Vanity Row

by W. R. Burnett

  "No, I don't, Roy," said Lackey, quailing slightly, beginning to lose his smugness. "But it's a link."

  "Conviction is what we want, and I even doubt if it is a link. I doubt it very much. I think Whitey would prejudice our case to such an extent that it might be better to forget the whole thing. Not that I want to, you understand."

  Roy pressed the buzzer and picked up the phone. "Boley? Wesson there? Oh, he just blitzed you, eh? Send him in."

  In a moment the fat, red, snub-nosed face was pushed round the jamb. "Mother," he said, "I come. I come. On my shield."

  "Wesson," said Roy, "you get first dibs. There is absolutely no conclusive proof that this gun here was the murder gun. Am I right, Emmett?"

  Lackey swallowed. "Y… yes, Roy. There is absolutely no conclusive proof."

  "Thank you, gentlemen. Thank you," said Wesson. "Will you give me a little time? Say, one hour?"

  Roy nodded.

  "Okay, then. I'll play one more hand with the poor sad Slav. You know, Roy, I don't believe you appreciate Boley. You should hear him lament when I beat him at gin. Sounds like Joseph Conrad."

  Wesson grinned and left.

  "Who the hell is Joseph Conrad?" Roy asked.

  "He's a writer of sea stories, I believe," said Lackey, some of his smugness returning.

  Roy glanced at him. "How many people know about Whitey?"

  "Nobody, Roy, but me. That is, nobody knows about his testimony but me. I may say, nobody knows why he is here but me. I thought you'd like it that way."

  "Good, Emmett. Now let's give Whitey a little going-over. I've got an idea or two."

  ***

  Whitey was an albino with pink eyes, a thin, gnarled little man of about forty. When he talked to you, he stood close and peered at you, his eyes squinting, his face puckered. He readily admitted to Roy that he couldn't see very well, especially in the daytime, but at night, he insisted, he was okay. "I can see like a cat at night, Captain," he whined.

  They were in the main room of the basement where the lights were lit twenty-four hours a day. Very little sunshine ever penetrated here.

  "How about this room?" Roy asked. "Artificial light."

  "Oh, I can see fine here, Captain," said Whitey, edging up close. "Damn fine-like a cat."

  "All right," said Roy. "Now listen to me, Whitey. This is a damned serious thing-it might send somebody to the chair. You understand? Now don't make any mistakes. Don't just do us a favor, you know what I mean? Take your time. All I want is the truth. You understand, Whitey?" Roy reached out and put his hand on Whitey's shoulder and squeezed.

  Whitey wilted slightly. "Jeez, Captain, what a hand!" he whined ingratiatingly.

  "No mistakes now, is that clear? You make a mistake and get me in a jam, and I'll send you up for a long one if I have to railroad you."

  "I got you, Captain. I got you. Jeez, what a hand!"

  "All right," said Roy. "There's a table over there full of revolvers of all kinds. Pick out the gun."

  Whitey started to shake with agitation, moved slowly over to the table, and bending down, began to peer nearsightedly at the bewildering array of revolvers. They were all well-polished and shining.

  Lackey stood in the background, looking on nervously. At the moment, he doubted if he himself could pick out the gun.

  After long and painful study, Whitey turned and whined: "It ain't here, Captain."

  Roy suppressed a smile. "Okay, Whitey. Now come with me."

  He took Whitey by the arm, handling him a little roughly, led him to a door, opened it, and pushed him out into a big cement corridor. Whitey started back violently, then turned to stare uneasily and questioningly at Roy.

  Twenty policewomen in neat gray uniforms were lined up at attention in the corridor. Most of them were plain, ordinary-looking women. Some of them, however, were tall, young and attractive.

  The girl was third from the far end. The uniform did not fit her very well. She was wearing low-heeled shoes. Her black hair was pulled back tightly over her ears and tied in a horse-tail behind. She had on no make-up whatever, not even lip-stick. She stared straight ahead, face rigid. Her cheekbones looked very high and there was something delicately boyish about her face now.

