Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  "I always talk at random. Sometimes, I hear the damnedest things coming out of my mouth. It's what you might call improvising. If you're good, you often get surprising results."

  "Miss Jensen must be a hog for punishment."

  "To tell you the truth," said Bob, sitting down facing Roy, "she likes it. She's kind of a Silent Joe, herself. Or at least she used to be. She's loosened up considerably since she met me. She was quite a girl when I first saw her. She didn't know which way was up-finishing school, all that-what the hell could you expect?"

  "Poor girl," said Roy, "nothing but disadvantages."

  "You think that's a joke, but it's not. When I first met her, she couldn't find her way around town. You know that crack Marie Antoinette was supposed to have made-let 'em eat cake? Some people say the story was put out by her political enemies. I'll bet she said it, and meant it innocently. So, okay-if you're out of bread, eat some cake, what the hell! Ruth said a lot of things like that to me. No kidding. She just didn't know how the other half lived."

  "Well, she ought to know by now," said Roy.

  "She's learning. And that, dear radio audience, brings us to the commercial. We're back to the case, Captain. What do you want to know?"

  "I know what time the girl called you. I just want you to admit it."

  "All right. I'll admit it. She called me about a quarter after twelve, maybe twenty after."

  "Go on."

  "No," said Bob. "We'd save time if you asked me questions."

  "Save time! Now he wants to save time after telling me all about Miss Jensen's aunt and Marie Antoinette."

  "You are certainly a man for sticking to the point. Don't you ever relax and just shoot the breeze?"

  "Not when I'm trying to straighten out a killing."

  "Yeah," said Bob, thoughtfully. " I keep forgetting about that. All right. She called me at twelve-fifteen, we'll say, and she told me she was in a jam and asked me if I had any money. I laughed lightly at that. Me? Any money?"

  "All right," said Roy, hastily. "Where did you meet her?"

  "First I had a row with Ruth. She was standing right beside me and heard every word that was said. Oh, did she do a burn! But I'm not going to let any girl get a rope on me. They can take me as I am, or the hell with it. So I told her to mind her business, and went out. You see, Ruth's got the wrong idea about me and Lone…"

  "Who?"

  "The girl, Vance. Ruth thought I was riding in the saddle, but I wasn't. You see, this Lone-she's the kind of kid that has got no friends. Women hate her, which is understandable-brother, what competition! And how can a man be friends with her? A man wants to get in the kip with her-or forget the whole thing. Well… to put it bluntly, I'm no mink. I got the necessary equipment and I'm normal. But sex is something that's never bothered me very much…"

  "You lucky bastard," Roy observed to himself.

  "… no," Bob went on, after a moment of thought, "never has bothered me. Maybe it's because I'm a kind of fanatic. Ever since I was six or seven years old I've never thought about anything but music. I can play five instruments-and good! If you don't think that takes up your time-besides I've written a trunkful of stuff-it stinks, but I'm getting better. Well, Lone-she can't figure me out. I'm friendly with her. That's all. No dirty conversation, no feels. We just sit down and talk, and don't ever think that girl isn't smart. Well… that's how it was with us. Pretty soon she wants me to coach her in singing. Hopeless. I try to tell her, but she won't listen. She thinks it's all a matter of trying hard, practice. But she's tone-deaf. Trouble is, she's read all this inspirational stuff. All a guy needs is the will. You know what I mean? Sometimes I get to thinking about all the millions of poor slobs in this country who believe that stuff, and are knocking themselves out trying to be musicians, and writers, and painters, and even muscle-men… First thing you've got to have is talent. The working and sweating comes after that."

  "Yeah," said Roy, "all right. Just a minute now. We're getting off the track. You say that your relationship with Miss Vance was platonic. I'll take your word for it. Now you met her. Where did you meet her?"

  "At Crandall and 47th. She had Mr. Hobart's Cadillac. We left it there, and went to a bar on 47th where we proceeded to lap up quite a few martinis which she had to pay for. I had a buck, thirty-as usual."

  "What about the Cadillac? What did she say about it?"

