Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  Dear Miss V:

  Consolidated News Service will pay you one thousand dollars for your life story. You tell me, I write it, and you get the dough. Can it be arranged?

  Roy glanced up. "Well?"

  "Well," said the girl, "can it be arranged? I'll give them a story. It won't necessarily be my life story. Who tells their life story? But it might do."

  Roy nodded. "Sure. But get the money on the line."

  "Oh, I intended to."

  "I'll take it up with Alma. She'll arrange it. You might slip her a double sawbuck. Her goodwill's worth twenty times that."

  "I'd rather have your goodwill, Captain," said the girl looking at him steadily.

  Roy laughed uncomfortably. "Mine comes much higher than that."

  "I'm sure it does."

  Roy got up and walked to the window. "Miss Vance," he said after a moment, "the last time you were in here you got very emotional. I'd prefer it, if that didn't happen again."

  The girl said nothing. Roy waited for a long time. He felt pretty sure she was trying to get him to look at her. Finally he did. She smiled slightly. It was the first expression approaching a smile he'd ever seen on her face. She had dimples. "My God!" Roy said to himself. "All that, and dimples, too!"

  "I could tell you, Captain, that I would refrain from all emotion. I could promise it. But… I'm afraid if I felt an emotion coming on…" She waved one hand vaguely.

  "Well, let's keep it down to a minimum," said Roy, smiling ironically. "Now, Miss Vance. You've got a story to rehearse. And you might as well let me help you rehearse it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean there will be a coroner's inquest. You can't just dummy-up there very well."

  "Oh," said the girl, "I hadn't thought of that."

  "Well, think about it. I can wait. I'm patient."

  "You don't look patient, Captain," said the girl. "But I presume you must be." She was smiling again. More dimples.

  Roy turned and looked out the window. Then he began to notice the perfume, exotic, insidious, disturbing. Cursing under his breath, he turned abruptly from the window and sat down at his desk.

  There was a brief silence. He shoved the prop papers around, trying not to look at her. But his will failed him. He began to study her. She seemed perfectly relaxed. In fact almost annoyingly so. She sat as before with her ankles and knees together and her hands loosely in her lap. The gardenias had a creamy glow against the blue-black background of her hair. Her eyebrows, he noticed, were black, not curved much, and looked as natural as a man's. At certain angles, in repose, her face seemed almost mask-like; and then she'd turn, her lips would open slightly, and you'd notice the very white teeth, and become aware of the sensitive aliveness of the rather narrow, pale, black-rimmed eyes. What an assembly job-and yet as natural-appearing as a sunrise.

  "You want to tell me a story?" asked Roy. "Any story. Maybe the one you are thinking about writing for CNS." She said nothing. Roy shifted about, took out a cigar, fumbled nervously with it for a moment, then put it aside. "I had a long talk with Bob Dumas. He had the rather curious idea that you wanted him to go to San Francisco with you because you liked his conversation."

  "Not his conversation," said the girl slowly. "It's him I like. In a world of phonies, he's genuine."

  "But a little wacky."

  "Not at all wacky. Sane. Not like me. Not like you, Captain. Really sane."

  "You don't consider yourself sane then? What you consider me is beside the point."

  "Oh, you're like me, Captain. In there pitching. Get the buck, get the influence. Be big. Bob's being himself. Do you know why? Because he's got values that we can't even understand. As a person, he's impossible. I mean, for any one to depend on. All the same he'd never steal from you, lie about you, double-cross you, or sell you down the river for profit."

  Roy lowered his eyes and stared at his desk. "I see."

  "He's the only person I've ever met like that in my life. For a while I deluded myself about somebody else, but I was wrong. Oh, so wrong. But the funny thing about Bob is… I'm not in love with him. Never was. I don't think he gives two snaps for me that way. I know he doesn't. But he's been a good friend to me. And whatever he told you I'm sure is the truth."

  "I'm positive it is. But it brings up some very peculiar questions. Why, for instance, did you let Mr. Hobart out of the car at Commercial and Blackhawk?"

  "Because he wanted to go to Cip's."

  "On Monday night?"

  "He knew it was Monday night. But he happens to be a very good friend of Mr. Sert's. Mr. Sert has been living there with that girl he married-Tootsie."

