Chapter 6
Mooney was waiting in my office with his report on Diane Redfern.
She had not been seen since Friday. The landlady remembered because Diane had paid her room rent that day. She had come from work at five o’clock, stopped in the landlady’s basement flat to hand her the money, gone to her room on the fourth floor, bathed, changed her clothes, and gone out again. The landlady had seen her hail a cab at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Christopher Street. She remembered because she considered taxis a sinful extravagance for girls like Diane.
The girl might have come in late on Friday night and gone out again on Saturday morning, but the landlady had not seen her. There were still boarders to be questioned, but the landlady had not known where they worked, and Mooney would have to go back at six o’clock to check with them.
“Did the landlady seem surprised that Diane hadn’t been seen since Friday?”
“She says it doesn’t matter to her whether the boarders use their rooms or not as long as they pay the rent. The girls that stay in places like that are often out all night.”
“But it’s five days,” I said. “Was there nobody to bother about her disappearance?”
“You know how it is with those kind of girls, Mac. Here today, gone tomorrow. Who cares?”
“Hasn’t she any friends? Didn’t anyone come to see her or telephone?”
“There were some phone calls. Tuesday and Wednesday. I checked. Photographers calling her to come and work.”
“Nothing personal?”
“There might have been a couple of other calls, but no messages. The landlady doesn’t remember what she didn’t write down on the pad.”
I had known girls like that around New York. No home, no friends, not much money. Diane had been a beauty, but beauties are a dime a dozen on both sides of Fifth Avenue between Eighth Street and Ninety-Sixth. Mooney’s report gave facts and figures, showed an estimate of Diane’s earnings according to figures provided by the Models’ Guild. She could have supported a husband and kids on the money she earned when she worked, but the work was unsteady. And according to Mooney’s rough estimate, the clothes in her closet had cost plenty. Twenty pairs of shoes. There were no bills as there had been in Laura’s desk, for Diane came from the lower classes, she paid cash. The sum of it all was a shabby and shiftless life. Fancy perfume bottles, Kewpie dolls, and toy animals were all she brought home from expensive dinners and suppers in night spots. The letters from her family, plain working people who lived in Paterson, New Jersey, were written in night-school English and told about lay-offs and money troubles.
Her name had been Jennie Swobodo.
Mooney had taken nothing from the room but the letters. He’d had a special lock put on the door and threatened the landlady with the clink if she opened her face.
He gave me the duplicate key. “You might want to look in yourself. I’ll be back there at six to talk to the other tenants.”
I had no time then to look into the life of Jennie Swobodo, alias Diane Redfern. But when I got up to Laura’s apartment, I asked if there hadn’t been any pocketbooks or clothes left there by the murdered model.
Laura said: “Yes, if Bessie had examined the clothes in the closet, she’d have found Diane’s dress. And her purse was in my dresser drawer. She had put everything away neatly.”
There was a dresser drawer filled with purses. Among them was the black silk bag that Diane had carried. There was eighteen dollars in it, the key to her room, lipstick, eyeshadow, powder, a little tin phial of perfume, and a straw cigarette case with a broken clasp.
Laura watched silently while I examined Diane’s belongings. When I went back to the living room, she followed me like a child. She had changed into a tan dress and brown high-heeled slippers that set off her wonderful ankles. Her earrings were little gold bells.
“I’ve sent for Bessie.”
“How thoughtful you are!”
I felt like a hypocrite. My reason for sending for Bessie had been purely selfish. I wanted to observe her reaction to Laura’s return.
When I explained, Laura said, “But you don’t suspect poor old Bessie?”
“I just want to see how a non-suspect takes it.”
“As a basis for comparison?”
“Maybe.”
“Then there’s someone you do suspect?”
I said, “There are several lies which will have to be explained.”
When she moved, the gold bells tinkled. Her face was like a mask.
“Mind a pipe?”
The bells tinkled again. I struck a match. It scraped like an emery wheel. I thought of Laura’s lie and hated her because she was making a fool of herself for Shelby Carpenter. And trying to make a fool of me. I was glad when the doorbell rang. I told Laura to wait in the bedroom for my signal.
Bessie knew at once that something had happened. She looked around the room,, she stared at the place where the body had fallen, she studied each ornament and every piece of furniture. I saw it with a housekeeper’s eyes then, noticed that the newspaper had been folded carelessly and left on the big table, that Laura’s lunch tray with an empty plate and coffee cup remained on the coffee-table beside the couch, that a book lay open, that the fire burned behind the screen, and red-tipped cigarette stubs filled the ashtrays.
“Sit down,” I told her. “Something happened.”
“What?”
“Sit down.”
“I can take it standing.”
“Someone has come to stay here,” I said, and went to the bedroom door.
Laura came out.
I have heard women scream when their husbands beat them and mothers sobbing over dead and injured children, but I have never heard such eery shrieks as Bessie let out at the sight of Laura. She dropped her pocket book. She crossed herself. Then, very slowly, she back toward a chair and sat down.
“Do you see what I see, Mr. McPherson?”
“It’s all right, Bessie. She’s alive.”
