Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  "I wasn't with Bob. He didn't leave me because she called. I don't know anything about it."

  "What time did she call?"

  There was a long pause. Finally Ruth looked up. "Could I have a cigarette, Captain?"

  "Sure thing, Miss Jensen." He took out a cigarette, lit it, and handed it to her. She smoked in silence, her hand shaking slightly. From time to time, tears showed briefly on her eye-lids and she winked them away impatiently.

  "He's such an awful fool in some ways," she sobbed. "I don't know why I… living in that awful place! My aunt thinks I'm crazy, and this will nearly kill her."

  "Rich women have a way of hanging on. I wouldn't worry about that."

  "She's been very nice to me in spite of everything. You see, I was her pet. She paid for my coming-out party. It was very expensive. She had a nice husband all picked out for me. But I wanted a fling. I opened my music shop, then I met Bob. He was always in looking for old records. He's got a big file on Bix. I was able to help him and…" She broke off, shook her head, and made a gesture as if to say: "Why go on?"

  "So it goes," said Roy. "Now you're stuck with him."

  "Yes," said Ruth.

  "What time did Miss Vance call?"

  "It was some time after twelve. Nearly twelve-thirty."

  "Thank you, Miss Jensen. You can go home now. Thank you again."

  Ruth rose and stood looking rather uncertainly at Roy, who was dialling the phone on his desk. "Alma? Come up and get Miss Jensen. Is Lois there? Okay.

  Take Miss Jensen out through the truck entrance, and have Lois drive her home. Nobody is to see her, understand? Thanks, Alma."

  "I'm sure I don't know if I've done the right thing," said Ruth. "I'm just so… well, nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and…"

  "You did the right thing," said Roy. "You've got Bob half way out the door now."

  "Oh, thank God," said Ruth.

  She seemed on the point of breaking down. Roy lit a cigarette quickly and handed it to her.

  ***

  Ruth had gone and Roy was pacing up and down, lost in thought, when the door opened slowly and a fat, snub-nosed face was poked around the jamb. Wesson! When he was sure that Roy was alone, he came in and shut the door. Roy ignored him. Leaning on the desk, Wesson began to sing.

  O, I loikes a bit of Stilton with me dinner,

  O, I loikes a bit of Stilton, that I do.

  O, I loikes a bit of Stilton with me dinner,

  Loik me grandsire did in 1852.

  "I was pretty sure your grandsire was an ape," said Roy.

  "Now, now. Temper. I only came in because a thought has been bothering me."

  "I didn't know anything bothered you, and I didn't know you ever had a thought."

  "The Lackawanna Bus Terminal bothers me very, very much."

  "Why?"

  "It implies the dolly was on the lam."

  "Wasn't she?"

  "Not from the Bus Terminal."

  "It must be true. I read it in the World. 'If it's true we print it.' Remember the masthead?"

  "We are really a couple of boys, aren't we?" Wesson turned and started out, singing.

  "Stay in that store-room and keep out of trouble."

  "You don't have to tell me. I even found a phone in there. I've been calling every place. I even called my nephew in Oxford."

  "Oxford, Ohio?"

  "No, England," said Wesson, as he went out, closing the door softly.

  14

  Roy was sitting at his desk, eating a sandwich and drinking coffee from a paper carton when Boley opened the door, let Bob Dumas in, gestured briefly, and was going to shut the door, when Roy called:

  "How are things out front?"

  "Worse than ever. Reporters coming in from out of town now. And there's a big shot CNS guy out there, throwing his weight around," Boley explained.

  "Tell 'em all to be patient," said Roy. "We'll have the show in about an hour. Anybody see Dumas come up?"

  "No," said Boley. "Just like you said."

  "Okay," said Roy.

  Boley shut the door. Bob took off his coat and tossed it at a chair. He missed.

  "Show, eh?" he said. "This is a real circus all right."

  He turned his back on Roy and stood looking out the window. Night had fallen, clear and mild, with a cloudless sky and many stars. Neon signs blossomed like night flowers all along the boulevards. The roar of the city was loud.

  Roy finished his sandwich, drank the remainder of the coffee, then he pulled some papers toward him, glanced at them briefly, and looked up.

