by Craig Rice
Therefore, he might as well start on those letters, right now. Maybe he ought to have dinner first. Hell no, there wasn’t time. He could get along without dinner. Besides, there was a bottle of bourbon on the end table.
Jake pictured Helene, in the new pale-green chiffon dress, eating filet mignon and broiled mushrooms. He sighed, poured himself three fingers of bourbon, and untied the string around the packet of letters.
It was, he discovered, a complete set of correspondence. The first letter in the collection was written on white ten-cent store paper, with blue-black ink, in a masculine hand. The second was on pale-gray paper, violet ink, and in a lacy, feminine hand, with little circles serving for dots and periods.
There were no envelopes, nor addresses written on the letters, but the letters were dated. Whoever had put them together in this packet had had an orderly mind, and had arranged them according to dates. Jake noticed, flipping a finger through them, that her letters had become longer than his, toward the end of the correspondence, and that she had written two or three to his one.
He opened the first one. It was dated almost two years ago.
Lovely Gloria:
Our week end in Atlantic City was so wonderful. I wish these could be pearls I send you, instead of flowers. Tell me we’ll meet again, and soon, soon, soon.
Adoringly, Ducky
Dear Ducky:
Thank you for the lovely flowers. I’m free for dinner and the evening a week from Tuesday. Let’s meet in the Astor lobby at 6.30.
Sincerely, Gloria
Gloria, my beautiful:
Every hour I spend away from you seems a century …
Dear Ducky:
Thank you for the book of poems. Perhaps someday next week …
Adored Gloria:
Night after night I dream of beautiful you, and the wonderful hours we’ve spent together …
Darling Ducky:
The flowers were so lovely. I’ve always loved violets. Why don’t we have dinner here at my apartment tomorrow, instead of going out …
Jake glanced through a dozen more. Ducky remained flowery and fervent, Gloria seemed to be slowly warming up. After about five months of the correspondence, she’d begun a letter with Dear, dear Ducky, my Dream Man. Jake stopped right there to pour himself another drink.
The letters of the next few months were ardent and anatomical. They would have sounded swell, read in the dry, singsong voice of a clerk of the court. Jake reflected that no one had ever told Ducky about beginning his letters, My dearest sweetheart, and gentlemen of the jury.
By the end of the first year, Ducky’s letters had cooled down a little. They began, simply and chastely, Dear Gloria. Gloria, now, was the one who was going all-out. Ducky-wucky-darling:
Please don’t worry about the little loan. I’m so glad I was able to help. You mustn’t let it trouble you. After all, aren’t we … Dear Gloria:
I don’t know why you should be so good to me. Believe me, someday soon …
Ducksie-dearest:
Will the enclosed be enough? Please don’t be so discouraged, I’m sure you’ll find another job …
Now, Jake reflected, we’re beginning to get somewhere! He began to read with more interest.
Dear Gloria:
Believe me, sweetheart, I’m going to pay you back every penny, the minute I am earning money again. And some sweet day, when I’m able to offer you the home you deserve …
My Wonderful Ducky man—
Oh, it’s going to be so wonderful, just you and me, in a little house of our own …
Then there was a long gap, nearly three months. Dear Gloria:
How can you be so unjust? I’ve been working, trying to save up enough to repay you. Meanwhile I’ve had back rent, dentist bills and other things. I thought you’d understand … Oh my own, wonderful Ducky:
I’m so happy that you’ve forgiven me!
One nice thing about the letters, Jake reflected. Reading them, it was possible to fill in the missing conversations that had taken place in between. Object matrimony really reared its head about a month later.
Ducky-lovey:
I don’t see why we should have to wait until you have a job again. After all, I’m earning more than enough for both of us. And why should we lose all these precious days and nights together …
Dear Gloria:
You are so understanding and fine …
However, there had evidently been problems:
Dear Ducky: [Hm, a shade of coolness there.]
