The Blonde Died Dancing (6 page)

I hurried back to number 11. As I entered the vestibule the inside door was just settling back into its frame. I reopened it an inch or two and listened. Footsteps were thudding on the stair carpeting. They stopped, and I heard a strong, rough voice say, “Where you headed, son?”

The next voice was the one I had heard from the catwalk over the Crescent School. My hunch had been right; this young man had just hurried down here from the studio next to mine.

“What d’ya mean, where am I headed?” he said. “Who are you?”

“I work for the city, son. Police department.”

“The police… what are you doing here?” “Haven’t you any idea?”

“No…”

“Where you headed, son?”

“To see some friends of mine,” the young man said. He spoke easily. If he had anything to be nervous about, he wasn’t showing it. “They live on the top floor. I just dropped in to say hello.”

“What’s the name of your friends?”

“Martin. Janie and Ed Martin.”

“Martin. There’s nobody named Martin lives in this building.”

“Sure they do… 9 Rhinebeck Place. That’s what they told me over the phone.”

“This isn’t 9, son. It’s 11.”

“Oh, sorry…”

I let the door swing closed. I hurried out of the vestibule of number 11 and into the vestibule of number 9. The name Martin was not under any of the mailboxes. I kept moving until I was safely in the vestibule of number 7, but my precaution was needless. The young man didn’t think it necessary because of the cop to go through the motion of visiting the phantom Martins. He breezed right past number 9 on his way toward Christopher Street.

I set out after him. I knew now that the apartment he was interested in was Anita Farrell’s. The first step in discovering why would be to find out who this young man was. He turned left on Christopher toward Sheridan Square. I went as far as Christopher, then stopped, realizing that I mustn’t follow him.

He hadn’t expected to find a policeman on duty at Anita’s apartment. I hadn’t, either. There was a possibility that Steve would make the same mistake. I would have to wait for him here, warn him against blundering into the police as the young man had.

I was beginning to worry about what was taking Steve so long when a cab pulled up to the curb and stopped. The driver leaned out at me.

“You Mrs. Barton?”

“Yes.”

“Hop in. Your husband sent me to pick you up.”

“Pick me up… where is he?”

“At the Feather Club. If he’s gone when you get there, you’re to ask the bartender for a message.”

I didn’t get this at all. “Was my husband sober?”

“Far as I could tell.”

“Where was he when you saw him?”

“Outside the Feather Club. I was parked there. What’s wrong… don’t you want me to take you to him?”

“Well… yes, I suppose so.” I got into the cab. “This is nice of you, thanks.”

“It’s an easy ten bucks. Thank you.”

Ten dollars. That was important money in our family. So it was important that I join Steve at the Feather Club. I hoped it was more important than finding out who the young man in Anita’s place was, and why he was there.

The Feather Club was a tourist trap on Seventh Avenue below Sheridan Square. It was too early in the evening for the nearly naked ladies whose blown-up pictures decorated the front of the joint to be in action. I got out of the cab and headed for the silver door between the girls. Steve stepped out of it to meet me. He drew me to one side.

“Connie, the guy’s inside.”

“What guy?”

“The one we’re looking for.”

“But, Steve, how do you know?”

“He was down at Rhinebeck Place…”

“You’ve been there already?”

“Sure, and he was hanging around number 11. Then he got into the yard behind it from Greenwich Street, but something scared him away…”

“The cops,” I said. “There’s a cop on duty there.”

“Oh,” Steve said.

“And anyway, he isn’t the one I phoned you about. My guy was there, too. And the cops scared him away.”

“What?”

“Yes. That’s a real popular spot, Anita’s apartment.”

“Tell me about your guy.”

I told him about my guy, and I said, “Now you tell me about your guy.”

“I’ve told you all I know. Except that I followed him here… he’s here now.”

“We’ve got to know more.”

“Yes. Connie, I may be prejudiced, but I think he’d just love to tell you all about himself.”

“Oh? Oh, yes.” I had forgotten I was a blonde. I got out my lipstick. “Describe him for me.”

“He’s at the bar… sitting right in front of the cash register.”

“Don’t go far away, Steve.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

I waltzed into the Feather Club, spotted the cash register and climbed up on a stool two down from the man in front of it. The bartender accosted me. I ordered a sherry. I looked in the mirror at Steve’s man. He was looking at a lusty redhead at the far end of the bar. I had competition.

