Someone’s arms went around her and she was dancing across the lobby and back again. That was a lucky break, she was one of the others, mingling with the crowd. She didn’t know her partner, but she wasn’t afraid. The girl was short, much shorter than she was. She peered at the lobby clock. It was eight, it was early, there was plenty of time. Maybe two hours before the unmasking, two hours to reach a door that was only a few yards away. She tried to lead her partner to the door, to prove to herself that it could be done, but other people blocked the way. Still, she knew she could do it if she were alone.
Another doll dragged her partner away, and she was left standing in the middle of the lobby, surrounded and hemmed in by chattering duplicates of herself. It was the best thing that could have happened. Now she could begin.
She held her head high and turned it right and left, as if she were looking for a special friend. The maids were helping Mrs Fister now, handing out punch with one hand and defending the bowl with the other. She moved in that direction. She called it a clever move because it was misleading. A few precious minutes thrown away, but that was the way to do it.
As she drew near the punch bowl, someone in a white kitchen apron ran out of the dining room, a woman with a bright smear of blood on her bib. Her hand flew to her mouth in terror. The crowd fell back and surged forward again, leaving her alone on the outskirts. She saw Miss Small speak to Mrs Fister and then go over to the desk. Mrs Fister led the woman away, shrugging her massive shoulders. Someone said, “The chef cut his hand, that’s all.”
Apparently it wasn’t serious. The maids went on as if nothing had happened. One of them carried a cup of punch to Mrs Marshall-Gill. Miss Small went upstairs. Miss Brady said something to Mrs Marshall-Gill and she too disappeared, in the direction of the kitchen.
She was desperate now. This was her chance, she’d never have a better one, but Mrs Marshall-Gill was too near the entrance. She forced herself to circle the lobby again. Miss Plummer was at the switchboard, looking distracted, trying to get a number, and making futile little dabs at passing dolls while she pleaded, “Please, operator, try again; oh, somebody help me, one of you girls, please—”
Another circle around the lobby, and she saw Mrs Marshall-Gill leave her chair and cross to the elevator. There was almost a clear path to the front door, not clear enough to make her conspicuous but exactly right. She gave the crowd a last survey and planned the final move. She would walk along the office railing and examine the mailboxes; then a short, diagonal cut to the lounge door; then another short cut to the street door. Slowly, easily, not more than five minutes at the most.
She was between the dining room and the office when she started. Once she thought someone pressed too closely from behind, but when she turned there was no one near. Only a doll in rubber sneakers who was looking the other way. A long line of dolls, noisily cracking the whip, came screaming down the centre of the floor, and the doll in sneakers dragged her out of the way. She was flung against the office railing.
An arm in chartreuse satin reached out and clutched her shoulder. “You,” Miss Plummer said, “you’re not doing anything, are you? I’ve got to have help and everybody’s so selfish. Chef cut himself and they want first aid and how am I to get it when everybody runs away! Slip up to Mrs Fister’s room like a good girl and get me the iodine and bandages, bedroom closet, top shelf, all marked. If the door’s locked, you go right on up to Miss Brady’s, there’s an extra supply there. In the bathroom, and her door’s bound to be open. Never locked. Hurry, that’s a good girl.”
“Miss Brady’s room?” she repeated dully. “I don’t know where it is.”
Miss Plummer gave her a sharp look. “Don’t know where Miss Brady’s—oh, I see. Well, naturally you wouldn’t know. Eighth floor, room 806. Mrs Fister is 202. Please, dear, there’s no time to lose.”
No time to lose, she said to herself, no time to lose, no time to lose.
Mrs Fister’s door was locked. She tried Miss Plummer’s door. Locked too. She turned in despair and ran for the stairs. No elevator now, even to save time; no elevator now at any price. Get there and get back before Miss Plummer complained about Ruth Miller’s being slow, before Miss Plummer said Ruth Miller had gone upstairs. She’d given herself away to Miss Plummer.
