Lady Crymsyn
Chapter 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 steel workers' 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 official 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 pretty much 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 think 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 he'd 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.
As I went to shut it off I noticed Leon had apparently seen to the stain on the floor tiles. He'd seen to it a little too well. Whoever had done the cleaning had scrubbed the glazing right off the surface. The stain was still there, though, some kind of dark stuff. It was probably a flaw that went all the way through the ceramic square. Damn. That'd have to be replaced. I'd brought another clipboard with me and made a note about it before moving on.
The basement was mostly cleaned up, too. Though I could see adequately by the pale light filtering through the doorway, I turned everything on before descending into its dim depths. Being alone in the building didn't bother me, being alone in the dark did. The string of temporary bulbs went all the way to the back where the alcove had been and illuminated everything enough to stave off my heebie-jeebies.
All the rubble was hauled away, by the cops or my own people, it didn't matter. The alcove was clean except for a dusting of mortar grit on the rough floor.
The rest of the false wall and the dividers that held it were now torn completely away, and it seemed like everything was ready for the new cement to be laid out smooth. In this part of the cellar they'd need to use a lot of it. Right against and along the far wall of the basement the floor dipped down about a foot or more below the level of the rest of the room. It looked like it had been chopped out by picks and was either bad planning on the original builder's part or some kind of intentional drainage construction. The contractor said it was unnecessary and to just fill up the trench.
My imagination was well in hand; I didn't feel one sign of the dead woman's lingering presence tonight... but then I didn't want to, either. The changes had helped banish her.
I quit the basement and sat at one of the tables near the stage to scribble fresh orders for Leon. He'd left a few notes for me to consider, like buying more cement to go with the bags already stored under the stairs, and the rental of a cement mixer. I gave him the okay to see to it and called it a night, trotting up to the office long enough to leave the clipboard in its usual place so he could start on things in the morning.
Back in the lobby again and ready to leave, I found that this time it had been my turn to forget to flick off the little light. I must have forgotten to do so while busy muttering over the stain on the tile. As I reached around for the switch I suddenly noticed a shot glass sitting on a coaster left in the middle of the shining marble surface of the bar. The glass contained exactly one finger of amber liquid.
I was absolutely certain the glass had not been there when I'd been down earlier. I'd have seen something like that. What the hell was this?
Leaning close, I took a cautious sniff. Whiskey, I decided.
My order for glasses and other items hadn't yet arrived. The storage areas for all three bars in the place were quite clear of supplies.
And there was no liquor on the premises either. This could only have been brought in by someone. What the hell for?
"Hello?" I looked around. All I could figure was that one of the workers must have stayed behind or somebody snuck inside after they left and put it there for a joke while I was busy elsewhere. None of my friends would do such a thing since they knew I wouldn't be able to drink the stuff. "Leon?"
No answer. I listened for all I was worth. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a mouse belch, but nothing came to me in this big, hollow building.
I was alone, but needed to be sure of it.
Highly aggravated, I searched the joint, starting at the roof and moving downward. I worked fast, vanishing in one spot to appear in another so as not to make any sound myself, and I looked everywhere, even the dead space under the tiers of seating.
Nothing and no one.
I checked all the doors and windows, found them to be locked, including the front, where I'd been about to make my exit. Maybe someone had his own key and slipped out before I'd come in, but the point of the joke eluded me. A prank's a lot more fun when you can see the face of the sucker you play it on.
There wasn't anything really valuable in the club yet, so I had no huge qualms about going even if somebody had another key. Leaving a shot of whiskey on a bar isn't exactly in the same league as vandalism or burglary. If it really bothered me, I could always get a locksmith in to change things and debated on writing Leon another note about it.
Too much trouble for the moment. The incident was more irritating than worrisome, and there were other things I had to get to tonight. The perpetrator would probably come forward soon enough to get his laugh. I gave the coaster a quick glance. It was of the plain cork variety, clean, but slightly brittle, as though it'd been left unused on the shelf for a long time and had dried out. Shrugging, I dumped the liquor in the sink behind the bar and left the glass there. If the prankster wanted to try some fun and games with me, he'd be back soon enough.
And I'd be ready.
Parking at the Red Deuces, even on a weeknight, was always a pain. This time I tried a different direction, but still had to hike a block to get there. The doorman gave a friendly nod and ushered me in just on the stroke of ten. The hostess knew my face, too, and spared me from paying out the dollar cover charge. I told her Bobbi had asked me to come backstage, and she got one of the waitresses to escort me there. For all the glitter out front, behind the curtains it was plain and run-down-looking, something I planned to avoid with Crymsyn. My entertainers were to be as happy about their surroundings as the patrons.
Bobbi had a tiny dressing room, but it was all hers, and she'd assured me she'd been in worse. I thanked the waitress so she could leave and cautiously inched my way in. A table with a mirror took most of the space. I sniffed the air and picked up a wealth of greasepaint, talcum powder, and old clothes with Bobbi's rose scent over all.
I didn't have long to wait; a small commotion outside announced her presence there as she spoke with other performers in the narrow hall. A few seconds later she came in, flushed from being under the spotlights, but happily relaxed. She wore the exaggerated makeup required for the stage and a midnight-blue dress that I liked for the way its neckline wasn't anywhere near her neck. Instead of jewelry, she'd wrapped a silky blue scarf around her throat to conceal the small marks I'd left there.
"Hi," she said warmly, and came up for a hello kiss. "How's your night been?"
"Not too bad, considering what was in the papers. Charles thought I should be grateful they spelled my name right."
"I saw some of those stories. It'll blow over."
"Not the stigma on the club, I don't think."
"You can make people forget it."
"I could at that, but will the headache be worth it?"
She sat at her dressing table and checked her makeup for smears. "What's got you so testy? Besides the papers?"
I didn't think I was being testy, but she was just too good at reading me. I told her about the shot glass of whiskey on the bar and how impossible it was for it to have been there.
"Someone must have left it while you were in the basement and snuck out one of the fire exit doors," she suggested, fixing her lip rouge.
"That's what I was thinking, but I would have heard him. Those things make a big racket when they swing shut."
