by P. N. Elrod
Malone, alert to the tone of my voice, did a passable job of ignoring the conversation while soaking up every word.
Blair nodded to indicate he was willing to listen.
“Do the papers know about her real name yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there a way of keeping them from finding out?”
“Why do you want that?”
“The truth would hurt some friends of mine.”
He wasn’t too impressed. “How so?”
“They liked Lena; I think one of them even loved her. It would only hurt them to find out who she really was.”
The name caused Malone to drop his pretense of not listening.
I spared him a glance. “You don’t repeat any of this.”
He gave that nervous tic. “No, sir.”
“It’s going to be a matter of public record in my report,” said Blair. “It already is with the people who identified the prints.”
“You can bury that part, make sure the papers don’t get hold of it. I know how those things work.”
“The public has a right to know who she was.”
“Gimme one good reason why. They poured out a barrel of sympathy for ‘Jane Poe’ and then Lena, how do you think they’d feel knowing they’d wasted it?”
He scowled.
“Come on, Blair. The public doesn’t have to know they were betrayed.”
He grunted. A neutral sound.
“Besides, these are hard times. Some of them spent good money sending flowers to Lena’s service. It made them feel better. You want to take that away from them?”
He rumbled now, but it was in a more positive tone. “I suppose I can fix things.”
“It’s not too late?”
“Just don’t expect me to repeat the favor.”
I had no fear of that. “You’re one in a million. From now on all your root beers are on the house.”
“Pah!” he said. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh.
“Mr. Fleming?” Malone. “What is it exactly I’m not supposed to repeat?”
I lowered my voice so the other staff wouldn’t hear. “That we found out Lena Ashley’s real name.”
“Oh? Who was she then?”
It didn’t seem right to exclude him since he’d probably hear me speak about it in the future, so I pulled out the wire photo reports and allowed him a quick peek.
“Oh, dear God.” Even in such a truncated form the basics of the case were ugly. He looked sick.
“You keep quiet about it. I don’t want Nevis or Rita hearing even a whisper. Ever.”
He shook his head. “N-no, of course not.”
I thanked Blair again, folded the bad news into a pocket, and went back to play host.
With the crisis out of the way, it was an easy enough job. The rest of the evening sped by so swift and effortless it worried me. I half expected the roof to fall in, things were going so well.
The second show was as successful as the first, the wait staff ran their legs off keeping up with the drink orders, and it was with a shock I realized it was nearly two and time to close the doors. The orchestra played “Good night, Sweetheart,” which signaled the beginning of the end. A large number of guests had already drifted homeward after the last stage act; this took care of the rest until the only ones remaining were Gordy’s party, Coldfield’s, Escott, Bobbi, and Lady Crymsyn. Malone had signed out the staff once they’d cleaned the bars and put the chairs on the tables. Sometime tomorrow a janitorial crew would come in to see to the floors and rest rooms. Malone stayed behind. The cash register receipts had to be counted, and he was still educating me in his system of bookkeeping.
He resumed his bartender duties one more time, though, as we all gathered in the front lobby for a farewell drink. He opened a bottle of champagne, and I invited him to join with the rest of us in hoisting a glass as toasts were made. I participated as well, having nimbly snagged an empty glass, cupping it in my hand in such a way as to conceal its emptiness.
Miss LaBelle was at last able to break character as Lady Crymsyn to enthuse about the place and how much she’d enjoyed herself. “People acted like I’m the owner. I hope that’s all right, Mr. Fleming.”
“Call me Jack, and yes, that’s exactly what I was aiming for. You did a great job.”
She beamed, and Escott beamed at her. No kidding. It was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen from him. I’d have to talk to Coldfield later about this new side, just so I could stop gaping at it.
Miss LaBelle took a tiny sip of her champagne—I approved that she’d had nothing stronger than water the whole night—then regarded me seriously with a set of very intense hazel eyes. “There’s one thing I want to ask…”
“Sure, name it.”
“Has anyone died in this building?”
