by Michelle Cox
“He . . . he had a . . . his wife died?” Henrietta asked hesitantly. A wife? She could hardly believe it! What else did she not know about this man?
Clancy looked at her fearfully, shocked he had again revealed too much information. “Oh, good Lord! Now I’ve done it again! Please don’t let on I told you, miss. He’s threatened to put me on permanent traffic duty if I open my mouth again!”
A part of her wanted to smile at his reaction, but she was too stunned. “What . . . what did she die of?” was all she could think to ask, though her mind was racing. “I . . . I won’t tell. Promise!” she said when Clancy did not immediately respond but merely stood looking at her uneasily.
“Oh, all right,” he said after a few more moments of consideration. “But you didn’t hear it from me. It’s common enough knowledge, I suppose.” He took a deep breath. “She died in childbirth. He was away. France, I think it was. The war, you know. Took it hard, as you can imagine.”
“And the baby?” she whispered.
“Died, too. Stillborn. Put ‘em in the same grave, they did.”
“Oh, that poor man,” Henrietta said, sinking down on a nearby bench, her heart filling with pity for Clive and seeing him in a whole different light. He, too, was no stranger to sadness, then.
“Well, I must be goin’, miss,” Clancy said, still uneasy, flipping his notebook shut, though he had failed to actually write anything down. “Need a lift somewhere?”
“No . . . ” she said absently, standing up again. “I should be going, too. I have to get to work. But I’ll just walk,” she added hastily. “I . . . I need to think.”
“Sure? Poor Pete’s, ain’t it?”
“Yes, how did you know that?” she looked up in surprise.
Clancy shrugged. “‘Spose it don’t matter now if I tell you. Inspector’s got a guy tailin’ you.”
“He does?” she said, looking around her nervously.
“Yeah, well. Can’t be too careful, like, he says. Neptune, the real Neptune, that is, is still out there, ain’t he? And the inspector doesn’t want nothin’ happenin’ to you, if you get my drift.”
“I see,” she mused.
“Says you’re a key witness, but, me, I think it’s more than that,” he said, giving her a little wink.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer Clancy,” Henrietta said with a faint smile.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m rootin’ for you,” he said tipping his hat and striding off back across the park, leaving Henrietta alone with her jumbled thoughts.
Since then, Henrietta had kept on at Poor Pete’s, biding her time until Clive reappeared, but she had no idea what she would say to him when—or if—he ever did. Poor Pete’s with Mr. Hennessey was a sort of refuge for her now, the only place she really felt safe. Clancy’s news that Neptune was still at large had left her feeling nervous and anxious most of the time, despite the fact that someone was supposedly following her to protect her. She often imagined she heard someone behind her at night on her way home from the tavern, but it was having the opposite effect she presumed it was supposed to have, making her feel jittery and even afraid, rather than more secure. What if Neptune had somehow gotten rid of her police bodyguard and was now the one actually following her home each night? She had taken to walking quickly, looking behind her frequently when she left Poor Pete’s each night. She had contemplated asking Stan to walk with her, or perhaps Mr. Hennessey, but Mr. Hennessey stayed even later than she did and she didn’t want him to have to walk so far out of his way, not when he had been so kind already. Plus, he was getting older, she had noticed since she had come back. Likewise, she was hesitant to ask Stan, as she was afraid it might rekindle old feelings, which she was averse to do, especially as he and Elsie seemed to be getting on so well lately.
Henrietta was relieved and pleased to observe Stan’s seemingly genuine concern and feelings for Elsie, and Elsie, too, had confided to her one night this past week that she secretly hoped wedding bells might be on the horizon. Privately, Henrietta judged this to be a bit premature, but she had listened attentively and not without a weary smile just the night before as Elsie eagerly related all of Stan’s many attributes over the cups of cocoa she had stayed up making, patiently waiting in the dreary kitchen with its cracked and buckled linoleum for Henrietta to get home from her shift at Poor Pete’s.
