At the sound of an odd croaking noise, her eyes flew back to his face. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Marty,” she whispered, watching the muscles of his face unclench as death stole over him.
She stared down at him, unable to comprehend what had just happened. His body seemed miles away, and she could feel herself starting to shake.
A sound at the end of the alley caused her to look up, her heart beating. Was someone there? Was someone in the shadows?
Though she couldn’t see anyone, the sound brought her to her senses, and she could feel something surge through her body, jolting her into movement. Hide the camera, Gina. You promised him.
She stumbled down the alley, trying not to vomit. Where to go? What should she do? She could feel the tears starting to slip down her cheeks.
Everything seemed far away and strange. Should she go home? Then the Signora would wonder where she was. The Signora. She should tell her, shouldn’t she?
Gina started to move back to the Third Door. Then she stopped. Could she trust the Signora? Or Big Mike? How about Lulu? No, she’d get screwy. Ned? No, she didn’t know Ned that well.
Alert the police. That’s what she should do. Then she remembered what Ned had said about the cops being in Big Mike’s pocket. Was that true?
“Get a grip, Gina,” she whispered to herself. She forced herself to think. Should she bang on the main door and call for Gooch? Or should she climb down the way she had come?
“Quit shaking,” she ordered herself. “Don’t let on that you know what happened, Gina.” Then she pinched herself. “That means you have to stop talking to yourself.”
No, she couldn’t talk to Gooch. Or anyone. At least not until she could figure out who she could trust. She had to go back the way she had come, pretend that she hadn’t seen what she’d just seen. Pretend she didn’t have his camera.
What to do with the camera? She couldn’t exactly hold it in her hands, and her dress was too revealing too hide anything.
With a deep breath, she crept back inside the cellar entrance and carefully climbed one-handed back down the ladder. Mindlessly she stepped, one rung after another, scarcely knowing what she was doing.
When she reached the bottom of the ladder, she looked around for a place to hide the camera. The five musty barrels lined up against the wall offered the obvious choice. Judging by the cobwebs across the top, they hadn’t been moved in a while. Crouching down, she quickly tucked the camera behind the middle barrel before trotting unsteadily back toward the salon.
“Get a grip,” she told herself. She forced herself to jump back and forth in her heels as a boxer would. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. She gave a few quick jabs in the air for good measure. The motion helped her regain her focus, and after stopping, she listened closely for sounds inside the salon. All she could hear was the low and steady murmur of voices and muffled songs from the speakeasy. Hopefully the other girls were still out on the floor.
Cautiously she pushed open the door and stepped back inside the salon. When she looked down, though, she noted in horror that her hands were bloodstained, from when she had placed them over Marty’s wound.
She hurried to scrub her hands at the sink, using the scented soap, trying not to feel nauseous at the smell of lavender and blood. The blood came off quickly, although she could still see some beneath her fingernails. As she watched the reddish water flow down the sink, she grew dizzy.
Looking straight ahead, though, proved to be a mistake, as she caught a glimpse in the mirror of frantic eyes in a face reddened from crying. To her alarm, she could also see a touch of blood on her cheek, which she swiftly wiped with a wet tissue. Her hands were just back to their customary pink when the Signora came in.
“Long break, Gina,” the Signora said to her, a reprimand evident in her tone. “I don’t think I’ve seen you on the floor for almost twenty minutes.”
Gina put her hand on her stomach. “I’m sorry, I was having a touch of cramps.” The twisting knot in her stomach made cramps a viable excuse.
The Signora looked her up and down. “Your headband is a bit askew,” she said.
Gina quickly straightened the offending piece in the mirror. “Thank you, Signora.”
* * *
The next hour passed in a blur. Gina couldn’t remember who she had talked to, what they said to her, or what she might have uttered in return. She only managed to calm her nerves when she took a few sips of whiskey from different patrons’ glasses when no one was looking. At one point, she remembered, Roark spoke to her, but she only mustered a smile and handed him another pack of cigarettes, hoping that was what he had asked for.
