"Looks like it's me gets fired," said the Negro, glancing off sullenly after Roy and Creel.
They came out into a short but beautiful corridor which seemed to be lined with velvet and smelled pleasantly of expensive perfume. Pinkish indirect lights gave the place an eerily unreal look. The carpet seemed a foot thick and yielded softly as they walked over it. Several large, stylized nudes hung on the wall and half way down the corridor on a stand was a tall, attenuated, weird-looking figure of a nude woman, carved from black wood. A little further along was a door padded with turquoise leather; a silver plaque in the upper center read: Mademoiselle.
Roy pointed to the sign. "Even in a place like this, they have to do it," he said. "Revolting, isn't it?" Then he went over, opened the door and peered in, then he disappeared. Creel stood staring after him with amazement. In a moment, Roy reappeared. "Yep," he said. "It's just a can after all."
Creel laughed uneasily. He was young and romantically inclined. Roy was embarrassing him very much.
"I always wondered what one of those high-price femme johns looked like. Now I know."
They heard talking again, louder now. At the far end of the corridor was another door; this one of plain blond wood, bearing in silver letters the sign: PRIVATE.
Roy opened the door and went in. Creel followed. A short, dark, chunky, baldheaded man in his shirtsleeves jumped up from behind a desk and stared wildly. Just beyond him was a blonde girl in evening clothes. Between them was a champagne bucket on a stand.
There was a moment of strained silence, then Roy showed his badge.
"You'll get busted for this," shouted the man, sputtering, furious.
"I was told you called me."
"I didn't call nobody."
"Okay, Mr. Sert. Suit yourself. But somebody called from here."
"Call traced, eh?"
"Yeah."
"You Hargis?"
Roy nodded and looked at the girl. She was slender and young and her eyes were woozy with champagne. The man followed the direction of Roy's gaze. "That's my wife," he said. "Tootsie, this is Roy Hargis."
"It's a pleasure I'm sure," said Roy.
"For who?" said the girl. "Drop dead."
"Now, Tootsie."
"More champagne. Never expected to see a copper in this joint. You're slipping, pappa."
Creel was staring at the girl, open-mouthed. She looked like an angel and talked like a bum. Very confusing.
"Can I offer you gentlemen something?" asked the man.
"Gentlemen, my butt!" said Tootsie.
Roy began to laugh.
"Go on, laugh," said Tootsie. "With that face, a laugh won't hurt you none. More champagne, pappa."
As the man poured Tootsie's glass full he seemed to feel called upon to explain. "You see, we're on our honeymoon. Only been married three weeks. Tootsie's got a load on. Haven't you, honey?"
"That I have, pappa. That I have. But I won't get falling down on champagne. Don't worry. I'm very ladylike on champagne. On martinis, I promise you nothing."
"I'm Joe Sert," said the man. "I guess you know that. Well, I own this place."
"We own this place," Tootsie shouted, waving her glass. "We own it-Cipriano's. How do you like them apples! Two years ago I couldn't get in the front door. I was picture-girl at Headley's and getting my tokus pinched all over the place. Did I drink champagne then? I did not. Cheap gin."
"You could have got in if I'd seen you, Tootsie," said Joe Sert fondly, "and how!"
"Thanks, Joe. Thanks. You may not look it, but you're a gentleman."
Sert flushed slightly, and Roy looked down at the carpet to keep from laughing. Creel, completely bewildered, merely stared, fascinated by Tootsie.
Joe Sert, one of the old timers, was close to fifty now. In the early 'twenties he'd served time on three separate occasions for bootlegging. That was before the boys got things organized. After 1925 he never served a day, nor was he ever arrested again. At the time of the crash, he had over two million dollars in cash stashed away in various safety-deposit boxes. Since then, he'd been, as he said, on the legit, though at one time he'd operated a big gambling-joint at the Reservoir.
That was now a thing of the past, completely forgotten by Joe, who year by year grew more respectable and settled in his ways: a good citizen, a taxpayer (every nickel owed, he now boasted), and the owner of the finest and most exclusive supper-club in the city. A hundred per cent legit, Joe bragged, a hundred per cent!
Joe kept in the background. Only the real insiders knew that he owned Cipriano's. It was run by a glum-faced, impudent Italian named Attilio Gozza. Out front, Attilio was known as Caesar. The great Caesar, most independent, unappeasable, and insolent Maitre D' in the whole city. Rich women from Riverview approached him timidly, and were almost overcome if he was nice to them, Caesar could make you or break you on the Row.
