by P. N. Elrod
“Uh . . .”
“I just thought you should know my turning you down is not just because we couldn’t have kids.”
“Ah . . .”
“Well, you keep getting the same answer from me, and lately you didn’t look like you believed it anymore. You deserved to hear a different one for a change. It’s still the truth. Just like the other reasons I’ve given you.”
“What’s this ‘look’ I get?”
“It comes and goes. I can’t describe it, but I thought you might propose again tonight.”
God damn it, but she’d pegged me square. Again. “Am I that transparent, woman?”
“I guess you are to me. Charles isn’t the only detective around here.”
“Private agent,” I automatically corrected. Hunching over, I clasped my hands together on the table and frowned at them a minute. “Should I just stop asking?”
“I don’t know. Does it hurt you when I say no?”
“Some, but I can live with it.”
“Then you do what feels right to you. But fair warning, my answer’s always going to be no.”
“Always?”
“Yes. Getting married would be bad for us.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
“But I do, Jack. I’m happy with the way things are. I don’t want some piece of paper with our names on it changing anything.”
“Why should anything change?”
“Trust me, it would.”
“But we love each other—I mean, don’t you—?”
“Of course I love you. I adore you. But I won’t marry you.”
“You’d rather live in sin?”
“If that’s what you want to call it.” She put both her hands lightly over mine. “I don’t feel particularly sinful when I’m with you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I like it this way. It’s all honeymoon with none of the drudgery of a marriage. You’ll never have to worry that I get sloppy and let myself go.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“And I don’t have to worry about why you’re with me. I’ll always know that it’s because you want to be here, not because you have to be here. The same goes for why I’m with you.”
She did have a point. “Maybe it’s because I like the sex.”
“If that were the only thing, then you’d have left while I was changing clothes.”
“Honey, if I ever get that stupid, you tell Charles to stake me.”
“Bite your tongue,” she said quickly.
“Sorry.” I’d forgotten that like a lot of performers she could be superstitious. In this case, though, her alarm was justified. I got the subject back on track. “There were other guys who were stupid with you, huh?”
“A few. You’re the only one smart enough to stick around.”
“Get used to it.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not about to take a guy like you for granted.”
That made me feel better.
She finished her juice and rinsed and dried the glass, tucking it away in a cupboard. She liked things tidy. Including her life. Having me around the house all the time might make a mess. She’d had more than her share of those already. Damn me if I was going to be another.
Bobbi slipped back into her chair, and we talked about other things for a while. It didn’t take long to come around to discussing my latest trouble.
“This body at your club,” she said, looking serious. “People are going to give you all kinds of grief about it. It’s not something that’ll go away with time.”
“I know. Gordy and I hashed it out. That’s why I typed that statement for the papers.”
“I think it’s sweet of you to give the poor woman a burial.”
“Someone has to if they don’t find out who she is.”
“You want me to make arrangements?”
“Gordy offered to find—”
She waved her hand, shaking her head. “Oh, no, not Gordy. I’ve seen his funerals. He always picks out the wrong flowers or something, and his choice of music is horrible.”
Funny, I’d never thought of Gordy arranging funerals, but considering that he probably caused more than a few to take place, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. “Oh. Well. If you wouldn’t mind.”
“As a favor, one gal to another. I’ll do right by her, the poor, poor thing.”
“Okay. Maybe you can make it an evening service so I can come. But this is only if they can’t find her family.”
“I don’t see how they could.”
“There’s ways: missing person reports, dental records, that kind of thing.”
“What about that dress she was in?”
“What, like a label or a laundry mark? They’ll run those down, too.”
“The color—what kind of red was it? Light, dark?”
“Something in the middle, really bright and rich, like a traffic light. Lots of sequins of the same color. Why?”
“Not many women can wear that shade. I don’t think it’s ever been popular. If there’s a maker’s label, lemme know whose.”
“The cops can track that down.”
“I’d still like to know.”
I was getting tired of the subject. God knows I’d have my fill of it later when the papers came out. I wanted to end our evening on a more pleasant note. “I’ll have Charles call you tomorrow on it.”
She looked at the little clock over the stove. Milkmen were on their rounds by now, and I’d have to leave fairly soon. “It’s already tomorrow,” she pointed out.
“No it ain’t.”
She quirked an eye at me. “It ain’t?”
“Tomorrow doesn’t happen until you’ve been to bed.”
“Oh, really?” She started giggling as I stood and came around the table.
“Yeah, lemme show you how it works . . .”
4
GHASTLY REMAINS FOUND IN NIGHTCLUB CELLAR
I gave out with a cross between a sigh and a groan.
Escott shoved another paper at me. “If you think that’s bad, try this one.”
