by T. W. Emory
I didn’t disagree. Seattle wasn’t exactly a trendsetter city. We were known for rain, Boeing, the movie star Francis Farmer, and more rain—and not necessarily in that order.
“Why, just the other day Frederick and Nelson was pushing some French perfume. They even shipped in a Parisian model to show it off.”
“La Voodoo,” I said.
“What’s that, son?” His face was an incredulous mask.
“La Voodoo. It’s the girl’s stage name.” I’d seen the ads with pictures of the gorgeous model. She took over where Bambi left off. The papers said it was she who’d inspired the “doe-eyed look” that season.
“Hoodoo, schmoo-doo. It makes my point. Rod’s little venture hasn’t been sanctioned and isn’t traditional enough to become a big success. Still, I stop in from time to time to take its pulse. Rod spends a bundle on advertising. And I have to admit it, son, Len Pearson’s lovely band of salesgirls have done remarkably well. At the very least, they’ve managed to charm a percentage of the pretentious. Especially among the male segment of society.” He winked. “You know the sort. Mainly local and visiting businessmen. Guilt-motivated gift hunters out to pacify wives and mistresses, but not minding some beautiful scenery in the process.”
Mr. Lundeen put a dollar on the table and anchored it with the napkin dispenser. I popped a clove in my mouth.
“Still chewing on those twigs, eh, son?”
“Still. Ever since a good friend convinced me to quit smoking.”
He seemed mildly impressed. But it was hard to know with him.
“Anyway, Gunnar, go poke around. Stir the pot if you have to. But take care, son. As I said, I want to avoid the kind of fanfare that would be bad for business and hurt my family.”
I told him I understood.
“Go talk to Len. In the meantime I’ll grease the skids for you down at the police station.”
“Police station?”
“Yes. I’ll have it all arranged so that when you’ve finished talking with Len and his stable of lovely Fräuleins, you can talk to Dirk. I’ll tell them you’re a hireling of his lawyer.”
“He needs a lawyer?”
“Definitely. For now, Dirk’s simply being questioned. But if I know that hothead, he’ll soon talk himself into being a full-fledged suspect.”
Chapter 5
“What was Seattle like—just after the Second World War, I mean?” Kirsti asked. That hopeful gleam of the idealist in her eyes met the realist’s flicker in mine.
“Well, Blue Eyes, think of the population of New York City as an apple pie,” I said. I’d just eased back down into my wheelchair after a solo limp to and from the men’s room, and was looking up at Kirsti’s pretty face. “In 1950 the citizenry of Seattle was about the size of a one-sixteenth sliver of that pie. Now mind you, the financial and high-priced shopping districts were on a lot smaller scale, but I’d say they were as defined and striking as in Manhattan, and the Hudson River definitely had a kid brother in the Duwamish.”
“What do you mean by ‘kid brother’?” she asked as she turned my chair around and began to roll me back to the outside courtyard.
I went on, “Well, in those days from West Seattle the tide flats at Duwamish Head stunk up the Spokane Street corridor like a backed-up outhouse in summer. Then it wafted over the railroad tracks to gag the tipsy denizens of the Skid Road flophouses—and anyone else who got within whiffing distance.”
“Yuck.”
I almost laughed out loud. “Sure. The view of Seattle’s skyline from across Elliott Bay might have suggested Manhattan Island, but it was as awe-inspiring as a sink full of dirty pie tins and almost as colorful. Closer yet, you saw the pigeon poop garnishing the cornices of many a low-rise building from the base of Queen Anne Hill down south to King Street and the markets of Chinatown.”
“Gross.”
“Sure. But nobody noticed, girl, and nobody cared. Not in those days. The beauty of Puget Sound was a different story … and still is. It was awe-inspiringly scenic, especially as seen from one of the tallest buildings west of the Mississippi.”
“The Space Needle?”
“No. Bless your heart. That wasn’t built till ’62. No, the pigeon droppings had a negligible effect on our very own forty-two-story high rise—The Smith Tower.”