  "I see you're 4F, Dumas, according to this questionnaire which some efficient character downstairs had you fill out. Why 4F, if I may ask? Don't answer if you don't want to. It's only curiosity on my part. Has no bearing on anything."

  "I doubt that very much, Captain," said Bob. "With you everything has a bearing on something. But I'll answer. In fact it gives me great pleasure. So far, I haven't had much luck in my life, but that 4F business, well… When I was nine years old I fell off a high wall and broke my left leg in two places. Bad breaks. It didn't knit right so they broke it over. I guess the doctor was a clumsy and incompetent old bastard, God rest his lovely soul! The leg was worse the second time. So I've got a limp, and the Army can't touch me."

  Roy looked him over. "You mean you're lame? How could I miss it?"

  "I'll admit you don't miss much. But the limp is very slight, and I've learned how to manage it."

  "So you consider that a great piece of luck, eh?"

  Bob left the window and sat down opposite Roy. "Yes. Let me tell you a story, Captain. You seem to have unlimited time."

  "Oh, sure."

  "I read this story in a book about Whistler, the painter." Roy looked blank. "You know, Whistler's Mother." Roy nodded. "Well, it was 1870, and France had fallen apart. The Germans were in Paris. Seems like Whistler was a fire-eating Southerner-like myself." Bob laughed derisively.

  "You from the South?"

  "New Orleans. Well, Whistler met this young French painter-can't recall his name-at a party. They got to talking about the plight of France and Whistler was surprised that the young Frenchman didn't seem to give a damn. He asked him what he was doing in England at a time like this, why he wasn't in the French Army. The young Frenchman told Whistler he'd run away to keep from getting put in the Army. 'Why?' asked Whistler. 'Because,' said the painter, completely unconcerned, 'I'm a coward.' "

  Roy glanced at Bob in surprise, then laughed. The story interested him. It was so unexpected.

  "The point is," Bob went on, "this fellow was a painter, not a soldier. He had something to do in the world and he intended to do it. He just didn't go for that hero crap. He was honest."

  "Yeah," said Roy. "In World War II we had the stockade full of guys like that. Some of them chopped off their toes and fingers."

  "Pass it," said Bob. "I see I was just wasting my breath."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Roy. "You may have a point." He rose and paced up and down for a while, then he turned to Bob and asked: "What time did Ilona Vance call you last night?"

  Bob studied Roy for a moment. "Look," he said, "I don't like the quiz program type of conversation. 'Where was you last night, bud, at midnight?' Sounds comical. What do you want to know?"

  "I want to know what time she called you," said Roy, mildly.

  "She didn't call me at all."

  "Why did you leave Miss Jensen then and go out?"

  "Here we go. You tell me."

  Roy looked at him for a long time. Then he nodded. "All right, Dumas. You can go back downstairs. I see you don't want to cooperate."

  "Why should I cooperate? For what? I'm minding my own business. I get arrested, dragged in, shoved around from room to room with reporters yelling like maniacs all over the place. I'm supposed to be at work. Now I probably got no job. Not that I'd cry over that. But Ruth would. Say, where is she, by the way?"

  "I sent her home."

  "D
id you question her?"

  "You tell me," said Roy.

  "Here we go. Quips and comical dialogue. Jesus, I get so sick and tired of it at Cip's. Everybody is a comedian now. They get Lauritz Melchior on the radio. All right, he's a great singer. Do they let him sing? No. He has to get boffs, or he's a bum. What the hell is the reason for all this-will you tell me?"

  "It's kind of tough for you to stick to the point, isn't it, Dumas?"

  Bob regarded Roy for a long time in silence, then he said: "Look, Captain. The point with me is music. Not wars, not boffs, not who shot who and why. I'll tell you a story." Roy grimaced, but made no protest. Bob put his feet up on Roy's desk and searched himself for a cigarette. Roy pushed Bob's feet down without comment, then lit a cigarette and handed it to him. "You may get this one," said Bob, then he went on. "A couple of musicians were walking past St. Dominic's Cathedral. Something happened up above and that great goddamn heavy bell came crashing down on the sidewalk making a hell of a racket-enough to scare a man out of his wits. One of the musicians yelled: 'What in the Jesus was that?' And the other one said: 'E Flat.' "

  Roy looked at Bob blankly for a moment, then smiled. "I think I see what you mean."