I’m sorry I was so angry last night, but I’ve always dreamed of being married in the little old church back home …
Dear Gloria:
We mean so much to each other. How can our marriage concern anyone but ourselves …
Dearest Ducky:
I can see what you mean about any public announcement of our marriage interfering with my work as a model, but …
Dear Gloria:
It’s your career I’m thinking of …
Evidently, Ducky had got his way. The letters ended there. But there was a penciled note:
Gloria—be sure to leave ten dollars on the table for me when you go out, and make some fresh coffee so it will be hot when I get up.
None of the newspaper accounts of Gloria Garden’s life had mentioned a husband. Ducky must have succeeded in selling her on that idea of a secret marriage.
Finally, at the end of the packet, there was a letter on thin, ruled paper, spidery handwriting, and black ink.
Dear Daughter:
I’m sorry your marriage turned out so unhappily. Just remember he couldn’t have been much good or he wouldn’t have taken up with another woman. Don’t try to get him back. Willy Bark’s wife (remember him, he works in the post office) ran away with another man.
Willy got her back and she’s made his life miserable for the last twenty years.
Maybe you ought to come home for a little visit. Your ma is ailing a little, nothing serious. But she would sure like to see you, and so would your old pa. Looks like we’re going to have an early thaw this year. The snow is going fast and Joe Beebie says he saw a robin in his yard last week. Henry Parsons has gotten married to a girl from Janesville, Wisconsin, and Harlow Larsen has twin boys. I’ve had all my teeth out and it’s taking me a little time to get used to my plates. The river is high, Pearlie Rodell’s basement was flooded a couple of days ago and her cat was drowned. They’re repainting the city hall. Write soon. I hope you can come for a visit.
Your loving Pa
Jake folded it up, put the letters back together, and tied the string around them again. He wished Gloria had been able to get home for that visit.
She’d met Ducky somewhere, he’d courted her, she’d fallen for him. He’d needed money, and she’d lent it to him. They’d been secretly married. He’d left her for another woman. That was all.
The case was all sewed up. Dennis was Ducky, and Bertha Morrison was the other woman. There had been a divorce, Gloria Garden, or better, Hazel Puckett had taken her pa’s advice. Then she’d learned of Ducky’s marriage to the wealthy woman, and gone to confront her. Maybe to tell her that Ducky insisted on having his coffee ready when he woke. There had been a quarrel, a fight. Bertha, the stronger of the two, had strangled Gloria, decapitated her in a jealous rage, dressed her in the pale-blue satin nightgown and tucked her in the bridal bed. Then Bertha had donned Gloria’s clothes and fled the city.
It was as simple as that. Jake stretched, yawned, got up, and hid the packet of letters in his shaving kit. Now, all he had to do was find Bertha Morrison, and force a confession from her. He wished Helene were here.
Maybe he ought to get some dinner. No, a drink would do just as well. Alcohol was a food too.
He poured himself a drink, picked up one of the newspapers from the floor, and began aimlessly glancing through it. More pictures of Gloria Garden and of Bertha Morrison. Hm. Must be a story about the murder. Well, he’d give them a better story, in a couple of da
ys. He read on, lazily. Astute work on the part of Arthur Peterson. Gloria Garden’s head. Verification from the medical examiner’s office. Unidentified body. A speculation on the part of the newspaper as to the identity of the body.
Jake sat up, said, “What?” and downed his drink, fast. He read through the rest of the papers hastily. Beautiful model. Brilliant detective work. Arthur Peterson. Missing bride. No marks of identification on body. “Body had no identifying scars, doctor says.” “Has Bertha Morrison Been Found?” “‘We try to be efficient,’ Inspector Arthur Peterson of the Homicide Bureau said modestly tonight, in an exclusive interview …” Search for a Missing Head. Search for a Missing Body. Search for a Missing Murderer.
Jake read through to the last paragraph in the last paper, crumpled them all up into a football-shaped wad, and hurled that across the room. All his time and efforts and deductions had been wasted. Because Gloria Garden’s head had been found on Bertha Morrison’s body. And Gloria Garden’s body was missing, and so was Bertha Morrison’s head, and so was Ducky. Who the hell was Ducky, anyway, and why the hell had he scrammed? Maybe he was the murderer. Sure, that was it. Now all he had to do was to find Ducky.
