Kiss Your Elbow (6 page)

I
T WAS SEVEN FORTY-FIVE
when I woke up. In twenty minutes I had showered, shaved and was on my way to the subway. I hit an express on Fourteenth Street and again Life was good to me. It wasn't till around Twenty-eighth Street that I remembered that I hadn't locked my door because Kendall hadn't given me back my keys. Not that I had anything of value in my room except the telephone, but the inhabitants of the Casbah can never resist making long-distance calls on a hot, free phone. This time I'd just have to take a chance till I got to Bergen's and could phone Kendall or the Mad Swede to lock it.

Bergen's Bar is a hole in the wall on Forty-fifth Street just off Eighth Avenue. Like a railroad car with a long bar running down the left, stopping only for the men's room, which is nothing more than an irrigated broom closet. There are some tables in a line down the right side checkered with tablecloths, a few haphazardly framed photographs of some of the customers past and present, and, of course, a jukebox.

I was fifteen minutes late. Libby was already there
sitting at the first table, right next to the jukebox, with another girl. Even though Nick had given me three tickets, it annoyed me to see that she had someone else with her. When you ask a girl to go to the theater, you don't expect her to drag along a friend. I've pulled that same trick too many times myself to enjoy being played for a sucker. She didn't know the seats were free, although with me I suppose she'd be a fool to think otherwise. And I wasn't too anxious to have an audience while I tried to pump Libby.

She says she comes from a good family in Columbus, where her father makes paper boxes and sent her to Bennington, and she's never gotten over either of them. She wears her mousy hair dank and long on the sides with bangs in front, and doesn't use any makeup except eye shadow which, for some obscure reason, she wears under her eyes. I happen to know her clothes are expensive, but she goes in for lumpy suits that look as though they were woven out of old spinach.

Her friend wasn't any more appetizing than Libby, though I must say she was better dressed in what Maggie always calls “the basic sack.” She also reeked of an earlier vintage Bennington—circa when Katharine Hepburn was the dream girl—and was still sporting that scarlet, square mouth without any dip in the upper lip that Miss H. started, but had sense enough to change.

The moment I got a load of the two of them, I started trying to figure out how to cut the evening short. Libby greeted me like a spaniel and obviously expected to be kissed, so I did. She introduced me to her friend who
turned out to be named Margo Shaw. I'd have laid ten to one she'd turn out to be a Margo after the first glimpse. They were drinking brandy. I settled for a rye and water and told them to hold everything, I had to phone.

I dialed the Casbah's instead of my own number and luckily Kendall answered.

“Kendall, this is Tim. Why the hell didn't you give me my keys back?”

“I'm profoundly sorry, Tim, but the simple truth of the matter is that I forgot. I'll go lock your door right this minute.”

“Yeah, do that. And keep out of my drawers, too. I'll pick up the keys from you when I get back. You'll be in about midnight?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Okay, then take off.” I hung up and went back to the girls. We had about fifteen minutes till curtain and I couldn't waste any time. Old square-mouth didn't show any signs of blowing so I gave Libby a big smile and patted her knee under the table. “Now then. Tell me all about it.” She didn't even bother to ask why I wanted to know or what I meant. Obviously it must be about Nellie as that was the only important thing that had happened to her since she had discovered eyeshadow. A swig of brandy and she was off.

“Well, it was the most amazing thing. I've just been telling Margo all about it.” She turned to Margo. “Darling, you don't mind hearing it all again, do you?” As if square-mouth had any choice other than to walk out.

“Of course not, Libby. I think it's the most exciting
thing I've ever heard. You were so brave. I mean, if something like that had happened to me I don't know what I'd have…”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “What happened?”

“I'm trying to tell you, Tim.” More brandy, then, “I just stopped by Nellie's office to say hello—and remind her of our dinner date. And when I got to the office—”

“What time was this?” I interrupted.

“Oh, it must have been a little after eleven.” At least Nellie hadn't been cooling off too long. “And the door was closed and I knocked, but, of course, there wasn't any answer. The light was on and I tried the door because I thought I might leave her a note on her desk. It was open so I went in….” She gave a five-beat pause for effect, another swig of brandy, and to pull some hair out of her mouth that had swung in. “And what do you suppose I saw?” I allowed as how I couldn't imagine. “It was Nellie!” she said in a great rush of triumph. “Lying across her desk in a welter of blood…a welter.” Okay, so if it made her feel any better to call a dribble a welter, let her. “There she was lying in a welter of blood.”

“You said that. Then what happened?”

“Then everything went white.” It couldn't be black like with anybody else—with her it was white. “And the next thing I knew I was screaming in Sardi's. Whatever do you suppose made me do that?”

Margo answered her, “Shock, I suppose. You said everything went white.”

“Yes, that must have been it,” agreed Libby. “Shock.” She lowered her eyes and her white eyelids looked very
strange against the smudge of black under them—almost blind.

“Okay, take it from there.”

“Well, everyone rushed back up with me. And after a while, the police and press came and they made everyone clear out. All except me,” she added proudly.

“What
had
happened to Nellie?”

“Oh, after they took some pictures, they flopped her back in her chair and cleaned up the place a little. And then the doctor came and they took her away in a basket.”

“What did the doctor say when he examined her?” I hated having to get all the dope secondhand.

“He said it looked like she'd fainted or passed out, there was an empty gin bottle right in the desk—you know Nellie—and she'd fallen across her desk on that filing thing. You know, the one she always had on her desk.” I said I knew. “Just happened to hit a vital spot and struck her heart and killed her, he guessed, without an autopsy.”

