The Girls in the High-Heeled Shoes

by Michael Kurland

  “Now there’s a motive for K. Jeffrey’s largesse we never thought of,” Brass told me. “Two thousand dollars’ worth of publicity for his show. And if nobody comes forward, he might not even have to pay it.”

  “It’s a shock to discover that everybody’s got an angle,” I said. “I hardly know what to believe in anymore.”

  Brass explained to Sandra what had happened to the astrologist.

  “So you think Madam Florintina’s death is a part of this pattern?” she asked. “You think she knew something about… about my mother—and got killed?”

  “Something like that,” Brass said.

  “Oh, God!” Sandra said.

  Brass nodded in sympathy. “These things would seem to be all related,” he said, “and the fact that your mother is still alive is the only good news we have so far.”

  “Did Madam Florintina talk to K. Jeffrey?”

  “I don’t know. The police and our ace crime reporter, Alan Shine, went over to interrogate Welton, but as yet I haven’t heard what they found out.” Brass gestured across the room. “Ah, good!” he said. “He’s here.”

  I turned. Theodore Garrett had come in and was headed toward our table. This evening he was dressed like a gentleman, and would fit in anywhere, especially if the year were 1895. He was wearing a black Chesterfield overcoat with a velvet collar, black and gray striped pants, a high-collared shirt with an Ascot, and carrying a black top hat. I understand that diplomats still dress like that. Perhaps Garrett was impersonating a diplomat.

  “Miss Lelane,” Brass said as Garrett reached the table. “You remember Mr. Garrett.”

  Garrett bowed from the waist. “Delighted,” he said.

  Sandra clapped her hands. “Very good,” she said. “Let me guess: it’s not quite right for Victoria Regina. Perhaps The Barretts of Wimpole Street?”

  “My clothing?” Garrett gestured toward himself. “It’s not, strictly speaking, a costume. I have my suits and coats made for me by Saddler’s of Oxford Street. Unfortunately they haven’t cut a new pattern in forty years. Their clientele is very select, and very loyal.”

  “It must be so,” Sandra agreed.

  “Mr. Garrett is going to see you home, if you can stand being around such elegance,” Brass told her.

  “That’s all right,” Sandra said. “I don’t need an escort.”

  Garrett visibly did his best not to look insulted. The stage lost a great ham when Garrett decided not to tread the boards.

  “You may be right,” Brass said. “On the other hand, you may be mistaken. Your mother thinks that you may be in danger, and at the moment she knows more about it than we do. That’s why I called Mr. Garrett.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said.

  “Once you are home, you will pack a bag, perhaps two bags, and Mr. Garrett will bring you back to my apartment, where we have prepared the spare bedroom for you.”

  “Oh,” Sandra said. “What about the show? What about my going to the theater?”

  “Mr. Garrett will go with you and bring you back.”

  “Well won’t that be something. I haven’t had a chaperone since—come to think of it, I’ve never had a chaperone. This will be a new experience.”

  “I shall endeavor to make it a pleasant one, mum,” Garrett said, bowing humbly from the waist.

  “By the way,” Brass added, “it might be a good idea not to mention Two-Headed Mary’s phone call to anyone for the time being.”

  “I agree,” Sandra said. She stood up. “Well, Mr. Garrett, let’s get going.”

  Garrett bowed again. “Your servant, mum,” he said.

  16

  Brass arrived at the office a little after eleven. I had been there for about twenty minutes, and was still busy answering the mail. The pile of unanswered letters was getting thicker; pretty soon Brass was going to have to spring for some part-time help to catch up. We usually offer the job to one of the reporters from downstairs. Reporters are always in need of money, and many of them know how to type. A newsy working the evening slot could come in a few hours early and type replies. Most of the letters fell into one of five categories, and the formula we used for replies was easy to learn. Brass paid seventy-five cents an hour, and threw in lunch; and where else in town can you get a deal like that?

  At noon, Brass came through the hall and beckoned, and I followed him to the outer office. “Come, Morgan,” he said. “We have an appointment. Gloria, you’ll have to take care of Mr. Simmonds when and if he arrives.”

