The Blonde Died Dancing (15 page)

“And,” I said, “you think he’s a dope. It’s there on the tape.”

“That’s it. Can you imagine how little old Phil would feel about loaning me five thousand dollars if he heard that tape? Why, if Dottie’s sister heard it, even she wouldn’t be on my side anymore.”

“That’s how Anita was blackmailing you?”

“It wasn’t for much. On my salary I can’t afford much blackmail. I suppose I was one of the lesser items on Anita’s list. But she was a great believer that a buck here and a buck there amounts up…”

The arrival of my eight o’clock pupil drove Jack Walston from my studio. But the ferocity of his farewell glance let me know that I owed him a certain amount of recording tape and that he’d be dropping around sometime soon to collect. My eight o’clock pupil felt the tension. He said if I was having any trouble with that fresh crumb, he’d be glad to do something about it for me. I thanked him for being a gentleman and a scholar, but declined his offer.

I gave him a dancing lesson.

I gave another lesson after that, and then my day was done. Now I would surely have a chance to locate Steve. As I stepped from my studio, Hooray Rose stepped from hers.

“I’m furious,” Hooray Rose said pleasantly. “I’m so mad I could spit.”

“Why, Hooray?”

“Just look at this.”

She handed me a small sheet of blue paper. It was a memorandum addressed to Miss H. Rose. It read: “That dress… need I say more?” It was initialed O.B.

I looked at the dress. O.B. was justified.

Hooray said, “I can see you agree with him.”

“Well, yes,” I said.

“I never realized,” Hooray said happily, “that this dress was so great. Why, I was even considering giving it to the Salvation Army…”

“O.B.” I said. “O.B.”

“What, Hester?”

“O.B.”

“Sure. Oliver Bell.”

“Not Obie, Junior,” I said. “O.B., Junior.”

“I beg your pardon, Hester?”

“Does Mr. Bell have a son named Oliver?”

“Not that I know of…”

“Then who is O.B.. Junior?”

Hooray giggled. “That’s what Anita used to call Bob Spencer.”

“Bob Spencer?”

“You met him. The teacher that thinks he’s such a big shot.”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s why Anita called him O.B., Junior. To kid him. He’s so important. Always making like he owned the place, like he was a little Mr. Bell…”

“Thanks, Hooray.”

“For what, Hester?”

“Thank you very much.”

I traced Bob Spencer to the men’s locker room and prepared to ambush him outside its entrance. I stepped into the covering of a phone booth and was reminded at once of something I’d wanted to do for hours.

The phone in our apartment was answered immediately. Steve and I checked on each other’s health, then got down to business. He reported first.

He had not been able to locate Harriet Kroll or Mrs. Zeigler in any of the bars around 862 West Twenty-fifth Street. He had finally given up and gone back to wait outside the rooming house. About an hour ago the two ladies had come staggering home. He had been able to make them admit they were the ladies he wanted to see. That was all. They had both been too lushed up to be any more coherent than that. There was nothing to do but give them the night to sleep it off. We would call on them in the morning.

J reversed the chronological order of my report. I told him first about our Obie, Junior, who was none other than my friend, Bob Spencer. Then I told him about Jack Walston, his hopes and troubles. Then I got to my date with Wendell Kipp.

“He isn’t married, Steve! His wife is just a protective character he dreamed up!” Steve didn’t react. “Don’t you understand?”

“What?”

“Well, Anita wasn’t blackmailing him. How could she?”

“Yeah, I see. So Kipp’s not a suspect anymore. There wouldn’t have been any reason for him to murder her.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Steve, I have to hang up. O.B. Junior. Be home as soon as I can. Wait for me.”

I stepped out of the phone booth practically into Bob Spencer’s arms. He was startled, then his face broke into a patronizing smile. The pale eyes behind the rimless glasses blinked in recognition. He all but patted me on the arm. He said, “Well, Hester!”

“Yes. Bob, could I speak to you?” I was being confidential, personal and very urgent. “Could I speak to you alone some place?”

“Why, of course, glad to oblige. If the conference room is empty…” He chuckled. “What better place to have a conference?”

The conference room was empty.

Bob sat down and immediately proceeded to put me at my ease. He soothed me with a small, dull anecdote about a teaching experience he had recently had. Then he leaned back, crossed his legs, folded his hands over his vest and said, “Now, Hester, what can I do for you?”

“Well, Bob…”

“Be glad to help you, only too glad. Have any of the students been annoying you?”