Conversation certainly did. There was a lengthy pause.
“Did I say something wrong?” She glanced around at our silent circle, confused.
Escott gallantly stepped into the breach. “Not at all, it was just a bit of a startlement. Have you not read the papers?”
“No, I’ve been too busy. What did I miss?”
In a few carefully chosen words, he explained about what had been found in the basement, making it seem like very old news. He didn’t include anything about the corpse there also wearing a red dress, and rightly so.
She digested the information thoughtfully. “How horrible, but I don’t think it’s quite right. Was there another death?”
“Several,” I said. “A gang skirmish. Some people were killed here.”
“That’s it, then,” she said decisively.
“What’s it?”
“That explains the ghost here in the lobby.”
Another long pause. Bobbi and Gordy looked at me. I’d also told Escott about the business with the lights, but he was too busy looking at Miss LaBelle. No one seemed too anxious to speak first.
Except me. After I’d swallowed my surprise. “Ghost?”
“Oh, I don’t expect anyone to believe me. I’ve had that all my life. But you’ve got a ghost.” Her utter ingenuousness was not something any actress could have faked, no matter how talented; she was completely sincere. Escott shifted slightly, his expression frozen into a small, tight smile. Maybe he was having second thoughts about wanting to keep company with her. That, or wondering if he could overlook this eccentricity when weighed against her other obvious assets.
“Actually,” I put in at last, “I do believe you.”
“Oh, that’s very kind. Thank you.” And she seemed content to leave it at that.
“Miss LaBelle—”
“Sherry.”
“Sherry, would you please tell us more about the ghost?”
“I don’t know that much. She’s here in the lobby, mostly by that bar.”
Malone, caught between amusement and apprehension, looked around. “She’s here?” he asked.
“More over that way,” said Sherry, indicating a spot just to his right. He, too, put on a tight smile and moved out from behind the bar altogether.
“Er—what does she look like?” Tic.
Her brow puckered. “It’s not like she’s anything I can describe. It’s really hard, like trying to explain color to a blind person. I just know that she’s there, but not in a physical sense.”
“Is she scary?” asked Adelle Taylor, hanging on every word.
“Not at all. She’s just there. I get the impression she likes what you’ve done with the place, Jack.”
“Thank her for me,” I said in a faint voice.
“She heard you. I think she likes you a lot, too.”
“Oh. Uh, that’s nice.”
Sherry blinked and stared at the bar area, concentrating. “She… she’s sorry about not being able to help more when you were hurt. What does that mean?”
Gordy shot me a look. I felt my mouth drop open, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “Oh, jeez,” he muttered.
“A
nd she’s saying something about some grenades. That she didn’t know about them until it was too late or she’d have warned you.”
“Oh, jeez,” I echoed.
“Yes, she was pretty upset by that, but glad no one was hurt this time.”
“Sherry… could you ask if she left the whiskey on the bar last week?”
“She heard you. Yes, she did, but she didn’t know that you don’t drink that. She just wanted to make friends.”
“Oh, jeez.” I had gooseflesh creeping on my arms. Honest-to-God gooseflesh.
“This is fascinating,” Escott said. To his credit, he did appear to be fascinated. He must have made a decision about her, and it had been in her favor.
Now where had I seen that earnest, inquiring expression on him before? Then I abruptly realized his interest was genuine, beyond his current infatuation. He’d looked just like that during our first interview in his office last August after he’d swiped my home earth to ensure that I would talk to him.
“I should very much like to hear more about this gift of yours,” he said.
“Just don’t make fun of me for it.”
“Certainly not.”
Ah, what the hell. He believed in vampires, why not ghosts? Why not in a pretty young girl who talked to them?
“I wish I could see ghosts,” said Adelle.
Sherry’s eyes flashed at her. “No, you don’t!”
“Why? Do they scare you?”
“No, but some of them can be terribly annoying.”
“This is a very strange conversation,” said Coldfield. His luscious date nodded cautious agreement.
