by Maia Chance
“Saw me with him? Well, of course you did. We were all with him last weekend. What are you doing? Poking your nose into the murder investigation? And would you mind getting away from my desk? I am attempting to conduct business here. I don’t want your bored little housewife’s game to disorder my operations.”
I took my place beside Berta. Eloise, meanwhile, marched around and resumed her seat on the pink throne.
“Now, then.” Eloise folded her hands on top of the blotter. “Tell me again what it is you wish to confront me about?”
Why did I get the feeling she was trying to hide that scrap of paper that said 17 Wharfside?
“Well, for starters, I saw you with Horace,” I said. “In his study. Somewhat, um, in the altogether.”
Eloise’s face had been a perfectly powdered and lipsticked mask of puzzlement. Now, understanding (and what looked a lot like mirth) washed over it. “Oh! Dear me. You saw that, did you?”
“Did you tell the police about your liaison?” I asked.
“I assure you, Mrs. Woodby, I had no liaison with Horace Arbuckle. What did you think? That I shot him in some lover’s crime of passion? Oh my. Horace didn’t really inspire those sorts of sentiments. Unless you—?”
“Me?” I said. “And Horace? No!”
“One never knows. Horace and I merely … how shall I put this? I suppose I must tell you, or you’ll go waltzing off to the police with your grievous misunderstanding, and then we’ll be in that much more of a muddle. As you know, Horace was a stout man. Far more stout than his wife wished. He approached me with a matter of the utmost delicacy. He asked for my help.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “No matter what you call it, it’s still—”
“No, no. You see, I was fitting Horace for a girdle.”
My mouth fell open.
“A prototype of my own design,” Eloise said. “I have developed a new sort of girdle—patent pending, mind you—that is made of one hundred percent surgical rubber.” She opened a desk drawer and took out the quivery white mass I’d noticed before. She held it up.
So that’s what that was: a rubber girdle, a big flexible tube with little holes punched all over.
“The holes allow the skin to breathe,” Eloise said. “Unlike traditional corsets and even the newer girdles with elastic panels, this girdle allows for a natural range of motion, all while keeping the problematic figure well contained.” She looked at my middle again.
I inched my handbag over to cover it up.
“Because of the natural motion made possible,” Eloise said, “my rubberized girdles are appropriate for gentlemen’s use. No telltale rigid posture or inhibited movements, you see.”
“Are you telling me that Olive Arbuckle drove Horace to use a man-girdle?” I asked.
“Well, yes. Although the gents’ item is called a Chappie, not a girdle. Patent pending, of course.” Eloise stood and picked up a pink measuring tape that lay coiled on her desk. As she did so, she placed the girdle on the scrap of paper she’d been hiding with her hands.
What could be so top secret about that address?
“Allow me to fit you for a complimentary girdle,” Eloise said to me. “And then we’ll forget this entire misunderstanding, all right?” She came at me with the measuring tape.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Eloise Wright ushered us out of her office. I had a parcel of two different rubber girdles to try. Berta had her dignity.
After Eloise shut the door behind us, I accidentally dropped my parcel, and I stooped to pick it up.
I heard Eloise’s muffled voice from behind the door.
“Who is she talking to?” I whispered to Berta.
“Telephone,” Berta mouthed.
We looked up and down the hallway. Empty. I laid my ear against the door.
“… so we have a bit of a problem,” Eloise said. “A meddler. Yes. Mmm. Indeed. Something must be done.” The earpiece rattled as she hung up.
“Meddler?” I said to Berta once we were outside. I crammed a square of the hazelnut chocolate Ralph had given me into my mouth. I was jittery.
“It does not seem to be an unfair assessment,” Berta said. “You were snooping through her desk.”
“Only because you told me to!”
Berta smoothed the collar of her raincoat. “The cops term such a ploy, I believe, ‘Mutt and Jeff.’”
“But why do I have to be the bad cop?” We set off down the bustling sidewalk, toward the subway station. Taxis were no longer in the budget.
