The Devil's Making (25 page)

The thinner of the two sour women let out a groan. The Negress said, ‘Oh dear,' but philosophically it seemed.

‘Sergeant Hobbes is all right,' the first woman chipped in. ‘You girls remember Florence, who ran away to New Westminster with that forger? Sergeant Hobbes was the one who arrested them. She said he was a perfect gentleman. He paid their dinner on the steamer.'

‘Oh yes,' another woman said. The atmosphere softened.

‘How is Florence?' I asked politely.

‘Went back to San Francisco,' said the first woman. ‘Broken hearted. Anyway, I'm Sylvie.'

‘I'm Jane,' said the Negress. The other two were Sara and Maria.

‘My first name is Chad.'

‘Unusual,' Sylvie remarked.

‘It's not uncommon in England. Name of a saint.'

This caused a laugh, although I had not intended to be ironic. The champagne arrived in a silver ice bucket, and the first glasses were poured. We raised our glasses: ‘Your health!'

‘I've been investigating the awful death,' I said, ‘of Dr McCrory, the alienist. And since I know he used to come here and talk to at least some of you ladies, I'd like to ask some questions about him.'

‘I was surprised someone didn't come earlier,' Sylvie said unconcernedly, ‘since this was after all one of his haunts. But then I supposed that since you'd caught the Indian who did it, there was no need for further enquiries.' She raised her head and looked across the room. ‘Grace!' she called rather loudly, in a momentary lapse of good manners.

A very pretty honey-blonde woman got up from the table with the men, and came over to join us. As she sat down the waiter reappeared with another glass for her, filled it, and replenished the others, which had sunk rapidly. Good waiter, I thought. I looked around and realised I was enjoying myself. The orchestra was playing another waltz, very well. The champagne was good, the women attractive. Wouldn't it be nice to be as rich as Croesus and buy this sort of thing whenever one wanted? I smiled at myself. Looking at the women I found myself able to feel my attraction to them. I had a sense, as never before, of the naked bodies under all those elaborate clothes, and a curiosity I would like to have indulged – to look, and compare at least. I was at ease with them, and they, apparently with me.

During these few moments of reverie I had at the same time heard Sylvie explaining that Grace had probably talked to the alienist most. She had been his favourite, though the others all knew him too.

‘Did he just talk, or did he also dance?' I asked.

They giggled. ‘Dance' must have a double meaning.

‘Just talked,' Grace said. ‘He came to know the slack times when there weren't very many people, and he would come in then. He'd buy us drinks – not champagne though. I think he was a bit of a skinflint. A very charming man but, you know what it's like, we have to earn our living, and that means we need to ‘dance'.' She too was well-spoken although her voice had the nasal quality of the Canadian or Eastern American.

‘What did he talk about?'

‘Well now,
there's
a delicate question,' Sylvie put in. They all laughed and sipped their champagne, looking at me with professionally flirtatious eyes.

‘Let me guess,' I said. ‘He asked about your relations with men.'

‘Right,' Sylvie said. ‘You know then.'

‘I'd like to know what
kind
of thing,' I said, forging ahead but not sure if this direction would work. ‘I have to understand as much as I can about his character and interests. If it embarrasses you to talk about it, I'm sorry. Would it be easier if I talked with each of you separately?'

‘That's what
he
would do,' Jane the Negress interjected. ‘Go sit at a side table and just
pump
for information.' The word ‘pump' for some reason raised another laugh. Jane shrugged her shoulders and went on. ‘I guess it's all in a night's work,' she said, ‘but I didn't like it. After a while I wouldn't. I told him, look, if he wanted me to make him happy that was fine, but this talk I wouldn't take none of.'

I must have looked disappointed, because Sylvie said, ‘It's more a question if
you'd
be embarrassed than us. I'm sure we don't mind talking now, since you obviously have to do your job.'

Mindful of the fact that this would keep five girls tied up for half an hour or so, I signalled the waiter for another magnum of champagne. The feeling at the table became more easy.

‘You like being in the police?' Sylvie chatted as the waiter arrived, very promptly, with the new bottle in its own ice bucket.