Every time any of the speakeasy patrons mounted the stairs, Gina expected a great clamor to be heard once they reached the alley, screams and shouts that a man had been found murdered near the opening of the gangway. Yet there were no such cries.
Marty’s body must be fairly well hidden in the dark shadows of the gangway, she figured. Had his absence even been noted?
She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Finally, between sets, she sidled up to Ned. “Where’s Marty?” she asked as innocently as she could, bracing herself for questions. “I haven’t seen him for a while.” Feeling her headdress slip, she reached up and took it off and pushed it back on.
“Dunno,” he said, staring at her face longer than necessary. “You all right, doll?”
“I’m fine,” she said, turning away from him. Did she look flushed? Disheveled? As soon as she had a chance, she rushed back to the powder room to splash more water on her face.
Staring in the bathroom mirror, she pinched her cheeks to make them less pallid and fixed her headdress again. It was then that she noticed the swipe of blood near her hairline. Had Ned seen it? No, he couldn’t have. She scrubbed it away.
As she smoothed down her green dress, she saw some blood on the hem, from when she had knelt beside Marty’s body. Hiking up her skirt, she quickly rinsed it under the running water, hoping that it might have just looked like a drink had been splashed on the fabric.
She faced the door, wanting more than anything to just go home. But the Signora had already warned her about staying off the floor for too long. Taking a deep breath, she put her hand on the knob and pulled the door open. Everything will be all right, she thought fiercely. But how could it be?
* * *
When it neared one o’clock, the Signora let them know they would be able to leave. Though still numb from what had happened, to keep her mind from drifting to the image of Marty’s bleeding body in the gangway, she’d forced herself to focus on how to smuggle the camera out of the speakeasy without bringing it to anyone’s attention. It’s too big for my purse. Too big for my coat pocket. How? How? How?
Gina left the floor quickly, still trying to figure out how to retrieve the camera. As she changed into her regular clothes, her eyes fell on the stockings that Jade had discarded earlier. They gave her an idea.
A quick glance around confirmed that the salon was empty. Grabbing Jade’s stockings, she slipped out of the dressing room and back down the dark tunnel to where the camera was hidden behind the barrels. In the dark, she hiked up her dress and tucked the camera into her garter so that it rested along her inner thigh. She then wrapped one of Jade’s stockings around her leg and tied it into place. Pulling her dress back down, she took a practice step. Not only did the camera press sharply into her thigh, but it had already begun to slip. Two steps later, it slid out completely.
“That’s not going to work,” she muttered to herself, feeling her heart beginning to race again. She could just leave the camera there, but once Marty’s body was discovered and a hue and cry raised, it could be found before she could hide it again. No, she had to figure it out now. “Think, Gina. Think!”
As she stared at the stockings and garter, a new idea occurred to her. She pushed the camera halfway into Jade’s stocking, then tied it tightly to the inside of her upper thigh. Next she wrapped Jade’s oth
er stocking around the first so that the camera was securely in place. Finally she pulled her own crumpled stockings up, securing them with her garter, and placed her feet back inside her black pumps.
Gina took another careful step. Good. This time the camera stayed put between her legs. If she walked slightly bowlegged, it would work. Hopefully she’d be able to get home without the whole thing coming loose on the street. The last thing she needed was Lulu asking questions.
She slipped back into the dressing room with no one the wiser and quickly pulled on her coat and hat. With the camera out of view, she already felt better.
“Lulu,” she called. “You almost ready?”
Her reply was interrupted by an enraged screech. “Who stole them?” Jade snarled. “Who took my stockings? I left them there!” She pointed to the corner.
Like the other women, Gina rolled her eyes and feigned an impatience she did not feel. She tried not to think about Jade’s stockings wrapped around her thigh, weighting her spirits as well as her gait.
