Devil's Garden (7 page)

“Hammered with all my might against that beastly lock?”

Kennedy looked to Reagan and Reagan back to Kennedy and, for the life of her, Maude could barely tell the two thick Irishmen apart except that Kennedy—or Griff, as he said—had red hair and Reagan’s hair was blond, and Reagan’s head looked like some kind of melon.

“Do you know where we can find these young ladies?” Kate Eisenhart asked, stepping away from the door and out of the shadows. A window was open in the hotel room and they could hear the high tinny squawk of horns and the clanging of the cable cars out on Powell. The curtains blew slightly in the breeze.

“No.”

“What about Mr. Semnacher?” Eisenhart asked.

“I don’t know what’s become of Mr. Semnacher. He left shortly after Miss Rappe became ill.”

“Did he speak to Miss Rappe after she became sick?” Reagan asked.

“Did he know Miss Rappe well?” Kennedy asked.

“Did he see the girl sick in 1219?” Kate Eisenhart asked.

Maude Delmont tossed her head from side to side on the pillow and groaned. “My head feels like it’s going to explode. All these questions and I’ve yet to put my best friend in the world in the ground. Can’t I mourn for her?”

Kennedy looked over to Reagan. Reagan walked to the open window looking out over Union Square and the Spanish-American War Monument.

Kate Eisenhart sat on the bed and there was a noticeable shift in the mattress as she felt Maude’s forehead and traced the line of her jaw with the tips of her stubby man fingers. Maude smiled up at the big woman and the woman’s cheeks flushed.

“Did anyone else hear Miss Rappe say that Roscoe Arbuckle had hurt her?”

“Just the girls.”

“Alice and Zey?” Reagan said.

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know them?” Reagan asked.

“No.”

“And you don’t know where to find them?” Kennedy said from the window.

“One of them sang at a speakeasy. I don’t know what the Zey girl did. To be honest, she was the less attractive of the two, although I think she fancied herself as an actress.”

Maude watched the two men grow restless and play with their felt hats in their hands, kneading the wool and exchanging glances, and all Maude wanted was for room service to arrive with her lamb chops with mashed potatoes and a cherry tart on the side.

Maude closed her eyes and opened them again, and Kate Eisenhart was smiling at her, and, from the big weight on the bed, Maude could feel the policewoman’s breathing grow heavy and labored whenever she met her eye. The thick roll of fat under Kate’s jaw trembled a bit.

“Now, now. I know what it’s like to lose a friend. I bet you can’t even eat.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Tom, Griff—you two skedaddle. I’ll stay with this poor creature.”

“We have a few—” Tom started.

“Thank you,” Maude said. “My nerves are raw as a side of beef.”

The big fat policewoman tucked the covers up to Maude’s chin and turned off the bedside lamp. She stood and pushed Kennedy and Reagan toward the door.

“I dreamed of her last night,” Kate said.

“Ma’am?”

“Virginia. She wanted people to know what that Fatty had done to her. He’s a monster. A vile, disgusting creature. If I had my way, they’d chop his man bits clean off.”

The boys looked at each other again.

“You fools,” Kate Eisenhart said. “You poor fools.”

“THE CHRONICLE’S BEEN RUNNING this serial ’bout this detective named Craig Kennedy,” Phil Haultain said. “You got to see this thing. This guy ain’t like us. He’s a real gentleman. A Nob Hill type, only he lives in New York, and has a manservant and four speedy cars.”

“Four of ’em?”

“Four of ’em.”

Haultain and Sam walked out back of the Flood Building, heading toward Powell.

“See, this guy’s some big brain who can smell a brand of cigarette on a woman and uses a microscope to match hairs found at a murder. He also wears expensive clothes and knows how to talk to women.”

“Nothing like us. We can’t talk to women.”

“See, Craig Kennedy is some man about town but he wants to right the wrongs of society,” Haultain said. “The paper’s running part four next week, but I think you can catch up. Last time we left Craig he’d been drugged but came out of it to make this big-time raid. But before he could make a raid, the whole goddamn house blew up. Kennedy escaped without a hair out of place, located some underground tunnel, and followed the bad guys just as the chapter ended. I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”

“You mind if we drop by Marquard’s? I’m out of smokes.”

“Thought you rolled your own.”

“Too much work.”

“How’s the lungs?”

“Working.”

“It’s worse in the fog, ain’t it?”

Sam nodded.