“But that’s so puny now—”
“Uh-huh. And in those days Seattle’s downtown was distinguished from its uptown solely by the slope of the streets.”
I was headed uptown.
Fifth and Pine was where the larger retail establishments were cozying up in those days. It was considered a fashion metropolis. While searching for a parking space I spotted Engstrom’s Jewelry. It was on the first floor of the building cattycorner across the street from the one I was bound for—the Atherton Building.
I sauntered through the mezzanine entrance past a coffee shop that had just beaten back a lunch-crowd assault. I loped down a broad staircase to the main floor devoted to fine clothing for the fair sex—an annex of the downtown Darlund Apparels. I made my way to the elevators and saw my ride would be a brief one. Fasciné Expressions utilized the entire second floor.
Rikard Lundeen had told me his son’s venture was a costly one, so I wasn’t too surprised when I stepped from the elevator into what looked like a sitting room from Maison le Swank. I think it was the chairs not meant for sitting that put me off. They were two of those brocade-covered jobs with knuckle arms made from dark wood native only to the Himalayas—or someplace equally remote. These flanked an ornate table that was pedestal to a stack of tasteful-looking business cards. But nothing was roped off and there were no signs reading “Do not touch.”
Right and left of me were arched doorways. Inside were the display rooms where a salesgirl adjusted shelves of high-class gewgaws as two others parleyed with customers. Rikard Lundeen’s “lovely Fräuleins” appraisal was no exaggeration, judging by these three.
I picked up one of the business cards from the table. The printed slogan read: “Exceptional Offerings for that Extraordinary Someone in Your Life.” As I pocketed the card, the girl who’d been fiddling with the stock came over to me. She was a redhead of medium height and wore a tawny outfit that had that “French air” you used to read about in the rotogravure pictorial section of the Sunday fashion pages. Her face was long and angular. She was slim but wore a shirtwaist that strained to contain a bust clearly meant for nursing quite a brood.
“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Fasciné Expressions. My name is Meredith,” she said in a lazy-toned way.
Meredith’s full lips enclosed an albescent smile that warmed and gladly received. Her come-on scent ensnared my olfactory receptors.
“How may I help you today?” It was more an assurance than a question, and her pixie twinkle implied a delectable competency at being both naughty and nice.
“My name is Gunnar Nilson. I have an appointment to see Mr. Pearson.”
“One moment please,” said Meredith. As she walked over to the doorway on my right, her hips kept time to a melody that evoked wolf-whistle accompaniment.
Meredith switched on a wall intercom and said, “A Mr. Nilson to see Mr. Pearson.”
She came back over to me and said, “Miss Anderson will be here momentarily. She’ll take you to Mr. Pearson.”
I’d been sent to nose around in a veneer world of “may I,” “shall we,” “momentarily,” “perchance,” and “not at all.” It was a gracious environment of “oughts” and “ought nots” held together by such niceties the way stitches do a coat. Abolish the niceties and the whole thing unravels.
I decided to pluck at a stitch.
“Christine mentioned she worked with a girl named Meredith,” I said.
Her smile disappeared and her lips formed a brownish-red oh. “You … you knew Christine?”
“Just briefly. Such a nice girl. A real shame what happened to her.”
“Yes … yes, it was,” she said. Her grimace showed a small fissur
e in her face powder.
Immediately I saw that Meredith was a counterfeit beauty. She had one of those faces that would wear pretty until about thirty, maybe a little longer—but only with the help of makeup, and only if you didn’t look close. Chances were good she only vaguely suspected she’d lose her war against time sooner rather than later.
As Meredith attempted to reconstruct her composure, I felt a twinge of shame for rattling her, but was soon distracted by the appearance of another woman in the doorway next to the intercom. She was a Junoesque blonde who looked at me and said, “Mister Nilson?”
I went over. She introduced herself as Britt Anderson. I couldn’t place her scent, but my name for it would be Come Ravage Me.
