Melvin cleared his throat and gave Anna a meaningful look. She paused, while Joe continued to his desk. Mr. Melvin spoke in his quiet, vanishing voice. “I have a note for you, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
“Oh?” Anna’s tummy rose and fell like a swing. Was it from the whiskey man, who was not Joe Singer?
Mr. Melvin slipped her a square, once-white envelope, wilted and stained brown with liquid. “I’m sorry, Assistant Matron Blanc. Officer Snow spilled coffee on it.” He looked down.
Anna pursed her lips. Anything Officer Snow fouled was foul indeed. She pinched the note between two fingers, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and secreted the thing in her skirt pocket. It wouldn’t do to have Joe Singer see it. “Thank you, Mr. Melvin. I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Did the . . . um the ladies’ club president deliver it herself? Did she leave her name?”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 5