  "I see. Why did you abandon the Cadillac?"

  "Why not? I abandoned Mr. Hobart. What did I want with his Cadillac?"

  "Or he abandoned you, as the case may be."

  "In a way, yes-you're right. But not exactly in the sense you mean. You see, Mr. Hobart talked marriage to me quite frequently at first. He took me to meet his nephew-his only living relative; things like that. Yes, he talked marriage quite frequently-that is, until I moved into the Terrace. After that, if it was mentioned, I mentioned it, and he would try to change the subject."

  "Oldest gag in the world," said Roy. "Come now, Miss Vance. You're not trying to make me believe you fell for a gimmick like that. I'm disappointed in you."

  "Well, it's a funny thing, but I did. Why? Because I thought Mr. Hobart was like Bob. He talked like it."

  "That I find hard to believe," said Roy. "Look, Miss Vance. Nobody talks like Bob Dumas."

  "I mean about values. He talked as if…" She stopped abruptly and much to Roy's surprise blushed faintly. Did dream-girls blush? Dream-girls weren't real-how could one blush? "I see what you mean now when you said you were disappointed in me," she went on, composing herself. "Thinking back on what I said, it sounded like I was the poor, wronged, little virgin. I didn't mean anything like that. God knows I've been around. No. It wasn't that I demanded marriage. Nothing like that. But he was the one who brought it up. Let's put it plainly. It wasn't at all necessary for him to bring it up. Now do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes," said Roy, "and I'm no longer disappointed in you."

  "Thanks," said the girl, then she smiled, showing new dimples, and gave him an intimate look which he found rather overpowering.

  "All right," said Roy, abruptly. "You were saying?"

  After a moment, the girl resumed: "I was saying that it took me some time to find out that Mr. Hobart was just another Vanity Row hustler. They're all hustling something; deals, money, influence, girls. He was a girl-hustler. Never meant a word he said. All a line, a routine. I found out later he'd been hustling girls for years. He gave them the big-gray-haired-gentlemanly-respectable-man pitch. It's a good one. He gave me a little extra, I guess. Possibly because at the time, I had my pick. Or almost.

  "All right. I'm no fool. I was comfortable. I had practically everything I wanted. It wasn't that I was so set-up about marriage. I've known quite a few girls who married for money, and it turned out they were getting it the hard way. The best way to get money is to work for it. Hobody can throw it up to you then, and try to make a slave out of you. That was the trouble with Mr. Hobart. He wanted to think for me, breathe for me. He wanted to live his life and mine, too. He got furious if I disagreed with him about anything. All right. I could stand all that. But I couldn't stand his insane jealousy. He would have locked me up in a vault if he'd had his way, and taken me out and put me back at his convenience. He just couldn't understand about Bob, no matter how many times I tried to tell him."

  "That's understandable," said Roy. "Bob is a very handsome young fellow, and Mr. Hobart was old enough to be your grandfather."

  "Look at it my way, Captain. What do I do with myself when Mr. Hobart's not around? I like to sit down and talk-just gab, you know what I mean. Well, I had a girl friend named Bobby. A very beautiful girl-just as good as I am certainly, and when you come right down to it, just as good as Mr. Hob
art. But, no; she was a tramp. She was living with some man. Think of that! My, my! What was I doing? But I had to break off with Bobby. Brush her off when she called, things like that. I didn't like it, but I did it. But when it came finally to Bob Dumas, I put my foot down. I had to make a stand some place. I'm a human being. I can't sleep twenty hours a day, or sit in a room by myself. Well, that was it. The thing was, Mr. Hobart was a very domineering man. You should have seen his nephew. He was terrified of Mr. Hobart. What an awful yes-man, stooge! Mr. Hobart loved it. Kept telling me what a bright boy his nephew was. Why, that poor boy didn't have any more spirit than a worm. He was afraid to be alone in a room with me. If Mr. Hobart went out for a few minutes, he made some excuse and went out, too. He was afraid Mr. Hobart might get jealous. Well, I am not a very good subject for domination, never have been. And maybe that is the whole story."

  There was a long pause and for a while Roy seemed to be absorbed in some papers on his desk. Finally he glanced up. "What about the black eye?" The girl made no reply, merely looked at him calmly. "I believe you stated that a closet door in your apartment stuck. You pulled at it and it hit you in the eye. Is that correct?"

