The Secret Life of Anna Blanc

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Anna looked into the mirror. She was rosy everywhere. Her hair was unkempt, her corset ruined, and she had bruises on her neck that she didn't recall getting. She leaned up against the dressing room wall and burped. She giggled at the burp, and burped again. She giggled uncontrollably. Her waves of giggles swelled into unrestrained belly laughs, her belly laughs into a tidal wave of whoops and snorts. Her whole body shook. She slid down onto the floor, her bare legs splayed out into the show room, shaking, shaking. She had been pushed to her limit. She was finally there. Joe Singer had made her hysterical.

  Miss Baumgartner called a doctor. When Anna had been treated and lay glowing on a fainting couch in a private room at Hamburger's, Officer Wolf came in to take her statement. Given the sensitive nature of the interview, Anna had said she would speak with no one else.

  “We found her hysterical on the floor of the dressing room, ready for the giggle-giggle ward,” Miss Baumgartner said. “There were bruises. Her clothing was ripped. She wasn't…She…she was in her underwear.”

  Anna leaned forward, her expression intense. “He was a little man.” She held her palm high in the air. “In a sombrero. A hunchback. With wild red hair, a long beard and…a monocle.”

  Miss Baumgartner's square jaw tensed. “She may have hallucinated, Officer.”

  Another chaperone stepped up to help. “He looked to me like that man from the music store.”

  Anna shook her head so hard her cheeks wobbled and her comb slipped sideways. “Impossible! That man was the police chief's son. He's so handsome. I would have noticed if he were in my dressing room.”

  Wolf had his pen poised to take notes, but at this he set it down and smiled.

  While Anna was being treated for hysteria, Hamburger's security guard hunted Joe like a beagle on a fox. Joe jumped fences, hid in smelly privies, raced through yards with hostile dogs nipping at his heels. The whole time, he wondered how he would explain this to his father, should he be caught, and how much time he'd be spending with Ernest, the jailer.

  When Joe lost the guard on Second Street he had sweat stains under his arms and shit on his boots. He felt humiliated. His hat was smashed, and he had the worst case of sore balls in the history of love.

  He boarded a tram and eased himself onto the seat. He was finished, done with Anna Blanc's doe-eyed love-in-the-name-of-the-law. He wouldn't kiss her again for love or the law, not to catch Jack the Ripper.

  At New High Street he yanked the bell cord, pulled the rim of his smashed hat down over his eyes, and flipped up his Arrow shirt collar. He stepped off the trolley and kept his head down. His tongue was dry. His temples ran with sweat. He longed for some liquid comfort, but he couldn't stop to buy a drink. If a cop saw Joe anywhere near the brothels, he would arrest him on the order of the police chief, even though Joe only went to play piano. He'd been caught twice playing Madam Lulu's baby grand—the best in the city apart from Anna's. As much as he liked the jailer, he didn't relish the idea of spending another two weeks in a cell.

  Joe skulked up New High Street and down Marchessault, past Canary Cottage and the Octoroon, where the mulatto girls plied their trade. He doubled back to Commercial, sneaking past the Poodle Dog, the Municipal, and the other parlor houses. He wandered the Plaza, near where the Chinese and Italians lived, Alameda, Arcadia, and Ferguson Alley, past doped up whores in brick boxes with their vacuous, staring eyes, and the young Chinese girls in brothels with barred windows. He found no sign of any suicide or murder. Anna had sent him on a potentially disastrous wild-goose chase.

  Joe returned to the safe side of town, feeling relieved. He didn't think he'd been spotted. He made a wide circle around Hamburger's and bumped into Wolf, who was sauntering down First Street.

  Wolf hailed him with enthusiasm. “Hey Officer Singer, keep an eye out for a bearded, red-haired, hump-backed, monocled midget who crawled into Miss Blanc's dressing room at Hamburger's today wearing a sombrero.”

  Joe spit out the words. “Why would I care?”

  Wolf put his arm around Joe. “Because she was very clear that it was not you.”

  Half of Joe's face contracted. “Do I look like a bearded, red-haired, hump-back…whatever? I don't even own a sombrero.”

  “You know, that's what she said. Said you're too handsome to be her assailant.”