Bessie called upon God, Jesus, Mary, and her patron saint Elizabeth to witness the miracle.
“Bessie, calm yourself. I’m all right; I just went to the country. Someone else was murdered.”
It was easier to believe in miracles. Bessie insisted upon telling Laura that she had herself found the body, that she had identified it as Laura Hunt’s, that it had worn Laura’s best negligee and silver mules. And she was just as positive about her uncle’s sister-in-law’s cousin who had met her dead sweetheart in an orchard in County Galway.
None of our arguments convinced her until Laura said, “Well, what are we going to have for dinner, Bessie?”
“Blessed Mary, I never thought I’d be hearing you ask that no more, Miss Laura.”
“I’m asking, Bessie. How about a steak and French fries and apple pie, Bessie?”
Bessie brightened. “Would a ghost be asking for French fries and apple pie? Who was it got murdered, Miss Laura?”
“Miss Redfern, you remember . . . the girl who . . .”
“It’s no more than she deserved,” said Bessie, and went into the kitchen to change into her work clothes.
I told her to shop for dinner in stores where they did not know her as the servant of a murder victim, and warned her against mentioning the miracle of Laura’s return.
“Evidently Bessie disapproved of Diane. Why?” I asked Laura when we were alone again.
“Bessie’s opinionated,” she said. “There was no particular reason.”
“No?”
“No,” said Laura firmly.
The doorbell rang again.
“Stay here this time,” I whispered. “We’ll try another kind of surprise.”
She waited, sitting stiffly at the edge of the couch. I opened the door. I had expected to see Shelby, but it was Waldo Lydecker who walked in.
&
nbsp; Chapter 7
Self-centered people see only what they want to see. Astigmatism might have been his excuse for his failure to notice her first, but I think it was covetousness. His gaze was so concentrated upon the antique glass vase that the rest of the room might have been sky or desert.
“Your office told me I’d find you here, McPherson. I’ve talked to my lawyer and he advises me to take my vase and let the bitch sue.”
He had to pass the sofa on the way to the mantel. Laura turned her head, the gold bells tinkled. Waldo paused as if he had heard some ghostly warning. Then, like a man afraid of his imagination and determined to show himself above fear, he stretched his hands toward the shining globe. Laura turned to see how I was taking it. Her gold bells struck such a sharp note that Waldo whirled on his heels and faced her.
He was whiter than death. He did not stagger nor fall, but stood paralyzed, his arms raised toward the vase. He was like a caricature, pitiful and funny at the same time. The Van Dyke beard, the stick crooked over his arm, the well-cut suit, the flower in his buttonhole, were like decorations on the dead.
We were quiet. The clock ticked.
“Waldo,” Laura said softly.
He seemed not to have heard.
She took hold of his rigid arms and led him to the couch. He moved like a mechanical doll. She urged him to a seat, gently pushed down his arms, handed me his hat and stick. “Waldo,” she whispered in the voice of a mother to a hurt child. “Waldo, darling.”
His neck turned like a mechanism on springs. His glazed eyes, empty of understanding, were fastened on her face.
“It’s all right, Mr. Lydecker. She’s alive and well. There’s been a mistake.”
My voice touched him, but not in the right place. He swayed backward on the couch, then jerked forward with a mechanical rather than willful reaction. He trembled so violently that some inner force seemed to be shaking his body. Sweat rose in crystals on his forehead and upper lip.
“There’s brandy in the cabinet. Get some, Mark. Quickly,” Laura said.
I fetched the brandy. She lifted the glass to his lips. Most of the liquor trickled down his chin. After a while he lifted his right hand, looked at it, and lifted the left. He seemed to be testing himself to see if he was capable of willing his muscles to action.
Laura kneeled beside him, her hands on his knees. Her voice was gentle as she explained that it was Diane Redfern who had died and been buried while Laura was staying at her little house in the country. I could not tell whether he heard or whether it was her voice that soothed him, but when she suggested that he rest on the bed, he rose obediently. Laura took him into the bedroom, helped him lie down, spread her blue-and-white cover over his legs. He let himself be led around like a child.
When she came back she asked if I thought we ought to call a doctor.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s not young and he’s fat. But it doesn’t look like any stroke I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s happened before.”
“Like this?”
She nodded. “In the theatre one night. He got angry that we’d called a doctor. Maybe we’d better let him rest.”
We sat like people in a hospital corridor.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I’d known it was Waldo, I’d have warned him.”
“You’re still planning to do it to Shelby, aren’t you?”
“Shelby’s nerves are stronger. He’ll take it better.”
Her eyes were narrow with anger.
I said: “Look here, you know that Shelby’s lied. I’m not saying that he’s committed murder, but I know he’s hiding something. There are several things he’s got to explain.”
“He can, I’m sure he can. Shelby can explain everything.”
She went into the bedroom to see how Waldo was getting on.
“He seems to be sleeping. He’s breathing regularly. Maybe we’d better just leave him.”
We sat without speaking until the doorbell rang again. “You’ll have to see him first and tell him,” Laura said. “I’m not going to let anyone else go through that shock.” She disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
The bell rang again. When I opened the door, Shelby pushed past.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
“Oh, you know, then?”