She was glad when the Signora arrived to disperse the women. “Enough,” she said, eying Jade in disapproval. “It’s time for Gina and Lulu to leave.”
“I know one of you stole them,” Jade hissed at them, seeming to blame all of them at once.
Faye just shrugged. “Not me.” Did her eyes linger on Gina?
Gina tugged on Lulu’s arm. “Let’s go. I’m tired.”
After Gooch opened the green door, the women stepped into the alley, Lulu complaining about Jade under her breath. Gina could only concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, her eyes fixed on the spot by the gangway entrance where Marty’s murder had occurred.
I’m just going to pretend to find his body, she thought to herself. I’ll scream when I see it.
As they passed the entrance to the gangway, Gina peered down the dark narrow corridor, preparing to spot Marty’s dead body in the shadows. Then she squinted more directly.
The entrance of the gangway was clear. Marty’s body was gone.
* * *
Where has the body gone? Gina wondered, in a daze, as she and Lulu continued to walk home. That was all she could think about. She could barely keep track of her friend’s prattle. Lulu seemed to be talking faster than usual, or maybe it was just harder to make sense of her jabbering after what Gina had witnessed earlier.
Had it even happened? She would doubt everything, except she could feel the camera tied to her thigh with Jade’s stockings. Could Marty still be alive? Maybe he had just passed out earlier and had somehow managed to crawl away. Or maybe someone else had found him and taken him to a doctor or even a hospital. Maybe he was recovering right now over in Rush Medical College. Maybe tomorrow he’d be asking for his camera back, as if nothing had ever happened.
Then she remembered the blood. Blood from Marty’s mouth. Blood seeping through his jacket. How could he be alive? No, surely he was dead. So had someone moved him? Who would do that? Maybe it was the person who had killed him. Why had he been killed? Try as she might, she could not keep the questions from bouncing wildly through her mind.
A shadowy Cadillac passed by them, causing the two women to instinctively pull together more closely. Was someone watching them? Gina tightened her grip on Lulu’s arm, seeking some comfort and warmth.
Don’t be ridiculous, Gina, she scolded herself. No one is watching you.
Yet had someone seen her, bending over Marty’s body? Perhaps they’d seen her take the camera. What was on Marty’s camera? Why was it so important that she hide it? Why had he insisted that she tell no one?
Lulu, it seemed, had some questions of her own. “What do you think of Jade accusing us like that?” Lulu asked, still indignant. “That hussy thought we’d stolen her stockings!”
“She’s nuts,” Gina agreed, feeling chained by the purloined silks tied around her legs.
Maybe she’d be able to slip them back into Jade’s belongings when no one was looking. Right now, she had far bigger things to worry about than a pair of stolen stockings.
A few minutes later, the women reached Lulu’s two-flat brownstone and parted ways. When she reached her own home, Gina slipped inside. Her father’s bedroom door was closed.
Should I tell Papa? she wondered, raising her hand to knock on the door. She felt a strong urge to shake him awake, cry on his shoulder, and tell the whole terrible story. Papa would know what to do. Papa would know what to do with the camera.
Then she dropped her hand back to her side without knocking. What if he didn’t know what to do? What if she was in danger? What if telling him put him in danger, too? No, it was best to lay low for a while. Keep it all to herself.
Creeping inside her tiny bedroom, Gina took off her stockings and untied the camera from around her thigh. Sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, the camera in her lap, she ran her hands along the loose floorboard her mother had shown her long ago. She remembered how her mother had giggled like a little girl herself. You never know when you might need a special hiding place, she had said. I had one myself, in my bedroom growing up. Over the years, Gina would hide little treasures she had found on the street. An old jump rope. A little doll. Some shiny glass. Now, it seemed only fitting that it would hide Marty’s camera.
Pulling off her dress, she climbed into her bed and huddled under her heavy covers, shaking until she finally succumbed to terribly disturbed dreams.