‘It's new to me. I don't like spending most of my time in jail.' They laughed, as they seemed to enjoy doing at the least opportunity. ‘I find it interesting to investigate a case like this. I never met Dr McCrory. He seems to have been a complicated fellow.'

‘A deep one,' Grace said. ‘He took in everything a girl said. Nothing was ever lost to him.' There were words of agreement from the others.

‘What was the line of his questioning?'

‘There were two lines,' Grace said. ‘Men. And women.' Everyone laughed. She went on: ‘He wanted to know about men in bed with a girl. What size they were when excited, how long it took for them to spend. Were the ones who spent right away, or before even getting on, were they exceptionally nervous, or did they seem angry? Did they hold their breath? And the pumpers, as we call them, who wear a girl out – they're the worst – what kind of men were they? And did small men have big widdlers? And did many men want to gamahuche a girl – you know what that means? Everyone giggled, and I smiled as if I knew. ‘And what kind of men were they? Did some men want to be whipped or spanked? What kind of men were they? What sort of men preferred me to take everything off, and what sort wanted me to stay in my frillies? Then there were the women questions. Did I think women spent as easily as men? What had a man to do to make me spend? I wasn't going to answer that one. “Spend money on me,” I said, as a joke, and referring to his being a skinflint himself.'

‘Did he have a sense of humour?' I asked, trying to maintain my calm in the face of all this strange and casual information.

‘Not that I could see.
You
may say I liked him best,' Grace said to Sylvie. ‘That's just because I gave him more time. I didn't
like
him. Nor did I want to go with him. Why, if he pumped like that in a mere conversation, what would he do in more
intimate
circumstances? He'd never stop!'

This raised another laugh, in which I joined. I had, after all, been drinking some of the champagne myself.

‘Then there was a third line of questioning,' Sylvie put in, as if not to be outdone by Grace. ‘He was very self-important about being a doctor, and finding ways of curing nervous illnesses. He said straight out he thought that what a lot of people needed was simply a good fuck – pardon my language. He said a lot of people were too nervous and they ended up merely frigging themselves instead. Now
this
sort of language is not ours.' Sylvie shook her head, and the others looked serious. ‘We simply want to make people happy. And be happy, right girls? We're not doctors. But he seemed to think we'd have all sorts of professional tricks to help get a man stiff if he couldn't, or keep it hard if it went soft. That doesn't interest me. But he said I was hard-hearted! As if women don't give enough! If a man wants a good time he'll have it his way – and I'll give him a good time too. But if he wants to go to sleep on me or stay all night, or do anything dirty, or hurt me, or if after all he's not interested – then he can leave. If he won't I'll tug the bell cord and my chucker-outer will come and
make
him leave. That's our protection. If a man is a brute or a dirty pig or even just a fool, we don't have to be with him, even if we do like the money. We're not like the street girls, selling themselves in the back alleys to perverts and sodomites. But the doctor wouldn't understand that. I think he was disappointed. He wanted secrets, always secrets. But what's secret about making love? What is there that any woman don't know?' She looked around for agreement, and got it vociferously.

I saw this as a warning that my own line of questioning was over. But I tried another. ‘This may be a delicate question, but do any of the men you go with ever wear sheaths?'

This caused a giggle, but also a few rueful expressions. ‘And spoil their little pleasures, poor dears?' Sylvie said. ‘No, we have other ways. Not that it wouldn't help. But the answer is no, I'm afraid.'

I took a new tack. ‘Did Dr McCrory always come here alone?'

‘The only other man I ever saw him with was Witherspoon,' Grace said. They were chums.'

One of the others groaned – Jane. ‘That Witherspoon,' she muttered.

‘Witherspoon?' I said. ‘Could you describe him to me?'

‘It's not a
real
name,' Sylvie said, amid more giggles. ‘But it's not complicated. You know
spooning?
'

‘Embracing.'

‘Not exactly. From behind – like a girl going to sleep in a man's arms. And ‘wither' means
it
would wither.'

This caused an uproarious laugh. Their table was certainly the liveliest in the room, although others had been filling up with new guests.

