Death of a Doll
Hilda Lawrence
About the Author
Hilda Lawrence (1906-1976) was an American author of classic mysteries. Born in Baltimore and educated in New York, she worked in the clippings department of Macmillan Publishing. Throughout her writing career, which spanned the 1940’s, she wrote four novels. The first, Blood on the Snow, published in 1944, introduced her three main series characters: private investigator and Manhattanite Mark East and the New England spinsters Miss Beulah and Miss Bessy. Blending both the hard and softboiled styles of detective fiction in her work, her clever writing style quickly became a commercial success. Death of a Doll is considered her best work. Lawrence died in Manhattan, New York, in 1976 at the age of 70.
Also By Hilda Lawrence
The Pavilion
Duet in Death:
Composition for Four Hands
The House
The Mark East Mysteries
Blood Upon the Snow
A Time to Die
Death of a Doll
This edition published in 2019 by Agora Books
First published in 1947 in Great Britain by Chapman & Hall
First published in 1948 in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster
Agora Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
55 New Oxford Street, London WC1A 1BS
Copyright © Hilda Lawrence, 1947
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
To
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1
Angeline Small stepped out of the elevator at five o’clock and nodded to Kitty Brice behind the switchboard.
“Cold!” she said with a bright grimace. “Have they lighted the fire in the lounge?”
“Yes, Miss Small.”
“Good,” Miss Small said. But she walked briskly across the square lobby and checked for herself. There was only one girl in the lounge, a night worker in a Western Union office who went off to her job when the other girls came home. Miss Small found this routine confusing. When she went to her own bed at midnight, after coffee and gossip with Monny, she wanted to know that all of her seventy girls were safe and sound in their seventy good, though narrow, cots, sleeping correctly and dreamlessly because they were properly nourished and had no ugly little troubles that they hadn’t confessed.
Miss Small switched on more lights, approved the fire and the bowls of fresh chrysanthemums, and spoke to the girl who was huddled in a deep chair with her eyes closed.
“Good evening, Lillian. Or should it be good morning?”
The girl looked up with a long, insolent stare and closed her eyes again.
Time for a little heart-to-heart talk with this one, Miss Small decided. Mustn’t have sulks and surliness, such a bad example for the others. Perhaps a tiny note in her mailbox, an invitation to a nice cup of tea in my room. These poor, love-starved babies, I must do all I can.
“Isn’t that a new coat, dear?” she asked.
The girl got up and brushed by the outstretched hand. “Excuse me,” she said. “I forgot something.”
Miss Small watched her cross the lobby with an arrogant stride and enter the elevator. I’ll win her over, she promised herself, but I won’t say anything to Monny. Poor Monny. She worries so when she knows I’ve been hurt… She looked at the wristwatch Monny had given her the Christmas before and admired the winking diamonds. Five after five. Monny would be winding up her conference with Mrs Fister and the meals would be better for about three days. Then they’d have coffee jelly again. I do wish she’d let me talk to Mrs Fister, she fretted. I know how to handle people.
She returned to the lobby and entered the railed enclosure that was the office. A broad, flat desk faced the street entrance and behind it was the switchboard. A panel of push bells covered the wall behind the board. The bells rang in the rooms at seven in the morning and six in the evening. That was when the dining room opened. They also rang to announce visitors, phone calls, and emergencies. In the five years of its existence, Hope House, a Home for Girls, had met and vanquished one emergency—a fire in a wastebasket. At right angles to the desk stood an orderly hive of glass-covered mailboxes, too often empty.
Miss Small glanced at her own box and spoke reprovingly.
“Kitty!”
Kitty gathered herself together and rose in sections. She was a tall, thin girl with poor skin and lips that were faintly blue.
“There’s something in my box, Kitty, and you didn’t give it to me.”
“Headache,” Kitty murmured. “I’m sorry, Miss Small, but you went by so fast before, and it’s only a note Miss Brady put in.”
