Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  Lackey stammered and sputtered, trying to laugh, trying to make a joke of the whole thing in his hopeless, awkward, heavy-handed way. "I ref… f… fuse to answer for f… f… fear of incriminating…"

  "I would," said Roy. "And I'd steal from the poor-box, and beat up newsboys." He tossed the picture to Lackey. "I don't need it. And don't file it, Emmett. It's yours, all for your little self. Paste it up over your bed."

  Lackey's attempts to appear jovial and man-of-the worldish were pathetic. He sat trying to laugh, shaking his big belly.

  "All I can say is," said Roy, "whatever Hobart went through was worth it."

  "That's a very cynical statement, Roy. Very cynical."

  "You disagree?"

  "Of course," said Lackey, patting his palms together in a rather pious manner. "Beauty is only skin-deep, you know. Feminine beauty. It appeals to our lower natures."

  "I don't seem to have any other kind."

  "That's unfortunate, Roy. Makes it impossible for you to judge others correctly. Just as you are judging, or rather misjudging, me at the moment."

  "Lackey," said Roy, "you know what you are? A stinking hypocrite. I'd hate to turn you loose on a desert island with that big bim."

  "She'd be absolutely safe with me, Roy. I assure you. You don't understand me at all."

  Gert buzzed on the intercom and Lackey answered it, then nodded and turned to Roy. "Creel's all set, Roy. Best of luck."

  Roy regarded him piercingly again, leaning forward over the desk. "Look here, Emmett. If I turn up with the big bim, I want you to let her alone. It's not fair taking advantage of a girl in jail."

  "Oh, go along with you," said Lackey, feebly, trying to laugh.

  "I'm going to put her in charge of the biggest matron I can find."

  As Roy went out, Lackey sat laughing, holding his belly. But as soon as the door was closed, his expression changed at once and for a moment a look of wild hatred showed in his small blue eyes, then he rose and began to pace up and down beside his desk, the floor trembling under his giant tread.

  In the outer office, Gert, yawning at her typewriter, mumbled: "I wonder what's bothering the big crab in there. Why is he scuttling around so much?" Then she told herself: "He belongs on the bottom of the sea, away from the light." She repressed a shudder and returned to her typing.

  Little by little, Lackey composed himself. Finally he sat down, rearranged his papers so that he could hide the picture of Ilona Vance in a hurry if anybody barged in, then sighing he gave himself up to a long and minute examination of the big, shapely, bold-looking, beautiful girl.

  10

  Barrington Estates was no Riverview but at least it was second best. Broad, winding streets wandered up westward from the river regions of the Avalon Yacht Club and Regatta Pier to the low, mound-like hills of the old Indian Camp Grounds, now a City Recreational Park. Big oaks, elms and sycamores bordered all the thoroughfares, and there were wide, well-kept lawns, flower gardens, and ornamental shrubbery.

  It was still early and Barrington Estates was just barely awake. Here and there colored maids in black dresses and white aprons could be seen taking in papers, receiving parcels from delivery trucks, and goodnaturedly bickering with milk men, bread men, and dry cleaners.

  The section had a pleasant, sylvan air. Early sunlight slanted down through the tall trees, and the wide streets were checkered with sun and shadow. Some of the leaves had already turned yellow, some ochre and red; but the lawns were still green, and here and there lawn-sprinklers were going, throwing up a fine silvery spray, laced with rainbows. Since the storm, a dry heat had been drifting in from the flat land to the west, and heat shimmers could be seen above the asphalt where there was no shade.

  Roy had carefully studied a map of the section. This was necessary as the streets seemed to wander about without plan or final destination. They did not run parallel for any great distance, but wound and curved and crossed each other in unlikely places. It was almost as if the whole plot had been laid out in such a way as to make it nearly impossible to find any given address.

  But finally Roy had his plans made, and sent the second car off at one of the cross streets in charge of Creel. He took Ed Reynolds with him. Ed was a big, silent man about forty, patient, casual, dependable, but apparently without ambition. He did his work, drew his pay, and that was that. He rarely spoke.

  237 Avalon Parkway was a big old house of brick and wood, vaguely Norman English, situated in the center of a wide, choice corner lot. The lawn was full of ornamental shrubbery, and wide tamped gravel paths led here and there. Toward the back there seemed to be a swimming pool with cabanas. Roy whistled to himself. For an insolvent "promoter," this wasn't bad living, not bad at all.

