The Other Passenger

by John Keir Cross

  Eddie looked over at me, his little eyes wide.

  “Oh no,” he said seriously. “I assure you she doesn’t.”

  “Doesn’t?” I was incredulous. “Oh come off it, Eddie! That’s going too far.”

  “Honestly,” the little man said. “Why do you think there was such a build-up just now, with the mob down there shouting their heads off? It’s because not one of them has seen Cyclamen with her mask off—at least, those that have, it was so long ago they’ve forgotten what she looked like. No—not one of ’em has seen her face. Neither on the stage or off it. It’s one of the mysteries of the profession, Cyclamen’s mask.”

  “Then it’s a better act than I thought it was,” said I.

  “Maybe. Only——” (and here Eddie blew a neat little circle of smoke into the air), “only, my dear, it isn’t an act. She’s got to wear it.”

  “Got to wear it? Why? Is she as ugly as sin underneath?”

  The little man blinked. “She’s got the most beautiful face I have ever seen,” he said solemnly.

  I signalled a waiter.

  “I can see, Eddie,” I said with a chuckle, “that you’ve got a story to tell me. What’s it to be?—another lager?”

  He nodded and grinned. I gave the order to the waiter and then, when the drinks came, sat back in my chair and waited for the little man to begin.

  “Of course,” he said, “I really shouldn’t tell you this story at all. I’m supposed to have been sworn to secrecy—professional etiquette and all that, you know. I don’t suppose anyone else in the whole Club at this minute knows the secret of Cyclamen’s mask—except Woody Hunter, of course. But then, he’s different.”

  “Why is he different?” I asked.

  “Oh, you’ll see in a minute. Poor old Woody! I often feel sorry for that man—I really do. He’s a good-hearted soul, you know—but my God, what a stinking awful vocalist! Anyway, that’s by the way. Oddly enough, by the by, this thing I’m going to tell you is an exact illustration of what I’ve just been saying about morals. The whole thing is morals—our way of behaving. Unless you get hold of that fact you just won’t understand a word of what I’m going to say. It’s morals, my dear boy—maybe a little bit different from morals as you understand ’em, but all the same it’s morals. Well now—where shall I start? You don’t know Joe Mulvaney, do you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.

  “Best trumpeter in the business. My God, there’s nothing that man can’t do with a trumpet—we used to say he must have brass lips. An Irishman, Joe is—but brought up in Glasgow—I suppose that’s where he learned those queer tricks of his—a tough bunch they are in some parts of Glasgow—I know, cos I had to spend a couple of years up there some time ago, when I was plugging round the Halls for old Sammy Walters. And my Lord, some of those Glasgow boys!—down in what’s it called?—the Gorbals, the Gallowgate. The policemen go about in threes—in threes, my boy, not twos. I remember one night in a pub there was a sort of row, and one boy—a tall, thin guy with wavy hair—he whipped off his cap and struck another chap right across the face with it—and there was a weird scream from this second chap, and we saw a long, thin spout of blood all over his face. You see, the first guy—the big one—he had razor-blades fitted all along the edge of the peak of that cap of his—that’s a regular trick of theirs up there—or broken beer bottles: you break the bottom off, then hold the bottle by the neck and jab it into another guy’s face and turn—hard. Nasty, eh? But you see—Joe Mulvaney grew up among that sort of thing, so I suppose it was natural enough that when Cyclamen . . . However, this is all the wrong way round. Where was I?”

  “You really started with Woody Hunter,” I said gently.

  “Yes—yes. There was Woody. Yes, I suppose it did all start with Woody. In those days, you see, Woody was running a little ten-piece combination outfit down in a club in Park Lane. Very good too—he knows how to run a band, Woody does—it’s only that he’s such a damned bad vocalist . . . However, never mind that. In this little Park Lane outfit, Woody had Joe Mulvaney playing trumpet for him. Wonderful, too. Folk used to go down just to hear him doing his solo—women, mostly—Joe was a devil for the women. It was the one thing—like Issy FitzGerald with cocaine. He was a big buck Irishman, you know, with slim hips—good to look at—a wonderful dancer, too—exhibition standard and then some. As a matter of fact, he was keener on dancing than on playing the trumpet. That was how the trouble all began.

