by T. W. Emory
I ran my bathwater and soaped up with Barbasol as I listened to the news. As I scraped at my face, the announcer updated me. Pilfered document case put on hold in 1945 by F.B.I. finally investigated by Senate committee. Loss of U.S. Navy Privateer plane in Baltic called “first air victory” by vodka-sodden Soviet fighter pilot. Shady postage stamp plan probed by Federal grand jury. Australian minister recalled from Moscow. Legal secretary in L.A. murdered by employer’s wife.
I’d had enough. My work put enough strain on my nervous system without me having to borrow the experience. I tuned to KOL, and heard Hawaiian melodies playing. I let them play. I usually took showers, but I felt like a nerve-settling soak in Epsom salts, and I figured a little ukulele and slack key guitar might help to settle my jitters.
Downstairs again, I saw the empty porch and knew that Sten’s chariot had swept him away to his hustler’s paradise. The art studio was still open, but Walter the Sanguine had become Pangborn of the Dashed Hopes.
Mrs. Berger had ceased modeling and stood smoking one of her Chesterfields inserted in an ivory holder. Her eye was beginning to take a drink-induced meander. I got close enough to her this time to get a whiff of one of her five-and-dime frangipanis. She was loyal to two fragrances. I called them Essence of Tawdry and Spent Lust. I envisioned atomizer instructions that read: “Squirt profusely.”
“You’d better not be taking out a girl wearing that suit,” said my landlady.
“Why? What’s wrong with it?” I was wearing my new seersucker.
“It’s a horrible color, Gunnar. Pathetic. It looks about as cheerful as an overcast day the morning after.”
“It’s mottled indigo. I think it’s sharp.”
“Hell’s bells and whistles. Whoever sold you that suit should be drawn and quartered and the parts hung up by toes and thumbs.”
“What do you think, Walter?” I asked, wanting support.
Walter gave me a quick glance and said without smiling, “Gunnar, you’re a veritable coxcomb. A regular popinjay.”
Mrs. Berger was pleased. She didn’t understand Walter’s words. It was his tone and knit brow that convinced her he was taking her side.
“What do you think about a profile, Nora?” Walter asked her. “How would it be if I paint you facing Otto? You know, a serene pose of wifely adoration?”
Mrs. Berger wasn’t buying Walter’s nice try. “It just wouldn’t be true to life, Walter. You should know that. I never looked adoringly at Otto. He was always my audience.” She walked over to scrutinize the canvas.
I left them.
My phone chat with Britt Anderson about Blanche Arnot got me a little curious. I’d never met an ex-Ziegfeld girl before. By 6:50 I was in the Chevy headed over to Laurelhurst. About 7:10 I reached the address Frank Milland had given me.
Laurelhurst rests on a peninsula jutting out into Lake Washington. It was what Mrs. Berger called a “snitzy area.” I suppose it still is.
I negotiated the Chevy through the winding streets that dissected Mrs. Arnot’s community of junior mansions. Laurelhurst has its share of waterfront plots. Mrs. Arnot’s wasn’t one of them. Her house sat inland a bit on a lot tightly linked to others like squares of a patchwork quilt. Still, it compared to Mrs. Berger’s place like caviar to pastrami—which is all a matter of taste.
Hers was a house built of burnished brick and just enough plaster facing in spots to qualify it as a Tudor. I looked up at a roof with three high peaks of different heights—the two in back covered gabled windows, the shorter one in the foreground sheltered the front door and foyer.
I passed through a wrought-iron front gate with a thin metal silhouette of a fleur-de-lis ensconced about chest level. The front door was of solid wood except for a peephole with one of those little grated windows that opened from the inside and reminded me of a speakeasy I’d finagled my way into as a teenager.
The buzzer was a pearl-colored button that triggered ornate chimes at a touch.
Inquiring eyes gave me a quick glimpse through the grated peephole. When the door opened she gave me a straightforward feminine assessment.
“Come in, Mr. Nilson, come in,” she said, smiling. Her voice was that of a woman half her age.
