“Did you get more money for food from the Friday Morning Club?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Have they found prostitutes to work their bad jobs?”
“I’m afraid not. The endeavor has been a failure.”
Anna kicked herself. If only she could have found a prostitute willing to work for low wages. But with wages that low, the woman would need to supplement her income, which would only lead to more prostitution. It was a vicious cycle.
Matron Clemens continued. “But, all’s well that ends well. We are planning a special school for fallen women to teach them how to start their own businesses.”
“Hat shops! Or maybe they could sew frillies. They know so much about them.”
“I commend you on your idea, Assistant Matron Blanc. I’ve given you the credit and Captain Wells is very pleased.”
Anna flushed with pleasure. Praise from Matron Clemens was sparse, and her male colleagues stole the credit for Anna’s detective work themselves or wrongly attributed her successes to Joe. In fact, Anna was rarely praised by anyone, except Joe, who always gave her due credit.
This thought made her sad because she was estranged from Joe and he sorely deserved it.
Matron Clemens put on her gloves. “I’m off to an appointment with the Friday Morning Club president and the president of the Chamber of Commerce. We are looking for seed money as well as volunteer instructors.”
“Wonderful. I’m sure they’ll help. Many fine, upstanding men from the Chamber of Commerce are well acquainted with the girls from the demimonde. I should know.”
Matron Clemens was silent for a moment. “Indeed.”
“I hope Charlene can attend the school for fallen women.”
“Of course.” She looked at Anna’s desk. “You have much work to do. You must not fall behind, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
“No ma’am.
When Matron Clemens had departed, Anna settled in to prioritize her work, which was indeed plentiful. She sifted through the files on her desk—mostly arrest records for bad children whom Anna was expected to reform. She began to formulate a lecture in her mind to enlighten them about how rules were made to be followed and if one broke the rules, one must always be discreet.
She got no further. Anna could not concentrate on bad children when her own brother faced the risk of the noose. She sat back in her chair. Her matron work would have to wait until Georges was safe. The most important thing was to locate Samara Flossie’s father. But how could she find him? How could he have found Samuel Grayson? She dug in her purse for the photograph of the Edmands’ wedding and set it on her desk.
Anna imagined that if she were Samara Flossie’s father, she would go to the City Directory, just like Anna had done, and look up Samuel Grayson. But Samuel wasn’t listed in the regular section of the directory. Edmands would only find him if he knew to look in the back where people who had missed the deadline were listed. This was unlikely. Only locals would know. If someone had told him to look in the back, that would have led him to Samuel’s apartment building. Samuel’s neighbor had mentioned Mr. Edmands but had not reported seeing him. Perhaps he hadn’t known that Mr. Edmands had come for Samuel and lured him to Griffith Park. Had Mr. Edmands found Samuel’s apartment? She would start with a visit to the apartment manager to show him the photograph of Edmands.
Anna draped a blue cape with a fox fur collar around her shoulders, covering her ugly uniform. She stashed her rod in her tooled leather purse, retrieved the Edmands’s wedding photograph, and descended the stairs like a queen. Joe was at his desk with the City Directory open in front of him, scratching on a sheet of paper. Anna tiptoed quietly over. She didn’t know why she tiptoed, except she didn’t feel like she had the right to be near him. But business was business. “Good afternoon. Georges is back in town. He was relaxing at home when I arrived last night.”
“Where did he go?”
“Santa Barbara. You know. Fresh sea air. Convalescence.”
“Santa Barbara.” He got this distant, thinking look on his face. “What’s in Santa Barbara? What was I reading?”
“It’s a vacation spot with sunny beaches. And there’s a Catholic mission. Plus, oil wells in Summerland and a bunch of spooky spiritualists. It’s where I recuperated after dispatching the New High Street Suicide Faker.”
Joe snapped his fingers. “There’s a new movie studio. Flying something.”
“A movie studio?” Anna’s face fell. “Oh. Are you still busy trying to hang my brother?”
