This Dame for Hire (13 page)

“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

Marty looked at me.

“No.” I’d overlooked that little wrinkle. Of course, at this unfashionable hour all the tables were empty, and even the bar had only three customers.

“Well, let me see,” he said.

He went over to a wooden stand where he kept his reservation book, staring at it like it was in code, muttering to himself. But when he finally looked up, he gave us a smile like we’d won a jackpot.

“You’re in luck. I have one table for two over in that corner.”

“Fine,” I said.

“Perhaps you’d like to check your coat?”

“I’ll hang on to it, thanks.” I was wearing a light jacket, and Marty was in his suit.

Looking grumpy, he escorted us to the table, and before we even sat down I realized we were right next to the kitchen door. Well, we weren’t there to make snappy conversation.

The mâitre d’ pulled out my chair, and when I was seated he helped me drag it closer to the table.

“Your waiter will be with you in a moment.”

Marty said, “This is some snooty place.”

He took out his cigarettes and lit up both of us with a pack of Four Oaks matches. They weren’t on the table, so he must’ve pocketed them as we came in. Mitchum was fast. He would’ve made a good clipper.

“So ya don’t know what the guy looks like, but ya got a bead on the girl, is that right?”

“I know what she’ll be wearin. It’s funny they’d be meetin so early. I hope June got it right.”

“It don’t seem that early to me. I guess fancy people eat later, huh?”

“Yeah, I think they do. Maybe they’re just havin drinks here.”

Our waiter appeared at the table. He was an arrangement of skin and bones, hair plastered to his skull, face like a corkscrew.

“May I get you a cocktail?”

Marty looked at me. “Faye?”

“I’ll have a manhattan.”

“I’ll have a beer. What kinda draft ya have?”

“No draft, sir. We carry only bottled brews.” His nostrils flared.

“Oh. Then bring me a Rheingold.”

“Certainly, sir.” He seemed to disappear like a ghost.

“Ya ever hear of a place didn’t have draft?”

“I guess swanky spots don’t carry it, Marty.”

“Yeah.” He started to pull down his tie in discomfort, then caught himself.

“Hey,” I said, “don’t let this place get ya down in the dumps.”

“I hate places that put on airs, ya know what I mean, Faye? That waiter looked at me like I was somethin he’d scraped off the bottom of his shoe.”

“Pay no attention to him.”

“Yeah. He’s just a waiter, right?”

“Right.”

“He’s not the mayor or nothin.”

“Right.” I glanced at my watch. It was six. They should be arriving any second.

When the stuck-up waiter came back with our drinks and left, Marty said, “I guess I shouldn’t drink outta the bottle, should I?”

“Probably better if ya don’t.”

“Yeah.” He poured his beer into a pilsner glass.

It was then that they came in. I recognized the pale pink jacket and the matching chapeau that Peggy Ann Lanchester was wearing.

Whoever he was, he was something all right. A long drink of water in a tweed suit, resting on wide shoulders, narrowing slightly at the waist, looking like he’d been born in it. He wore a silvery gray tie and a gray trilby, which he lifted right away, revealing blond hair parted on the left. From where I was sitting, he looked every bit as good as he’d been advertised.

“They’re here,” I said to Marty, whose head was down. “Don’t look yet. Talk to me like we’re having fun.”

“Ya mean we ain’t havin fun?”

“Ha-ha.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ve never been at a loss for words in yer life.”

“Want me to talk more about this phony-baloney place?”

I watched as the mâitre d’, holding what’s-his-name’s hat, led the couple to a table in a private corner far from the kitchen. Once they were seated I told Marty he could look at them.

“Holy hell,” he said.

“What?”

“He looks like a pansy.”

“Can it, Marty.”

“He even has a pipe.”

“Yeah, like half the men in America. It’s fashionable to smoke a pipe.”

“Not where I come from.”

“Yeah, well, yer from the other half of America.”

“And proud of it, too.”

“Marty. Stuff it. We’re not here to debate fashion.” I lit another cigarette, then took a big sip of my manhattan.

After the waiter took their order, the guy placed his hand over Peggy Ann’s, which was conveniently lying on the table. She batted her blinkers at him, all misty and adoring. I hated dames who played that game. On the other hand, maybe Peggy Ann was demonstrating her thespian skills cause June had told her the truth about this monkey.

