by Craig Rice
We walked along silently until Biff stopped at the corner. A bright street light made me remember how hurriedly I’d fixed my face, but Biff wasn’t thinking of the way I looked.
“Did you get the crack Jannine made about La Verne’s bankbook missing?” he asked. “The Sergeant let it slip right by him, and why didn’t he ask Dolly where she sat in the dressing room? If she’da told him he woulda known that she couldn’t get a cigarette without seeing La Verne. Not with them sitting that close together.”
That was the cue for my helpless act. I should have clung to Biff and begged him not to get interested in those things, maybe cried a little on his shoulder. But like Dolly, I should have rehearsed it first; all I could manage was to remind him of what he had told me at the Dutchman’s.
“You told me yourself it wasn’t healthy to get mixed up with a guy like Louie and now you’ve got that ‘butt in’ look in your eye. That’s what the police are around for …”
Biff went “hurumph.” It was another chance for me to get girly but I muffed it again. “You stick to your jokes,” I said firmly, “and leave the deducting to the cops. After all, it isn’t any of your business, and why do you pay taxes?”
Then I remembered the G string on the roof. Biff must have known I was going to ask him about it! He tried a diversion. It couldn’t have been the moon, because there wasn’t one and a street light on Fourteenth Street isn’t going to inspire a man to kiss a woman. The kiss wasn’t one that a man would need inspiration for anyway.
It was a courtesy peck on the ear. After it, Biff held my arm tightly and hurried me down the street. While I tried to keep up with him, he said, “The trouble with cops is they don’t understand actors.”
Biff was very clever about evading unasked questions.
The subway was crowded and we had to stand until we got to Thirty-fourth Street. I would have liked to have been a little closer to Biff, but we were separated by standees.
I wanted to tell him that I enjoyed being kissed by him even on Fourteenth Street, and I wanted to ask him so many questions. But you can’t say, “Why didn’t you tell me you knew where Jannine’s G string was?” when you’re in a car full of people. I wanted to ask him why the G string was on the roof, too. And who put it there? And most of all, why?
A man standing between Biff and me kept poking me in the eye with his newspaper. It reminded me of how the press would love our case.
STRIPPER STRANGLED. BRUNETTE BEAUTY BUMPED OFF.
In my mind I wrote all the headlines. The pictures would probably be old ones, lots of leg showing, and the captions would all declare we were beauties. They would possibly mention my fingerprints being found on the wax and …
“Biff!” I shouted above the roar of the subway. “How did the police know my fingerprints were on the wax?”
The man with the paper glowered at me. “With lungs like yours, girlie,” he said, “you oughta be hog calling.”
The train stopped suddenly. We were at Thirty-fourth Street. Biff reached an empty seat a split second before my friend with the paper.
“Look, chucklehead,” Biff said to me, “the next time you get an idea, be a little more refined about blatting it out.”
I squeezed in beside him. “But how could they tell?” I asked, quietly this time. “We saw Jake chip the wax off before Gee Gee opened the door. How could they tell the prints were mine from such little hunks?”
Biff smiled. “They got the hunk they wanted, Punkin. And anyway, when you fainted, one of the eagle-eyed boys saw the red on your finger. I tried to tell ’em it was rouge, that you put your lipstick on with that finger, but …”
“I do,” I whispered.
“The colors were different; light-red lipstick, brick-red wax. Not only that, but they didn’t fingerprint anyone else. They knew from the first that the prints were yours. You see, someone saw you touch the door.”
“Who? They couldn’t have,” I shouted. Biff shushed me, so I lowered my voice. “The door was closed. No one could have seen me.”
“Well, they didn’t exactly see you touch the door, but they saw you wipe some red off your finger when you were leaving the room. Don’t get sore and don’t shout, but it was—well, it was the Princess.”
I didn’t shout, but I did get sore. The idea of her telling the police a thing like that. She must have made it a pretty thick story, too, for them to suspect me as they did. I made up my mind to tell a few things about her the next time I saw the Sergeant.
“Where was she to see me so clearly?” I asked.
