by Michelle Cox
“Hey, you weren’t kidding!” Edith said, looking up in surprise. “Couldn’t find ‘em?”
Henrietta shook her head miserably. “If Polly turns up again, will you tell her to come by my place?”
“Sure thing, doll.”
“Thanks.” Henrietta was about to leave, but could not resist the temptation to turn back to Edith to ask her something. “Say, Edith . . . did you know Artie was a snake?”
Edith looked at her quizzically. “Artie from the band? Him? Course he’s a snake. He’s a musician! What’dya expect?” At Henrietta’s crestfallen expression, she quickly added, “Hey! Don’t worry, doll; you’ll find someone else! A girl like you,” Edith arched her eyebrows, “you’ve got your pick, and don’t you know it!” she smiled at her.
Henrietta smiled back. “Thanks, Edith. I should go. The same thing could be said of cops as well as musicians, she thought bitterly. They couldn’t be trusted, either.
“Be careful!” Edith called after her.
“Thanks, I will!” Henrietta said, walking to the curb and waiting for a couple of lone cars to pass before crossing Lincoln Avenue. It was still relatively early, though she supposed it was safe enough to return home from her “date” without arousing Ma’s suspicions. But what about her quest to find Polly? Perhaps she should go to her apartment and look for her? The inspector had warned her to stay away, but someone needed to warn Polly. And anyway, she felt an overwhelming urge to do something.
She made up her mind, then, that she would go herself, despite what the inspector had said. She changed direction accordingly and started walking toward Clark where she could pick up the 151 streetcar north rather than the 47 west to Logan Square, her thoughts all a jumble as she walked. Two disappointments in one night; it was almost too much to bear! And yet, she tried to convince herself as she hurried along, surely she was being melodramatic. The inspector had never for a moment been interested in her, and if she were honest, she hadn’t really cared for Artie all that much. And what did any of it matter, anyway? She knew Ma wanted her to settle down and get married, but what would Ma do then? They couldn’t live on the meager wages that she and Elsie brought in, though Eugene was bound to find something eventually.
She sighed as she approached the streetcar stop, several people already there waiting. She had started out so badly wanting, needing, in fact, to speak with the inspector, but now she hardly cared.
“Are you in the habit of taking the wrong streetcar home, Miss Von Harmon, or are you by chance heading for Miss Shoemacher’s apartment—against my wishes, I might add?” said a deep voice behind her.
Henrietta spun around. It was the inspector, casually standing with his hands in his pockets, his hat perched at the back of his head.
“Inspector Howard! What are you doing here?” she asked in shock. She immediately felt a knot in her stomach, unsure of how to act around him now or even how to control her emotions, presuming that that was even a possibility.
“Didn’t I just ask you that, in a manner of words? Is this to be our opening conversation every time we meet?”
Henrietta could not help but smile. “How . . . how did you know I was headed to Polly’s?” she asked, still unsettled, feeling her way.
The inspector’s eyes darted to the number on the bus stop sign and then back to her. “Well, the 151 heads up Clark to Lincoln Park, where Polly lives, and you would have no other reason to go that way, not unless there’s someone new in your life, but given the very little amount of free time afforded you, I very much doubt it. Polly’s being your destination is therefore the only logical conclusion.”
“Oh. I see. Well, you’ve found me out, then,” she said trying to smile. “Wait a minute!” she said suddenly. “How did you know I was here? At the Promenade?”
“I pegged you as being a better detective than that, Miss Von Harmon,” he said, tilting his head slightly to the side, his eyebrow arched.
Henrietta pondered. “The sergeant, of course! I told him not to call you, not to disturb you and . . . ,” she looked away.
“He had his orders. If you were ever to turn up, he was to ring me straight away.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I took you from something . . . or got you out of bed . . . ” She couldn’t help looking him over, but he didn’t look as though he had just thrown on his clothes. A bit rumpled maybe, but still all present and accounted for.