"It was eased closed, then. But that building's kinda old. Ever think there might be a secret passage?"
"You've been hanging around Charles too much." Escott loved that sort of thing. He'd been the one to construct the trick trapdoor in the kitchen for emergency access to my sanctuary. His office also contained a couple of hidden surprises.
"That old speak was a hot spot during Prohibition. They might have made a concealed escape for raids. Lots of places did. You know the Nightcrawler's got one."
"I don't see how Leon or the contractors could have missed it. Or me for that matter. The building's not connected to any others, the basement floor's uneven but solid. That place has been gone over inch by inch; they'd have found something." And they had. That woman's remains.
"So whoever it was used a fire exit to get out, then."
"But why leave a shot of whiskey behind? As a joke it's a lame duck."
She spread her hands and shook her head. She wanted to help, but couldn't.
"Okay, I'll figure it out later. Now what's the big deal having me here so early?"
"You complaining?"
"Nope."
"You're sweet. Did Charles tell you I've tracked down the dress?"
"Not exactly, but he got these from Lieutenant Blair." I gave her the manila envelope. She pulled out the photos and studied them. "He said something about the label inside. That you used to go to the dress shop."
"I sure as hell did, and paid through the nose there, too. Could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me the name of the place. It's shut down now, but," and she looked happily smug, "the former owner should be here any minute."
"You're kidding."
She slipped the photos back and held up her index finger. "Look at that and be grateful. I nearly wore it down to the joint from all the dialing I've done today trying to find him."
"Him?" I had some idea that dress shops were strictly female territory.
"He's a bit festive, but very nice. He's got a real gift for knowing what looks good on a girl-"
A brisk knock on the door interrupted her.
"That'll be him."
"The mirror," I said.
"Just a minute-" she yodeled to her visitor.
She grabbed a kimono from a hook and draped it carelessly over the offending furniture, covering its selective reflection of the room. Selective in that I wasn't included with the inventory.
"All right, come in."
A slender, athletic-looking man in his thirties pushed the door open. He was very handsome and dressed in a light mustard sporting coat with tan trousers and two-toned shoes of buff and white. His reddish hair was puffed rather than slicked back and matched his pencil-thin mustache. Instead of a tie he wore a pale scarf bunched around his open shirt collar, held in place by a gold stickpin. He might have gotten first place in a John Barry more look-alike contest.
"Roberta, darling! It has been entirely tooooo long!" he said, sailing in, arms wide. As the room was small he didn't have far to go before encountering Bobbi. They wrapped up tight in a hard embrace.
"Joe, you sweetheart! You look wonderful!"
"Oh, you are just too, too kind, my dear. And to have me come backstage at the star's special request. My friends will all be soooo jealous!"
They went on like this for a time while I played chopped liver in the corner. When they finally pried themselves apart Bobbi introduced me to Mr. Joe James, designer of beautiful gowns for lovely ladies. We said the usual things to each other and shook hands.
"Joe used to own La Femme Joeena, the ritziest couturier's west of Paris," she said.
"Own! Darling, I was La Femme Joeena! And Paris was the ritziest place east of me. I'd still have the shop except for the call to higher things."
"He does costume design work for Hollywood now," she explained.
"Here in Chicago?" I asked. The festive Joe James did seem just a touch out of place on the prairie lands, but he'd fit in perfectly in the movies or New York theater.
"Absolutely!" he said. "They send me pictures of the actress and a script, and I send them exquisite works of art in return. Most of the time it's pearls before swine, and they change everything, but so long as those nice big checks clear the bank who cares? Roberta, how did you like that last one I did? The one with Joan Crawford? But the other one with what's-her-name-I swear Adrian was stealing all my work from my last film and taking the credit. And what is that rag you're wearing? I've used better things than that to dust my studio. I want you to come by tomorrow and let me do you a favor. That blue is just too purple for you. What you need is something cooler and more saturated to do you justice, I've always said that, haven't I?"
"You're a genius, Joe, that's why I called you."
"And only just in time-"
"But it's not my wardrobe I want to talk about."
"Then your friend here? I suppose I could give him a few sterling snippets of advice, but menswear just isn't my specialty, though I know what I like." And he gave me a charming smile with lots of twinkle in his eyes.
Bobbi didn't raise her voice; in fact, she sounded just as cheerfully pleasant. "Back off, bitch, he's mine."
Joe James made a little mewing sound of disappointment in his throat. "Oh, well, you can't blame a fellow for trying. Don't mind me, Mr. Fleming, I'm an unrepentant flirt."
"No problem, Mr. James," I said affably.
He gave a huge sigh and rounded on Bobbi. "All right, darling, what do you want done?"
"Have a seat." She indicated that he take her dressing chair while she perched on a spare stool facing him. I stood by and watched the show. She took the photos from the manila envelope and gave them to him.
"What is this?" He looked from one to the other and then at Bobbi. "A traffic accident?"
"Just about. I want you to cast your mind back a few years. What can you tell me about a bright red evening gown with matching sequins for a woman with dark hair?"
"Bright red? I use that a lot. You'll have to be more specific."
"This is special. A deep tone, intense, it stands out."
I wondered if she'd compare it to blood. The dress must have been close to that color when new.
James thought about it a moment. "What you might be describing is something I called Royal Red. I'd use it to make a violent splash here and there, but I've not much need for it now. It photographs on film stock as being sooty black. Throws the whole balance off if I'm not careful."
"Can you remember making such a gown in that shade?"
"I made several." Another glance at the photos. "Oh, dear. You mean one of my masterpieces has been reduced to this?"
"Sadly, yes."
"Oh, the poor thing." He clucked and shook his head at the loss.
"The patterning of the sequins on the skirt is pretty distinct. Can you remember this particular design?
"Every last stitch of it. Custom-tailored jobs at that price I never forget."
"Who ordered it?"
"No one you'd know, I hope. Bit of jumped-up trash was that bolt of goods, but she had the money, and who am I to argue with the lovely clink of cold cash in these hard times? She called herself Lena Ashley, but I know she couldn't have had that much class on her birth certificate. One is either born with it or not. She was not."
