The Lady Burns Bright

by Warren Court

  “Pardon me, Miss, but is the man of the house at home?” Melanie said, and winked at Armour. She held the phone away from her so Armour could hear. “We have a free prize to deliver. Is this one-five-six Balmoral Drive?” That was the street the diner was on.

  “No, its seventy-nine Laird,” the tinny voice said, “but there ain’t no man at this house. Who’s calling?”

  “I’m from the newspaper service. We want to speak to the man of the house about getting a subscription. It’s delivered daily—"

  “There ain’t no man. I already told you.

  “Weekly or just weekends. We offer the Toronto Star—"

  “Listen, you bimbette. There ain’t no man here. What are ya, dense?”

  “Who’s that?” a man’s voice said in the back ground.

  “Is that the man of the house? Could I speak to him?” Melanie said.

  The line went dead.

  “Well?” Armour asked.

  “There was definitely a man there. I heard someone in the background.”

  “That was clever. Okay, how do we find this seventy-nine Laird? I have no map for Kingston.”

  Melanie approached their waitress. “You don’t where Laird Street is, do you?”

  “Up four blocks. You’ll cross it.”

  “This investigating stuff is easy,” Melanie said as they departed the restaurant.

  Armour looked around cautiously as he cranked up the Ford. He got in beside Melanie, put the car into gear, and pulled out onto the road.

  “There it is – number seventy-nine Laird,” Armour said a short time later. “I’ll go past it.”

  It was a small house set up from the street on a tuft of hill. A white picket fence ran along the length of the sidewalk and up along the two sides. There was a Dodge in the driveway that looked like it had seen better days. The front clip was off, leaving the engine bay and frame exposed. A huge, fresh oil stain spread out beneath it.

  “That must be Foley’s Dodge. Not going anywhere fast in that,” Armour said as they approached the house.

  The house was drab; the paint was peeling off the clapboard siding, and the porch swing was covered in paint chips and dust. Spider webs swayed in the morning breeze.

  “She wasn’t fooling. There is no man at this house,” Melanie said.

  “If he’s here, he might be lying low,” Armour said.

  “What for?”

  “I have no idea, but probably the same reason Mr. Roscoe wants him found.”

  Armour knocked politely.

  “Oh, come on,” Melanie said. Reaching past him, she rapped the metal screen door hard, sending shockwaves through it.

  “Geez, Louise,” Armour said.

  She gently pushed him to the side. “Let me handle this,” she said.

  The inner door was flung open by a girl in a soiled slip with a dishevelled hairdo. It might have been the girl in the snap that Armour had taken out of Foley’s mailbox. He couldn’t be sure.

  “You got some nerve banging on my door this early.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but is the man of the house at home?” said Melanie brightly.

  “Jesus Murphy, there ain’t no man. Wait a minute – I know that voice… You called—"

  “Yes, I did. I’m from the ACME Publishing Company. We want to know if you’d like to subscribe to the Toronto Star, the Ottawa Citizen, the Bluffs Monitor…”

  “Like I said on the phone, no. But where’s this gift?”

  “I don’t believe you did, ma’am, and your husband did send in our flyer requesting more information. That’s why I am here.”

  “I don’t have a husband,” the woman said shrewdly. “But I’ll take the gift.”

  Armour heard something around the back of the house and moved down the porch past the swing. So far, the woman hadn’t even taken notice of him. Melanie kept on with her patter, keeping her talking. Armour went to the edge of the house and peered around it, farther up the driveway. Behind the out-of-service Dodge was a two-car garage. Armour heard the sound of a motor revving.

  “Well, if you don’t even want the papers, why contact us?” he heard Melanie say. She was getting irritated herself now.

  “Listen, you. I did not send anything in…”

  Armour turned back to the garage. It was definitely a motor running, but the garage doors were down. Maybe someone was trying to off themselves in there with the exhaust fumes. He swung over the porch railing and was heading up the driveway when the wooden garage doors exploded outward and a car came rushing out. The car, a Packard, swerved to the left of the derelict Dodge and caught the fence running alongside the neighbour’s property, sending white picket spears in all directions. The car corrected itself, and Armour caught a glimpse of the driver. It was their man, Foley. He had a wild look on his face as he hunkered down over the steering wheel.

  He felt a hand grip his shoulder and yank him to the side. The Packard clipped the Dodge’s side and spun to the right, passing so close to Armour he could feel the door handle swipe his arm as he was flung onto the driveway. The car careened across the lawn and down the short hill, where it slammed into a telephone pole.

  “That’s him!” Armour shouted. Only then did he hear the woman on the porch screaming. He looked up and saw Melanie staring down at him; she was the one who had pulled him out of the way.

  “That’s him,” Armour said again as Melanie helped him up. They ran down the hill. The man was half out of the driver’s side window and he was thrashing around. Blood spilled from a nasty gash to his head.

  “He’s hurt bad,” Armour said.

  “Let’s get him out of there,” Melanie said, lunging toward the car.

  “No,” cried Armour, grabbing her arm. “You’re not supposed to move a patient who’s suffered head trauma.”