“No, it isn’t that…”

“You can be frank with me, Hester. The pass, as I often say, is the occupational hazard of the female dancing teacher. And, I might add,” he added, chuckling, “also of the male upon occasion.”

“No, Bob, I want to help you.”

“Help me?” He was amazed, rocked with disbelief. “You want to help me? How?”

“Bob, this is rather delicate, but I feel if you and I aren’t friends already… well, we’re destined to be. That seems obvious…”

“Hester, what is it?”

“Well, I’ve heard gossip, and if it should get to the police…”

“Gossip about me, Hester?”

“May I be frank?”

“Yes, please!”

“Just how much did Anita Farrell mean to you, Bob?”

“Anita?”

“Yes. Is it true that you were so crazy about her that when she threw you over you couldn’t take it?”

“Where did you hear this, Hester?”

“It’s only gossip. But I’m afraid if the police heard it they’ll think you might have… well, killed Anita because you couldn’t live without her…”

“Hester!” Bob said sharply.

“I’m only trying to help you, warn you…”

“Thank you, but… Hester!”

“Yes?”

“It is true that there was a time when I did seriously consider Anita Farrell. Because of her beauty, her poise and her charm I thought she might be the very person I was looking for to be Mrs. Robert Spencer. But, no, I was wrong.”

“Oh?”

He nodded solemnly. “I decided against asking Anita to marry me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, after serious and prolonged consideration, I decided against it.”

“Oh?”

“Anita was not the type. Not the type at all to be an executive’s wife. Anita was essentially too self-interested. She could never have sublimated herself into my long-range plans. Anita, I’m afraid, was intent on carving out a career of her own. Quite frankly, Hester, I couldn’t quite see Anita ever attending a P.T.A. meeting.”

“No?”

“No, Hester. No, it may be ungracious of me to say so, hut I eliminated Anita Farrell from my picture. She was nothing to me but a teaching colleague here at Crescent.”

“So you have nothing to fear from the police.”

“Nothing whatsoever. Should they get wind of this gossip, I shall simply tell them the truth, ungracious as it may sound. But I thank you for your concern. I shall remember this favor, Hester.”

After Bob had gone I sat for a moment in the conference room. It had been a busy day, but somehow I didn’t seem to have proved that anybody need have anything to fear from the police except my husband.

I was discouraged.

My feet hurt.

The next morning
Steve and I went through the motions of having breakfast, but our hearts weren’t in it. When we had awakened we had wished each other a happy Fifth Wedding Anniversary, but our hearts hadn’t been in that, either. We were just killing time, waiting for two besodden ladies down on West Twenty-fifth Street to sleep it off.

Then, unexpectedly, we had company to help us kill the time. We did our insincere best to make Detective Lieutenant Bolling welcome. We offered him our most comfortable chair, some coffee, some toast and coffee. We made it clear that we were delighted that the man who was directing the search for the Waltzer had come to see us, of all people. But Bolling was in no mood to accept our hospitality. This morning he was all business; you couldn’t see the grindstone for his nose.

“Barton,” he said briskly, looking the Waltzer straight in the eye, “I’m going to wrap up this case this afternoon.”

“What time this afternoon?” the Waltzer asked.

“You’re not joking. Four o’clock this afternoon. I’ll know then who the Waltzer is. I want you to be at the Crescent School at four.”

“Me? Why me?”

“I’m throwing a little party. I’ve invited all of Anita Farrell’s pupils. I’ve invited Wendell Kipp and the two bartenders from the Feather Club…”

“And they’ll pick out the Waltzer from Anita Farrell’s pupils for you,” the Waltzer said unenthusiastically. “A great idea.”

“I’d have done it sooner,” Bolling said, “except that I was sure we’d pick up Ralph Tolley. But we haven’t found him yet.”

Good old Ralph Tolley! So nice of him to stay out of sight. It had been quite a while since I had even thought of that sterling pupil of Anita’s whose lesson time Steve had borrowed, but I made up for it now. I thought of Ralph Tolley not only with gratitude, but with affection.

“Maybe the reason we haven’t found him,” Bolling was saying, “is because he’s the Waltzer and he’s hiding out. Or maybe, if he isn’t the Waltzer, it’s because he’s dead.”

“Dead?” Steve and I said.

“Murdered. By the Waltzer.”

“Murdered?” we said. “By the Waltzer?”