Bobbi shot me a happy smirk, brows arched with triumph. "There you are, Sherlock. Joe just solved it for you."
"Lena Ashley? That's her name?" It seemed too good to be true.
"What did I just solve?" he demanded.
"I gotta have more than this," I said to him. "How can you be so sure this is from your shop?"
Mr. James looked both smug and amused at my ignorance. "How could Michelangelo be sure of the difference between his David and the Sistine Chapel? Darling, when I make a work of art I remember it."
Bobbi nodded agreement. "He's got one of those kinds of memory, Jack. Like Gordy."
"Just from a color and some sequins?"
"It's a special shade," he said, "custom-made exclusively for La Femme Joeena. Back then I only used that rich a red for accents in my trims, only rarely as a dress. Lena positively fell in love with it and insisted I do a whole gown for her of the stuff. I will admit that she was right in her choice. She had a certain gold tone to her skin, and the red set it off in a most spectacular way. She loved it, but never came back for another, and she said she would. She still had two hundred dollars owing on her account, too, the bitch. I sent her a dozen bills until they started coming back with 'no forwarding' stamped on them."
"When was that?" I asked.
"The bills or the dress?"
"Lena. When was the last time you saw her?"
"Um, that would be about five years ago now last spring. I'd have to find my old account books to give an exact date. Whatever would you want with the likes of Lena Ashley, anyway? She was a soiled dove and no mistake. She sometimes got her colors right, but she was still dumb as a brick for all her airs and money."
"You're sure it's the only dress you ever made in that design?"
"Positive. I remember laying out the sequin pattern myself, then after doing the outline to the motifs, I gladly turned it over to one of the seamstresses to finish filling it in. She cursed me roundly for it, too, but later admitted it was spectacular."
"What if Lena loaned it to someone else?"
Joe looked shocked. "My ladies swapping their gowns around like a rummage sale? Unthinkable. Even Lena wouldn't do that. All my works are custom-fitted to the individual body. This dress wouldn't hang quite the same way on another woman, and she would know it. She'd just feel it! Of course, it was just awful if they gained a pound or three, then there was absolute hell to pay with alterations. Oh, the tales I could tell."
"What about another woman wanting an identical dress with the same kind of sequins?"
"Duplication? Just what kind of a Philistine do you take me for? My reputation would have been ruined in a week if I allowed that sort of thing to happen. No, my dear. I always did one design per customer. That was the main idea about their coming to me in the first place, after all. Lena was the only woman who got that particular pattern." His gaze flipped back and forth between me and Bobbi. "What's all this huge interest on the dress? And Lena?"
"You seen the papers today?" I asked.
Joe James blinked dramatically. "My God, you don't mean it! You're that Jack Fleming? And... and she was the one walled up in your club?"
"My club to be, it's not open yet, and yes, I guess she was if you're right about the dress. That's why I had to be sure you were sure. It's what was on the remains they found." I indicated the photos.
He immediately dropped them on the makeup table as though they were hot. "How utterly awful! That poor girl!"
"I'm surprised the cops haven't contacted you already."
"They have to find me first. I'm overdue on a film deadline and hiding out with friends. Those studio bastards keep phoning to hurry me up, and that interrupts my concentration. I've not checked with my answering service in a couple of days. If dear Roberta hadn't called every fashion store in town trying to find me, I'd still be in happy seclusion working away on my new masterpieces."
I turned to Bobbi, lifting her hand and kissing her dialing finger. "Have I ever told you that you're perfect?"
"Yes, but it bears frequent repeating."
"Ah, young love," said Joe in an approving tone. "I must say he's better than the last one, darling. Now tell me what's going on. Am I to have the police on my doorstep? Do you know what effect that will have on my delivery schedule?"
"You'll hear from the cops, all right," I said. "No way out of it."
"Damn."
"Could you tell us what you know about Lena?"
"Of course, but why?"
"It's my nightclub, and I don't want this hanging over the roof like some thunderbolt waiting to drop. If I can point the cops in the right direction for the killer, then maybe that poor woman can rest in peace."
"How utterly noble. The killer? God, but I never thought of that. She didn't get all walled up by herself, did she? Oh, it gives me the leaping fantods just thinking about it. I don't want my name involved. Suppose he comes after me?"
"I can fix it so your name stays out of the papers. I have an in with the guy in charge of the case."
"You must tell me your secret sometime. Well, all right, what do you want to hear?"
"Where did she live, who did she know. If she was on the make, who paid her bills?"
"I'll have to look her address up in my old files, but you'd have better luck talking with that Rita creature, if she's still around after all this while. They were best friends, always in the shop together."
"Rita who?"
"Robillard. Cut out of the same cheap cloth if you ask me. She worked-if one may call it that-for Booth Nevis. So did Lena."
I took a short pause to swallow. "Booth Nevis? You sure?"
"Lena usually paid in cash-she always seemed to have plenty, but when she ran out she'd put it on account. Sometimes she let it go for months, and I'd have to get very cross with her. Then she'd turn up the next day with a two-party check to settle it. Booth Nevis was always the name on the check. For both Lena and Rita, I might add." Bobbi shot me a look. She knew all about Nevis owning the lease on my club.
Joe noticed our interplay and was instantly alarmed. "What's going on? Is this Nevis a gangster? What have I done? He'll put me in cement overshoes or worse for fingering him. That's it, I'll just have to grit my teeth and move to Hollywood with the rest of the harlots."
Bobbi made a calming gesture. "Joe, it'll be all right. Jack said he had the fix in. We won't let anything happen to you." Bobbi put her hand on his, reassuring.
He wasn't all that reassured. "Roberta, this is serious stuff, this is my life, for God's sake."
"Jack?" She gave me a glance.
"Mr. James, I've also got reasons for wanting to keep my head low," I said. "When the cops come calling you don't mention me, Nevis, or this conversation, and I'll return the favor."
"I'd appreciate that, but that gangster..."
"Just because his girl wore a dress from your place doesn't mean Nevis will know you said anything about him. Give the cops Lena Ashley's name and leave it at that. It was five years ago, they'll believe it if you say you don't remember anything more about her. Let them take it from there. And Nevis won't find out about you from me. You're safe."
