A Girl Like You

by Michelle Cox

  “Suppose you tell me now what happened?” he asked, taking another drink of his beer, having finished his sausages now. He was sitting on the divan opposite her, his legs casually crossed. He had taken off his overcoat and his suit jacket and had loosened his tie.

  Henrietta looked away from him and took up the costume again. “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “What is it like inside?” he prompted her. “What’s the layout?”

  “It’s very creepy, actually. Very dim, hard to find your way around, lots of twisty hallways. It would be easy to get lost, or to hide, I suppose. It reminds me of a maze.”

  “How many girls?” he asked, draining his bottle now.

  “Tried out, you mean? I couldn’t say. Hundreds, I’d imagine.”

  “How many made it?” he clarified.

  “Six of us.”

  “Six? You’re sure? That seems a lot.”

  “Funny, I was thinking the opposite.”

  “Once they’re in, not many quit, so there’s usually not that many openings. It means that . . . well, never mind,” he said, standing up. “Where’d you say that whiskey was?”

  “Under the sink,” she replied, and bent over her work again as he went to get it. He returned with the bottle and two glasses, holding one out to her. She accepted it, though she was not yet finished with the beer he had given her. She took a large drink of it before setting it down, and coughed slightly as a result.

  “Who’re the ringleaders?” he asked, taking his seat on the divan again.

  “Probably Mrs. Jenkins,” Henrietta replied. “She seems to be the person in charge, and she was mostly running the auditions.”

  “Not a man?”

  “No . . . I thought that strange, too. But there was a man sitting next to her, watching everything. Mrs. Jenkins kept bending over and whispering with him, like he was telling her what to say. But he never moved. He just sat there staring. It gave me the creeps.” Henrietta shuddered, remembering it all again.

  “Hmmm,” the inspector said, deep in thought, holding his glass near his mouth but not taking a drink.

  “Do you think it could have been Neptune?” she asked.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Stocky. Thick eyebrows, small black eyes.”

  “That’s him,” he said, taking the drink now. “Anyone else?”

  “Just her assistant, Esther, and the custodian, or whatever he is. Bit of a simpleton. Esther’s okay, I suppose, but she was put out having to help us find costumes. Mostly works for the dancers and wasn’t too happy about having to help us.”

  “What’s this Mrs. Jenkins like?”

  “No nonsense. Says we can’t go anywhere alone. We always have to have a partner, even going to the bathroom.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She says it’s a rough crowd, I think is how she put it. She says there’s been some accidents lately.”

  “Accidents?” the inspector asked, his brow furrowed. “What sort?”

  “She didn’t say exactly, but I overheard something strange. It was quite horrible, actually,” she said faintly, taking another drink of the whiskey.

  “Go on,” the inspector encouraged, though his face was drawn tight now.

  “I overheard Mrs. Jenkins and Esther in one of the hallways when I went back to get some thread for this,” she said, momentarily holding up the dress. “Mrs. Jenkins told Esther that he—whoever that is— maybe Neptune?—wants Iris tonight. Then Esther said she seems young and that blood is hard to clean.” Henrietta added this last bit barely above a whisper.

  If the Inspector felt any alarm at this revelation, he didn’t show it, but kept his face very still, moving only to take another sip of his whiskey. His eyes looked apprehensive, however. “Anything else?” he asked carefully.

  Henrietta thought for a moment. “Just that it’s odd that this dress has a rip in the bodice, of all places,” she said, holding it up now for him to see, “and that the custodian—Larry, I think his name is—told me that this was her dress and that it was unlucky.”

  “Who’s her?” he asked as his eyes traveled across the bosom of the dress.

  “No idea. Libby Shoemaker maybe?”

  “That seems a stretch.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But what do you think it all means?” she asked, biting the thread now.

  “Something not good, I imagine,” he said quietly as he stood up. He began to pace slowly in front of the window, and after watching him for a moment to see if any more information would be forthcoming, Henrietta went back to sewing. A comfortable silence settled upon them now, broken only when the inspector shook himself from his reverie and asked her if she minded him smoking a pipe.

  “Course I don’t mind! You don’t have to ask. My own dad used to smoke one from time to time.”

  The inspector stood up and rifled through his suit coat pocket, deftly locating a small rosewood pipe. He methodically filled and then lit it, a spicy cloud slowly rising toward the ceiling after a few moments. Eventually he sat back down across from her, leaning his head casually against his fist, his arm propped up along the back of the divan. Despite his assumed informality, Henrietta was acutely aware of his eyes upon her.

  “Sorry this is taking so long,” Henrietta finally said apologetically. “I’m nearly done now. My sister, Elsie, would have been much quicker than me, I’m ashamed to say. But I naturally couldn’t take this home, now could I?” Henrietta said, holding it up in front of her.

  The inspector looked at the dress again. “That’s certainly not a Dutch Girl costume,” he said with a slight smile, his eyebrow arched again. An unexpected look of concern then rippled across his face. “You can’t stay here, Miss Von Harmon,” he said seriously. “It’s much too dangerous. They’ll be watching. I’m sure of it.”

