The proprietor, smiling: “I fix it so you will not be good long.”
He leads Nick to a table near the orchestra where two or three girl entertainers are seated. Nick is welcomed with that special cordiality reserved for liberal spenders in Harlem late-spots.
The beguine over, one of the girls at the table signals the orchestra and gets up to do a special number for Nick. While she is working at it a waiter brings Nick a note, which reads:
Darling Nickie,
If you still remember poor little me and my little coal-yard in Cleveland, and can tear yourself away from your charming little playmates, won’t you come over and have a little drinkie for old times’ sake.
Adoringly,
Belle Spruce
Nick, to the waiter: “Where did this come from?”
Waiter indicates the table men are crowded around.
Nick, seeing nothing but men: “Is there a lady there?”
Waiter, enthusiastically: “A lady? What a lady! If I didn’t have to work for a living carrying drinks to these pigs!” He throws a kiss toward the hidden lady.
Nick, rising, straightening his tie, eluding the detaining hands of his tablemates: “Well, well, old Belle Spruce.” He crosses to the crowded table, pats the shoulder of one of the men standing in his way, and, when the man steps aside, is face-to-face with Nora.
Nora, brightly: “Why, Nickie, are you looking for somebody?”
Nick, looking at her, speaking as if with carefully controlled anger: “Tonight, two nights ago, three times last week. How much longer did you think I was going on believing you had to sit up with your sister’s sick baby?” Then sharply: “Which is the man?” Then craftily, as he begins to look in turn at each of the men at the table: “They tell me he limps a little.”
Each man, as Nick looks at him, walks away from the table with exaggerated agility, or firmness, or gracefulness, to show he is not lame. Nick quickly sits down at the table and says to the waiter: “Take the rest of those chairs away and bring us two Bacardis and a menu. I’m starving.”
Nora, looking regretfully at her departed admirers: “They were such nice men, Nick. One of them promised to teach me a new dance. And another was telling me how much I’d like Buenos Aires.”
Nick: “With a blond wig? What are you doing here anyhow?”
Nora, putting a finger up beside her nose: “I have a clue.”
Nick, with complete loss of interest: “Oh, well, if that’s all it is.”
Nora: “I oughtn’t to tell you.”
Nick, agreeably: “Go ahead and don’t.” Then, as the waiter arrives with their drinks and menus: “What do you want to eat?”
Nora, sulking: “I don’t care. Anything you want.”
Nick, to the waiter: “Two more Bacardis, two orders of oysters on the half shell, two . . .” etc., etc. He orders two enormous and complicated meals. The waiter goes away.
Nora: “You’re going to feel very silly if you don’t solve this mystery just because you were too smart-alecky to listen to my clue.”
Nick: “Don’t get mad—I’ll listen.”
Nora: “You don’t have to listen. Just give me the fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents.”
Nick: “What fourteen dollars and which seventy-five cents?”
Nora: “For the man.”
Nick, patiently: “What man?”
Nora: “The man who phoned me.”
Nick: “Let’s get this straight. A man phoned you and—”
Nora: “No, he phoned you.”
Nick: “A man phoned me and I promised him fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents?”
Nora: “Yes. I did. You weren’t there.”
Nick: “I wasn’t where?”
Nora: “You’re just trying to get me mixed up. At MacFay’s, after you left, a man phoned you, a man with an accent, and when you weren’t there he talked to me, and he said he’d seen in the paper that you were hunting for Church and Dum-Dum and he could tell you where to find Dum-Dum if you met him here. He said not to bring the police because he was not a stool-pigeon and he only wanted fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents because that was what Dum-Dum owed him and wouldn’t pay and the whole thing was between gentlemen. He kept saying the whole thing was between gentlemen.”
Nick: “That must have made you feel pretty much an outsider. Where did he say Dum-Dum is?”
Nora: “He didn’t say.”
Nick: “Is that why we’re going to give him fourteen dollars and seventy-five cents?”