Jake yawned. He picked up the roll of crumpled newspapers and carried it out to the waste chute. Then he emptied the ash trays, wiped them out, and put them back where they belonged. He took the empty glasses into the bathroom and rinsed them under the cold-water faucet. No use letting the room look like a shambles when Helene came back.
What would he say to her? “Where the hell have you been?” Or, “Sorry I got home so late.” Or maybe just ignoring the whole thing, with “Hello, darling, how nice you look.”
Jake untied his shoes, loosened them, and stretched out on the davenport. His watch said five to ten; she’d be home any minute now. He decided he’d pretend he hadn’t noticed how long she’d been gone, and that he hadn’t come home three hours late. Yes, that was the thing to do. He wouldn’t even need to say, “How nice you look,” because every time he looked at her, his eyes said, “How beautiful, how beautiful you are.”
He closed his eyes, just for a second, opened them, lit a cigarette, and lay staring at the ceiling through the smoke. Helene’s eyes could be like smoke, blue gray. Who had Ducky been? Had he murdered Gloria Garden and Bertha Morrison, and why? How was he, Jake, going to find out? What would Wildavine think of his book? Where was Helene, and how soon would she come home to him? He yawned again. It had been a long day. Traipsing around, trying to locate some of the people in Bertha Lutts Morrison’s address book. Most of them moved away, none of the others home. Then the searching of Gloria Garden’s apartment. The gloomy skies. The cold dripping of April rain. He was tired.
He poured himself one more drink, downed it, and put out his cigarette. Gloria Garden had been beautiful, she could have had her pick of all the men in New York, and she’d fallen for a louse. Old Doc Puckett sounded like a swell guy. Who could have taken Helene out to dinner? Oh, well, she’d tell him when she came home, which would be pretty soon now. He wished they were back in Chicago. What had he ever wanted to write a book for, anyway?
Jake closed his eyes. The room was warm, the davenport was big and comfortable, even for his long legs. He let himself relax, and thoughts began to run around aimlessy in his mind. Bertha Morrison’s head. Ducky. How could he find Ducky, and who was Ducky? A son-of-a-bitch, whoever he was. Pretty soon that door would open and Helene would come in, cool and lovely. Willy Bark should never have taken his wife back. What would Wildavine Williams think of his book? He hoped Dennis Morrison was all right. Helene was the most beautiful woman in all the world. A little sleep wouldn’t do him any harm. Where the hell had Malone gone? Zz-z-z-z-z. Bertha Morrison’s head. Ducky. Gloria Garden. Murder. Zzz-z-z-z-z. Helene—Helene—Helene—Helene—zzz-z-z-z-z-z-z. There was a sharp pounding on the door, Jake leaped to his feet and stumbled across the room, rubbing his eyes. He glanced at his watch and paused, oblivious of the pounding on the door.
Three-fifteen! Good God! Could he have been sleeping that long? Helene, where was Helene? Jake rubbed his eyes again, blinking the sleep out of them. She must have found Malone and gone somewhere with him. That was it. That had to be it. He brushed the hair back from his forehead and threw open the door. There was Malone. His face was gray, a bandage was plastered over one eye, his jaw was swollen, and one cheek showed an ugly cut. His tie was missing, his collar was torn, his coat was ripped down one side. His left hand was bandaged, too, and when he walked into the room, he showed a slight limp. “Malone!” Jake gasped. “What happened to you? Where have you been all this time?”
“Oh, I just ran into a few friends,” the little lawyer said airily. He didn’t see any point in explaining that after he’d been revived and bandaged, he’d spent the next four hours buying what had started out to be a couple of beers for Schultz, to celebrate the capture and incarceration of the thugs who’d held him up.
“Good thing they were friends,” Jake said, “or they might have really done you some damage. Where’s Helene?”
“Isn’t she home yet?” Malone asked.
“Wasn’t she with you?” Jake asked.
Malone sagged against the doorpost. Jake sank down on the couch. “It’s quarter past three,” he said.
“I tried to follow her,” Malone said.