  Whitey prowled up and down the line half a dozen times. Every once in a while he would peer closely at a tall, rather angular brunette with a wide, pretty face. She was in the middle of the line.

  Finally, sweating, Whitey turned to Roy and observed sadly. "She ain't here, Captain. At least… I can't pick her out."

  Roy waved a dismissal at the policewomen and they broke up, chattering, then he drew Whitey back into the main room.

  Whitey was shaking. "Throw me in the clink if you like, Captain," moaned Whitey. "But I couldn't do it. Damned if I could do it."

  Roy turned to Lackey, who seemed resigned. "You want Whitey for anything else, Emmett?"

  "No. I guess not."

  "Okay, Whitey," said Roy. "Go home. Keep your nose clean. And stay in town."

  Whitey grinned widely. "Okay, Cap. Right you are. At your service any time. Yes, sir." He saluted, and turned to go.

  Roy called to Boley, who was leaning against the wall, looking bewildered. "Take him out the back, Joe; and drive him uptown. Duck the scribblers."

  "At your service, Cap," called Whitey, grinning, relieved, as he followed Boley. "All you got to do's call me. Lieutenant Lackey's got my number."

  He and Boley disappeared. Roy turned to Lackey.

  "Well, Emmett? You see what I mean about Whitey? You think he'd help our case?"

  "No, I don't. But… I think the business should be looked into further."

  "Sure, sure," said Roy. "I'll take care of it."

  ***

  Roy spent the rest of the day leisurely, pacing himself, as he called it. He wanted to see and talk to the girl so badly that he could hardly restrain himself from having her brought into his office, but the one glimpse of her in the corridor downstairs, looking as beautiful as ever, more so, if anything, in spite of being stripped of all aids, had helped considerably, so he went about his business, practicing patience, biding his time.

  She was guilty-guilty as hell, and things apparently were much worse than he'd imagined-the Dreamland, for God's sake and Nick Brozsa!-and yet it didn't seem to matter at all. Useless to remonstrate with himself. It was something beyond reason.

  He had lunch at the Regent with Len Creel and took his time about it, drinking several steins of beer. He spent most of the afternoon in routine work: signing the payroll, as head of his unit, okaying reports and memoranda of all kinds, writing bulletins for the papers with the help of Creel and Lackey, and finally conferring with a man from the coroner's office about the inquest. Roy had it held over indefinitely.

  At seven o'clock things began to quiet down. He and Wesson went out to a seafood restaurant and had dinner. While they were eating, Wesson said:

  "Whitey didn't get much of any place, did he?"

  Roy started slightly. Then he looked up at Wesson, who was grinning at him. "No," said Roy.

  Wesson sighed and ordered another platter of fish, and when Roy showed surprise, he said: "I always eat two double-orders here. They'd feel hurt if I didn't. Besides, I'm a fool for perch. And then, too, the City's paying for it."

  "That's right. But some day, you'll just bust. I don't want to be around when it happens."

  " 'Is tripes vas spread abaht like ivy wines. Hit vere a sight to see,' " Wesson intoned. Then he said: "You won't believe this, but I'm always hungry. Never full. You see I'm among the frustrated of this earth: a mute, inglorious Al Capone. According to Freud, the man who is frustrated in his most urgent desires consoles himself with food."

  "And drink."

  "No, drinking is a pleasure. Overeating a necessity. Shall we get back to Whitey?"

  "Make it brief," snapped Roy.

  Wesson gave Roy a hurt look. "I have only this to say. Protecting a broad is not the ideal way to make a career, unless t
he broad has ten million dollars, of course. In that case, it's de rigueur."

  "It's what?"

  "Oh, pardon me. I keep forgetting you're practically illiterate. It's the expected thing. It's done."

  After a moment, Roy asked: "Wesson, how old are you?"

  "I've got a better chance to see my knees than to see forty-five again."

  "How did you ever manage to live that long?"

  "Oh, come now, Roy. What's a quip among friends? You're illiterate. I'm fat. We all have our crosses to bear."

  They finished their meal in silence, Wesson taking his time, and Roy smoking and fuming.

  Finally he said as he rose to pay the check: "I'd prefer not to hear any talk about Whitey floating around."