Nora: “No. He hasn’t had a chance to speak to me yet. All those nice men came over and began to talk to me, so there wasn’t much privacy.”
Nick, as the waiter brings their fresh drinks and the oysters: “I’m sorry I chased them away. For fourteen seventy-five they can come back.”
Nora, rising as the orchestra begins to play again: “They don’t have to. I’m going to dance with my new teacher.” She goes over to one of the men who had been at her table, and they dance.
The girl entertainer who had done a number for Nick, now seeing him alone, comes over to his table. Her face lights up when she sees the two orders of oysters in front of him and she asks: “What are you doing later?”
Nick starts to answer her, then breaks off as he sees Dum-Dum coming into the Club. Dum-Dum is making a smiling entrance, bowing to acquaintances right and left, and when he sees Nick he comes straight to his table.
Dum-Dum, to the entertainer: “Mr. Charles my friend. You sharpen the teeth someplace else. Scram, scram.”
The girl goes away.
Nick: “Make out all right with the police?”
Dum-Dum: “Always I do. Last night I get drunk and go to sleep in a vestibule and they lock me up until a couple hours ago I get sober. Those policemen from Long Island, they don’t believe me, but they believe policemen in station-house when I take them there.”
Nick: “How about Church? Is he making out all right?”
Dum-Dum, shaking his head: “That I come to ask you. I do not know.”
Nick: “Where do you think he is?”
Dum-Dum: “I do not know.”
Nick: “Think he killed MacFay?”
Dum-Dum, grinning: “Does any man say he think his friend killed?”
Nick: “MacFay was killed with a knife just like yours.”
Dum-Dum: “The police tell me that. I think they tell lie to trick me. I never see another knife like that up here.”
On the dance floor, Nora has just begun to learn the new step when, each time she comes around close to the orchestra, she is thrown off by one of the musicians going, “ps-s-s-s!” in her ear. She doesn’t succeed in learning which musician it is, or why he is “ps-s-sing” in her ear until the music stops. Then, as she moves off the floor, one of the musicians catches her eye and makes a double gesture—indicating Dum-Dum with a jerk of his thumb, rubbing the fingers of his other hand with that thumb to say “Pay me.”
Nora nods and goes back to her table, accompanied by her dance partner. Thus encouraged, the other men who had been at her table begin to drift back to it, bringing chairs with them.
Nora, whispering to Nick: “The man wants his money.”
Nick: “All men want money. Greed, greed! It’s the curse of the age.”
Nora: “But he did help us find Dum-Dum.”
Nick: “If he helped you, you pay him.” He turns to find his table is crowded with Nora’s admirers, most of them busy just now ordering drinks on him of course.
Nora takes advantage of Nick’s preoccupations with his guests to pick his pocket.
Sitting opposite Nick is a fat man the others call Cookie. He is very tight and talkative and none of the others seems to like him.
Cookie: “I could tell you
right now who killed most of the guys that get themselves killed in this man’s town. A fellow that gets around as much as I do and keeps his eyes open and can put two and two together don’t have to wait to read things in newspapers.”
One of the men, contemptuously: “Okay, big lard, who knocked off A. R.?”
Cookie: “Don’t think I don’t know, but you don’t have to think I’m putting the finger on guys. Listen, I could . . .” As he goes on, the orchestra begins to play again; one of the men at the table rises and bows to Nora, who gets up and goes off with him to dance, the money she took from Nick wadded in one hand. Dancing past the musician who had signaled her, she drops the money into his instrument.
Back at the table, Cookie is telling Nick: “And I could tell you plenty about Sam Church, too. Many’s the bottle him and me killed in this joint and over in that gal’s flat he run around with, too.”
Nick: “What girl? Smitty?”
Cookie: “No—Linda Mills—the one he ditched, or got ditched by, before he took up with Smitty. A cute-looking kind of doll, I guess, under all that war-paint, but too plenty tough for me. Too plenty tough, I guess, for most guys—the way she didn’t hold on to any of ’em very long. Lives over in the Chestevere Apartments.”