  “The prospect brightens my day,” she said. “What should I tell him if he appears?”

  “Tell him I’d be glad to come down to Atlanta to speak to his business group if he pays the fare: round-trip, first-class sleeping-car tickets for the three of us; I think you two deserve a paid vacation, particularly if I can get someone else to pay for it. And he should put us up for two nights at a good hotel; something named ‘Peachtree’ will probably do. Tell him my honorarium will bet at least a thousand dollars; how much more I leave to his good sense. If he thinks that’s too much—and why should he?—don’t go below seven-fifty.

  “Also tell him that all he’s buying is my speech to the group. I may or may not mention his organization or the city of Atlanta in my column subsequently, and my mention, if there is one, may or may not be favorable. Tell him that I react very badly to the sight of ‘colored only’ waiting rooms, bathrooms, or drinking fountains, and that, if I do write about my trip, that might be what I write about. Tell him that the only intelligent Southerners I have ever met have all been persons of color, with the exception of Will Rogers, and he’s from Oklahoma.”

  Gloria smiled a tight smile. The Mona Lisa had nothing on Gloria in the mysterious smile department. “Do I get to tell him that word-for-word, or can I edit it a bit?”

  Brass shrugged. “Tell him what you like. Work out the best deal you can with him, if he’s still interested after my caveat.”

  “I’ve talked to him twice,” Gloria said. “I don’t think he likes dealing with women.”

  “The more fool he,” Brass said. “If he won’t deal with you, then he won’t get me. Send him to Winchell. Walter is usually unaware of his surroundings, and if you stick a plate of rubber chicken in front of him, he’ll give a speech.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “If he doesn’t show up by one, go to lunch.”

  We were in a cab before I found out where we were going.

  “The Monarch Theater, driver,” Brass said.

  “Are we visiting K. Jeffrey,” I asked him as the cab pulled out, “or are we looking over the scene of the crime?”

  “We are going to meet Welton’s brother, Edward,” Brass told me. “At Edward’s request.”

  “What does Edward want with us?”

  “We’re about to find out.”

  They were waiting for us at the Monarch’s box office; K. Jeffrey and brother Edward and the company manager, a small, skinny man named Foxy Vulpone. Edward Welton was tall and angular and craggy; he looked like a constipated Abraham Lincoln. They took us through to the theater’s private offices, a suite of rooms off of the lobby. We settled in the middle room, which could have served as the drawing room in a Civil War melodrama. Brass and I occupied opposite ends of a swayback couch. K. Jeffrey almost disappeared into the swivel chair behind an oak desk top-heavy with scripts, some of them looking as if they may well have dated back to the Civil War, and brother Edward perched on a severe, hardwood chair.

  “I know, I know,” K. Jeffrey said, seeing my reaction to the room. “Very Belasco. The furniture’s a hundred years old, and has been used daily for that whole hundred years. But new furniture for the office is not in the budget, and old man Grice won’t spend a dime on upkeep of his theaters.”

  “Is this a Grice theater?” Brass asked. “I didn’t know.”

  Welton nodded. “Salmon Grice is my landlord. I have the place on a long-term lease, so I’ll be putting shows on here in the Monarch Theater until 1950.�
��

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “It’s not so bad,” Welton told me. “As long as two productions out of three are smash hits, and the building doesn’t fall down around my ears, I’ll do all right. Listen, it’s lunchtime. Would you fellows like sandwiches and coffee before we get started? Hot pastrami okay?”

  We murmured our assent, and Welton turned to the company manager. “Foxy, trot over to the Stage Deli and get a halfdozen hot pastrami sandwiches, will you? And coffee all around. Take a couple of dollars out of petty cash. There’s a good chap.”

  Brother Edward leaned forward in his chair as Foxy trotted out of the room. “Mr. Brass,” he said. “I am told that you have connections in what they call ‘the underworld.’ Is that so?”

  Brass stared at Edward for a moment, and then shifted in his seat. “Yes,” he said.

  “I am also given to understand that you are a man who can hold his tongue, despite your deplorable profession. Is that true?”