For some reason I was expecting to meet a doddering, white-headed septuagenarian. Instead, I faced a stately woman, at most in her mid-fifties, with silver-streaked brown hair worn up in one of those French twists. Still fetching, she had the high cheekbones and classic features of a once-great beauty, and the glimmer in her eyes signaled me that she was pleased I could tell. She wore a russet dress and a cream-colored sweater.
I was led in to her living room. She reached over to turn off the radio. She’d been listening to Counterspy.
“May I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks. I’m just fine,” I said, planting myself on the sofa she pointed to.
“Nonsense. I have tea already made. No point wasting it. I’ll get us both a cup.”
As she quietly strolled back to the kitchen, I scanned the room. I was expecting décor from the 1910s and 1920s. While her reading lamp looked ancient enough, and there were a few mementos and a number of pictures from earlier in the century, surprisingly most of her furnishings were circa 1940s. Mrs. Arnot had memories, but she didn’t seem overly anchored in the land of the bygone.
She served me my tea and then eased into a Morris chair with a cup of her own.
“I’ll not take up much of your time, Mrs. Arnot,” I said.
“Nonsense. It’s rare when I receive callers, and rarer still when they happen to be handsome young men. Take all the time you need.”
“The police talked with you earlier today about the quarrel you overheard when you were in Fasciné Expressions yesterday.”
She laughed. “That’s correct, but it was no quarrel, young man. I’d call it more of a harsh scolding. Christine hardly said boo. Her boyfriend didn’t give her much of an opportunity.”
“I’d like to know what you saw and heard, please.”
“As I told the police, I didn’t see or hear much at all,” said Mrs. Arnot. She got up to adjust the wide louvers of her Venetian blinds to beat back the sun’s departing encroachments. “I had finished talking to one of the girls and was just leaving when Mr. Engstrom started shouting. Naturally, I turned to look.”
“Naturally.”
She sat down again.
“Did you hear Dirk Engstrom threaten to kill Christine?”
“Dear, no. And what I did hear were mere fragments. Nothing that made sense, you understand. Mr. Engstrom was wildly waving his arms in the air and Christine wasn’t saying much at all. She simply looked upset. Had the girl not been killed, I’m morally certain that her relationship with that boy would have soon been over anyway.”
She reflected a moment and continued, “It looked as though Christine had been talking with Addison Darcy before her boyfriend arrived. But that’s merely my impression. Now, Mr. Darcy may have heard something that might interest you. Also, there was a young man about your age standing next to Mr. Darcy. I’ve seen him in the store many times. He looks to be what in my day we called a drugstore cowboy.”
“Drugstore cowboy?” I asked, as I slipped a clove in my mouth. Britt was right about Mrs. Arnot being quaint.
She laughed again—some of her youthful beauty peering through for a moment.
“I’ll explain. I worked in Hollywood well over twenty years ago. Some of the Western movie extras used to loaf in front of drugstores between pictures trying to impress the ladies. That young man standing next to Mr. Darcy projected that same kind of attitude and carriage. A harmless lothario. It’s merely an impression, you understand.”
“Miss Anderson tells me you were in the Ziegfeld Follies,” I put in.
“That’s correct.” She stood up and crossed the room to retrieve a silver-framed photograph that sat on an end table with several others. She showed it to me. She laughed when I gave a low wolf whistle.
I
t was a full-length picture of a very young, very beautiful and very shapely Blanche Arnot. She was wearing an elaborate feathered headdress, a scanty top with a low-cut neckline, and pleated bloomers with what looked like a bridal train trailing behind her. Two similarly dressed beauties stood on each side of her but a few feet behind.
“Delicious times. This was taken on stage at the New Amsterdam Theatre. We thought we were something,” she said, amusement in her voice. “And I guess, in a way, we were.”
“How’d you come to be a Ziegfeld girl?”
She told me she was born and raised in Springfield, Massachusetts. She got her notions of life on the stage from an aunt who was a teacher of elocution and singing. At sixteen she ran away from home, worked as a shop girl and a waitress before eventually getting her first break.
