by Ed Ifkovic
“Then?” I prompted.
He lowered his voice. “You know, I kinda felt sorry for her, real bad. I walk up and whisper, ‘Get you a free cup of java, Miss?’ I ain’t supposed to do that but what the hell. She looked—real sad. But she shook her head and said no. But real sweet. Her voice was like—kind. She looked up into my face like seeing me for the first time, and she smiled. God, it made my heart jump. No girl smiles like that, folks. Even though she was crying to beat the band.”
“Did you see her go back into the hallway?”
“Naw. I was cleaning some tables by the window and when I turned back, her table is empty.”
“But Dougie”—I tapped his face in the article—“he came back?”
“Yep. I mean, he stands there looking around, puzzled like.”
“Did he look for his scarf?”
“Ain’t seen no scarf, ma’am. Yeah, the cops asked me the same thing. Could have been there. But I seen him starting to leave, or at least it looks like that, headed to the front door. Maybe not. I go into the kitchen, and when I come back, he ain’t there.”
“Thelma…”
He interrupted. “Christ, the screams that come from that woman.”
“How much later?” Noel asked.
“A few minutes, maybe. Five. Couldn’t tell you.”
He stood up, gave us a deferential wave and grin, and noticed that a table near us had the remains of someone’s dinner: a half-eaten piece of pumpkin pie, a bit of chicken pot pie, a small chunk of dark pumpernickel bread. “Lord,” he muttered, and then looked back at us, a feeble smile on his face. “People leave food all the time. Excuse me.” While we watched, he gathered the food and I expected him to dump it into a waste bin. Instead, nodding to himself, he placed the food at a table positioned near the front door, and walked away. He lingered at our table and whispered, “No one’s supposed to notice.”
But I did. Quietly, a woman and her young son slowly slinked into the room and sat at the table, facing the sidewalk, their backs to us. My heart jumped, touched, saddened.
Johnny leaned into us. “The manager—he’s is a real tyrant sometimes but, you know, look at him now.” We did. “He stares at the wall like there is something there he had to see.”
He left us, saluting us again as he walked away.
Mr. Farnum approached us. “So that’s it.” Finality to his tone. “The witnesses saw nothing that can help the police.”
I pointed to the Negro sweeping the floor. “Was that man here that night?”
He furrowed his brows. “Marvin?” I nodded. “Well, yes, but I don’t think he has anything to say about it. He sweeps the floor.”
“Nevertheless,” I insisted. “A minute with him. Please.”
He wasn’t happy but motioned to Marvin, who seemed surprised. “Marvin Peeples,” Mr. Farnum said in a clipped voice before stepping away.
The black man watched us closely, his fingers interlocked and cradling his potbelly. An old man with murky white shorn hair, a pale chalky face, pocked, bearing a scar at the corner of his upper lip.
“Have a seat, Mr. Peeples.” I pointed to a chair.
“Thank you, ma’am. No thanks. I’ll stand, if you don’t mind.” He glanced toward Farnum who was scratching his chin, his eyes focused on us.
“All right,” I said. “A moment of your time, sir. The night of the murder…”
His dark eyes got wide. “I seen them all,” he said slowly. “I seen them fussing and going on about things, but then leaving. The girl sits there, right there”—he pointed to a table near us, so quick a gesture that I jumped—“then goes in back.”
“Did you see the white scarf the man left behind?”
“Dunno. Might have been there.”
“Did you see this man return?” Again, I pointed to the picture.
He nodded. “Yeah, I seen him back at the table. Standing there—like confused.”
“Did he have a white scarf with him?” Noel asked.
“The police asks me the same thing. Funny thing is, I could of sworn he was wearing a white scarf. Could be wrong—maybe I’m thinking when he walked in because they were a noisy bunch of folks walking in—but I thought I seen him wrapping it around his neck.”
I shot a look at Noel. “Not good.”
I thought of something. “Had you ever seen him before in here?” I tapped the news photograph.
