Who Has Wilma Lathrop?

by Keene, Day

  “Since our first year in high school.”

  “Almost four years.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jenny looked at the chipped polish on her nails. “But we — well, we got to thinking Eddie might have to go into the Army and we’d have to wait four years. And now this had to happen.” She raised her eyes to Lathrop’s. “You don’t think I’m bad, really bad, do you, Mr. Lathrop?”

  The tea-kettle was boiling. Lathrop shut off the fire and made two cups of instant coffee. “Honey,” he said soberly, “if two kids falling in love is bad, there aren’t enough reform schools in the world.” He took the butter dish from the refrigerator and put bread in the toaster. “In fact, considering that Helen of Troy was only twelve years old when she left her husband to run away with Paris, she would probably be classified now as a juvenile delinquent and wind up in the House of the Good Shepherd.”

  Jenny giggled. “Eddie was right about you. You are a good guy, Mr. Lathrop.”

  Lathrop scraped the scrambled eggs on to a plate. “Do you think your folks will agree to let you marry Eddie if I can talk Judge Arnst into it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then I’ll see the Judge in the morning and try to work this thing out. Knowing that you and the baby are waiting for him might have a steadying influence on Eddie.” Lathrop sat across the table from Jenny and sipped at the coffee he’d made. “Meanwhile, if you’re afraid to go home, I have a twenty or so I can spare. That way you can spend the night at the Y.W. and meet me in Judge Arnst’s chambers in the morning.”

  Jenny stifled a snivel. “Thanks. That’s swell of you, Mr. Lathrop. I don’t see how any woman could have walked out on a good guy like you.”

  Lathrop didn’t feel like a good guy. He wished Jenny hadn’t brought Wilma into the conversation. It had been pleasant, if only for a short while, to pretend that everything was as it should be. “Eat your eggs,” he said curtly.

  Jenny was hungry. She was eating for two. But between bites she suggested, “Maybe Mrs. Lathrop is afraid — I mean afraid for you. Maybe she’s afraid those two men it told about in the story in the newspaper would hurt you.”

  Lathrop lit a cigarette and smoked in silence. It was an angle he hadn’t considered. It made as much sense as anything else. He sat recalling their conversation. When he’d repeated what the two men in the parking lot had said, Wilma had made much of the fact that the slapping around was just a sample of what could happen to him later. Still, if Wilma had left of her own volition, why hadn’t she taken her clothes? Why had she chosen the hours between midnight and six o’clock in the morning to disappear? And if she was the tramp her record said she was, why had she bothered to marry him in the first place? There are better ways of hiding out than marrying a schoolteacher. The whole affair failed to make sense. He wished he knew what the two men were to her and where the youth that Mrs. Metz had mentioned fitted into the picture.

  Lathrop’s cigarette tasted bitter. His eyes felt strained. His head ached. He’d thought so much, looked at so many pictures, been asked so many questions that his mind felt muddled and confused. Now there was this new angle. If Mrs. Metz could be believed, the police thought he’d had a hand in Wilma’s disappearance. And that was a laugh. Or was it?

  When she finished her meagre supper, Jenny insisted on clearing the dining-room table and washing the dishes from the night before as well as the few she’d used. When Lathrop protested, she was adamant. “I only wish I could help you the way you’ve helped me. After what Eddie and I have been through, it’s nice to know not everyone thinks you’re bad.”

  Lathrop straightened the cigarette he’d just snuffed out and relit it. “Maybe you have helped me.”

  He forced himself to think. It was easy to play God and sit in judgement. But there were times when a man had to have as much faith in his love as he did in his God. Perhaps this was one of those times. All day long he’d taken everything that Lieutenant Jezierna and Captain Kelly had told him as gospel. But the facts he’d been told didn’t coincide with what he knew about Wilma.

  During his courtship of her, he couldn’t remember her making one vulgar remark or using her beauty as a lure. She’d been genuinely sweet and wholesome. It had been one of the things that had attracted him to her.