Berta said, “I am now convinced that—as I believe I said all along—Sadie Street has the film reel. Mrs. Wright appeared to be genuine in her confusion when we mentioned it to her.”
“Which means Sadie Street is the murderer.”
“Probably. It is possible that she learned to shoot a gun for a motion picture role, now that I think of it.”
“That’s a notion.” I told Berta about the scrap of paper with the address.
“Seventeen Wharfside? Well, Mrs. Wright is a businesswoman. Doubtless she ships girdles to other places.”
“But why act so secretive about it?” I broke off another square of chocolate. “She’s up to something. I feel it in my bones. And that Lem Fitzpatrick gives me the heebie-jeebies, too. What a sneaky bunch the Arbuckles invited last weekend.”
“I do agree. But neither Eloise nor Lem seem to have anything to do with the missing film reel.”
Something still niggled in the back of my mind, but I said, “You’re right. Let’s focus all of our efforts on locating Sadie Street.”
“By the by, shall we attend Mr. Arbuckle’s funeral? There is a slight chance that Sadie Street will be there.”
“You know, I haven’t seen a word about a funeral in the papers.” I burrowed the chocolate bar in my handbag. “I must ring up Olive and ask her about that.”
17
When we returned to the love nest, I got on the telephone and had the operator put me through to Dune House.
Olive’s voice held a note of hysteria. “Thank heavens you telephoned, Lola. I simply don’t know where to turn.”
“Why, what is it, Olive? Are you well? And the children?”
“The boys are well. They’ll be going up to stay in Bar Harbor with my sister early tomorrow—and Nanny Potter will go, too. As a matter of fact, it was Nanny Potter’s suggestion. She has been quite a trembling mess of nerves ever since Horace, well, you know. Having the boys gone will suit me just fine, because with all the film people arriving tonight and tomorrow, they’d be underfoot something awful.”
“Film people?”
“Oh yes! Haven’t you heard? Pantheon Pictures will be filming portions of their Jane Eyre picture right here at Dune House. George—Mr. Zucker, you know—said Dune House looks exactly like whatever that house is in the novel—oh yes. Thornfield Hall. Horace, of course, was absolutely dead set against the idea. But now, well…”
Right. With Horace out of the way, Olive could indulge in her fascination with motion picture people to her heart’s content. What if that film reel had nothing to do with Horace’s death, after all? What if this was simply another dreary instance of one spouse bopping off the other? Did Olive have it in her? I hated to think it, but, yes, I fancied she did—if only because she hadn’t eaten a decent meal since 1912.
“Will Bruno Luciano be there to film?” I asked. “And Sadie Street?”
“Why, of course. They are the stars of the picture. They’re still feuding, George told me.”
“You don’t happen to know where Sadie Street lives here in the city, do you?”
“Why would you wish to know that, Lola?”
“Um. My mother wishes to send her an invitation. To a tea.”
“Oh, I see. No, I don’t know where she lives, and frankly, I don’t care. Horrid little thing. I do hope she won’t attend the funeral. Causes such a scene whenever she lays eyes on Bruno.”
“I was meaning to ask you about Horace’s funeral,�
� I said. “I didn’t see an announcement in the paper.”
There was a pause. When Olive spoke again, it was in a frantic-sounding whisper. “That’s just it. The funeral will be private. I don’t trust a soul—not a soul. Well, I trust you, Lola. But Horace was murdered. It’s awfully unnerving, don’t you see?”
“Yes, of course. Do you feel unsafe?”
“It’s, well … I suspect someone was blackmailing Horace.”
“What? How do you know?”
“I went through all his bank books and papers and things, you see. There were the accounts I knew about—I always kept a close eye on everything, because Horace could be forgetful. Well, I found a checkbook corresponding to an account I didn’t know about, at Sterling National—which isn’t the same bank that our other accounts are in, First Federal. I went into the city yesterday, to Sterling National, and I closed the account and demanded a complete list of transactions. The account was only about nine months old—he opened it in August—and he had written several checks over the course of this time to the amount of nearly one hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s a fortune! Checks to whom?”
“There was no record of that.”