  K. Jeffrey laughed. “Don’t believe the stories,” he said. “Tact is not Edward’s middle name.”

  Edward gave K. Jeffrey a dirty look, and then turned back to Brass. “Well, sir?”

  “If you mean can I keep a secret,” Brass said. “Yes, if it’s one I want to keep.”

  “I can make it worth your while,” Edward said, tapping his right forefinger on the dark brown suit pants leg covering his right knee. “I am in need of some information, and possibly some assistance. I will pay up to five hundred dollars for this. Cash.”

  “A princely offer, Edward,” K. Jeffrey said, slapping his thigh with the palm of his hand and grinning broadly. “A princely offer. Why for that much, I’d do it myself!”

  “My brother thinks this is funny, Mr. Brass,” Edward said. “Why this should be I do not know, but he does. There are many things that Kasden thinks funny in which the rest of the family does not see the humor.”

  “Kasden?” I asked. “So that’s what the ‘K’ is for.”

  K. Jeffrey grimaced. “It’s an old family name,” he said. “Now carried by an uncle and myself. I was named after Uncle Kasden in hopes that, being childless and approaching sixty when I was born, he would leave his money to our side of the family. To the great chagrin of the family, and the personal disappointment of my mother, Uncle Kasden married a Swedish acrobat the day after my fifth birthday. They now have four children, and my uncle is trying hard, night after night, to make it five. Or so my mother says. She does not approve. How she managed to have two sons and a daughter is beyond me.”

  “Kasden!” Edward barked.

  K. Jeffrey raised his hand. “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s shocking and horrifying to discuss S-E-X in public.”

  “Sex is one thing,” Edward said firmly, “vulgarity is quite another. But you’ve always been a vulgar little monster.”

  “That’s me,” K. Jeffrey agreed. “Vulgar as dirt. I must have been a changeling. Somewhere there is a little goblin child with exquisite manners.”

  Edward raised his chin and glared at his brother. “In your rush to shock,” he said, clipping his syllables sharply at the end, “you show little regard for your family name. My God! You got kicked out of Yale—”

  “Suspended for one semester,” K. Jeffrey amended.

  “You almost married a showgirl, which would have gotten you kicked out of the family—”

  This was too much, even for the unflappable K. Jeffrey. He jumped to his feet, knocking a pile of scripts from his desk to the floor. “The family!” he bellowed, thrusting his face toward his brother. “You talk like they’re goddamn royalty! We make shoes! Cheap shoes! We made our money mass-producing cheap shoes! What is so goddamn royal about that?”

  Edward looked at him with a stony-faced calm. “Working is no disgrace, brother; you should try it some time,” he said with measured deliberation.

  “I’ll be glad to hammer the nails into your coffin, brother,” K. Jeffrey spat out. Then, as suddenly as it had come, his anger evaporated, and he turned and smiled at us. “This is just a little family dispute,” he said. “You should see us when we really get going. It’s a custom in our family. We enjoy it.”

  “I don’t,” Edward said. “Your manners and morals would antagonize a saint.”

  “Ah!” K. Jeffrey said. “It’s the honest, hard-working laborer against the sinners of the theater, and other morality plays.” He turned to Brass. “Edward believes in the value of honest toil. Why he can go down to the factory and watch the workers honestly toiling for hours and hours, can’t you, brother?”

  “You know very well I worked in the Fall River factory when I was seventeen!” Edward said. “You, as I remember, turned down your chance.”

  “Yes, I did. And yes, you did. For a whole summer. In the mail room, wasn’t it? And you took the executives their mail. And they all patted you on the back and told you how clever you were, and how you would go far even if you weren’t the boss’s son. And the money you earned barely bought gas for your Stutz; you actually lived on your allowance. Tell me, brother Edward: did you ever wonder who they fired to give you that job? Did you wonder how he fed his wife and children? That’s what I wondered when it was my turn to take the job. And I asked. They told me not to worry about it. But I couldn’t help it, so I politely declined.” K. Jeffrey leaned back and glared at his brother, who returned the glare with interest.