  “What are you thinking about?” Jenny asked him.

  “My wife,” Lathrop told her.

  Jenny towelled a plate carefully. “Of course, I didn’t know Mrs. Lathrop. I never even saw her. But we were talking at home one night when the family was all together, and Mabel, that’s my married sister, says she went to Schurz High School with her.”

  “She did?”

  “That’s what Mabel said.”

  “When was this?’

  “Four, five years ago. Mabel says they were freshmen together, but that Wilma dropped out after the first year.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “On account of her family was poor, the way I get it. Mabel said she never had any pretty clothes or spending money like most of the other girls had, so as soon as she was old enough, she quit school and got a work permit.”

  Lathrop leaned forward in his chair. “Are you certain of what you’re saying?”

  Jenny looked at him wide-eyed. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Did your sister ever see her again?”

  “Just once. She had a date with Elmer — that’s the boy she married — and they dropped into a tavern for a drink, and Wilma was the dice girl. You know, that twenty-one game.”

  “Yes,” Lathrop said. “I know. Did your sister say anything else about Mrs. Lathrop?”

  “Just that she was a nice kid. And it was a shame she had to quit school and go to work because she got straight A’s the one year she did go. Why?”

  “I was just wondering about her background,” Lathrop said. “Being poor can do strange things to people.”

  “You’re telling me,” Jenny sighed. “Look what it’s done to me and Eddie.”

  “Did your sister know where Mrs. Lathrop’s, family lived?”

  Jenny shook her head. “No. I guess she just knew her at school.”

  Lathrop got the telephone directory from the front room. There was a Carl A. Ramsey listed under “Attorneys” in the yellow book, but no Carl A. Ramsey in the main directory. The lawyer for whom Wilma had worked must live in the suburbs. The attorney might or might not know where in Chicago Wilma’s family lived; in any case, Lathrop would have to wait until morning to call him.

  He continued to thumb through the phone book, trying to think of some teacher he knew who taught at Schurz High School, one who had taught at the school for some time. Miles — old Gordon Miles. It was worth a try.

  Jenny repeated her question. “What are you trying to find, Mr. Lathrop?”

  “Not what. Who,” Lathrop said. “Record or no record, I want to talk to my wife.”

  Chapter Six

  THE FURNITURE was old and comfortable. There was a fire burning in the grate. The bookcases on either side of the mantel were filled with well-thumbed leather-bound copies of Spinoza, Locke, Berkeley, Hume, Kant, and Schopenhauer.

  Lathrop studied the names incuriously as he waited for Mr. Miles. His own taste in reading ran more to the sports pages and Robert Ruark.

  Mr. Miles might or might not remember one pupil out of the thousands of boys and girls who’d passed through his hands. But at least it was a starting point. The police hadn’t got anywhere in trying to locate Wilma.

  He stood up as the old man entered the room. The retired teacher was so old he thought and spoke with the deliberation of a man bordering on senility.

  “Yes?” the old man asked.

  “I’m Jim Lathrop,” Lathrop introduced himself. “I teach at Palmer Square High. And I thought that you, having taught at Schurz High as long as you did, might be able to help me.”

  The old man seated himself. “In what way, Mr. Lathrop?”

  “I’m trying to locate a pupil I have reason to believe may
have passed through your hands.”

  The aged teacher was amused. “That’s rather like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Besides, I retired four years ago.”

  “I know. This would be during the last year you taught.”

  “Is this pupil you’re seeking a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. A very pretty girl.”

  Mr. Miles crossed his long legs. “Ah. Then we may have some success. I’ve always been partial to the opposite sex. When did you say this girl passed through my hands?”

  “About five years ago.”

  “I see. What was her name? And what do you want to know about her?”

  “Her name was Wilma Stanislawow. She was a blonde and a freshman.”

