Tell Me Pretty Maiden

by Rhys Bowen

  “Jesus, Robert, don’t you damned well dare try to patronize me as if I was a goddamned idiot child. I know what I saw and I am not going out of my head and you blasted well better do something about it, or this show is not going to open. You hear me?”

  “Blanche, please, be reasonable.” The second person had come halfway into the room. He was a small, round, bald-headed man, with sagging jowls and a mournful expression like a blood hound’s, and he reached out to touch her. “Blanche, baby, sit down and have a drink. You’ll feel better. Come to think of it, I could do with one, too.”

  “I am not your baby. I’m nobody’s baby. Get out and leave me alone,” she shouted. “And drink your own whiskey. You can go to hell, all of you.”

  “But what about act two?”

  “I’ll come down for act two when I’m good and ready.” She said. “If I’m good and ready.” She literally shoved him out of the door and slammed it shut. “Martha, I need my calming mixture.”

  “Of course you do, my darling precious one,” Martha said. “Why don’t you lie down and Martha will bring it for you.”

  “And a drink,” Blanche added, sounding like a petulant child now. “A big drink.”

  Her eyes turned toward the bottles on the table and she saw me.

  “What’s she doing here? Who let her in? What did you let her in for?” she demanded.

  Before Martha could answer, I got to my feet. “Miss Lovejoy, I’m here because Oona Sheehan sent me,” she said. “I’m Molly Murphy. She said you needed my services.”

  “Molly Murphy?”

  “Private investigator,” I said. “I gather you’ve been having a spot of trouble in the theater.”

  I saw light dawning on her face, a face that must have been made for the theater. All her expressions were larger than life—her anger, her despair, and now her radiant smile.

  “Miss Murphy—you came. Thank God,” she said.

  Soon I was sitting beside Blanche Lovejoy while she reclined behind her screen and worked her way through a large tumbler of neat whiskey.

  “I was so excited about this play, Miss Murphy,” she said. “I had such high hopes for it. After all this time, a chance to star again on Broadway. I even invested my own money in the production and that wonderful songwriter George M. Cohan wrote a new song just for me. It’s called ‘That’s the Way the French Do It!’ Rather naughty, you know, but that’s what my public has come to expect. I made my name singing naughty songs in vaudeville, after all, didn’t I?”

  I nodded as if I was aware of this.

  “And the part is just right for me. All the leading roles in musical comedy recently have been for silly little girls. As if I could sit on a swing in Florodora like that awful little Nesbitt girl. I’d break most swings unless they had iron chains. The public doesn’t want real women anymore. It wants girlish fantasy. Sixteen-year-olds who flutter their eyes and exude innocence coupled with budding ripeness. And look at me—among all that budding ripeness, I’m just an old overripe tomato.”

  I thought the drink and the calming mixture might be making her maudlin, so I interrupted. “So why don’t you tell me what’s been happening at the theater?”

  “This theater, my dear Miss Murphy, is haunted.” She delivered the line as if she was playing to the top balcony. Then she raised herself from her reclining position. “Ever since we started rehearsals here little things kept going wrong. Unimportant things to begin with—a table falling over and spilling water over the stage. My dress getting caught on a nail and ripping.”

  “They could happen in any theater, I should imagine.”

  “Of course. That’s why I didn’t think twice until I realized that all the accidents were directed at me.” She took another generous gulp of whiskey and coughed. “That dress that got ripped on a nail. I went back and examined the wall, and there was no nail! It was perfectly smooth. And then the accidents became more serious: the scenery flat that crashed to the ground just inches from where I was standing, and that candle that fell over and started a small fire. If it had fallen in the other direction it would have landed on my skirt and I should have burned to death.”

  “But what makes you think it’s a ghost, Miss Sheehan?” I asked.

  “Because I have seen it,” she hissed. “It is all dressed in black with a white face and dark eyes full of hatred. It was staring at me today when I went to open the window. After I screamed people ran behind the set but there was nobody there. So who else could it be but a ghost? And you can feel the presence, too. At least I can feel it. The horrible chill as if someone is drowning me in cold water.” She reached out and grabbed my hand. “You’re Irish. You must have contact with the spirit world.”

  “Not personally,” I said, “but I do believe that we Celtic people have second sight. And if you listen to my mother, half the people in my village have seen a ghost at one time or another.”

  “There, you see. I knew you’d be the right person when Oona suggested you.”

  “But what exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Watch out for me. Follow me around. I want to know if you can see the ghost, too, because if you can’t there is only one other option.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That someone is deliberately trying to kill me.”

  NINE

  “First call for act two,” came a boyish voice from the hallway. Then there was a rap on Blanche’s door. “Act two, Miss Lovejoy.”

  “Somebody is trying to kill you?” I asked. “Do you have any idea who that could be?”

  “None at all. Everyone here adores me. That’s why I have to believe that it’s a ghostly presence.”

  “Have you spoken about this to the police?”

  “I thought of doing so, but they would only laugh at me. That’s why I need you, Miss Murphy. Molly, dearest. You’ll be able to get to the truth about what’s happening to me. You will do it, won’t you?”

