She glanced up at Gina and scowled. “You can’t help me,” she said, her words slurring together. She swayed a little on the seat and took another gulp before slamming her glass back down on the counter.
“Miss,” Gina said, gripping her elbow, “I think you might like to visit the powder room.”
Greta shrugged off Gina’s hand before taking a huge slurp of her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, Gina saw that Gooch and Little Johnny busy rounding up two rowdy College Joes. Looked like she’d have to handle this herself. “Don’t wanna,” she slurred.
Unexpectedly, Ned appeared at Gina’s side. “What’s going on here?”
“She’s zozzled.”
“You don’t say.” He put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Come on, doll, let’s flip this joint. Get you some fresh air.”
Reaching up, Greta patted the piano player’s cheek, giving him an amused smile. “Think I’ll go anywhere with you? Like your dumb little Dorrie did? How’d she get killed anyway?” She smiled darkly at Gina. “Did anyone ever catch Dorrie’s murderer?”
Gina’s thoughts flashed to the accusation that Dorrie’s mother had hurled at the Signora up in the tea room. “No,” she said, glancing at Ned. “No, I don’t think so.”
Ned scowled. “I’ve had enough of this. Hope Gooch hustles her out good and hard.” He walked away.
“They never catch the murderers, have you noticed that?” Miss Van der Veer said, her words in a long, slurred drawl. “Everyone knows, and no one says a thing.”
“What do they know? What don’t they say?” Gina asked, startled by the woman’s words.
Miss Van der Veer squinted up at her. “Say, do I know you?” she asked.
“I saw you here the other night. When you were with—”
“Genevieve Beering. My darling Genevieve. She was murdered. In her prime! Oh God!” The woman began to cry again, loud ugly hiccupping sounds.
“What? Murdered? I thought—”
“Let’s get her out of here,” Roark said, coming up behind Gina. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “This is not a conversation we want to have in the open.” To Miss Van der Veer he said, more politely than Gina had ever heard him, “Please allow us to escort you somewhere we can talk more privately.”
The woman looked defiant but then slumped over in apparent resignation. “All right,” she agreed, allowing Gina to put her arm around her waist, resting her head heavily on Gina’s shoulder. Gina grabbed a towel from Billy as she passed. Roark limped behind, carrying the woman’s drink, as they propelled her into the dark passageway that led outward.
“You’re pretty,” she said, looking up at Gina. “Don’t you think she’s pretty?” she asked Roark.
Roark coughed. “Sure.”
The woman ran her fingers up Gina’s bare arm. “Are you interested in a friend, honey?” Then her eyes welled up. “Genevieve was my friend. My darling Genevieve. You said your name is Gina, right? Genny, Gina, one and the same.” Then tears began to slip down her face in earnest and she slumped to the ground, suddenly exhausted. “I miss her! My dear sweet beautiful Genny. No one will ever replace her!” She reached her hand out to retrieve her cocktail from Roark. When he handed it to her, she took another deep sip.
Here was her chance. “Miss Van der Veer,” Gina said, sitting down beside the distraught woman, “I am so sorry. Miss Beering must have been such a dear friend.” Handing the soft towel to the woman, she helped her dab her eyes, waiting for her weeping to subside. “Tell us, though, why do you say she was murdered? I assumed her death was an accident. The papers never said.”
“She just accidentally bludgeoned the back of her own head?!” Miss Van der Veer replied, angrily scrubbing at her eyes, worsening the streaks of black. “I’ll never forget how I found her, lying in the middle of the floor in her suite at the Drake Hotel, in a pool of her own blood.”
Gina shuddered, remembering how she had found Marty in the alley. Bracing herself, she continued. “Could she have slipped and fallen? Landed too hard on the floor?”
Miss Van der Veer shook her head. “Not likely that she slipped. The floor was carpeted.”
Gina kept trying to imagine the scene. “Perhaps she fainted and hit her head on a piece of furniture?”
“That’s probably what her killer hoped we’d believe,” Miss Van der Veer seethed. “I’m telling you, she was murdered. I’m sure of it. She was on her stomach when I found her.”