  A shiny new coupe was parked in the driveway, headed out.

  "You stay here, Ed," said Roy. "If anybody tries to drive out in that coop, just block the driveway."

  Ed did not show a flicker of having heard. Roy got out and strolled up the gravel path toward the front door. Unable to find a bell, he banged the big brass knocker. A tow-headed girl about three looked out one of the windows at him, and when he glanced at her she made a face and put out her tongue; then she disappeared like a puppet which had suddenly been pulled off stage.

  Roy waited, then he banged the knocker loudly again. Finally the door was opened by a redheaded maid, whose hair was untidy, whose white uniform was dirty and whose expression was one of guarded hostility.

  "Yeah?" she said.

  "I want to see Mrs. Spencer," said Roy.

  "She's laying down. Headache. Can't see nobody."

  "Mr. Spencer available?"

  "He's sick. Not up yet. Didn't get in till late. I can't bother him."

  "May I speak to Mrs. Spencer's sister?"

  "Who? She ain't got no sister that I know of. But I only been here two weeks."

  "I understand her sister got in last night."

  "Sister? No. Not that I know of. But…"

  An agitated feminine voice interrupted her. "Clarice! Shut the door. We don't want to see any one. Understand? Shut the door at once."

  The maid raised her eyebrows and shrugged, then she started to shut the door, but Roy pushed past her into a big, gloomy-looking entrance-hall. There was a wide stairway just beyond him, and half way up stood a tall, over-voluptuous blond woman in her late twenties. She had on black velvet lounging pajamas, no make-up, and her thick, pale hair was wound up carelessly and tied with a ribbon. Her face was fat, but pretty. Roy nodded to himself. It was the big kid's sister, all right. There was a definite resemblance, although the younger one had all the best of it.

  The woman glared at Roy in silent consternation. Suddenly a tall man in wrinkled pajamas appeared at the head of the stairs. His curly, light-brown hair was on end and he looked pale and bleary-eyed.

  "Who the hell are you?" he shouted. "Didn't you hear what the girl said? If you got any business with me take it up with my lawyers, Richmond and Dietz. Now get out of here."

  "Police," said Roy. "Both of you come down."

  The woman reached out and grasped the railing, then she turned and stared helplessly at her husband, who was nervously hitching at his pajama pants and seemed to be bewildered.

  "Wasn't my fault, missus," said Clarice.

  "All right. Go back to your work," said the blond woman.

  The redheaded maid looked from Mr. Spencer to Mrs. Spencer, then she gave Roy a weak and ingratiating smile, shook her head, and disappeared.

  "Have you got a warrant or something?" called Spencer.

  "Yes," said Roy. "But not for either of you. Come on down."

  Suddenly the blond woman put one hand over her face and began to cry, her shoulders shaking.

  "Oh, God!" cried Spencer. "Cut it out, will you, Helene? No use crying just because we got a policeman in the house. Say, I'd better get a robe or something."

  "All right," said Roy.

  Spencer disappeared, talking to himself. Helene hesitated, then s
he took out a small lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and in a moment she descended the stairway into the entrance-hall. She was very tall, almost as tall as Roy in her high heels, and Roy was just short of six feet.

  "I'd like to talk to your sister," said Roy.

  Helene repressed a start with difficulty. "Sister? I have no sister. What do you mean?"

  "Oh, come on, Mrs. Spencer," said Roy. "The truth won't hurt anybody."

  "I simply have no sister. Why do you insist? You don't know me. I never saw you before."

  "Have you seen the morning paper?"

  "No," said Mrs. Spencer, turning to stare at him. "Why?"

  "Do you know Mr. Frank Hobart?"

  The woman paled noticeably and looked away. "Hobart? The lawyer? No, I don't know him. I've heard of him."

  "He was murdered last night."

  Roy thought Mrs. Spencer was going to faint and reached out to help her, but she brushed his hand aside and hurried past him into the living-room. Roy followed her. She threw herself face down on a big lounge and cried hysterically. Roy stood watching her. In a moment, her husband appeared in the doorway and stared at her in disgust. He had on a black silk Japanese lounging-robe ornamented with red and gold pagodas and dragons. With his hair combed and his face tolerably composed, he looked rather handsome but very tired, like a slightly passe matinee idol after a gruelling performance.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, Helene!" he exclaimed wearily.

