Girl Meets Body

by Jack Iams

  Tim stared. “By George,” he said slowly, “that must be the note Magruder gave Sybil at the Breeze Club. She thought she’d lost it. Or did she?” For a moment his eyes brooded, then widened on Mrs. Barrelforth. “How the hell did you know it was his number?”

  “My dear boy,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “it was Sam Magruder who informed the Association that you needed a place to live. We’re in frequent touch, he and I. As a seasoned trans-Atlantic traveler, Sam Magruder is a great help to the Association.”

  “Was a great help, you mean.”

  “Why do I mean was?” And now her eyes slowly grew wide. “My God, are you telling me Sam Magruder is dead?”

  Tim nodded.

  Mrs. Barrelforth’s face was not one to grow pale, but its color ebbed to a pink. Then it grew redder than ever and she sprang to her feet. “So that was the body on the pier! Oh, damn and blast, why didn’t I guess it? What a bloody fool I’ve been!”

  She began to pace, twisting her large, rawboned hands. “Where’s that whisky?” she demanded, finding the bottle as she spoke. She tilted it to her lips and smacked them, but with more grimness than relish. Then she wheeled on Tim. “Who else knows besides you two?”

  “Nobody. Except, of course, whoever killed him.”

  “Put it this way. Who knows that you and Lady Sybil know it?”

  “No one, as far as I’m aware.”

  “Don’t be a damned fool. Whoever sent you that billet-doux knows it. Good God, Ludlow, don’t you see what this means?”

  “I’m not quite sure.”

  “It means that your wife is walking around New York with a piece of information that might as well be a time bomb in her pocket. God help her, is all I can say.”

  Again she started to pace the room, digging her sensible heels into the carpet. Then she looked at her wrist watch and said, “Turn on the radio. At least, we’ll know she’s safe so far. Soon as it’s over, we’ll phone the studio and tell her not to budge till you and I get there.”

  Tim switched on the radio and a luscious male voice filled the room. It seemed another chapter had just ended in the life of a young widow named Veronica who was trying to cope with all the misfortunes one could think of except, possibly, piles. It was the listener, it turned out, who was presumed to suffer from that complaint unless he or she had been prudent enough to lay in an economy-size supply of Recto-Righto.

  “Radio is another problem for the Association,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, sounding normal again. “Our poor little brides are used to the B.B.C. which may be dull but never goes poking into one’s, uh, privacy.”

  Chimes followed, and another voice told them what time it was. The station brazenly identified itself. Then still another voice came along and said a few words about some kind of corn pads that not only made you run like Jesse Owens but were directly responsible for the pleasure and privilege of introducing the nation’s most beloved and widely followed woman, Ruth Royce Rollick.

  “Bet I’ve been followed as much as she has,” muttered Mrs. Barrelforth.

  The voice that now came out of the loudspeaker struck Tim as being in pleasant contrast to those of the panacea pushers. It was a folksy sort of voice with a slight twang and it sounded as if the owner didn’t give a hoot if she were widely followed or not so long as she could sit down for a homey chat with anybody who cared to listen.

  “Thank goodness we’ve finished with the corn pads,” she said, and seemed to mean it. “Let’s see now, Millie, my dear. What do we have today?”

  “Today, Ruth Royce,” said Millie Marsden’s voice, which was considerably crisper than Tim remembered it, “our program is devoted to a representative group of recently arrived war brides.”

  “Ah, yes, the war brides,” murmured Ruth Royce. “And, my goodness, Millie, aren’t they pretty? Stand up, girls, and let me look at you.”

  “I can guess how Lady Sybil is reacting to this,” said Mrs. Barrelforth.

  “Now, my dears,” went on Ruth Royce’s comfortable voice, “I want to have a little chitchat with each one of you and hear just what you think about your new life in your new home.”

  “I have an awful feeling,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “that when your wife steps up to that mike, fifty million radios are going to get blown right out the window.”