“The Griffith Park murder is my top priority. I’m canvassing movie studios looking for Allie Sutton, and I’m making a list of all the hotels within a mile of the train station to see if Mr. Edmands ever checked in. If he did kill Samuel Grayson, Flossie is in danger.”
“Fine.” Anna turned her back.
“Where are you going?”
Anna knew if she told the truth, he’d want to come, and she couldn’t quite stand him right now. “I’m hunting a truant.”
CHAPTER 41
Anna took the trolley to the apartment building formerly inhabited by Samuel Grayson and knocked on the manager’s door. Having a rich and powerful father had been useful when soliciting help from the community, but she hadn’t realized the extent of its utility until it was gone. She did, however, have a brass star, and at least she no longer resembled an orangutan. When the door opened, the apartment manager loomed on the threshold. He had inky black hair and a tiny head. Anna smiled her most charming smile. “Good afternoon.” She carefully enunciated, “I am police matron Anna Blanc from the LAPD.” She bobbed a curtsy.
He cocked his tiny head and looked at Anna. “So, what’s that then?”
“I’m basically a detective. I have authority. That’s why they gave me this badge.” She puffed out her chest and pointed to the matron’s badge pinned to it. She cocked an eyebrow.
The man stared at her chest.
Anna quickly unpuffed her chest and frowned. “I’m here to investigate the murder of Samuel Grayson and I need to ask you a few questions.”
He directed his words to her bosoms. “Why don’t you come in and sit down.”
Anna hesitated. The pin-headed manager made her feel ill at ease and slightly queasy. Still, she had an important job to do and Georges’s life depended on it. Thus, when he opened the door wider, Anna entered his apartment. He closed the door behind her.
The apartment had a similar layout to Samuel Grayson’s abode, but the furniture was neither as new nor as dramatically ugly, though it was ugly enough. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cat urine. The manager motioned for Anna to sit on a love seat. She sat, and he sat rather too closely beside her. Anna popped back up again. “I prefer to stand. It helps me think.” She began to pace. “Did anyone ever come to visit Samuel Grayson or inquire after him? Anyone? Anyone at all?”
“Well, let me think.”
Anna paced to the end of the room and turned around to find the man standing right behind her, like her own shadow. Anna tried to move around him, but he cornered her between the wall and a large chair. He leered.
His face reminded her of a stinkbug.
She wished to stomp on his foot but now was not the time. Instead, she leered back, trying to make a stinkbug face of her own so that he would see her as his equal. It seemed to do the trick.
He stepped back and his mouth dropped open.
She pushed the wedding photograph in his face. “Did this man come here?”
“Uh. No. A lady came. I saw her knocking on his door and I threw her out. No ladies allowed. That’s my policy. He wasn’t home so she slid a letter under his door.”
“Are you sure this man never came inquiring?”
“If he did, I never saw him.”
This answer displeased Anna, even if it were true. But Mr. Edmands could have tracked Samuel down, lured him to a meeting in the park, and the stinkbug manager simply didn’t see him. The stinkbug could have been sleeping or petting his cat.
He never would have seen Anna if she hadn’t banged on the door. Maybe Mr. Edmands had engaged a lady to draw Samuel out.
“What did the lady look like? Old? Young?”
“ Young.”
“Plain? Pretty? Beautiful?” “A peach.”
Anna sighed. “Did she have golden hair or raven locks?”
“Her hair was brown.”
Samara Flossie was quite peachy, her hair was light brown, and she had said she’d written Samuel a letter telling him to leave her alone. But Samara Flossie would never draw Samuel out on behalf of her homicidal father. She was hiding from him. He had to have found Samuel another way. Perhaps Samuel Grayson did write Samara Flossie’s family. Anna tapped her lip. “When was this?”
“Five, six weeks ago.”
“About the time Samuel Grayson disappeared.”
“Yeah. Just before. Because I saw him that night and wondered what a girl like her wanted with a guy like him. I suppose he had fancy clothes.”
Anna grimaced. “You can probably have his clothes. The police don’t want them.”