  "She said she'd had a fight with Mr. Hobart and he'd taken a swing at her, blacked her eye. She had a hell of a shiner. She said that was the end. She was going to pack up and go back to San Francisco, but she didn't have any money-not enough, anyway. This I thought was kind of queer. She had fur coats, diamonds. I'd seen her in the club looking like some Brazilian tycoon's girl friend. I asked her why she didn't hock some of the stuff. But she didn't give me any answer to this."

  "Now let's go back," said Roy. "Did she say anything in particular about Mr. Hobart? Did she say what happened to him?"

  "Yes," said Bob. "She let him out at Commercial Street and Blackhawk. He got so mad at her he wouldn't ride in the car with her any more."

  "Why did she let him out there?"

  "He wanted to go to Cip's."

  "Cip's was closed that night."

  "I guess they must have forgot it was Monday. Could happen."

  Roy thought this over for a while. "All right. Go ahead. What then?"

  "Well, she kept trying to get me to go to San Francisco with her. She said she knew the town and we could both get jobs like breaking sticks. She said she wasn't going to take a job here after riding high the way she had-it would be embarrassing. We shot the breeze till closing time. Then we went out and got a taxi and drove to the Terrace where she packed up her things and checked out. I rode clear out to hell and gone with her-way to hell out to Barrington Estates, around there, anyway, where there was a couple she knew. Brother, did she get a frosty welcome. It was damned embarrassing, and there I was like a fifth wheel, not knowing what was what. I was mighty glad to get her off my hands. She kept telling me she'd raise the dough and we'd go to San Francisco. What a persistent girl! Well, she gave me a ten and I took the taxi all the way back. But I heard a wonderful colored band blasting away in a joint down at the river level of the Stairs, so I got out there. Everybody was full of weed and they were jamming. Terrific! I sat there minding my own business and enjoying myself till a weeded-up black girl chose me-and I had to blow, and fast! I could have got raped."

  Bob rose, walked to a window, and stood looking out. "Yeah," he went on, "and it would have been worth it-just to listen to that band. Boy, could they go-and all for fun. That's the point. All for fun-kicks."

  "Look, Dumas," said Roy, wearily, "you've done pretty well here. One point. You say there's nothing between you and the girl. Okay. I'm not disputing it. But why, then, was she so anxious for you to go away with her? Does that make sense to you?"

  "Yes," said Bob. "Damn good sense. Look; it's like what I was trying to tell you about those colored boys, jamming. Just for fun. No ulterior purpose. Not for money, not for fame, not for safety or security-just for fun. You see, everybody who approaches a beautiful Juno like Lone has got an axe to grind. She's goddamned sick and tired of axes. With me, she could relax. I'm the only friend she ever had. That's what she told me."

  There was a long silence. The clamor of the city came in through the open window.

  "All right," said Roy. "You can go home. Stay in town. I may need you again."

  Bob grabbed his coat up from the floor and began to put it on. "Oh, goody, teacher. School is out." He turned and walked to the door, then he paused. "Captain," he said. "I'll break down. I'm going to get that girl a lawyer. Just her looks might convict her. Every old biddy in town will be boiling with envy over the way she looks in those newspaper pictures. She's in a spot."

  "Yes," said Roy, "she's definitely in a spot. And if you're smart, you'll keep out of this. You may not be in the clear yet, son. I'd keep my head down if I were you."

  "Go
od night, Captain. This has sure been an education to me. I like cops better now. Goodbye."

  He went out, carelessly slamming the door. Roy winced, then sat shaking his head.

  17

  Roy heard the strokes of midnight fall solemnly on the air from the Civic Center clock. He should have been questioning the big girl again, but for the moment he didn't feel equal to it. He had a nagging headache, his stomach felt tight, and his eyes were bothering him. Not enough sleep, too much activity and nervous tension.

  He sent out for a bottle of beer and a sandwich, and sat eating and drinking, all alone, looking absently out the window at the blank face of the huge, thirty-storey office building across the street. In the daytime it was bursting with life; at night it resembled a gigantic mausoleum, with its pyramid-like stepping, from floor to floor, its countless ranks of dark, deepset windows, and its mammoth solidity.