“Did you alert the police to your suspicions?” Roark asked. “Did they look into them?”
Miss Van der Veer’s deep sniff of contempt made it clear what she thought of that idea.
“Well, the coroner would know,” he said. “I can speak to him.”
Miss Van der Veer clutched his arm. “Pray, be discreet. The idea that Genevieve would be associated with something so sordid—Oh! I can’t believe it!” She buried her head in the towel, half sobbing, half snorting.
Gina and Roark exchanged a glance. “Who do you think killed Miss Beering?” Gina asked.
The woman peered up out through the fingers spread across her face. “I shouldn’t say.”
“You were saying plenty out at the bar,” Roark said. “You weren’t so concerned with being discreet out there when you were tossing back gin rickeys.”
Unexpectedly, the woman began weeping even more forcefully into her hands, and Gina shot Roark an annoyed glance. “Allow me, Miss Van der Veer,” she said, gently taking back the towel. She wiped the tears and snot from the woman’s face as she would from a child’s. Then she dipped the edge of the towel in the glass of gin and did her best to remove the black mascara streaks. “There, that’s much better. Miss Van der Veer … earlier, you mentioned something about Dorrie … Did you know what happened to her?”
“Oh, Dorrie,” Miss Van der Veer said dismissively. “She was just a messenger for Big Mike. Someone didn’t like her message. Obviously.”
“What do you know about it?”
Her eyes half closed, she grimaced. “She threatened Genevieve once, warning her about something. The floozy came to the hotel one morning in December, unannounced. I was in the other room, and I distinctly heard her say, ‘I’m gonna tell, and you’ll be ruined.’”
“Yeah?” Gina replied, remembering what Zosia had said. “What was she referring to? Tell what?”
“I dunno. About her gambling, I think. Genevieve liked the cards. She had to start paying back the Castallazzos—” The woman’s eyes rolled back in her head as the gin overtook her. She hiccupped. “But I think she’d already been paying Big Mike back. You know, the other way. I think Dorrie was threatening to tell the Signora.”
Gina gave her a little shake. “Well, what about Miss Beering? What did she say? Was she angry at Dorrie?”
The woman lolled against Gina, a bit of spittle dripping out of her mouth.
“Wake up! Tell me!” Gina cried, shaking the woman harder.
“I think I’m piffled,” Miss Van der Veer mumbled. Roark muffled a snort.
“I think you are,” Gina said, giving Roark a warning look. “If you can just tell me—”
Roark suddenly put his hands over Gina’s mouth, lightly, just touching her lips. “Shhh,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”
“What’s going on here?” the Signora asked, staring down at the three of them. Gooch and Little Johnny appeared behind her like silent statues.
Gina stood up. “Miss Van der Veer, Signora,” she said, gesturing to the unconscious woman. “She was in a bad state. Billy Bottles asked me to move her from the bar, thinking you wouldn’t like her bothering the other guests. Mr. Roark was kind enough to help me, since Gooch and Little Johnny were otherwise occupied with those college buffoons.”
As if on cue, Miss Van der Veer suddenly rolled over and retched. Gina grabbed her head just inches before she would have planted her face in her own vomit.
The Signora’s regal gaze was dark and penetrating. “Take her out the back way,” she comm
anded Gooch and Little Johnny, who instantly obeyed. To Roark, she added, “Please accept a drink on the house for your trouble.”
“Thank you, Signora,” he said, and stepped away without another comment.
Her eyes swept over Gina. “I think you can go home now.”
“Already?” Gina blurted out. “It’s only eleven!”
“The sets are over. The other girls can handle the rest of the shift.”
“Yes, Signora,” Gina replied, immediately chastised.
“Remember when I told you earlier that I don’t need any gossip among the staff? Just keep your nose to yourself.”
CHAPTER 18
Gina had only taken a few steps along Halsted before getting the distinct feeling that someone was behind her. It didn’t help that the street was very foggy, so she began to walk quickly, cursing the click of her heels with every step. When she turned around once or twice, the footsteps behind her stopped, too.