Nick: “He must move around fast. I thought he’d only been back from Cuba ten days or so.”
Cookie: “If you call this Cuba. He’s been around these joints ever since he got out of stir. Say, you don’t know no more about him than the police; and it’s a cinch they’re plenty wrong about him if they say Sam was mixed up in anything down on the Island last night. I seen him going in Vogel’s at—”
Dum-Dum suddenly jumps up, reaches for his knife, which is not in its usual place at his waistband, then hits Cookie in the face with his fist. A waiter swings his tray high in the air with both hands and bangs it down on Cookie’s head. As Cookie falls down on all fours another man hits him with a bottle, and then half a dozen are making flying leaps at him as the lights go out.
The orchestra, in the manner of a well-trained orchestra in a joint, continues, playing a little louder than usual. When the lights go on, Nora is one half of the only couple still dancing. Nick is the other half of the couple. Nora’s former partner is coming out from under a table. Police are coming into the place. Cookie has disappeared.
Nick: “Shall we rejoin our guests, Mrs. Charles?”
Before Nora can reply, her former partner comes up to her holding one side of his jaw, saying: “Are you all right? Something bumped into me something terrible.”
Nick looks down at the knuckles of his right hand, but does not say anything.
They return to their table. Their uneaten dinner is a smeary mess. The police are trying to find out what happened.
Dum-Dum: “It is that Cookie. Always he want to start something—always a fight.”
Nick: “I didn’t see him do anything.”
Waiter: “Aw, you can’t wait till he does anything. It’s too late then. You got to get the jump on him.”
Another man: “That’s right. It’s a kind of look he gets in his eye.”
Nick gives it up. He and Nora start to leave. Nick gets his hat and they start down the stairs.
Nora, stopping: “Oh, Asta. I checked Asta.”
Nick returns to the hatcheck room and gets Asta, who has been sleeping on a pile of coats. When Asta gets up from them the hatcheck girl calmly begins to pick them up one at a time to hang them carefully on hangers.
As Nick and Nora go downstairs, Nick: “Before we get outside, darling. We have a baby—remember? You didn’t check that, did you?”
Nora: “I left Nicky home with the policemen.”
Nick, as they go into the street: “Oh, the policemen, of course. What policemen?”
Nora: “That Lieutenant Guild sent up to the hotel to guard him. Oh, there’s the park. Let’s give Asta a little run in it before we go home.”
Nick, as they walk toward the park: “Did you have a chance to count the policemen?”
Nora: “I counted both of them.”
Nick: “I’m glad there are only two.”
Nora: “So am I, because they said they were going to stay with us till things quieted down if it took six months, and that they wouldn’t be any trouble at all—we could just treat them like members of the family.”
They turn Asta loose in the park and sit down wearily on a bench, where Nora immediately falls asleep. Nick is thinking. He makes up his mind, calls Asta, ties him to the bench, gets up quietly, and leaves Asta and Nora there.
At the Chestevere Apartments Nick knocks on Linda Mills’s door. There is the sound of movement in the apartment, but nobody opens the door. Nick knocks again.
The Chestevere landlady comes out of another apartment. She is a frowsy, middle-aged woman with the sniffles. In one hand she carries a newspaper, in the other a handkerchief.
Landlady: “At this time of morning, mister, she’s either asleep or ain’t home yet.”
She peers sharply at Nick, then down at the newspaper in her hand.
Nick cranes his neck to see his picture in the paper, then strikes the pose shown in the picture.
Landlady, all agog: “Say, you’re him, ain’t you?”
Nick bows.
Landlady, dabbing her nose with her handkerchief: “Well, I declare. What are you—” She lowers her voice to a noisy whisper. “Say, is she involved?”
Nick: “Who?” he whispers. The next seven lines are spoken in whispers that would be audible at a distance of twenty feet or more.