Bolling nodded. He took the chart of Anita Farrell’s teaching schedule out of his pocket. He showed it to us. “See this? I’ve got every lesson hour accounted for except the hour of the murder, seven on Wednesday. Now, if Tolley is the Waltzer, that’s his time. But if he isn’t the Waltzer, the Waltzer took Tolley’s time. Understand?”

Steve and I understood. It wasn’t especially brilliant of us since taking Ralph Tolley’s lesson time was exactly what Steve had done. Bolling, however, was pleased with our quickness. He continued, admiring his own logic, despite its morbid turn.

“So it’s to the Waltzer’s advantage to keep Tolley out of our way. Maybe he did a complete job and killed him. However, we’ll know more this afternoon. If Kipp and the bartenders don’t identify the Waltzer among Miss Farrell’s pupils, we’ll know for certain that this Tolley is guilty.”

“So,” I said, “this afternoon will wrap up the case.”

“One way,” Steve said, “or another.”

“We’ll know,” Bolling said, “who is the Waltzer. You be there, Barton, at four.”

“You bet,” Steve said.

“So long,” Bolling said.

“So long,” Steve said.

“Gruesome, isn’t it?” I said.

Bolling turned back from the door.

“Gruesome, Mrs. Barton?”

“You like Steve. I can tell you do.”

“I admit it,” Bolling said. “Charming fellow, Barton.”

“But you ask him to be at your meeting this afternoon to see if he’s a murderer. Do you think Steve could possibly be a murderer?”

“Now, Mrs. Barton, if murderers looked like murderers, seemed like murderers, acted like murderers, we could put them away before they murdered anyone. In fact, a murderer isn’t a murderer until somebody knows he committed a murder. And that applies even to a charming fellow like your husband, Mrs. Barton.”

I didn’t detain him again; I was glad to see him go. “That man,” I said, “has a special talent for ruining a girl’s wedding anniversary. What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“Ten o’clock. You’ve got six hours…”

“Yeah. Six hours to prove I’m not a murderer.”

“Steve,” I said, “darling, let’s get going.”

We took a cab to the corner of West Twenty-fifth and Ninth Avenue. Steve took time out to buy Harriet Kroll and Mrs. Zeigler a present. He did his shopping in Manny’s Bar and Grille. He bought two quart cartons of foaming, cold tap beer.

We didn’t encounter the landlady again, but we didn’t need her. Steve had learned that our ladies lived on the second floor front. He tapped gently on that door. We stood waiting. Upstairs someplace, someone was playing scales on a clarinet. Steve tapped again, less gently this time. The door opened.

A stalwart, hearty looking woman in a blouse, tweed skirt and sensible shoes stood facing us. She was the goalie type. In fact, she could have been the older sister of a girl I played field hockey against back in 1946. We didn’t score against her. And I was sure no one had ever scored against this woman in any game, including what is laughingly called the game of life.

“Mrs. Zeigler,” Steve said.

“Yes,” she said.

I couldn’t believe it. This tower of bubbling health and strength with the clear eyes could not have been stumbling drunk last night. But she had been, and my admiration for her increased. No hangover ever dared trespass on this lady.

“And Miss Kroll?” Steve asked. “Is she in?”

“Yes, she is.” Mrs. Zeigler was studying Steve. “You look familiar.”

“We met last night.”

“Oh, really? Well, come in, come in!” She drew us through the doorway. “Harriet and I meet so many people, but so few of them develop into lasting friendships. Harriet’s in the bathroom, bathing. Call me Clara.”

“I’m Steve Barton. This is my wife, Connie.”

“How do you do, Connie? We were just about to have some breakfast.”

In the center of the large, somewhat barren room a gate-legged table had been set up. Two places had been laid for a breakfast of tomato juice, sticky sweet rolls and tall glasses of milk. In the middle of the table stood a defiant looking geranium. There were some uneasy appearing chairs, two day beds, neatly made, and one chest of drawers.

“What,” Clara said, “is in the bag?”

“Beer. Sparkling fresh-drawn tap beer.” Steve put the bag on the table. “But if you haven’t had breakfast yet…”

The bathroom door opened and Harriet Kroll drifted through it. My first impression was that she was a slip of a girl, aged about eighteen. Then I saw past the wide, pleading eyes, the dainty, timid touch of lipstick, the halo of curly, silken hair. I saw the tiny wrinkles, the infinite weariness in her face, and I felt very sad.