I heard the back door open, and I knew that he had met Bessie on the stairs.
“God damn women,” I said.
Then Laura came out of the kitchen. I saw it at once that Bessie wasn’t the woman who deserved my curses. The lovers’ meeting was too perfect. They embraced, kissed, and clung. An actor after a dozen rehearsals would have groped for his handkerchief in the same dazed way. An actor would have held her at arm’s length, staring at her with that choir-boy look on his face. There was something pre-arranged about the whole scene. His tenderness and her joy.
I turned my back.
Laura’s voice was melted syrup. “Happy, darling?”
He answered in a whisper.
My pipe had gone out. If I turned and got a match from the table, they would think I was watching. I bit on the cold stem. The whispering and muttering went on. I watched the minute hand creep around the dial of my watch. I thought of his sweetheart’s house. It had been four above ten o’clock and by midnight it was below zero. I had waited in the snow and thought about the gangster lying warm in the arms of his fat slut. I turned and saw Shelby’s hands feeling, touching, moving, moving along the tan material of Laura’s dress.
“How infinitely touching! What inexpressible tenderness! Juliet risen from the grave! Welcome, Romeo!”
It was, of course, Waldo. He had not only recovered his strength, but his bounce.
“Forgive me,” he said, “for a wee touch of epilepsy. It’s an old family custom.” He jerked Laura away from Shelby, kissed both cheeks, whirled around with her as if they were waltzing. “Welcome, wench! Tell us how it feels to return from the grave.”
“Be yourself, Waldo.”
“More truly myself you have never seen me, you beautiful zombie. I, too, am resurrected. The news of your death had me at the brink of eternity. We are both reborn, we must celebrate the miracle of life, beloved. Let’s have a drink.”
She started toward the liquor cabinet, but Waldo barred her way. “No, darling, no whiskey tonight. We’re drinking champagne.” And he bustled to the kitchen, shouting that Bessie was to hurry over to Mosconi’s and bring back some wine with a name that he had to write down on a piece of paper.
Chapter 8
Laura sat with three men drinking champagne. It was a familiar scene to them, Old Home Week. Even Bessie took it like a veteran. They seemed ready to take up where they had left off last week, before someone rang the bell and blew a girl’s face away with a charge of BB shot. That’s why I was there, the third man.
When they drank a toast to Laura, I took a sip of the wine. The rest of it stayed in my glass until the bubbles died.
“Aren’t you drinking?” Waldo asked me.
“I happen to be on a job,” I said.
“He’s a prig,” said Waldo. “A proletarian snob with a Puritan conscience.”
Because I was on a job and because Laura was there, I didn’t use the only words I knew for describing him. They were short words and to the point.
“Don’t be cross with us,” Laura said. “These are my best friends in the whole world and naturally they want to celebrate my not being dead.”
I reminded them that Diane Redfern’s death was still a mystery.
“But I’m sure we know nothing about it,” Shelby said.
“Ah-hah!” said Waldo. “The ghost at the feast. Shall we drink a respectful toast?”
Laura put down her glass and said, “Waldo, please.”
“That’s in questionable taste,” s
aid Shelby.
Waldo sighed. “How pious we’ve all grown! It’s your influence, McPherson. As walking delegate for the Union of the Dead . . .”
“Please shut up!” said Laura.
She moved closer to Shelby. He took her hand. Waldo watched like a cat with a family of mice.
“Well, McPherson, since you insist upon casting the shadow of sobriety upon our sunny reunion, tell us how you’re proceeding with the investigation. Have you cleared the confusion surrounding that bottle of Bourbon?”
Laura said quietly: “It was I who bought that bottle of Three Horses, Waldo. I know it’s not as good as the stuff you taught me to buy, but one night I was in a hurry and brought it home. Don’t you remember, Shelby?”
“I do indeed.” Shelby pressed her hand.
They seemed to be getting closer together and shoving Waldo out into the cold. He poured himself another glass of champagne.
“Tell us, McPherson, were there any mysteries in the life of the little model? Have you discovered any evil companions? Do you know the secrets of her gay life in Greenwich Village?”
Waldo was using me as a weapon against Shelby. It was clear as water out of the old oaken bucket. Here he was, a man who had read practically all that was great in English literature, and a mug could have taught him the alphabet. I felt fine. He was hooting right up my alley.
“My assistant,” I said with an official roll in my voice, “is on the trail of her enemies.”
Waldo choked on his wine.
“Enemies,” said Laura. “She?”
“There might have been things about her life that you didn’t know,” said Shelby.
“Pooh!”
“Most of those girls live very questionable lives,” Shelby said firmly. “For all we know, the poor girl might have got herself mixed up with all sorts of people. Men she’d met in night clubs.”
“How do you know so much about her?” Waldo asked.
“I don’t know. I’m merely mentioning possibilities.” Shelby said. He turned to me and asked, “These models, they’re often friendly with underworld characters, aren’t they?”
Laura (Femmes Fatales) Page 10