“Miss Brady? Hand it to me at once, please.” Miss Small tried to keep the pleasure out of her voice. Darling old Monny, she told herself, she’s thought of something nice for us to do later on. Maybe the theatre, or a really good movie, or a little supper at that new French place. She opened the envelope carelessly under Kitty’s curious gaze.
Angel [Monny wrote],
Fister was frightful, wept all over the place and I’m exhausted. But we’ve got to keep the old fool happy, so I’m taking her out to tea because—this is what I tell her—because she needs to get out more, and what would we do without her! After that I’ve got to see Marshall-Gill about the party, she phoned. Angel, you’ll have to take over the desk for me until Plummer goes on at eight. There’s a new girl coming in, Ruth Miller, I’m afraid I forgot to tell you. Forgive? She’s to go in with April Hooper. Explain to her about April, will you? That’s something else I forgot, but you’ll do it so much better than I would! I’ll come to your room at the usual.
Yours, M.
Miss Small tucked the note in her blouse and sat at the desk, smiling at the daily report that was fastened to the blotter. Monica Brady’s sprawling hand had okayed a suspicion of mice on the second floor, uncovered a flaw in the addition of a plumber’s bill, and questioned room 304’s explanation of why she had stayed out all night. Under 304’s explanation, which was a new one, she found the new girl’s registration card. Ruth Miller, age twenty-nine, saleswoman at Blackman’s, no family or known relatives. Then came the confidential information in the staff code. Middle class, some refinement, shy, not a mixer, underweight, poor vision and teeth. Probably tonsils. Recommended by M. Smith and M. Smith.
Miss Small frowned. That meant three girls from Blackman’s. It wasn’t wise to have more than two from the same place. Two could be friends, three could be troublesome.
The front door swung open, admitting a raw, damp wind and a chattering pair who called “Good evening, Miss Small,” as they hurried to the elevator. The evening had begun.
From the rear of the lobby a clatter of china and silver began in a low key and steadily rose, the silent switchboard came to life with a series of staccato buzzes, and the front door opened and shut at frequent intervals. In a short time the institutional smell of large-scale cooking and thick, damp clothing had routed the fragrance of burning logs and chrysanthemums. The Hope House girls had lived through another day and were coming home.
At five o’clock Mrs Nicholas Sutton approached her favourite clerk in Blackman’s toilet-goods department on the main floor. The clerk was Ruth Miller. Young Mrs Sutton, snug and warm in her new birthday sables, slid a shopping list across the counter and made an honest apology.
“I oug
ht to be shot for coming in so late,” she said. “You’ve got all your adding up to do.”
Ruth Miller took the list and smiled. In the year she had worked at Blackman’s Mrs Sutton was the only woman customer who had regarded the counter between them as a bridge, not a barrier. In consequence, she gave Mrs Sutton the same devotion she had once given a star on top of a Christmas tree; they were both remote yet intimate; untouchable but hers.
She read the list rapidly, frowning because she needed glasses and also because she couldn’t decide whether or not to tell Mrs Sutton about her wonderful luck.
“They use too much soap at your house,” she scolded gently. “You had three dozen two weeks ago. I expect it’s the servants, they’re all alike; you’ve got to be firm, Mrs Sutton.”
“I know, I know.” Mrs Sutton slumped into momentary dejection and showed every year of her age, which was twenty. “But have you ever tried being firm with a sixty-year-old woman who wakes you up every morning with a cup of tea because she once kept house for a duke? Hell’s bells. Well, charge and send, and I’ll put them all on the dole.” She smiled at the plain, pleasant girl and wondered for the third or fourth time why she didn’t take her away from that counter and put her in the Sutton nursery. She’d be wonderful with baby. “How’ve you been, Miss Miller? And why aren’t you wearing your glasses? That’s crazy, you know.”
“They’re broken,” Ruth Miller said. “But I’m getting new ones.”