“So now what?” Marty asked.

“So pretty soon I go over there.”

“And do what?” He had a slight mustache from the head on his beer.

“Confront him.”

“Ya crazy, Faye? What if he’s got a gun?”

“He’s a con, Marty.” Cons hardly ever packed a piece.

Once they had their drinks I pushed back from our table in Siberia. “Wish me luck,” I whispered.

“I’m right here, ya get in trouble.”

After one deep breath I walked straight to their table and sat down in the empty chair facing Alec, not giving him a chance to rise.

“I thought it was you,” I said to him.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, being a gentleman. I thought the statement was pretty funny under the circumstances.

“Aren’t ya gonna introduce me?” I looked at Peggy Ann.

He was rattled. I could see doubts flickering in his deep brown eyes. I waited.

He took a pull on his martini.

Peggy Ann asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I . . . I’m so sorry and terribly embarrassed, but I can’t bring your name to mind. Although your voice is familiar.”

“That’s a funny thing,” I said, “cause your name has slipped my mind, too, and yer voice is
very
familiar.” I could see by his eyes that he was beginning to get the picture. “I just know that we met at some party.”

“The Astors’ perhaps?”

“Could be. Then again it might’ve been at the Rockefellers’.”

A flush started creeping up his neck.

Peggy Ann laughed on cue. “Oh, tell her, Alec.”

“I’m . . . I’m . . .”

“You silly,” Peggy Ann said. “Alec is a Rockefeller.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

I said, “Who are your parents, Alec?”

“I’m a distant cousin,” he said. The rest of his martini disappeared in a flash.

“What branch of the family?”

“You know the family?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Very well.”

“What did you say your name was?” he asked softly.

I ignored his question. “It’s the strangest thing. I thought I knew about
all
the family. But I’ve never heard anyone mention an Alec.”

“And your name is,” he said.

“Faye Skeffington.”

“Skeffington? I don’t remember any Faye?”

“No, you wouldn’t. Because I’m a Skeffington just like you’re a Rockefeller.”

His eyes flashed anger, and I was sure he knew who I was. “I’m not certain I understand,” he said.

“I think you do. What’s your
real
name, bub?”

“I don’t want to appear rude, Miss Skeffington, but I think it’s time for you to leave this table.”

“And I think it’s time for you to come clean.”

“I’ll have to call the waiter,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Miss Skeffington—”

“Quick. That’s my name. Miss Quick.”

“I’m beginning to think we’ve never met before.”

“You’re right. We haven’t. But we’ve talked on the phone. I’m that private eye you threatened, and you’re an impostor.”

“How dare you—”

“Take yer outrage somewhere else, and tell me yer name before I ask my cop friend over there to join us.” I motioned toward Marty with a toss of my head.

“This is impossible,” he said.

“Quit stallin. I’ve got some questions about the death of Claudette West.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” he said.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Peggy Ann, I think I should escort you to a taxi,” he said.

“She stays. She knows yer a fraud, mister.”

He looked trapped.

“So who are ya? Ya might as well tell me cause the cat’s outta the bag with the Rockefeller thing.”

“I haven’t done anything illegal,” he said.

“Impersonation isn’t exactly kosher.”

“I wasn’t impersonating anyone. I just used another name.”

“But for what purpose?”

He glanced from me to Peggy Ann and back to me. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen anyone look so much like a dead duck. Maybe when Fat Freddy lost a bundle on Requested running at the Kentucky Derby the year before.

“I’d prefer it if you’d leave, Peggy Ann,” he said.

I nodded to her that I agreed.

He said, “I’ll walk you to a cab.”

“No, ya won’t,” I said. I gave a signal to Marty.

“What’s up, Faye?” he asked when he got to the table with our drinks.

“Would ya walk Miss Lanchester to a cab?”

“My pleasure,” he said.

Peggy Ann rose, glomming on Alec before she left. “I think you’re one of the most contemptible people I’ve ever met.”

He said nothing, but he didn’t lift his head either.

Marty and Peggy Ann shoved off.

“So,” I said, “who are ya?”

