by Michelle Cox
“Oh, you’d be surprised what people are capable of, Miss Von Harmon. What time does the band usually get here?” he asked Polly.
“Usually about ten, I guess.”
“They here now?”
“No,” Polly said quietly. “They haven’t turned up yet.”
The inspector turned to Jones and nodded toward the door. “Go round up those two characters,” he said. “And see if someone can find this Mickey. Seems he hasn’t shown up, either.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jones, flipping his notepad shut and stepping toward the door.
“Oh, and see if Henderson has located Mr. Mercer yet. All we have so far is a Miami number.” Henrietta vaguely recognized the name Mercer as being the owner of the Promenade, though she had never actually met him. She had always thought of this place as belonging to Mama Leone, but of course that was ridiculous.
“Yes, sir,” Jones answered, and hurried out.
“You girls know where to find this Mr. Mercer?” the inspector asked, looking at them steadily. Henrietta shook her head and looked over at Polly, who was now studying her fingernails in an obvious attempt at nonchalance. The inspector might be buying it, but Henrietta wasn’t.
“Course I don’t know where Mercer is. Never even met him. Can we go now?” Polly asked in a bored tone. She seemed to have recovered her presence of mind, finally. “I’ve a terrible headache.”
The inspector studied her for a few moments before finally answering, “Yes, I suppose so, girls. We’ll let you know if we need to speak with you again. Leave an address and telephone number with Officer Henderson out by the bar in case we need to ask you something else,” he said, looking back now at the stacks of paper in front of him.
“But I can’t!” Henrietta said in a panic, causing him to look up at her again, this time in surprise. “You can’t let my mother know I’m here! That I work here, that is. You won’t tell her, will you?” she pleaded. “And anyway, we don’t have a telephone.”
MacKenzie, still in the room, suppressed a smile, and Henrietta expected the same from the inspector, but there was something kind in his eyes as he held her gaze. “No,” he said finally, as if he had taken a moment to make a decision. “We won’t tell her unless we have to. We’ll do our best to keep your secret, won’t we, MacKenzie?”
“Oh, aye,” MacKenzie answered with a smirk.
“That would explain the overalls, though,” the inspector added.
Henrietta blushed uncomfortably.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Polly asked. “Are we closed for the day?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Smith. This is a crime scene now. We have to comb through this place, and I have to speak to every single dancer. And until we can locate this Mr. Mercer, it’ll have to remain closed. Don’t go far—either of you,” he warned.
Still dazed, Henrietta followed Polly through the maze of tiny hallways to the dance floor and spotted what must have been Officer Henderson taking information from some of the other girls who had now lined up in front of the bar, busily whispering to each other as they waited. No one, Henrietta noticed, seemed particularly saddened by Mama Leone’s death.
“What’d you do that for, Poll?” Henrietta asked angrily when she was sure she was out of earshot of the inspector.
“Do what?” she asked absently, peering impatiently down the line, seemingly eager to give her details so that she could leave. She appeared to be in a terrible hurry.
“You know! Why’d you say that about Artie and Al? You know they didn’t do it!”
“I had to! We had to answer their questions, Hen. I’m sure neither of us would appreciate a trip downtown, now would we? Anyway, they did have an argument. That was the truth!”
“Yeah, but they have an argument every night! That doesn’t mean they killed Mama Leone!”
“So? The cops’ll figure that out eventually.”
“But what if they don’t!” Henrietta hissed as she and Polly moved a step forward in the line.
“Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so sweet on Artie. He’s a chump, if you ask me. He’s not what you think, doll.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean? And, anyway, Mickey’s not such a great catch!”
At the mention of Mickey’s name, Polly’s flippant mood changed instantly. She seemed nervous again. “Look, Hen,” she said leaning closer to her, “I’ve got to tell you something,” she whispered. “Something important . . .”
“What about?” Henrietta whispered back.
“Not here,” she whispered as Officer Jones walked by, tipping his hat to the girls in line, causing some of them to giggle. “Come see me at my place when you can.”