Pressing against the stone wall of the building, Gina cast an uneasy glance up and down the street. Behind her, she noticed a large shadowy figure lighting a cigarette. She could tell it was a man, with his fedora pulled down so as to obscure his face.
Had the Signora sent someone after her? She began to walk quickly down the street. Though not fast enough. A man grabbed her arm from behind. “Hey, miss,” he hissed. “How’s about you hand over that purse!”
Gina froze, feeling unable to move. This can’t be happening.
“I think you’ve got something I want,” the man said in her ear. Was his voice familiar? “Just hand over your purse. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” His tone was quiet, menacing.
He’s going to kill me, Gina thought frantically. I’m going to die right here on the street.
Even as she thought that, instinct and fury kicked in. “No!” she shouted, whirling around, planting a fist into his belly, the way her brother had taught her so long ago.
Not expecting the blow, the man bent over in pain, giving her the opportunity to deliver a sharp uppercut to his jaw. As he staggered back, she pressed her advantage, striking and swinging with abandon, disregarding the oofs and gasps coming from the man. She didn’t even know what she was thinking; everything was just coming out of her—all the anger, sadness, frustration she’d been feeling since Marty was killed, welling up from a place from deep inside.
Distantly she heard someone screaming, and she looked up, allowing her attacker to stumble away. On the balcony above, she could see Zosia in a white nightgown, her eyes wide and frightened, her yellow hair floating about her in a gossamer way. She looked like an angel.
“You okay, Gina?” she called down, her voice trembling. Then, with admiration, she added, “You sure showed him what’s what.”
“I’m all right,” Gina replied, covering her ferociously beating heart with one hand. She laid her other hand on the brick wall, trying to support herself as her body began to shake.
The door to the dress shop opened and Madame Laupin stepped out, clutching a robe about her. “What is going on here?” she exclaimed. Then she spied Gina huddled against the wall, trying to keep herself from tumbling to the ground.
“Mon Dieu! Mademoiselle!” she cried. “What happened?”
“S-someone came after me. A man,” Gina said, trying to catch her breath as the enormity of her attack started to overtake her. Tears flew to her eyes. “I need to sit down,” she said, trembling now in earnest.
Madame Laupin threw a comforting arm around her, but Gina saw her look anxiously up and down the street. Zosia had disappeared from the balcony. “Come inside, cherie. Allow me to give you some brandy. Indeed, I quite insist.”
“Thank you, Madame.” Gina followed the woman in, past the dress forms and sewing machines, and up the stairs to the small flat above the shop where Madame Laupin lived.
She sat huddled in a kitchen chair, with a blanket pulled over her legs, watching Madame Laupin move purposefully, unscrewing the cap from a bottle.
“Here you are,” she said, pressing the cup into Gina’s hands. She watched as Gina took a good warming sip. After that, the questions came. “Who was that man, cherie? Did you know him? Was he a patron? You know not to involve yourself with men you meet there…”
“I don’t know,” Gina said, rubbing her arm where the man had gripped it. “Maybe. He wanted my purse.” And more likely, my photographs. She took another deep sip. “He may have followed me out. His voice sounded familiar.”
“That is not good. You must inform the Signora. She protects her girls.”
“Yes, of course,” Gina replied, even as other thoughts pushed their way into her mind. Had the Signora sent this man to attack her? She didn’t think it wise to share her concerns. Instead, noticing a man’s jacket by Madame’s sewing table, she changed the subject. “Do you create men’s clothes, too?”
Madame Laupin laughed. “I’m just reweaving this one. Bullet made a big hole in it, and the owner needs it back.”
“Jeepers! A bullet hole?”
Madame put her finger to her lips. “Fermez la bouche. Keep your mouth closed, cherie.”
Gina watched Madame fold the jacket and set it aside, then pick up her own glass of brandy. “Santé.”
“Cheers,” Gina replied. As she clinked her teacup against Madame’s glass, a drop of hot brandy landed on her knuckles, which were raw and bleeding from the scrap. “Ouch!”