When they had finally crawled into bed next to Ma, Henrietta prayed that Stan would not disappoint Elsie, who was soon snoring away beside her. She herself was finding it difficult to sleep these nights, haunted by nightmares, knowing that Neptune was still out there. She still couldn’t believe it had been Larry all along, creeping around the Marlowe, pretending to be an imbecile, all the while spying and plotting who his next victim would be, his next “filly” for his “stable.” It made her skin prickle, and some nights when she thought of his filthy mouth on hers, she was afraid she might vomit, but she managed to keep it down, not wanting to attract Ma’s attention.
She had rolled over on her side, then, and tried to think of other things, but her mind drifted to Clive, and that was just as unsettling. Where was he? Why did he stay away? Surely he would have been back from Arkansas by now, or had something gone wrong? Her stomach clenched in fear that perhaps Neptune had gotten him instead of her. Or was it simply because he regretted what he had said to her in the closet in what was obviously a desperate situation? She seemed to remember him saying that it was madness and tried to guess what that meant as she lay there. Maybe he felt too much guilt toward his deceased wife, she mused. As the days had ticked on, she continued to convince herself that perhaps she had imagined most of what had occurred between them, that all along he had been fighting any feelings of attraction he might have for her because of his devotion to his wife—a theory which she could hardly fault him for. And this must surely be the source of his secret sadness, she reasoned, eventually coming to the conclusion that she could never replace that sacred bond he had once had with his wife, that he still had, it would seem. She needed to face the reality that he could never really be hers and that he wasn’t coming back, though she would have liked to say goodbye to him and to wish him well. Fitfully, she turned on her other side. She must figure out what to do next on her own. Perhaps, she contemplated with a smile, she really should apply at the electrics for lack of anything better.
She had received a short letter from Lucy in the meantime, which she had been relieved to get but likewise nervous to read, not knowing what details it would reveal. She needn’t have worried, however, as in it, Lucy simply hoped she was well and getting over that terrible night and said that maybe Henrietta would be interested in meeting up with her and the gang some night? Apparently, she and Rose and Gwen were all working at a place called the Melody Mill, and they could probably get her in if she needed a job. Henrietta had smiled as she read it. Afterward she was tempted to throw it into the fire, but had instead folded it up carefully and placed it in her shoebox under the bed, the only private thing she had in which to collect scraps of newspaper or dried flowers or odd little mementos over the years. Though she wasn’t the least bit interested in a job at the Melody Mill or in meeting up just then with Lucy and the girls, she had been glad of the letter, as if it proved that the whole thing had really happened. She would write to Lucy soon, she told herself. In the meantime, she would have to find something, something decent as she had promised God and herself that horrible night that she would do. Though she loved Mr. Hennessey like a father, she couldn’t foresee working as a twenty-six girl forever, nor did working at the Melody Mill seem to be the respectable position she was searching for.
It was Sunday now, the only day that Poor Pete’s and, conveniently, the electrics, were closed, and Henrietta stood in the kitchen drying dishes with Elsie, who had nervously asked Stan over for their family supper, scant though it was. He had accepted immediately, Elsie had told her delightedly, and Henrietta hoped it wasn’t simply because he w
anted to be near her instead of Elsie. She had been relieved, then, when, despite his jittery leg when he sat next to her at dinner, he had been quite steadfast in his attentions to Elsie. Later, as she and Elsie stood in the kitchen together doing the dishes, they tried to stack them quietly in an attempt to listen to what Stan was talking about in the other room with Ma and Eugene. Something about the battery factory on Damen Avenue. Stan was always trying to help Eugene find work, but Eugene’s interest in school had oddly resurrected, which Ma blamed on Father Finnegan, whom she said was always badgering him.
“He thinks he’s the world’s expert!” Elsie said, referring to Stan, as she put the big roasting pan of lard carefully back in the stove, and Henrietta laughed. They were interrupted, though, by the faint ringing of the building’s doorbell. “Oh, that’ll be Mr. Dubala,” groaned Elsie. “I’ll go see what he wants,” she said, going into the front room.