  Joe raised his hands. “So?”

  “She wouldn't say what he did, but he left her in absolute hysterics. Had to call the doctor. If I ever find that midget, I'm gonna shake his hand.” Wolf was so pleased, Joe thought he might salute.

  Joe sighed. “I'll let you know if I see him.” He crossed the street, heading for a soda fountain and a cold drink.

  “That's good. That's very good.” Wolf called after him. “You owe me. I'm the one that's going to have to tell Edgar Wright when we can't find the bearded, red-haired, hump-back, monocled midget!”

  Wolf jogged up the steps of Central Station and held the door for a young woman with fresh, pink cheeks and wet lashes. She'd come to the station to report her bicycle stolen. The little peach looked ripe for comforting but, as it was Snow's case, Wolf went to find him.

  Mr. Melvin ate supper behind the counter, peeling an orange he had picked from a tree behind the station and watching little spurts of juice fly into the air. Wolf sauntered over. “Where's Snow?”

  Mr. Melvin chewed and didn't look up. “He's in the morgue with the coroner. They just brought in a body.”

  Wolf strode down the hallway. He smelled the morgue before he reached it—a sewage smell that persisted even when unoccupied. He pushed open the door. The curtain was pulled back. Snow and the coroner maneuvered a stretcher, sliding a body onto the concrete slab. It was covered in a sheet.

  Wolf grinned. “Officer Snow, there's a little lady who's come to report a stolen bicycle. But I see that you're busy, so why don't I help you out and handle it myself.”

  Snow wrinkled his scarred face, trying to squeeze out a thought. “You're trying to take her because she's pretty.”

  “No. Beauty's in the eye of the beholder, so to you she'd be ugly.” While Snow decided whether this was an insult, Wolf's face turned serious for a moment. “Who you got there?”

  The coroner took a pair of scissors out of a drawer. His voice was medical. “Just a lady of the night.”

  “We pulled her out of the lake at Echo Park.” Snow looked smug, like a child flaunting a secret. “You knew her.”

  The coroner closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

  Wolf frowned. “I knew her?”

  The coroner's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. “Snow, you don't mind if he helps the lady with her bicycle.”

  Wolf's smile had flattened into a thin line. “Are you trying to get rid of me, doc?” He took a deep, dreadful breath and reached for the sheet.

  The coroner stopped his hand. “Why don't you wait until I clean her up?”

  Wolf pushed the coroner's wrist aside and peeled back the sheet, revealing an oval face. “Oh, God!” He laid a hand over his eyes.

  Eve's coiled hair was wet, streaked with dark pond muck and silt, and pinned to a crushed, veiled hat that must have once been white. She smelled of the lake. Her eyes were wide open, her pupils dark olives. She looked surprised. Her cheeks, which had always been suntanned, were colorless, as if she hadn't seen the sun in weeks.

  Snow grinned proudly, like a child who had guessed the punch line of a clever joke. Wolf turned on the coroner and glared. “Why are you calling her a lady of the night? You know that girl's not a prostitute.”

  Snow nodded knowingly. “That's Eve McBride, our former matron. I seen her in the doorway of the Poodle Dog. So I knocked and asked. She uses a different name now. Lucinda or something. That confused me at first. But it was her. She told me to keep it quiet. She didn't want Joe to know. I said I would if I could screw her. So she let me screw her. Isn't that a gas? I screwed Matron McBride and the bitch cried…” Snow's dull eyes looked regretful. “I would have screwed her again,
too, but now she's dead.”

  Wolf's lip curled in disgust, then he proffered a mean smile. “I had the same tender feelings about your mother.”

  Snow cocked his scarred head, as if wondering how Wolf knew his mother. Wolf looked weary. He rubbed his brow. “Do a kindness and keep your word. Don't tell Joe Singer. He doesn't need to know. You too, doctor. Let him think she's happily settled in Denver.”

  Snow waggled his head, smiling. “I bet Joe screwed her for free the whole time she was working here. She liked him.”

  Wolf's mouth hardened, and he cracked his knuckles.

  The coroner stepped between them. His voice sounded sharp. “The body's on the slab now, Snow. Go help the lady find her bicycle.”

