The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Oh, you mean alias!”

  Adele laughed, apologizing. But Marie hadn’t thought of an alias, an alibi, or anything else, and when she touched her heart in relief, she felt her shield on her lapel. Whoops! She unpinned it and dropped it into her purse before she got out of the car. Adele honked the horn and held both hands up to show doubly crossed fingers, and Marie smiled, gave her the thumbs-up, like the fighter pilot to the bombardier in a war movie: Bombs away!

  On the walk over to the apartment building, she almost lost her nerve. Three blocks! There was no need for her to park so far away. She was sweating as she fretted, and she almost walked into traffic—Watch where you’re going, lady!—as she tried to guess the likelihood of Mr. Todd having a thing for sweaty, fretful girls. Why had she tried to show off so hard for Adele? The thumbs-up, like she was picking off Luftwaffen from her Spitfire or whatever. And then she started laughing. She wasn’t the pilot, or even the bombardier. She was the bomb.

  IN THE LOBBY, the doorman rose to attention, smoothing his lapels before offering a curt bow. He was a wheezing old doughball in threadbare crimson livery, and his accent had a Continental vagueness, more sad than sophisticated, like one of the two-line parts in Casablanca. “How may I be of service on this lovely afternoon?”

  Marie was ready with her alias, at least: “My name is Miss Melchionne, I have an appointment with Mr. Todd in apartment 4A.”

  The mask of old-world courtesy vanished, and the doorman gave her a pitying look. Marie knew then that Mr. Todd was a keeper. The wily leer she’d anticipated from the doorman was dutifully supplied by the elevator boy when he took her to her floor. “I’m off at four,” he said, winking and tipping his cap as he opened the brass cage.

  At the apartment door, Marie pulled a compact mirror from her purse to check her face, telling herself that it wasn’t conceit but craftsmanship that prompted the inspection. She mouthed the line that got her here: “Careful, big fella! It’s not rush hour!” Yes? She saw a naive young woman, a striver from off-the-boat stock, desperate to impress. Yes? Nearly there, but her dark eyes might widen a bit: Golly! She practiced the pose and then put the mirror back in her purse with the cuffs, blackjack, and .32 revolver with the two-inch barrel. Her shield, too, which she’d never heard anyone call a “potsie,” despite what the girl detective said on Decoy.

  As Marie was about to knock, she saw that her engagement ring was poking up through the inspector’s glove. She yanked it off and slipped the jewelry into her purse. It made her feel wanton. What a wild woman I am! She took a minute to let the giggles pass; this was serious business, wasn’t it? Knock, knock.

  When the door opened, she was greeted by a towheaded, bullish man of indeterminate middle age in a dark gray suit of worsted wool and a slightly daring violet tie. He sweated as if he’d just moved a piano and intoned his lines with wolfish welcome. “Well, well, well. Look at you.”

  “Mr. Todd?”

  “And you must be—“

  “Lana Melchionne.”

  “Where have I seen you before, Lana?” he asked, with a canny, cautious note that rattled her.

  “I guess I just got one of those faces,” she said, blushing. She’d have to thank Adele for that, later on.

  “Melchionne. That’s Italian, isn’t it? You don’t have any relatives who carry violin cases without violins, do you? You know what I mean, right?” In case she hadn’t, he mimed shooting a machine gun—Rat-a-tat-tat! Marie shook her head. She had to win this one.

  “Huh,” he said. “And what brings you to my doorstep today? Are you selling Girl Scout cookies? I wouldn’t mind a bite of something sweet.”

  “Well, no, Mister, I came here for the job. I called, but nobody answered. I guess that’s why you need a secretary. I can type, and I can do shorthand, and I—”

  “Ah, a career girl. How did you hear about me?”

  Marie hesitated, and then a batty, breathy rush of bona fides came out of her mouth: “You remember my friend Adele, she was here a while back? She said you had this unbelievable high-class opportunity, going to Mexico, learning to talk Mexican, only her mother wouldn’t let her go, on account of her having a dream somebody died, and her sister’s boyfriend got hit by a bus the next day. He’s okay, though, just broke his collarbone—”

  “Enough! Come on in. We’ll have a little chat and figure out what position might suit you.”