She laughed. “I became a cigarette girl in a Broadway nightclub. I thought I’d arrived.”
Someone connected to the Ziegfeld Follies must have thought so too, because he invited her to audition, and that led to her being in the Follies of 1915-1921. After that she moved out to Los Angeles, did some stage acting, and had some bit parts in silent films before becoming a drama coach.
“I realized early on that I wasn’t going to become a screen star. But like the saying goes, those who can, do. And those who can’t, teach. So, I taught,” she said a bit wistfully. “But I have no complaints, as it led to my life here. I met and married the older brother of one of my female students—a doctor from Seattle.”
“And so those who teach make do,” I said.
She laughed.
“Britt Anderson tells me you were quite close to her aunt.”
“That’s correct. We were very close. I loved Alexis. She was such a deliciously sweet person before her tragic deterioration. My heart ached when she died. She was extremely talented.”
Mrs. Arnot explained that she’d groomed Alexis. “I worked with both Alexis and Britt. Britt has talent, but not like her aunt did.”
She’d encouraged Alexis to become a professional performer. “I offered to put her in touch with some people I still knew in Hollywood. Few people really succeed in the arts, but she could have made it. Of that I have no doubt.”
“So, why didn’t she make the move?”
Mrs. Arnot sighed. “Two reasons. She felt a strong family obligation as Britt’s guardian—though I told her that Britt was welcome to live with me. Then, there was also a romantic attachment that kept her in Seattle.”
“The one that went sour?”
“I see Britt’s told you the story.”
I nodded. I asked about her job with Fasciné Expressions.
“I agreed to it originally as a favor to Britt. She insisted on paying me for my work with the girls. I objected at first. Henry—my late husband—left me very comfortable, so I don’t need the money. But I conceded to her wishes and do accept a pittance. However, the money really is irrelevant, as I genuinely enjoy helping out.”
“What exactly are your duties?”
She laughed softly. “I suppose I’m part drama coach and part finishing school teacher. The first few weeks after a new girl is hired, I give her a crash course in poise, speech, and civilities—that sort of thing. Thereafter I simply monitor progress and advise when necessary.”
“I’ve never heard of a retail outfit going to such lengths.”
“Granted. It’s one of Britt’s ideas. She’s blended an artistic flare with her business school training. She’s a very innovative and determined young woman. She insists on creating a certain image and atmosphere. And as far as the salesgirls are concerned, I’d say she’s been deliciously successful.”
I agreed. From what I could tell, Mrs. Arnot had done a great job of helping the girls attain enough polish and bearing to mask their origins—with a dash of Ziegfeld girl in the bargain.
Blanche Arnot didn’t have anything helpful to add about Christine. Not at first anyway.
I asked a little more about her days in the Ziegfeld Follies. She’d known and worked with the likes of Fanny Brice, Eddie Cantor, and Will Rogers.
“Everyone loved Will Rogers. He was my personal favorite of the starring performers. He’d say the funniest things. For instance, he wisely advised to never miss a good opportunity to stop talking—which is what I think I should do right now. I’m probably beginning to bore you.”
I told her not at all, and assured her that I was enjoying our visit very much. I decided that part of Mrs. Arnot’s quaintness was a certain air she projected. There was something otherworldly about her. I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly. I figured it was a carry-over from having lived and worked in a fantasy world populated by show people.
We talked a little more about her past, and then something brought her back to the present. “It’s too bad about poor Christine. No one deserves to die that way—let alone one so young and lovely. However, I have a feeling that, had she lived, her life would have been a stormy one.”
“Why so?”
“Oh, take it from an old chorus girl, well-versed in the ways of young coquettes and their aging admirers. I’ve grown older, but I’m not senile—not yet anyway. Nor am I naïve. I see things. It’s pretty plain that some of the girls working for Leonard Pearson are after more than just sales commissions. Christine was one of them. But she didn’t strike me as a girl with good judgment in the matter.”