  "For instance," said Bob. "You've got a very interesting voice. Sometimes you talk in thirds-in a low register. It's sort of unusual."

  "I understand," said Roy, "that Ilona Vance didn't have much of a voice."

  Bob winced. "That poor girl. Tone-deaf. However, things could be worse. She might have turned into a lady baritone. Her voice wasn't so bad. But every note either flat or sharp. It was almost phenomenal."

  "Why did you persist with her?"

  Bob put his feet up on Roy's desk again, but took them down at once. "Well," he said, "you finally worked the conversation around, didn't you? Like a radio announcer with an embarrassingly far-fetched lead-in to the commercial. I persisted, as you put it, because she… well, she was a goddamned determined young lady."

  "What time did she call you last night?"

  "That's beginning to sound like a song title."

  There was a brief silence, then Roy spoke wearily. "One thing I'd never suspect you of is chivalry."

  "Why not? I'm from the Deep South. Magnolias and you-all. We put 'em on a pedestal down there, suh."

  "Quips and comical dialogue."

  "Yes, damn it. I've caught the disease."

  "Dumas," said Roy, after another pause, "do you know what the word 'accessory' means?"

  "Yes, I think so. It's something on an automobile, isn't it?"

  Roy compressed his lips, turned and picked up the phone. "Boley? Okay. Come get him. Take him out through the front. He's on his own now. All the pictures they want, and let him rassle with the reporters for a while." As an afterthought, he added as he hung up: "Not that he won't do okay."

  Bob rose, picked up his coat and put it on, having a little difficulty as the lining in both sleeves was torn.

  "I thought you guys hit people over the head with blackjacks and things. I'm getting off light."

  "You're just starting, son," said Roy, turning his back.

  "Know a good lawyer I could call?"

  "Ask Boley. He's got a fistful of shyster cards."

  "Trouble is, they want a retainer or something. Is that right?"

  "The sane ones do. We'll get you one for free if you like. But I wouldn't advise it. You can do better singlehanded."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  In a moment, Boley looked in. "Come on, handsome," he said. "Lots of broads out here, waiting. Give 'em the profile."

  "Always the dialogue," said Bob, going out.

  As Boley was shutting the door, it was pushed out of his hand and a small, fierce-looking, redheaded girl rushed in. First, she did a wild take on seeing Bob, then she ran to Roy, grabbed his arm, and shook him. Irritated, he brushed her off.

  "Who opened the window?" he asked.

  Boley, looking embarrassed, hurriedly closed the door.

  "I'm Gay Lucas-Post," cried the girl. "And I'm goddamned frigging tired of getting shoved around by you big yokels."

  "Such language!"

  "Don't give me that crap, Captain. Now, listen…"

  "You from Smith or Vassar?"

  "State. Look now…" She went on and on denouncing the treatment she'd received in the City Building.

  Roy ignored her, went to his desk, opened a desk drawer, took out two shiny prints, and without a word handed them to her. One was a portrait of Ilona. The other was Ilona in her cigarette girl costume.

  "Now, honey. Satisfied? They're yours."

  The girl's eyes flashed. "Why…!" She stammered, overcome.

  "Tell you what," said Roy, "if you are a very, very good little girl and are very, very nice to us, I'll give you a picture of her in a French bathing-suit." The girl grabbed at him excitedly. "Later, later, honey. Take it easy."

  "I don't know if I can stand the one in the French bathing-suit," said the girl, thoughtfully. "There's a possibility I may be a borderline case."

  "I doubt it," said Roy, winking.

  "You're cute. Married?"

  "Does that matter?"

  "No," said the girl, smiling mischievously.

  Roy turned her around and aimed her at the door, then he slapped her lightly on the rear. "You're missing all the fun out there."

  She looked over her shoulder at him, gave him a wide, compliant smile, then went out.

  Roy sat down at his desk. "What I won't do for old Chad!" he observed aloud. Then he picked up the phone: "Boley? Put him on. Joe? Can you hear me? My God, what an uproar! Take him downstairs now. Then get a car and wait for me at the truck entrance. We're stepping out."