  There was a good deal of giggling in the loudspeaker, then a rather gummy voice said, “Well, it’s all a bit queer at first, you know, but we’ve had the flicks, you know. The flicks tell you a fair bit about what the States is like, you know.”

  “Flicks?” said Ruth Royce. “I do hope it isn’t a trade name.”

  “British for movies, I believe,” said Millie.

  “Oh,” said Ruth Royce with relief. “Next girl, Millie.”

  “I can’t listen to any more,” said Mrs. Barrelforth abruptly. “It upsets me. I’m going into the kitchen and drink a drink in decent peace. Call me when your wife comes on.”

  The program rambled along with more giggling, a touch of Yorkshire here, a spot of Cockney there, and corn pads in between. Tim listened in nervous fascination, the sort of fascination that expectant fathers find in old magazines in hospital waiting-rooms.

  “Let me see, Millie,” said Ruth Royce, sounding puzzled, “I thought we were going to have six of these sweet little brides. But if I can count straight, I only see five.”

  “The sixth was unable to be present,” said Millie. “What a shame. Which one was that?”

  “Mrs. Ludlow. The former Lady Sybil Hastings, you remember.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, lei’s hope nothing has happened to her.”

  “What’s that?” asked Mrs. Barrelforth, coming suddenly into the living-room. “Nothing’s happened to whom?”

  Tim’s throat was dry. “To Sybil. She didn’t show up.”

  “Hell’s blistering bells!” cried Mrs. Barrelforth. “Where’s that phone? Call that radio station! Quick!”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Mrs. Barrelforth Means Business

  Mrs. Barrelforth stood beside him, cracking her knuckles, while he looked up the station’s number and put the call through.

  “Ask for that Millie girl,” she said. “On second thought, it might be better if I spoke to her. Woman-to-woman.”

  She took the buzzing instrument from Tim. “What’s her last name?” she asked. “Marsden? Hullo. Miss Marsden, please. That’s right… Hullo. Miss Marsden? This is Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth, president of the New Jersey Chapter of the British-American War Brides Improvement Association. What? No, I can’t say as I did enjoy the program. Never mind that. What I want to know is, what happened to Mrs. Ludlow?”

  She listened for a moment, her eyes watching Tim anxiously. He could hear the tinny, perfunctory voice in the phone.

  “Now wait a minute, young lady,” snapped Mrs. Barrelforth. “This is important. It may even be a matter of life and death. If you won’t tell me, I’ll be obliged to put the whole thing into the hands of the police.”

  Again she listened and a look of grim satisfaction spread over her lace. “She did, eh? What time was that? I see. Righty-o. Thanks very much.”

  She hung up and said to Tim, “Your wife was last seen shortly before noon on her way to call on a man named Jake Burlick. Know him?”

  “Jake Burlick?” repeated Tim. “Isn’t that the Breeze Club chap?”

  “None other,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Delightful fellow, too. Got plenty of gas in your car? Come on, then.”

  Tim grabbed his trenchcoat from the hallstand and followed her through the front door. It was a relief to be going into action, even if he had no idea what that action was going to be. In fact, he was glad that he didn’t.

  The car was standing where he had left it the day before, and the motor was slow in turning over. He sat there letting it warm up, chafing at the brief delay. The forced passivity of
the moment made him want to talk, to ask a question he might not have otherwise asked.

  “Mrs. Barrelforth,” he said, not looking at her, “is my wife mixed up in something she shouldn’t be?”

  Mrs. Barrelforth’s big fingers drummed on her tweedy knees. “You mean, I suppose, is she a wrong un?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Son,” said Mrs. Barrelforth solemnly, “I don’t know. All I can tell you is this: If she is a wrong un, she’s as safe as in church. If she’s not, and my money says she’s not, she’d be safer on a tightrope over Niagara Falls. Let’s go. Fast.”

  The car roared through the dunes, skidding on the sandy curves, and into the main road. Tim pressed his foot almost to the floor and the speedometer flickered toward seventy and stayed there. The deserted street, the big empty houses of Merry Point shot past. They tore across the flat marshland, into the cedar swamps’ gnarled gloom, then down the straight road through the pines. They slowed briefly for Bankville, which rose in front of them like a sidewalk hitting a drunk, then leaped ahead on the asphalt ribbon through the woods again.

