by Alan Handley
“Well, why so coy?”
“I’m not being coy.”
“Well, you’re certainly trying to be something.”
“I’m not trying to be anything at all, but I just don’t like you feeling that you have to earn that hundred bucks with me. Save your energy, you may need it when the hundred’s gone.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to say.” I sat up on the other side of the bed.
“You know it’s true.”
“Of all the snide remarks! What’s gotten into you lately? You’ve been acting funny for the last three days.”
“I’ve been acting funny! What about you with all this hocus-pocus about Nellie? You don’t realize how dull it is. It may have been amusing at first, but to keep on and on with a thing…I really think you ought to go see a doctor…. I mean it, seriously. I don’t think you’ve got all your buttons. First, this Nellie fixation and now getting in a pet just because I don’t happen to want to play footsie with you.”
“Well, you can take your lousy hundred bucks and you know what you can do with it.” I started to get up.
“I know, I know. If you had your pants on you’d fling the money in my face. But you haven’t got your pants on, as a matter of fact, you look damn silly standing there trying to be wounded dignity in your underwear. Now be a good boy and go take your bath and I’ll order some food and let’s forget all about it. You can even use some of my bath salts.”
“Thank you, I’m sure.” I stalked into the bathroom as well as you can stalk in bare feet on a thick carpet. I made myself purposely not think about what Maggie had said and, for spite, I used a lot of her bath salts and got out of the tub smelling to high heaven and feeling wonderful and hungry as a horse. Maggie was dressed when I came back to the bedroom and was finishing putting on her face.
“I’m sorry I was such a louse,” I said.
“I’m sorry, too. It’s none of my damn business what you do.”
“That wasn’t why I wanted to kiss you, though.” The door buzzer buzzed.
“There’s the food. Now hurry up and get dressed. We haven’t got much time.” I got dressed and when I came into the living room she had opened all the cartons and set the table with china from the kitchenette. The table was in front of the couch and she had lit the fire in the little white marble fireplace. It was nice and the food was good; no whipped cream, which, for Schrafft’s, is unusual. I lit her cigarette when we were finished. I lit mine and we settled back on the couch. There were still fifteen minutes before we had to leave for Sutton Place. I felt contented and tried a smoke ring without much luck.
“Timmy.”
“Uh-huh.” I was concentrating on another smoke ring.
“Why don’t you try being respectable?”
“What do you mean, respectable? I resent that.”
“You know what I mean. You can’t keep on this way forever.”
“What way?” I knew perfectly well what she meant.
“Well, all this helling around. Your looks won’t last forever.”
“I intend to grow old gracefully, distinguished like Lewis Stone.”
“What if your hair falls out?’
“Boyer’s not doing so bad. Why all this sudden interest in my follicles? Are you getting to that age where you want to do Good Works and reform me? What about you?”
“Oh, I don’t count. I’ve already had a life of sorts. Now I’m just waiting around.”
“What for?”
“Not for anything special…just waiting. But I’ve got some money…at least I don’t have to worry about that. I know you do.”
“Maybe I’ll get a picture contract. You never can tell.”
“Don’t you think if you were going to get one you’d have had it before now? You’ve been around for ten years.”
“They’re just waiting for me to mellow.” I didn’t like any part of this conversation. It was all right for me to ask myself these things, but not for other people. “You’re waiting, I’m waiting. At least I know what I’m waiting for. Now let’s talk about something else. How did we get on this gruesome subject, anyway?” I poured out the last of the coffee. I didn’t feel up to going into the ramifications of Operation Hollywood.
“Are you going to marry Diana?” she asked suddenly.
“Good God, no. Whatever made you think of that?”
“I don’t know. It might be a good idea.”
“Well, in the first place she hasn’t asked me.” Maggie burst out laughing before I realized how silly what I had said must have sounded.
“Maybe she’s the old-fashioned type and wants to be asked.”
“That would be a hell of a note, me married to Diana.”
“I think it’s a fine idea…. Why not? She’s rich, isn’t she? She’s not still married to that dreary poop, is she?”
“No.”
“Well, then,” she said triumphantly, “there you are! They do wonderful jobs on teeth out in Hollywood. I still don’t see why with all that money she hasn’t done something about them before. I believe they file them down to little points.”
“That sounds silly.”
“And then they stick caps on and you can’t tell the difference. Of course, I do believe you can’t eat anything tougher than Clapps Baby Food but she could afford to lose some weight, and I’m sure it would help her skin.”
“Never mind about Diana’s skin.”
“I know, you found a Rose in No-Man’s Land.”
“Don’t be silly. We’ve got to get going. It’s a fifteen-minute walk.”
“Sit back. I’ll blow us to a cab. I’m fascinated with your life.”
“What do you think I am? An apartment to be done over?”
“I’m worried about you. If you’re not going to get married, you’ve got to get a job.”
“I’ve got a job. Remember? And it starts in twenty minutes.”
“I mean a real job.”
“What sort of a job could I get? I don’t know anything.”
“You could sell something.”
“What? Fuller brushes?”
“No, bonds, insurance. People do.”
“Other people maybe…not me. I wouldn’t be any good at it.”