“Well, how about now? I can’t stay here, and I can’t go home, so . . .”
“Not just now,” Polly said nervously. “I’ve got to go see someone. But later, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. But what are we going to do until this place reopens? Think Mr. Sneebly’s got any work?”
Polly shook her head. “I haven’t thought that far.”
The girls had reached the head of the line now, and after Polly quickly gave her name and address and telephone number, she hurried off, waving a brief goodbye to Henrietta before she pushed open the heavy front door and disappeared.
Henrietta hesitantly gave her information as well and, stepping to the side, mulled over what to do next. It was true what she had said to Polly about not being able to go home now or Ma would surely throw a fit. She was reluctant to leave her dresses and shoes here, however. Who knew how long it would be before the Promenade reopened, if at all? She didn’t know much about the owner, Mr. Mercer, never having even seen him before. All she had once heard from Mama Leone was that he was very particular. It seemed unlikely that he would sell the place, seeing as it was always crowded, picking up the overflow from grander places like the Aragon. It seemed more likely that he would just find a new floor matron. But how long would that take? The safest bet seemed to be to take her things with her, just in case. Looking around surreptitiously, then, to make sure none of the cops were watching, Henrietta made her way back to the dressing rooms to collect her things.
Miraculously, she reached the back room where she had stashed her little wardrobe without running into any of them, though they were scurrying all over the place now. She decided not to switch on the lights so as to not draw any attention to herself, but it was difficult to see with what little light streamed in from a tiny, dusty window at the other end of the room. Of course she had not brought any bag bigger than her handbag with her. So as she stood in front of her three dresses hanging in an old armoire, she wondered how she was going to transport them. They would simply have to be folded and re-ironed; she sighed and moved to slip them from their hangers. Just then, however, she heard the door behind her click softly shut.
She stiffened with fear as a deep, resonant voice said, “I’m glad to catch you alone, Miss Von Harmon.”
CHAPTER 4
Henrietta stifled a scream as she turned, peering through the dim light to make out what she perceived to be none other than Inspector Howard standing by the door, his hands in his pockets.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said quietly, raising his eyebrows. “Hiding something?” he asked, looking beyond her to the open armoire.
“No, I . . . it’s just my clothes. They’re mine! Honestly.”
Henrietta imagined she saw a trace of a smile.
“I’m sure they are. Mind telling me what they’re doing back here? Weren’t you saying something last night about costumes, something on the shadier side?”
Henrietta was silent, nervous fear gripping her. How could she explain? Surely he didn’t think that she . . . ?
“Let me guess . . . young girl, parents don’t know she’s working here. Not respectable, that sort of thing.” He started walking toward her. “Let’s see, they think you work in a factory, perh
aps the ‘electrics’ I think you mentioned last night. I bet you told them you work the night shift, right? That explains the late hours. Change clothes here,” he said casually, nodding toward the armoire. “No one’s the wiser.” He stopped just in front of her. “Am I close?” he said, grinning condescendingly.
“Just about,” Henrietta said, with a subtle toss of her auburn hair, as she tried to control the rapid beating of her heart, unsure if it was caused from fear or from something else entirely. How could he have guessed so easily?
“Not part of this Mama Leone’s backstage operation, then?”
“No! I’m not . . . I . . . ,” Henrietta stopped abruptly, not wanting to implicate herself and also growing slightly offended at his suggestion.
“What about this Miss Smith?”
“Polly? No, not her. At least I don’t think so.”
“You don’t seem very sure.”
Henrietta looked up at him defiantly, “Well, even if I did know, why should I snitch on my friend?”
“Because it might help us catch whoever did this. Mama Leone was murdered, remember? We need to find out who’s responsible. The more pieces of the puzzle I have, the better. Please,” he added in a slightly softer tone.