“But how do you know it was blackmail?”
“Lola, think about it. Horace is dead. Dead! It was blackmail, I tell you, and his blackmailer murdered him.”
“Why would a blackmailer murder him? Wouldn’t that be a case of—what do they call it?—biting the hand that feeds you?”
“Oh, Lola, you and your dogs! Perhaps the blackmail scheme got, I don’t know, jiggered up somehow. All I know is, Horace is dead, and he was paying out a pile to some unknown.”
After I promised to attend Horace’s funeral in Hare’s Hollow the next day and said good-bye to Olive, I found Berta in the kitchen. She was stirring a pot on the stove. I told her all that Olive had said.
“Perhaps he was being blackmailed on account of the film reel,” she said.
“But it doesn’t add up. He started writing checks in August, but Ruby said that Horace didn’t have the reel in his possession until a few weeks ago.”
We were just sitting down to lunch when there was a knock on the apartment door.
I fully expected it to be the landlord, or a repo man, or maybe an irate chorus girl with a pea in the pod. But it was Ralph.
Cedric pounced on Ralph like they were long-lost pals.
“Hi there, fella,” Ralph said, crouching down to pet him.
My skin got toasty with the memory of his big hands on me, at Blue Heaven last night. I made my expression cool.
Ralph stood. “Hey, Mrs. Woodby. What’s with the librarian face? Thought we had a real nice time dancing last night.”
“Can I help you, Mr. Oliver?”
“Was it something I said?”
“I don’t wish for you to get the idea that I’m that sort of girl. That you can show up on my doorstep simply because we danced together a bit.” Dance didn’t entirely capture what we’d done at the club. Something about jazz made everything extra spicy.
“Okay, I get it,” Ralph said. “Bank’s closed. I’ll admit, before I met you, I would’ve guessed Woodby’s wife was, well, more like Woodby himself. Not, you know—” He scratched his eyebrow. “—too delicate. But then I met you. And you’re a real lady, Mrs. Woodby.”
There I went, getting all melty again.
“I only came here because I found out something I think you might find interesting,” he said.
“Oh, all right. Come in.” I opened the door. “But shake a leg. The last thing I need is for the landlord to decide I’m the kind of lady who entertains gentleman callers.”
After I latched the door, I surreptitiously kicked the parcel containing my new rubber girdles into the corner of the foyer. “I’d like to know exactly what’s going on here,” I said to Ralph in low tones. “Are you spying on me for Horace Arbuckle’s murderer?”
Ralph frowned, and I saw the smart in his eyes. “No.”
I believed him. “What about for the Bureau of Investigation or something?”
“I told you, Mrs. Woodby. I’m a private investigator. I work alone. And I’m not going to do anything that’ll hurt you in any way. Got it?”
I swallowed. I didn’t know what to say, so I led Ralph back into the kitchen.
“Smells delicious, Mrs. Lundgren,” Ralph said. “Tomato soup? My favorite aunt used to make tomato soup.”
Berta glowed, and pulled out a chair for him.
He sat. And stole my napkin and spoon. “I dug up something about Lem Fitzpatrick,” he said.
Cedric leapt onto Ralph’s lap. Little turncoat.
I fetched another napkin and spoon for myself. “Oh?”
“Seems that one of the pies Fitzpatrick had his finger in was a chain of motion picture theaters here in New York City.”
“He owned theaters?”
“Yeah.”
“But he doesn’t anymore?”
“Nope. This past December, he sold the lot of them to Pantheon Pictures.”
“Pantheon is Mr. Zucker’s studio,” Berta said. She placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of Ralph. “And the one that Bruno Luciano and Sadie Street work for.”
“Right,” Ralph said.
I’d heard about the hot competition between film studios. When they bought up theaters, they were able to control the distribution of their pictures. It was Big Business.
I sat down, and Berta set a bowl of soup before me, too.
“You know,” I said after a couple spoonfuls, “Sadie Street gave up singing at Blue Heaven and started up with the motion pictures in January. One month after Fitzpatrick sold his theaters to Pantheon.”