  "Looks like it'll be there for a long time," thought Roy, then he finished the beer, tossed the sandwich paper in the waste-basket, and stood up.

  They'd really bitten off a big one this time. It was one thing to operate in semi-darkness, which was usually what happened when the Administration took over a case, for political reasons, and handed it to him; it was an entirely different thing operating in the full glare of all-out newspaper coverage.

  You couldn't afford to stumble. Since he'd been working for the Administration, he hadn't made one mistake. He was the fair-haired boy. He could write his own ticket. All accorded him deference. It was stated that he had a great future before him. The graybeards running the Administration seemed to consider him a mere boy and were astonished at his precocity.

  "A mere boy," jeered Roy to himself. "Thirty-five and beat up, and I'm a boy. Some boy!"

  No, he hadn't made a single mistake. But he was like a tight-rope walker on the high wire with no net. It only took one mistake.

  Roy shook his head, sighed, sat down, and forced himself to think about the possibilities and ramifications of the case. The ethical side of the business he pushed completely into the background. It was not a question of innocence or guilt. To the Administration this was a complete irrelevancy. Staying in office was the main, in fact, the only point.

  Okay. So much for that. Now-where did the danger lie? At the moment, from his own viewpoint, it lay in two directions. First, the girl. Already she had too much influence over him. That had to be guarded against. Second, Wesson. What a guy! With a brief tilt of the status quo, a momentary opportunity-a disaster, a revolution-Wesson could be running things instead of writing about them. In Roy's opinion, he was as able and astute as Chad Bayliss, the Big Man.

  And Roy knew that Wesson wasn't in the least deceived. It was no accident that he had mentioned the word "politics" that night in the Stoneham garage. For the moment, he was playing ball. But tomorrow? His paper, the World, was not particularly friendly to the Administration, but it was a conservative sheet and not much given to rant and sensationalism. Nevertheless, the World was always dangerous because of its immense prestige. And Wesson was just the boy who could blow the lid off, if, for any reason, he decided that was the thing to do.

  Roy picked up the phone and called the main room. Lackey answered. "Wesson still around?"

  "Yes, Roy. He's doing card tricks out in the hall and he's wonderful. You should see how…"

  "All right," Roy interrupted; "send Lafe out for half a dozen bottles of beer and a couple of corned beef sandwiches. When he gets back with them, ask Wesson to come in my office."

  ***

  Wesson disposed of a bottle of beer in three swallows and the second corned beef sandwich disappeared as if, when Roy turned away for a moment, somebody had thrown it out the window. Wesson tilted his chair back, lit a cigarette, and patted his huge paunch. He had a fat, freckled, impudent face, and his sparse hair was a sandy-red. When he was a boy in England, he'd been called "Ginger."

  "Ah-hh-hh!" he moaned vulgarly, then he belched. "It's an old Arab custom," he explained. "You no like food-no burp-host insulted-gittee throat cut. Thanks, Roy. It hit the spot. Now if you have no other plans for the rest of that beer…"

  "Help yourself."

  Wesson complied. Between drinks he talked. "I thought you might have a change of heart. Turning on an old friend like that. In the diner it was different. I asked for it. I questioned your word. A very stupid and unhealthy thing to do with any man. But with a rough customer like yourself, plain murder. I apologize. But when it comes to a quip or gag…"

  "Okay, fat," said Roy. "Now I apologize."

  "Well, aren't we a couple of boys," said Wesson. Then looking up shrewdly, he asked: "Any new developments?"

  "No," said Roy. "But the girl's in real trouble. No alibi, nothing."

  "Lucky for you," said Wesson. "Unlucky for her."

  "So it goes."

  "You expect to hang this on her, Roy? Off the record?"

  "Off the record-it looks very much like it."

  "What a pity! Not enough of that kind around. Imagine, that honey-girl languishing in a woman's prison. It's a repulsive, a horrifying thought." Roy said nothing. "Don't you think so, buster?" Again Roy made no reply. Wesson reached out and opened another bottle of beer. "You'll excuse me while I make a pig of myself as usual," he went on. "Great appetites and no self-control, no will-a frightening combination, don't you think so, buster?"