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not him. I remember folks. I keep an eye on everybody. People tickle me, you know. Always up to something.”
“What do you mean ‘not him’?” I asked.
“Well, I seen her before. The pretty girl what got strangled.”
“Belinda? In here?”
“Yes, ma’am. She was with that other guy, you know.”
“What other guy?” I asked quickly. I caught Noel’s eye. My heart raced.
“The other guy at the table. Like a week before, maybe. Late afternoon, maybe. I seen her sitting with that guy.”
“Corey?” I said to Noel.
“Are you sure?” asked Noel.
The man nodded, a hint of a smile on his face. “Yes, can’t forget that face, ma’am. He warn’t nice, that man, excuse me if I say so. Yes, like he was patting the pretty girl’s hand, like comforting her. She looked all sad and weepy.”
“Corey.” I spoke to myself.
“Yeah, ma’am, he was the man. I remember ’cause he yelled at me when I bumped into a table next to them. He jumped up, spilt his coffee on his gray flannel pants. He yelled at me, ‘Can’t you see we need a little privacy? Go sweep some other place, boy.’”
Chapter Eleven
In the darkened theater someone was singing onstage. Midday, the doors of the Paradise were unlocked, with no one in the lobby. Passing under that glittery new marquee sign, Noel and I had strolled in, our footsteps echoey on the old boards. We paused at the back of the orchestra, looking around. A faint light switched on in the wings made the stage shadowy. Another light from the lobby illuminated the rear seats, though barely. I stumbled, bumped into Noel, who grabbed my elbow.
“Walk much, Ferber darling?” he said, a nervous grin.
“Why are we here?”
“I told you. A cryptic call from Jackson Roswell,” Noel grumbled. “He woke me up. I regret giving the man my number.”
I stared up into his shadowy face. “And he made no sense?”
“He may have made sense—there’s a chance he was amazingly articulate, in fact—but at dawn my eyes were shut to the world, my head sunk into plump silk pillows, so the insanely rapid speech of the wide-awake American is Greek to me.”
I laughed. “So you interpreted his Gatling-gun spiel to mean he wanted an audience with us?”
“A loose translation, my dear. As I told you in the cab—he ended by saying he wanted answers. Or—I had answers. Or, maybe, he had answers. Do you have any answers, Edna?”
I walked down the aisle. “No, but I have lots of questions, Noel.”
He made a ta-da sound, danced a two-step. “And that’s why we are here today.”
It was at that moment, the two of us speaking in subdued voices for no apparent reason, we heard muted singing on the stage. I could barely make out a figure perched on a stool in the corner of the dark stage. A throaty baritone, thick and mournful. The song rang out in the dark theater, covered us. For a moment the singer hesitated as we approached, perhaps conscious of our being there, but then, his voice louder, he sang out:
Who dat a knockin’ at the door below,
Who dat a shivrin’ in the hail and snow,
I can hear you grumblin’ Mister Rufus Brown,
Just keep on a knockin’ babe, I won’t come down,
I wants to tell you that you can’t get in,
Have you been a gamblin’
Honey, did you win?
What’s that you tell me,
Coon you lost your breath?
I hopes you freezes to death.
A slight pause as he stood up and finished:
“What you gonna do when the rent comes ‘round?”
It was an old ragtime song from back before the Great War, a staple of provincial minstrel shows, featuring disheveled hoofers in garish black face exaggerating the Southern dialect. But this version was slowed down, a mournful dirge.
Suddenly the front-house lights snapped on, and a voice snarled, “Kent, I told you to cut out that crap. You hear me? You’re making us all crazy.”
Jackson Roswell rushed onto the stage from the wings, swung his fists in Kent LaSalle’s face. But the old actor, watching his boss strut around him, simply sat on the stool, arms folded on his chest. With the lights on I could distinguish his face: a bemused look, taunting. Finally the old actor stood up, smiled broadly, and pointed to Noel and me as we stood in the darkened aisles. “Ah, Mr. Interlocutor.”