  Melanie wrenched away from him. “You’re crazy! That car could explode.” There was water spouting from the engine but no steam; it hadn’t gotten hot enough yet. Armour doubted the car would simply catch fire.

  The two of them opened the car door, and Foley fell partway out, moaning.

  The woman Melanie had been talking to came rushing out of her house, still screaming. She ran to Foley. “Oh, honey. Are you all right? Are you all right?” She turned to Armour and Melanie. “Look what you did,” she hissed at them.

  “Did? We didn’t do anything?” Melanie said. “He tried to kill my friend.”

  They moved back and let the woman get Foley out of the car. He had a deep gash on his head from going through the windscreen, but other than that he seemed all right. The gash accounted for all the blood; the head always bleeds the worst, Armour knew. There were bystanders across the street now.

  A shot rang out and one of the Packard’s windows blew inwards.

  “Hit the dirt,” Armour said, and he pulled Melanie down.

  There were more shots. Foley took two in the chest and went down. The woman, momentarily paralyzed by the sound of the shots, recovered, screamed and ran off.

  Armour cautiously raised his head. There was a man up the street in a dark suit and leather gloves. He was holding a Thompson submachine gun.

  Foley moaned again and put one hand to his chest. Dark blood ran between his fingers. With his other hand, he had the wherewithal to draw a gun. He pointed it weakly at the man with the Tommy gun, who opened fire in earnest now. Bullets slammed into Foley and the Packard.

  “Come on!” Armour pulled Melanie back up the driveway to take shelter behind the derelict Dodge. He pulled out his own gun and pointed it at the machine gunner, but the man stopped firing and instead hopped into a black sedan that was idling beside him. There was a screech of tires and the smell of smoke and burning rubber as the car took off down the street in the direction of the fleeing woman.

  Armour left Melanie crouching behind the Dodge and ran towards Foley, but stopped halfway. The shocked but lifeless look on the man’s face told him everything he needed to know: he was quite dead.

  He turned and
hurried back to Melanie, who was still crouched down behind the Dodge. Her face was pale with fear.

  “Come on, Melanie. We have to go.”

  “It was so loud,” she said unsteadily.

  “Yes, it was. Come on now. They might come back.” Melanie shook herself and Armour pulled her to her feet.

  As they went past the Packard, Armour held Melanie’s head to his chest to shield her from the grisly sight of Foley’s tattered body.

  Chapter 22

  Neither of them uttered a sound until they’d put ten miles behind them on their way back to Toronto.

  “How are you?” Armour asked.

  “How am I? Just saw someone get murdered in front of my own eyes.”

  “I know. It was bad.”

  “Bad? Pull over.”

  Armour pulled over quickly next to a vacant field. Melanie lurched out of the car and went to the side of the road, where she vomited up her breakfast. A passing car slowed.

  “Hey, buddy. She all right?” the driver yelled to them.

  “Yes.”

  “Hit the sauce a little too hard last night, huh?” He winked knowingly.

  Armour kept his anger at bay and nodded.

  “Okay, let’s keep moving.” He patted Melanie’s back and helped her back in the car.

  “That gun made my teeth chatter,” Melanie said, wiping her mouth. Some of her usual gaiety was returning.

  “I know what you mean. I never knew they were so loud.”

  “Scare you to death just as easy as fill you full of bullets.”

  “I think that’s the intention.”

  “We should go back, speak to the police,” Melanie said.

  “No chance. They’ll stuff us into an interrogation room for hours. Meanwhile, the people who shot up Foley will be miles away. It’s a useless gesture.”

  “We’re just going to run back to Toronto like nothing happened?”

  “Correct. That’s where the people who did this are going.”

  “How do you know who shot him?” Melanie asked.

  “That guy that hangs around the theatre, Tom.”

  “What of him?”

  “He works for Roscoe. That’s the guy who hired me.”

  “And?”

  “Roscoe’s boss is Giuseppe Pappanillo, the crime lord.”

  “Oh no,” Melanie said.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “He came down to see the show. Tom brought him backstage. They have almost all the theatres under their control; that’s common knowledge. I heard it’s bad luck to say that name out loud. No good can come from it.”

  “Pappanillo,” Armour said softly, under his breath. “That’s who was at the hotel last night,” he said, at normal volume. “They followed us. I was set up, way back when that Roscoe came into my office. We led him and his goons right to Foley. Cops might think I’m an accessory. Now do you see why we can’t go to the cops?”

  Melanie nodded.

  “They might think that about you too,” Armour added, but it was unnecessary, Melanie was already shaking like a leaf.

  Chapter 23

  Armour floored it the entire way back to Toronto. They roared into what service stations they needed and he manned the pumps himself, pushing the coverall-clad assistants aside. There was no question about stopping for lunch. A quick washroom break was all they allowed themselves.

  It was getting dark by the time they got back to the city. They pulled up in front of a nice house with a finely manicured lawn and daisies out in front. Melanie’s boarding house.

  “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight,” Melanie said, and looked at him pleadingly. Armour nodded okay.

  “Mrs. Simmons is very nice, but she doesn’t allow fellas or whiskey in her house. She catches you once, you’re out.”