  The old man repeated the name. “Wilma Stanislawow. The name does ring a faint bell. Yes, I remember the name now. We were studying European history and it developed that Stanislawow is the name of a Polish town near the Czechoslovakian border. As I recall, it was the first time I’d ever heard it used as a surname.”

  “Do you remember the girl?” Lathrop asked.

  The old man thought a moment.“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I have an impression of freshness and youthful vitality. But there my recollection ends. You know how it is, Mr. Lathrop, or you will when you’re my age. Unless a pupil is outstanding, when a man has taught for forty-two years….” Mr. Miles shook his head.“Well, a man just doesn’t remember individuals. What is it concerning this girl you want to know?”

  “The sort of girl she was in your class and in which section of the city her family lived.”

  The old man smiled. “There I’m not able to help you. Since she was in my class at Schurz, I imagine they live or lived on the north-west side. But why don’t you check with the Board of Education in the morning? They keep very accurate records, and I’m certain they can give you the address.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that, sir,” Mr. Lathrop said.

  It wasn’t any of the old man’s business and he didn’t bother to add that he had a growing feeling that to-morrow morning might be too late. Now that he’d stopped feeling sorry for himself and was considering Wilma, the more he thought of it, the more the five thousand dollars in the envelope and the request for Wilma to meet the two men at Louie’s began to sound like a booby trap.

  The night outside was clear and cold. As he started his car, Lathrop debated phoning Lieutenant Jezierna. But what could he tell him? That Wilma had attended high school for a while? That the married sister of Eddie Mandell’s girl had said she was a nice kid? He still didn’t know half as much about her as the police did. They had her record down on a card and he was still a blind man feeling his way through the dark, an architect in misery, building with blown straws.

  He realized he was much too keyed up to go home to a flat emptied of everything but memories. What was more, however Wilma felt about him, whether she’d used him or not, he loved her. And he wouldn’t rest easy again until he’d heard her side of the story, learned from her own lips why she’d walked out, made certain she was safe.

  He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes after ten. Lieutenant Jezierna had stated flatly that there was no family of Stanislawows listed in the city directory or the phone book. Still, it was possible that such a family would subscribe to a Polish-language newspaper. As Lathrop recalled, the Dziennik Chicagoski was one of the leading Polish newspapers. There was a lighted drugstore several blocks up the street. He used the directory in the phone book to look up the publication. It was difficult for him to read the fine print without his glasses, but he finally determined the address, then drove to the 1400 block on West Division Street.

  The offices of the pressroom were dark, but there was a light in the composing room. Lathrop found an open door and made his way down a series of halls towards the distant thump of half a dozen linotype machines. One of the typographers was taking a break.

  “My name is Lathrop,” Lathrop said. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m trying to find out if a family by the name of Stanislawow subscribes to the Dziennik Chicagoski.”

  The printer laughed. “You’ve come to the wrong department at the wrong time of night, chum. This is the composing room, not the circulation department.”

  “I know that,” Lathrop answered him. “But the information is very important to me.” He took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and creased it lengthwise. “Yours, if you can find the name in your files.”

  The printer hesitated. “Well, I’m not supposed to mess around the front office. But twenty bucks is twenty bucks. For that much I’ll take a chance.”

  It took him ten minutes to locate the circulation files and another five minutes to scan the names beginning with S. When he’d finished, he’d found three names: a Vladimir Stanislawow on Wentworth Avenue, a Bernard Stanislawow on Noble Street, and a Wilno Stanislawow at 6019 Mercer Street.

  “That last one,” the printer said, “is out near the Galewood freightyards, just off Austin Boulevard. I live not far from there.”

  “You know the family?” Lathrop asked.

  The printer shook his head. “I never heard of them. Have a heart, fellow. After all, there are almost half a million families of Polish descent in Chicago.”

  Lathrop wrote the three names and addresses on a piece of scratch paper and gave the man the bill he’d promised him. He was mildly pleased with himself. For a schoolteacher, he wasn’t a bad detective. At least he’d have something to show Lieutenant Jezierna in the morning. One of the three families should be the one he was looking for.