  “Who exactly?”

  “If I’m guessing correctly, the two thugs who bumped off Mama Leone. And if they didn’t get a real good look at Polly, they might think you’re her. It’s already happened once today with Kelly and Charlie, and it’s very likely it could happen again.”

  Henrietta gave a little sigh and felt dangerously close to tears. “But, Inspector, I can’t go home each night. Not like this,” she said, giving the costume a little shake.

  “Who’s at home, then, that you’re so worried about?” he asked gently, his head tilted now and his eyes holding hers.

  Henrietta hesitated a few moments before answering. “My mother, I suppose. There’s eight of us. Eight kids, that is.”

  “Eight?” he seemed surprised.

  Henrietta tried to smile and shrugged.

  “And your father?” he asked quietly.

  Henrietta looked away. “He died. A few years ago.”

  The inspector looked as though he were about to ask something else but then seemed to change his mind. “I see,” he said, standing up now and walking back toward the window. “Well, regardless of your precarious position at home, you can’t come back here any time soon, even to change clothes.” His aloofness had returned. “You’ll just have to change at the Marlowe. It’ll look more natural, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s easy for you to say,” Henrietta said, her face burning now as she pulled the thread through the last stitch and balled it into a knot, hating the old feelings of shame that crept out of a place she had believed safely hidden away. She bit the thread with her teeth and held up the dress to survey her handiwork. Not perfect, she assessed, but she supposed it would have to do. “I guess I’m finished now,” she said to his back as she began slowly packing up the sewing kit.

  “Right, then, I’ll see you home,” he said, turning and moving toward the divan where he had left his suit coat. As he slipped it on, she stood up and realized then that she was still wearing Polly’s emerald dress. “You’ll have to wait just a minute while I get out of this,” she said uncomfortably. He was standing very near her now, and he was looking at her with a tender, sad sort of look she didn’t
recognize. Was it compassion? she wondered and hoped to God it wasn’t pity. Whatever it was, there was an awkwardness now between them. He seemed about to say something, by stopped himself. “Yes, of course,” he said instead, looking away now and sitting back down on the divan to wait, puffing deeply at his pipe.

  Henrietta made her way to Polly’s bedroom and softly shut the door, one hand reaching for her buttons as she did so. She quickly undid them and let the dress drop to the floor. As she gingerly stepped out of it, she looked behind her and felt her stomach flutter, knowing that only a thin door separated her from the inspector beyond. For one breathless moment she allowed herself to imagine him coming in unawares, seeing her in her underthings . . . Would he still have the same look of pity, or would it be replaced by something else? she wondered briefly. She felt herself flush and scolded herself for such thoughts. No, she decided, this was not the way to attract such a man as the inspector, if one were wont to do so, which, of course, she wasn’t, she muttered as she hurriedly put on Eugene’s clothes. No, the inspector seemed a different sort altogether—respectable, honorable—one which Henrietta had rarely come upon. They were, after all, alone together in this apartment. He could easily overpower her. But she hadn’t been afraid once, nor had he once overstepped the mark, though she thought she might have read desire in his eyes. But perhaps she was mistaken, though; he could be decidedly chilly, and what did it matter, anyway?

  She shook herself from her thoughts and paused for a quick second in front of Polly’s little mirror to check her hair, hating the fact that she had to appear in front of him yet again in the baggy overalls and boots, but there was nothing for it. With a sigh, she opened the bedroom door and returned to the front room where he stood waiting for her, his extinguished pipe in hand now.

  At the sight of her in Eugene’s clothes, his eyes lit up in amusement once again, and his mouth twitched as he surveyed her. “Why, Miss Von Harmon, you look simply ravishing,” he said, smugly. “Ready?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she said, avoiding his eyes, and looking instead around the room to make sure she hadn’t left anything. “I think you might be overreacting, though, Inspector, about staying here, that is,” she said, slightly irritated, as she made her way to the door. “It seems to me that the real danger lies inside the Marlowe, not here,” she said, gesturing round the apartment. “And anyway, how do I contact you if I do get into trouble? You said you’d have men watching, but I didn’t see anyone!”

  “Well, if you saw us, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?” he said patronizingly. He picked up the carpetbag for her and opened the door. “If you’re ever in real danger,” he said more seriously now, “call the station at 124; they’ll know how to reach me. Don’t worry, though. I’ll have men on the lookout. Some even in the audience at times, if we’re lucky, but we’ve got to be very careful not to blow our cover. We’ve been after Neptune for a long time now.”

  “What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?” she asked as they descended the back stairs, the inspector still at the top, locking the door behind them.

  “Anything suspicious. Keep an eye on Neptune if you can, and this Jenkins. Try to get to know some of the girls. Get them to trust you; they might open up then.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  She had reached the bottom of the stairs now and had walked around to the front of the building, which sat on Mildred Street. She looked forlornly toward Wrightwood as the inspector came up behind her. “I’ve probably missed the last streetcar down to Armitage by now,” she sighed.