Henrietta searched his eyes and found nothing threatening. She sighed, then, relenting. “Polly’s the one who told me all about it. I asked her if she was in on it, but she said it wasn’t for her. And anyway, she’s sweet on Mickey, so I don’t think she would have resorted to that.”
“I see,” said the inspector, thinking deeply.
“And while we’re on the subject,” Henrietta said earnestly, “it wasn’t Artie and Al!”
“Well, that’s a relief. Simply because you say so, I can scratch them off the suspect list.”
“Suspects! Inspector, honestly, Artie doesn’t have it in him!” She wanted to add that it was probably Al and his big mouth that had done most of the arguing with Mama Leone (Artie had complained about him often enough to her), but in the end she thought better of it and kept silent.
“My, my, Miss Von Harmon, you’re quite knowledgeable,” the inspector said, pushing his hat back to the crown of his head. “Lucky I stumbled upon you. Again let me attempt a guess. Am I correct in assuming this Artie is the clarinet player I saw you eyeing last night? And based on the fact that he’s probably bought you a couple of drinks here and there, you’re convinced he’s innocent.”
Henrietta blushed. “Well, he is! I just know it! And anyway, they were just sodas!”
The inspector laughed outright.
Henrietta’s eyebrows wrinkled. “What’s so funny?”
“You are,” he said, composing himself again. “You’re a strange commodity.”
“Gee, thanks,” she said, her hands on her hips in an attempt to appear indifferent. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Not usually, no,” he said smiling. “Listen, what are you going to do now?” he asked after a brief pause.
“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“I mean for work, until this place reopens?”
“After the cops are finished messing about, you mean?” she said, getting bolder.
“Yes, in a manner of words.”
Henrietta shrugged. “Beats me. Haven’t thought that far,” she said, echoing Polly’s words of just a few minutes ago. “Maybe go back to Poor Pete’s, but now that you know I’m a twenty-six girl, you’d probably follow me and break it up. I couldn’t do that to Mr. Hennessey.”
“No, that’s true. Too risky,” he agreed facetiously.
Catching his amused tone, Henrietta looked him over for a moment before turning back toward the armoire, trying instead to concentrate on pulling the dresses off their hangers. He was obviously bent on teasing her.
“Why don’t you do a little job for me?” he finally asked quietly. Henrietta paused in her work, wondering what he could mean by a “little job.” Purposefully, she did not turn around to face him but, swallowing hard, asked, “Such as?”
“Nothing too far off the mark,” he explained languidly. “I want you to try to get in as an usherette at the Marlowe, downtown on Monroe. Ever hear of it?”
Henrietta let out deep breath, not even realizing that she had been holding it, and turned around to face him. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
“That was quite a sigh,” he commented, his eyebrow raised again. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“I don’t know,” she blushed.
“The Marlowe is a burlesque theater,” he said, looking at her steadily.
“I see,” she said, trying not to appear disturbed. So he did think she was capable of more unsavory acts.
“It’s not what you think.”
“How can it not be?” she asked, with more misgiving in her voice than she would have wished.
“It’s just short-term. You’d be undercover, as it were.”
Henrietta didn’t say anything, but just looked at him, trying to decide if she should feel flattered or insulted.
“Listen,” he attempted to explain, “we’ve been trying to get a girl into the Marlowe for a long time now, but no luck. Obviously, we can’t rig it. The girl we put forward has to be good enough to get it on her own. And with a girl like you, now . . . well, we just might stand a chance.”
“How do you mean?” Henrietta asked, leaning toward the supposition at the moment that she should feel insulted. He obviously believed her loose and cheap enough for the job.
“Just that you’re well-versed in hiding things, playing a double-role, that is. And you’ve got this rather perfect combination of innocence and flirtatiousness, shall we say. Quite charming . . . if you go for that sort of thing,” he said somewhat hastily.
Henrietta wondered what he meant by that and felt the heat creeping up her face. It was humiliating to think she was so easily read, so easily found out, that her attempts to toy with him last night had probably been obvious to him and—worse (she was loath to admit to herself)—that they had clearly fallen short of sparking any interest.