“You might be a G-man. God knows you’re trying hard enough to be, in an amateur way. You could have fearful fun raising merry old hell with the police. Every time someone dies of heart failure you could make a big murder case out of it.”
“You still don’t believe anything is fishy about that, do you?”
“I know what you’re going to say. Just because we thought we found a sketch of a dress that Ernie said was for Nellie’s niece and it wasn’t. That doesn’t prove a thing. Promise me one thing, will you? It’s for your own good.”
“What is it?”
“Promise first.”
“Oh, don’t be childish.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t say anything for a minute. “But I really am worried about you,” she continued doggedly. “You’ve got a job now, and if you don’t bitch it up it’ll be a decent run and you can get a little ahead. Promise me you’ll forget all about the Nellie thing until at least opening night. Then I don’t care what you do. But I want you to promise me that. I’ve never asked you to do anything for me before, but I’ve got a feeling you’re talking yourself into a fine little cell at Bellevue. Promise?”
She was right. I had been a little cracked on the subject. There wasn’t one tangible thing to prove that Nellie’s death hadn’t been on the up and up. It could have been a typo in the papers about the time of death. Out of the thousand characters that walk along Forty-fourth Street, one of them didn’t want to be bothered with Bertha and her autograph book. Bobby LeB. might have been an old friend from Hopkinsville whose train was late for all I knew. Nellie may have just called someone her niece, the way people are called uncle or aunt when they really are no relation at all. All my rushing about the last two days did seem pretty pointless and mostly just an effort
to justify to myself and Maggie my acting like a road-company Hamlet the day I went to call on Nellie.
“Okay. I promise.”
“Thank you,” said Maggie. “You may kiss me now, if you like.”
I liked.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE REHEARSAL THAT NIGHT was very elegant and I felt terribly, terribly.
Frobisher’s Sutton Place apartment was a duplex and the two-storey living room seemed almost as big as the Lyceum stage. Greg had already pulled the furniture around to make the set. The room was all very Town and Country, gray-green walls and lots of heavy goldish drapes. The original of the Birnbaum cartoon of Frobisher from the New Yorker profile was keeping company on the walls with two Degas and a Lautrec. The cartoon was an uncanny likeness with just a few wirelike lines—the naked-face look with no eyebrows. I should think Birnbaum would be very pleased if he knew.
One end of the room had a terrace overlooking the East River and when they weren’t on, most of the cast spent the evening standing out there. It should have been chilly in February, but with the big glass doors open, enough heat came out so that it was as warm as the living room. Little tugs glided by and the great bridge loomed and winked its lights. The Sunshine Biscuit sign was even pretty. Maggie and I, who were out there first, played a little game—seeing how many of the cast within a count of ten after they stepped on the terrace didn’t say when they saw the view, “Why it looks just like a backdrop.”
Not one of them missed.
The living room itself had a “done” look as though some scene designer like Jones or Chaney was responsible for it. Maybe this was some of Jenny’s fine Italian hand. Effective and comfortable, but you had a feeling that if you went through one of the doors and turned around, the wall would be plain canvas flats with lashed-together wooden battens on the back.
After rehearsal, a butler straight from Lonsdale appeared with drinks and we all sat around for an hour and gossiped about the funeral, other plays, performances and people. It was extremely pleasant. Frobisher was a good host and Miss Randall was amusing about Hollywood and everyone was in a glow of well-being when we got ready to leave. Maggie left with Miss Randall, who would share her cab as far as the Gotham where she was stopping. I told them to go on. I was going to take the subway to the Village. I had left my coat and hat on an enormous flat-topped desk that took up one corner of the living room and I went to pick it up. It was certainly an impressive desk. Hollywood couldn’t do much better. Lots of tooled leather things, blotters and penholders and a matching leather frame of a photograph. I picked up the photograph and looked at it. It was of a woman, hair parted in the middle and drawn severely back over the ears, dark shining eyes in a strong face.
“My wife,” said a voice over my shoulder. I turned and Mr. Frobisher himself was standing beside me, smiling at me.
“She’s very lovely. I think I must have seen her on the stage.”
“No. My wife was never on the stage.”
“Really? But I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere.”
“I think that’s hardly possible. She died thirty years ago in California.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know.” Mr. Frobisher took the photograph from me and stared at it for a few moments then put it gently back on the desk. The breeze from the open terrace windows ruffled some papers while I was putting on my coat and Mr. Frobisher set a gold paper weight on top of them. I was struck by the curious design. “Do you mind if I look at that, sir?”
“Not at all.” He handed it to me. Wrought in gold and exact in every detail was a miniature stage door. Accurate even to the electric light hooking out at the top. On the base was inscribed: “To Henry Frobisher in grateful appreciation—The Stage Door Canteen.”
“I know it’s a little late, sir, but I’d like to add my appreciation for what you did with the Canteen. It was a wonderful thing.”
“That’s very kind of you, Tim. I’m grateful you feel that way.”
