“How soon?”
Hank shrugged. “He says the gangster tip may lead him to her because it’d be almost hopeless working only on the Jenny Smith angle. All those hip heavers change their names as soon as they strip and some of them enter the ranks deliberately using names like Smith and Jones and Brown to hide their identities. What happens is this—you get a dolly named Gladys Zybisco. She goes to the booking agent, and gets a job. Name? Gladys remembers that Mamma Zybisco always told her that to dance in burlesque would bring disgrace to the Zybisco name. So she tells the booking agent her name is Gladys Smith, or Gladys Jones. Whereupon the booking gent immediately changes her name to Bubbles Lavere, or Peaches Divine or other such classic monikers.”
I said, “We’re probably wasting our time with all this. It isn’t likely that Paula went to her sister—she hadn’t seen her in years, and with that name routine she couldn’t have found her even if she had wanted to.”
Thurston Wilkinson, the cartoonist, ambled over and cut short our dialogue.
I said, “You’re a bit of a long hair, Thurston. Where would I go to meet somebody who’d know the current crop of painters?”
“You’re looking at him,” said Thurston. “Which crew do you want, moderns or jerks?”
“Moderns.”
“That lets me out then,” Thurston chortled. “I thought you were after the uptown academy boys. The man you want to see for the modern is Boucher. Down in the Village. There isn’t a modern painter from here to the backhouse school that he doesn’t know. He’s an expert on all the schools, especially the French. Who do you want to meet?”
“Boucher?” I said. “Is his name Pierre Boucher?”
“George Boucher. Who do you want to meet?” Thurston repeated.
“Paula Smith.”
“An artist?” He screwed his face. “It’s a familiar name. How does she paint?”
“Modern, I guess.”
“Modern Paula Smith.” Thurston rolled the name around on his tongue. “Familiar, but I just can’t place her.”
I turned to Hank. “All this reminds me of Lucy down at Mrs. Preston’s. She told me a little story I forgot to mention. What is The Frog Club? A night club?”
“Not quite. It’s a combination intellectual cave and sightseeing dump and winery.”
“It sounds like something out of Billy Rose.”
Hank frowned. “Maybe it is. I haven’t been down there in some time. The dump started as a hangout for French stumblebums who called themselves modern painters.”
“Any particular school?”
He laughed. “For my money they all came from the Bowery school. They wore un-pressed pants and dirty shirts and crazy neckerchiefs out of the sewers of Paris. They covered the walls with surrealism and Dadaism and all the other isms in the book. They got a lot of publicity because of these cockeyed paintings and after a while they began to draw the long-nosed uptown crowd with heavy dough and light morals. Of course, as soon as Park Avenue seeped in the bums were forced out of the place and the prices jacked up above your ears. The joint changed hands several times and finally went to a gent named Lecotte—”
I held him there. “Pierre Lecotte?”
“You guessed it.”
“I hope so. Lucy told me that she saw Paula with a Pierre something or other. I’m looking for a Pierre. It might be Lecotte.”
“New York is lousy with Pierres. And plenty of them hang out in the dark alleys of the Village.”
“What does Lecotte look like?”
“Nothing much. About your size, sports a mustache, a French accent and a wonderful art routine. He eats, drinks and sleeps with his art. Class.”
I said, “He sounds like my man. Paula might have known him if he’s any kind of an expert in art, is he?”
Hank nodded. “A connoisseur, an authority. An intellectual—and a damned smart business man. Lecotte took over the place and set it up as a combination night club and art gallery. Smart, eh?”
“I don’t get the angle. You mean he’s actually making money on the art and liquor deal?”
“Plenty,” said Hank. “He holds exhibitions in the place and, believe it or not, shows the works of some of the biggest names in the art trade. You can’t blame the painters for falling for the gag—Pierre lured back the uptown snobs with his real art angle and still holds the regulars, the art dilettantes, the dealers, the out of town gapers and the after-theater New Yorkers who like to get drunk while glimming a wall full of lush dames. Everybody goes there now—it’s part of the city culture—the glamour of the big town, plus damned good drinks at fair prices. Pierre hit the jackpot with his formula. You ought to drop in sometime if you go for fancy art with a hangover. Me, I can’t take it—modern art goes right to my ulcers.”
I said, “It sounds good and it might be a lead to Paula. Besides, I’m in the mood for a spot like that—I haven’t seen the inside of a night club since the night you bounced me on my head up on Fifty-Second Street. Shall we leave?”
He looked through the door at his guests, now gathered about the huge radio Victrola and listening to the cacophony of boogie-woogie.
“They’ll never miss you,” I said, grabbing his elbow.
“Maybe you’re right” said Hank. “And even if you’re wrong, I’m a sucker for doing soldier boys favors.”
We took another quick one and Hank led me to his roadster and we left for The Frog.
Buy The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Now!
About the Author
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1944, 1972 by Lawrence Lariar
This authorized edition copyright © 2018 by the estate of Lawrence Lariar and The Mysterious Press
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5644-1
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