  “I can try,” I said uneasily, because in truth I was wondering if the ghostly presence might not be induced by too much alcohol and calming mixture.

  Blanche looked at me imploringly. “Come down to the theater now and watch. You can slip into a stage box, but don’t let anyone know you are there. If the ghost has appeared once tonight, he might well appear again.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  Blanche stood up while Martha fussed around her, putting a large number of hairpins into that great mound of hair.

  “We’ll have to find some way to explain your presence,” Blanche went on, as she examined herself in her mirror. “There is no point if you can’t be right beside me all the time. Can you dance?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I might manage a poor attempt at a waltz, but that’s about it.”

  “Not good enough for the chorus then,” she said. “They have several ballet numbers on their toes. Can you sing?”

  “Well enough for singsongs and church, but that’s about it.” I gave an uneasy laugh.

  “Then how are we going to explain your presence backstage?”

  “I could help with the props,” I suggested.

  “Then you wouldn’t be allowed to follow me upstairs and you’d be too busy fetching and carrying to keep watching me.”

  “Then how about your dresser?”

  I heard a disgusted gasp from Martha.

  “But everyone knows I’ve had Martha for years.”

  “You could say that Martha is getting—” I was about to say “too old” but stopped myself under her eagle gaze. “That you’re training me to take over from Martha some time in the future,” I finished.

  But Blanche shook her head again. “If you are my dresser you wait in my dressing room. You’d have no reason to be hanging around backstage.”

  “Act two beginners onstage, Miss Lovejoy.” There was another firm rap on the door.

  “I have to go,” she said. She rose unsteadily, then a big shudder ran through her body. “I don’t want to go down there.
What if the face is there again? How can I perform if it’s there, watching me?”

  “There, there, my little love,” old Martha cackled. “It will be all right. Nothing will harm you with all those people around you.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” I added. “Just as I’m sure there is a logical explanation for all this.”

  “But the face at the window. I saw it. I swear that I saw it.”

  “Maybe one of the stagehands peered through the window for a lark and now is too scared to admit it,” I suggested.

  “I wish I could believe you,” she said and suddenly reached out and gripped my hands fervently. “Come down with me. Stay close to me.”

  “But you hadn’t thought of a good reason for my being there.”

  “You can watch over me from one of the stage boxes,” she said. “That’s close enough to see everything. And when I have time I’ll try to think how I can have you beside me all the time.”

  Images of me dressed up as a cat or pretending to be a potted plant flashed through my mind, and not for the last time I wondered what I was doing here, and thought how much simpler it would have been if I’d been shadowing Mr. Roth to his favorite restaurant.

  “Don’t forget your wrap, darling girl.” Martha placed a woolen wrap firmly around Blanche’s shoulders. “We don’t want you catching cold, do we?”

  “Martha has presumably been with you for a long time,” I muttered as we went down the hallway side by side.

  “She was my nurse, when I was a child,” Blanche said.

  You could have knocked me down with a feather. I’d have taken Blanche for a product of a city slum with her foul mouth and her mannish ways.

  “I wasn’t always like this,” she said. “I ran away from home with a man who turned out to be no good when I was sixteen. He left me with a child. I could never go back. It was either the theater or prostitution. Luckily, I had a good voice and could make people laugh, or I’d be dead by now.”

  “And the child?”

  “Was given up for adoption by some do-gooding church ladies society. I’ve never seen her since.”

  We reached the end of the hallway and Blanche went ahead of me down the stairs.

  “Straight ahead to the pass door,” she whispered as we reached the wings. “Don’t let anyone see you.” Then she handed her wrap to a stagehand and was suddenly a different person. She swept toward the stage with her head held high, making her entrance like arriving royalty.

  It was easy to slink past unnoticed in the dark chaos backstage. Scenery flats, pillars, ropes, spotlights, props were everywhere—whole rooms waiting to be assembled in seconds. The chorus girls were lined up beside the stage, some of them doing stretches or jumping around to keep warm. The overture for the second act had begun and the light jaunty music that filled the area was in strange contrast to the darkness and chaos of the wings. I climbed over a rope hanging from somewhere above and reached the door. Then I pushed it open just a crack and squeezed through.

  Instantly I was in another world. In the half-light from the stage, this looked like the interior of a sultan’s palace. Every inch of wall and ceiling that I could see was carved in a Moorish style with arches and niches and geometric designs. On either side of the stalls rose two tiers of ornate boxes, looking like pictures I had seen of Indian palaces, and were hung with rich fabric curtains and drapes. If a maharaja or an elephant had walked past, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Behind the boxes a carved balcony ran around the rest of the theater and from this balcony pillars fanned out to support the ceiling like exotic blooms. The thought crossed my mind that one could sit here and gaze in wonder without having to watch a play as well. No expense had been spared in the design of this theater. No wonder Miss Sheehan had said it was the plum. No wonder Miss Lovejoy was reluctant to move somewhere else.