  “You see, one day Joe goes to Woody and he says, ‘Look Woody—I’ve found one swell of a dame—an ace dancer and a hot vocalist too. What about working an exhibition dance spot into the show with me and her, eh?’

  “ ‘Fine,’ says Woody—‘suits me. What’s the damsel’s name and how is she to look at?’——And Joe says, ‘Ann Brown—plain Ann Brown: and as for looks—oh boy!’

  “So you see, next morning, at the band rehearsal call, Joe turns up with the dame, Ann Brown—Cyclamen Brown, of course—you’ve guessed that much—only she wasn’t called that in those days. She does a singing audition for Woody, which she passes on her head, and then an exhibition dance with Joe that even made the band boys cheer. All well and good. Woody engages Ann on the spot and everything’s set. The new act goes down big with the customers, and it looks as if the Hunter-Mulvaney show is all set for a long and successful run, as they say on the handouts. All fine and dandy, eh? But wait, my boy—just wait.

  “Now then, what happened next? I get a bit confused, you know—so much kept on happening just about this time—it was just when I’d written The Love Bird Waltz, you know—I remember that, cos Joe and Ann used to feature it in their dance spot—that’s how I got to know them so well—I did a special arrangement. As a matter of fact, I’ve always felt pretty sure that it was that tune of mine that—well, you know what I mean. It was a slow, dreamy waltz, all chromatic and luscious, and when two people dance close together night after night, and the lights are lowered, and—well, my dear, you know, you know. It was simple. It’s the way the wheels go round. It just couldn’t be avoided . . .

  “Mind you, I will say one thing—having a regular girl like Ann made all the difference to Joe—all the difference in the world. It steadied him up—pulled him together. A terrific thing love, you know, my dear—a terrific thing. And Ann was such a peach—so good for him. They took a flat not far from my own hide-out in Soho and started to live together—a little top-floor place, it was, looking down Wardour Street. And I don’t think I’ve ever known a happier couple than they were in those days, when it all began. Every song I wrote at that time I dedicated to them—they were the inspiration of them all—they were the tops . . .”

  Eddie paused for a moment and lit another of his cigarillos. He looked thoughtfully round the dancing floor. The Club was beginning to empty—I saw, among the couples going out, the elderly lyric writer, Fred Burrow. He was very drunk, and was being supported by the young girl I now knew to be his adopted daughter. The band was playing a blues—I remember Woody Hunter’s cloying voice whispering something about:

  “Why do you never bring me roses—

  Roses aren’t much to ask . . .”

  “Funny they should be playing that tune,” said Eddie eventually, with a deep sigh. “I suppose they’re going through all my numbers cos they know I’m here, as a sort of compliment—nice people, as I told you. That was one of my hits that owed its inspiration to Joe and Ann—only, of course, it was after things changed a bit with them . . .

  “You see, Joe wasn’t exactly—well, thoughtful. You’ll know what I mean. He was all right, of course—wonderfully good-hearted. But just a little bit short of imagination. And you know, boy, you’ve got to have imagination when you’re dealing with women—what we call presentation in the business. You’ve got to have an eye for the little things—you’ve got to notice when they’re wearing a new dress, or if they’ve started doing their hair a different way—it’s all important with women, that sort of thing. And Joe
didn’t have presentation—he was just a great big lump of virility and that was all. And he thought it was enough, Lord help him. Of course, it was, to begin with. But somehow—I don’t exactly know why, or when—somehow things began, after a little time, to change between Ann and him. They used always to be together, for instance—you never saw one of them without the other being there too. But just about this time we began to notice that this wasn’t happening any more—quite often you’d run into Ann sitting alone in a corner, or Joe standing the boys a drink in Bertolini’s with no Ann beside him. And if you said, ‘Hy-ya, Joe—where’s Ann?’—he would answer, ‘Oh, around, you know, old boy—just around . . .’

  “And of course she was around. Alone at first, but later on not quite so much on her lonesome. She was around with Woody Hunter.”

  Eddie paused again. The blues had come to an end, and now Woody Hunter had his slim back to the floor again, and was conducting a waltz.