Sam bought his cigarettes and they cut back across Powell, waiting for a horse-drawn wagon, bumping along, loaded down with fish and crabs on ice blocks. As they followed O’Farrell, the electric streetlights tripped on one after another like dominoes.

“So what’s the plan?”

“Wait a couple minutes and follow me inside. When you come in, you don’t know me.”

“Sam, what do you think happened to that girl?”

“Ain’t my problem.”

“You just want the truth?”

“I just write reports.”

Inside Tait’s, a man with a face like a skillet cleaned out sundae glasses and dirty spoons in a sudsy bucket of water. Sam leaned into the counter and asked for a drink and the man said, “It’s Prohibition, ain’t you heard?,” and Sam said he thought this place was a speak.

The ice-cream man snorted and pumped out some chocolate in a glass.

“So what are you, a dry agent?”

Sam reached for the leather wallet in his tweeds and opened it to the Pinkerton badge.

“Just looking for a couple girls. One of ’em’s named Alice Blake. The other’s name is Prevon or Prevost. No trouble. Just want to ask them a couple questions.”

“I know Alice.”

“She here?”

The man looked back at the octagon clock on the wall and then at Sam and said, “What’d she do? Break an old man’s heart?”

“Exactly.”

The door opened, a bell jingled overhead, and three girls flitted past the counter and toward a back door. The ice-cream man’s sharp little eyes clicked to the girls, as they disappeared through an unmarked door, and then back to Sam.

The bell jingled again, and Phil stepped up to the bar and asked for a chocolate malt.

“Can you leave her a message?” Sam asked.

The soda jerk shrugged and said something about this being America, and then Sam wrote out a phone number on the back of a business card.

“What’s in this for me?” the soda jerk asked.

“Helping out your fellow man.”

“That’s some racket.”

5

S
o you were there?” “Sure,” Alice Blake said. Two minutes after Sam left, Phil had sipped his malt and heard the soda jerk ring up the Woodrow Hotel and ask for a Miss Blake. He didn’t say much, only relayed that some dick was looking for her and that if she had any goddamn sense she wouldn’t come to work tonight. He said the cops had been by, too. Fifteen minutes later, Sam asked a hotel clerk what room his sister Alice Blake was staying in and to please not ring the poor girl because it was a surprise for Ma and all.

“So you dance?” Sam asked, sitting across from the girl in her hotel efficiency, Phil in the lobby, scouting out the stairs and elevators in case she bolted.

“I’m a dancer,” Alice Blake said.

“What’s the show?”

“Tonight we’re doing the powder-puff number, where all the girls come out in their drawers and sing a little song about our sweet little powder puffs, and then we take these big powder puffs, really too big to be real because I guess that’s funny and all, and we whack you goofy bastards in the kisser with some face powder. Only I don’t think it’s face powder, because that would be a damn waste. I think it’s just flour, because later on my hands smell like a cake.”

“I like cake.”

“You gonna see the show?”

Alice Blake was a girl of average height and average build, with a brown bob and big baby-doll eyes. She giggled a lot when she talked, and after she invited Sam into her room her hands shook a bit as she struck a match and lit a little cigarette. A half-packed suitcase sat on a chair below a window looking out onto O’Farrell.

“You want to tell me what happened last Monday?”

“I seen the girl sick.” Alice had finished up the smoke and now worked a thick coat of dark paint to her eyelid with her twitching hands, using a mirror above the bureau. She switched to another brush and arched her eyebrows.

“Did Mr. Arbuckle hurt her?”

“I told you. When that Delmont woman started screaming and carrying on and beating on the door with her shoe and all, that’s what made me come running.”

“Where were you?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Which bathroom?”

“I don’t know. The big room where they had the Victrola.”

“1220?”

“I guess.”

“How long were you in the bathroom?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“You sick or something?”

“I was with a fella. That actor buddy of Roscoe’s with the funny voice.”

“Lowell Sherman?”

“That’s the one. So anyway, I finished up having a real nice conversation with Lowell.”

“In the bathroom?”

“You can talk in the bathroom same as anywhere else,” Alice Blake said. “And so Mrs. Delmont come running into the room, and the way that broad was yelling you’d think the whole St. Francis was on fire or there was an earthquake or some crazy thing. Only she was moaning about Virginia being with Roscoe, and so I sez to Zey—that’s my girlfriend—I say to Zey, What gives if old Fatty gets him some tail? I mean, we all need it. I said, Good on him.”