  “Ludlow,” said Mrs. Barrelforth presently, “is that as fast as this jalopy’ll go?”

  “Just about,” said Tim through clenched teeth.

  “I don’t know if I ever told you or not,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “but as a girl I used to race at Brooklands. What say I take a turn at the wheel?”

  “Well,” began Tim doubtfully, but Mrs. Barrelforth continued, “Slow her to fifty and I’ll slide across under you.”

  The maneuver was under way before he could protest and completed before he realized it. He looked at his empty hands and decided to light a cigarette with them. The speedometer edged up to eighty. It reminded Tim of driving down a German autobahn in a command car with one of Patton’s boys at the wheel. Except that this wasn’t a command car, the road was no autobahn, and they hadn’t conquered the State of New Jersey.

  A farm-produce truck nosed out of a side road ahead, saw the juggernaut coming, and stopped cold. Tim closed his eyes, felt the car swerve in a lightning arc, then opened his eyes to a clear road again.

  “Gosh,” he said, “that was close.”

  “Not very,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Only thing you need to worry about is that once in a while, even after twenty years, I forget about driving on the right.”

  With this comforting thought, Tim leaned back and tried to enjoy his cigarette. He became aware, then, of a growing buzz somewhere behind them. He turned and saw a motorcycle in the fading light.

  “Cop,” he said.

  “I know, damn it,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Thought I could pull away from him. Well, let’s hope he’s not the talkative kind.”

  She slowed and the motorcycle drew alongside, its rider purple-faced and fuming. Before the latter could pick the adjective he wanted, Mrs. Barrelforth had her leather card-case under his nose and was saying coolly, “British-American War Brides Improvement Association. Emergency.”

  “Huh?” said the cop. He looked at the card, then he looked at Mrs. Barrelforth. Slowly, and reluctantly, his manner changed. “Oh,” he said. “Okay, lady. Sorry.” He even touched his cap.

  Mrs. Barrelforth slashed the gears and stepped on the gas again. Tim sank back dazedly on the worn upholstery. It occurred to him that maybe the war brides’ husbands had better start organizing if they wanted to survive.

  They hit the main New York highway where the heavy traffic of late afternoon slithered along like a great disjointed serpent. The air had grown chill and, in the deepening haze, the sprawling, belching shapes of factories took on a Dantesque unreality. Mrs. Barrelforth dodged and weaved and blew the horn, picking holes in the converging and diverging lanes like a fullback.

  Once she turned to Tim and chuckled, “Can’t you just hear ’em back there? ‘Goddamn woman driver!’”

  They soared up and over the Skyway as if it had been a thank-you-ma’am, then descended into the turbulent maw of Jersey City. Soon they were whizzing hollowly through the pallid tile-lined tunnel. It disgorged them like Saturn’s children into a city that even through the shriek and rumble of traffic held a sense of hush as evening fell fast around the tall black outlines of yellow-windowed buildings.

  Mrs. Barrelforth plowed a deft furrow through the vehicular eruption and slid into the streaming tumult of Canal Street.

  “Where are we headed?” asked Tim, somewhat limply.

  “Burlick’s place.”

  “Oh,” said Tim. Then he asked, “Mrs. Barrelforth, does the Association do much of this sort of thing?”

  “Now and again,” said Mrs. Barrelforth airily. “It makes a nice change from classes in how to cook hominy grits.”

  The damp freshness of the river struck them, then the car was easing swiftly north on the East Side drive, oily smooth under the wheels. It was completely dark by now, and the river glittered with the city’s topsy-turvy lights. Tim saw the Empire State’s glowing peak go past, then the cluster of shafts and towers that marked Forty-Second Street. A few minutes later they dropped out of the highway swim, back to the prosaic city criss-cross. The car slid to a stop in front of a tall white apartment house with a blue marquee and a doorman.