  Back in his car, he considered the three addresses. The family might have moved, but it was unlikely that a Stanislawow from Wentworth Avenue would have gone to Schurz High School. The address was on the far south side. Both the Noble Street and the Mercer Street places were more likely prospects.

  The buildings on Noble Street were old and wooden and crowded together, but the walks were shovelled clean and occasional bursts of music and laughter seeped out through the closed doors of small corner taverns.

  The address he sought on Noble Street proved to be a bar with discreetly curtained windows. Lathrop parked his car across the street and studied the painted sign on the window: “Bernie’s Bar.”

  Lathrop crossed the street and opened the door. A rush of warmth and music welcomed him. Four men were playing cards at a back table. At the bar, a labourer, frankly drunk, was sleeping with his head on his arms. From behind the bar a buxom blonde girl studied him with interest.

  “You’re a little out of your territory, aren’t you, mister?” she asked.

  “A little,” Lathrop admitted. He sat on one of the bar stools. “Might I have a double bourbon, with a little water on the side?”

  “Blend or bonded?”

  “Bonded.”

  The girl searched the back bar, looking for the bottle she wanted. “Now I know you’re out of your territory. You can get just as drunk on a blend.”

  The drink tasted good. Lathrop sipped it slowly, studying the girl’s face.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  The girl leaned her plump arms on the bar. “Why should I tell you?” One of the men playing cards called something to her in Polish and the girl said, “You play cards. I can handle the bar.”

  “No reason,” Lathrop said. “It’s just that I’m looking for a girl by the name of Wilma Stanislawow and I thought you might be related.”

  “Sorry,” the girl said. “My name’s Shirley and I don’t know any Wilmas. I don’t know any other Stanislawows, for that matter. I’ve been after the old man for years to Americanize the name. You know, Stanley or something like that.” She leaned so heavily on the bar that the cleft between her breasts showed. “Hey, wait a minute! You wouldn’t be that guy Lathrop, would you? You know, that high-school teacher in to-night’s paper whose wife took a powder?”

  “That’s who I am,” he replied.

  She was even more interested. “Well, what do you kno
w? And you’re looking for her, huh?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Her full name was Stanislawow?”

  “I have reason to believe it was.” Lathrop didn’t feel obliged to tell her he’d got the information from Wilma’s police record.

  “Well, what do you know?” the girl repeated. She called a stream of fluid Polish to one of the card players. He wiped beer from his moustache and answered her.

  “I thought I might be able to help you,” she said, “but the old man says he doesn’t know any other Stanislawows in Chicago except a cousin out on Wentworth Avenue. They don’t have a girl named Wilma.”

  After the cold streets, the heat and drink were making Lathrop lightheaded. “Well, thanks for asking.”

  The girl rested her arms on the bar again. “It didn’t tell in the paper. How come your wife walked out on you?”

  Lathrop tried not to look at the cleft between her breasts. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t have a fight or nothing?”

  “No.”

  “She just walked out, huh?’

  “That’s what happened.”

  The barmaid measured Lathrop with shrewd eyes. “It’s like I’ve always said. Some dames are nuts. They don’t know when they’ve got it made.” Her voice became more intimate. “If she doesn’t come back or you don’t find her and you’re still in the market and you like your girl a little on the heavy side, it might be I could think of something.”

  “You’re very flattering,” Lathrop said.

  Shirley shook her head. “No. Just in there pitching. I’ve never been married to a high-school teacher. The chances are I never will be. But from where I’m standing, it looks like it would be a hell of a lot easier than standing behind a bar pouring drinks for a bunch of drunken Polacks.”

  Lathrop laughed. “You’re funny.”

  The girl’s shrewd eyes continued to search his face. “And you’re in love with your wife. It shows all over you. You’re also just about beat. If I were you, mister, I’d call it a night and hit the sack.” She took the bottle of bonded bourbon from the back bar. “How about another double on the house?”