"Well, if you're sure." He leaned earnestly toward Bobbi. "Is he sure?"
"Jack knows what he's doing."
"Oh, darling, I've heard that one before." It took a lot more talk from me to get a little more talk from Joe, but he eventually calmed down and spilled what he had. Lena Ashley shared a flat with Rita Robillard back then or so he assumed since he sent the bills to the same address for both. They had expensive tastes and frequently indulged them at his shop, coming in nearly every week for something new, though Lena stopped after picking up the red dress. Rita still turned up regularly, and when Joe asked after her roommate she claimed not to know what happened to her. Soon after that she stopped coming in herself.
"In this light, it's all highly suspicious," Joe intoned. "She acted more angry than worried about Lena's vanishing. She must have known something more than she let on."
"Was she the type to wall up anyone alive?" I asked.
"And ruin her manicure? Don't make me laugh. Rita would have talked someone into doing it for her, but I really don't see her doing it in the first place. They got along very well so far as I could see. Rita was the smarter of the pair-though that's not saying much. She knew all the ropes, and Lena often asked her for advice, at least for dressing well. Lena was the real hell-raiser, she liked parties, was always talking about this one or that and always in need of something new to wear. Happy day for me."
"You sure she and Rita were on the make?"
"I suppose they must have been. How else do pretty girls with no family, no talent, no brains, and no job get the kind of money they spent?"
But I'd never heard Gordy mention anything about Booth Nevis being a pimp. Maybe he'd been a customer instead. Evidently a very satisfied one to judge by the money involved.
Or maybe not.
As Joe James said, poor Lena.
After having his brain picked clean James confessed to being parched with thirst and that the least I could do was buy him a drink. It was coming up time for Bobbi to do another song set, anyway, and she wanted to freshen her makeup. We left her to it and went out front to the table she'd reserved for him. It was close to, but not on top of the stage. I bought us a couple of martinis.
"Such a treat it is to get out and dust off the cobwebs," he told me. "I spend so much time over the drawing board I'll end up a hunchback before long." He then went on to say his job wasn't all that glamorous, but he wouldn't want to do anything else. "You do meet the nicest people, though, like Roberta-and yourself, of course."
"Thanks."
"Whatever happened to that frightful man she was with before? His name was Slick. Very pretty, but there was nothing behind his eyes."
"Dead. Shot."
Joe pursed his lips. "Oh." He gave me a long look and finished his drink. I said I'd changed my mind about having mine and if he would take it. He said yes and seemed grateful when the lights dimmed for Bobbi's entrance.
With the spot making her platinum hair shimmer like a halo, she started out with a throaty ballad that drew a few late dancers onto the floor. Instead of a regular small band for music there was just the one piano. The Red Deuces could have had more, and often did, but its focus tonight was for the romantics in the crowd. The ones with lots of money. The martinis I bought were on the high end of the pricing scale for this town. I was paying to see and be seen and for the classy atmosphere of the joint. I tried my best to enjoy it. With Bobbi making the entertainment, it was easy.
Part of me was still putting time in on my own place, though. I was taking mental notes as I always did when in a club now. I watched how the staff here did their work and if they were efficient about it. The people almost seemed to be overdoing themselves in amiability. They had a right to it if the tips were in keeping with the price of the drinks, but I got the impression that they were indeed genuinely cheerful. While off to the side, hanging around the bar between orders, they smiled and joked with each other. At the same time they kept their eyes on the patrons, alert for the least signal for service. One waiter even started toward a table as the customer pulled out his cigarette case, arriving in time to hold a lighter under the smoke, then discreetly withdrew like a helpful ghost.
That was good to see. It was just the sort of thing I wanted for Lady Crymsyn.
After Bobbi finished her set, some of the customers left, and if the next singer on stage was troubled by the thinning ranks, he didn't show it and plowed forward. I wondered if he'd been the one too drunk to go on the night before. Yet another item to worry about once the club opened: entertainers who didn't entertain. Bobbi had filled my head with endless horror stories of drunks, fistfights breaking out, and impromptu backstage sex and even impromptu onstage sex when someone pulled a curtain open at the wrong time. There were other alarming examples, but those were the most common reasons why, at times, the show did not go on.
I had my work cut out for me. The sooner I got an experienced general manager to take the load off the better.
Just shy of midnight Joe James said he had to leave, so I offered him a ride home since he'd cabbed over. He accepted, and I went backstage to let Bobbi know.
"I'll return here at the usual time, though," I promised.
"Then I'll be out front. What'd you think of Joe?"
"You were right on the festive part, but he's okay."
She snuggled close, and I caught the scent of her rose perfume again. It seemed to go right through the top of my skull, but in a nice way. "Good. I'm glad you don't have a problem with him."
"He's a friend of yours, so he's all right by me."
She went out front so she could give him a kiss on the cheek good-bye, and they promised each other to get together to talk clothes later that week.
James liked to chat about himself and filled my ear with Hollywood gossip on the drive to his home, or rather to where he was staying. The house was dark, meaning his hosts were asleep and it was too late for the one-for-the-road drink he'd wanted to give me. Just as well, with my condition. I was good at pretending to imbibe, but it didn't always work. At parties I'd just carry a full glass around and keep moving, but it's hard to get away with the trick when it's just me and one other person.
He expressed his regrets, said it had been a pleasure to meet me, shook my hand good-bye, then strode easily up the walkway, happy in his two-toned shoes. I wished him well and pulled back into traffic again.
Between what I'd just learned from him and my talk with Gordy the night before, I had plenty to think about, and right now my thoughts were on Booth Nevis.
Either by accident or on purpose, every single one of the papers failed to include Nevis's name in their many stories, though it was well-known that he'd had a feud with the speak's violently deceased owner, Welsh Lennet. The rank and file reporters seemed to know all about it to judge from what I'd overheard while hidden behind the bar during their invasion last night. If I'd been one of them and trying to work up an interesting angle, it would have only been natural to include at least a line or two on the club's dark history. This strange lack spoke volumes.
I'd have to run by Nevis's place and ask a few questions.
I had a feeling he wouldn't like them much.
