by Michelle Cox
When he had been called to the crime scene at the Promenade that day, he had to admit that he had looked forward to having to cross-examine her. Not only did he guiltily wish to gaze upon her once more, but he was intrigued to see what her reaction to his being a cop would be. He had been impressed the night before when she had guessed it. It had amused him to listen to her accuse him of lying and to hotly defend the clarinet player, as if he even remotely suspected him. As the interview had proceeded, however, an idea had come to him and he realized that perhaps he could use her, having sized her up pretty accurately, or so he believed. They had tried before to get girls into the Marlowe, but they had always failed to get past the “audition.” As he had looked her over yet again in the back room of the Promenade, he realized she might be exactly what he was looking for. He had been a bit surprised, though, and saddened, really, at how little it had taken to convince her to go undercover for him.
She had made it through the audition, just as he had guessed she would, and was proving to be a most excellent informer in her own naive way, but Clive was now getting a bit worried that she might be in over her head. He had to admit that he had thought her more experienced when he first met her, but now he realized that she was a lot younger than he had first supposed and clearly more innocent . . .
Clive tried to steer his ruminations back to the case. The large amount of cash they had found in Mama Leone’s office would seem to prove that not only was her death not the result of a robbery gone wrong, but instead lent itself to the theory that Mama Leone was getting kickbacks from Neptune for goods supplied. How else would she have amassed that much cash? But why kill her, then? Was she getting greedy? Was someone blackmailing her? Mickey was obviously an accidental witness and therefore killed, but why wasn’t this Polly coming forward? Was she part of the ring? He took another sip of his scotch. If they could only find her, she might be able to give them more information about what Mama Leone had been up to, who her contacts were, not to mention more information about her missing sister.
That had been a bungled affair—the missing sister. His predecessor who had handled the case had not gone deep enough, he was sure. Neptune had been picked up at the time and questioned. Clive had merely been a junior detective then, but he had witnessed the various “interviews” the police had conducted while they held him temporarily at the station. Neptune had merely glared at them through his bushy eyebrows, grinning maniacally at the time, and insisting that he be allowed to talk with his lawyer, as if he had one. In the end, they had been forced to release him, very much worse for wear, thanks to the officers on duty that night, not having anything concrete on which to hold him.
Something just didn’t add up, though, Clive told himself again. He was missing something; he just knew it. For one thing, if Neptune was really running a prostitution ring, why would two girls have gone missing now? Weren’t they more valuable to him alive than dead? Had something gone wrong? Had they threatened to squeal?
One thing was clear, however. If Neptune had killed two girls already and now Mickey, Henrietta was very probably in danger as well. He would pull her from the operation tonight. She had gotten him enough information to confirm his theory, and instead he would double his efforts to find this Polly. Surely she held the key to the mystery.
Where was she? Henrietta, that was? he wondered as he again glanced at the door. He leaned back and took out his pocket watch again. The frown on his face softened momentarily as he lingered to look at the photograph wedged inside the cover. It was Catherine on their wedding day. He snapped the watch shut and took a large gulp of his whiskey, trying to block the memories that always lingered just below the surface.
He had been born into a wealthy, upper-class family, just he and his older sister, Julia. His father had wanted him to go to law school, but the war had intervened. His father insisted that he could get him a deferment, but Clive had refused and had joined up the first chance he got. He was not usually the rebellious type and he knew the sorrow he would cause his parents and his childhood sweetheart, Catherine, if he went away, but his sense of duty and honor could not be quelled no matter how much his mother cried or how tender Catherine’s kisses were. Given the imminent situation, both sets of parents had agreed to let them marry hurriedly before Clive shipped out. They had had very little time together, but it was enough for Catherine to be with child as she waved goodbye to him as he leaned out the window of the train departing Union Station bound for New York, where a ship lay waiting to carry him to France.
When he had returned just eleven months later, his right shoulder in tatters, he discovered that Catherine and the baby, a little girl, had both died in childbirth. No letter had ever reached him, informing him of his great loss. He lay in bed for months, recuperating, until finally his shoulder had healed, though the war was over then, and no one was sure anymore why it had even begun. It took much longer, however, for his broken heart to heal, and he buried it very deeply, not caring what happened to it anymore and accepting that the world for him would always be a little bit darker now. He had lost count of the nights he had lain awake asking himself why he had lived. Why had he made it through only to come home to an empty house, an empty life?
Almost immediately, he had given up any idea of becoming a lawyer, though he was still interested in a different aspect of the law— upholding it. He could no longer stomach the idea of sitting in an office, pouring over corporate policies for his father’s firm or worse, standing in a courtroom persuading a group of men as to the innocence or not of a fellow man. Law, order, justice was all that made sense to him now, but he was determined to do something concrete to stop the tide of hurt and sorrow he had seen inflicted on innocent people at the hands of a few. It was his own small way of correcting the injustice that had been dealt to him, and so he had joined the police force, quickly rising to the rank of detective inspector, one of the youngest ever to do so, and meanwhile quietly closing that particular chapter in his life in which could be read his short affair with love.