  The doorman came forward. “Sorry,” he said, “you can’t—”

  “Keep an eye on the car, bud,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Come along, Ludlow.”

  Tim followed her into a discreetly lit and softly carpeted lobby. A man rose from behind a desk at the far end and said, “Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “We’re going straight up, Mac.”

  The man looked as if he was going to protest, then he thought better of it and sat down. A colored elevator boy looked at them curiously but let them off at the sixth floor without comment. He stood in the half-open door of the elevator, watching them.

  “Amscray,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. The door closed and the square of light behind it dropped out of sight.

  Four doors lined the short corridor, cream-colored and green-carpeted. Mrs. Barrelforth found the one she was looking for and knocked. Nothing happened and she knocked again, harder.

  A man’s voice said, “Yeah? Who is it?” The voice was gruff and suspicious.

  “British-American War Brides Improvement Association,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Open up.”

  “Nothing doing,” said the voice, which Tim now recognized from faraway mistiness as Jake Burlick’s. “Beat it, or I’ll call a cop.”

  “That’s a laugh,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Open that door, Burlick, or somebody really will call a cop. You’d love it, wouldn’t you?”

  The door opened a couple of inches, held to that distance by a chain on the lock. Over Mrs. Barrelforth’s shoulder, Tim saw in the slit the blue-black sheen of Jake Burlick’s hair as it met his eyebrows.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Burlick.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Ludlow,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Is she here?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Rubbish. Open up and we’ll have a look.”

  “Sorry,” said Burlick. In his mouth, the polite little word was menacing. He gave the door a shove but Mrs. Barrelforth’s substantial foot was in it.

  “I’m trying to be nice about this,” she said. “Either we can have a nice, informal visit or I’ll get the cops and a warrant. Make up your mind.”

  Tim watched Burlick’s darkly mistrustful face. Then the chain dropped with a faint rattle and the door opened wide. “Okay,” said Burlick. “God knows what good it’s gonna do you.”

  They found themselves in a rectangular living-room, evidently furnished by the management and intended for people of reasonable tastes. The walls were tinted a delicate green and there were several pleasing prints on them. The pastel-shaded furniture was conservatively modern. But the decorator had reckoned withou
t the present occupant’s penchant for kewpie dolls, pin-up girls, and pictures of sports figures clipped from newspapers, or his disinclination to empty ash trays or remove half-finished drinks or pick up socks.

  The occupant himself wore evening dress trousers, collarless stiff shirt, and over these a bathrobe that looked like a boxer’s. An unfastidious boxer’s. His blue jowls were wet and smooth, evidently not long shaved. He stood aside with a sullen mockery of a hostly bow. Mrs. Barrelforth looked around the room, crossed it, and tried a door which led to the bedroom. She took a turn in the bedroom, which was done in peach, and peered into the rose-tinted bathroom. “Hmm,” she said. “Hairpins.”

  “So what?” said Burlick from the doorway. “I ain’t no monk.”

  “And no Casanova, either,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, walking back to the living-room. “Eh, Ludlow?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Tim. He was looking at Burlick with grim distaste.

  “I’ve seen you before,” said Burlick, turning on him.

  “That’s right.”

  “You were makin’ some kind of trouble. Always makin’ trouble, are you?”

  “Any trouble I can make for you,” said Tim, “is a pleasure.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” said Mrs. Barrelforth briskly. “And we’re going to make plenty if you don’t start talking.”

  “Go ahead,” said Burlick. “I’m not talking.”

  Mrs. Barrelforth sighed as if she had hoped that this little unpleasantness could have been avoided. She picked up one of the dreggy glasses from a table and studied it idly for a moment. Then she sent it flying at a round mirror between the draped window’s with a splintering crash.

  Burlick’s eyes opened in amazement and rage. He took a step toward Mrs. Barrelforth, his hairy fingers curved in front of him.

  “Don’t try any rough stuff, sonny,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I’m taking care of the rough stuff. You just answer questions.”