He looked at her, puzzled. “Of course I wasn’t in bed! Look, Miss Von Harmon. What is it you wanted to tell me? I’m assuming it was somewhat urgent. Wasn’t that the whole purpose in coming to find me? And now that I’m here, I’m rather eager to hear this bit of information. Perhaps we might walk a bit,” he said nodding back in the direction of the 47, which would take her back to Logan Square.
“Yes, but that’s just it,” she said, stubbornly remaining where she was. “I . . . I was off to Polly’s. I wanted to warn her . . . I saw her today, you see, and she doesn’t realize the danger she’s in. She said . . . ”
“You’ve seen Miss Shoemacher?” he interrupted. “Where?”
The sternness of his question caught her attention. “Didn’t the sergeant mention that?”
The inspector closed his eyes briefly in irritation.
“I saw her at the St. Sylvester’s carnival,” she went on. “I was with my . . . ” she didn’t finish. “Anyway, she went round to our place, and my mother told her where to find me. She looked terrible!”
“What did she say?” he asked evenly.
“Just that Mickey wasn’t at the cabin. She’s frantic to find him. I’m not sure why. She seemed a bit crazed, actually. I tried to tell her what I had heard about Libby, but she didn’t seem to care—”
“Libby? You have information on Libby, too?”
“Well, a little.”
The inspector let out a low whistle. “You work fast, Miss Von Harmon. Pretty soon you’ll be a regular dick,” he said with a rare grin.
Henrietta couldn’t help but flush with pleasure.
“Did Polly say where she was going?” he asked.
“Just that she was going to try the Promenade to see if Mickey had come back or if anyone knew where he was.”
“I take it she’s not in there.”
“No,” Henrietta answered, impressed that he had already figured that out, “I . . . I went myself, but neither of them are there. Apparently, Polly did turn up asking for him earlier today, but she left. No one’s seen Mickey.”
“Well, that saves a trip there—for now, anyway. Good work, Miss Von Harmon.”
“I’m worried she’ll go back to her place and that someone might . . . you know . . . be waiting there for her, like you said. I tried to tell her that she wasn’t safe, but she wouldn’t listen.”
The inspector remained silent, thinking. “You’re right; she’s in a considerable amount of danger. I need to telephone the station and get a squad car over there. Come on,” he said, taking a step back toward the lit-up Promenade. “I’ll use the telephone in there.”
Henrietta pulled back. “No . . . it’s . . . it’s awfully noisy in there,” she said quickly, desperate to avoid Artie, or anyone else, for that matter, in the inspector’s company. “We could try the Lodge . . . it’s just down here,” she said, pointing down Sedgwick.
“Yes, I suppose that would work,” he reluctantly agreed, coming back toward her. They walked along in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “Too bad, though,” he said, without looking at her. “You could have introduced me to your man, Artie.”
Henrietta looked at him to catch his expression. She thought she saw a wisp of amusement in his eye, but his face belied only polite interest as he turned to look at her.
“He’s not my man,” she said sorely.
“Do I detect trouble in paradise?”
Humiliated, she tried holding his gaze but failed. Instead she looked away and shrugged.
“I see. Like that, is it? Well, never mind; these things happen.�
� Whether he meant it sincerely or was merely being sarcastic, she wasn’t sure, but the fact that it vaguely sounded like something the protective Mr. Hennessey would say irritated her to no end.
They had reached the Lodge now, and the inspector made a beeline to the telephone booth in the back, Henrietta waiting awkwardly for him by the bar, observing and assessing the clientele as she did so. A dark, grotty old man’s bar was her easy conclusion. The walls were of dark paneling, stained even darker by the perpetual haze of smoke that hung in the air. There was no light at all except four stringy bulbs with flimsy shades, one of which was ripped, hanging down over the bar.
The inspector finally emerged from the booth. “They’re on their way,” he confided grimly. “Let’s hope it’s not too late. They’re going to call me back at this number, so I’m stuck waiting here.” His eyes darted around the bar and then back to Henrietta. “How about a drink? You can fill me in on the rest of the details.”