“Nobody.”

“I know that but what’s your real moniker?”

“Leon Johnson.”

“Where do ya hail from?”

“Ohio.”

“But ya been in New York for a while, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Do ya have an alibi for the time of Claudette West’s murder?”

“Yes, I do. But I don’t want to use it.”

“Why not?”

Marty came back and joined us.

“This is Leon Johnson. Detective Mitchum.”

“Hello,” Leon said.

“Leon here was just tellin me he has an alibi for the night in question but he doesn’t wanna use it.”

“It involves a young lady, and I don’t want to compromise her.”

“Awww. Ain’t that somethin,” Marty said. “A real gent.”

“Listen, Leon, if you don’t cough up your alibi, Detective Mitchum is gonna have to take ya in. You’re a prime suspect.”

“That’s what I’ve been afraid of.”

“But not afraid enough to drop your con. How come ya didn’t skip town?”

The mâitre d’ materialized at the table. “May I know what your plans are, please?”

“Plans?”

“Are you and the gentleman joining this gentleman?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Then you won’t be needing your table?”

“Right,” Marty said.

“Thank you.”

He slithered away.

“So where were we? Oh, yeah. Why’d ya hang around town after Claudette was killed?”

“You’re not going to believe any of this.”

“Try us.”

“While I was dating Claudette, I fell in love.”

Marty mimed playing a violin.

“But not with Claudette. Even so, I had to go on with the plan, so I asked her to marry me. It was the night before . . . you know . . . the night before she was murdered.”

“What did she say when ya asked her to be yer blushin bride?”

“She said she couldn’t because she was in love with someone else.”

Another one? Or maybe it was Brian Wayne. “She tell ya who it was?”

“No. She said she couldn’t.”

“Because he was already hitched?” I asked.

“She didn’t give me a reason, and I didn’t push it because, frankly, I was relieved.”

“How long had ya really been seein each other?”

“A few months.”

“Why didn’t she want her parents to know before those last two weeks when ya made it public?”

“I’m not sure, but now I think it must’ve been because of the man she was in love with.”

“Did ya know she was pregnant?”

He looked like I’d thrown a glass a water in his face.

“No. No, I didn’t know that.”

“You the father?”

“Absolutely not.”

“How can ya be so sure?” Marty asked. “Just between us guys, ya can’t always be that sure.”

As if I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“We never . . . we never went that far.”

“See, Faye. What’d I tell ya. The guy’s a fruitcake.”

Leon pulled himself up in his chair, looking indignant. “I am not.”

Better to be thought of as a murderer than a homo, I guessed. Some people.

Marty said, “So how do ya know ya ain’t the father?”

“I told you, we never went all the way.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Well, she did with somebody.”

“Not me. She said she was saving herself for marriage. Boy, she had me fooled.”

He actually sounded like the injured party.

“Let’s get back to yer alibi, Leon.”

“Will you have to tell anyone else who I was with?”

“We’ll have to check it out with her.”

“Oh, God. This is awful.”

“Spill it,” Marty said.

“Her name is Gladys Wright.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“She’s Myrna West’s younger sister.”

FIFTEEN

Chumley’s, on Bedford Street, wasn’t far from the Four Oaks. It’d been there since the Twenties and had once been a speakeasy. If ya didn’t know where it was, it wasn’t easy to find cause there was no sign outside the place. But if ya did know, ya recognized the wooden door with number 86 on it.

Inside, it was warm and cozy, the fireplace going, the picture frames on the walls holding book jackets. The tables were wooden with names scratched in them. I’d even found F. Scott Fitzgerald’s one night.

For once I wasn’t early, and Jeanne Darnell was waiting for me sipping a beer.

“I’m really sorry to be late, Jeanne.”

She blew off the apology with a flick of her hand. I sat down, shrugged off my coat, and hung it over the back of the chair.

Jeanne was a good-looking dame without being a great beauty. Her hazel eyes were a little too close together, but her smile and loony laugh made ya forget that in a hurry. She was wearing a brown-and-blue plaid wool suit with three chocolate brown buttons diagonally across the front of the jacket. Her clothes always had some slight twist to them, never simple straight perfection, kinda like the eyes.