Jackson muttered, “Goddamn it all to hell.”
“Mr. Roswell,” Noel began.
“Why is everything a surprise to me?”
That remark baffled us, and Noel strode forward, raising his hand in greeting.
“But you called me, sir.”
Jackson seemed flustered now, whispering to Kent, “Just go. I don’t want to hear that coon song anymore.”
“From my glory days in vaudeville,” Kent said, smug.
Jackson smirked. “Yeah, and look where it got you, you damn fool. A broken-down actor at the end of his days warbling in a…”
Kent finished, “In a broken down theater.”
Jackson’s hand pushed against the small of Kent’s back.
Bowing to the two of us, Kent shuffled off the stage as Jackson walked down to greet us. He looked over his shoulder at the departed Kent. “He’s losing his mind, frankly. Too much hooch at the gin mill a block over. Every day I walk in and he’s doing one-man shows in a mad house.”
“He sounded very good to me,” Noel offered. “A rich baritone.”
“Yeah, so what?” Jackson pointed to some seats, so we sat down.
“You called?” Noel said again. “I didn’t quite follow your early morning summons.”
A sickly smile, vaguely apologetic. “Yeah, sorry about that. I can’t sleep since…since the murder. Belinda. Jesus Christ. Murdered. I walk these hallways like a ghost.” He closed his eyes for a second. “I keep hearing her singing on that stage.” He looked back to the empty stage. “Our early days in Manhattan. Starting out.” He breathed in and then looked away. “Somebody took that all away.”
“Of course you have our deepest sympathy,” I began, but he suddenly stood and turned his back to us. A big hulk of a man dressed in an old flannel shirt, untucked, he bent over, his tremendous shoulders shaking.
Then, facing us, he said in a firm voice, “I called you, Noel, because Dougie said you were his closest friend. When Dougie introduced you to me—I can’t remember where we were—I felt you were on his side. On Belinda’s side.”
That news startled Noel, who flicked his eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“And I’m troubled by…Dougie.” Jackson paused, as though he’d explained his problem sufficiently.
“Just what do you wonder about, Mr. Roswell?” I asked.
He sat back down in a row in front of us, his body turned at angles to ours. “Is he the murderer? Dougie?” His voice echoed across the theater. “The police think so. Everybody thinks so. The scarf. The fights they had. But he walks in here and takes me by surprise. I don’t know what to make of it.”
“Dougie comes here?” I asked, surprised. “After Belinda’s death?”
He puffed out his cheeks. “God, yes. More than once. For Christ’s sake, folks. I turn around and he’s standing there.” He pointed. “Or there. Everywhere. Just standing here. Or he drops into a seat like—like waiting for a show to begin. It gives me—it gives everyone—the willies.”
“What does he say?” From Noel.
He scratched his chin. “Most times nothing. This—like a haunted look on his face. Christ, a ghost. We’re rehearsing a skit—we got a show scheduled—we need the money.” He seemed apologetic. “We were closed a couple days after the—the murder. But we got to make a living.”
Noel told him, “I hear Tommy Stuyvesant is planning a memorial at the New Beacon.”
“I know.” A flash of fire. “That’s my job, no? My job. Anyway, Dougie…I said to him, ‘Dougie, what are you doing here?’ He doesn’t answer at first. I don’t want to go near him. I’m thinking—this is the man who killed poor Belinda. My sister. Linda. He strangled that beautiful girl. A murderer.” His voice broke. “And he’s sitting here. Staring, just staring.”
“Did he say what he wants?” I asked.
Jackson looked over the empty seats. “‘I just wanna be here.’ That’s what he tells me in this tiny voice, like a little boy who lost a toy. ‘I wanna sit here. I don’t wanna be any place else.’”
“My God,” I said, shivering, “he’s hurting.”
“I know, I know. But it’s eerie, sickening.”