As the years passed, he had been successful in keeping himself aloof from women, sharing his small apartment with only his dog, Katie—his girl, as he liked to affectionately call her—though his parents had begged him to meet someone else. They had held elaborate dinner parties at their home on the exclusive North Shore and had introduced him to several eligible women, many widowed by the war, but he just couldn’t seem to make himself be interested in any of them, preferring instead to nurse his wounds privately, usually with a bottle of scotch. His sorrow was made worse by the knowledge that not only did it pain his parents to see him alone, but that they were doubly despondent that the family name—and fortune—would not be handed down. It could not be helped, however. He just couldn’t forget—forgive—what had happened, not only with his own fledgling family, but at the front itself.
That is until now. He had met this silly, no not silly, divine, girl—woman—Henrietta, and, if truth be told, he was a bit frightened, unnerved, by the response she had elicited in him. The part of him that he believed comfortably buried was coming alive again almost against his will, and he could not stop the guilt that washed over him. He had no wish to betray Catherine nor to rob the cradle he saw before him, but he found it difficult, almost impossible, to stop thinking about Henrietta. She haunted his dreams in a way Catherine never had. He had practically grown up with Catherine; it had made sense for them to marry, but Henrietta . . . this was something different altogether. But who was he fooling? She was young and, dear God, so beautiful; she could have any man she chose to flash that lovely smile of hers at. Why would a girl like her have any interest in a broken-down old man like himself? Now in his mid-thirties, he felt like he had already lived a whole lifetime. How could she ever give her heart to someone like himself? And yet, though it scared him to admit it, he suspected he had already lost his heart to her, wanting to protect her, keep her safe, love her.
It had taken every ounce of his self-possession to
stop himself from striding down the hallway that night at Polly’s apartment and busting open the thin door behind which he knew she stood undressing, or from simply wrapping his arms around her as she had sat sewing across from him when she had told him of her large, impoverished family. Something about the scene had uncomfortably reminded him of the few blessed evenings he had had at home with Catherine before he had shipped off, how they had sat in quiet contentment before he had led her to the bedroom . . .
But while Catherine had been very quiet and demure and while he had once loved her for that, he oddly found himself attracted to Henrietta’s fresh enthusiasm, her spunk, as it were, and he longed to drink from that fountain of youth, to refresh his weary soul after so many years of mourning, and yet he knew this was wrong. He was too old for her; she deserved someone young like herself, someone like that pipsqueak his men kept picking up. What his name? Stanley? His men had repeatedly spotted him following Henrietta on her way home from the Marlowe and had picked him up before he could blow the whole operation. He was obviously moonstruck with Henrietta, and who could blame him? Perhaps it would be better to leave Henrietta to the likes of him, someone her own age; after all, he seemed keen enough to watch over her. But then again, Henrietta did not seem to appreciate Stanley’s efforts, if he read the situation correctly, and he smiled to himself at how annoyed she seemed to be with him, but protective, too. Or what about that numbskull, Artie?, though he sensed that that situation was on the rocks, if it had ever been anything real to begin with.
Had he imagined that there was something in her eyes when she sometimes looked up into his own face—a longing perhaps? Desire? His heart skipped a beat whenever he caught her looking surreptitiously at him, but he tried to dismiss it as useless fancy on his part. Let’s face it, he admitted as he tossed back the last of his scotch, she was very charming, and he had seen her flash her blue eyes at other men as well. She was a slippery fish and he wasn’t sure she was all that keen to be caught. And, anyway, he had lost his love of the sport, or had he? Too often, if he were honest, he had imagined what it might be like to kiss her soft lips, to feel her body close to his . . .
Stop it! he told himself. This is madness! A thoroughly useless pursuit. He had never been so distracted on a case in his life, and he worried it was clouding his understanding of the facts. The sooner she was off of the case, the better.
He looked up, then, from the empty glass he was staring at to signal the bartender for another when he saw with a start that she was standing right beside him.
“Where’d you come from?” he asked, surprised, and felt a warmth inside at the sight of her face lighting up in a smile. “I’ve been watching for you . . . bartender!” he called loudly. “Another! And for you,” he said, standing, making room for her at the bar next to him. “Tom Collins, wasn’t it?”
He saw her blush slightly. “Well, if you don’t mind.”
“Tom Collins,” he said to the bartender, who had just plopped down another scotch in front of him.
“I got your note,” she whispered irresistibly. “Very mysterious. How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I needed to talk to you,” she continued, whispering. “So much has happened.”
He looked worriedly at her face, trying to ascertain if what had happened was good or bad. “Such as?”
She looked around her and then back at him. “Maybe we should sit at a table,” she suggested, nodding toward one over in the corner.
“Not a bad idea,” he said, laying down some cash and taking up the drinks.
