Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  In those days, the Stairs was inhabited by a tough and hardy breed of men: sailors, adventurers, runaway slaves from the Deep South, gunrunners, rivermen-quite a formidable lot, who would have been astonished, amused and saddened by their successors.

  Creel drove. The Melton Stairs Hill was almost straight up, with short, flat spaces at the intersections. Roy sat smoking a cigar in silence. He was beginning to feel the strain of the long day, but said nothing.

  Behind them, the sun was rising over the tall buildings and scattering gold spangles across the wide bend of the dark, oily river. Windows in the houses on the summit of the hill looked like sheets of burnished copper. The wind had blown all the clouds from the sky. It was going to be a hot day.

  Creel pulled up at a dilapidated three-storey brick apartment house. Most of the shades were down. Except for a few trucks and milk carts, the streets were deserted. Bohemia slept as soundly this time of day as the rich guests of the Ashton Terrace.

  "It's a flea-bag, all right," said Roy, as he got out. "Come on, Len."

  They crossed a pavement littered with newspapers and debris of all kinds, and full of crude drawings in chalk, made apparently by children. Roy pointed.

  "I didn't know these people round here had kids," he said.

  "Lots of Italians still left here," said Creel, "although they're getting crowded out."

  "It's a damn shame."

  "Yes," said Creel. "Mike Antonnelli still lives around here some place. Told me the other day he'd have to move. Music going all night. Weed parties-dames yelling and screaming and running down the street naked."

  "That fathead, Wesson, hangs around here. He would."

  They went into a little, dirty vestibule where there was a row of buzzers with card racks beside them. Some of the racks had cards, some did not. Roy finally whistled and pointed. Creel looked. An engraved card read: Robert Bona venture Dumas.

  "He should live at the Terrace with a handle like that," said Roy. "Try the door."

  The door leading into the first floor hall was old and sagging. Creel worked at it for a moment, lifting it, pressing his knee against it, and finally it burst open with a groan.

  "Second floor," said Roy. "218."

  They found the apartment just beyond the head of the stairs. Before Roy could knock, the door was opened from within, and they were confronted by a startled-looking slim, blonde girl, who stared, then tried to shut the door. Roy pushed past her, followed by Creel.

  "You're up early," said Roy, looking about the dirty, cluttered apartment.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" snapped the girl. The sudden entrance of two strange men had apparently startled her considerably, but she got hold of herself at once and now didn't seem in the least perturbed or frightened, merely cold and unfriendly,

  "We're looking for Bob Dumas," said Roy.

  "He's not here."

  "But you're expecting him."

  "Am I?"

  Roy reached past her and closed the door. "Yes," he said. "Sit down."

  The girl merely stared at him defiantly through her glasses. Creel found her very attractive. She was quite tall and slender, and dressed plainly and neatly in a white blouse and dark skirt. Her face was rather delicate at first look, and yet her cheek-bones were wide and her blue eyes, partly masked by the glasses, were slanted slightly. Her hair was an almost white-blond, and natural. In general her appearance was refined and ladylike and yet there were danger signals in her face: indications of temper and determination. She was the only girl Creel had ever seen who looked good in glasses. Of course, the glasses themselves were very much out of the ordinary: they had thick, pinkish plastic rims and were canted considerably, adding to the Mongolian effect.

  "You know Bob?" she asked, studying Hargis.

  "No, but I want to get acquainted," said Roy, briefly showing his wallet with the badge.

  "Oh, policemen," said the girl, then she sat down and lit a cigarette.

  Roy looked her over. "Don't tell me you live in this flea-bag," he said.

  "Down the hall," said the girl, indifferently.

  "How do you keep so clean and neat?"

  "My place doesn't look like this one."

  Roy glanced around him. Shirts and coats were hanging on the backs of chairs. The blinds were crooked and torn. Magazines spilled from a rickety table and lay dog-eared all over the floor. An upright piano against the wall was piled high with sheet music. The place smelled like the trainshed at the Union Station.

  "Once in a while I sneak in and clean this up," she said. "Then he doesn't speak to me for a few days. Says he can't find anything."

  "Your name?"

  "Ruth Jensen."

  "Occupation?"