Stanley, Ma, and Eugene looked up quizzically as she came through from the kitchen, but she waved them back to their chairs, despite the fact that they hadn’t actually stood up. “Mr. Dubala said he’d drop off a bit of mending that needs doing by tomorrow. I’ll just pop down,” she said, opening the door with a short tug and descending the steps. Mr. Dubala was the tailor for whom Elsie worked, a widower who seemed oddly disappointed of late by Elsie’s increased descriptions of the particularly fine qualities of one Stanley Dubowski. Shy Mr. Dubala, never one to verbally press his suit, had perhaps become rather jealous of Elsie’s newfound love and had taken to unexpectedly popping over to the Von Harmons’ apartment from time to time with stray bits of mending that just couldn’t seem to wait until the next day at the shop for Elsie’s attentions. Only Elsie seemed unaware that his interest in her might go beyond wanting to simply be her employer, though he was more than old enough to be her father. Henrietta sighed at Elsie’s naiveté as she hung her damp dishtowel on the worn knob of the cabinet.
“What did he want?” Henrietta asked, putting away the last of the plates when Elsie finally came back into the kitchen. “Let me guess, Mrs. So-and-So urgently needs a dress repaired by tomorrow lunchtime!” she said with a suggestive smile.
Normally this would have elicited a giggle from Elsie, but at the moment she merely said, “No, it was for you.”
“Me?” Henrietta said, turning toward her. “Who is it?” she asked, reaching behind her to hurriedly untie her apron, trying to suppress a hope, even now, after weeks of his absence, that it might be Clive.
“He’s not there now. Just said to give you this note,” Elsie said handing it to her with a shrug.
Henrietta was surprised by how much her heart was racing as she took it and quickly opened the envelope. She pulled out the card, which said simply:
Meet me as soon as you can at the Viking monument in Humboldt Park. I’ll be waiting.
— Inspector Howard
Henrietta blushed with pleasure. Finally, he had contacted her! She read it again and was impressed with his neat handwriting. She had so much to say to him, so much to ask. . . .
But why had he signed it Inspector Howard, rather than Clive? No matter, she mused dismissively; maybe he had done it this way in case Clancy read it on the way, assuming that it was indeed Clancy who had delivered it. Or maybe it was an indication that he wanted to revert to a more formal relationship, that he regretted everything after all. She looked up at Elsie, who was staring at her, waiting for an explanation.
“Well?” Elsie asked.
“It’s . . . I’ve got to go out for a moment,” Henrietta said, hurriedly pulling her fingers through her hair. It was a shame she was only wearing her faded blue paisley dress, but it couldn’t be helped.
Knowing that Stan was coming over, she had purposefully chosen it to make herself look dull in comparison to Elsie. But if she changed now, she would arouse too many questions from Ma.
“Who delivered it?” Henrietta asked.
“I haven’t the faintest. Never saw him before. What’s all this about, Hen?”
“Was it a big guy, kind of stout?” she asked, trying to remember Clancy’s body type.
“I guess so,” Elsie shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention. This doesn’t have to do with any of that wretched Marlowe business, does it, Hen?” Elsie pleaded. “Perhaps Stanley should go with you. Let me just ask him,” she said moving to the door.
“No!” Henrietta said quickly. “Listen, Els, it’s nothing bad, I promise. It’s from Clive,” she said his name softly.
“The foreman at the electrics?” she said brightening. “He’s an inspector, actually. With the police. I was working with him at the Marlowe, remember?”
“Oh! Him.” She sounded disappointed. “Don’t tell me you like him, Hen!” she said, the idea suddenly occurring to her. “Ma would probably kill you!”
“I don’t see why; it’s a perfectly respectable job,” she said with a toss of her hair.
“Too dangerous is what she’ll say. Not reliable.”
“Well, good thing it’s not up to her. Anyway, this is wasting time. I’ve got to go meet him at the monument. I think he has some information for me.”
“Oh, Hen, I thought that was all over now. You said it was!”