Noel held up his hand. “But understandable, isn’t it? He loved her.”
Jackson’s face contorted. “But he killed her.”
Silence, Noel and I making eye contact. I went on, “Mr. Roswell, I know you’re grieving, but don’t rush to judgment. You do know that Dougie maintains his innocence.”
Bitter, eyes piercing mine. “I know you two think that. His friends.” He tapped his heart. “But my heart knows what’s what.”
Again, I waited a moment. “What do you want from us?”
“Tell him to—to…” A helpless shrug. “I don’t know.” A nervous tick in his voice. “I don’t want to make him angry, you know. I’m in a bind. We got no money here. Piddling audiences. We’re hanging on by a thread. This is my lifeblood. The stage is my…my life. My only life. Belinda was helping out, you know, but she was just starting out. Just making bucks. But Dougie…”
Suddenly I understood his dilemma. “But Dougie was helping out more. His cash—his unwanted presence. A conundrum, sir?”
He watched me closely. “I know I sound real shallow and mercenary, but these are bad times. If I alienate him—or, I don’t know, make him forget that we’re here, that wouldn’t be good for us.”
“‘What you gonna do when the rent comes ‘round?’” Noel sang out the line, unfortunately in a feeble Uncle Remus inflection.
Jackson frowned. “That’s real cruel, Mr. Coward.”
“Mr. Roswell, you seem to be in a hard place. One hand held up against the face of a man you insist is the murderer of your sister. The other hand is conveniently in his pocket.”
Standing up, he stepped into the aisle, his head turned toward the stage. “Oh, my God. What kind of man do you think I am?”
“You’re not that difficult to read,” I insisted.
Noel touched the sleeve of my coat. “He is grieving, Edna.”
Jackson smiled at Noel, a thank-you nod at someone he believed was his advocate. Jittery, beads of sweat on his brow, his upper lip twitched.
“Yes, I am.”
“So am I,” I insisted. “I’m saddened by the loss of that young life. A girl just starting out. So unfair.”
“Then you understand. Then…”
“Then,” I went on, “you have a wrinkle, sir. You’re going to have to make your own decision. Not me—not Noel.”
Jackson spoke in a small voice. “Every Thursday a check was messengered to my office.”
“Yesterday? So…”
“A day late,” Noel noted.
He nodded.
I said sharply, “Maybe he’s preoccupied. He is tryin
g to save his own life from the electric chair.”
Jackson shuddered. “How you put things, Miss Ferber.”
“And we’re”—I pointed to Noel—“we’re hell-bent on helping him escape that fate.”
For a second his eyes flamed, a burst of anger. “You got a hard road to travel then, the two of you. Good luck.” But then, dropping his voice, he squirmed. “I was hoping you’d talk to him. A few words from friends could…” His voice trailed off.
“Never.” My voice echoed off the ceiling.
He stiffened, his arms folding over his chest. Color rose in his cheeks.
“You know, you’re the only ones who think he’s innocent. Maybe you two got cloudy vision.”
Incensed, Noel stood, backed away. “You’re not a nice man, Jackson Roswell.”
He swiveled on his heels. His shoulders hunched, he barreled past us, disappearing into the lobby. A door opened and slammed shut—Jackson headed upstairs to his apartment.
“That went well, Miss F,” Noel said.
I gripped the back of a theater seat. “Something else is going on here,” I told him. “This is not the whole story.”
He looked into my face. “Like what?”
“For starters, I don’t trust this man.” My eyes went to the empty doorway. “He has a secret he’s afraid will get out.”
“How in the world do you know that?”
I pointed to my chest. “Gut instinct.”
“Infallible?”
“Always.”
“Do you think he killed his own sister, Edna? Unlikely, no? She had the golden touch. Miss Midas with a paramour sitting on tons of cash. Why strangle the golden goose?”
“There may be more to the story.”
“I think with Jackson everything always comes back to—money.” He touched my elbow. “Let’s get out of this rat trap.”