“I should certainly hope so! Crazy to put off things like that. But otherwise you look very chipper.”
Ruth Miller’s pale cheeks flushed. “I’m just fine,” she said. She’d tell Mrs Sutton why she was fine, too. Some people might think it was silly, but Mrs Sutton would understand. Mrs Sutton always surprised you that way. All the money in the world herself but she understood about not having any. “I’ve got a new place to live,” she said breathlessly, and her calm, plain face was almost pretty. “No more subways and furnished rooms with not enough heat and eating any which way! And only six blocks from here, a lovely place, you can’t imagine! It’s a kind of club, a hotel for girls, with breakfast and dinner, and they even have a room in the basement where you can do your own laundry. It’s lovely, and so cheap, and all the hot water you want. I think that’s what got me. No hot water is awful.”
“No hot water is the devil,” Mrs Sutton agreed. “Are you sure the place is respectable?”
“There’s a church group behind it.”
“Yah!” Mrs Sutton jeered. “They’re after your soul, you poor thing. Don’t give them an inch. How’d you ever find it?”
“Two girls in our stockroom live there. I knew they made less than I do, but they always looked better somehow. You know—nice coats and gloves, and permanents, and all that. So I asked them how they managed and they told me. And then I went over there and talked to the Head, a Miss Monica Brady, and she said she could give me a room with another girl. Eight dollars a week, can you imagine, with the food and all those privileges! I move in tonight and—” She stopped because Mrs Sutton was staring straight ahead and her eyes were as wide as a child’s. She turned her own head to investigate, and her heart gave a sickening lurch. On the rear wall, above the elevators, a small red light blinked steadily and evenly. One-two-three, one-two; one-two-three, one-two. The light was little more than a crimson blur, but she could read its silent message too well.
“I know what that’s for,” Mrs Sutton said softly. “Old man Blackman is a friend of my father’s. But what’s the dope? I mean what does the blinkety-blink say?”
Ruth Miller looked down at her hands and saw that they were trembling. She tried to fill in the sales slip, but it was useless. I’m a fool, she told herself; I’ve got to stop acting like this. She didn’t look up when she answered. “One-two-three, one-two means the main aisle, hosiery… It’s a woman.”
“The idiot,” Mrs Sutton observed cheerfully. “Pulling a thing like that when the store’s almost empty. She deserves to be caught. Idiot, she must be crazy… Hey, maybe it’s not a professional, maybe it’s a kleptomaniac. For heaven’s sake, maybe it’s somebody I know! I’m going over!”
Ruth Miller’s hands gripped the edge of the counter. “No,” she said. “No. Don’t do it, don’t go. It’s not fair, it’s awful; don’t go, Mrs Sutton, please.”
Mrs Sutton gave her a quick, surprised look. “Okay,” she said carelessly. “You’re a nice girl, Miss Miller, and I’m a no-account lug. Well, so long. We’re going down to Pinehurst tomorrow, be gone until after Thanksgiving. See you when I get back.” She turned up the collar of her sable coat. “Be good,” she smiled.
Ruth Miller watched the slim, straight figure as it walked without hesitation to the side-street exit. Mrs Sutton was avoiding the main aisle where a high voice was raised in tearful expostulation.
It was then five-fifteen. In another fifteen minutes she would begin a new life. She filled Mrs Sutton’s order and sent it down the chute, and tallied her sales-book. When that was done, there were only five minutes left.
Down in the toilet-goods stockroom Moke and Poke, self-styled because they were both named Mary Smith, managed between them to spill a few drops of “Chinese Lily” perfume. They apologised profusely to each other for such carelessness and removed the evidence with fingers that flew swiftly and accurately to ear lobes and neck hollows. It was a crying shame, they said. Five dollars an ounce and ten drops gone. The buyer would have a fit if she knew, and they wouldn’t blame her. A little old ten-drop fit. “Chinese Lily.” Funny how “Chinese Lily” was the one to spill when “English Rose,” twelve dollars an ounce, was standing right next to it. They exchanged long looks and rubbed their elbows in the remains.