“Yeah, looks don’t mean anything. Take me for instance. Guys without money don’t get girls. He had money and he didn’t. You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“Well, he lived here.” He was speaking to her bosoms again and edging closer with that stinkbug leer.
Anna had all she needed and all she could take from the lecherous and inarticulate manager. “I think a female bug might like you.” She slipped past him, flung open the door, and ran.
CHAPTER 42
When Anna returned to Central Station, she was stopped in her tracks by the shrill voice of a lady who clearly had feelings to spare. It was the tight-lacer from the Friday Morning Club, and she was completely unhinged. She hurled loud, angry words in the general vicinity of Matron Clemens—but perhaps not at her—something about fools and retribution. Her feather hat shot two feet into the air, quivering like the mad lady attached to it.
Matron Clemens stood tall, her face placid, and spoke in a cool, soothing voice. “Yes. I see. Mm hm. A detective is just the thing.”
It was a matron’s duty to soothe lady victims, gain the trust of female suspects, and cope with all feminine disasters. While Matron Clemens was up to any challenge, Anna thought she should come to her aid on principle—especially since Anna had dealt with more than one irate lady of means. She had, for example, dyed the hair of Mrs. Masterson’s formerly white poodle a shocking blue black. It was an experiment that needed to happen, and spared Anna from a similar fate. She had been eight.
Anna assumed a pleasant smile and glided over, making gentle hushing sounds and gesturing gracefully that the lady should keep it down.
The tight-lacer turned on her. “Don’t wave your hands at me, Anna Blanc!”
Anna frowned.
Mr. Melvin shuffled over with a steaming cup of tea, which Matron Clemens had no doubt ordered. He extended the tea cup to the quivering lady with both hands, his eyes averted, like a man from China.
The lady stopped midquiver and took the tea. “Thank you.” She sipped. Anna couldn’t help but wonder if her sudden silence was merely the eye of the storm.
Matron Clemens smiled. “Now could I trouble you to start over? Why don’t you sit down and tell us more?” She ushered the lady into an interview room and over to a chair. Anna followed. The tight-lacer sat. Her abdomen bulged beneath her tiny waist.
Matron Clemens continued. “Then, I’ll better know which detective is needed. Have you been robbed, or—”
“My husband’s being blackmailed!” The lady assumed a sarcastic tone. “He’s as innocent as a baby but thought it a better idea to pay out three thousand dollars to a criminal than to stand up for himself. The only thing he’s guilty of is weakness.”
“Have you considered a cure for manly weakness. I see them advertised in the paper all the time,” Anna said helpfully.
The lady stared dumbly at Anna.
“I’m sure they are extraordinarily useful. They would never make them for ladies, though, lest we dose ourselves up and take over the world.” Anna chuckled.
Silence followed this comment.
Matron Clemens, with her usual blank expression, spoke. “Indeed.” She turned to the tremulous lady. “Mrs. Morgan, I assume you and Assistant Matron Blanc have met.”
“We’re slightly acquainted,” said Anna. “Mrs. Morgan is the vice president of the Friday Morning Club.”
“I’m Mrs. Octavius Morgan.” The tight-lacer said as if this should impress them.
Anna hated it that women couldn’t simply use their own names but instead had to wear the brand of their husband’s name. If married people had to have the same name, they should simply choose a new one together. Her mind wandered to new last names that would suit Joe Singer, like Arrow and Delicious.
The lady continued. “My husband has been making payments to . . .” She threw up her hands. “Oh, I don’t know. Someone. He—the black-hearted blackmailer—claims that my husband . . .” She snorted.
“Do go on,” said Anna, interested.
“That snake accused him of consorting with bad women at the Jonquil Resort, and said he would reveal everything, but it’s just an attempt to extort money.”
Anna beamed. “That’s wonderful news!”
The lady frowned. Matron Clemens looked blank.
“You don’t believe he would do such a thing?” asked Matron Clemens. “Some men do.”
The woman set her chin. “I don’t doubt my husband for a moment.”