Landlady, gesturing toward the door with her handkerchief: “Mills.”
Nick: “What makes you think she might be—involved, as you put it?”
Landlady: “You being here—and then that friend of hers.”
Nick: “What friend?”
Landlady, raising paper to show Church’s picture—rogues’ gallery picture: “Him.”
Nick: “Do you know him?”
Landlady: “I seen him coming in and out.”
Nick: “When’s the last time you seen him?”
Landlady: “I don’t know. Maybe a couple of weeks. But that don’t mean nothing. Sometimes I don’t see my tenants for that long—them that ain’t behind in their rent.”
Nick: “What does Linda Mills do for a living?”
Landlady: “What do you think these girls do? I don’t run no Y.M.C.A. She’s been here a couple of years and she’s good pay. That’s all I care about. That’s what I tell some of the others when they kick about her throwing noisy parties sometimes and having fights in her flat.”
Nick: “How’s chances of finding out whether she’s in now?”
Landlady: “I’ll see.”
She knocks on the door, then knocks louder, calling in an unnaturally sweet voice: “Miss Mills. Miss Mills. It’s me, Mrs. Dolley.”
There is no answer. She dabs her nose with the handkerchief and takes a bunch of keys from her belt, unlocks the door, sticks her head in, and calls again: “Miss Mills.” Then to Nick: “I guess she ain’t in all right.”
Nick, stepping into the apartment, pushing the door back against the wall and standing with a heel against it, holding it there: “That’s too bad. Will you do me a favor?”
Landlady: “What?”
Nick: “I left the district attorney sitting out front in my car. Will you ask him to come up?”
Landlady, impressed: “Yes, sir.” She hurries away.
Cookie comes out sheepishly from behind the door. He has a black eye, a swollen ear, and his clothes are torn.
Cookie: “I can explain everything if you just give me a chance.”
Nick: “That’s dandy. How about explaining that bag of nails at the West Indies.”
Cookie: “Oh, th
at! Those guys get too excited.”
Nick: “I agree with you, but the point is, what was it they got too excited about this morning?”
Cookie: “I don’t know—unless maybe they thought I hadn’t ought to dragged Linda’s name in.”
Nick: “You mean they’re old-fashioned gentlemen who think a woman’s name shouldn’t be bandied about a pub?”
Cookie: “No, not exactly, but—I don’t want to do the gal no harm. She and Sam Church don’t pal around no more, so I don’t see how I was tying her up in anything. That’s what I came over here for after they threw me out of that dump—to tell her about it and see what she said.”
Nick: “And?”
Cookie: “No soap. She ain’t home.”
Nick: “How did you get in?”
Cookie: “The door’s unlocked. Try it yourself.”
Nick tries the door, finds it unlocked.
Nick: “I’ve misunderstood the whole thing. I thought the boys ganged up on you when you mentioned Vogel’s name.
Cookie: “Vogel? What Vogel?”
Nick, patiently: “You said Church wasn’t down on the Island last night because you saw him going into Vogel’s. And then the shindig was on.”
Cookie: “Oh, sure, I remember now. I started to say I saw Sam going in Vogel’s Delicatessen down on Third Avenue last night and he told me he was catching a ’leven o’clock train south, so I knew he couldn’t have been down on Long Island way around one.”
Nick: “Unless he was lying to you.”
Cookie, earnestly: “But why would he lie to me?”
Nick: “I give up. What Vogel is this that has the delicatessen?”
Cookie: “Do I know? Sol Vogel or something.”
Nick: “Not Diamond-Back Vogel?”
Cookie: “You mean the gambler? What would he be doing with a delicatessen?”
The Landlady comes back, saying: “I couldn’t find no car out front with or without a district attorney.”
Nick: “I’m sorry. He’s such a restless fellow. Have you met Cookie?”
Landlady: “I seen him somewhere, but I never met him.”
Nick: “Cookie’s a friend of Linda Mills.”
Landlady: “Maybe. I seen him somewhere.”