  "I own a little music shop at the corner of Melton

  Stairs and the Boulevard. I have a partner. Mrs. Andrew Sims."

  "The woman in Riverview?"

  "The same," said the girl, smiling slightly at Roy's surprise. "She's my aunt."

  "Why the hell are you living in a joint like this, then?"

  "You mean it's against the law or something?"

  Creel turned away, smiling slightly, and stared out the window into the sun-streaked, dirty street.

  "When I ask a question I've got a reason."

  "Well, I live here because I want to. Does that answer your question?"

  Roy studied her for a moment. Fatigue was catching up with him and memories of the long night crossed his mind in a jumble: Kit, lightning, Tootsie, Wesson, Chad Bayliss, Joe Sert yammering and getting purple in the face-people were beginning to run together now, like a tipped-up, wet water-color picture. He rose and stretched.

  "Got any coffee around here?"

  "Yes," said Ruth, rising. "I just made some."

  She went to a little dinette, hidden by a beaver-board partition which was scrawled over with musical notations in pencil and signatures in colored crayon, and in a moment came back with three steaming cups. Creel thanked her politely, and she glanced at him rather curiously. Roy merely took the cup from her hand and began to drink. She sat down, discreetly crossed her legs, and glanced mildly and politely from one to the other. It was, Creel thought, as if she were having tea on the verandah of the Riverview Country Club. It was almost comically incongruous in this littered, stinking place.

  "Has Dumas been gone long?"

  "I don't know,"said Ruth.

  "Have you been away this evening?"

  "No," said the girl.

  "Do you usually get up this early-or stay up all night as the case may be?"

  "I couldn't sleep. I woke about four, dressed and came over here to talk to Bob. He never goes to bed, you know, till around six o'clock. He wasn't here. I thought he'd be back any time, so I made some coffee and waited."

  "Any idea where he could be?"

  "No. There's no telling. Lots of times he just goes out and wanders around. Quite a few little places open all night, you know. Several colored places in Paxton Square. Bob goes and listens to the music."

  "Busman's holiday, eh? I think he'd get tired of it, playing every night at Cipriano's."

  "That's just a job. That has nothing to do with music."

  "How's that again?"

  "He plays at Cipriano's only to keep alive. He hates it." She studied Roy for a moment, then she took a sip of coffee and went on. "Bob is a musical genius, or at least I think so. And I must say that he agrees with me a hundred per cent."

  She said this solemnly, but Roy caught the intended humor and smiled. "He admits it, eh? I hear the Stairs is full of guys like that."

  "Not like Bob, I assure you."

  "You sort of look after him-is that it?"

  "In a way," said Ruth, then lowered her eyes.

  There was a long pause, then suddenly Roy asked: "Miss Jensen-do you know Ilona Vance?" The girl gave a slight jump. "I see you do," said Roy, laconically. Then he turned to Creel: "Go call the Terrace. See if Lackey's at it, and if he's found anything."

  Cree
l went out.

  "Yes, I know her," said Ruth. "Has this something to do with her? Has she got Bob into some kind of trouble?"

  "You've been expecting it?"

  "With a girl like that-naturally."

  "Like what?"

  "Look," said Ruth. "I think we'd better wait till Bob gets here. I refuse to answer any more questions."

  "Suit yourself. But this is serious. Somebody has been killed."

  Ruth jumped up at once and turned to stare at Roy in an agitated manner. "Killed? Who… for heaven's sake? Not… Bob?"

  "Sit down, Miss Jensen," said Roy. "Dumas is okay. Calm yourself. It might be a good idea for you to help me. Then maybe I could help you."

  Ruth sat down, her color returning. "How could you possibly help me?"

  "Who knows?" Roy finished his coffee and set the cup down. "Now this girl-a character sketch might help."

  "How can I give you a character sketch of some one who hasn't any character, or any morals, or any intelligence-shrewdness maybe-but no higher intelligence?"

  "It's possible you might be prejudiced."

  "Yes, it's more than possible. I am prejudiced. You see, she's the kind of person who will not take 'no' for an answer. She's been after Bob for a long time. He is very handsome and also rather indifferent to women."

  "Quite a combination."