“By the way,” Moke said, “do you happen to remember by any chance where we happen to be going tonight?”
Poke furrowed her brow. “Are we going anywhere?”
This was repartee of a high and secret order. They leaned against the stock table and shook with silent laughter. They pushed each other about like puppies. They had spoken volumes and said nothing. They were going to dinner with two boys from haberdashery. In Chinatown.
Moke wiped her face with a scented palm. “No kidding, Poke, we did forget something. That Miss Miller’s moving in tonight, and we didn’t tell her yet that we can’t walk home with her.”
“Should we have told her?”
“Sure. She may be counting on us. First night and all. And the poor old thing don’t know anybody there but us… Whoa! Too late now.”
Out in the corridor the closing bell clanged. Upstairs the closing bell was a carillon that dropped sweet notes from vaulted ceiling to marble floor and echoed chastely in crystal chandeliers. But down in the basement it was a gong that screamed against concrete and steel, renewed its strength, and screamed again. Moke and Poke were inured.
“Too late,” Moke shrilled above the clamour. “She don’t really expect us anyway. Put your money in your shoe, don’t ever let a fellow know you got any. Come on.” They left the stockroom and elbowed through the crowd that streamed toward the lockers, working busily all the while with pocket mirror and comb.
Ruth walked slowly down the last block. Other people were coming home to shabby brownstone tenements and rooming houses, stopping on the way to buy food at the corner delicatessen, collecting the week’s laundry from the Chinaman whose basement window was beaded with steam. She watched them from the secure heights of one who was bound for a warm dinner, a bed with a cretonne cover, and a writing desk of her own. There was a shoe-repair shop in the middle of the block and next to it a dry cleaner’s. Very handy, she told herself, especially the cleaner’s. For when I get my blue.
The blue was a suit that every woman in New York was trying to wear that fall. It was a bright, electric blue that dulled the eyes and hair of all but the very young, and consequently drew the middle-aged and sallow like a magnet.
Ruth dwelt on the blue. Seventy-five dollars in stores like Blackman’s,
sixteen-fifty on Fourteenth Street. She had eleven dollars saved up and her week’s salary was untouched. She asked herself what she was waiting for. Take out eight for board, she figured rapidly, no carfares, and lunch in the cafeteria is twenty cents. I can do it and maybe a hat to match. And who’s to tell me not to? Nobody. This is a new life and I want to look nice. I can do the glasses next month. Who’s to tell me the glasses come first? Well, maybe Mrs Sutton, but—She put Mrs Sutton out of her mind. I want the blue, I need it. There’s nothing like a touch of colour after black all day… That Miss Brady said dinner was from six to eight. I’ll eat right away and get down to Fourteenth Street. Saturday night, they’ll be open late. I’ll wear it to the dining room tomorrow. There’s nothing like a good first impression, and you never know when you may meet somebody. Some of the girls may have relatives in New York and Sunday’s when they’d come to call. And have dinner, maybe. Sunday dinners are always special… She saw herself entering the dining room, alone and poised, sitting at one of the small tables, saying something pleasant to the maid who served her. Wearing the blue.
The house was straight ahead. She went up the steps.
Miss Small raised her head when the door opened. This was a stranger with a suitcase, therefore the new girl. She consulted the card quickly, verifying the name. Miller, Ruth. It was important to get a name right, to make a girl feel as if she were expected and wanted. She stood up.
“Well, Ruth,” she said, holding out a hand.
Ruth advanced, blinking in the light of a powerful lamp that a previous social worker had installed for a purpose. It was trained to shine directly in the shifting eyes of board-payers who had spent their money for new clothes and claimed their pockets had been picked again, and in the calm, wide eyes of supplicants for week-end passes to visit what they called married sisters.
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