  Where had that come from? No matter—the blather had the intended sedative effect, and Mr. Todd asked for no further references. His head turned away before his body did, and his movements had a strained, stuck-in-gear quality, as if he were a machine operated by someone who hadn’t read the instructions. Marie followed him down a long, dimly lit hall until he stopped and turned, this time his body leading his head.

  “The Mexican position has been filled,” he said. He regarded her legs for a moment before asking, “Do you have even the most elementary familiarity with horsemanship?”

  “I was on a pony once.”

  “Lucky beast,” he muttered. “Well, then, at least there will be no bad habits to unlearn. And I believe I have jodhpurs in your size.”

  The hallway opened up into a spacious room, largely bare, except for a plaid couch covered with a dingy white sheet, surrounded by an array of lights and screens on tripods. Todd took a seat at a handsome mahogany desk, just beside the entry, and directed her to the straight-backed wooden chair in front of it. His desk had stacks of papers, an open accounting ledger, and an adding machine, but the image of professional respectability was marred by a set of novelty-shop teeth, the kind that chattered when you wound them up. She’d taken him to be one of the numberless freelance gropers in the city, with his “Help Wanted” ad a bait-and-switch that should have been listed in the “Lonely Hearts” section. The photo gear made it likely that Todd Enterprises might actually provide job opportunities, though not the kind a legitimate newspaper would advertise. For now, Marie would maintain her Golly! face. She couldn’t make an arrest on the basis of the décor, even when she noticed the leather cords that dangled from each corner of the back of her chair. “What sort of business are you in, Mr. Todd?”

  “Well, young lady, we are an employment agency, and we are partners and advisers with a variety of different organizations in a variety of fields.”

  “That sounds wonderful. My father was in kerosene. He delivered it, but I helped. I can tell you, when they say you shorted ’em, you gotta check the lines, because it’s usually a leak—”

  “No, young lady,” Todd interrupted, rubbing his hands as if the subject had dirtied them. “Educational programs, import-export, film production, chiefly in physical fitness and the modern arts. Can I be frank with you, Miss . . .”

  Miss . . . Not-Marie. Her alias escaped her, and she had no alibi.

  “Yes, Mr. Todd, please do.”

  She took out her notebook, as if she’d treasure his every word. She wrote, Lana, Lana, Lana. Melchionne, Melchionne, Melchionne.

  Mr. Todd nodded in approval. “What I do—what we do here—is to understand the girl, and then we find the appropriate position for her. We want girls who are open to new ideas and experiences, girls with a certain savoir faire—”

  Mr. Todd was interrupted by three ladies who burst out from a back room, brashly laughing. Each was wrapped tightly in a mock-mink coat, knee-length, and they carried themselves with a burlesque air, as if they were nude aside from their shminks and high heels.

  “Chin-chin, Toddy!”

  “Bon-swaa!”

  “Ta-ta! We’ll stop by the kitchen for a quick pick-me-up. Is there—coffee?”

  Marie was startled by their sudden arrival, and then she had to labor to contain her anger. They were certainly Todd girls, as per the announced requisites of athleticism, shamelessness, and foreign-lingo goodbyes, but they were also—all three of them—redheads: one ginger-blond, one chestnut, and the third flaming, nearly fire-engine red. The last undercover sent in by Mrs. M. had been wrong
: redheads were very much a Todd type. Marie was now doubly determined to make the arrest, to show that it could be done.

  “Yes—the coffee is fresh. Help yourselves.”

  Mr. Todd beamed at them and waved them on. His smile faded as the women left, and he returned his gaze to Marie. He shook his head. “No.”

  Before Marie could ask what he meant, two pinched little men with briefcases scurried from the same hall from which the redheads had come, their fedoras pulled low over their brows, like mourners at a Mafia funeral. Their departure occasioned no remark from Todd, nor did they acknowledge him. The three redheads followed soon after, laughing even more loudly as they went. They hadn’t been away for more than a minute, Marie guessed: they must have gulped down their coffee. The men were a greater confusion to her. Was this a brothel, or a photographic studio for French postcards? Were the men accountants for Todd Enterprises, or something else? And speaking of accounting, the numerical mismatch between females and males baffled her. Three-of-a-kind, and a pair. Had someone been left out?

