The Blonde Died Dancing (16 page)

“Harriet,” Clara said, “this is Connie and Steve Barton.”

“Who?” Harriet asked.

“Friends of ours.”

“Oh.”

“We’ll have our breakfast,” Clara said, “while we chat. Drink your tomato juice, Harriet.”

The two ladies sat at the table; Steve and I shared a day bed. Harriet lifted her tomato juice to her lips, her little finger extended elegantly. But she put the juice down untasted. She peeked into the beer bag. She began to speak with a startling vivacity.

“How lovely! Yes, fresh-drawn from the tap, just as it should be! Just like home! At home we never had anything that came from a can. Mother would not stand for it. I can still hear her. ‘Tin,’ she would say, ‘tin is for roofing. If the good Lord meant for food and drink to be in tins, he would have put it there.’ I can still hear her saying that…”

Harriet had taken a carton of beer out of the bag, lifted off its lid. She picked up her glass of milk, hesitated a moment, then emptied it into the geranium pot. She poured beer into the glass.

“Mother was a great believer in the proper thing. She just dinned it into us girls. There were four of us, all girls… and we couldn’t have been more shocked than when she left us to go off with Mr. Campbell…”

Harriet had, in quick little darts, drunk half a glass of beer. Her eyes were already beginning to shine and her frailty was disappearing. She finished the glass quickly, then refilled it. Clara got herself a clean glass and she was drinking beer, too.

“Truthfully, though,” Harriet said, “Mr. Campbell was quite a charming man…”

“Harriet,” Clara said, “you’re prattling.”

“Am I? And you’ve spoken to me about it so often.” Steve made his move. “I suppose you’re wondering why we’re really here. I never actually met Frank Stubbs but we have mutual friends…”

“Frank,” Harriet said gently. “One of the few truly gallant men of our time. He never, never lifted a hand against me. He always calls me his little one. Little one, this, little one, that. Oh, yes, there’s an enchantment about Frank. I’ve always thought Frank would be much further along today if his last name weren’t Stubbs. Stubbs is so very plain…”

“Harriet,” Clara said.

“Oh, yes. Prattling.”

“I’ve heard so much about Frank,” Steve said. “I’m very anxious to meet him.”

“Oh, dear,” Harriet said. “Now isn’t that a shame.”

“You mean,” Steve asked, “Frank’s out of town?”

“Out of town!” Harriet cried. “Out of town! Did you hear that, Clara? My dear young man, I should say that yes, Frank is out of town.” She leaned toward Steve, her voice almost a conspiratorial whisper. “Very, very much so, indeed.”

“Well!” Steve said, and it seemed to fit the occasion so perfectly that he said it once more. “Well!”

“Yes!” Harriet whispered. “Government business.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

“United Nations.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

“Of the utmost importance. Top secret.”

“I understand.”

“He can’t even write to me. His letters might be traced.”

“You mean,” Steve said, “you can’t write to him. Your letters to him might give away… his whereabouts?”

“He couldn’t even tell me where he was going… you know, it was so urgent that he hadn’t time to even say goodbye. Oh, Frank Stubbs… when duty called, he was not found wanting. No, no, not Frank Stubbs.” Harriet was pouring beer from the second container. “Formosa,” she said, “Burma, India… wherever you are, Frank Stubbs, I drink to you!” She did, a whole glass of beer, and belched ever so daintily. “Drink to you, my love, and am with you…”

Suddenly her eyes were streaming tears. She rose and ran quickly into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Clara beckoned to us, indicating that she wanted to speak to us in the hallway outside. We followed her.

She looked at us for a moment, then spoke in an oddly cold voice.

“I don’t know why you want to see Frank Stubbs, and I couldn’t care less. You can see what he did to that poor thing. I humor her, I let her have her drunken dreams. The only true thing she said is that he ran out on her without a word… after he used up the little savings she had. And he’s not coming back. I haven’t told Harriet and I never will. A friend of mine in Boston read about Frank in the paper and wrote me about it. Frank’s dead, he shot himself.”

“When?” Steve said. “How long ago?”

“A couple of months.”

“Could I see the paper?” Steve asked.

“I haven’t got it. My friend didn’t send it, just wrote me about it…”

She broke off as the door swung in. Harriet, smiling wildly, extended her arms to us. “Come back! You mustn’t go, must you, really?”

“I’m afraid so,” Steve said. “We’re late now.”

“It’s been so pleasant,” Harriet said, “and when Frank comes home we must all get together, mustn’t we?”