He had a house on the river, a Cadillac, and a chauffeur. It was said that Joe paid him a nominal salary but that his tips came to almost a thousand dollars a week.
"More champagne, pappa," cried Tootsie. "It really goes down slick, then tickles." She giggled loudly.
Joe poured her glass full without a word of complaint, then he said: "Honey-baby, would you mind going into the next room for a little while? I got business."
"It's our honeymoon-for pity's sake! Business yet!" Tootsie rose uncertainly. She was tall and willowy, with a figure like a model. "You won't be long now, will you, pappa? If you are, I'm coming out and get this young guy here and make him come in and talk to me." She flashed Creel a blinding smile. He seemed to wilt slightly.
"It's all in fun you know, boys," said Joe, with a somewhat sickly look. "All in fun."
"Some fun!" cried Tootsie, whirling around in an access of animal spirits and almost falling down. "Oh, I feel great, wonderful, shupendous! You won't be long now, will you, pappa?"
"I won't be long, baby."
Creel hurried over and opened the door for her, bowing slightly.
Tootsie destroyed him again with a smile, and patted his cheek. "You're cute!" she cried, then she went into the next room, and Creel shut the door quietly behind her.
"She's not used to drinking," said Joe. "It goes to her head."
"I see," said Roy, looking at the carpet.
Young Creel wiped his brow and pulled nervously at his collar.
Joe fussed about his desk for a moment, then sat down and began to twirl an empty champagne glass in his fingers. He seamed reluctant to speak. But finally he said: "Hargis, I guess I don't have to tell you I'm no fink."
"I know your reputation, Mr. Sert."
"Yeah. Well, back when I was just a young guy and kinda wild-you know how kids are!-I had a big rep for keeping my nose clean. I fell a couple of times, and after that the boys at Downtown used to throw the lug on me when there was trouble around. But never got nothing. I did ninety days once just because I wouldn't help the boys out. You see, I want you to understand."
Roy nodded slowly. He was anxious for Joe to get to talking but he knew it would be wiser to let him do it his own way. Although Joe was a legitimate business man now with not a shadow of suspicion of any kind against him, he still thought like a hoodlum. Only a rat cooperated with the police; only a rat finked!
"You see," said Joe, sighing, "Frank Hobart was the best friend a man ever had." Tears came to Joe's eyes and he compressed his lips and for a moment sat very still and stared down at the top of his desk as if trying hard to get himself under control.
Pretending to gaze off across the room, Roy observed Joe out of the corner of his eye. The old hood seemed obviously sincere in his regard for Hobart-as sincere as hard-boiled Chad Bayliss had been; and as surprisingly so. Roy reflected that this Hobart man must have been quite a boy. He had only known him slightly: a tall, handsome, well-dressed, grayhaired man with a young face, who would have made a perfect shill for one of those whiskey pitches: definitely a Man of Distinction.
"Smart, too," Joe went on, "th
e smartest-and a real gentleman. I mean, real. Not a phony hair on his head. Not like most of these Vanity Row white-tie tramps. He was the real McCoy. Knew all about wine, food. Had his own table here. Came in for dinner almost every night. Whether he did or not, we kept the table for him. Had a sign on it: reserved for Mr. Hobart. Caesar used to wait on him, himself. Only man in town Caesar ever played waiter for-except that rich old son of a bitch up in Riverview-what's his name?"
"Spalding?"
"Yeah. Old Man Spalding-and he didn't know beer from champagne nor chicken from veal. You could give him anything and he'd eat it. Not Mr. Hobart. Pietro, the chef, would cook Mr. Hobart's dinner himself, then he'd have the shakes till he heard how Mr. Hobart liked it. Knew all about sauces. Used to give Pietro recipes. Traveled all over Europe, eating at the swell joints. Me-I don't know from lamb chops."
"Me either," said Roy, encouragingly.
Joe stood up. He seemed excited. "Hargis! Look! How could a man like that let this big, impudent broad get his tail in the door… I'm asking you. How could he?"
Roy masked his suddent interest by keeping his eyes lowered and searching for his cigarettes. "I don't know, Mr. Sert. Strange things happen to guys." Roy remembered Tootsie and wondered how a sophisticated old hood like Joe Sert had ever let her get his tail in the door. But as a rule men were not critical of themselves, only of others.