Beautiful understates it. Miss Anderson had to be one of the most striking beauties I’ve ever seen. Wire-rimmed pince-nez glasses hung around her neck on a delicate gold chain. She wore a square-shouldered jacket of navy blue with a box-pleated skirt that ended somewhere between knees and ankles. She had skin like fresh cream, and while her thin-lipped smile didn’t welcome like Meredith’s, her teal blue eyes proffered their own kind of invitation. Her face would wear well for many years and I was pretty sure she knew it.
I reached for her extended hand. It was soft and just the right temperature. I felt body heat sufficient to keep two people warm in an igloo for several hours. She was probably in her mid-twenties. Christine and Meredith belonged to the same league, but Britt Anderson was definitely group leader. I’d been sweetened and stirred, but she was too busy studying Meredith to take notice.
“Meredith, are you all right?”
“Yes … I’ll be fine. We were just talking about Christine.”
Miss Anderson went to Meredith and began patting her arm. I could imagine the feel of that pat as well as the sound of the whispered “there, there” that went with it.
The women were hugging now, and their heads touched. I found it a bit moving.
After a minute they parted with what looked to be mutual reassurances. Miss Anderson rejoined me and said, “Please follow me, Mr. Nilson.”
I never obeyed so easily.
Her trim calves tightened as her legs went striding. She moved with effortless grace, and had a gentle shuttle to her hips—just enough to pluck intriguing crosswise stretches in the fabric of her skirt that gave pleasant inklings of a firm but globular behind.
“Call me Gunnar,” I said as I caught up with her.
“If you like. Please call me Britt.”
As we walked beside each other Britt said in a solemn voice, “We’ve been expecting your visit, Mr. Nilson—I mean, Gunnar.”
Coming from that mouth, my name sounded regal.
“The police have come and gone already. Routine questions, they said. We’re all so distraught over what happened to our dear Christine,” she continued. “Meredith took it particularly hard. They were close. They often worked together.”
“It’s a difficult time I’m sure.”
It sounded lame, I know. But the snappy-rejoinder part of my brain was still a bit neutralized by its initial encounter with Britt’s charms.
She led me to a windowless door with neat gold lettering that read:
LEONARD L. PEARSON
MANAGER
Britt gave the door two quick raps and opened it.
Leonard Pearson was talking on the telephone when we entered. With his free hand he was working a yellow Life Saver loose from a half-eaten roll. The walls of his office were flat white, offset by maroon draperies and a maroon rug. Pearson pointed an index finger straight up and greeted me with lifted eyebrows. Using his raised finger as a pointer he indicated for me to take a chair with maroon upholstery. I sat as his eyes busily mapped Britt’s hemispheres.
Pearson’s ogling was met with neither a prim frown of reproof nor an averted glance of disdain. Britt didn’t even look at her boss. She seemed oblivious to what I suspected was his chronic leering.
Britt moved around Pearson’s desk with poise and dignity, picked up a few papers and straightened a disordered stack. Afterward she emptied a glass ashtray into the trash and slid it closer to him. When she circled back she adjusted the angle of a framed photograph of Pearson’s wife and kids. The door made no noise when it closed behind her. The execution of these little maneuvers comprised a seamless performance. But by then I was already biased.
I took Pearson’s measure as he continued his phone conversation. He had ears that stuck out like Clark Gable’s, but he definitely lacked Gable’s he-manship. He looked to be in his mid-forties and wore a blue two-piece suit that transformed big-shouldered portliness into utter beefiness. His fair hair was thinning, his face was florid, and his chatter was energetic and cheerful.
He hung up the phone and we stood for a formal greeting. He gave me a virility-proving handshake. He was an inch or two shorter than my own six one, and showed an automatic smile and goodwill that I thought might actually be genuine.
“Sorry about that,” he said, meaning the phone call. “An old college chum. He’s in town. Wants to get together. Wants me to show him a good time. You understand.”
I said that I did.
Within the first minute we were Gunnar and Len. The Life Saver he chewed didn’t even begin to mask his bourbon breath. He pulled out a pack of Camels from his drawer and lit one.