Sherry giggled. “Yes, it is. I’m sorry.”
My proposal for another round of champagne met with relieved agreement and worked to bring things back to normal again. At least no one suggested we try having a séance. There was a general change in the crowd as the ladies trooped off to a rest room. God knows what they would be talking about there. Escott looked at his watch.
“You can sleep in tomorrow,” I reminded him.
“Hm.” He’d gone a touch dubious, now, which was deadly to any budding romance.
“You don’t seem to mind that she’s a medium.”
“She did not once mention that word, nor shall I,” he said, sounding huffed.
“Sure, after all, there are more things in heaven and earth—like me for instance. Besides, she’s quite a good-looker. You can talk acting, not metaphysics.”
He raised an eyebrow. A warning.
I backed off with a grin, my job done. She’d ceased to be a scientific inquiry and was firmly back to being a romantic conquest.
“Heard you got a break,” Gordy said. He was addressing me.
“Huh?”
“When you were talking with Blair.”
“How the hell you know that?”
His mouth thinned. A smile. “I’m a medium.”
I glanced over at his bodyguards, obviously the source of his information. “They look more large than medium to me.”
Now his head bobbed slightly back and forth. Laughter. “So what’s the story?”
Apparently Escott had been keeping Coldfield up-to-date on matters at my club. Both leaned in to hear better.
“Okay, but this stuff doesn’t go past the door. I don’t want Nevis and especially Rita learning about it. I made an arrangement with Blair to keep it out of the papers.”
They murmured assent to my condition, then I produced the wire photo articles and delivered the news about Lena’s real name. Shocked silence for a moment, then some quiet remarks of disbelief.
“How’d she end up here?” Coldfield wanted to know.
“On the run from the New York cops,” said Gordy. “What I don’t get is how she hooked up with Nevis. He’s not on the side of the law, but he’d draw the line at this.”
“Nevis couldn’t have known,” I said. “Same for Rita.”
“I fear I am unfamiliar with this case,” said Escott. “I was out of the country at the time.”
As I’d read it all by now, my memory was fresh with the facts. I filled him in.
In 1923 Helen Crespi, then a sweet sixteen, married Walter Tielli. By 1929, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she had two children and sudden widowhood when her husband was killed in a construction accident. His insurance company had crashed along with the rest of Wall Street, leaving her a worthless policy. She scrabbled along on what little she could make as a shop girl. Compared to the rest of the country she was lucky; she had a job, but the wear of working twelve hours a day selling trinkets at a five-and-dime got to her. After a few months she wanted out.
She had no close relatives to help. Her husband’s relations had troubles of their own. She went to state agencies and orphanages, trying to get her children adopted out. All refused. She maintained she could no longer afford to care for them properly. No one believed her, especially when the social workers interviewed her neighbors.
Helen was by then playing house with a guy named Dixon, who ran numbers for the local mob. He sometimes contributed to the household funds, but preferred taking Helen around to the clubs. She was a pretty girl, and he liked to show her off. This was more to her taste. Dixon was willing to support her, but complained about the children interfering with their bedtime fun. This inspired Helen to continue her efforts with the orphanages.
No one was sympathetic. She was a mother; it was her sacred duty to care for her children, not run off to dance at the clubs all night or to live in sin with a man not her husband.
Dixon was preparing to leave her; he’d already moved to a nearby hotel and cut off his money.
Then one chilly day Helen Tielli decided to take her young children on a picnic in the country. In a hamper borrowed from a neighbor, Helen packed some sandwiches, a couple bottles of pop, a butcher knife, matches, and a small can of kerosene.