"I know her well," cried Joe, banging the desk. "She used to swing it at me when she first went to work here, but I didn't bite. I could see in her eyes she was a bad one. She's a bad one, all right, She killed him. By Christ, as sure as I'm a man and no mouse, she killed him." He banged the desk violently.
The inner door opened, and Tootsie put her head in. "Pappa," she chided, "stop yelling at those men and calm down. You know what the doctor said." She turned to Creel and gave him a lovely, woozy smile. "Pappa's got blood pressure."
Joe's face worked for a moment, then his eyes showed concern and he sat down and tried to calm himself. Tootsie came over to him, took out his handkerchief, and gently wiped his forehead. "Thanks, baby. Thanks," said Joe. "Now you go back, please. I'll only be a minute."
Tootsie smiled vaguely, then she fumbled for the champagne bottle. Roy got up to help her and poured her glass full, finishing the bottle.
"Thanks," said Tootsie, studying Roy. "What are you doing on the force? A gentleman like you."
Roy bowed ironically. Tootsie turned and looked at Creel. "And him, too," she went on. "He's cute." Then a shadow of doubt crossed her pretty face, and she looked into her glass. "Or maybe it's just this stuff. Yeah, maybe that's it." She turned to Joe. "Now, pappa, remember. Keep calm. You've got blood pressure."
Joe nodded sombrely. Tootsie moved uncertainly to the door. Creel sprang into action at once, opened the door for her, bowed slightly.
"Such service from the coppers. It don't figure. My, my," said Tootsie as she disappeared again. Creel closed the door after her-rather reluctantly, Roy thought.
"So she drinks," said Joe, as if to himself. "She's the kindest-hearted girl I ever met in fifty years. All she worries about is looking after me. I got big insurance. If she was a bitch like that… like that…" Joe rose again, sputtering. "I mean, she'd be worrying how to knock me off. Or trying to get me het up all the time so's I'd pop."
"Yes," said Roy. "Mr. Sert, does Tootsie know anything about this business?"
Joe was silent for a moment, grew calmer, and sat down. Finally he spoke. "Hargis, strictly speaking, Tootsie knows from nothing."
Roy wanted to laugh, but refrained. Joe wasn't as bemused as he'd thought. It was Tootsie's kind-heartedness that had got him. And why not? Joe was heading toward old age, and probably knew it.
Making up his mind suddenly, Joe pulled open a desk drawer, took out a picture, and shoved it across the desk to Roy. It was a big professional photo, a shiny print. Roy glanced at it: a fat-faced brunette, big. He glanced up at Joe, whose face was working. Then he looked at the picture again and all of a sudden the unconventional, unexpected beauty of the placid, almost expressionless face struck him hard. It was as if somebody had hit him on the jaw out of the blue.
"Jesus!" he exclaimed.
"You too, eh?" said Joe, grimly. "That cow!"
Creel was looking over Roy's shoulder. Roy glanced at him. Creel seemed to get no reaction at all. He shrugged.
"What do you think, Len?"
"Looks fat. I don't know. Just a face."
Roy was amazed, but said nothing. Joe nodded and glanced gratefully at Creel. "Yeah," said Joe. "Just a face. Just a body. I don't get it. Mr. Hobart, he's been a widower for twenty years. He's been around. He's had his pick."
"I'll keep this," said Roy.
"I got plenty more if you want them," said Joe. "She was trying to promote herself when them were took. Singer, something-I don't know. Couldn't sing a note. My damn fool piano player was coaching her-he knew better. Probably trying to get in the kip with her. Everybody was trying to, I must admit. But not me. I had her number-a no-good, heartless, conniving bitch!"
"Name?" asked Roy curtly.
"Her name is Olla Vinck-and it suits her. She goes by the alias Ilona Vance."
"Alias?"
Joe wagged his head impatiently. "I mean, it's a name she made up. I don't mean she's got no record, nothing like that. At least none I ever heard of. But she's an operator."
"I believe you said she worked here. What did she do?"