Anna tapped her lip. “He’s stopped, no doubt. The blackmailer has stopped.” Dead men did not extort.
“Well, yes. But I want the money back.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, unless you want payment in ugly suits and atrocious settees. Your blackmailer is dead, and I will need to question your husband regarding his demise.” She covered her mouth with her hands and looked at Matron Clemens. “Did I say, ‘I?’ That’s silly. I meant Detective Singer. I’ll just go get him.”
Anna flounced off to find Joe. She arrived at his desk slightly breathless with excitement. He sat writing a report and singing softly to himself. “Virginie baby, you make me crazy.” He scowled at her.
Anna lowered her voice and hissed. “Virginie is my middle name. You can’t sing about Virginie here. People will guess.”
“I can’t not sing about you.”
“Then give me a pseudonym.”
He held her eyes and crooned. “Sherlock baby, you make me crazy.”
He was making her crazy and she tingled everywhere. Anna closed her eyes to break the spell, opened them, and lifted her chin. “I have happy news.”
“Oh yeah?” He sipped coffee from a tin cup.
“Samuel Grayson—I’m almost positive it was him—was blackmailing a different innocent man.” She frowned. “One Octavius Morgan. But this victim suffered from manly weakness. His wife is here complaining about it.”
“I think you mean something else.”
“I know what I mean. Unlike George, this weakly victim paid. Don’t you see? Grayson was in the habit of blackmailing innocent men.”
“Oh, I see.” His chair scraped the floor as he stood. “I want Georges to be innocent. I really do.”
“Then we’ll both be happy.”
“Lead the way to the dissatisfied woman.” He flashed her a grin, looking, unfortunately, irresistible.
Anna clapped her hands. “She’s the one screeching in the interview room.”
When they arrived, the lady was sitting quietly alone. Joe sobered his expression.
“Where is Matron Clemens?” Anna asked.
“She and an officer are summoning my husband. His office is just around the corner. She said the police would need to speak with him. Is this the detective?”
Joe extended his hand. “Mrs. Morgan, I’m Detective Singer. I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“I’ll be assisting Detective
Singer with this investigation and asking you questions,” said Anna. “For example, if Mr. Morgan is innocent, why did he pay? I mean, besides manly weakness.”
A violent coughing fit overtook Joe.
Anna gave him a reproachful look.
“Because he’s in discussions with the Episcopal church to design their cathedral. Even a whiff of scandal could sink the deal.”
Joe had recomposed himself, though his face was still red from his coughing fit. “Mrs. Morgan, when did you discover your husband was paying a blackmailer?”
“I noticed the money was missing from our bank account. I asked him directly and he explained the situation. He’d never lie to me. I told you he was an honorable man.”
Anna had heard that before. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. He’s an architect. Quite renowned.”
“Oh.” Anna wrinkled her brow. “Your husband’s an architect. Is he by chance designing a hotel on the waterfront?”
“Why, yes.”
It pained Anna, but she forced herself to say, “He doesn’t have a scrawny mustache, nor a very magnificent mustache? He has an ordinary mustache? Or none at all?”
“Why, he has a famously luxuriant mustache.”
“Jupiter.” Anna’s posture sagged. She gave Joe a meaningful look.
He squinted at her. “Mrs. Morgan, will you excuse us for a moment?” Joe linked his arm through Anna’s and drew her out of the room. When they stood safely in the hall, separated from Mrs. Morgan by a thick oak door, he lowered his voice. “Sherlock, what was that look?”
“I had thought that if Mr. Morgan were another innocent victim of blackmail . . .” Anna squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I was wrong. Octavius Morgan is guilty of more than just manly weakness. Remember at the Jonquil? The magnificently mustachioed man talking with his friend with the scrawny mustache about plans for a new hotel? Sue and Clementine’s lovers? You know, the twins?”
Joe blew out a breath. “Oh.”
“If Mr. Morgan is magnificent mustache man, we know for a fact he’s broken at least one blossom. This makes him our number one suspect in the murder and perhaps he is our man from Mars or the real Black Pearl.”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 26