Henrietta felt an excitement that she knew wasn’t warranted. “Why not?” she answered with a smile. “Should you really be drinking on duty, though?” she asked, not being able to help teasing him.
“Well, I’m not really on duty, am I?” he said, looking into her eyes briefly before returning to his efforts to get the bartender’s attention.
Henrietta wasn’t sure what to say to that so she just said, “All right, then, I’ll have a Tom Collins.”
The inspector grinned. “A Tom Collins? That’s quite vogue. You’re coming up in the world, it would seem.”
“I take exception to that, Inspector,” she said in a serious tone, though her dimples had mischievously appeared.
“Whiskey, neat, and one Tom Collins,” he said to the bartender who had finally made his way over to them.”
The bartender vacillated for just a moment as if he hadn’t heard right, obviously unused to anyone ordering anything but beer or shots in his place, but then said tiredly, “Okay, bub,” and shuffled off to find the Tom Collins ingredients.
“Well, you shouldn’t. I only meant it in the nicest possible way,” he said, his mouth twitching nonetheless. “Anyway, suppose you get talking. What happened tonight?”
Henrietta sighed disappointedly, as she was rather enjoying the direction the conversation was going. “I don’t know where to start, really.”
“Was Neptune there?” he asked, helping her along.
“Not that I could see.”
The bartender plopped the drinks down in front of them and took up the money the inspector had laid down. The inspector handed Henrietta her drink and removed his hat, a gesture of respect for her that touched her very much but somehow made her feel all the more sad.
“Cheers, then,” he said, gently clinking her glass with his own.
“Cheers,” she responded, and took a sip of her Tom Collins and then another. Artie had introduced her to it and she had thought it marvelous. She could hardly taste the alcohol.
“How did you hear about Libby?”
“There . . . there was a party afterwards.”
“A party? At the Marlowe?”
“Well, a sort-of party. Just in the dressing room. Some of the girls stay after.”
“And you got invited your first night?” his brows narrowed. “Seems a trusting lot.”
“Well . . . ,” Henrietta faltered, unsure of how much to reveal, “there’s this girl . . . woman . . . ,” she corrected herself. “She’s my partner . . . like I told you we have to have. Her name’s Lucy. We . . . she . . . had to follow me to the restroom, so that Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t get angry, and, well, you know . . . she thought I might be . . . well, the other way,” she said, raising her eyebrows awkwardly as she took a sip of her drink, in hopes that this would communicate what she meant, trying not to blush as she did so. “You understand, right?”
The inspector’s eyes remained crystal cool as he looked at her steadily. “Yes, I think I get the picture,” he said, slowly knocking back his whiskey. “Want to tell me about it?” he asked evenly.
“I . . . she . . . tried to, well, kiss me . . . ” She quickly glanced up at him to catch his reaction, but he remained curiously still, just watching her. “But I told her it wasn’t . . . that I’m not like that . . . and she was awfully sorry. Said I should stay afterwards for a drink to get to know some of the girls . . . that I needed friends to survive there.”
“Hmmm,” he said, looking at her intently before finally dropping his gaze. “I see. And so you stayed.”
“Well, I remembered what you said, that I should look for anything suspicious . . . ”
“Another!” the inspector called out to the bartender. He seemed disturbed, but by what Henrietta couldn’t fathom.
Henrietta took a sip of her Tom Collins.
“Go on.”
“Well, it was an interesting party, I guess,” she said, trying to act as if she saw women lovers all the time. She didn’t want the inspector to think she wasn’t up to the job. “I’m sure you see that sort of thing all the time,” she said to him with a toss of her hair, the auburn in it looking almost golden in the light of the nearly naked bulb that hung near her. The inspector did not say anything in response, but took another drink of whiskey.
“And Libby was a part of this group, you think?”
“Yes!” she said, excited by his quick understanding. “I think she was the lover”—she said the word discreetly—“of one of Lucy’s friends. One night she disappeared behind the green door, and no one’s seen her since. When they asked her, Jenks said she had quit, but the girls didn’t buy it ‘cause Libby had left all of her belongings behind.”