  She raised up, pale and agitated, to look at him. "Al-you don't know. My God! Frank Hobart's been murdered!"

  Spencer was staggered. "What?" He stared at his wife blankly, then he turned and looked foggily at Roy. "You mean…? Is this true, officer?"

  "I'm Captain Hargis," said Roy. "This is so big, I got a special assignment."

  "Hargis-my God!" cried Spencer, and collapsed into a chair, where he sat looking about him vaguely and pulling at his under lip. Finally he reached out and took a cigarette from a little ivory box, but his hands were shaking so that he could hardly light it.

  Now Mrs. Spencer sat up. Her face was tear-stained but calm. "Allen, I'm sorry," she said. "I did the best I could. You know that. Now we're ruined."

  "Not necessarily," said Roy.

  They both looked at him quickly. "The scandal!" cried Mrs. Spencer. "It will ruin Allen in this town, and just when he's having so much trouble anyway."

  "You say she's not your sister," said Roy. "Just turn her over to me. That's all you have to do. No publicity."

  Mrs. Spencer studied Roy. "You mean it?"

  "Helene!" her husband cautioned.

  "All right," said Mrs. Spencer, rising. "She's been a millstone around my neck ever since she was knee-high. She never was any good. I came here to get away from her. I married Allen. Everything was going fine-and then she turned up, hungry as usual. And now this! I won't put up with any more of it. I won't…!" She was shouting now and completely oblivious of her husband who was trying to tell her something.

  "Helene!" cried her husband. "Listen to me. She's gone. I… I let her out the back way."

  "Oh, my God!" cried Mrs. Spencer and fell down on the couch again.

  Roy never moved but sat looking from one to the other. Spencer glanced at him curiously. "You heard me," he said. "She's gone. If you want her, you better go get her."

  "Don't worry about it," said Roy. Then he went on: "I just want you to answer a few questions before I go."

  "All right," said Spencer, "as long as it's okay with Helene. I'll answer."

  "It's okay with me, I assure you," said his wife, with almost hysterical anger.

  "When did she get here last night?"

  "She phoned about two-thirty, waking us up. She got here about three."

  "Anybody with her?"

  "Yes. A tall young fellow. He brought her bags in, then left."

  "Was his name Dumas?"

  "I wouldn't know. I was so goddamned mad I wasn't listening. I've had a real bellyful of Olla." He glanced at his wife.

  "Yes, Allen, you have. And I hope this is the last of it." She turned to Roy. "Yes, the young man's name was Dumas. Bob's his first name. He's one of Olla's many boy friends, I think. One of her stooges."

  "What they see in her…" Spencer began, then he shook his head and broke off.

  Roy stood up. "Did anybody mention anything about Frank Hobart?"

  "Yes," said Spencer. "Olla told us she'd left him, and was going back to San Francisco in a few days. She was trying to promote me for the fare. But I put my foot down."

  "For once," said Helene. "And I was proud of you."

  "Is that her car in the drive?"

  "No. She hasn't any car now. She had one, but she sold it or something. I don't know. Hobart gave her one. She got here in a taxi."

  "All right," said Roy. "I may have to talk to you people again. I'll come out if necessary. See if I can't keep you out of this. Looks like she wasn't arrested on your property."

  "She what?" Spencer demanded, standing up.

  "She's been taken by now, I'm sure," said Roy.

  He started to leave. As he went out into the entrance-hall someone banged at the knocker. He went over and opened the door. It was Ed Reynolds. His eyes looked vacant; he was chewing a match. When Roy glanced at him, he merely nodded.

  Roy went out, shutting the door behind him. He felt a rising excitement which he tried to fight down.

  11

  At first he didn't see her. She was hidden by Creel's car. Beyond the car, he saw Wesson and a photographer arguing with Red Benson, a tough dick from the Special Detail, who would just as lief stuff a camera down somebody's throat as not.

  "Here's the Captain. Ask him," cried Wesson, red-faced and excited. "Okay, Hargis?"

  "Where'd the lens monkey come from?" asked Roy, looking out of the corner of his eye at the girl. "From the ground like a fish worm?"

