by Amy Stewart
Constance sat down gingerly in the chair next to her. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I’m the one who’s come to speak to you. I’ve a confession to make, and an apology to deliver, if you’ll let me.”
May arched an eyebrow and blew a stream of smoke at Constance. “Where’d you buy the badge, at a toy shop? Why did my husband hire you?”
“He didn’t. I’ll tell you the truth if you’ll let me. Your husband’s not at fault. I am.”
She laughed. “Well, he’s always at fault. Let’s not go making excuses for him.”
“He didn’t hire me,” Constance said, “and I’m not pretending to be a lady officer. I’m a deputy sheriff in Hackensack. Your husband swore out a complaint of kidnapping in front of a judge, and I do have warrants to arrest both your attorney and your manager.”
“Fine! Take them both!” She waved her hand dismissively and took a long drink.
“I hope it won’t come to that.” Mrs. Ward was making it awfully hard for Constance to get the truth out. “I’m here to tell you that I’m the cause of all these troubles. I did follow you to Harrisburg, but it wasn’t because of your husband. I was trying to keep an eye on my sister.”
At that she threw her head back and shrieked. Constance only hoped that the men outside wouldn’t hear and rush in. “Your sister? Who is she?”
“Fleurette Kopp.” There it was. She swallowed hard and hoped for the best.
At first Mrs. Ward didn’t seem to recognize the name, but then she gave another high-pitched squeal and said, “Flora? Florine? The seamstress? Our little seamstress? You were worried about her?”
“I . . . well . . . my other sister was, really. Norma. She tends to make a big fuss over small things and . . . ah . . . well, she was sure that Fleurette would get into trouble.”
“How would that little girl ever get into trouble? She’s hardly looked up from that sewing machine. I couldn’t believe she wanted to come on for no pay. Our wardrobe was in shambles, but we would’ve made do.”
“I believe she hoped to impress you, Mrs. Ward. She wants to be on the stage someday.”
May Ward cackled at that and slapped Constance’s arm playfully. “What is she, five feet tall? She’s too short for a chorus line and, anyway, she can’t dance. But she’s done an awfully nice job with our costumes. I hope you’ll tell her that.”
Constance hated to hear a perfect stranger talk about Fleurette that way. “Tell her yourself,” she said stiffly. “I haven’t seen her in some time.”
“Well, she’ll be home in another week or so. We only have our New York engagements and then we’re through. But you still haven’t told me what you were doing in that phone booth. You looked ridiculous, by the way.”
“My other sister, Norma, insisted on following Fleurette to make sure she was safe. I knew she would be, but . . .”
“But you went, too.” Now Mrs. Ward was enjoying the story. She leaned forward and filled her glass from a bottle on the desk, then offered it to Constance, who declined.
“I went to keep an eye on Norma, and to stop her from embarrassing Fleurette on her very first time away from home. I never meant to alarm you, truly. Of course, we were trying not to be seen.”
She gave a loud barking laugh. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Mrs. Deputy. Everyone can see you. You might make a good cop, but you’re a terrible spy.”
Constance smoothed down her skirt, which looked awfully drab next to Mrs. Ward’s shimmering silk dress. “Yes, well. I’d like to apologize for setting you against your husband, who, as you can see, had no part in this.”
“Why didn’t you tell that to the judge? Why did you come all this way, with warrants and everything? Oh . . . I see. You don’t want to have to admit to a judge that you’re the cause of all this fuss.” She seemed altogether too gleeful about it.
“It’s not just the judge,” Constance said hastily. “If it made the papers, Fleurette might find out that we followed her. That’s why I’ve come here today. I must ask you to forgive me, and to help me, although I’ve given you no reason to want to.”
But she’d stopped listening when Constance mentioned the papers. “Trouble in the papers? Why, there’s nothing better than trouble in the papers. Let me tell you something, lady.” She slammed down her glass and leaned woozily toward Constance. “Trouble in the papers is the only thing that’s kept my Dresden Dolls going as long as they have. Don’t ever believe a word of it, of course, but don’t run away from it, either. Trouble in the papers sells tickets.”