“She said she was downstairs and just happened to look up to the balcony as you came out.” Biff raised one eyebrow. With a low whistle, he added, “You see why I’m butting in, Punkin?”
I was going to say that I did and add a few little words of encouragement when the man with the paper interrupted me.
“Say, ain’t you Gypsy Rose Lee?”
“Certainly not,” I said. “Do I look like the sort of woman who would do a strip tease?”
“Well, it’d be hard to tell with all them clothes you got on.” He laughed gaily at his feeble joke and it was my turn to glower at him.
“Only you sure do look like the dame in this pitcher.” He held the paper in such a way that I could see the large picture that Seymour took of me while I was playing the Rialto in Chicago. The caption was turned under a little at the corner. All I could read was Lee, Material Witness, and, in smaller print, Searching for missing racketeer.
I hadn’t been far wrong in the headlines, I thought, when I heard Biff’s stern voice.
“She ain’t no dame, see?” He snatched the paper from the bewildered stranger’s hand and went on. “She happens to be the mother of my future children, the breadwinner of my little family.”
The man tried to step back but he was hemmed in by a wall of late night commuters. Biff stood up and menacingly grabbed the frightened man’s coat lapel. For a moment I thought the poor guy was going to faint.
“Gee, Buddy,” he mumbled, “I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m a family man myself. Why I’d be the last one in the woild to make a crack about the little woman. I’m a …”
The train stopping at Forty-second Street broke up the scene. Biff let go of the man and we elbowed our way to the platform. As the train pulled away I caught a glimpse of the stranger. He was too frightened to sit down. With a look of amazement on his face he still hung to the strap.
“Why do you make a scene like that?” I asked as we walked up the stairs. “You scared the poor guy half to death.”
“I wanted to think,” Biff said, “and the only way I can think good is to get my mind off what I’m thinking about. See?”
I said, “Yes. I see,” and let the crowds carry me uptown.
The Peerless Bar and Grill was full of burlesque actors, as usual. Jannine was sitting with Stinky Smith, a comic from the Eltinge. She had the last edition of the evening Mirror propped up against a catsup bottle. Without looking up, she pulled out a chair for Biff, and I sat next to Stinky.
“Was business so bad,” the comic asked Biff, “that you had to bop off La Verne for publicity?”
“The Eltinge ain’t grossing enough for you to make cracks, unfunny man,” Biff retorted. “And anyway, she wasn’t bopped off. She was strangled.”
“Bopped, strangled.” Stinky shrugged his shoulders. “Kansa Schmansa, abe gasint!”
Jannine, munching on a piece of celery, interrupted the conversation. “Say, if I’d known all about Louie I woulda been scared to death of him.” She read a little more before continuing. “It says here that in 1926 he was indicted for dope peddling.”
“On the radio they said he was a white slaver, too,” Stinky added.
“Yeah, they got that here. ‘Louie Grindero, known as The Grin, served three years for white slavery. He was also accused of forgery and grand larceny.’” She looked up from the paper. “Jees. You never know, do you?” she said.
The waiter placed a limp menu
on the table and nudged Biff. “Ya wanna eat?” he asked stoically.
“Yeah. Bring us a round of rye,” Biff said. “Old Granddaddy and beer chasers.” The waiter shuffled off and Biff kept looking at him. “I don’t think he had anything to do with it,” he said finally.
For a moment I thought he meant the waiter.
Jannine glanced up from the paper again. “If he didn’t, why did he take it on the lam?” she asked.
“With a record like his,” Biff answered, “I guess he thought they’d hang it on him. Anyway, he wasn’t even there.”
“You’re drunk,” Jannine accused. “He musta been there or how’d he know she was killed?”
Biff rubbed the side of his face. “I never thought of that,” he admitted. Then he grinned. “I damn near forgot. Moey told him.”
“But Louie was there.” I had just remembered. The three faces that turned to me were skeptical.
“That’s a fact,” I said. “When the show broke I stopped to talk to Sammy and on the way upstairs I saw him. He asked me if the liquor and beer arrived O.K. and I told him yes. Then I heard him come upstairs.”