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 steel workers' 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 official 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 pretty much 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 think 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 he'd 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.
As I went to shut it off I noticed Leon had apparently seen to the stain on the floor tiles. He'd seen to it a little too well. Whoever had done the cleaning had scrubbed the glazing right off the surface. The stain was still there, though, some kind of dark stuff. It was probably a flaw that went all the way through the ceramic square. Damn. That'd have to be replaced. I'd brought another clipboard with me and made a note about it before moving on.
The basement was mostly cleaned up, too. Though I could see adequately by the pale light filtering through the doorway, I turned everything on before descending into its dim depths. Being alone in the building didn't bother me, being alone in the dark did. The string of temporary bulbs went all the way to the back where the alcove had been and illuminated everything enough to stave off my heebie-jeebies.
All the rubble was hauled away, by the cops or my own people, it didn't matter. The alcove was clean except for a dusting of mortar grit on the rough floor.
The rest of the false wall and the dividers that held it were now torn completely away, and it seemed like everything was ready for the new cement to be laid out smooth. In this part of the cellar they'd need to use a lot of it. Right against and along the far wall of the basement the floor dipped down about a foot or more below the level of the rest of the room. It looked like it had been chopped out by picks and was either bad planning on the original builder's part or some kind of intentional drainage construction. The contractor said it was unnecessary and to just fill up the trench.
My imagination was well in hand; I didn't feel one sign of the dead woman's lingering presence tonight... but then I didn't want to, either. The changes had helped banish her.
I quit the basement and sat at one of the tables near the stage to scribble fresh orders for Leon. He'd left a few notes for me to consider, like buying more cement to go with the bags already stored under the stairs, and the rental of a cement mixer. I gave him the okay to see to it and called it a night, trotting up to the office long enough to leave the clipboard in its usual place so he could start on things in the morning.
Back in the lobby again and ready to leave, I found that this time it had been my turn to forget to flick off the little light. I must have forgotten to do so while busy muttering over the stain on the tile. As I reached around for the switch I suddenly noticed a shot glass sitting on a coaster left in the middle of the shining marble surface of the bar. The glass contained exactly one finger of amber liquid.
I was absolutely certain the glass had not been there when I'd been down earlier. I'd have seen something like that. What the hell was this?
Leaning close, I took a cautious sniff. Whiskey, I decided.
My order for glasses and other items hadn't yet arrived. The storage areas for all three bars in the place were quite clear of supplies.
And there was no liquor on the premises either. This could only have been brought in by someone. What the hell for?
"Hello?" I looked around. All I could figure was that one of the workers must have stayed behind or somebody snuck inside after they left and put it there for a joke while I was busy elsewhere. None of my friends would do such a thing since they knew I wouldn't be able to drink the stuff. "Leon?"
No answer. I listened for all I was worth. If I concentrate hard enough, I can hear a mouse belch, but nothing came to me in this big, hollow building.
I was alone, but needed to be sure of it.
Highly aggravated, I searched the joint, starting at the roof and moving downward. I worked fast, vanishing in one spot to appear in another so as not to make any sound myself, and I looked everywhere, even the dead space under the tiers of seating.
Nothing and no one.
I checked all the doors and windows, found them to be locked, including the front, where I'd been about to make my exit. Maybe someone had his own key and slipped out before I'd come in, but the point of the joke eluded me. A prank's a lot more fun when you can see the face of the sucker you play it on.
There wasn't anything really valuable in the club yet, so I had no huge qualms about going even if somebody had another key. Leaving a shot of whiskey on a bar isn't exactly in the same league as vandalism or burglary. If it really bothered me, I could always get a locksmith in to change things and debated on writing Leon another note about it.
Too much trouble for the moment. The incident was more irritating than worrisome, and there were other things I had to get to tonight. The perpetrator would probably come forward soon enough to get his laugh. I gave the coaster a quick glance. It was of the plain cork variety, clean, but slightly brittle, as though it'd been left unused on the shelf for a long time and had dried out. Shrugging, I dumped the liquor in the sink behind the bar and left the glass there. If the prankster wanted to try some fun and games with me, he'd be back soon enough.
And I'd be ready.
Parking at the Red Deuces, even on a weeknight, was always a pain. This time I tried a different direction, but still had to hike a block to get there. The doorman gave a friendly nod and ushered me in just on the stroke of ten. The hostess knew my face, too, and spared me from paying out the dollar cover charge. I told her Bobbi had asked me to come backstage, and she got one of the waitresses to escort me there. For all the glitter out front, behind the curtains it was plain and run-down-looking, something I planned to avoid with Crymsyn. My entertainers were to be as happy about their surroundings as the patrons.
Bobbi had a tiny dressing room, but it was all hers, and she'd assured me she'd been in worse. I thanked the waitress so she could leave and cautiously inched my way in. A table with a mirror took most of the space. I sniffed the air and picked up a wealth of greasepaint, talcum powder, and old clothes with Bobbi's rose scent over all.
I didn't have long to wait; a small commotion outside announced her presence there as she spoke with other performers in the narrow hall. A few seconds later she came in, flushed from being under the spotlights, but happily relaxed. She wore the exaggerated makeup required for the stage and a midnight-blue dress that I liked for the way its neckline wasn't anywhere near her neck. Instead of jewelry, she'd wrapped a silky blue scarf around her throat to conceal the small marks I'd left there.
"Hi," she said warmly, and came up for a hello kiss. "How's your night been?"
"Not too bad, considering what was in the papers. Charles thought I should be grateful they spelled my name right."
"I saw some of those stories. It'll blow over."
"Not the stigma on the club, I don't think."
"You can make people forget it."
"I could at that, but will the headache be worth it?"
She sat at her dressing table and checked her makeup for smears. "What's got you so testy? Besides the papers?"
I didn't think I was being testy, but she was just too good at reading me. I told her about the shot glass of whiskey on the bar and how impossible it was for it to have been there.
"Someone must have left it while you were in the basement and snuck out one of the fire exit doors," she suggested, fixing her lip rouge.
"That's what I was thinking, but I would have heard him. Those things make a big racket when they swing shut."