  Marie didn’t know anything about the sex trade. When her father saw a woman who went heavy on the eye shadow, he’d mutter that she was a putan’, but Marie had first seen a real-life prostitute only months before, on matron duty. She was shocked by the woman’s plainness—she could have been cafeteria lunch lady—and then embarrassed by her naïveté. Marie didn’t really know much about sex at all. She’d been a wife for five years, a policewoman for less than one, but her experience in both fields was narrow. She was a tourist in Gomorrah, without a guide or a map. All she knew was that she had to keep going, and she couldn’t look back.

  Mr. Todd continued to stare at her, pulling on his lower lip. He flared his nostrils, as if to take in her scent. Leaning forward, he planted his elbows on the desk, squinting, and then he eased back into his seat. He smiled, and then he stopped smiling. He repeated his earlier verdict: “No.”

  Was it over already? Marie stood to leave, but he held a hand up to stop her. And then he held up the other hand, drawing them together, palms out, thumbs extended, as if to see her face in a frame. When he moved the frame to the side, Marie reflexively followed. As he panned slowly to the right, she tilted in her seat. When he made a quick cut to the left, she leapt from her chair, knocking it over, to keep her face in the shot. She felt she had to follow, wherever it went. Todd shouted, “Yes!” As he moved his imaginary camera around the room, Marie chased it like a kitten after the beam of a flashlight. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  He shook his hands loose, cracking his knuckles and examining his fingers, as if to check that the equipment remained in good condition. “Please sit, Miss . . .?”

  “Melchionne,” she replied brightly, picking up the chair.

  “Yes, of course. Italian, is it? Oh, right. Sit. What I said ‘No’ to, earlier, was the idea of you in a behind-the-scenes position. Memoranda, correspondence, filing. I know as well as any executive that such mundane affairs must be tended to with efficiency. Still, I don’t see you as a mere paper shuffler. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, Mr. Todd, thank you, I do.”

  “Good. Why be a drone, when you can be the queen bee? And I do see you as a queen.”

  “I want to make the most of myself, to go as far as a girl can go,” Marie said, flushing slightly. She knew how he’d twist her reply in his mind, but the flattery still flattered. She wasn’t used to compliments.

  “You’ll find that I’m a very direct man, young lady. Very direct indeed. Does that present a problem for you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Very well. Are you ready to proceed with the interview?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Naturally, all the heavy lifting, brain-wise, will be my department. Who would want to ruin that pretty face? Still, I can see you have more to offer than meets the eye. Very well, then. We’ll start with the psychological tests. Are you ‘inner directed’ or ‘other directed’?”

  “What?”

  “Very quickly, just answer. First thing that pops into your head. As I said, this is psychology. ‘Inner’ or ‘Other’?”

  “Uh, the second.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Never mind. It’s too late to change. If you could be an animal, what kind of animal would you be?”

  The first animal that leapt to mind was Mr. Todd, with his sweaty paws. She wondered if she should flirt a bit, but then she decided against it. A defense lawyer would claim she was leading him on. She’d play it straight, as an ambitious young girl who was falling for his hustle about the high life. What kind of animal would that girl pick, to show her initiative and drive? “Oh, I know! A beaver.”

  The answer pleased Mr. Todd enormously. “I’ll bet you would. You’d be a busy little beaver, wouldn’t you? Do you know who sat in that very same chair, ten years ago, and gave the very same answer?”

  “No, who?”

  “Grace Kelly.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Princess Grace Kelly. Still, she’ll always be just little Gracie to me. Ah well. I’d say you were a B-cup, yes?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Vital statistics. Never mind your measurements, I’ll take them later on. Your height and weight?”

  “Uh, five-foot one, one hundred and ten pounds.”

  “I could just put you in my pocket right now. Date of birth?”

  “September 5, 1938.”

  Marie had credited herself with an extra decade of youth. It was a bolder claim than it needed to be, but she knew that if Todd believed her, it would boost her self-assurance.

  “Twenty. And a Leo! Very intriguing. Blood type?”

  “O positive.”

  Mr. Todd sighed. “So common! It can’t be helped. Am I correct in supposing that you think I might be interested in your qualifications?”