  "Roy," said Wesson, putting his hand on his big stomach, "now you've hurt me."

  ***

  Boley was waiting with the car. Wesson insisted that they drive him back to the City Building, but Roy brushed him off.

  "I'm going straight to my hotel and hit the hay," said Roy. "I got no time to drag you around. Take a taxi. When you get home, put your feet up and relax for a while. You're racing your motor a little too much to suit me."

  As the car drove off, Wesson removed his hat and bowed, then he turned, went back into the seafood place, and sat down on a stool at the bar.

  "What should follow perch, Lloyd?" he called to the little blackhaired Welsh bartender.

  "That's a question, Mr. Wesson, sir," said Lloyd, hurrying back eagerly to talk. "A good brandy, perhaps."

  "The very thing, Lloyd."

  The bartender returned with the brandy. "Didn't you say one night you'd never been in Cardiff, sir?" Lloyd treated Wesson with exaggerated deference which was very unusual for him. He was considered an expert bartender and for that reason was kept on, but he was a surly, fantastical character. There had been many complaints about him from patrons.

  "Never been there, sorry to say."

  "And didn't you say your hometown was London, sir?"

  "London as ever was," said Wesson, sadly.

  "Did it ever occur to you, sir, we're a couple of blinking fools for going away?"

  "Don't you read the papers, Lloyd? Haven't you heard about the British austerity programs? Now, Lloyd, while I love the Old Place, austerity would be the death of me."

  "Maybe you're right, sir. Does it extend to Wales, sir?"

  "I'm sure it does. I'm sure it does." Wesson sat staring moodily into his brandy.

  ***

  With Wesson out of the way, Roy had Boley drive him back to the City Building. They slipped in through the truck entrance.

  "You can take me home in a little while, Boley," said Roy. "We've got one stop to make, then you're through for the night."

  "Thank God," said Boley. "Myrt's beginning to get suspicious of me."

  "How is Myrt, by the way?"

  Boley looked at the ceiling and shrugged sadly.

  Roy laughed shortly, then said: "Grab a chair. Rest yourself."

  Old Pat let him past the turntable, grinning.

  "How's the graft, Pat?" asked Roy, over his shoulder.

  "Not what it used to be," said Pat. "The newspaper boys ain't got it to spend no more, Captain. They been clamped down on."

  Lois saw Roy coming and rose from her chair, where she'd been reading a magazine under the corridor light, and stood waiting.

  "I want to see Miss Vance."

  "Alma's playing cards with her. We're just crazy about that girl, Captain. Didn't she look cute in the uniform today? Why don't we sign her up? She says she's willing."

  "Haven't we got enough trouble already?" Roy laughed and Lois laughed with him.

  He followed Lois down the hallway. They stopped at the door of the restraining-room. There was a grille in the door. Lois looked through it, then tapped.

  "Who's winning?" she called.

  Then she opened the door. At the sight of Roy the girl stood up quickly, dropping her cards. She had on a plain blue velvet bathrobe and blue mules with pompoms.

  They'd brightened the bare room for her considerably. There were pictures on the walls, flowers, a throw rug, and a nice spread for the bed, which hid to some extent the fact that the bed was a special one with heavy straps for restraining hysterical or temporarily insane women prisoners. Some one had even found a pinkish lamp-shade which gave the small room a pleasant, homy light.

  "Well," said Roy, "wouldn't know the place."

  "They've been so nice to me here," said the girl, staring at the floor. "I think I'll stay."

  "I understand you want to join the force."

  "That was Alma's idea. I don't know. I might."

  Roy laughed then he turned to Alma. "I'll just be a minute. You and Lois both wait right outside."

  They nodded and went out.

  "Sit down," said Roy.

  The girl sat down on a straight chair and took up her habitual pose at once. Roy sat opposite her.

  "I'm going to ask you a few questions. I'd appreciate it if you'd answer them truthfully."

  "Yes, Captain."