Hamper in hand, she herded the boy, seven, and the girl, three, onto a northbound bus. Once clear of the city, she asked the driver to stop. The trio tramped into some woods at the side of the road until Helen found a suitable spot to camp. Cold as it was, the children had no complaints. A picnic was an unheard-of excursion for them, a treat. They ate their sandwiches and drank their pop. Helen held the youngest until the little girl fell asleep. The boy, Walter, Jr., wanted to go to the bathroom. Helen left the girl napping on the picnic blanket to follow her son deeper into the woods. She carried the butcher knife and can of kerosene; the matches were in her coat pocket. The boy asked about the knife. She said it was in case they met a bear. Trusting his mother could protect him from such a threat, he relieved himself against a tree. When he was done, she cut his throat. It didn’t work too well. Blood poured out of him, but he didn’t die right away as he should have, so she stabbed him several times.
The kerosene was to burn up the body, to get rid of evidence. She slopped it over him and the first match she lighted caught. Flames exploded to life, foul smoke roiled up. Only Walter, Jr. wasn’t quite dead. He rolled and shrieked in agony, trying to crawl away. She looked on, not moving as he cried to her for help.
Some hunters heard his screams and came running. Helen hurried back to the little camp and stabbed her sleeping daughter, then vanished into the woods. She was found hours later trying to hitchhike home. She thought the state troopers had stopped to give her a ride.
The boy died on the spot of his burns and wounds; the girl lived to be turned over to a state orphanage. Dozens of couples stepped forward, volunteering to adopt her.
During her confession with the cops which was quoted from in a national magazine, Helen said she’d intended to set the girl on fire, but she “felt bad” about the boy and decided against it. Not once did she call the children by their names or show any further remorse. She appeared not to care about anything except when she would be allowed to go home. Her boyfriend Dixon would be waiting for her, she peevishly insisted.
“Good God,” said Escott.
“She was declared insane,�
�� I went on. “They put her in a nuthouse. She spent a week there before smuggling herself out in a delivery truck. Someone got careless with their routine bed checks, and she slipped away. There was a big hunt, but no one knew what happened to her after that.”
“Until she comes to Chicago as Lena Ashley and went to work for Booth Nevis,” said Gordy.
“And we all know how that ended.” I shook my head. Justice, it would seem, had finally caught up with Helen Tielli, imprisoning her in a death almost as ghastly as that which she’d inflicted on her own flesh and blood. “The ‘Murder Mom’ got hers after all.”
“How alliterative,” Escott said, frowning at the sheet bearing that headline.
“That’s what the papers called her until some group of mothers protested that it was scaring their kids.”
“What happened to Dixon?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t say. She must have paid attention to his business, maybe heard a name or two, so when she got here she could ask around for work. Nevis gave her a job. I’ll have to find out from him how he met her.”
“What an unholy mess,” said Escott. He handed the papers back to me.
I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. I’d felt sick before about the crime, but that was nothing compared to what swept through me now. Could they see anything of it on my face? Bobbi would instantly notice, but she was thankfully away in the rest room.
“He’ll wonder why you’re interested,” Escott went on.
“Nevis won’t remember any of it.”
“I like how you operate,” said Gordy.
That was the highest compliment he could pay anyone, and everyone there knew it, but I was too mentally distracted to offer an appropriate thanks. I was saved by the return of the ladies. Adelle slipped a hand under Gordy’s arm.
“It’s late,” she stated. Her tone was cheerful rather than reproach, but unmistakably insistent. The others nodded agreement with her, and the men sensibly surrendered. Escott left with Sherry, Coldfield with his troupe, Bobbi went along with Gordy’s crew so he could drop her home.
“See you later?” she asked.
How I loved that imp’s smile of hers. “Soon as Malone and I get the receipts counted.”
I pushed ugly suspicions out of my head and locked up, heaving a sigh of relief. No need for me to breathe regularly, but the old habit for the release of tension remained strong. I felt like a wrung-out rag, but it was a good kind of feeling for a job well-done. Maybe an army of staff and entertainers had done the real work tonight, but ultimately the success of Lady Crymsyn was my responsibility. Tomorrow I’d know whether or not it had all worked; Escott had promised to check the papers for reviews and have them waiting for me. If he had time. Ghosts or not, he still seemed most taken with Miss LaBelle…