  The inspector laughed. “You didn’t honestly think I was going to put you on the streetcar, did you?” He stepped toward the curb, raising his hand to hail a cab.

  It took Henrietta a few moments to realize what he was doing, but when she did, she hurriedly stepped forward, putting her hand on his arm. “No, don’t get a taxi!” she said. “I . . . I don’t want to spend the money. I’ll just walk; I’ve done it often enough before. It’ll do me good,” she tried to say cheerfully. “It’ll give me time to think.”

  His brow creased as a cab pulled to a stop in front of him. “Don’t be ridiculous. Get in!” he said sternly.

  Obediently, Henrietta climbed in, the driver taking her carpetbag and setting it beside him on the front seat while the inspector got in beside her.

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “Twenty-nine ten West Armitage,” she said somewhat sullenly. She wasn’t sure why she was irritated with him.

  “Got that, driver?” the inspector asked, leaning forward. The driver merely nodded, and the inspector sat back in the seat next to Henrietta.

  “This isn’t necessary, you know,” she said, looking out the window.

  “Perhaps not. But if someone is watching, they won’t be able to follow you this way,” he said quietly.

  “Oh,” was all Henrietta could think to say. Their arrangement was beginning to be more than she had bargained for.

  The silence between them continued, Henrietta not wanting to look over at him. The emotion and stress of the day, plus the late-night whiskey and now the rocking of the car, were all taking their toll on her. She was feeling very tired suddenly and tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Well, thanks, I suppose,” she mumbled finally, watching the buildings on Lincoln Avenue and then Fullerton speed by, no traffic to hinder their progress west.

  “Don’t mention it,” the inspector said thinly, not looking over at her either, but continuing to gaze out the window on his own side.

  Henrietta remembered very little of the rest of the ride home, waking up with a start when the cab came to an abrupt stop in front of her building. She opened her eyes, trying to ascertain where she was, and suddenly realized she had been asleep on the inspector’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” she said, looking quickly up at him and then away.

  His eyes held that strangely tender, sad look again, which she couldn’t readily decipher. She busied herself collecting her handbag and brushing her hair into place with her hands while the inspector got out of the car and came around to open the door for her. She didn’t look at him as he walked her to the door, carrying her carpetbag, the cab idling as it waited for him to return.

  “Be careful, Miss Von Harmon,” the inspector said grimly, handing the bag to her now.

  “Yes. I will,” she said, looking up at him finally. He was standing so very close to her that she could almost feel his breath in the night air. Her legs felt weak, but perhaps it was merely the cold.

  “There was just one other thing I forgot to tell you . . . ”

  “Yes?” she asked hopefully.

  “Just that your man, Artie, has been cleared. Seems he has an airtight alibi.”

  “Artie?” she asked, distracted.

  “In all night with his mother. Jones spoke with her himself. So you needn’t worry that you’re stepping out with a murderer,” he said with a sad smile.

  Henrietta was in turmoil as she shuffled through the emotions now filling her. Artie had told her a while ago that his mother was dead . . . whom had Jones talked with, then? And she resented Artie being called ‘her man,’ especially by the inspector. “I . . . I think you’ve got it all wrong, Inspector. Artie— ”

  “I’d best be going, Miss Von Harmon. That’s your affair,” he interrupted, turning to walk back to the cab. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

  “But, Inspector, you’ve got it all wrong!”

  “I don’t think so, Miss Von Harmon. Jones was quite clear,” he said, still not turning around.

  “Aren’t you even going to wish me luck?” she called out almost desperately, not knowing what else to say and suddenly not wanting him to leave.

  “Good luck, then, Miss Von Harmon,” he said, turning back momentarily and politely tipping his hat to her. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, as he turned around and climbed into the cab without looking back again.

  Henrietta sighed as she watched him go and pushed
heavily on the door to go in, not knowing why she felt so low as the cab pulled away. How could she be falling for a cop, anyway? she wondered, realizing it fully now. Had she totally taken leave of her senses? Besides, even if she was falling for him, he was clearly not interested in a girl like her.

  Meanwhile, as the inspector sat in the back seat of the cab travelling south, he removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop thinking about how very young she had looked, asleep on his shoulder. He swallowed hard and hoped to God he wasn’t making a mistake.

  CHAPTER 8

  Henrietta smiled nervously as she pulled on her white kid gloves and adjusted her red satin cap again. She wasn’t sure if it looked better perched on the crown of her head or a bit off-center in a possibly more alluring position. It had been hard to tell as she had hurriedly gotten dressed, having to fight for time in front of the mirrors that lined one whole wall of the usherettes’ dressing room at the Marlowe Theater. Below the mirrors were six makeup vanities and cushioned stools, stained over the years from spilled rouge and face powder, not at all as nice as the professional makeup stations in the dancers’ dressing room next door. Theirs had high stools, lighted mirrors, and fully stocked vanities with rows and rows of pretty shades of lipstick and rouge. Esther was never far from the dancers, helping them to dress or touch up their makeup, and was even seen occasionally getting them drinks from the bar. The usherettes, on the other hand, were left to fend for themselves.