Clive watched as she removed her coat and sat opposite him. Even in her faded overalls, she looked exquisite.
“Let’s have it then. What’s this big news?”
She leaned dangerously close to him over her absurd Tom Collins. “I’ve been beyond the green door!” she whispered excitedly. “I got a white feather! But I had to endure a kiss from Jenks, if you can believe it. Perfectly wretched, it was,” she said making a face of disgust.
Clive felt a pain of fear in the pit of his stomach. “Slow down. What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. You told me to look for anything suspicious. Obviously that would be the green door and what goes on beyond it. Lucy and her friends told me that the girls that are part of it wear white feathers in their hair. That’s how the men know who’s available.” She was talking very fast. “It’s mostly dancers, but Ruby and Agnes have one, too, which is unusual, you see, ‘cause they’re usherettes. I tried to get friendly with them, but they weren’t interested. That is until I caught Agnes doing the business with one of the bouncers. I hated doing it, honestly, Inspector, but I had to . . . ”
Clive’s stomach knotted. “Do what?”
“Well, blackmail her, I guess you’d call it.”
Clive breathed a sigh of relief and found himself wanting to laugh, despite the severity of the situation, at the thought of her attempting to blackmail anybody, but he manfully held it in as Henrietta continued her tale.
“She . . . she told Jenks I wanted in . . . to the White Feather Club— that’s what Lucy and the gang call it. I think Jenks was annoyed by the whole thing. She doesn’t like me; she even said so, right to my face, if you can believe it. She thinks I’m up to something . . . but then, why would she kiss me? Maybe she knew I’d find it horrible?” she mumbled to herself, mulling it over as she paused to take a drink.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Clive said, motioning with his hand for her to stop. “Agnes got Jenks to approach you about this . . . white feather club?” He asked the question awkwardly, trying to understand it. “Is that right?”
“Well, yes, but it was Larry who brought me to Jenks’s office. Through some tunnels under the theater.”
“Tunnels? What sort of tunnels?”
“You know, the usual sort of tunnels. Dark, narrow, creepy.”
“Hmmm,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He did not like the sound of this, but it might explain a few things. “Where do they lead?”
“I told you! To Jenks’s office,” she whispered.
“From where? Where did you enter?”
“That’s the strangest thing. From this little door behind the bar. It looks like a cabinet, but it leads down some steps to these tunnels. Cold and damp, stone walls, no light. Larry had a flashlight, but it didn’t help much.”
“Larry’s the custodian?”
“Sort of. He does Jenks’s bidding; he’s completely in her power, poor thing, however disgusting he might be.”
“Were there other passageways down there?”
Henrietta thought for a moment. “I don’t think so, but it was hard to tell. There were big doors, like warehouse doors. Didn’t look like they’d been used in a long time, though.”
Clive wondered if would have been easy access to the river in the past. Perhaps it really had been a warehouse. If so, it would be a convenient way to get rid of the bodies of the two missing girls, or any others . . . He took a drink. “Then what?”
We went up some steps, and then we were in another hallway! At one end there was a green door with Mrs. Jenkins’s office right next to it. It took me a few minutes before I realized that I was on the other side of the green door, that we had come up from below to a place behind it!”
“It was a hallway, you say? Any windows?” he asked, trying to imagine how a raid might go.
“No . . . the only window I saw was in Jenks’s office itself. I could see the river beyond.”
So this hidden hallway must be in the back of the building, he surmised. “Anyone else around?” He thought he saw Henrietta blush. She took a sip of her Tom Collins.
“No one I saw, but I . . . I think I heard people. Behind the doors as we walked back to Mrs. Jenkins. Lots of moans, bed squeaks . . . ,” she said quietly, not looking at him at first but then resolutely lifting her head and making eye contact, the slightest toss of her hair, as if to prove she was unaffected. “You know
. . . I’m sure that’s where the business is being transacted.”
It pained him to see how she was pretending. How had he not noticed this before? He was rarely wrong when it came to sizing people up, especially when interrogating a suspect, but she had completely thrown him for a loop. That night at the Promenade when they had danced, she had seemed so much older than she really was, like she had been around the block a few times. Well, she had been around the block, but not in that way, it was clear to him now; she had somehow retained her virtue on the way. But how could that be? he mused. She had seen a lot; worn low-cut, sleazy dresses; drank shots of whiskey when necessary, and yet she still blushed at the mention of beds squeaking in the night. He looked away from her and took another drink, not sure how much longer he could trust himself alone with her. “What did Jenks say?” he managed.
“Just that she doesn’t trust me, but that Agnes vouched for me. Oh, yes . . . I forgot this part. She said she was being overruled by Neptune. That he . . . ” her fingers tapped the table nervously, “has . . . has wanted me from the beginning . . . so she was forced to give me a feather.” He thought he perceived a slight timorousness in her voice as she said it, making his stomach churn.