“They didn't think there was anything fishy about it?”

“No. Why should they?”

“I mean did they go around spraying powder on things. You know, fingerprints?”

“I don't think so, but they might have while I was being photographed. I kind of hoped there'd be more goings on, too.”

“But, darling, didn't they even look for clues?” asked Margo. Libby thought a moment.

“I don't think so, but then, I was so busy with the photographers…”

Well, I'd had it. I was just as wrong as before and really worse than Libby. She'd only made an audition of Nellie's death and I'd tried to build it up to a whole three-act melodrama.

It was time for the curtain to go up so I went over to the bar and gave Patsy the money for the drinks, making the annoying discovery that Libby and Margo had had four brandies. What she had told me wasn't worth it. I came back and helped them on with their coats.

“Would you like to go to the theater with us, Margo?” What the hell, I might just as well ask her. It wouldn't make much difference one way or the other.

“Oh, no. I couldn't,” she said not too emphatically.

“You might just as well. I have three tickets, anyway. I'd just have to turn one back.”

“Well, if you'll let me pay for it, I'd love to.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't.” Me trying to be the shy type.

“Please let me. After all, you bought the drinks, and I really barged in on Libby. It wouldn't be fair if I didn't.”

“Well,” I said. I hoped hesitantly. Four bucks would be almost clear profit—except for the drinks. She reached into her bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to me.

“There, we're even. You can buy me another drink when your show opens.”

“Show?” I said. “What show?”

“But aren't you in the new Frobisher show?” She turned to Libby. “Darling, I thought you told me he was in the new Frobisher show.”

“Of course he is,” said Libby. “It's all over town
about you and Maggie Lanson. What's the matter? You think it's bad luck to talk about it?”

“But, my God. I just found out myself an hour ago. Talk about small towns knowing everything about you.”

“I wonder if they've set the understudies yet,” said Libby. “You know, that might be a job for you, Margo. I'm too young for Randall, but you ought to be about right.”

“Oh, no,” said Margo modestly. “I couldn't do that.”

“Why not?” asked Libby. “You told me you wanted to get into the theater and you might as well start somewhere. Tim will introduce you to Frobisher, won't you, Tim? It's worth a try.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “I haven't even started to rehearse, and already you've got me getting other people jobs in it. Come around after I've passed my five days, and I'll see what I can do.” It didn't hurt to say that much. I certainly didn't intend to bother Frobisher with stage-struck women I hardly knew, even provided I did get the job.

“That's a date, Margo.” Libby was persistent for her friends if nothing else. “Now don't forget, Tim.” I said I wouldn't, but I fully intended to. She glanced at her watch. “Say, we'd better get going or we'll be late. Have you finished paying for the drinks, Tim?” I told her I had. “Oh, that reminds me. Something I forgot to tell you. Clues. About Nellie, I mean.”

“Clues,” I said. “What clues?”

“Asking you about the bill for the drinks must have made me think of it. Free association I guess you'd call it.”

“Call what?”

“Well, they did find some money down Nellie's bazoom, if you could call that clues.”

“Why, darling,” said Margo. “How thrilling. You didn't tell me that.”

“I just remembered it.”

“Money?” I asked. “How much money?”

“It was just some she was going to pay a bill with. It was there, too.”

“What was it for?”

“Two hundred and seventy-five dollars for a dress from Chez Ernest.”

Chez Ernest was in the Youth and Beauty Book. An appointment that morning.

“Did you see the bill? Was it made out to Nellie?”

“Oh, yes. I saw it and it was.” That didn't mean much, either. You don't kill people for intending to pay their bills.

“Well, come on or we'll be late.”

We were late, but after five minutes of the show I knew it didn't matter. Probably been better if we'd gone to a movie.

Lucille Blake's latest tumbril was a high comedy. You can always tell by the terrace in the back of the set. Nick Stein had done well on the seats, and when they're free it isn't considered cricket to walk out and you're supposed to clap a lot at the end, so I got ready to sit through it.

I started thinking over what Libby had said, which, God knows, wasn't much. Nellie was certainly getting fancy in her old age laying out two hundred and
seventy-five bucks for a new dress. I nudged Libby, who, still keeping an eye on the stage, twisted an ear in my direction.

“Do you remember ever seeing Nellie in any other dress but that old moss job she always wore?”

“What?” she whispered and I repeated it. “No, I don't think I have. Isn't Miss Blake divine?”

Miss Blake wasn't divine. She was tired and old and frightened. She played with such desperate determination that you felt she must have some of her own money in the show—which she had. I was relieved when it was over.

We put Margo in a cab and I started walking Libby over to Madison where she lived.

“Timmy, I hope you didn't mind too much about Margo barging in like that?”

“Who is she? I've never seen her around before. She go to Bennington with you?”

“No, she's a friend of Ted Kent's, I think. He introduced me to her this afternoon.” Any friend of Ted Kent's is no friend of mine. “She's just been divorced or something and wants to act. I think she might do for Randall's understudy and it wouldn't hurt you to introduce her to Frobisher.”

“But I keep telling you, I haven't started work myself yet.”

“You're just being superstitious and besides, you promised. She is a good type. Why just this afternoon I took her along to the tryouts for the Equity Library shows, you know, those things they're putting on so agents and people can see you, and Vince Wagner
offered her Rosalind in
As You Like It
the minute she walked into the room. But like a dope she said she wasn't ready for Shakespeare yet even though that was the lead. Vince, the louse, said I wasn't the type.”