  "The shutter boys never sleep," said Wesson. "He just happened to be visiting a rich aunt on Avalon Parkway."

  "Oh, sure," said Roy. "How do you like the news-beat, you ungrateful limey bastard!"

  "Peace, it's wonderful," said Wesson. "Only baby won't stop playing peek-a-boo." Wesson turned toward the girl. "I see you. Hiding behind your pursey-wursey. Look, honey; you can't hide what you've got with a small piece of tanned animal skin."

  "Do I have to stand for this?" asked the girl mildly.

  "Take some pictures, you idiot," cried Wesson, kicking at the photographer.

  The girl was almost as tall as Creel, who was far from short. She was wearing a tight white skirt and a dark-blue turtle-neck sweater. Her raven-black hair was pulled back over her ears and tied with a white ribbon. It was long and thick and lay along her back in a coarse mane. She had on dark glasses, and a black patent-leather purse hid her face. It was apparent that she'd dressed in a hurry and had neglected to put on some of her clothing. The detectives were all trying to appear unconcerned, big lawmen, only doing their sworn duty for city, county, state, and country. Even big Ed Reynolds was being elaborately unconcerned.

  "Is the lens big enough to get everything in?" asked Wesson, and the photographer snickered.

  She was both tall and big and yet she had the most graceful and attractive-looking build Royhad ever seen.

  "Okay," he said. "Put her in the car."

  "Put her in the car, he says," sighed Wesson. "It's a mercy I'm queer. Think of all the trouble a normal man can get into."

  Creel looked at Roy in surprise. "My car?"

  "Yes," said Roy. "Turn her over to Alma. Nobody is to see her or talk to her till I get in. Nobody!"

  "Okay."

  "All right. What are you waiting for?"

  Creel's face was flushed. "That picture," he said. "It didn't do her justice."

  "A picture? How could it?" Wesson broke in. "It would take a relief map."

  Creel got in and Red Benson jumped in beside him. The girl was sitting in the middle of the back seat alone. Red reached back and locked both the door
s.

  "A wise precaution," said Wesson. "Of course, they can always jump in through the glass."

  Roy went over to the car and looked through the window at the girl. She lowered her purse. There was a flash.

  "Got it, by Jesus," cried the photographer.

  The girl's face was composed, almost blank-looking. She had a rather short nose, which turned up just a little. Her mouth was beautiful. She seemed to be regarding Roy steadily through her dark glasses. He couldn't see her eyes at all.

  Roy stepped back and Creel drove off. Ed Reynolds, who almost never made any kind of comment, suddenly spit out the match he was chewing and observed: "Zing!"

  "You can say that again, brother," said Wesson. "Zing! Zing! And a jolly jumbuck to you."

  Now Wesson pulled out his notebook and Roy gave him the facts he wanted him to have, and concluded as follows: "She was arrested at the Lackawanna Bus Terminal by Detective Lieutenant Len-hard Creel. Got that?"

  "I have, massa."

  "Now you're on your own. Everybody will have it in half an hour."

  "They're holding on for me-an extra." Wesson put his head on one side and looked at Roy fondly. "Do you happen to have a piece of rubber hose in your pocket that you'd like to hit me with?" Then he turned to the dark-faced little photographer. "Come on, Tarawa. Let's burn it up."

  They hurried out and jumped into Wesson's car and were off with a loud banging in a dense cloud of oil-smoke.

  "Take me home, Ed," said Roy. "I got to get a little rest. Haven't been in the kip for twenty-four hours."

  They got in the car. "I've seen some broads in my day…" said Ed, slowly; then he added: "Zing!"

  "Yeah," said Roy.

  12

  Roy found it hard to relax. His blinds were drawn and it wasn't too hot in his room, but he was so tired that the muscles in his legs kept twitching, and when, from time to time, he managed to doze off, the events of the long night, since he'd left Half Moon Beach in a thunderstorm, came rushing at him out of the darkness in a wild, jumbled, distorted mass: Joe Sert was talking like Chad, Creel like Lackey-nothing made any kind of sense-and then, slowly, he'd come to, sweating and nervous, and sitting up in bed, wiping his naked torso with a towel, he'd become conscious of the loudness of the daytime roaring and clanking of the city, and wonder if he'd ever be able to doze off again.