“Yes,” we said. “Goodbye.”

Steve and I headed for Ninth Avenue to find a cab. I said, “Do you believe her, Steve? Is Frank Stubbs really dead?”

“I’ll check it,” Steve said. “We’ve got to know for sure.”

“How can you check it?”

“At the office. The out of town paper files. I’ll do it now.”

“All right.”

“I’ll drop you at the school first.”

He whistled at an empty cab. He gave the driver directions, then lighted us cigarettes. I didn’t look at him; I didn’t want to see the worry I knew was in his face. I hoped he wasn’t looking at me, either. It was Steve who finally spoke.

“We’re not doing so well,” he said, “we’ve just wasted one of our six hours.”

“We found out about Frank Stubbs…”

“Connie, if Clara’s right, if he died a couple of months ago, he couldn’t have murdered Anita.”

“Well, then at least we’ve eliminated him.”

“That’s the trouble,” Steve said. “We’re getting too good at eliminating people. We haven’t found anyone with a real reason to murder Anita. Stubbs had one, but if he’s dead, he’s out. And Wendell Kipp is out, so far as we know. Anita couldn’t very well blackmail a bachelor for infidelity. Bob Spencer…”

“He didn’t even care enough for Anita to murder her. Leone Webb…”

“She wasn’t being blackmailed by Anita. And neither was Oliver Bell, if we’re to believe Leone. So who does that leave us?”

“Jack Walston and Dottie Harris,” I said.

“Yes. Anita could have busted up their dream of having a night club of their own. Do people commit murder because they want a night club?”

“I’m afraid Jack and Dottie aren’t the people who would.”

“So who killed Anita Farrell? Me?”

“Oh, Steve, we mustn’t give up…”

“We won’t.” The cab pulled up in front of the school. “Listen, Connie, after I find out about Stubbs, I’ll go home. So you know where to reach me. Yes?”

“Yes. So long, Steve.”

“Take care.”

“You, too. We’re all we’ve got.”

“Sweetheart, stop looking at me as if you’ll never see me again.”

“Steve…”

“Scamper, get moving. I shouldn’t hang around this neighborhood. Remember who I am?”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

In front of the elevator bank, Wendell Kipp was standing, obviously waiting for someone, probably someone named Hester Frost. Quickly I turned and stepped through the lobby door of a drug store. I was pretty sure that Kipp had not seen me.

The Crescent School of Dancing was going to have to get along without one of its instructors for a while. This was no time for me to get involved with Wendell Kipp. This was the time for me to stay free to help Steve. With any luck he would complete, his chore at the office in half an hour, then head for home. I decided to get there first.

When the phone rang
I nearly screamed. I had been listening for Steve’s step on the stairs, the sound of his key in our lock. I had been waiting for our living room door to open and for Steve to walk in. When the phone shrilled through my concentration it was too much for me. My hello was slightly hysterical.

“Connie, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Steve… where are you?”

“The paper store down the block…”

“Why? What’s…”

“Kipp. He’s across the street from the apartment. If I try to get in, he’ll see me.”

I groaned. “He was waiting for me at the school. That’s why I came home. But I thought I’d shaken him. Oh, Steve, I’m sorry…”

“It’s all right.”

“What about Frank Stubbs?”

“He’s dead. Suicide. Two months ago in Boston.”

“Oh, Steve!”

“Yeah, he probably couldn’t raise the money to pay off Anita and keep her quiet, so he killed himself.”

“He killed himself… he didn’t kill Anita.”

“That’s right, Connie. We’ve got to forget about him as a suspect. Listen, the reason I called… I want you to play one of those tapes into the phone for me…” “Sure. Which one do you want to hear?”

“The one with Frank Stubbs.”

“But you just said we had to forget about him as a possibility…”

“Connie, put it on. There isn’t much time…”

“All right.”

I moved the recorder over beside the phone, found the Stubby number and put it on. After starting the machine, I checked to see if Steve could hear. He said that he could and I started it again.

Anita:
Come on, Stubby, let’s talk… let’s have a nice little talk.

Stubby:
Don’t wanna talk, don’t wanna have a nice little talk. Just wanna go to sleep.

Anita:
Remember what you were saying at dinner, Stubby? About how you…

Stubby:
Dinner? We have dinner? Where’d we have dinner?