  "Yes, and apparently it was catnip to this person, who has had men falling all over her since she was eleven-no doubt." There was a pause. Ruth looked at Roy thoughtfully. "I don't want you to misunderstand what I said about Bob. His indifference to women, I mean. He's perfectly normal. But he's completely absorbed in his work. Has no idea how handsome he is, and doesn't care at all about his personal appearance. If he wasn't working at Cipriano's I doubt if he'd wash or shave. Half the time he even forgets to eat."

  "Just stumbles around, eh?"

  Ruth threw Roy a sharp look. "Yes," she said. "I suppose to you it would seem that he just stumbles around."

  Roy felt that he had been put in his place. The girl had the famous Riverview manner-a short way with peasants. Roy was tired and irritated; now he lost his temper. "Yes," he said curtly, "to me a bum is a bum, no matter what you call it. The Stairs is full of pretentious bums."

  "That's true," said the girl. "But Bob is not one of them. I think I will answer no more questions. Of course, you can twist my arm."

  After a moment, Roy said: "He was teaching her to sing, I believe."

  Ruth laughed in polite derision. "No one could do that. She has a voice like an effeminate bullfrog."

  Roy laughed shortly, and at that moment the door opened and a tall young man entered. His white shirt was open at the neck and he was wearing a worn and faded blue flannel coat patched with leather on the elbows. He was hatless. He face had an olive tinge and his short hair was Indian-black. He was smoothly handsome, his eyes dark, alive, and expressive. He had a newspaper in his hand and he was about to speak when he noticed Roy and froze.

  "Who are you?" he asked mildly.

  "A policeman," said Ruth, quickly.

  "One of your friends, Ruth?" he gibed, then he took off his coat and threw it across the room at a chair, missing it.

  Ruth rose, picked up the coat, and draped it over a chair.

  "One of my many policeman friends," she said.

  "Something interesting in the paper?" asked Roy.

  "Yes," said Bob. "There's a serial I'm reading-a western serial."

  "He reads nothing but cowboy books," Ruth put in, trying to catch Bob's eye.

  "I find it very restful," said Bob. "No psychiatry, no social significance, no bellyaching. Very restful." He sat down and put his feet up on the table, pushing off half a dozen magazines which joined the others on the floor. "Got some coffee, Ruth?"

  "Yes, Bob," said Ruth, and she disappeared behind the partition.

  Roy glanced down at the newspaper which had also fallen to the floor. The headline read: FRANK HOBART MURDERED.

  "Did you know Hobart?" asked Roy.

  "No," said Bob. "I've heard of him. Who do you suppose killed him?"

  Ruth came with the coffee. "Killed who?" she demanded, looking at no one.

  "Mr. Hobart, the lawyer, got killed," said Bob, mildly.

  Ruth started and spilled the coffee into the saucer.

  "Sloppy Susie-cut it out," said Bob. "Waitresses get fired for that."

  "You surprised, Miss Jensen?" asked Roy.

  "Why-naturally. Mr. Hobart was a friend of my father's. They were friends for years-till my father died."

  "Oh, come on," said Bob, turning to Roy. "Let's stop this pussyfooting. It bores me. What do you want to know?"

  There was a tap at the door, then Creel came in. He hurried over to Roy and whispered to him. Roy nodded slowly, and studied a slip of paper Creel handed him.

  "Okay," said Roy. "But I'll need a couple of more men. We'll pick 'em up at the Hall." Then he turned. "Get your hat on, Miss Jensen-if you wear one. We're all going downtown together."

  "You mean we're arrested?" Ruth demanded.

  "No. Held for questioning."

  Bob grimaced and got up. "This is a hell of a note. I need some sleep. I'm working tonight."

  "I'd like to use the phone," said Ruth, sharply.

  "At the City Building, Miss Jensen, if you like," said Roy. "But I wouldn't advise it. This is only a questioning. It's very unlikely you'll be held."

  Undecided, Ruth looked at Bob, but he just shrugged indifferently, picked up his coat, and began to put it on.

  Outside, Wesson was waiting for them.

  "Hello, billabong," said Roy. "Got your car with you?"

  "Naturally," said Wesson.

  "Leave it here and go with us. I'm going to keep my word."