“Could you enlighten this babe in the woods?”
“You don’t look like such a babe to me,” she said with a pert smile. “Still, let me be a little bit delicate. I’m not talking about sex and lost virtue. That was often a rite of passage for a chorine—generally a foregone occurrence for girls in a revue. Florenz Ziegfeld himself was a flagrant philanderer who often sampled the merchandise. No, Christine was a big girl, as are the others working at the store. I have no prudish illusions about their chastity. I’m sure some of those girls carry on quite a full social life with the occasional client—especially the more affluent ones. In my day a girl flirted, trifled, and even granted her favors for good times and whatever gifts they would garner. Some became mistresses. And sometimes a lucky one would land a wealthy husband. Things aren’t all that different today, Mr. Nilson.”
“Props change; people don’t,” I said.
“That’s correct. Definitely. But some fail to grasp it.”
“You say Christine lacked good judgment. Could you explain?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “A mere impression. I hope you realize, young man, I was referring to the significance attached to the cat-and-mouse games adults play—the expectations created, the demands made, the unspoken but implied boundaries. Some girls know how far to carry a dalliance. Others don’t, and carry it way too far. At the very least a heart is broken or someone’s pride is wounded. At the very worst ….” She thought for a moment, head cocked to one side, “well … you certainly look astute enough to figure it out.”
“You think Christine was killed as an act of revenge or spite?”
“Or perhaps self-protection.”
She picked up the photo of her as a Ziegfeld beauty. She pointed to the girl behind her on the right—a lovely and busty specimen.
“That was my good friend, Sally Miller. “Sal,” we called her. Sal started off flirting with a married businessman who stayed in the city weeks at a time. He’d come see her regularly. Sal and I went out on the town a time or two with this man and one of his friends. They even took us to Jersey City, to watch Jack Dempsey bludgeon that poor Frenchman …. Oh, what was his name?”
“Carpentier.”
“You had to have been in rompers at that time. I take it you’re a boxing aficionado.”
“Call it the tutelage of an impassioned grandfather.”
“I enjoyed that particular bout. We sat ringside. Fifty-dollars a seat. Sal and I rooted for Carpentier in what little French we knew. A delicious event, really. But still, by then I’d had quite enough of our escorts. They were a good fifteen years older than
we were and they were moneyed, overbearing, and extremely self-important. I’m afraid that even then, I had little patience with blades of their stripe. But not Sal. She eventually fell in love with her suitor. She fell hard. I tried to warn her. But Sal wouldn’t listen. She believed him when he said he’d divorce his wife and marry her. You know the old story. Sal believed so hard, she even made plans to leave the show. But like I suspected, he was stringing her along. It was a game to him. It broke her heart when she finally realized it, and it ate her up.”
I asked her what became of Sal.
“It was worse than a tragedy. Sal refused to cut her losses and move on. She foolishly threatened to make trouble for the man. She said she’d tell his wife—expose him publicly. His friend—the man I’d been paired with at the fight—had powerful friends in the city. Sal’s lover and his crony had her jailed on trumped up charges. They railroaded her and had her sentenced to prison for two years.”
“How was she when she got out?”
“She didn’t. The poor girl couldn’t take it. It crushed her. She died in prison.”
I told her I was sorry.
“There’s a deliciously cruel humor to all of this, when you think about it.”
I asked her to explain.
“Well, after all, such things as secrecy and trust are usually implicit in an illicit amour. Ironic, isn’t it?”
I grinned and agreed.
“Let me make myself clear, Mr. Nilson. I know nothing for certain. I’ve simply witnessed many times what goes on between older men and the young women they chase after. I’m spouting mere speculation, mind you. Having said that, let me say that if Mr. Engstrom is not Christine’s murderer, then it wouldn’t surprise me one whit if the foolish girl took things too far and somehow crossed the wrong man of means. It’s the type of thing that’s happened many times before, and to girls far more clever than Christine would ever have been had she lived to see thirty.”