"It was eased closed, then. But that building's kinda old. Ever think there might be a secret passage?"
"You've been hanging around Charles too much." Escott loved that sort of thing. He'd been the one to construct the trick trapdoor in the kitchen for emergency access to my sanctuary. His office also contained a couple of hidden surprises.
"That old speak was a hot spot during Prohibition. They might have made a concealed escape for raids. Lots of places did. You know the Nightcrawler's got one."
"I don't see how Leon or the contractors could have missed it. Or me for that matter. The building's not connected to any others, the basement floor's uneven but solid. That place has been gone over inch by inch; they'd have found something." And they had. That woman's remains.
"So whoever it was used a fire exit to get out, then."
"But why leave a shot of whiskey behind? As a joke it's a lame duck."
She spread her hands and shook her head. She wanted to help, but couldn't.
"Okay, I'll figure it out later. Now what's the big deal having me here so early?"
"You complaining?"
"Nope."
"You're sweet. Did Charles tell you I've tracked down the dress?"
"Not exactly, but he got these from Lieutenant Blair." I gave her the manila envelope. She pulled out the photos and studied them. "He said something about the label inside. That you used to go to the dress shop."
"I sure as hell did, and paid through the nose there, too. Could have knocked me over with a feather when he told me the name of the place. It's shut down now, but," and she looked happily smug, "the former owner should be here any minute."
"You're kidding."
She slipped the photos back and held up her index finger. "Look at that and be grateful. I nearly wore it down to the joint from all the dialing I've done today trying to find him."
"Him?" I had some idea that dress shops were strictly female territory.
"He's a bit festive, but very nice. He's got a real gift for knowing what looks good on a girl-"
A brisk knock on the door interrupted her.
"That'll be him."
"The mirror," I said.
"Just a minute-" she yodeled to her visitor.
She grabbed a kimono from a hook and draped it carelessly over the offending furniture, covering its selective reflection of the room. Selective in that I wasn't included with the inventory.
"All right, come in."
A slender, athletic-looking man in his thirties pushed the door open. He was very handsome and dressed in a light mustard sporting coat with tan trousers and two-toned shoes of buff and white. His reddish hair was puffed rather than slicked back and matched his pencil-thin mustache. Instead of a tie he wore a pale scarf bunched around his open shirt collar, held in place by a gold stickpin. He might have gotten first place in a John Barry more look-alike contest.
"Roberta, darling! It has been entirely tooooo long!" he said, sailing in, arms wide. As the room was small he didn't have far to go before encountering Bobbi. They wrapped up tight in a hard embrace.
"Joe, you sweetheart! You look wonderful!"
"Oh, you are just too, too kind, my dear. And to have me come backstage at the star's special request. My friends will all be soooo jealous!"
They went on like this for a time while I played chopped liver in the corner. When they finally pried themselves apart Bobbi introduced me to Mr. Joe James, designer of beautiful gowns for lovely ladies. We said the usual things to each other and shook hands.
"Joe used to own La Femme Joeena, the ritziest couturier's west of Paris," she said.
"Own! Darling, I was La Femme Joeena! And Paris was the ritziest place east of me. I'd still have the shop except for the call to higher things."
"He does costume design work for Hollywood now," she explained.
"Here in Chicago?" I asked. The festive Joe James did seem just a touch out of place on the prairie lands, but he'd fit in perfectly in the movies or New York theater.
"Absolutely!" he said. "They send me pictures of the actress and a script, and I send them exquisite works of art in return. Most of the time it's pearls before swine, and they change everything, but so long as those nice big checks clear the bank who cares? Roberta, how did you like that last one I did? The one with Joan Crawford? But the other one with what's-her-name-I swear Adrian was stealing all my work from my last film and taking the credit. And what is that rag you're wearing? I've used better things than that to dust my studio. I want you to come by tomorrow and let me do you a favor. That blue is just too purple for you. What you need is something cooler and more saturated to do you justice, I've always said that, haven't I?"
"You're a genius, Joe, that's why I called you."
"And only just in time-"
"But it's not my wardrobe I want to talk about."
"Then your friend here? I suppose I could give him a few sterling snippets of advice, but menswear just isn't my specialty, though I know what I like." And he gave me a charming smile with lots of twinkle in his eyes.
Bobbi didn't raise her voice; in fact, she sounded just as cheerfully pleasant. "Back off, bitch, he's mine."
Joe James made a little mewing sound of disappointment in his throat. "Oh, well, you can't blame a fellow for trying. Don't mind me, Mr. Fleming, I'm an unrepentant flirt."
"No problem, Mr. James," I said affably.
He gave a huge sigh and rounded on Bobbi. "All right, darling, what do you want done?"
"Have a seat." She indicated that he take her dressing chair while she perched on a spare stool facing him. I stood by and watched the show. She took the photos from the manila envelope and gave them to him.
"What is this?" He looked from one to the other and then at Bobbi. "A traffic accident?"
"Just about. I want you to cast your mind back a few years. What can you tell me about a bright red evening gown with matching sequins for a woman with dark hair?"
"Bright red? I use that a lot. You'll have to be more specific."
"This is special. A deep tone, intense, it stands out."
I wondered if she'd compare it to blood. The dress must have been close to that color when new.
James thought about it a moment. "What you might be describing is something I called Royal Red. I'd use it to make a violent splash here and there, but I've not much need for it now. It photographs on film stock as being sooty black. Throws the whole balance off if I'm not careful."
"Can you remember making such a gown in that shade?"
"I made several." Another glance at the photos. "Oh, dear. You mean one of my masterpieces has been reduced to this?"
"Sadly, yes."
"Oh, the poor thing." He clucked and shook his head at the loss.
"The patterning of the sequins on the skirt is pretty distinct. Can you remember this particular design?
"Every last stitch of it. Custom-tailored jobs at that price I never forget."
"Who ordered it?"
"No one you'd know, I hope. Bit of jumped-up trash was that bolt of goods, but she had the money, and who am I to argue with the lovely clink of cold cash in these hard times? She called herself Lena Ashley, but I know she couldn't have had that much class on her birth certificate. One is either born with it or not. She was not."