“The green door?”
“There’s this little green door tucked away near a broom closet. It’s locked day and night apparently, but Lucy and her friends went spying one night during the show and saw one of the dancers go in with a man from the audience. He handed Jenks some money or cigarettes, they weren’t sure which, and Jenks unlocked the door for them.”
“Did they see anything else?”
“Just looked like a long hallway with more doors.”
“What about this dancer? Did she come out?”
“Yes, the girls tried to question her later, but she told them not to get involved, that it didn’t concern them and if they kept asking questions, it’d be her that would suffer for it.”
The inspector was silent, thinking. He knocked back his whiskey again. “Did they?”
“What?”
“Lay off?”
“I think so, but now Iris has gone missing, too. Remember? Esther the maid’s comment about the blood?”
“Jesus.”
“The girls think that maybe . . . maybe she was forced.”
Just then the telephone rang in the booth at the back near where they were sitting. Henrietta jumped at the sound, and the inspector stood up quickly to answer it. He didn’t take the time to shut the door, so Henrietta could hear part of what he was saying, which, actually, wasn’t much. “You’re sure?” he was saying. “Got it. Keep a lookout, then. Thanks, Clancy. Yes, I found her,” he said glancing over at Henrietta. “I’ll see you back at the station.” He came back and leaned against the bar-stool as if not wanting to take the time to sit back down. “That was Clancy. No sign of Polly at the apartment, though it looks as though she might have been there earlier. Seems to have disappeared again.” He eyed her only half-empty drink. “We need to leave, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I can’t leave this! You’ve paid for it!” Henrietta said, aghast.
He shrugged and put his hat back on. “It doesn’t matter.” Stubbornly, however, Henrietta drank back the whole thing at once and gathered up her handbag. “Can’t waste that!” she said and noticed that the corners of his mouth twitched again as they made their way out.
It had started to rain a bit. She had of course not taken an umbrella with her as she hurriedly left the apartment earlier tonight, so she tilted her hat against the rain and cocked her shoulder as she beg
an walking toward the streetcar stop, assuming the inspector was following her. She felt a gentle tug on her shawl from behind, though, as he pulled her back under the awning of the bar. “What are you doing? I’ll call a cab.”
“Oh, no, not again,” Henrietta pleaded.
“Why? Was it so very terrible last time?” he asked quietly. They were standing so close that Henrietta could smell the wet wool of his overcoat.
“Oh, no,” she said, looking up at him. “It’s just that my mother thinks I’m . . . that I’m on a date, actually.”
“A date?” he asked, his eyes darting back toward the Promenade. “And were you?”
“No! I . . . I just said that so I could get out of the house,” she smiled uneasily.
“Who did you say you were going with?”
“Clive,” she said, before she could stop herself, and instantly felt a flush of hotness shoot over her, either from embarrassment or from the alcohol she had drunk so quickly. “I . . . ,” she fumbled quickly, “I couldn’t think what else to say!” She attempted a little laugh, but it was painfully unconvincing. “They think you’re . . . that my date is a foreman at the electrics,” she hurried on. “So . . . you see, they can’t see me get out of a cab. A line foreman wouldn’t be able to afford that. That’s all . . .”
Henrietta stopped talking then, still mortified, but tried to appear as though nothing was wrong. When she looked up at him again, his brows were furrowed, but he didn’t seem angry, rather a bit distracted, or possibly confused. Maybe he didn’t know what a line foreman was, she surmised.
“Funny you didn’t say Artie,” he said, pulling his gaze from her finally and raising his arm at a passing cab. “Taxi!” he shouted.
“Oh! That reminds me!” she said as a taxicab slowed down and pulled over to the curb. “I should tell you . . . Artie wasn’t with his mother that night. She’s been dead for years!”
“I see,” he said, unaffected.
“He was with a taxi dancer! He told me just now.”
“Still an alibi, isn’t it?”
“But . . . he lied!” she said, wanting Artie to be punished. She felt so foolish now that she had spent so much time defending him.