Jake said, “Maybe we’d better call the police,” and Malone said quietly, “Yes, maybe we had.”
The phone rang. Jake looked at it and said, “Maybe you’d better answer it.” Malone looked at Jake and said, “Yes. Maybe I’d better.”
24. A Nice Quiet Little Night Club
The Blond young man from the escort bureau said that his name was Harris Lawrence.
Helene giggled and said, “I’m Helene Johnson. My name’s really Harriet, but you don’t think it’s silly of me to call myself Helene, do you?”
He said, “It sounds to me like a beautiful name, to fit a beautiful personality.” He said it as though he were reciting a set speech. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Johnson. Where would you like to go?” He helped her into a cab. “You understand of course—”
“Oh, yes, I know,” Helene said gaily. “It was all explained to me over the phone. I give you, in advance, enough money to cover the evening’s expenses, and you give me back any change that’s left over when you bring me home.” She opened her rhinestone bag, took out a hundred-dollar bill, and gave it to him. “Do you suppose that will be enough?”
“Amply,” Harris Lawrence said, closing his fingers over the bill.
“Because if it isn’t,” Helene said innocently, “I have more. Now, you pick the places we’ll go. I’ve never been in New York before, we just got in a couple of days ago, and my husband says we’ve got to go home tomorrow. He’s been busy every minute of the time we’ve been here, and I haven’t gone anywhere, except shopping of course. Tell me, you don’t think I’m silly to call up an escort bureau, do you?”
“Not at all,” Harris Lawrence said, folding the bill into his vest pocket. “May I suggest that we have dinner in the Rainbow Room?”
“Oh,” Helene said, with a wide-eyed gasp, “I’d love to have dinner in the Rainbow Room! I’ve heard about it, in the papers back home, but I never thought I’d really go there myself!”
She exclaimed excitedly about the Rainbow Room, and ordered champagne cocktails and lobster salad. The blond young man did his best with conversation. He tried politics, baseball, and literature, and finally seemed relieved to find that Helene Johnson was mostly interested in the movies and in seeing celebrities. She finished her bombe glacée, and then said, “I’ve always read that a dinner like this should be followed with a glass of brandy. Do you think I’d be terribly silly to order a glass of brandy?”
“Not at all,” Harris Lawrence said. He refused a brandy for himself, explaining that he didn’t drink.
“I don’t, either,” Helene said. “Not at home. But I don’t come to New York every day, do I?”
She dawdled over her second brandy, adroitly slopping most of it onto the tablecloth, until it was too late to go to the theater. Then she said, “Oh, well, what I’m really interested in is seeing Night Life. You’ll show me everything—I mean, everything—won’t you?”
“Everything you say,” Harris Lawrence said gallantly, slipping her gold wrap over her shoulders.
He took her to a fifth-rate night club that was an imitation of El Morocco. Helene was pleased and excited, ordered three drinks, two of which were surreptitiously poured under the table, and said, “Oh! Isn’t that Walter Winchell at the table over there?” At the cheap night club that was an imitation of Twenty-one, she gasped and said, “Oh, look! In the corner! Cary Grant! Anyway, it certainly looks like him.” And, in the even cheaper imitation of the Stork Club, she giggled and said, “Tell me, you don’t think I’m silly to wear all my diamonds at one time? Because at home they just sit in the deposit box.”
“They’re very becoming to you,” Harris Lawrence said.
“Joe—he’s my husband—doesn’t know I brought them with me,” Helene confided. “He’s pretty conservative. I have copies of all of them, of course, and that’s what he likes me to wear. But I always say, why not put the copies in the safety-deposit box and wear the real thing? I wouldn’t say that to Joe, of course. He wouldn’t understand. But you do understand, don’t you, Harris? You don’t mind if I call you Harris, do you?”
Harris Lawrence said, “No, not at all. I’d like you to.”
“Harris!” Helene said, beaming. “You know what I think? I think you’re cute.” She giggled again. “Please, tell me you don’t think I’m silly.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” Harris said. “I only wish you were going to stay in New York for a long, long time.”