She was spitting, and her eyelids fluttered erratically. Constance was beginning to worry that she was too far gone to listen to reason. She wondered if she could get that glass out of her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ward. It’s just that my salary depends upon my staying out of the papers. I’ve come to ask you if you . . . if you . . .”
May was staring at Constance now, interested to hear what might be on offer. Constance took a deep breath and went on. “I’ve come to ask if you wouldn’t mind coming back to New Jersey, just for one night, so that we can put an end to these charges, and —”
“I’m not going back to that man, after what he’s done!” she cut in. She waved her arm and in doing so, flung her glass off the corner of Mr. Basch’s desk, and the bottle along with it. Both bounced and rolled on the carpet, but did not break. The gin spilled, which, Constance thought gratefully, solved one problem.
“Oh, damnit, the drink’s gone,” May muttered.
Constance leaned over and took her forcefully by the wrist. “Mrs. Ward. Your husband’s done nothing wrong. Do you understand what I’ve come to tell you? It was all my doing. Now I only ask that you keep this from Fleurette. Can you do that? Can you promise not to tell her that it was her sister who stirred up all the trouble?”
She burst into laughter and nearly toppled over in her chair. “You want me to go home and patch things up with my husband, and keep a secret from my own seamstress, all so that you don’t have to be ashamed of your own bad behavior?”
“Oh, I am ashamed,” Constance said. “I’m nothing but ashamed. The trouble is that I don’t want Fleurette to be ashamed of me, and I don’t want to lose my place at the jail. It’s very well for you to get to sing and dance on the stage, but the best that a woman like me can hope for is to keep my badge and to be of some use to the sheriff.”
She couldn’t believe the way she was debasing herself before this vain, drunken woman, but she was getting a bit frantic. If she didn’t bring this to a satisfactory close soon, the police officers would rush in, or Mrs. Ward would fall asleep from drink. She was working against a clock.
But May seemed suddenly to compose herself. “Why should I help you, after what you’ve done?”
“That’s just it! You have no reason to. I can only ask —”
“No, no.” She jumped up and tottered around Constance in a circle. “No, no, Mrs. Lady Policeman. You’re asking me to do a favor for you, and I’m telling you to offer me something. I work for wages, just like you. So what do you have that I might like?”
At first Constance thought she was after money or jewelry. She patted herself down and May laughed, dancing over to her lawyer’s desk and standing behind it, framed by the window. Constance had the feeling she was practicing a part.
“I don’t want that enormous uniform of yours, or that terrible hat.”
“If you’re asking for money, Mrs. Ward . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Or some favor to be delivered later, if you find yourself in legal difficulties . . .”
“That’s nice, but I might never need it, and then what good would it do me?”
This woman was definitely a puzzle. Constance wanted nothing more than to send her back to her husband and let them drive each other mad. “I can’t imagine what else I could do for you,” she said, but then, all at once, she could.
“Actually—just a minute—if you like to be in the papers, I do kn
ow a lady reporter who’s always eager to write something sensational. She could do a terrific write-up about you and the Dresden Dolls. Would you enjoy that?”
May Ward laughed and clapped her hands together. “It’s perfect! Let’s send for her. Only I have an even better idea about what the story should be.”
Constance slumped down in her chair in relief. “Anything you like. Anything at all.”
59
THE LADY SHERIFF RIGHT ON THE JOB
She Serves Warrant on the Alleged White Slaver
“Victim” Laughs at Her Husband’s Charges—
Only New Movie Manager
New York—Constance A. Kopp, the Lady Sheriff (strictly speaking the Under Sheriff) of Bergen County, N.J., bustled into police headquarters last night and said she had a warrant for a man for white slavery and wanted the assistance of the New York authorities.