“And not only that,” Jannine went on with conviction, “he said he was going to kill her and he done it. That’s all.”
Gee Gee and Sandra made their entrance at that point. They were minus Dolly.
“Passed out,” Sandra explained when we asked her.
The comic looked up at the clock. It was twelve-thirty. He turned to Jannine. “I’m damn near on. Hurry up if you want to catch any of the show.”
He signed his check and the two of them left with hurried good nights.
Gee Gee sighed. “Kinda wish I’d gone with ’em. I haven’t seen a burlesque show in months.” With a sudden inspiration she ran after them. “Hey! Wait for me!”
The waiter arrived with the drinks. It didn’t surprise him that three of his customers had left. He put the liquor in the center of the table, picked up the check with Stinky’s scrawled signature on it, and silently walked away.
Sandra was picking the polish off one of her fingernails when Biff said, “Wonder who it was that got her bankbook.”
“Huh?” Sandra stopped picking to bite at a hangnail.
“Who was it that got La Verne’s bankbook?” Biff repeated.
“Oh, that! That was Dolly.”
Biff’s hand, the one with the drink in it, started shaking. After trying to steady it he decided to drink the drink first and talk later. “Why in hell didn’t you tell the Sergeant?” he managed to ask later.
“Same reason you didn’t tell him about the G string,” Sandra replied quickly.
It was time for me to say something, so I mumbled, “What G string?” I should have saved my breath.
Sandra ignored me completely and said, “You were a cute pair. Do you think Dolly’s blind or something?”
Biff and I looked at each other.
“Sure she told me,” Sandra sniffed. “Dropped your handkerchief! What did you think you were doing, a road show of Blossom Time?”
“Look, Sandra, there’s something fishy about that business. I …” It was the first time I’d seen Biff at a loss for words. He touched his pocket as though to assure himself that the gadget was still there.
“The only thing fishy about it is you!” Sandra snapped. “You been withholding evidence, and what’s more, I know why! Well, I saved your hide once by not talking, but don’t depend on me doing it again. Dolly at least turned in the bankbook.” She stood up and pulled her brown-and-white pony coat around herself. Then she picked up her gloves and started to walk out.
As she neared the door she turned and smiled at me. “As long as you’re paying the check,” she said, “and I know you are, you might as well ask your comic friend why he done it.”
“Done—I mean, did what?”
“Why he threw La Verne’s G string out the window.” Her heels clicking on the tile floor sounded like a Gene Krupa drum specialty. I watched her go around in the revolving door until she passed the large window. The neon sign, a red one advertising Schaefer’s beer, made her face look like it was burning. Burning in hell, I thought, but that was wishful thinking.
“I did throw it out the window, Punkin.” Biff’s voice was low and faltering. “After I helped the guys carry La Verne out of the room I felt something heavy in my pocket; not exactly heavy, but like there was a pull on it, ya know. Well, I put my hand in the pocket and I feel this thing. I knew right away what it was. Just a minute before you had been screaming about the G string. I looked at her neck and there’s nothing there, nothing but a thin, blue line.” He stopped talking and put his hands to his head.
“Let’s have a drink first,” I said. He shook his head.
“No. I gotta tell you, Punkin. It’s been driving me crazy all evening. I knew someone had put that damn thing in my pocket while I was carrying her. I knew that it had been around her neck a second before because, well, because I saw it, too. All the dames in the room had gathered around you. You were out cold but talking anyway, telling all about seeing the rhinestones and stuff. I thought they’d think you were delirious, but even so I wasn’t going to let ’em find the thing in my pocket, so while the guys are messing around calling the doc and everything, I walk me over to the window and drop the gadget on the roof. I thought I’d get it later, but—well, you know I didn’t have a chance.”
“You could have told me,” I said.
“I didn’t want ya to lie, Punkin, because I love ya. And anyhow, you’re a lousy liar.”
“You aren’t doing so well with that lying business yourself,” I reminded him. “Dolly knows about it, Sandra knows about it; no telling how many others. You have to think up a pretty fancy excuse for the Sergeant. It sounds awfully bad.”