  I was about to find a way into the stage box when I noticed two figures sitting in the third row of the stalls. One of them was the round little man that Blanche had addressed as Robert. The other was a striking dark-haired man with classic features.

  The overture finished. The dark-haired man shouted, “Blanche, where are you? You’re late. The curtain would have gone up by now.”

  “Go to hell, Dessie.” Blanche swept onto the stage. “When we have a curtain working, I’ll work with it.” She suddenly switched on a radiant smile and became someone quite different.

  “Claudette, is zat Monsieur Wexler’s motor car I ’ear?”

  While their attention was focused on the stage I slipped past the men in the stalls and found an entrance to the stage box. Then I sat concealed behind the drapes in the darkness and watched.

  I have to say it was a very silly play, but then I suppose most musical comedies don’t rely on their plot. From what I could gather Blanche played an impoverished French countess who opened her château as a seminary for young ladies. A motor car with several American artists has broken down near the château, and Blanche has convinced them to stay and paint in the area, since the owner of the car is reputed to be a millionaire. But she is falling for the most handsome (and considerably younger) Monsieur Teddy Wexler, even though she knows he is impoverished.

  There were the requisite love songs. “Let’s bill and coo like the birdies do,” and “My sweet Monique, you’re quite unique. I can’t wait to dance cheek to cheek.”

  And then there were the naughtier songs that apparently had made Blanche famous, including that one about “the way we do it in France,” in which all the lyrics were supposed to be part of a cooking demonstration but were laden with double entendres. “For dessert we like a good ripe pear, or a nice little tart will do.”

  Grudgingly, I had to admit that I could see why Blanche had become a star. Her presence dominated the stage. Her big booming voice echoed through the theater. Her winks and innuendoes in the naughty songs would make half the women in the audience blush and reach for their fans and handkerchiefs while all the men roared with laughter.

  The play ended with no more ghostly appearances and I made my way back to Blanche’s dressing room.

  “So what did you think?” she asked.

  “Delightful, just delightful,” I said. “I’m sure it will be a big hit.”

  “And you saw nothing—strange?”

  I shook my head.

  “Thank God for that. Maybe the evil presence will know that you are watching out for him and retreat.”

  I thought secretly than any self-respecting ghost would not have been put off by the likes of me, but I merely nodded encouragingly. “So when do you need me again?”

  “We have our first dress rehearsal tomorrow at seven,” she said. “Company meeting at five. If you and I plan to arrive early—say by four, we can have time to talk while Martha dresses me.”

  “Have you decided how I can infiltrate your company without arousing suspicion?” I asked.

  “I am always quite exhausted after a performance, aren’t I, Martha?” Blanche said, raising a languid hand to her face. “No energy left to think. But by tomorrow I’ll have thought of something. I know I will.”

  “Then what should I tell the stage door keeper when I arrive?”

  She frowned, which instantly made her look older. “You are a detective. What do you think?”

  “I already signed in with a false name,” I said. “Kitty Kelly.”

  “How very clever, isn’t she, Martha?”

  “So I’ll just tell him that I’m to report straight to you on an urgent matter. It’s your show. Nobody will dare question me.”

  “That’s right. The very thing.” She turned her dazzling smile on me. “Molly, I am glad that you came. You are going to save my show, my career, and my sanity. I know it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said uncertainly, then remembered that we hadn’t discussed money. “Would you be paying me by the hour or shall we settle on a flat fee?”

  I could see that she hadn’t thought much about the financial aspect of this either. �
�Oh,” she said. “Yes, of course. Your fee. Would fifty dollars cover it, do you think?”

  I hesitated. If I found out the truth in the next few days, then fifty dollars would be just fine. If I was expected to show up at the theater night after night, then I’d be out of pocket. I decided that fifty dollars in the hand might be worth more than a hundred in the bush. “That would be fine to start with,” I said. “If this looks as if it’s going to require more than a week or so, we’ll discuss it again.”

  “More than a week or so? God forbid,” she said. “I can’t perform in a haunted theater for a week or so. You have to find out the truth for me quickly, Molly. I’m counting on you.”

  “As I said, I’ll do my best.” I turned to the door. “Until tomorrow then, Miss Lovejoy. Goodbye, Martha.”

  “Oh, and Molly,” Blanche called after me, “if there are any newspaper reporters hanging around outside, don’t breathe a word about the theater being haunted. I’m absolutely terrified that if news of this leaks out, we’ll scare the public away from opening night.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  As I came out of Blanche’s room and made my way back through the narrow passageway, I was conscious of eyes on me. I spun around. A man was standing in the shadows at the far end of the hall. Just as I was wondering if I was looking at the ghost, he retreated and I heard the sound of a door closing. Not a ghost then. They didn’t bother with doors. Besides, I had recognized him. He was the lean, dark-haired man who had watched the performance from the third row of the stalls.

  Just why was he watching Blanche’s dressing room? I wondered. Was he watching out for her, concerned for her welfare, or was it something more sinister? This was no time to go back and confront him but tomorrow I’d find out who he was. The fact that he was safely seated in the stalls and no ghost had appeared in the second half of the performance seemed significant to me.