My first impression of the man was that he was proud of himself. He liked his looks, the cut of his clothes, the debonair way he smoked his King sized, filter tipped cigarette. Actually, he was handsome after a rather blatant fashion. I couldn’t tell how tall he was, but he was slender, dark, and he had big brown eyes, bedroom eyes, a bedroom with a Hollywood sized bed in it. It was with surprise that I noted he did not have a mustache. He definitely gave the initial impression of having a well-waxed, Adolphe Menjou type mustache.

He turned his sleek head and caught me examining him. I let my eyes linger admiringly on his face for a moment. I almost smiled at him, but not quite. I let him know that I, while not totally inaccessible, would be a challenge to his allure. Then I dropped my eyes. I took a dainty sip of my sherry. I sneaked a glance at the red-haired woman. She was glaring at me, and I knew that I was in. I didn’t bother to use my eyes on him again.

In a moment a gallant tenor voice was cooing at me. “May I join you?”

Languidly, I said, “Must you?”

“It’s absolutely necessary.” His teeth under his ghost mustache were gleaming at me. “Not only necessary, but inevitable.”

He established himself on the stool next to mine. I looked toward the door for Steve and found that he was at the end of the bar. He was accepting a beer from the bartender.

The man said, “Expecting someone?”

“Who, for instance?”

“Your husband?”

“He’s in Milwaukee.”

“Isn’t that nice of him?”

I smiled at the man. “He’s a darling. Sometimes he doesn’t come home for weeks and weeks.” I had the next bit of information ready; I was becoming adept at this sort of thing. “My name’s Gloria.”

“Hello, Gloria. Mine’s Wendell Kipp.”

“Hello, Wendell. Tell me about yourself.”

Wendell was delighted by my interest. To show me how pleased he was he leaned his shoulder closer to mine. I glanced at Steve in the mirror. He was scowling into his beer.

“I’m in real estate,” Wendell said.

“Well, you must show me some apartments some time.”

Wendell put his near hand over my left hand. Steve suddenly moved two stools closer to us. Wendell’s voice purred in my ear.

“There’s an apartment I’d like to show you right now, tonight.”

“Whose?” I purred coyly.

“Mine.”

“It doesn’t sound safe for a girl.”

“It’s perfectly safe. My wife’s away this week.”

“Milwaukee?”

He laughed, delighted again. His knee was against mine. Steve had moved three stools closer by this time.

Wendell turned serious, plaintive. “It’s a real pleasure meeting a girl like you, Gloria,” he said. “Thelma is such a bore.”

“Thelma? Your wife?”

“Yes. We don’t get along.”

“Doesn’t she understand you?”

“She’s so unsympathetic. Absolutely no sense of humor. We don’t have fun. Like you and I could have fun.” The leer on Wendell’s face was in Technicolor, Cinemascope, Cinerama, Todd-AO; it engulfed me. “We
could
have fun, baby, you and I… couldn’t we? Couldn’t we, though? Hmm, baby?”

I felt a thump and Steve was sitting beside me. He put his face close to mine. “Hiya, doll,” he breathed. He leered, and it made Mr. Kipp’s effort seem a pale and sorry thing. “How about great big me buying cute little you a drink?”

Wendell Kipp was on his feet.

“Look here, young fellow,” he said.

“Watch out who you’re calling young fellow,” Steve said.

“This young lady and I…”

“Watch out who you’re calling a young lady,” Steve said.

“This young lady and I wish to be alone. Now, please go away before I…” He stopped. He stepped back and looked at Steve. He studied him intently. He said, “I’ve seen you someplace before.”

“Not me,” Steve said. “I’ve never been someplace before.”

“Yes, your face is familiar. I think…”

“Wendell,” I said, “you must be wrong…”

“I know! I know where I’ve seen him!” Mr. Kipp was triumphant. “At the Crescent School!”

“Never heard of it,” Steve said.