She climbed, breathless, trembling, holding on to the railing, looking ahead as she always did, forgetting to look back. Behind her another doll climbed, slowly, without effort, sometimes looking down over her shoulder but never looking up. Two dolls on the dim stairway, climbing in the same direction, the first pausing for breath on the landings, the second pausing to fold her arms on the railing and watch the way she had come. The second doll wore sneakers. Ruth climbed on.
In Miss Small’s suite, Mrs Marshall-Gill adjusted her hat, which had been knocked askew too often, pinned back her straying hair, and washed her hands. That done, she sat at Miss Small’s desk and wrote what she called a little note and a little check. “In appreciation,” she wrote, “of the extra time and trouble you have taken and of your unflagging interest in our good work.” The check was for one hundred dollars. She placed both note and check under Miss Small’s paper knife. Nothing for Brady, she said with satisfaction. Not a penny, not a word. Sharp tongue and more money than I have.
Miss Brady’s door was unlocked. Ruth went through the living room and bedroom to the bath beyond. The iodine and bandages were in the medicine chest. She collected them hurriedly and started back. She was hot and her face was wet, and she pushed up the cotton mask. Twin lamps burned on Miss Brady’s dressing table, shedding their light on gold and ivory, tortoise and enamel. Shedding their light on gold and ivory, tortoise and an enamel powder box. Her free hand went to her throat in a gesture that repulsed and acknowledged what she saw. She knew the box, she knew it had a bronze base, she knew the colour and shape of the importer’s mark on the underside, she knew the tune it would play if she raised the lid. Proof, proof, if she ever needed it. Sudden triumph shook her from head to foot and all caution fled. She raised the lid, and the room was filled with tinkling sound.
Believe me if all those endearing young charms that I gaze on so fondly today.
She repeated the words under her breath.
The music drifted out into the living room; it was entrance music for the second doll. The second doll moved slowly, lazily, silently across the floor to the bedroom door and leaned against it. For a while the only sound was the music. Then came a low chuckle.
Ruth turned. The iodine and bandage dropped from her stiff, gloved fingers. She backed to the wall with arms outstretched, her stiff, gloved hands beseeching.
“Nobody knows,” she pleaded, “nobody ever will know, ever, ever. I was going away, I want to go, let me go.” Her mask slipped to the floor.
The other doll advanced. “Nobody,” Ruth pleaded. “Nobody. I’ve forgotten everything already. I forgot it years ago. I didn’t come here on purpose. It was an accident. I’m going away tonight, I’m all ready to go. I found another place to live, I found another place to live far away—”
She could hear the musical box, but she could see nothing because a thick white hand covered her face. It wasn’t her own hand. Something struck the side of her head.
Mrs Marshall-Gill gave a final fillip to her hat, left Miss Small’s room, and proceeded to the end of the hall where she rang for the elevator. She heard the preliminary buzz and waited for the active purr. Nothing happened. She rang again and again, and after the third ring the car came, empty except for the operator. She got in, affronted. This, she said to herself, is what comes of letting the masses act like other people. “The party is no excuse, Annie,” she said. “You knew I was there and don’t tell me you didn’t. I rang three times—three. I call that deliberate insubordination… Well, say something!”
The masked head turned slowly to face her. No words came from the red, buttonhole mouth, nothing showed behind the round, black-fringed eyes. The car sank gently downward.
; “Annie?” Mrs Marshall-Gill’s voice broke in an unexpected falter. This is ridiculous, she told herself. An ill-bred, common little chit. I will not be routed. “I’m speaking to you, Annie!”
The thick white hand held the lever carelessly, the silent figure slouched against the cage. The face behind the mask still watched, Mrs Marshall-Gill could feel it watching.
She discovered that her throat was dry and her knees unstable. Something like a cold wind was filling the small cage, wrapping its fingers around her heart, emanating from Annie. She backed into a corner, fighting for decorum.
“Annie,” she began, but her voice was no more than a whisper, she could hardly hear it herself. She tried again. “I don’t care what you call yourself, Annie,” she quavered. “You may call yourself anything you like. I’ve been thinking it over and Annie isn’t much of a name for a young girl. Jewel is better. Jewel, how would you like some calling cards engraved with your name? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You could give them to people and then they’d know, do you see? Annie, Jewel, aren’t we going too fast? You’re not watching the indicator, Annie, Jewel! Jewel—”
The car lurched to a stop. Mrs Marshall-Gill got out and went to her chair. When she was able to raise her glazed eyes, the car had gone up again. She watched the dial, four, five, six, seven, eight. It stopped at eight.