  “She doesn’t mind showgirls?”

  “She doesn’t know what we do. Half the cast of the Adorables are staying here. She thinks we’re missionaries getting ready to go to Africa.”

  Armour smirked. “How are you going to sneak me in?”

  “Come on.”

  There was a set of wooden fire escape stairs going up the back of the house. They climbed to the top. There was a ruler stuck under one of the windows. Melanie used it to force the heavy window up. There was no screen. She pushed through the curtains and Armour followed.

  “The girls will be going on just about now. I wish I could see Daisy play my role. She’s an up-and-comer. I should be worried about her.”

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Geez, thanks.” She gave him a hug.

  Melanie’s room was larger than the one at the motor hotel. It was pleasantly decorated, but Armour knew it was to Mrs. Simmons taste, not Melanie’s. There were lace doilies on the dressing table and frilly lace curtains. Melanie was certainly an attractive and sensuous woman, Armour had no doubt about that, but from what little he knew of her there was a tomboy in her past and some of that had carried forward with pleasing results. She had spunk.

  There were three silver-framed photos on the dressing table. All of them showed Melanie with other girls, dressed up in their flapper outfits or in period costumes. Armour studied them.

  Melanie said, “That’s me – my first-ever follies. I was a backup, but a lead girl sprained her ankle and I got a shot. Boy, that was something.” She moved close to him as they studied the picture together.

  “What about this one?”

  “That was the show that went through Kingston. Didn’t last long. The director hit the booze hard and things just fell apart. But they were good people. Myrtle there is in the Adorables.” She put her hand on his back.

  “I need to go.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  There was only the one bed; the only other piece of furniture was a chair.

  “Melanie…” Armour said. He turned to her. She didn’t back away. Before he knew it, she had her arms wrapped around his neck and was pulling him to her.

  “No, you don’t,” Melanie whispered again.

  Chapter 24

  Much like the curtains in his room at the YMCA, the frilly lace curtains did nothing to stop the sun pouring in. And just like at the Y, it forced Armour to get up early despite the fatigue of the previous day.

  He dressed silently while Melanie slept, then pulled the thin blanket over her exposed shoulder. There were sounds coming from the ground floor and he heard a door open and close down the hall. He did not want her to get in trouble.

  But he didn’t want to just leave her a note. As he sat on the bed the mattress squeaked, and Melanie stirred. That mattress had made a hell of a racket the night before, creaking and moaning louder than the two of them. He was worried about it waking the other girls. They had heard the dance troupe come home from the show, whispering and giggling. Melanie and Armour had cooled it when the girls were getting settled in their rooms for the night, and then the two of them had resumed their lovemaking. “They need a show of their own,” Melanie had whispered in his ear.

  She rolled over now and looked at him. “Morning,” she said.

  “Melanie, I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, then her eyes popped open and she saw that her room was full of sunlight. “Yes, you do!” she said.

  “I didn’t want to just leave a note. I’ll come see you tonight.”

  She yawned and propped herself up on one elbow, exposing herself. He pulled the blanket up around her neck.

  “My hero,” she said, and then in a quick jerk pulled the blanket completely off her and giggled.

  “Too bad you can’t stay for a quickie,” she said.

  He kissed her. “Ain’t that the truth.”

  He crept downstairs and thankfully didn’t run into any of the other girls or Mrs. Simmons.

  Back at the Y, the attendant waved him over to the front desk. “Mr. Black, is it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We have a policy here. You rent a room, you u
se that room.”

  Armour looked at him in surprise.

  “If you don’t use it, you lose it. We have plenty of men here in this city who need a room. Understood?”

  “Yes. I got it,” Armour said.

  “Thank you. That is your first and last warning. It was made clear to you when you signed the agreement.”

  “I know. I apologize.”

  Armour shaved and showered in the common bathing area. There were several men in there; all of them looked haggard and down on their luck. Armour, in contrast, was practically singing as he got cleaned up. He kept thinking of his night with Melanie. Then he remembered Kingston and his mood darkened.

  He dressed and crossed the street to Stollery’s just as they were opening. He paid the outstanding bill on his new suit and, instead of putting it back in his room at the Y, he took it down to the office with him. For some reason he thought he might not make it to that room again tonight, meaning he’d likely be tossed out. This way, all he would lose would be a couple of bucks’ worth of toiletries.

  The front door to his office was unlocked, but there was no sign of Olive. She must have gone out for coffee and the morning papers, he figured. He heard a muffled scream come from his office.

  Armour barged in and was thrown up against the wall face first. The cold barrel of a revolver was pushed up against his cheek. Tom pulled the hammer back.

  Chapter 25

  “Hiya, friend,” Tom said. “Glad you could join us.” He spun Armour around and put the barrel of his gun under his chin. James Roscoe was leaning against the windowsill. He had Olive by the arm. She was frightened to death and looked at Armour pleadingly.

  Sitting in his chair behind his desk was an older man, dressed to the nines in a pinstriped suit with a boutonniere on his lapel and a stick pin in his tie. His silver hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. His wrinkled face cracked into a broad grin.

  “Mr. Black. Good morning.”