“You’ve met our Miss Anderson, I see.”
I nodded.
“Couldn’t function without her. Assistant, secretary and general factotum. Irreplaceable. Easy on the eyes too,” he said, giving me a mischievous grin. “But don’t bother getting any ideas about her, Gunnar. She’s unassailable.”
“A real talent for putting on the chill, eh?”
“Exactly. And if she’s pushed, she has these cute little emasculating stares. More than one of my friends has made a pass at her, only to be left feeling like he’d been gelded.”
“The charms of the withheld charms.”
“Exactly that.”
“Well, she’s certainly in good company in the looks department,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, your entire sales staff seems to have stepped right out of Vogue.”
“That’s Miss Anderson’s idea. Hire pretty girls and dress them up to fit the image we’re projecting. Make the personnel exemplify the product.
“Listen, Gunnar, I want you to know you’ve got our total cooperation. The sooner this matter can be put to rest, the better.”
“What matter is that, Len?” I asked.
“Why … Dirk Engstrom’s innocence, of course. I understand he might have been involved. I mean … his tie with Christine and all … well, Mr. Lundeen said ….”
He had that look like he’d volunteered more than he should.
“Len, I’m just here to ask a few questions.”
He blanched. “Of course. Yes, of course. Mr. Lundeen speaks very highly of you.” Pearson was the tense sort who needed to keep his gums moving. He talked of his friendship with Rod Lundeen, his concerns for the company’s reputation and its growing patronage. I let him yammer on.
“It’s a shame that Dirk Engstrom is involved even a little bit. It sort of complicates matters. I mean, it would have been so much simpler if the police could just have signed off on the whole thing. You do think it was a robber that killed Christine, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer him. I just cocked my head and watched as he flicked ash in the ashtray.
“I … I just don’t think the company can endure any bad publicity, is all. We’re still in a fledgling state, you understand. But Mr. Lundeen is confident in your abilities. I’m sure you’ll find out something that will ….” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn. It better have been a robbery.”
Pearson snuffed out his cigarette and pulled another from his pack. He looked at me hopefully. Old Rikard must have told Len that I was brother to Mandrake the Magician. I popped a clove in my mouth as he took a big drag on a freshly lit Camel.
“I knew tha
t Dirk and Christine were an item, of course. But I’m afraid I won’t be of much assistance to you. I didn’t seem to be too much help to the police. I don’t pry into the girls’ personal lives, and I leave their duties strictly to Miss Anderson. Now she may be of some help. But you’ll really want to talk with Meredith Lane. I understand she and Christine were good friends.”
He stood up and made a rolling adjustment of his upper arms to rejuvenate the padded shoulders of his suit. “Come with me. I’ll have Miss Anderson arrange a brief conference.”
He led me out of his office to a neighboring door. He knocked and we were told to come in.
We entered a storage closet transformed into a dwarfish version of Len’s office. Britt sat at her desk going through some papers. She wore her pince-nez and resembled a very classy schoolmistress. Dorothy Parker might have been right about women’s glasses deterring men’s passes, but I’d discovered the premier exception to her witticism.
Pearson seemed to stand an inch taller in Britt’s presence. “Would you get Meredith in here, please? Mr. Nilson would like to ask her a few questions,” he said with a honeyed voice. Pearson’s manner was courtly and he displayed enamel so bright you could read by it.
“Certainly,” Britt replied. She used the intercom and told Meredith to take an early break.
“Poor Meredith,” Britt explained, looking at me. “According to one of her neighbors she became hysterical when she learned the news about Christine. Another tenant gave her something to help her sleep. I told her to take some time off, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I really fear she’s overdoing it.”
In less than two minutes Meredith joined us with purse in hand. Britt walked over and had her sit down.
“Meredith, you met Mr. Nilson out front. What you don’t know is that he’s been hired by Mr. Lundeen to investigate Christine’s murder.”
“I see,” she said softly, giving a feeble smile. Some of the confidence she’d shown me when we first met had returned, but I could tell discovering my role flustered her a little.