Bobbi shot me a happy smirk, brows arched with triumph. "There you are, Sherlock. Joe just solved it for you."
"Lena Ashley? That's her name?" It seemed too good to be true.
"What did I just solve?" he demanded.
"I gotta have more than this," I said to him. "How can you be so sure this is from your shop?"
Mr. James looked both smug and amused at my ignorance. "How could Michelangelo be sure of the difference between his David and the Sistine Chapel? Darling, when I make a work of art I remember it."
Bobbi nodded agreement. "He's got one of those kinds of memory, Jack. Like Gordy."
"Just from a color and some sequins?"
"It's a special shade," he said, "custom-made exclusively for La Femme Joeena. Back then I only used that rich a red for accents in my trims, only rarely as a dress. Lena positively fell in love with it and insisted I do a whole gown for her of the stuff. I will admit that she was right in her choice. She had a certain gold tone to her skin, and the red set it off in a most spectacular way. She loved it, but never came back for another, and she said she would. She still had two hundred dollars owing on her account, too, the bitch. I sent her a dozen bills until they started coming back with 'no forwarding' stamped on them."
"When was that?" I asked.
"The bills or the dress?"
"Lena. When was the last time you saw her?"
"Um, that would be about five years ago now last spring. I'd have to find my old account books to give an exact date. Whatever would you want with the likes of Lena Ashley, anyway? She was a soiled dove and no mistake. She sometimes got her colors right, but she was still dumb as a brick for all her airs and money."
"You're sure it's the only dress you ever made in that design?"
"Positive. I remember laying out the sequin pattern myself, then after doing the outline to the motifs, I gladly turned it over to one of the seamstresses to finish filling it in. She cursed me roundly for it, too, but later admitted it was spectacular."
"What if Lena loaned it to someone else?"
Joe looked shocked. "My ladies swapping their gowns around like a rummage sale? Unthinkable. Even Lena wouldn't do that. All my works are custom-fitted to the individual body. This dress wouldn't hang quite the same way on another woman, and she would know it. She'd just feel it! Of course, it was just awful if they gained a pound or three, then there was absolute hell to pay with alterations. Oh, the tales I could tell."
"What about another woman wanting an identical dress with the same kind of sequins?"
"Duplication? Just what kind of a Philistine do you take me for? My reputation would have been ruined in a week if I allowed that sort of thing to happen. No, my dear. I always did one design per customer. That was the main idea about their coming to me in the first place, after all. Lena was the only woman who got that particular pattern." His gaze flipped back and forth between me and Bobbi. "What's all this huge interest on the dress? And Lena?"
"You seen the papers today?" I asked.
Joe James blinked dramatically. "My God, you don't mean it! You're that Jack Fleming? And... and she was the one walled up in your club?"
"My club to be, it's not open yet, and yes, I guess she was if you're right about the dress. That's why I had to be sure you were sure. It's what was on the remains they found." I indicated the photos.
He immediately dropped them on the makeup table as though they were hot. "How utterly awful! That poor girl!"
"I'm surprised the cops haven't contacted you already."
"They have to find me first. I'm overdue on a film deadline and hiding out with friends. Those studio bastards keep phoning to hurry me up, and that interrupts my concentration. I've not checked with my answering service in a couple of days. If dear Roberta hadn't called every fashion store in town trying to find me, I'd still be in happy seclusion working away on my new masterpieces."
I turned to Bobbi, lifting her hand and kissing her dialing finger. "Have I ever told you that you're perfect?"
"Yes, but it bears frequent repeating."
"Ah, young love," said Joe in an approving tone. "I must say he's better than the last one, darling. Now tell me what's going on. Am I to have the police on my doorstep? Do you know what effect that will have on my delivery schedule?"
"You'll hear from the cops, all right," I said. "No way out of it."
"Damn."
"Could you tell us what you know about Lena?"
"Of course, but why?"
"It's my nightclub, and I don't want this hanging over the roof like some thunderbolt waiting to drop. If I can point the cops in the right direction for the killer, then maybe that poor woman can rest in peace."
"How utterly noble. The killer? God, but I never thought of that. She didn't get all walled up by herself, did she? Oh, it gives me the leaping fantods just thinking about it. I don't want my name involved. Suppose he comes after me?"
"I can fix it so your name stays out of the papers. I have an in with the guy in charge of the case."
"You must tell me your secret sometime. Well, all right, what do you want to hear?"
"Where did she live, who did she know. If she was on the make, who paid her bills?"
"I'll have to look her address up in my old files, but you'd have better luck talking with that Rita creature, if she's still around after all this while. They were best friends, always in the shop together."
"Rita who?"
"Robillard. Cut out of the same cheap cloth if you ask me. She worked-if one may call it that-for Booth Nevis. So did Lena."
I took a short pause to swallow. "Booth Nevis? You sure?"
"Lena usually paid in cash-she always seemed to have plenty, but when she ran out she'd put it on account. Sometimes she let it go for months, and I'd have to get very cross with her. Then she'd turn up the next day with a two-party check to settle it. Booth Nevis was always the name on the check. For both Lena and Rita, I might add." Bobbi shot me a look. She knew all about Nevis owning the lease on my club.
Joe noticed our interplay and was instantly alarmed. "What's going on? Is this Nevis a gangster? What have I done? He'll put me in cement overshoes or worse for fingering him. That's it, I'll just have to grit my teeth and move to Hollywood with the rest of the harlots."
Bobbi made a calming gesture. "Joe, it'll be all right. Jack said he had the fix in. We won't let anything happen to you." Bobbi put her hand on his, reassuring.
He wasn't all that reassured. "Roberta, this is serious stuff, this is my life, for God's sake."
"Jack?" She gave me a glance.
"Mr. James, I've also got reasons for wanting to keep my head low," I said. "When the cops come calling you don't mention me, Nevis, or this conversation, and I'll return the favor."
"I'd appreciate that, but that gangster..."
"Just because his girl wore a dress from your place doesn't mean Nevis will know you said anything about him. Give the cops Lena Ashley's name and leave it at that. It was five years ago, they'll believe it if you say you don't remember anything more about her. Let them take it from there. And Nevis won't find out about you from me. You're safe."