  Snow's eyes lit at the prospect of a pretty girl. He strode purposely toward the door.

  Wolf bent over Eve, brushed a lock of hair from her once-beautiful face, and gently closed her eyes. “How did she die?”

  The coroner scratched on a clipboard. “She drowned in the Lake at Echo Park. Apparently, she'd been out in a swan boat alone. They found it floating empty.”

  Wolf stared intently at the coroner's face. “Doctor, what do you think she was doing alone on a pleasure boat if she worked at the Poodle Dog? Those girls stay in.”

  “I'm just a physician,” the coroner said with clinical detachment. “You'll need to ask someone more familiar with the recreational habits of whores.”

  Wolf grabbed the sheet and rolled it all the way back. Eve's legs splayed beneath an elegant white gown of soggy tulle and lace, molded to her body. The muddy veil, wadded at one side, would have reached the floor had she been standing. One wrinkled foot lay bare. Another swelled from a shoe that was much too tight. Wolf glared at the coroner. “Even you should know that a girl doesn't go boating in a wedding dress.”

  A voice came from the doorway, tentative and low. “Is she a brothel girl? A suicide?”

  “No.” Wolf yanked the curtain closed to hide the body. The curtain rattled on its metal hooks.

  Joe eyes flashed disbelief and then peered at Wolf with suspicion. He growled, “Get out of my way.” Joe tried to squeeze past Wolf.

  Wolf blocked him and steered him by the arm back toward the door. “It stinks, Joe. I know. But why don't you let me handle this?”

  Joe sidestepped Wolf and lunged for the curtain, giving it a firm yank. It rattled to one side, revealing the dead girl. Joe stared at Eve's body, expressionless. He turned to Wolf, opened his mouth, and shut it again. He scrunched up his face as the awful truth burrowed its way, violently, into his understanding.

  With one strangled sob, Joe turned to the coroner and swung.

  Anna lit a fire in her bedroom hearth, though it was one of the hottest days on record. She wore nothing at all. A smoky, wintery smell cut the air. The hummingbird buzzed at the feeder again. When the smoke streamed outside the window, the bird flew in circles and smacked into the glass, leaving an oily mark in the shape of its tiny body and falling to the ground. It added to her grief. She would find the little bird later and bury it in the wisteria.

  She stoked the fire and tossed her books onto the blaze, one by one. She burned detective novels hidden under covers of acceptable books. A System of Legal Medicine went up in flames, along with The History of Forensic Psychology and the police procedural that she had stolen from the Venice police station the night she and Eve had been arrested. She said goodbye to Theo's medical books, because there was no way she could return them now, since she had ripped off their covers. They took a long time to burn.

  She felt tragic, like a Cinderella without a fairy godmother. But she also felt relief. She was no longer carrying a dark, heavy secret—a rock in her stomach because she might be discovered. She could never, ever stop liking Joe Singer intensely, but Edgar had forgiven her and she could love him for that alone. She also had forgiven him. Though he had betrayed her, it had been driven by love. He loved her completely, even if her passion for him was only a bud. Now all she had to do was to keep her head down. If she could behave until Saturday, she would be Edgar Wright's chatelaine. She would have love, spending money, more freedom, and the chaperones would be out of a job.

  Why did she feel so sad?

  Someone knocked. Anna slipped into a robe de nuit. “Come in.” She went to unlock the door from the inside.

  Keys jingled in the hallway and six separate bolts turned, clicked, and slid before Mrs. Morales pushed open the door. “Goodness. It's sweltering in here. Why in heaven's name do you have a fire going?”

  “Because this house is full of icy hearts.” Anna tilted her chin toward heaven, though God never listened.

  Mrs. Morales remained impassive. “You have letters, Miss Anna.” She handed Anna two envelopes and left.

  The envelopes had already been opened, the letters read and censored. She wondered if there had been others that had not made it through—a love letter from Joe, perhaps, telling her to meet him at midnight so that they could run away together. It made her whole body ache.