  "You seem to get along all right," said Roy, then he added: "In a way."

  "You mean you've got a proposition? I'm listening. I'm about… say, fifteen hundred dollars in debt."

  "Would that put you in the clear?"

  "Well, for two thousand I'd be on easy street-for the time being. That is, in my modest way."

  Roy went over and stood looking out the window. Wesson finished the bottle of beer, smacking his lips. Finally he spoke. "But… what's money? It slips through your fingers like sand, and has no ultimate value. You Yanks found that out in '29."

  "Us Yanks," said Roy, laughing.

  "Okay. Okay," said Wesson, slightly embarrassed. "So I'm a citizen. So I'm a Yank. Occasionally my mind goes back to a happier time when to me a Yank was a fearsome object who chewed tobacco, said 'Waal' every other word, and was in awe of Europe. Anyway, what's money?"

  "It's a necessity, among other things."

  "Granted. But position is better, much better. Like yourself, for instance. Riding high, and with the High Brass patting your dear little head. Think of all the grateful people you do favors for. Just think of it. Like that suit for instance. Look at mine. Fifteen down and the rest when they catch me. Ah, me!"

  Wesson stood up and yawned. "Wesson, the public relations counsel, working as a lousy political reporter. I have brilliant ideas for columns, but will anybody listen to me? Sad, very sad. I suppose you want to get on with your work, Roy."

  "Yes," said Roy, starting slightly.

  "Well, back to my card tricks," said Wesson, going out.

  ***

  Chad seemed nervous and worried. He and Roy sat on a little sofa in the vestibule of Chad's apartment, talking in low voices. Mrs. Bayliss had been given a strong sedative by the family doctor and was now sleeping in the big master bedroom down the hall.

  "Merle's driving me crazy," said Chad. "I can't go down in the lobby even any more without her calling me to see what I'm doing. She imagines things! Look, Roy. I'm no angel, but I'm getting along in years, and besides, I haven't got time to be chasing women. It's all in her mind." He hesitated briefly, then added: "Well… almost all of it."

  Roy shook his head, but offered no comment.

  Chad made an obvious effort to force himself to get down to business. "Now about Wesson. You may have a great idea, Roy. But nothing can be done till this case is settled. And by the way, you're doing a great job. Never saw such a spread in my life. Why, everybody's forgotten about poor Frank already. He hardly gets a line. It's all this girl. Keep it that way. Yes, you may have a great idea about Wesson. Correct public relations-it's a big need fo
r us right now with the '52 elections coming up. We might even create a job. I'll talk to the Mayor. But not till after this case is settled, Roy. Everybody isn't stupid or crazy, you know."

  "Could I give him a hint?"

  "Not unless the worst comes to the worst. Save your weapons till you need them. I shouldn't have to tell you that, Roy."

  Roy stood up. "All right, Chad. I hope I haven't disturbed you. But I thought we ought to get this straight right away."

  Chad rose. "By all means. I wish every guy in the Administration was as hardworking and conscientious as you are. But we've been in too long, and we're loaded with fatassed deadheads who think it will last forever without their turning a hand. We know better, Roy. Don't we?"

  "Yes," said Roy.

  They shook hands. "Keep plugging," said Chad, "and if we win the big one in '52, you won't be sitting in that dirty City Building office long. Goodnight, Roy."

  18

  Roy decided that he'd have Lois stay in the office with him while he questioned Ilona Vance. But abruptly he changed his mind, and now the girl was sitting once more in the beat-up leather armchair and he was sitting at his desk, fiddling with meaningless papers.

  She was a little paler than before and even more beautiful, Roy thought. There was something very strange about her face. Or was it her complexion? At times it seemed to be lit from within. Roy could not think of any other way to express it to himself.

  "Don't those people out there ever go home?" asked the girl, gesturing vaguely.

  Roy had heard the uproar and had forced himself to stay in his office. He'd wanted to go out and help her through the double line of ruthless harriers. But he'd decided against it. At times it was wise to sit in your office and play the big man, and let the hired help handle the details.

  The girl reached toward him with a graceful gesture of her long arm and put a torn piece of paper on his desk. He picked it up and read it.