"Well, if you're sure." He leaned earnestly toward Bobbi. "Is he sure?"
"Jack knows what he's doing."
"Oh, darling, I've heard that one before." It took a lot more talk from me to get a little more talk from Joe, but he eventually calmed down and spilled what he had. Lena Ashley shared a flat with Rita Robillard back then or so he assumed since he sent the bills to the same address for both. They had expensive tastes and frequently indulged them at his shop, coming in nearly every week for something new, though Lena stopped after picking up the red dress. Rita still turned up regularly, and when Joe asked after her roommate she claimed not to know what happened to her. Soon after that she stopped coming in herself.
"In this light, it's all highly suspicious," Joe intoned. "She acted more angry than worried about Lena's vanishing. She must have known something more than she let on."
"Was she the type to wall up anyone alive?" I asked.
"And ruin her manicure? Don't make me laugh. Rita would have talked someone into doing it for her, but I really don't see her doing it in the first place. They got along very well so far as I could see. Rita was the smarter of the pair-though that's not saying much. She knew all the ropes, and Lena often asked her for advice, at least for dressing well. Lena was the real hell-raiser, she liked parties, was always talking about this one or that and always in need of something new to wear. Happy day for me."
"You sure she and Rita were on the make?"
"I suppose they must have been. How else do pretty girls with no family, no talent, no brains, and no job get the kind of money they spent?"
But I'd never heard Gordy mention anything about Booth Nevis being a pimp. Maybe he'd been a customer instead. Evidently a very satisfied one to judge by the money involved.
Or maybe not.
As Joe James said, poor Lena.
After having his brain picked clean James confessed to being parched with thirst and that the least I could do was buy him a drink. It was coming up time for Bobbi to do another song set, anyway, and she wanted to freshen her makeup. We left her to it and went out front to the table she'd reserved for him. It was close to, but not on top of the stage. I bought us a couple of martinis.
"Such a treat it is to get out and dust off the cobwebs," he told me. "I spend so much time over the drawing board I'll end up a hunchback before long." He then went on to say his job wasn't all that glamorous, but he wouldn't want to do anything else. "You do meet the nicest people, though, like Roberta-and yourself, of course."
"Thanks."
"Whatever happened to that frightful man she was with before? His name was Slick. Very pretty, but there was nothing behind his eyes."
"Dead. Shot."
Joe pursed his lips. "Oh." He gave me a long look and finished his drink. I said I'd changed my mind about having mine and if he would take it. He said yes and seemed grateful when the lights dimmed for Bobbi's entrance.
With the spot making her platinum hair shimmer like a halo, she started out with a throaty ballad that drew a few late dancers onto the floor. Instead of a regular small band for music there was just the one piano. The Red Deuces could have had more, and often did, but its focus tonight was for the romantics in the crowd. The ones with lots of money. The martinis I bought were on the high end of the pricing scale for this town. I was paying to see and be seen and for the classy atmosphere of the joint. I tried my best to enjoy it. With Bobbi making the entertainment, it was easy.
Part of me was still putting time in on my own place, though. I was taking mental notes as I always did when in a club now. I watched how the staff here did their work and if they were efficient about it. The people almost seemed to be overdoing themselves in amiability. They had a right to it if the tips were in keeping with the price of the drinks, but I got the impression that they were indeed genuinely cheerful. While off to the side, hanging around the bar between orders, they smiled and joked with each other. At the same time they kept their eyes on the patrons, alert for the least signal for service. One waiter even started toward a table as the customer pulled out his cigarette case, arriving in time to hold a lighter under the smoke, then discreetly withdrew like a helpful ghost.
That was good to see. It was just the sort of thing I wanted for Lady Crymsyn.
After Bobbi finished her set, some of the customers left, and if the next singer on stage was troubled by the thinning ranks, he didn't show it and plowed forward. I wondered if he'd been the one too drunk to go on the night before. Yet another item to worry about once the club opened: entertainers who didn't entertain. Bobbi had filled my head with endless horror stories of drunks, fistfights breaking out, and impromptu backstage sex and even impromptu onstage sex when someone pulled a curtain open at the wrong time. There were other alarming examples, but those were the most common reasons why, at times, the show did not go on.
I had my work cut out for me. The sooner I got an experienced general manager to take the load off the better.
Just shy of midnight Joe James said he had to leave, so I offered him a ride home since he'd cabbed over. He accepted, and I went backstage to let Bobbi know.
"I'll return here at the usual time, though," I promised.
"Then I'll be out front. What'd you think of Joe?"
"You were right on the festive part, but he's okay."
She snuggled close, and I caught the scent of her rose perfume again. It seemed to go right through the top of my skull, but in a nice way. "Good. I'm glad you don't have a problem with him."
"He's a friend of yours, so he's all right by me."
She went out front so she could give him a kiss on the cheek good-bye, and they promised each other to get together to talk clothes later that week.
James liked to chat about himself and filled my ear with Hollywood gossip on the drive to his home, or rather to where he was staying. The house was dark, meaning his hosts were asleep and it was too late for the one-for-the-road drink he'd wanted to give me. Just as well, with my condition. I was good at pretending to imbibe, but it didn't always work. At parties I'd just carry a full glass around and keep moving, but it's hard to get away with the trick when it's just me and one other person.
He expressed his regrets, said it had been a pleasure to meet me, shook my hand good-bye, then strode easily up the walkway, happy in his two-toned shoes. I wished him well and pulled back into traffic again.
Between what I'd just learned from him and my talk with Gordy the night before, I had plenty to think about, and right now my thoughts were on Booth Nevis.
Either by accident or on purpose, every single one of the papers failed to include Nevis's name in their many stories, though it was well-known that he'd had a feud with the speak's violently deceased owner, Welsh Lennet. The rank and file reporters seemed to know all about it to judge from what I'd overheard while hidden behind the bar during their invasion last night. If I'd been one of them and trying to work up an interesting angle, it would have only been natural to include at least a line or two on the club's dark history. This strange lack spoke volumes.
I'd have to run by Nevis's place and ask a few questions.
I had a feeling he wouldn't like them much.