Anita:
At Margiotti’s, you remember…

Stubby:
That’s right, Margiotti’s. I got reservations at Margiotti’s. Hardest place in town to get reservations… but I got them, didn’t I? Even tonight, I got them…

Anita:
You were telling me about Walter. You hated Walter, didn’t you, Stubby?

Stubby:
Who says so? Who says I hated Walter?

I stood there, bent over the machine, straining to hear every word. Stubby’s drunken mumbling went on, Anita’s voice, husky, insidious, leading him further on. There was nothing that I hadn’t heard before, nothing that I had forgotten.

Stubby:
Don’t remember. Don’t wanna talk about it. Just wanna go to sleep…

Anita:
Sit up, Stubby! Come on, sit up!

Stubby:
Stubby’s tired… very, very tired.

Anita:
Listen, Stubby, let’s you and me have a drink. That’ll wake you up. There’s some lovely Scotch in the kitchen.

Stubby:
Too late for another drink.

Anita:
We’ll make it a nightcap, shall we?

Stubby:
Too late for a nightcap… must be morning. What time is it? Can’t see my watch… what time is it?

Anita:
It’s not even twelve-thirty… the evening’s young yet.

Stubby:
Not for Stubby, it’s not young. That’s cause I’m drunk…

Anita:
No, you’re not…

Stubby:
Sure I am. Very, very drunk. Tonight’s the night to get drunk. Everybody should get drunk tonight. Why aren’t you drunk? It’s your duty… Anita: Stubby, wake up! Please, Stubby… Stubby: Tired, so tired…

Anita:
Here, Stubby, this’ll make you feel better, this’ll wake you up.

Stubby:
Don’t like Scotch… I’m a Bourbon baby… Anita: Here’s to us, Stubby… bottoms up. There, now you can talk to me, can’t you? Walter didn’t fall out that window, did he?

Stubby:
Who cares about Walter?

Anita:
You did the world a favor, think of it that way.

Steve spoke to me. “Connie, it’s too loud, it’s blurring. I can’t hear.”

I turned it down. “Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you miss any? Wait, I’ll start it over…”

“No, this is what I want to hear… listen…”

Stubby:
Drunker… the dope was even drunker… sittin’ on a window sill like that… a sittin’ duck…

Anita:
So you could make it look like an accident, huh? That was smart, Stubby… last August, and the police still think it was an accident…

Stubby:
Never thought any different. Oh, I’m smart, all right. I’m tired, too… I’m tired…

Anita:
Wait, Stubby, don’t fold up now… Stubby: I’m so tired I should get a gold medal for it…

Anita:
Wait, Stubby… oh, damn you, Stubby…

A telephone bell shrilled; it was cut oil on its second ring.

Anita:
Hello? Well, thanks… and the same to you. Who is it? Oh, just a second…

The recording ended. I spoke into the phone.

“Steve, did you hear anything that… what is it?”

“Connie, you’ve got to get that tape to me. Without Kipp following you. If he sees me, it’s all over.”

“I’ll manage somehow. Where…”

“I’ll wait for you in our block off Third Avenue. Walk down the west side of the street…”

“Yes…”

“If you can’t shake Kipp, don’t come… but you’ve got to shake him. I’ve got to hear that tape once more. I want to take it down to the office and figure it out…”

“I’ll get it to you, Steve.”

“Hurry… but be careful.”

“Yes, Steve.”

I went to the bedroom, peeked cautiously through one of its windows. Across the street, leaning against a furrier’s window, sucking a cigarette, looking as debonair as an Errol Flynn, was my Romeo, Wendell Kipp. A stately, gorgeous model from the models’ roosting place, the Barbizon up the Avenue, waltzed past him. He stepped away from the window, the better to catch her rear view. I felt not the slightest pang of jealousy. I prayed that he would jilt me and follow her for a while.

He settled back against the window, his eyes looked toward our house. He preferred blondes.

Back in the living room, I put the tapes in my coat pocket. There was no way I could get out the back of our apartment house; we were completely jammed in by other buildings. I went down the stairs to the vestibule door. I had a plan of sorts; if I were quick enough it might work.

I waited, listening, until I heard a bus come up my side of the street. The second its nose blocked Kipp’s view of our door, I was through it, up the three steps to the sidewalk, racing along beside the bus, keeping it between Kipp and me. Ninety-nine out of a hundred busses slowed down to a stop at this corner. This one didn’t. I ran beside it like a mad woman. Just as we reached the corner, it pulled ahead of me. I scooted around the corner and leaned against a wall, gasping.