Madame Laupin set down her glass. “Your hands!” Getting up, she poured some hot water onto a cloth and handed it to her. “Press this to your knuckles. They will feel better soon.”
Gratefully, Gina applied the warm compress to her hands. “How long have you worked for the Signora?” she asked.
“Oh, many years,” the dressmaker replied. “She saved me from a life of destitution. I began making dresses for her a long time ago, and she has been very generous to me. Very generous. There are many, including yourself, who have benefited from her kindness. Why do you ask?”
“I think that the Signora may have sent that man after me.”
Unexpectedly, the dressmaker laughed. “The Signora? No, I should say not.” She lowered her voice. “Brute violence is not the Signora’s style. Big Mike’s perhaps. Do not get on his bad side, I implore you.”
“Except, what if I did?” Gina whispered.
“Then I suggest you do whatever is necessary to make amends.” She stood up. “Have you recovered sufficiently for your walk home?”
“Yes, Madame, thank you.”
When she stepped back outside, Gina looked up and down to make sure that the man was not still waiting for her. The street was empty. Zosia, she was glad to see, had not returned to her perch on the balcony. Holding up her coat, Gina ran the rest of the way home without stopping.
* * *
Despite her aching knuckles, the next day Gina found herself filled with a new resolve. She’d woken up throughout the night, sleeping in fits and starts, recalling the feel of the man’s grip on her arm, and her own unexpected response. The fury she’d felt! The power, too. What would the man have done? Just steal her purse? Or would he have killed her? And for what?
On and off throughout the day she thought more about the man. It just couldn’t have been a coincidence, she thought. That man wanted something from me. Surely not my six dollars in tips. More importantly, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had met him before. She had no doubt that the Signora had sent him after her, no matter what Madame Laupin thought.
Another flash of anger flowed through her then. “The Signora may think she controls everyone, but she doesn’t control me,” Gina grumbled out loud as she buttoned her coat. She looked at the photograph of Marty with her mother that she’d she’d removed from Marty’s album and placed in a small frame on her dresser.
“Mama,” she said to the picture, “I just have to know more about what Marty’s last pictures may mean.” Looking into the mirror, she fixed her hat and pinched her cheeks to make them less pale. T
hen she “I know you’d tell me not to do it, Mama. That it isn’t safe. I know it isn’t. But I owe it to Marty, and to you, too.”
* * *
Her plan was to ask just Mr. Darrow about the subjects of Marty’s photographs taken the night he had died. Before going to the Third Door, she stopped by Marty’s flat to remove the photographs of Jack and Mimi, the one with “Clara Bow,” and the one of the two couples snuggling where she could be seen in the background talking to Ned, as well as the one of Mr. Darrow himself. As before, she wrapped them in paper and put them in her purse. She figured she’d approach Mr. Darrow and slip them to him so he could look at them in the privacy of the men’s room.
What if you can’t trust Mr. Darrow either? Even as the little thought dangled before her, she squashed it. Honestly, if you couldn’t trust the country’s foremost criminal attorney, even in an age of rampant corruption, who could you really trust?
* * *
As it turned out, the point was moot. By seven o’clock, Mr. Darrow had still not shown up, which, experience suggested, meant he had decided not to venture out for the evening.
Surprisingly, Jade had also failed to show up, even an hour into her shift.
“I can’t imagine where Jade may be. This means that Lulu and I have to move up our set,” Faye said, seeming put out. “You’ll have to take my backroom orders.”
Though she was disappointed about not being able to talk to Mr. Darrow, being among the ex-servicemen quickly lifted her slightly dampened spirits. They seemed to be in a good mood. Everyone but Roark, that is, who gave her an odd glance when she walked in.
“Say, doll,” Donny called to her, nudging his buddy. “How about a new concoction tonight? The lieutenant here is a bit grumpy. We need something to get him peppy again.”
“Isn’t he always grumpy?” she asked, flashing Roark a smile. To her surprise, he didn’t smile, and his eyes looked cold. Startled by his response, she took a step back before turning her attention back to Donny.
Murder Knocks Twice Page 22