  Brass rose from his corner of the couch. “If you two would like to put this drama of social significance on the stage, you could probably get an audience,” he told them. “But until that happy day, would you please tell me what I’m doing here.”

  K. Jeffrey took a deep breath and looked away from his brother. Edward glanced at the ceiling and shifted his gaze to Brass.

  “I apologize, Mr. Brass,” Edward said. “Family matters should be kept in the family. Please sit back down. I do need your assistance.”

  Foxy came through the outer door, whistling “Blue Moon” as he came down the hall. I wondered if he made a habit of it since Edward arrived, so the brothers would have a chance to conceal their weapons before he appeared. He put a large paper bag down on the desk and distributed its burden of sandwiches and coffee.

  “Are you a dancing man, Mr. Vulpone?” Brass asked, accepting his sandwich.

  Foxy stared at Brass for a second, and then did a quick minute of soft-shoe, stretched his hands out for the applause, and froze in place. Two seconds later he thawed and resumed dealing sandwiches. “How could you tell, Mr. Brass?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you recognized me from the act?”

  “Sorry,” Brass said. “But it’s the way you carry yourself. And your shoes”—He pointed—“black patent leather like your boss, but they’re dancing pumps with reinforced heel and sole.”

  Foxy looked down at his shoes as though seeing them for the first time. “A gift from Mr. Welton,” he said. “Patent leather’s expensive. I got in the dancing habit years ago, and I practice in them three times a day. For the exercise, you know. Me and Ruth, we used to work the Keith circuit. In 1931 we headlined for a season. Lane and Vulpone, Plain and Fancy.”

  “You must have been good,” Brass said.

  “Yes, we were,” Foxy said. He shrugged and muttered, “I gotta check out the ticket stock,” and left the room.

  “Vaudeville’s loss is my gain. That man is my good right arm,” K. Jeffrey said, indicating the door closing behind Foxy’s retreating form. “He takes care of all the little details without which I would have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

  “Tell me,” Brass asked K. Jeffrey, amid the unwrapping of butcher paper and the uncapping of cardboard cups, “did the police come by and speak to you yesterday?”

  K. Jeffrey nodded. “About that soothsayer woman—Madam whoever? Yes, they did.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “Yes.” K. Jeffrey took a healthy bite of pastrami and rye and chewed. After he swallowed he went on: “She wanted the reward. Said that if I gave her al
l the birth dates of everyone involved, she could tell me what happened to Two-Headed Mary, and to Billie Trask, and to my money.”

  “Did she?” Edward asked, sounding interested. “You didn’t tell me that.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Did you?” Brass asked.

  “Did I what? Give her the birth dates? I don’t know them. Why should I?”

  “What happened then?”

  “She said that she might still have something to tell me, but she had to check on something first.” He held up his hand. “Before you ask, she didn’t say what. She asked to speak to me alone—Liebowitz, the stage manager, was with me at the time—but I declined the honor. Then she went away. The whole meeting took—what?—five minutes. The police wanted to know where she went, but I haven’t the faintest.”

  “And you’d never seen this woman before?”

  “You sound like Inspector Raab. No, I never had. I don’t go in for astrology.”

  “Did any of the girls as far as you know?”

  “What, go in for astrology? Probably. Actors and actresses are a superstitious lot. But none specifically that I know of. Say—are you interested in this woman’s death?”

  “Interested?”

  “You know, professionally.”

  Brass considered. “Yes, I guess I am. My readers seem to be interested in the fate of Two-Headed Mary. We’ve already gotten quite a few letters asking about her, haven’t we, Morgan?”

  “A couple of dozen at least,” I replied.

  “And it all seems to be related, doesn’t it? The disappearance of Two-Headed Mary, and Billie Trask and your money, and the death of Lydia Laurent? There must be something that ties them together, but I have no idea what it might be.”

  “That’s what I want to consult with you about,” Edward said. “With the understanding, of course, that none of this will get into your newspaper.”

  Brass leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed his mouth again. My guess is that he was going to correct Edward’s statement from “newspaper” to “several hundred newspapers,” but then thought better of it. You’re never too old to learn self-control.