‘Of course,' I said with a smile, although I did not find the pun very funny. ‘And who was this Witherspoon?'

‘Now, now,' Sylvie said. ‘We can't tell you names, even if we know them, which usually we don't. Then where would our reputation be?'

‘I see what you mean. But let me ask you, was this Witherspoon a stiff-looking, dark haired man?'

‘You already know!' Grace said. ‘Yes, a regular wooden soldier.'

‘Tin, you mean,' said the plump sour woman.

‘Don't be too hard on him,' said Jane the Negress. ‘He was very trying but he meant the best.'

‘I found him rather sweet,' Sylvie said. ‘Wouldn't say boo to a goose.'

‘Did he come here often with McCrory?' I asked.

‘From time to time,' Sylvie said vaguely. The atmosphere at the table changed slightly. I realised that although it was permissible to discuss how many times a dead man had attended the Windsor room, the code required that a live one be protected.

‘It's very nice of you to answer my questions,' I said. ‘I'm most grateful.'

‘Not at all…,' ‘It's nothing…' The girls began looking around the room. After all, the two magnums of champagne had been finished. As if noticing this lack of tact, Sylvie said, ‘Would you like to dance?'

‘Of course.' I rose to my feet and bowed to the ladies, who waved their fingers and smiled. Sylvie took my arm and I led her out onto the floor. A few couples were dancing. Another waltz. I had of course danced before, but at arm's length compared to this. Before I knew it I was waltzing around slowly in a sensual embrace with Sylvie, my face against her piled up hair which smelt overwhelmingly of carnation scent – she must be bathed in it. ‘I like waltzing,' she murmured into my ear. ‘The polkas come later.'

Perhaps there was a double meaning in this, though I could imagine the Windsor Rooms late at night pulsing with polkas, filled with excited and half-drunk customers. ‘Thank you for being so helpful,' I said. But as we waltzed around I could not help being seized with a desire to go with her, take off her clothes – petticoats, all those ‘frillies' – and find underneath a naked … Lukswaas. This was ridiculous.

Sylvie pressed herself against me. How much more natural, at least, were these flowing velvet gowns than the hooped crinolines worn in polite society. She let out a sort of coo. I had the feeling she might even mean it.

‘You want to come with me?' she murmured. Then since I said nothing for a moment, she added, ‘Or another time?'

‘Another time,' I said.

‘I know.' She gave me a squeeze. ‘You have a girlfriend don't you? A love?'

‘Yes.'

‘I know. When will men realise that a woman knows everything? That is if she's a real woman, not a mere slut.' Sylvie was now looking up at me as we were dancing. Her eyes, deep blue, were gentle but intelligent. ‘You see, a man like McCrory is not really a man. Why? Because he wants to see the world from a woman's point of view. Ultimately to understand other
men,
you see? That's what really excited him. I do believe he might have been a pathic.'

‘I don't think so,' I said. ‘He had at least one woman in his life.'

‘All right. I'm not saying he was a sodomist in action. I mean he was the sort of man who when he embraces a woman is feeling that he almost
is
that woman. Perhaps that makes a man a good doctor, with women patients. I
know
that sort of man – though I never went with him. You don't know that sort of man because you're not one. You
like
women.' She pressed against me, to make her point.

‘I do, but I've not known many.'

‘That's obvious. But still waters run deep, eh? I'm glad you've found a girlfriend. Is she married?'

‘How did you guess?' I was genuinely shocked, and pushed Sylvie slightly away, to look down at her questioningly.

‘Because if she wasn't, you'd be married to her, wouldn't you? – or engaged. But if she was the sort of girl you'd be engaged to, you wouldn't be sleeping with her.
Serious.
' Sylvie gave me a playful squeeze. The waltz was ending. ‘If things don't work out with her, come and see me.'

‘Perhaps I shall. Goodnight.'

Sylvie went back to the table, and I went to the door where the attendant chucker-outer had my bill – two weeks pay, even at the wage of acting Sergeant. Since the waiter had impressed me, I added half a sovereign as a tip.