Detective Cook was assigned. They went to the office of Lawyer Arthur G. Basch, where quite a party awaited them. In it was Siegfried Wallace, theatrical manager, upon whom the Lady Sheriff promptly served the warrant. There was also present Mrs. Mary Bernstein, known to the moving picture stage as May Ward, who plays star roles.
May Ward is the supposed victim of Wallace, and the good looking blonde woman who has been many years on the stage burst into hearty laughter at the notion that she had been kidnapped. Her husband, Freeman Bernstein, says she was.
Husband is “Fired.”
Bernstein had been making charges that she had been stolen and had become a “white slave.” Smiling at a diamond encrusted hand, she said:
“I told my husband three months ago that I intended to get a new manager—that has been his job. We’ve been quarreling all the time lately. He left me once—for three nights. I get a big salary in the movies, and the house and all its furnishings at Leonia are in my name.
“Why, he’s been charging that I use ‘coke’ and other narcotics and that I’m practically an insane person, wrested from his charge. I’m ready to submit to a medical examination here and now as to the use of drugs of any sort.
“I’m a woman of more than thirty-five years old, if I have to admit it, and I’ve traveled many times from coast to coast. Any person trying to kidnap me or make me a white slave would have the liveliest 138 pounds of fighting woman to handle that ever was tackled.
“I have retained Mr. Wallace for my manager, and my husband’s crazy mad about it. That’s all there is to the story.”
The Lady Sheriff insisted that Mrs. Bernstein return last night to Leonia, N.J., and after a bit the actress consented, and was returned home later that night.
Norma gave the paper a loud shake and put it down. “This makes you look ridiculous for going in to rescue a grown woman. I thought Carrie was on our side.”
“It was all Mrs. Ward’s idea,” Constance admitted. “She practically dictated it to Carrie. She was to have a story that made her look wise and worldly, and made me look like a buttoned-up old spinster.”
“Well, that’s because you are,” Norma muttered, and took up the paper again. “What’s this about narcotics? I never heard anything about that.”
“She invented it. She wants to be accused of wild and decadent behavior so that she can deny it in the papers. People will pay to see an actress who might or might not have an opium addiction.”
“I wouldn’t pay a penny for that.”
“No, she hasn’t any hope of attracting you as a patron.”
“And how much did she have to pay Carrie Hart to get a mention of her diamond ring put in?”
“That was a condition for giving the interview. One of many conditions.”
“I don’t know why Miss Hart would agree to print such lies.”
“She felt she was owed a good story. She says I haven’t given her anything worth printing lately.”
Norma sniffed. “She should be a novelist if she wants to tell stories. I don’t see anything I’d consider news here.”
“The news is that May Ward agreed not to tell Fleurette the truth, which is to say that I’ve found a way out of the mess you put us in.”
Constance didn’t expect any gratitude from Norma over that and didn’t get any. “I never put you in any mess.”
“May Ward wouldn’t have spotted me in a hotel lobby if you hadn’t insisted on —”
“I thought we agreed not to speak of Freeman Bernstein again,” Norma put in.
“You’re the one reading the paper.”
Constance had come home to see if they’d had word from Fleurette—and there was one postcard, telling nothing they didn’t already know and promising to be home in a few days. Constance also wanted to square her story with Norma so that they could have some hope of not arousing suspicion when Fleurette did return.
“Fleurette will want to know all about your visit with Mrs. Ward,” Norma said.
“With any luck, she won’t know anything about it,” Constance said. “May says that the girls don’t bother with the papers and only read magazines. If she does see it, Mrs. Ward has promised to say that I behaved entirely within the bounds of my profession and that Freeman Bernstein is to blame for the entire misunderstanding.”
“We’re counting on an awful lot of people remembering how to lie to Fleurette,” Norma said.
“I’m counting on Fleurette being too self-absorbed to notice what anyone’s saying if it doesn’t pertain directly to her.”