“And I can’t tell you, sir, how sorry I was when I heard you lost your son.” It didn’t seem possible that pain could surge into a face so quickly. I could have kicked myself for opening my big mouth. Christ. Will I ever learn? But no. I have to be the one to rub it in. I have to put in my two cents’ worth. I have to stand in front of him with all my arms and legs and tell him what a pity it was that his son got blown to bits in Normandy. I might just as well have kicked him in the teeth and been done with it.
I clumsily tried to apologize, but I don’t think he even knew when I left. He just stood there, staring at his dead wife’s picture.
It was a little after eleven when I, thoroughly ashamed of myself, unlocked the door to the Casbah.
There was a message from Kendall in my box to be sure and drop in and see him when I got home. Jan wasn’t at his usual post on the stairs. Helga must be taking a night off to catch up on her beauty sleep. I climbed the three flights to my room and then decided to see Kendall first. I wasn’t particularly sleepy and wanted someone to talk to, and also to chew him out for his disgraceful drunken episode this afternoon.
His room is on the same floor and just around the corner from mine. I knocked, but there wasn’t any answer. I tried the door. It was open, and when I stuck my head in the light was on but the room was empty. Oh, well, he’d probably forgotten all about his note to me and was out trying to promote another drink. Evidently it had been a fairly profitable night in the radio business. His bed had two or three cartons of soap and some breakfast foods on it. I closed the door and walked around the corner to my own room. While I was putting the key in the lock, the door swung partway open. It made me mad, for I distinctly remembered locking it when I left that morning. But something was against it. I shoved it harder and forced it open. I switched on the lights and looked to see what had been holding the door. I took one look and just made the bathroom.
Sprawled on the floor, lying on his back, was a man’s body. A shiny pool of blood was seeping under his head. His eyes were closed, but his face was mottled red like a bad birthmark, almost as though he had spilled ketchup on it. Near one of his outflung hands was a brown bottle with a bright yellow label and in spite of the bile still in my nose my room smelled like a subway toilet.
The body belonged to Kendall Thayer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
YOU’D THINK BY THIS time I would be used to opening doors and finding bodies, but maybe it’s something you never get used to, like opening night. The smell was the main thing that got me and as I knelt down to take Kendall’s pulse I saw the odor was caused by what had been in the brown bottle—Lysol. There was a faint pulse.
What I did from then on is still rather vague. I must have yelled or pounded on the door, for a lot of people, including Helga, who was wearing a mud pack and curlers, came running. All the denizens of the Casbah must have heard me. Almost immediately the hall was filled with craning people and a great deal of shoving about. I don’t know yet who sent for the ambulance and the police. Helga must have done it as soon as she looked in and saw that face. She pushed the rest of them away and shut my door. I managed to pull myself together and between us we picked Kendall up and put him on my bed. I loosened his collar and Helga got a towel and some water from the bathroom and bathed his face. The blotches had been caused by the Lysol. It was all over his face and neck and the skin was red and raw. Mercifully, Kendall was still unconscious. He came to just before the ambulance arrived. I was reading the label on the Lysol bottle trying to find out what you did for the burns, when he started to move. He tried to claw at his face, but Helga and I held his hands down. He started thrashing his body back and forth and moaned. I couldn’t make out at first what he was saying, but it got louder and louder.
“My eyes. Oh God, my eyes. My eyes.” He was screaming when the doctor pounded on the door. I opened it and led him in. There was also a medic with a stretcher and a couple of policemen shooing away the crowd. The doctor took one look at Kendall and without a word opened his bag an
d gave him an injection. The few minutes we waited for the dope to take effect, all three of us had to hold Kendall down to keep him from clawing out his eyes and throwing himself off the bed. His eyes were open and had a milky look, like cataracts.
Gradually he quieted down and soon he was lying still, his breath whistling through his swollen lips. The doctor called in the medic and they started spreading some stuff on Kendall’s face. I felt I was going to be sick again so I opened the window and leaned out, sucking in fresh air. After a while I felt that maybe I was all right and pulled my head back in the room. They had loaded him on the stretcher and were carrying him out the door. A policeman was talking to Helga. With her curlers shaking and the mud on her face already starting to crack, she looked like a badly made-up alien. The cop had a notebook and was taking down her name and story. When I heard his voice I was surprised that it wasn’t Irish. It should have been with his red face and hamlike hands wrestling with the pencil. He looked very tired and his mouth was small and pursy. His voice had a whine in it.
“Someone pound on my door and say come quick something happened to Mr. Thayer in Mr. Briscoe’s room,” Helga was saying. “So I come quick.”
The cop looked at me. “You Mr. Briscoe?”
I said I was. He asked for my full name and I gave it to him. I caught myself almost giving him my rank and army serial number, too.
“Well, go on, Mrs. Sorenson.” He glanced at his book for the last name. “Then what did you do?”
“I come running up here. I was in bed already. There was poor Mr. Thayer lying on the floor. We picked him up and put him on the bed and I told another tenant to call police and ambulance.” It seemed to me that the policeman ought to begin with me if he was going to question people. After all, it was my room and I had found Kendall, but it seemed to be one person at a time. “He had that Lysol stuff all over his face and I got some water and tried to wipe it off. I hope it was the right thing. And then they come and take him away.”
“Has he been your tenant long, Mrs. Sorenson? This Thayer person.”