Days went by, and Dr Kloppel came too many times to Hope House. Too many nights he went down the halls preceded by Mrs Fister’s warning voice, “Man coming, man coming.” There was an epidemic of hysteria that took a long time dying. In the rooms facing the courtyard three girls often crowded into one bed and talked all night, staring at the window.
Thanksgiving came, and Mrs Marshall-Gill sent a large pumpkin for the Hope House pies, with instructions to save the seed for her country garden. It was, she said, a superior strain. She discontinued the Sunday teas.
Lillian Harris asked for day work at her office, and got it. She also asked to room with April Hooper. This pleased Miss Small, who saw in these moves a tangible result of her little talks. Lillian was a changed girl. She was cordial when she met Miss Brady and Miss Small in elevator and hall, and rose politely when they entered a room. Sometimes she even knocked on Miss Small’s door to offer inexpensive gifts of flowers and candy.
There was no change in the evening routine for Miss Brady and Miss Small, except that they met more often in Miss Brady’s suite. They had more privacy there, and that was an advantage. Girls with stomach aches, broken hearts, and doubts about the value of maintaining virtue didn’t come to Miss Brady when they couldn’t sleep.
“I don’t see how you stand it, Angel,” Miss Brady said. “The ratty little exhibitionists, they know you’re soft and they weep down your neck for the kick they get out of it. One night a month is enough. You’ve simply got to set aside one night and issue tickets. You’ll break down if you don’t.”
“It’s my work,” Miss Small reminded her. “And look at the success I’ve had with Lillian! Darling, you must admit that Lillian is almost human.”
“I liked her better when she wasn’t. That meeching, mooching smile. And I don’t like the way she keeps bringing you presents. She can’t afford it.”
“You bring me presents, Monny. I mean, don’t we both?”
“That’s different,” Miss Brady said gruffly. “Look, I’ve got one for you now.” She rooted about in the untidy drawer of an almost priceless desk and brought out two envelopes. “Came today and I got them before anybody saw them. Passports.”
“Monny!”
“French Line, I think, maybe the first of the year. I’ll see to it. We won’t say a word until we hand in our resignations, bang. Can you see Marshall-Gill’s face?” Miss Brady reproduced a reasonable facsimile.
“Darling!” Miss Small’s eyes filled. “I can’t believe it, it can’t be happening to me! I’ve never been anywhere, done anything, seen anything, and now—this! Monny, when I think of the day I first walked into this place, not knowing, not dreaming—”
“Little navy blue suit with a frilled blouse and a white hat. All wrong, of course, but very cute. I remember.”
“And you looked so stern! I was scared to death. And don’t think you’re the only one with a good memory. Dark red wool, I wish you’d kept it.”
“Silly.”
“Monny? Some of the girls came to my room after dinner. They said they were a delegation. They’ve been collecting for a marker for Ruth Miller’s grave. I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t want to seem heartless. But we do frown on collections of any sort, don’t we?”
“Send them to me. We can’t have it. They’re simply dragging the thing out, and that’s no good. Time it was forgotten.”
That was on a Sunday night in December.
On the following morning young Mrs Sutton, back from Pinehurst, welcomed two elderly guests from upstate.
When Roberta Beacham Sutton invited Bessy Petty and Beulah Pond to New York, Beulah accepted for both of them. Bessy thought, reasonably enough, that she’d accepted for herself. She wrote Roberta according to her own formula and gave the letter to Beulah to mail. Beulah tore it up because it was six pages long, with a double row of kisses under the signature and a written injunction to the postman on the back of the envelope. “Postman, postman, do your duty, take this to a New York beauty.”
At the bottom of her own letter Beulah penned a simple postscript: “My friend will be with me.” It made Bessy sound like a charity case about to be given a treat, and that was a pleasing thought. Roberta knew Bessy wasn’t, but Roberta’s servants didn’t.