  The girl's face turned a little paler, her mouth worked for a moment, then she seemed to get control of herself. "No, that is not correct. It's true that a closet door in my apartment sticks, however."

  "Will you tell me how you got that black eye?"

  "Yes. Mr. Hobart struck me several times. Once on the chest, once in the mouth, and once on the cheekbone. He was wearing a ring." The girl seemed about to go on, then her lips tightened, and she sat still as a statue, her face rigid, but her eyes alive and watchful.

  Roy shifted about in his chair and rubbed his hand over his face wearily. The headache had returned and was nagging at him like an uneasy conscience. "Miss Vance," he said, "we are going about this completely backwards. We are getting the cart before the horse, and it's partly my fault. Would you like to tell me the whole story in your own words? Start at the beginning?"

  "No," said the girl, looking at the floor.

  "All right," said Roy. "Then I'll tell you. Leaving the marriage business out of it-that angle seems irrelevant to me-you let Mr. Hobart set you up at the Terrace. Nothing unusual about that. It's done every day. But he spent a small fortune on you: a car, three very expensive fur coats, jewelry, clothes-anything you wanted. Aside from that, you cost him in the neighborhood of say, fifteen hundred a month, maybe more. That's quite a layout. You agree?"

  The girl cleared her throat politely. "I agree, Captain."

  "All right. You got bored. That's not very unusual either. Mr. Hobart did not approve of one of your girl friends…"

  "My only girl friend," the girl amended, "and she's in New York now."

  "Your only girl friend. You brushed her off, but it rankled. Then came the Dumas business. It caused rows, fights, all kind of trouble; and much to everybody's surprise, Mr. Hobart took to drink, a guy who had always handled himself with ease before. But you wouldn't give in. He did his best to argue you out of this rather peculiar friendship. More fights, rows. Then he gave you an ultimatum." Roy paused and glanced at the girl, who showed signs of nervousness, although she was still well controlled. "Is that right, Miss Vance?"

  "In a sense-yes."

  "All right. He gave you an ultimatum. You ignored it. Either you thought he didn't mean it-or you didn't give a damn…"

  "I definitely didn't give a… damn," said the girl in a voice so low that Roy could hardly hear her.

  "Maybe you didn't give a damn because you never thought he would make any reprisals. You thought he was all talk. You finally lost your temper, stood on your dignity, and locked him out of your apartment. Maybe even threw him out. Am I right, Miss Vance?"

  The girl made no reply. She sat staring at the floor as if lost in thought, as if paying no attention to what Roy was saying.

  "Locked him out or threw him out-it's all one. You just thought he was a silly old fool. I don't think you really realized that you were driving this guy daffy. But that's what happened, Miss Vance. You drove him daffy. Then… one day when you came home, somebody had stripped your apartment. They'd even taken the mad-money you'd saved up-thirty-five hundred. You were so shocked you didn't know quite what to do. But in the end you acted wisely. You didn't report the robbery. You didn't even admit it. You clammed up, realizing that Mr. Hobart, even a guy like Mr. Hobart, had got fed up with your ruthless, selfish ways, and had pulled a fast one on you, and pulled it in a very smart way. You were on the sidewalk again, with maybe a couple of hundred dollars. You didn't even have enough money to pay your rent, which, I'll admit, is high, so you called Mr. Hobart. He had you!"

  "He didn't have me," cried the girl loudly, her voice rising to a higher register. "You're wrong! He was the one who called. He wanted to start all over again. We drove around for hours, arguing. First he drove, then I drove. We were all over the county. Clear up to the Reservoir and back. He wanted me to move out to his house in Riverview. He said he'd get his nephew an apartment in town. He said he'd give back all my things. He'd get me a new car, a Lincoln convertible…"

  "What about Dumas…?"

  "I was never to see him again. Or talk to him on the phone, or anything. You're right, Captain. Mr. Hobart was daffy at this time. He didn't make sense when he talked. He was wild, like. I had a feeling he might go completely out of his mind…"

  "Nevertheless, you wouldn't give in about Dumas."