  15

  It was a little after nine. Vanity Row was just beginning to wake up. The doormen, looking like comic opera admirals in their gold braid, were at their posts; the taxi-stand at the deadend had a full rank of cabs; and big chauffeured limousines were drawing up at Cipriano's, the Gold Eagle, Merlin's, and Weber's. There was a scattering of bobby-soxers and gawky, crop-headed boys, looking for autographs: unawed, raucous, cynical.

  Boley parked just around the corner on Blackhawk and Roy got out. "I won't be long," he said. "Stay put."

  "You going in the front way?" asked Boley, laughing. "Costs a fin just to check your hat, I hear."

  "Why do you think I'm wearing this Sam Brod suit?"

  "I was wondering about that," said Boley, snickering.

  The doorman at Cipriano's glanced curiously at Roy, and seemed about to make a comment as Roy stood waiting for the door to be opened, but something about the way Roy regarded him steadily with his unfriendly gray eyes apparently nettled the doorman and changed his mind. He opened the door, bowing slightly.

  "Evening, sir."

  Roy found himself in a lobby which resembled a plush-lined and oppressively sweet-smelling cave. The lights were dim. There was a discreet tinkling of silverware and china in the rooms beyond. From time to time a waiter in mess-jacket, cummerbund and lavender-and-gold trousers would move past one of the tall arched doors, carrying a tray. A piano was playing in the bar, called the Tangiers Room, Bob Dumas's normal stand.

  The hat-check girl was wearing some kind of a peasant blouse which was nearly falling off her shoulders and leaving practically nothing to the imagination. She had thick, coarse, bushy blond hair and her eyelids were painted blue. She looked like something out of the Swedish Ballet.

  A sleek-haired captain in a Tux approached him. His manner was insolent.

  "Sir? Please?" he murmured, his black eyes blankly unwelcoming.

  "Are you Caesar?"

  The captain flinched slightly, as if Roy had made an indelicate remark. "Oh, certainly not. What, may I ask, is your business with Caesar? Is it about a reservation?"

  "I want to talk to him. Tell him to come here."

  The captain seemed horrified, and looked about him, trying to locate one of the larger waiters, just in case.

  "Oh, quite o
ut of the question at the moment, sir. Now if there is anything that I…"

  "Do you want me to embarrass you and pull out a badge?"

  The captain started and looked about him involuntarily. People were drifting in now in rather large numbers. It was apparently going to be quite crowded, for Tuesday evening.

  "Will you come with me?" said the captain.

  Roy followed him down a narrow, dim-lit, padded corridor, at the end of which was a small door. The captain knocked discreetly and when an irritable voice cried: "Well?" he spoke a few rapid sentences in Italian. In a moment, the door opened and a pompous-looking little man in a beautifully-cut dark business suit glanced out angrily.

  "But this is outrageous!" he cried.

  "Just take a minute," said Roy, pushing past him into the cluttered little office.

  The captain hurried away, pale and shaken. Caesar shut the door, then he assumed a Napoleonic pose-arms crossed, feet wide apart-and stared with violent Italian contempt at Roy.

  "This I must protest!" he cried. "I protest! I protest!"

  "Oh, come on," said Roy. "Save it for the suckers." He showed his badge.

  "I will have you broken for this. You will see. One word from me. I will whisper one word to Mr. Spalding. Poof! You'll be without your badge."

  "Oh, please," said Roy. "Come on, climb down. They tell me you were a friend of Mr. Hobarts."

  Caesar started, stared, then tears came to his eyes. He unfolded his arms. Then he elaborately crossed himself. "God rest him. The finest gentleman I ever knew."

  "I'm Hargis. I got the case. I just want to ask you one question."

  "But why didn't you tell me you were Captain Hargis? I thought you were merely some underling abusing your authority."

  "All right. Who introduced you to Ilona Vance?"

  Caesar recoiled slightly and ran his fingers through his thick, kinky, gray hair. "Who introduced me to…? But I don't… I was going to say I don't see what bearing that has. But I do see. Yes, yes. She was introduced to me by Elmer Spencer. Do you know him? I believe he is called Allen Spencer now. A sort of promoter."