Beulah had qualms about Roberta’s servants. They were said to be British and uppity. So before she left Crestwood she practiced facial expression and posture. She also drilled Bessy in what she told her was a genteel carriage, but Bessy’s pink and white fat was uncooperative. They stopped speaking for two days, and Beulah concentrated on herself. By the time they took the train, she had four expressions denoting elegance and couldn’t make up her mind which to keep. A run-through rehearsal in the Pullman washroom, with an audience of one mother and two infant children, gave the vote to the world-weary one. She added a slow, dragging walk, indicative of thin, aristocratic blood. And she told herself it ought to take care of Bessy, too.
The Misses Pond and Petty, both in their late sixties, were not strangers to travel or anything. They loved life and had a passionate interest in death. Other people’s. Along with their contemporaries they read the obituary page daily, but where the contemporaries accepted the printed fact, Bessy and Beulah challenged it. They didn’t believe that natural death was as common as doctors and coroners made it out to be.
In appearance, Bessy resembled an ageing Cupid and Beulah a rejuvenated hawk. When Roberta Sutton met their train and walked between them to her car, she looked as if she were being preyed upon. But they were only loving her.
After breakfast Roberta offered a shopping trip, to be followed by lunch with Mark East. This was accepted with little cries of pleasure, and they started out. Under the eyes of maroon-and-gold attendants, Beulah insinuated herself across the apartment-house lobby and watched Bessy forgetting all the things she’d taught her.
Two hours off the train and Bessy trotted and rolled. She stopped to examine the soil of the lobby’s plants and cried for water, which she almost got; she called a poodle in a monogrammed blanket the same things she called her egg man’s unblanketed rat terrier.
“I adore Miss Bessy,” Roberta whispered to Beulah.
“Wait,” Beulah prophesied.
Roberta grinned. “We’ll go to Blackman’s first, if you don’t mind. I need soap. Then lunch. Then anywhere you like. What do you want to see?”
Bessy said, “The Little Church around the Corner, the Little Bar at the Ritz, and Grant’s Tomb.”
They drove to Blackman’s and Roberta made straight for the toilet goods, beginning to smile before she reached the counter. But Miss Miller wasn’t there. A strange clerk
with bleached hair was rearranging Miss Miller’s stock. Roberta compared her watch with Blackman’s big clock; it was only half past eleven, and Miss Miller never went to lunch before one. She spoke briskly to the strange clerk.
“Will Miss Miller be back shortly?”
The clerk looked blank. “Who?” Then she appraised Roberta’s coat, hat, gloves, handbag, and all that could be seen of her blouse. This wasn’t a personal, this was a customer. “I’m new in the department,” she said formally. “Would you like me to inquire, madam?”
“Yes, I would, please.” Roberta wanted Miss Miller to meet Bessy and Beulah. Miss Miller would enjoy that. “Perhaps, if she’s been transferred—”
“If madam will wait,” the clerk said, “I’ll ask our section manager.” She pressed a button under the counter and a tall young man glided to Roberta’s side. His smile wrung from Bessy an instant, “How do you do?”
“Madam is inquiring for a Miss Miller,” the clerk explained. “This is our Mr Benz, madam.”
Mr Benz replied with an equal mixture of pleasure and regret. “Miss Miller is no longer with us, but I’m sure Miss Collins will do as well.”
“I’m sure Miss Collins will do very well,” Roberta agreed, “but I want to see Miss Miller just the same. Can you tell me where she is?”
Mr Benz also appraised Roberta, and he hesitated before he spoke again.
Roberta saw the hesitation. She gave Miss Collins her shopping list. “Charge and send, please.” And she added her name and address.
Mr Benz was a young man with practical dreams of a little business of his own someday, and in preparation he had made a careful study of Blackman’s carriage trade. He riffled through the list of Suttons he kept in his head and placed Roberta instantly. Born Beacham, oil; married Sutton, copper. Tycoon blood. Don’t stall. When he spoke it was in a discreet whisper.
Death of a Doll Page 6