  "No, I wouldn't. It wasn't that Bob meant so much to me-though he does. After all, when you've only got one friend-one person who really cares whether you live or die, or if you're hungry, or if you've got a headache, or… No, it wasn't only that. I was fighting for myself. If I gave in to Mr. Hobart this time, did everything he wanted me to do, then I was lost. I was no longer a person. I was a something-a silly stooge, like his silly nephew."

  "All right," said Roy, bluntly. "So you wouldn't give in. Then what?"

  "We got to town some way or other-I don't remember how, though I was driving. I was so nervous by this time that I hardly knew what I was doing. Mr. Hobart just went on yelling and carrying on. We'd stop at an intersection. There would be cars all around us. Mr. Hobart didn't care; he yelled and screamed and waved his arms. People stared at us like we were beasts out of the jungle. Well, I couldn't take any more of it. I tried to drive into the curb so I could get out, and run some place, any place. I'm not exaggerating. I thought Mr. Hobart was about ready for a straight-jacket. But he grabbed me, held on to my dress, wouldn't let me go. I was afraid we'd wreck the car. Finally I got him calmed down a little and told him I'd take him to Cip's. He likes Mr. Sert. They sit around together and gab and drink champagne…"

  "What time was this?"

  "I'm not positive, Captain. But it must have been around eleven-thirty. Pretty close to it. We'd been driving around since three in the afternoon. And I hadn't had anything to eat, and I was so weak from nervousness and not eating that I was afraid I was going to faint…"

  "Go ahead."

  "Well, Mr. Hobart seemed calmer. But when I stopped the car to let him out, the whole business started all over again. He begged me, he pleaded with me, he offered me anything-marriage. But I was really afraid of him now. I just wanted to get him out of that car. I reached across him and opened the door. Then he started to scream at me and hit me. He hit me so hard on the cheekbone that I couldn't see for a moment. Then he lost his balance and sort of slipped out of the car. The door was open. I reached over and shut the door and drove off. He was sort of on his knees. But he jumped up and started down the street after me. I could see him in the rear-view mirror. I was terrified by now. I was afraid he'd get a cab and follow me. I really stepped on it, and took the turn at Blackhawk and the Plaza on two wheels…"

  The girl was breathing heavily now and her face was white. She began to wring her hands, but little by little she grew quiet as Roy said nothing, and sat tapping on the desk with a pencil. Ther
e was a long silence. In a moment the girl resumed her usual pose: ankles and knees together and her hands loosely in her lap. But Roy noticed that she was trembling slightly.

  "Miss Vance," he said quietly, "did you ever own a gun?"

  The girl stood up at once. There was a pleading look in her eyes.

  "Captain… you don't really think that…?"

  Roy rose behind his desk. He noticed that his own hands were shaking. In a sudden flash of insight he realized that systems were useless, that long-range plans were futile, and that when your real fate stared you in the face there was no escape. He felt weak, and leaned on his desk. The girl was looking at him helplessly, as if the world had fallen down about her ears.

  "Miss Vance," he said with an effort, "you didn't answer my question. Did you ever own a gun?"

  The girl's lips were trembling. After a moment she spoke in such a low voice that he could hardly hear her. "No, Captain. I never did."

  He came round the end of his desk. They both acted more like automatons, than people; their movements were stiff and awkward, they stared blankly, they said nothing. Roy merely reached out and took her in his arms. There wasn't a sound, and little by little the distant clamor of the big town drifted into the Captain's private office.

  In a moment the girl whispered in his ear. "You've got to help me. I've never had anybody in my life to help me."

  "Yes," said Roy. "I'll help you."

  Suddenly the door opened, and Lackey appeared in the doorway, staring bug-eyed. Roy sprang back like a fighter ready for the kill. His eyes flashed sparks. He took three steps forward and brought one up from his knees. With a loud groan, Lackey fell in the hallway with a tremendous crash as of a big tree toppling, knocking over a chair, a table, and finally the water-cooler, which tipped and swayed a while before it fell, spilling water all over the place.

  "You creeping son of a bitch!" shouted Roy, wild with rage. "This is my office."

  Lackey began to come around, and sat up. His face was greenish and it seemed for a moment as if he might die of fright. "But, Roy," he bleated, "I just came back. I thought you'd gone."