“That’s it! He took lessons from the same teacher I did… Anita Farrell! On Wednesdays! I’ve seen him coming in as I was leaving…” Mr. Kipp stepped back. His voice shook with excitement. “I saw him yesterday! He had the lesson after mine, he was there at seven o’clock!” He was shouting now at the top of his lungs. “I know who he is! He’s the Walt…”

Steve’s fist stopped him from completing the word. Mr. Kipp staggered and collapsed on the floor. The bartender was climbing over the bar. A burly waiter was closing in on Steve. Everyone in the room was shouting now. “The Waltzer!”

Steve turned and headed for the door. I started after him, screaming. “Stop him!” I yelled. “Stop him!” I tripped, arranging it so that I plowed headfirst into the waiter who almost had his hands on Steve. We went down together, and I saw Steve disappear through the door into the night.

The waiter
helped me to my feet.

“Lady,” he said, “I almost had him. I would’ve had him except for you.”

“These darned high heels,” I said.

The bartender came back through the front door.

“Got away,” he said.

“Call the police,” somebody said.

“I’ll do that,” the bartender said, “I’ll call the police.”

A circle of curious, excited people were occupying Wendell Kipp. Nobody was paying any attention to me. I sidled to the door, got through it unnoticed, and walked quickly away from the Feather Club.

It was a good five minutes before I pulled myself together. I stopped looking aimlessly in doorways, through the front windows of bars, for Steve. I tried to be rational. If I were the Waltzer on the lam, what would I do… no, I decided to put it another way. If I were my husband-and I knew that my wife would be worried to death about me, where, under those circumstances, would I go?

Home.

It was probably as simple as that. I would give Steve thirty minutes to get home, then I would phone him there. I sat down on a bench in the little park off Sheridan Square. I lit a cigarette and calmed myself down. Then I realized I should not be sitting on this bench in the little park off Sheridan Square.

It was twenty minutes to seven. At seven I had a les-son to teach at the Crescent School of Dancing. I mustn’t attract attention to myself by missing a lesson on my first day’s work. I took a cab uptown, and there was still time to call Steve from the drug store in the lobby of the school’s building. There was no answer.

I didn’t improve my seven o’clock pupil’s dancing much, but I got through the hour without his asking for a refund. The moment he walked out the door the phone in my studio rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hester? Leone here.”

“Oh, yes, Leone.”

“Your boyfriend phoned.”

“Oh.” That would be Steve. I kind of liked him being my boyfriend again. “Am I to call him?”

“He left a message. Hester, you understand that we can’t interrupt lessons for phone calls.”

“No, of course not. Am I to call him?”

“No, he said he couldn’t get those tickets for the hockey game. He’ll meet you at your place instead of the Garden.”

“Oh. Thanks so much, Leone.”

We hung up.

I felt better. Steve was safe; he was sound. I felt very much better… then, looking at my studio with its glass walls broken only by a single door that nobody but Steve had used at the time of Anita Farrell’s murder, the relief was blasted from my mind. It was still necessary to prove that someone else, not Steve, had murdered his dancing teacher.

There was some work I could do along that line. I could see the teacher in Studio J and find out which pupil of hers had made a trip to Rhinebeck Place.

I had five minutes before my next lesson. I opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. The most vacant-looking but absolutely the prettiest girl in the world was staring at me from the doorway opposite mine. Perhaps I was being unfair. If a girl had an angel face like that, she would be silly to soil it with anything resembling a living, human expression. This girl was wearing a low-cut evening gown, so low-cut that I was sure it not only broke the rules of Mr. Oliver Bell’s establishment, but was illegal in most states of our union.

Her voice surprised me. I had expected it to tinkle like little bells on a Christmas tree caught in a draft. It was alto, a rather nasal alto.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re Hester Frost.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m a teacher, too. My name is Hooray Rose.”

I repeated her first name questioningly.

“Yes,” she said. “Like in hip-hip-hooray.”

“Oh,” I said. “Of course.”

She giggled. “That isn’t my real name. Some press agent gave it to me. When I was a show girl… my first night club job. He wanted to call me Hooray F. Rose. You know, ‘F’ for ‘For.’ But I thought that sounded conceited.” Without shifting gears, Hooray said, “I admire you very much, Hester. What guts!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Taking Anita’s place. Just think… maybe you danced with the Waltzer today. God! He had you in his arms. You might’ve been killed, too. You might be dead now. You think my dress is too daring?”

“What?”

“My dress. Is it too daring? In your estimation, I mean.”