“Wonder if there’s a connection,” Ralph said.
Berta seated herself. She gave me a stern look.
“What?” I asked.
“We agreed to focus our efforts,” she whispered.
“Oh. Right.” I looked at Ralph. “We’re trying to, um—”
“Focus your efforts.” He slurped soup. “I get it.”
“How nice to have a man about to feed,” Berta said.
I ate as much as a man, and with full as much appreciation. “Since you’re so good at digging things up,” I said to Ralph, “could you find something out for me?”
“Maybe.”
“I want to know which film company uses a fleur-de-lis as its trademark.”
“Not Pantheon Pictures, I can tell you that much. Theirs is a kind of thunderbolt. I’ll look into it. I know a junk dealer. My buddy Prince. He’s an encyclopedia for that kind of thing.” Ralph gave me a penetrating look. “Hope this reel you’re looking for doesn’t have anything to do with Arbuckle. Because that’d be a risky road to go down.”
“Can’t think what you mean.” I stared down into my soup.
“Another question, Mrs. Woodby: I don’t suppose you’d join me for a matinee showing of Thor the Thunder God after lunch?”
Was he asking me for a … date? “No,” I said. I ignored the pitter-patter of my heart.
“That’s all the thanks I get for my help?”
“Mrs. Woodby,” Berta whispered, “be nice to the young man.”
“I am nice,” I said out of the corner of my mouth.
“A bit spoiled,” Berta said. She took a prim sip of soup.
“Spoiled?” I turned to Ralph. “Spoiled!”
He shrugged. “Maybe a little.”
“I’ve been sleeping on a sofa!”
“She takes ages in the bathtub,” Berta said to Ralph.
“We’ve got work to do,” I said. “I can’t bally well go gallivanting off to picture shows when we haven’t managed to track down Sadie Street.”
“Have you looked up Sadie Minsky in the telephone directory?” Ralph asked.
“Um. No.” Geewillikins. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I dashed to the telephone table in the hallway and fetched the New York City directory. I plunked it on the kitchen table and f
lipped to the MINs.
No soap. I tossed the directory aside and went back to my soup.
“Perhaps you are—what do they say?—under too much nervous strain?” Berta said to me. “Perhaps an afternoon off would be beneficial.”
I had the sneaking suspicion Berta wanted to curl up with London Lowdown, starring Thad Parker.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go to the pictures. Satisfied?”
I finished my soup, hurried to the foyer, and grabbed my Wright’s parcel. Then I sneaked into the bathroom and wrestled myself into one of the new rubber girdles. It really was much more comfortable than the type I usually wore. I felt like I could practice Chinese acrobatics in it. Or at the very least, take a nap.
18
Ralph and I rode the subway to the Zenith Movie Palace on the corner of Forty-seventh and Broadway. Guess he didn’t have enough scratch for taxicabs, either.
He purchased our tickets at the window, and we went inside.
I hadn’t been to the Zenith in years. It was a gorgeous sweep of a theater, with a golden arch over the screen, a domed ceiling painted with angels and clouds, plushy seats, and red velvet curtains. The theater was packed. Hundreds of voices hummed; hundreds of hats bobbled.
The lights went down and the organ yowled up. We ducked into a couple of empty seats near the back.
Good. No need for chitchat. That was a relief, because being out and about with Ralph was making me nervous. It felt nice being together, our shoulders now and then grazing. And that was the problem—it felt too nice. In fact, I couldn’t recall having ever found a fellow half so interesting in my entire life.
But I was a new widow. This simply wouldn’t do.
Thor the Thunder God turned out to be dull. The blond actor in the title role would’ve been better cast in a tooth powder advertisement, and the Nordic forests in the background looked suspiciously like Southern California. I found my gaze drifting to Ralph’s hand on his knee, or to his rugged profile, washed with silver light from the movie screen.
“Bored?” he whispered, leaning toward me. I caught a glimpse of a gun in a holster, strapped beneath his jacket. I also saw a notebook tucked in his jacket’s inner pocket.
“What’s this?” I reached over and plucked out the notebook.