“And then what?”

“And then the hotel dick comes and ruins the party, and then Virginia is moaning and thrashing and all that on the bed and that ruined the party, too. God rest her soul.” Alice crossed her heart the way Sam’s mother had at mass. “And then Maude Delmont and Zey and me tried to help the poor girl out by putting her in a cold bath. Fatty and that good-looking foreign fella Fishback helped, too. We thought she was just drunk is all.”

“Did the girl say anything?”

Alice was finished with the paint job and turned her head from side to side inspecting what she’d done with her eyes and apple cheeks. Satisfied with it, she gave her bob a nice little comb through and then felt the weight of her breasts in the lace camisole and smiled.

“You think I have nice tits?”

“Spectacular.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Sam.”

She smiled. Then she frowned.

“Kind of a boring name—Sam. That sounds like a schoolboy.”

“How ’bout Craig Kennedy?”

“Who’s that?”

“A master detective with four speedy cars.”

“I love speedy cars.”

“Zoom.”

“So I was telling you about what I didn’t see. I’m telling you like I told the policeman who called me, I didn’t see nothing and I didn’t hear nothing. They’ve been hunting me down like a rabbit and my nerves are just about shot. You wouldn’t have a little drink with you?”

Sam shook his head and asked, “Who was the policeman?”

“Said his name was Reagan. Didn’t say his first name.”

Sam smiled. “Did Miss Rappe say anything else?”

“I only know what Maude Delmont said. She said that ole Fatty had crushed that poor girl with all that weight.”

“You believe it?”

“She was groaning and moaning and all that. Zey heard her say something.”

“What’d she hear?”

“She said Virginia said that she was dying. He said he’d hurt her.”

Sam nodded and jotted down a few notes. “ ‘He’ being Arbuckle?”

“He being
he
. I don’t know who the screwy girl was talking about. We was just there having a good time, and then we tried our best to help her. It’s a real shame. It really is. Gosh, I feel bad about what I said about poor Virginia ruining the party. She seemed like a nice lamb. Screwy. But a real lamb. Did you know she was the model for the sheet music to ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’?”

“Nope.”

“She sure was. I like it when you meet somebody who’s somebody.”

“Everybody is somebody.”

“Who are you kidding?” Alice Blake smiled. She had a dynamite smile. “You’re only somebody if you get your picture made and people pay a nickel to take a look. The rest of us are just deadbeats.”

“Where can I find Zey?”

Alice shrugged and smiled over at Sam.

He mouthed the word
spectacular
.

“Keep talkin’, Craig Kennedy.”

THE COPS LOCKED ROSCOE in a cell by himself, checking on him twice in the first four hours, and he’d made jokes with them, trying to make them feel at ease, but they’d only answer with curt replies about supper, toilet paper, or a tin cup for water and walk back down the hall. He’d laid back into his narrow bunk, the newsboys already noting his bunk was made for a man half his size, and he’d wriggle his toes in his silk socks and look at the ceiling. Roscoe knew what disappointed reporters most was the fact that he’d weighed in at only two hundred sixty on the Bertillon charts, not the three-fifty he’d told the press men in Hollywood. He loved making up stories for the publicity folks at Paramount about how he ate a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs every morning with a pot of coffee.

The cell was six by six. One of the walls decorated with some nice prison art, stick figures of Gloom and Joy shaking hands, Mary’s Little Lamb, and the simple inscription HELL above his head.

But it wasn’t so bad. Roscoe had fashioned a coat hanger from a strand of wire from the springs of his bunk. He’d hung the Norfolk jacket he’d had fitted at Hart Schaffner Marx neatly from a single hook and knocked off his shoes by the bed.

He had paper and a pouch of tobacco Dominguez had brought him along with a safety razor and some soap.

When he was a boy, this little place would’ve seemed like a palace. Sometimes he’d awake from a drunk or a dream and think he was still living in that sod house in Smith Center, Kansas, with dust storms and tornadoes and gully washers that would turn half the kitchen into a pile of mud. Other times he’d be in that dead, dazed time in Santa Clara after his mother had died and he was sent north to live with a father he hadn’t seen in years only to find his father had split town and started over again. He remembered the shame of sitting in the train station overnight and waiting for ole Will Arbuckle to show up and finally finding pity from the man who’d bought his family’s hotel and offered him a job.