  "I don't know," said Wesson, glancing from Ruth to Bob. "They might find me in the river later. What are you doing with these nice people?"

  "Routine questioning," said Roy. "Nothing. So you won't go with me?"

  "No, but I'll follow," said Wesson.

  "I may make a pinch."

  "I feel safer in my own car."

  "Suit yourself. But I'm a man of my word."

  "I'll never dispute it again, especially when I'm standing near a guy with a rubber hose." He turned to Bob.

  "Dumas, can I do anything for you?"

  "For instance?"

  "You can keep his name out of the paper," said Roy. "For the time being, anyway."

  "He plays a nice piano," said Wesson. "Soothes me no end when my dobber's down. You take Cavallaro, I'll take Dumas."

  "You fat slob!" cried Bob, angrily.

  "Did I say something?"

  "One more remark about Cavallaro…"

  "Bob!" Ruth cautioned.

  "What's going on here?" Roy demanded.

  "I think I hurt his professional pride unwittingly," said Wesson. "Always putting my foot in it. The body of Silenus, the face of Socrates-and the mind of an eager child. That's Wesson. You go ahead, Roy. I'll follow."

  9

  When they reached the City Building, the big town was waking up and traffic was growing in volume on all the main streets. On the river many tugs were already at work, towing barges and bulky river freighters. A dark mass of migratory birds, going south for the winter, flew chirping over the Civic Center park. Fall was at hand, and you could sense it in spite of the still heat.

  Roy left Bob and Ruth Jensen with Sid Paul and told him to make them comfortable for a while-but incommunicado. Then he sent Creel to pick up a couple of plainclothes boys at the Special Detail, and get another City car, with no insignia, from the garage pool.

  Then he hurried back to his own office. Gert Carlson turned and looked at him with raised eyebrows. She had just arrived and was putting on lipstick at a wall mirror. She was about thirty, plain, divorced, secretive, and efficient.

  "What wringer were you pulled through?" she demanded.

  "It's beginning to show, eh? Emmett get back?"

  "I think so.
I hear a crawling and scrambling noise in there some place. But I'm not sure. I just walked in. No kidding, Roy-you look pale and wornout. The Hobart business?"

  "Yeah. We got it. I'll get some rest pretty soon."

  He pushed open the door. Emmett Lackey was at one of the desks. The big fellow started guiltily, then tried hurriedly to conceal something he'd been looking at.

  "Oh!" he said, smiling weakly. "Thought it was Gert."

  "What you got there-feelthy pictures?"

  "Now you know better than that, Roy." Lackey shuffled some papers about on his desk. "I've got notations here-records. I made quite a survey of that girl's apartment."

  "Where's the card?" Lackey handed it to him. It read: Avalon 37135. Ad: 237 Avalon Parkway, Barrington Estates. Mrs. Allen Spencer. Sis. "Well?" Roy demanded.

  "Allen Spencer's well known around town," said Lackey. "His name used to be Elmer. Since he's been married he's changed it. Probably the wife didn't like Elmer for a name. He's a kind of fly-by-night promoter: real estate, practically everything. He leased the 'Drome for a while and tried to promote ice carnivals. They flopped. Everything seems to flop for him. Owes everybody, but still manages to live on Avalon Parkway."

  "I get the picture. All right. The wife?"

  "Nothing. She's from out of town."

  "Where did you find this card?"

  "It was pasted to the back of a drawer with Scotch tape."

  "Anything else of interest?"

  "Nothing much. I'll make an exhaustive report, Roy. Might be some leads if you need them."

  Roy studied Lackey for a moment. The big man's face was flushed; his eyes more than usually evasive. Roy moved over quickly to the desk, pushed Lackey's papers around for a moment, and finally turned up a large shiny print of Ilona Vance in a French bathing-suit. It was overwhelming, enough to corrupt every soldier in Korea.

  "Great day in the morning!" he said. "Where was this pasted up?"

  "I f… f… found it under one end of the carpet." Lackey was horribly embarrassed. He didn't know where to look or what to do with his hands. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

  Roy leaned on the desk and stared piercingly at Lackey. "Answer yes or no," he said, sharply. "If she told you to burn down the Court House and shoot your invalid mother, would you?"