WOMAN WALLED UP ALIVE IN CLUB CRYMSYN
“Then there’s this—”
LADY CRYMSYN’S BLOODY PAST
“And finally, this—”
“JANE POE” FOUND IN NIGHTCLUB WALL
Bizarre reenactment of “The Cask of Amontillado”
The remains of a woman whom police have dubbed “Jane Poe” were discovered sealed up behind a false wall in the basement of the Lady Crymsyn nightclub in a case as horrific as the famous story by . . .
“I think that’s quite the best one,” he said. “It indicates someone on the staff has a literary background. The other papers seem to have missed that element.”
“They know their readers probably wouldn’t get it. I once had an editor with a phobia against using words with more than two syllables. I’d fight him tooth and nail over my copy, but most of the time he was right.”
“He seems to have had some influence with this other article.” He tapped one of the more lurid pages spread over the vast dining table. “Though one could hardly call it that. It’s more of a series of photographs with captions than anything else.”
“Welcome to the world of journalism,” I muttered. I skimmed enough of the stuff to get myself thoroughly annoyed, then paced to the parlor and back to brace for more headlines. The murder had caught, if not the public’s imagination yet, then that of the press. It was on the front page of all the city papers and even a few out-of-town rags, usually above the fold. It even beat out the steelworkers’ strike, the latest atrocities in Spain, and, as I’d predicted, the Duke of Windsor’s marriage to Mrs. Simpson. I hated every line of oversize type. “Jeez, why’d they have to use the new name of the club so much? It was a completely different one back when the murder took place.”
“I fear that ‘Lady Crymsyn’ is far too colorful an appellation not to be exploited. At least most of them spelled it correctly. And most of them used your off
icial statement.”
As I often did, I’d left a note about it and some other things on the kitchen table for him to find in the morning. “Then they followed it up by saying I was ‘strangely’ unavailable for further comment. Makes it sound like I was ducking out from guilt.”
“Only to be expected. It is a rather good picture of you,” he said. “At least we’ve finally ascertained that you can show up on film, but I always thought you might as it is a light-gathering device, and you are visible in light. When you want to be, that is.”
“Yeah, gee, just what I always wanted to know.” The photo was the one where I’d been caught just outside the club, and I didn’t think it all that good a likeness. My face, which I’d not seen in nearly a year, looked a lot younger than the one I remembered. The skin was tighter, newer, the bones more prominent with restored youth. My eyes seemed the same, though, showing about a decade more experience than the rest of me, or so I imagined. The expression the camera caught was that of wary dismay. The caption got my name right and accused me of being mysteriously elusive. “I don’t remember things being like this when I was the one doing the reporting,” I groused.
“Well, I’m sure they did endure a certain amount of frustration in not being able to locate you today and decided to retaliate with rampant speculation. Your Mr. Kell called me at the office this morning to report the necessity of taking the club’s phone off the hook. The constant ringing was disruptive to his schedule.”
“Did he say if the cops were finished?”
“Not at that early hour, no. He did mention that two of the other workers decided not to come back. He found replacements, but one of them turned out to be a reporter in disguise. There was another contingent of them camped on the club’s doorstep awaiting your arrival in hopes of an interview. Monetary compensation has been offered for exclusives with the men who broke through the wall—”
“For the love of Pete!” That called for another round of pacing.
Escott lighted and puffed on a cigarette, watching patiently from his chair at the head of the dining table. I was still in pajamas and slippers, having just gotten up. Materializing as usual in the kitchen, I’d seen him in the next room with the drift of newsprint scattered all over and stepped in for a look. Not the best thing to wake to, especially for someone who can’t get used to things gradually by first putting a cup of coffee between himself and the world.
There were times when I really hated my condition.
“At least they don’t know where I live yet—or do they?”
“If you examine the instrument in the kitchen, you’ll discover that it is also off the hook. I expect some enterprising newshound had the wit to check the records of the real estate office or those at city hall about your leasing transaction for the club and traced your address from there. They have not yet connected you to the Escott Agency, for which I am thankful. I’ve not consulted the neighbors yet, but one can presume that several visitors have already come to our door today seeking fresh statements.”
“Where do you get that presumption?”
“It’s more of a deduction, really. I noticed a number of smudges on what had once been a clean, polished window inset of the front door, exactly the sort of marks a person leaves behind when he cups his hands around his face to peer inside. The nose prints are unmistakable.”
And sometimes I kidded him about being too neat. “Think there’s more people out on the street waiting to bushwhack me?”
“I came in this evening via the back way and did not see. If reporters are present, then I suggest you give them what they want and send them on their way. Manage things right, and they won’t return.”
“Gordy told me pretty much the same. That I should whammy them to make sure of it.”
He gave an approving nod. “There you are, then.”
“Okay, but not until I’m damn good and ready.” I started for the stairs, wishing I could still drink coffee, but Escott had one last thing to add.
“I called Lieutenant Blair about that matter you requested. The dead woman’s dress?”
“What about it?”
“He was gratifyingly friendly and cooperative. Quite refreshing, that. He’s made no new progress on the case, by the way. I fear he’s in for a difficult time with the papers making such a great fuss.”