“I’ll just tell him the truth, I guess.”
“It would be a good idea to beat Sandra to the punch. I have a hunch she’s on the phone right now. Funny why she should be so vindictive all of a sudden, isn’t it?”
Biff picked an ash out of his drink with a pinky.
“I said it’s funny Sandra should get so mean.”
“Yeah, I heard ya.” He still fished around for the cigarette ash. “Maybe it’s because she’s jealous. You know we used to sort of go around together last season and …”
“Another sister-in-law!” I gasped. I reached for my coat. “You oughta hold a yearly convention. You could call it ‘The ex-Biff’s Club’ or something. Rent out the Yankee Stadium for a nice little family reunion. Well, don’t invite me!”
He helped me into my coat and followed me to the door. “Wait a minute, Punkin, I got enough on my mind. And anyhow that was long before I ever met you.”
“That,” I said, “has nothing to do with it.”
He crowded into the revolving door with me. “Look, honey.”
“Don’t honey me,” I snapped. “First it was Sugar Ann Carol, then Joyce Janice. Now it’s Sandra.” I counted them off on my fingers as we walked around in the door. “I think it’s revolting,” I added.
“Revolving, you mean,” Biff laughed. “This is the third time we’ve been around. Watch me grab the gold ring.”
We were back in the restaurant again. Biff put his hand out and the waiter pushed the check into it.
“Pay it or put your X on it,” he said. “I can’t wait all night while you two play merry-go-round.”
Biff held the door while I reluctantly re-entered the saloon-café. We sat at the counter and ordered a nightcap.
“Can I help it, Gyp, if all the dames fall for me? Honest, it sometimes embarrasses me the way they follow me around and …”
“And you call me a bad liar,” I said. “Here you are breaking yourself up.”
“Liar. Liar. What does that remind me of? Oh, yes!” Biff snapped his fingers as though the thought had suddenly hit him. “What am I going to tell the Sergeant?”
“Well, don’t look at me,” I said. “I’m only here for the low notes.”
“Stop it,” I snapped, “I’m thinking. Who was close to you when you picked up La Verne?”
“Let’s see now. There was Mandy, and Sammy, and Phil. I knew you weren’t mad, Punkin.”
“Stick to the script.”
“Siggy and Russell …”
“Did you see Louie at any time during the party?” I asked.
“No,” Biff said slowly. “Of course he might have been there. The room was so full of people I don’t remember everybody.”
I tried to reconstruct the scene in my mind. Gee Gee stood at the door. Jake must have been close by, because he had just helped her open the door. Moey was there and Mandy was directly in front, holding out his hat. Alice and some of the women were around the victrola.
Where was Sammy? I couldn’t remember. Neither could Biff when I asked him.
“No. He could have put it in my pocket, though,” Biff commented. “After he called for someone to get the doctor.”
“Who went for him?” I asked.
Biff thought a moment before answering. “I think Moey, but I’m not sure. If he did, then he could have told Louie about it like Sandra said. That is, if Louie wasn’t there.” Biff gulped his nightcap.
“I must have looked like a damned fool fainting like that,” I said while he was drinking.
“I thought it was cute,” he said soothingly. “It was a womanly thing to do and I like it; made me feel protective and strong-like.”
“Protective. Yeah, I know. With all the practice you’ve had you …”
“Don’t start that again,” Biff said quickly. “Come on. Drink up. You gotta get some sleep.”
He walked me to the hotel, kissed me good night, and promised to call the Sergeant as soon as he got up.
“Try to make it before noon,” I yelled to him as he sauntered down the street. He waved back at me and continued walking. He didn’t look as if he had a care in the world, let alone the G string of a murdered woman in his coat pocket.
The hotel lobby was dark. My mailbox was empty so I decided not to awaken the night clerk or the elevator boy. They were both sleeping in the large leather chairs. The clerk’s mouth was open and he was snoring softly. I had only two flights of stairs and I didn’t feel like answering a lot of questions.