The inspector cleared his throat. “That and more so because you are really quite lovely. Lovely enough indeed to perhaps catch even Neptune’s eye.”
Henrietta looked up quickly, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse at him calling her ‘lovely.’ Attempting to sound aloof, she asked coolly, “Who’s Neptune?”
“Neptune’s the owner of the Marlowe, where we suspect many not-so-nice things happen behind closed doors. We need a girl inside to scout it out for us, see if you notice anything untoward.”
“Untoward?”
“Anything unusual, suspicious.”
“Do you always talk like that?” she asked. There was something definitely strange about him, Henrietta thought.
“Does it bother you?” he asked with what Henrietta perceived to be the slightest upturn at the corners of his mouth.
“No,” she answered deliberately, “but you don’t really sound like a cop.”
The inspector paused, absorbing that. “Coming from you, I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and folding his arms in front of him. “But you don’t really sound like a taxi dancer, either.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, slightly irritated. “And besides, how would you know? That is, if any of what you said last night was true about never coming to a place like this before.”
“Oh, that was true, all right,” he said with an annoying smile. “Just a guess, you might say.”
Henrietta looked intently at him for a moment and then looked away. “What would I have to do exactly?”
“Not much more than you’re doing now, I should think. Smile, flirt, show men to their seat, get them drinks, that sort of thing.”
“So I wouldn’t have to . . . to dance . . . take things off?” she asked nervously.
“No, no. Certainly not,” he laughed. “You’d just be an usherette.”
&n
bsp; “Is it dangerous? I mean . . . I’ve heard bad things about places like that . . . ”
“Not too, I should hope. We’ll have men outside all the time, watching, so I shouldn’t worry.”
Henrietta tried to think quickly. It was true she needed a job, but wasn’t this taking it one step too far? Taxi dancing had been difficult enough for her to come to terms with.
“Why should I?” Henrietta finally asked.
“Because I suspect you need the money,” the inspector answered, too smoothly for her liking. “We’ll pay you double what you make here.”
Henrietta bit her bottom lip. Double! It was very tempting . . .
“Listen,” the inspector went on, trying a different tack, “you want to help prove this Artie, and Miss Smith, for that matter, are innocent, right?”
“Polly? You don’t suspect her, too, do you?”
“Maybe. There’s something she’s not telling us,” he said, looking at her again with those . . . those eyes.
Henrietta remembered then that Polly had gone back in last night alone and that she had told her that she had something important to tell her. Surely she hadn’t killed Mama Leone, though? Why would she have? Henrietta tried to keep her face a blank in front of the inspector, as he seemed to have an unsettling way of reading her mind.
“Well, what does Mama Leone’s death have to do with the Marlowe, anyway? How would working there for you help prove their innocence? Which is ludicrous, by the way,” she put in with what she hoped was the right amount of indignation. “You’ve got nothing on them!”
“Perhaps not. But Miss Smith is holding back; I’m sure of it, and this Artie and Al—and Mickey, while we’re at it—have all flown the coop. Doesn’t look so good, does it? And I’ve just got this hunch that Neptune made have had something to do with it.”
“Neptune? But why?”
“It’s not important now,” he said, putting his hands comfortably back in his pockets. He cocked his head to one side and looked at her intently. “So, will you do it?”
Henrietta thought quickly. Surely he didn’t really suspect Artie or poor Polly, did he? Was this merely a bluff to get her to do his dirty work—perhaps some other “job” he had in mind? Why should she help him? And yet, what choice did she have? Ma would kill her if she ever found out she was working in a risqué theater as even so much as a ticket girl, but on the other hand she couldn’t go home like this. Not again. She needed a job, and double the money sounded too good to be true. And she had to admit that it sounded rather exciting; she’d practically be a spy! But what about when it was all over, then what would she do? She would have to figure that out when the time came, she told herself, and pushed that worry to the side just as another possibility dawned on her.