  Anna waited until Mrs. Morales had turned all six bolts before she unfolded the letters and read. The first came from Clara, saying her aunt had died and she was coming home. She asked whether Anna had come to her senses and, if so, would she join them for a Looloos game because Theo liked the pitcher. Anna scratched a quick reply accepting the engagement and sprayed it with lavender water. She didn't bother to seal the envelope. She knew it would just be steamed opened and read before it was delivered.

  The second letter came from a “Mrs. Eunice Partridge.” Anna's heart skipped a beat. She doubted whether corresponding with a madam was advisable for a girl whose status had only recently been restored to golden. But the letter had made it through the censors and so she read it.

  Dear Miss Blanc,

  Thank you for your interest in our home for wayward girls. I wish I were there to oversee the property, but I'm still enjoying the mayor's hospitality. One of the girls, a Mrs. McBride, is no longer with us. She bought a farm across the river. It's a better place.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Eunice Partridge.

  The letter was cryptic, but the message as clear as glass. Eve was dead, presumably at the hands of the killer. Madam Lulu still languished in jail, and there was no one to look out at the brothels. Anna ripped the letter into a hundred pieces and flung it into the fire. She wished she hadn't read it. Anna had doomed Eve to the brothels. Now she was dead. Anna had failed to catch the killer when she'd had the chance. Now there was nothing she could do.

  That afternoon, Anna would see no one, not even Edgar. She claimed to have a headache and wouldn't come down for dinner. She refused to take food in her room. Instead, she sat at her toilet table in a black gown, combing her hair until the brush choked with long strands and had to be cleaned.

  Above the mirror, Christ hung on the cross and looked down at her with sorrowful eyes. Edgar gazed out at her from a framed photograph on the glass counter. He looked handsome, and a smile lurked under his lips, as if he had some secret. She lifted a mirrored tray that held her silver comb and brush. Underneath, the Arrow Collar Man stood bare-legged in his shirt suit, looking almost as good as Joe Singer. Beside him, Eve and Anna were taped together, holding a sign and smiling. Anna looked fancy and feathered, like a white bird of paradise. Eve wore a dark, simple frock like the other marchers. Now Anna could see that Eve had been a beauty in disguise, like Anna herself when she'd worked at the station.

  She kissed Eve's image, set the picture down, and began to brush her hair again, keeping company with her image in the mirror. She looked beautiful, just like Joe said. But, like he also said, beauty was only skin deep. She wasn't a good person. She was a selfish person and a useless person who really couldn't fry an egg. Her life had no meaning. No wonder God punished her.

  Why hadn't she tried to get Eve out of the brothel? She could have given her some jewelry to sell and the little money she had earned in salary after the cost of her uniforms had b
een deducted from her pay. She could have told Joe that Eve was in the brothel. He would have helped her. Eve would have been humiliated and angry, but at least she would be alive. She thought Joe had forgiven her for getting Eve fired—at least he seemed forgiving when he was licking her leg in the dressing room; but he could never forgive her this. Her pretend police lover, the man she missed intensely, he would despise her.

  Anna couldn't bear to languish in her room. She had to make it right. She couldn't raise the dead, but she could catch Eve's killer, and she could find Eve's children and try to convince Clara to raise them, as Anna didn't much care for children. As for the consequences if Mrs. Morales discovered her missing, Anna just wouldn't think about it.

  She scrambled to the door and slid the bolt, locking it from the inside, so Mrs. Morales could not get in. She rattled the window. The locksmith had nailed it shut, but the pane was big enough to accommodate her body if she could remove it. She set her talking machine to play “By the Light of the Silvery Moon” on the loudest setting, then dragged the thick satin coverlet from her bed and fastened it over the curtain rod with hat-pins, covering the window. She lifted an eighteenth-century chair and wielded it like a battering ram, smashing through the glass.

  Anna rummaged through a trunk and found the veil. Holding the veil in her teeth, she wrapped towels around each hand and climbed through the broken window out onto the roof. Tucking the hem of her gown into her waistband, she shimmied down the rope and bolted for the brothels.

  Anna knocked at the back door of Canary Cottage, breathing her own hot breath beneath the veil. She could smell food burning. A woman in her mid-twenties answered the door—a big girl with a chestnut bun and a gob full of chewing gum. She wore heavy makeup, curlers, and a filmy off-the-shoulder blouse. “What are you doing here?”