“Then it might work.” Norma went back to the stack of letters she’d been reading. “I’ve fallen behind in your correspondence. Here’s a man who runs an African lion ranch in Arkansas. He says women make better lion tamers, as long as they have the nerve to stand up to the lion.”
“Stand up to it?”
“Yes, apparently, if a lion attacks, the thing to do is to stand your ground. You’re to roar right back at it and wave your arms in the air. A timid person runs, but that’s what finishes them. A lion will always win a footrace.”
“It doesn’t say that,” Constance said, and snatched the letter from her, but it did.
“Here’s one you might consider,” she said, taking up another.
Dear Under-Sheriff Kopp,
I suppose you will be promised to someone else by this time, but if you’re not, mine is the best offer of its sort you will get so you might as well take it. Out here in Nevada the sheriff spends his time chasing down claim jumpers and horse thieves as you might expect, but there is the more ordinary breed of criminal as well, including girls who, from time to time, must be locked up for their own good and the general health of the men in this town. I’m sure I don’t need to explain that further, for a lady sheriff knows all about social hygiene and the ruinous diseases that are the natural result of sin and debauchery.
I’ve made my jail impervious to scorpions and rattlesnakes, which is no easy feat, but it must be done if I am to persuade a woman to give herself to me in marriage and to take charge of a woman’s duties at the jail. As the sheriff’s wife you would see to the cooking and the laundering and a bit of farming, which would be no extra trouble at all, as we harbor only 25–30 men at a time plus a girl or two. Our inmates hardly eat a thing, nor do they expect much in the way of pressed trousers, which is to say that looking after their meals and such wouldn’t be any more work than a wife’s ordinary obligations.
I had a housekeeper tending to all this but she’s dead now and I took it into my head that rather than put the expense on the taxpayers of hiring another, I ought to find a wife. We don’t see a lot of women in Duckwater, but there you were in the newspaper and I knew this would be a much better place for you than that jail in New Jersey.
Send a line at once that I may make ready to receive a wife—
Your ever-hopeful intended,
Sheriff Q. R. Greenville
“I wish you wouldn’t read them aloud,” Constance said.
“Dear Mr. Greenville,” Norma pronounced as she wrote. “It brings me great displeasure to inform you that Miss C
onstance Kopp is an abysmal cook who cannot manage to put toast on the table for her two sisters, much less feed a couple dozen criminals, nor is she to be trusted with laundry or, for that matter, the planting of potatoes or the overseeing of a few laying hens. In fact, I find little to recommend in her for matrimony, as she is neither tender nor sympathetic, she cannot manage a bank-book, and her looks have already gone. I’m afraid she would disappoint in every way. Please take comfort in the fact that I intercepted your letter in time and saved you the regret and heartache that an association with Miss Kopp would inevitably bring.”
“That’s just fine,” Constance said. “Answer the rest along those lines.”
60
MINNIE WAS POCKETING shortbread at the refreshment table when Ruby came rushing up to her. Ruby was pale and pretty, and when she’d been crying, it showed. Her face had the shattered look of a handful of crumpled rose petals. “Where’s Edna? Quickly, I have only a minute.”
Minnie looked around and saw her across the room. Ruby ran over and Minnie followed.
“Edna!” Ruby gasped. “Listen to me.”
She took Edna’s arms and pulled her away from the other girls. Minnie stood nearby, unsure if she was allowed to listen.
“Daddy won’t let me go,” Ruby said. “He’s absolutely set against it. He said he never knew we were serious about it or he wouldn’t have allowed any of this to go on as long as it has. And I’m not the only one. He’s going around to all the other fathers and, one by one, the girls are being told to stay home and knit.” Her voice broke when she said it, as if knitting were the worst punishment she could imagine. It would’ve been funny, if Minnie hadn’t felt so sorry for Edna.
“The whole program’s done for. They’re going to announce it tonight. All the money we’ve raised is to be turned over to the Red Cross. That’s the end of it.”