“It is! But this is . . . maybe something different,” she whispered. Elsie, reluctant to let her go, stared at her for a few moments. “You love him, don’t you?”
Before she had time to answer, Ma called out from the front room, causing them to jump. “What’s going on in there? It can’t be taking you all this time to do a few dishes, surely. Stanley needs more coffee, Elsie!”
“Cover for me,” Henrietta whispered, taking Elsie’s hands. Elsie sighed. “Oh, all right. But don’t be gone long!”
Henrietta slipped out of the apartment a few minutes later, having convinced Ma that she needed a breath of fresh air and that she would be back before Texaco Town came on, after which Stanley had proposed they play a game of rummy. It was early June, her favorite time of the year, despite the fact that it was also when her father had died. She ignored the litter collecting along the curbs as she hurried along to Humboldt Park and concentrated instead on the intoxicating smell of fresh, wet dirt comingled with the heavenly scent of the lilacs and peonies planted at the North Gate, just down Humboldt Boulevard and across North Avenue. Sometimes her father had taken them here on Sunday afternoons to give Ma a rest, but Henrietta hadn’t been back in years.
The light was just beginning to fade as she made her way toward the Viking monument, not completely sure where it was. She wondered why Clive had chosen such a remote meeting place. They wouldn’t have much time before the gates were locked, as they were each night to prevent tramps from camping out, the residents of the wealthier part of the neighborhood having complained to the powers that be about the increased number of vagrants in the parks at night. Perhaps Clive would be able to circumvent the rules, she mused.
She continued on her way, pretty sure the monument was just past the pond, and was relieved when it finally came in view. She peered ahead but could not see anyone in the descending gloom and surmised that perhaps Clive was on the other side of it. She forced herself to slow down. It would look unseemly for her to be seen rushing to him; after all, she tried to tell herself, they were more than likely only meeting to say goodbye, or perhaps he had some new information on Polly.
She found a bench and sat down, surveying her surroundings. There was no one in sight, which she thought odd, considering the park was a popular place for a stroll on Sunday evenings. Granted, it was twilight, but shouldn’t there still be some people about, making their way lazily toward the gates? It suddenly clicked in her mind, then, that something wasn’t quite right about this situation, and she felt goose bumps form on her arms.
“Clive?” she called out nervously, and hesitantly stood up from where she sat.
Just as she did so, she felt someone grab her from behind. Terrified, she tried to scream, but a large hand clamped her mouth shut. She tried
to squirm away, but she was held tight, so tight in fact that she felt pain in her arms where her assailant held her. Horrified, she watched as Larry stepped out from behind the monument.
“Ah, Miss Von Harmon,” said Larry, grinning at her with his crooked teeth. “I’ve been waiting for you. I see you got my message.” He stepped closer to her, and Henrietta could smell his foul odor, her heart exploding in fear in her chest. “We were unfortunately interrupted the other night, but I find I can’t quite get you out of my mind,” he said, reaching out and tracing the curve of her breast. Henrietta recoiled at his touch, but she was held fast. “I don’t think that’s necessary anymore, do you?” he said to whomever was holding her. A knife then flashed beside her face, and she felt the point of it at the base of her neck.
“Don’t even think about screaming,” said a voice she recognized as Carlo’s as he roughly released his hold on her. She stumbled a bit as she turned toward him, “I . . . I thought you were in jail!”
He smugly grinned. “Well, you were misinformed, then.”
“What do you want with me?” Henrietta asked, shaking. Wildly, she looked again around the immediate vicinity but saw no one. Oh, why had she been so foolish! She should have taken Stan, though she wasn’t sure that would have helped, anyway. In fact, she contemplated, it might have made it worse.
“I’ve already said, my little filly,” Larry answered. “We were interrupted. And what I want, I generally get, so I’ve come back for you,” he said, moving toward her. “I should have taken you that first time down in the tunnels. I almost did, you know. You’re a very ripe peach,” he said, tracing her bottom lip with a thin, skeletal finger, “that simply must be plucked and savored. Nice and juicy is how I like it.”