"She was one of the cigarette girls. Caesar hired her. He thought she was a beauty. And I must admit in that costume… well…" Joe fumbled about in a desk drawer and came up with another picture. It was a flash, taken in the club. The girl was looking straight into the camera with a petulant, pouting expression. She seemed very tall. Her legs were incased in long, sheer, dark stockings, like tights; they were the most beautiful and exciting legs Roy had ever seen. Her eyes were pale in color, gray or very light blue, and seemed to clash with her coal-black hair. Her face was wide, her cheekbones high. There was a suggestion of… what? Delicate brutality, maybe. Sullenness, for sure. Her lower lip was thick, and rather babyish.
"Look what some silly son of a bitch wrote on the back," said Joe.
Roy turned the picture over. Letters printed in pencil read: The Dark Venus.
"Who?" asked Roy.
"God knows," said Joe, wagging his head impatiently.
"You want to tell me about her?"
"Sure," said Joe, grimly. "And I want her pinched, and I want her put away. She killed the best guy I ever knew in my life, and I've known quite a few. Okay. Caesar hired her. Some cheap boulevard hustler introduced her to Caesar. Where she'd been, nobody knows. I always figured she'd been a professional, a big time hooker-but I got no proof. Caesar is a happily married man with six kids; he don't play. It's old stuff to him. He just thought she'd be good for the place. And she was. I never seen so many heated up guys. I'll say this for the big cow, she knew how to handle 'em. No limousine ride, flattery and a couple of orchids for her. The snobs never fazed her. When she found out I owned the place, she made a few passes, and smart ones-no dropping the pants, like some of these young bums… but she give me the shivers. I been took in my time, so I know the answers. She passed it, calm as you please. Smart. See what I mean? Then Mr. Hobart began to let his dinner get cold. The chef was going to hang himself-thought he was slipping. Then I saw her talking to Mr. Hobart every night-and he was giving her big tips and telling her to hide 'em. We cut in on all the tips, in case you don't know."
"I see," said Roy, noncommittally. He knew damn well.
"One night, fifty dollars. Caesar told her to keep it. But when I heard about it, I said no! No exceptions. We had two other girls working. Ain't fair! Both of 'em better looking than her, by God! Or I thought so…
"Well, about this time she decides she's going to cash in on her looks and be a singer. Bob Dumas-he's my piano-player, and a nice quiet handsome boy-but nuts, kinda-well, he takes to coaching her. She can't
sing for knucklebones. Flat. And she's got a voice-Christ-like a baritone, lower than Crosby's. Awful!
"I think she was trying to impress Mr. Hobart-make him think she was ambitious, not just a big trollop who wanted to lay in bed and have some rich guy keep her. Well, believe it or not, he fell for it. He sets her up. She's got a big apartment, diamonds, furs-you know, the usual." Joe sighed loudly and shrugged. "Well, that's it…"
"Apartment address?" asked Roy.
Joe gave it to him.
"H'm," said Roy. "Ashton Terrace. Pretty plush."
"Yeah. All plush."
"This Dumas-address?"
"I ain't got it," said Joe. "He lives in some flea-bag. He'll be here tomorrow night at six. Generally plays in the Tangiers Room till one, sometimes later."
"Thanks. Now, Mr. Sert. We got a few facts. But we're still out in leftfield. Why would she kill him?"
"Well," said Joe, "first, she's got a temper like a wildcat with poison ivy. A waiter here, Giuseppe-inoffensive kind of Italian with an accent, but always ribbing. She belted him, broke a tray full of dishes-knocked him out…" Joe looked about him in wonder.
"No kidding?" said Roy.
"Knocked him colder than Kelsey's. Had to restrain her. She really blew."
"So…?"
"Well, lately-last few months-Mr. Hobart's been getting drunk regular. Mr. Hobart, of all people! He and the big broad would come in and sit at his table and never say a word to each other all evening. When they did talk they fought. Giuseppe-he hated her, see-he used to try to listen, and sometimes he'd get an earful. Seems the broad was two-timing Mr. Hobart. Or he thought so. Then they had one big fight in here. It was pretty rough. We couldn't stand stuff like that in Cipriano's. You know how it is. Caesar wouldn't say a word to Mr. Hobart, though. So I had to. It was goddamn embarrassing, me telling a man like Mr. Hobart how to behave. He didn't come back for nearly a month. It was pitiful. He was all alone, drank himself silly. Caesar drove him home, personally…" Joe sighed and stood up. "First, she ruined him, that big cow! Then she knocked him off!"
"Why did she knock him off, though?" Roy probed.
Vanity Row Page 4