“What about the dress?” I prompted.
“There was a label inside for a shop called La Femme Joeena. It went out of business about three years ago. They specialized in custom-made gowns and the like. Very expensive. I passed this information on to Miss Smythe as you asked. It seems she also patronized the place. She then requested a photograph of the garment. I wasn’t sure if Blair would go so far as that under your influence, but he did, sending me two separate views. They’re under here somewhere.” He shoved papers to one side and pulled out a manila envelope, handing it over.
I turned the flap down and drew forth the photos. One was a front view of the dress spread flat on a table with a long measuring stick next to it to show scale. The other picture was a back view. The lighting was pitiless, showing every tatter, tear, and stain on the delicate fabric, but you could see what it must have looked like when new.
“Miss Smythe requested that you come by the Red Deuces at ten,” he said.
“That’s a lot earlier than usual. She must have found out something.”
“One can but hope.”
As I feared, there was a car out front that didn’t belong on our street, and a couple of reporters rushed from it to waylay me as soon as I poked my face outside.
“Come on, boys, I got a business to run,” I said over their urgent questions, putting my arm up in time to avoid a picture. I could have tried tossing them a “no comment,” but that wouldn’t have stopped the frenzied inquisition. My responding only brought them in closer. As soon as they were within the glow of the porch light, I was able to give them a nice little talk. On my terms. It was a repeat of my earlier statement, but they went away satisfied—if somewhat dazed. I had a pinching feeling behind my eyes, but those mugs wouldn’t be back again. In fact, they’d make a point of throwing away my address altogether before moving on to other stories.
There were times when I really loved my condition.
My Buick was free of stowaways, so I put it in gear and drove to Lady Crymsyn to see what sort of progress Leon and his crew had made. I’d invited Escott along, but he was content to rest up from the long day he’d put in after short sleep rations from the night before.
“You’ll tell me anything of interest,” he’d said, waving me out. I figured he was anxious to stack up the papers and polish that window clean again. When the fit was on him, he was ferociously tidy.
As at the house, there were several hopeful yellow-press diehards lingering around the club when I arrived. They’d probably heard from the workers that I usually came by after hours to check on things. A flashbulb went off, but I ducked in time, sparing my eyes from a burning and my face from being displayed in the next afternoon edition. Before the photographer could fit another bulb to his camera I made a general announcement that I’d give a short, one-at-a-time interview in the club. This resulted in a minor skirmish as they noisily sorted out their pecking order.
Unlocking the door, I led them up to the office and turned on the lights. With the others waiting impatiently in the hall, I gave them each a minute of my time, except for a guy who’d been drinking—he needed five for me to get through to him—and sent them on their way. They were all happy, and so was I; they were gone for good, though there was a chance the drinker could return. My hypnosis was either unreliable or completely ineffective at getting past alcohol with some people, but if the rest of the papers lost interest in the case, then he had no reason to return, and I’d be in the clear. My last suggestion to them was to pester the cops for answers if they had any more questions. Blair would love me for that. If he ever found out.
But unless the cops turned up something, I didn’t thin
k much more copy would come of the case. Most news stories had beginnings but no endings. Only rarely did John Q. Public hear of a conclusion to any of the endless number of human disasters that filled up the evening papers. Once in a while you might find a snippet about someone being arrested in connection to one crime or other, but it was often long after the case ceased to be of front-page interest.
Chances were that mine would die down in such a manner. I hoped it would. I wanted Lady Crymsyn to be notable rather than notorious.
The phone was off the hook just as Leon had left it. I put it on again as an experiment, and it remained satisfyingly silent. Things were looking up.
Leon and the others were gone, signing themselves out at the usual time. I noted the two new names on the clipboard roster he’d left on my desk, one of which was heavily scratched through. There was annoyance in every line of the black ink for the reporter Leon had bounced off the payroll. If for nothing else, that decided me about asking Leon to stay on to run the building’s maintenance after the renovations were finished.
I went through the mail, discarding the junk—which included requests for exclusive interviews slipped through the slot by reporters—and piling up the real stuff. I had insurance forms, employment applications, and bills to see to, and not for the first time realized I’d soon have to find a general manager and an accountant. I had some paperwork experience from helping my dad when he opened a little hardware store back in Cincinnati, but not enough to cover all this. Once the club was running, the load would only get worse. Not being up and around during business hours put a serious handicap on me; I needed someone to take care of such necessities so all I had to do was sign checks and enjoy myself.
Getting through this batch of responsibility as quickly as possible took about an hour, then I stretched and went downstairs to see what kind of progress had been made.
There’d been a general cleaning up of the lobby and club areas, and even Escott would have approved of the thoroughness of the job. Someone left the lobby bar light on again, which irked me. There was no reason to use it yet. During the day there had to be plenty of light from the big overheads and the windows to work by, and no one was around at night but me.