  “Thank God!” said Eddie, “that Woody’s finished singing, I mean. He’s such a stinking vocalist! Oh well—can’t blame him, I suppose. He used to have quite a voice—he was all right as a torch singer once upon a time. I mean, before—well, never mind. People are queer, I always say—they’re ruddy queer, and you’ve got to put up with the fact that they’re queer, or you won’t get anywhere with anyone. Where was I? Oh yes—Woody and Ann.

  “Of course, Joe knew nothing at all about this other string that Ann was fixing to her bow. He was just Great Big Handsome Hero No. 1—as dumb as they’ve ever been made. As far as he was concerned, Ann was still his girl—they still lived in the little pent-house I told you about in Wardour Street. And I honestly think that at the time Ann wasn’t so dead nuts on Woody as poor old Woody liked to think she was. Maybe it was just that Woody was the boss, and he was talking big to her about building up her act—maybe even starring her—Woody Hunter’s Band, Featuring Ann Brown—if only she’d . . . well—you know what I mean. You know the old routine, even if you are outside the business.”

  I said I did—I knew the old routine perfectly.

  “Of course you do. Well, I think it was all that. And, of course, the fact that things weren’t going too well between Ann and Joe. She had a sort of chagrin, if that’s the word. Poor Joe,” went on Eddie, sighing and shaking his head—and blinking several times through those thick crystal glasses of his. “God save his big dumb carcase! Lord, if there wasn’t a song already called Poor Old Joe, I’d write one to-morrow. I felt so sorry for that guy, the way he messed up his chances! If only he’d had a little imagination! But I guess that’s what’s wrong with most of our folk—all morals and no imagination.”

  “I’m still waiting for the morals to come into this story,” said I at this point. “After all, Eddie, you said it was because it illustrated all that you meant by morals that you were telling it to me. And so far all I’ve heard about is a dance band trumpeter and a croonette living in sin together in a pent-house in Soho.”

  “Not so fast, my boy,” said Eddie, draining his lager glass and holding up two fingers to a waiter for a refill. “You’re an impatient listener, that’s what’s the matter with you. But never mind—I guess you’re outside the profession, that’s what’s wrong. You’ll never quite cotton on. You’re like Joe—O.K. at heart, but dumb. My God, was that man dumb! And passionate—too ruddy passionate. An Irishman, you see—and brought up in Glasgow. I suppose it couldn’t be helped.

  “I was there, you know, when they had their big row. I’d gone up to see Ann with a new number I’d written for her, and somehow—I can’t quite remember how—Joe and she got into an argument. All about nothing, it was—but of course, you know how these things grow: one thing leads to another, and before you know where you are you’re going at it hammer and tongs. They forget all about unobtrusive little me, sitting there at the piano. Joe yelled his head off—and boy! could he yell!—and Ann just cried and cried. And Joe says finally, in a sort of whine—‘Well anyways, Ann—what’s the matter with me?—what have I done?’ And Ann cries more than ever and she says, ‘It’s what you haven’t done, Joe boy—that’s what’s the matter. It was my birthday yesterday and you never said a word—and last week it was the anniversary of the night we met and you forgot all about it. You never remember anything, Joe,’ she says, more in sorrow than in anger, as the phrase goes—‘Boy, you never even bring me flowers . . .’

  “And there Joe stood, like a big mutt, with his face all pasty, like he was going to cry himself. Then he picks up his hat and goes out, see, and I says to myself, I guess this is your cue for exit too, Eddie, and I hops it while Ann is still sobbing her heart out on the sofa . . .

  “Well, I don’t know, my dear—I don’t know nothing. What’s the answer? There was Joe, in prison——”

  “In prison, Eddie?” I asked, in bewilderment. “In prison? But how did he get into prison? Surely you’ve skipped a lot?”

  “Have I?” asked the little man absently. “Yes, maybe I have—I get a bit confused, you know—I’m growing old. It’s a battlefield, my dear—it’s a ruddy battlefield . . . Anyway, I might as well hurry on to the finish—I can’t spin out this yarn all ruddy night. They’ll be closing up soon, and I must get home early to-night—I haven’t been to bed before two for a whole month, and I’ve got a song conference with Issy FitzGerald in Salmon’s office at ten o’clock. I see that Issy has gone off for his beauty sleep, incidentally—either that or he’s giving himself a shot or two in the cloakroom . . . Where was I? Joe in prison—no, before that, wasn’t it? Yes—when they had their row.