CHAPTER 8
After a few hours of fitful, restless sleep, Gina awoke with a start, the image of Marty’s dead body still a shock to her senses. From the slight crack in her curtains, she could see that dawn was just breaking.
Gina listened for sounds that her father might have already woken up, but it was silent. Satisfied, she rolled out of bed and opened the curtains to bring in the early morning light. She pulled out the camera from under the floorboard and stared down at the flecks of blood on the leather case, trying to set aside the memory of Marty slumped in the alley.
Fighting the rise of bile, she took a Kleenex and carefully scrubbed off the blood. When she opened the case, she discovered that the interior was divided into three pockets. The large pocket held Marty’s camera, while each of the two smaller pockets positioned below held a small canister of film. She took one of the canisters out of its pocket and shook it, hearing the roll of film inside. She knew enough about film to know she shouldn’t open the canister, for fear that the light would ruin the film. The other canister was empty, the film no doubt still inside the camera.
Carefully, she started to slide the camera out of its pocket. As she did so, she discovered that Marty had tucked a small black leather notebook and pen into the same pocket, so that they had nestled behind the camera. She recognized it immediately as the one Marty would write in when he was out on the speakeasy floor.
Setting the camera and case aside, Gina pulled out the notebook and traced the cover with one finger before she could bring herself to look inside. There was nothing particularly distinctive about the notebook, with several rings holding its pages and a simple leather strap keeping it shut. Five-and-dime stores might stock a hundred like it.
As she’d suspected, the notebook appeared to be Marty’s record of the photos he’d taken of the Third Door patrons for the last few weeks. Although Marty’s script was tight and difficult to read, each entry contained a nickname, a number, and the date the photo had been taken. Some of the names were crossed out. A few had what appeared to be a sum listed beside them, and quite a few were marked “paid.”
When she flipped to the last of his notes, she found that the final entry read “Gorgeous Boa and Friend,” with the date January 12 and the number 11 beside it. With a pang she remembered the moment. That silly woman and the surly gent were the last people Marty had ever photographed.
She looked closely at the entries that preceded Gorgeous Boa. According to the scrawled dates, Marty had taken five other photographs last night, identified respectively as “Lulu,” “Lillian Gish
,” “Joes and Bettys,” “Our Great Soldiers,” and “Darrow.” Then there was a line break, and the next group of photographs was from January 9. Like the others, these had nicknames: “Benny,” “Cat’s Meow,” “Tootsie,” and so on.
Flipping through the book she recognized some familiar names: Faye, Gooch, Jade, Billy Bottles, and others. She didn’t see her own name, but when she turned to the evening when she started working, January 6, she saw one called “New Ciggie Girl?” So he had taken a picture of her that evening, as she had suspected.
She set the notebook beside the two canisters of film and gingerly picked up the camera.
“Oh, Marty,” Gina muttered. “What did you want me to do with this darn thing? What is so important that I couldn’t tell anyone?”
Her anger suddenly flaring up, she snatched up the camera case with the intention of stuffing everything back inside. To her surprise, her abrupt movement caused something shiny to fly out of the camera case and land in the soft folds of her skirt.
A key.
She picked it up and examined it. A house key, perhaps? It seemed too small. It looked more like the kind of key that would be used to unlock a drawer or perhaps a small case.
It had to be for something important, however, or why would he keep it with him?
Thoughtfully, she returned everything to the camera case as she had found it and then returned the case to its hiding place beneath the floorboard. Climbing back onto her bed, she stared at a long black crack in her ceiling until it was finally time to get up.
* * *
I need to see a newspaper, Gina realized as she stood at the sink, washing the dishes from breakfast. She’d been in a disconcerting fog for hours now, as the memory of Marty’s death kept washing over her, again and again, in indestructible waves. She was beginning to question herself, her memory. It couldn’t have been a dream. That’s why she needed the newspaper. To confirm once and for all that Marty had been killed. To find out who had done him in.
Murder Knocks Twice Page 10