  Roy tried not to look at her, but found it impossible. Somehow she seemed different and at first he couldn't account for it, then finally he figured out what it was. She was sleepy. Her eyes had a drowsy, dreamy expression, and her face looked softer than ordinarily. She seemed younger. But perhaps that was because her hair was hanging loose.

  "Did you ever know Nick Brozsa?"

  The girl lowered her eyes. "No, Captain."

  "Did you ever work at the Dreamland?"

  "No, Captain."

  "Did you ever go by the name of Dorothy Vance, or Do Vinck?"

  "No, I did not," she said softly.

  Roy got up. The girl rose, too, and stood looking steadily at him. Roy turned away quickly and went to the door. It was either that, or take her in his arms. She overpowered him. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It was almost like a mania, something you couldn't resist if your life depended on it.

  He opened the door. "All right, girls." Alma and Lois were leaning against the opposite wall, smoking cigarettes.

  "Well, that didn't take long, Captain," said Alma.

  "Just checking a point. Goodnight, girls."

  Alma and Lois said goodnight, then Roy disappeared around the end of the corridor.

  Alma went into the restraining-room, and Lois stood in the doorway, smiling.

  "We better not play any more," said Alma. "Your eyes are falling down."

  "I could hardly keep them open when the Captain was here," said the girl. "I hope I gave him the right answers."

  "I've got a sandwich all wrapped up for you, dear," said Alma. "You want it?"

  "Yes, thanks. I may get hungry in the night. Oh, hell," she went on. "I forgot to tell the Captain I got my thousand dollars."

  ***

  Roy phoned before he went out to see Allen Spencer. The promoter sounded nervous but ingratiatingly eager to help in any way. "You saved us from such an embarrassment, Captain," he said. "My wife's been talking about you ever since."

  Roy and Spencer sat in a handsome little study, panelled with blond wood. A hardly noticeable fire burned in a small corner fireplace. The big house was very still.

  "The wife and kid are both asleep," said Spencer. "Thanks to you. That girl! How could she be my wife's sister?"

  Roy cleared his throat and shifted about rather uneasily. "You don't mind answering a few off-the-record questions, do you, Spencer?"

  "I'll answer anything. Anything that will help."

  "Did Miss Vance, to your knowledge, ever work at the Dreamland?"

  Spencer paled slightly, smoothed his hair with a distracted gesture, then finally spoke. "I knew this would come out some day. I knew it."

  "Take it easy, Mr. Spencer. It's very unlikely it will come out publicly."

  "Yes," said Spencer. "She worked at the Dreamland. And of course, got into a terrible jam, as she always does. Imagine, Helene's own sister, working in th
at gilded whore-house."

  "What name did she use?"

  "That I don't know. Maybe her own-Olla. This Ilona business came later, when she went to Cipriano's. Would you like me to tell you in my own words what…?"

  "Yes, go right ahead," said Roy.

  "Well, for a long time I didn't even know Helene had a sister. Then this big tramp turns up at the front door. Her heels are run over. She's got the damnedest looking suitcase I ever saw. I let her in. I felt sorry for her-a big beautiful girl like that in such a state. I thought she was peddling something, like soap. Then Helene came into the hallway, took one look and fainted. 'Sis!' cries this big girl, and gets down on her knees and begins to cry. Helene finally came to, then she started to scream and raise the devil, and finally chased the big kid to hell out of the house. But I gave her fifty. She'd call me at my office, and I'd slip her another fifty. She fiftied me to death. Finally I broke down and told Helene about it. Helene threw a fit. She thought Olla had left town. The next time Olla called me I told her Helene wanted to see her. But she said she'd just called to tell me she had a good job now and was making plenty of money and she'd send me my money back. In two weeks she gave me three hundred dollars. This worried me. I told Helene about it. Helene just said, 'Oh, my God!' Well, we couldn't get in touch with her, so we forgot the whole thing. Next thing we know, she turns up at the house dressed like the Queen of Sheba, but carrying a suitcase. She was hiding out. One night she drank a few martinis and broke down and told Helene the story. She'd been working at the Dreamland and doing five hundred clear a week. But the boss's girl friend, who was crazy, Olla said, had taken a terrible dislike to her and was gunning for her…