  “My God, I’ll never forget that day—never, as long as I live (though I don’t suppose that’s going to be so very long now, I drink so ruddy much and get so little sleep). It was a day and a half, that was—a day and a half, I can tell you. Everything seemed to happen that day. For one thing I was all mixed up in the Iris Jackson affair at Bertolini’s—I told you about that, didn’t I?—and for another I was supposed to be writing the score of a musical comedy for old Tommy Finlayson. So I didn’t get down to the Park Lane club where Woody and Ann were featuring my new number till rather late, you see. And on my way—when I was walking through lower Soho—who should I run into but Joe! And he was wheeling a barrow. A barrow! I ask you!

  “ ‘Joe!’ says I—‘well, what do you know! What the hell are you doing?—fetching the laundry?’

  “For a time he never said a word. He just stood there, holding the barrow, swaying backwards and forwards. And I could smell that he was drunk.

  “ ‘Aren’t you on to-night, Joe?’ I asked him, ‘aren’t you doing a dance spot with Ann in this new number of mine?’

  “And he answered me in a sort of queer husky voice—‘Oh yes, Eddie, I’m on all right. I’m just going down to the club now. Only, you see, I’ve got to take these home to the flat first.’

  “ ‘What are they?’ I asked, peering a bit closer to the barrow—it was a darkish sort of night, you see.

  “ ‘They’re flowers,’ he says. ‘She said I never took her flowers. You heard her, Eddie—you was there. And by God, I’ve brought her flowers!—I’ve brought her a whole ruddy barrow-load of flowers from a street pedlar!’

  “And then he gave a queer kind of grunt and went on. And do you know something, boy? As he passed me I saw why it was that Joe was talking in such a queer husky voice. He was crying, that’s what it was—that great big Irish mutt was crying . . .”

  For the last time Eddie paused. He blinked round—rather sadly, I thought. The Club was emptying fast. The orchestra had finished playing and the men were packing up their instruments. Woody Hunter was walking off the dais, through the little bead-hung doorway that Cyclamen Brown had used for her exit earlier.

  “Well,” said Eddie at last, with a sigh. “It’s soon told. No sense in spinning things out. I saw it all—and what I didn’t see I could guess at. Joe got home with the flowers all right—he stacked them all round the flat. Pot flowers they were—the whole barrow­load
of them. And he got down to the club in time for his dance spot—he got down a good quarter of an hour before his spot, and during that quarter of an hour he locked himself in his dressing room. Cos why? Well, my boy—I’ll tell you cos why. Cos he had found out that Woody Hunter was making advances to Ann—he had found out while he was busy getting drunk that evening before he bought the flowers. Somebody had told him—there’s always somebody in the profession who’s ready to tell any tale of scandal or gossip. And Joe, you see—well, just for an hour or so he wasn’t an ace trumpeter and a star dancer at all any more: he was just a big tough from the Glasgow Gallowgate. He had a razor-blade, you see, and a little length of adhesive plaster. And there he was, sitting in his dressing room, fixing the razor-blade on to his thumb nail. Nasty, eh? I’ll say it was . . .

  “It caused a devil of a sensation that night. Well, I ask you! When you go to a club to enjoy the music and dancing, and when you’re sitting back applauding the floor show, it isn’t exactly nice, is it, when you see one of the stars making a leap at another star and slashing out with something shiny on his hand? Is it, now?”

  “You mean, Eddie,” said I, “you mean—that Joe went for Woody?”

  “God no! Don’t you understand how people’s minds work, boy?—don’t you understand anything of what goes on in the world? Joe went for Ann! Woody had taken Ann’s hand at the end of the spot, see, and was bowing to the customers with her. And Joe’s arm swung round and he went slash with the razor-blade, straight at Ann’s face. But his arm continued round in its swing see, and there was Ann, standing dazed for a minute in the spotlight, and still smiling—and we could see, right down the side of her face, from her ear to her mouth, that nasty little thin red line. And—because Joe’s arm had continued round in its swing—we could see another red line too: right across Woody’s throat, and dripping down on to his shirt front before he collapsed.”