  Marie knew the question was a trap, and that it was her duty to step into it. She was more cheered by passing for twenty than she was shamed by her common blood. And she hadn’t known that Lana was a Leo, but she supposed that it made her brave as a lion. “Why yes, Mr. Todd, even though you’ve been talking about much more interesting opportunities, I do have typing and—“

  Todd stood up and pounded his fists on the desk. “No!”

  Marie shrank into her seat. When she clutched the back of the chair, she felt the leather cords, and then she let them go. The room shook from his pounding, and spittle lashed from his lips. Sweat streamed down his cheeks. “No-No-No-No-NO! Nothing you have done before matters! Nothing! You are nothing!”

  Todd was putting on a show, but Marie was frightened by the real rage in his voice, the disdain in his eyes. Todd was Oz, the Great and Powerful, and Marie was Dorothy, come begging at his doorstep for his magic. Not Marie. Lana Melchionne.

  “You are nothing,” he went on, softening, as if in sorrow, before shifting again to a tone of consoling benevolence. “But with me, you can be anything. The possibilities are limitless! Come now, let’s get you over to the couch. Let’s see how you look in the light.”

  Marie tensed as she rose, clutching her purse. The attack was impending. She could smell it like spring in the air. It was what she’d come for, wasn’t it? Better to have a trained officer here in Todd’s lair, instead of some true naïf. But Marie hadn’t done anything like this before. She saw Todd remove his jacket and place it over his chair. He loosened his tie. Yes, showtime was approaching. She tightened her gloves. Let him try something fresh, I’ll slap him into next Sunday! She knew herself better than Adele did. Had an hour passed yet? No, not nearly. She hoped Adele’s watch was fast. Marie and Todd were reading from different scripts. He thought he’d seduced her, and he wasn’t wrong—her fear of failure outweighed her fear of assault. Just barely, for now.

  Todd directed her to the near side of the couch, beside the arm. He’d try to pin her in the corner, she supposed. She sat down and unclasped her purse to take out her compact. Her hands were
shaking, and she made only a cursory effort to powder her cheeks. She wanted the purse open, if any of its arsenal became necessary—If! As if it would be “if,” and not “when”—and she placed it on the floor, by her feet. She would have preferred to have it beside her, but she didn’t want to risk him moving it out of reach. She looked up to see the gray stains of his armpits as he fidgeted with a tripod. And then she couldn’t see anything.

  The blazing whiteness hit her like an avalanche. The light felt as if it had force and weight, knocking her back before she could shield her eyes. When the second light was trained on her, the blow was less, but she still hadn’t recovered from the first. She placed her feet on either side of her purse. When Todd laughed, it sounded like he was moving around. She couldn’t see him. She imagined an ant beneath the magnifying glass of a cruel child. She put her hands out like parasols in front of one eye, the other. She had to try to spot him, to know where he was, even with her shocked retinas. She was relieved when he spoke, though his voice was raucous: “Glorious! Just—glorious! How does it feel to be famous?”

  Marie tried to smile but couldn’t.

  “Miss—I think we’re past the formalities, aren’t we? What is your name?”

  “Lana. Lana Melchionne.”

  “Lana, your face was made for the camera, you pretty little liar.”

  Marie opened her eyes, despite how the light hurt. She couldn’t let the remark pass unchallenged. “What did you say?”

  When she didn’t see him, she looked down again, raising a hand to her brow. And then she felt his hands on her shoulders. Her muscles clenched at his touch, but he kept on pressing down. She thought of the arcade game where a crane-claw nips a random prize from a pile. She tried to wriggle from his grasp. “Relax.”

  “If you think you can call me a liar—”

  “Relax. Relax your body, and relax your mind. Don’t be upset, don’t take offense, but your name isn’t Lana. No one’s name is. Not even Lana Turner is really named Lana. Her real name is Mildred. Mildred! Spoils things, doesn’t it? A pretty girl says her name is Mildred, it’s like she smiles and she’s missing teeth. ‘Lana?’ That’s all Hollywood. And Hollywood starts here. Anybody can be anybody. That’s the American dream. And I’ll call you whatever you want, until I think of a better name. Do you really believe in yourself, Lana? Do you believe in this country?”