Sexus (41 page)

We hopped into a cab and drove uptown to Seventy-second Street where she lived. It was a typical old-fashioned rooming house. She lived on the fourth floor back.

She was a little startled to see O'Rourke with me. But not frightened—a point in her favor, I thought to myself.

“I didn't know you would bring a friend,” she said, looking at me with frank blue eyes. “You'll have to excuse the appearance of the place.”

“Don't worry about that, Miss Andrews.” It was O'Rourke who spoke. “Nina is the name, isn't it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

“It's a pretty name,” he said. “One doesn't hear it much any more. You're not of Spanish descent by any chance, are you?”

“Oh no, not Spanish,” she said, very bright and quick, and in an altogether disarming tone. “My mother was Danish, and my father is English. Why, do I look Spanish?”

O'Rourke smiled. “To be honest, Miss Andrews . . . Miss Nina . . . may I call you that? . . . no, you don't look at all Spanish. But Nina is a Spanish name, isn't it?”

“Won't you sit down?” she said, adjusting the pillows on the divan. And then, in a perfectly natural tone of voice: “I suppose you heard that I was fired? Just like that! Not a word
of explanation. But they gave me two weeks' pay—
and
I've just landed a better job. So it isn't so terrible, is it?”

I was glad now that I had brought O'Rourke along. If I had come alone I would have left without more ado. I was absolutely convinced, at this point, that the girl was innocent.

The girl. She had given her age as twenty-five on the application blank, but it was obvious that she wasn't a day over nineteen. She looked like a girl who had been brought up in the country. A bewitching little creature, and very alert.

O'Rourke had evidently been making a similar appraisal. When he lifted his voice it was apparent that he was thinking only how to spare her unnecessary unpleasantness.

“Miss Nina,” he said, speaking like a father, “Mr. Miller asked me to come along. I'm the night inspector, you know. There's been some misunderstanding with one of our clients, one of the clients served by your office. Perhaps you will recall the name—the Brooks Insurance Agency. Do you remember that name, Miss Nina? Think, because maybe you can help us.”

“Of course I know the name,” she responded with alacrity. “Room 715, Mr. Harcourt. Yes, I know him very well. I know his son too.”

O'Rourke immediately pricked up his ears.

“You know his son?” he repeated.

“Why yes. We were sweethearts. We come from the same town.” She mentioned a little town up-State. “You could hardly call it a town, I guess.” She gave a bright little laugh.

“I see,” said O'Rourke, lingering over his words to draw her on.

“Now I understand why I was fired,” she said. “He doesn't think I'm good enough for his son, this Mr. Harcourt. But I didn't think he hated me that much.”

As she rattled on I recalled more and more clearly the circumstances of her first visit to the employment bureau. One detail stood out clearly. She had specifically requested, when filling out the application blank, that she be sent to a certain office building. It was not an unusual request; applicants often gave their preference for certain localities for one reason or
another. But I remembered now the smile she had given me when thanking me for the courtesy I had shown her.

“Miss Andrews,” I said, “didn't you ask me to send you to the Heckscher Building when you applied for the job?”

“Of course I did,” she replied. “I wanted to be near John. I knew his father was trying to keep us apart. That's why I left home.

“Mr. Harcourt tried to ridicule me at first,” she added. “I mean when I first delivered telegrams to his office. But I didn't care. Neither did John.”

“Well,” said O'Rourke, “so you don't mind too much losing your job? Because, if you'd like to have it back, I think Mr. Miller could arrange it for you.” He glanced in my direction.

“Oh, I don't really want it back,” she said breathlessly. “I've found a
much
better job—and it's in the same building!”

The three of us burst out laughing.

O'Rourke and I rose to go. “You're a musician, aren't you?” asked O'Rourke.

She blushed. “Why yes . . . why, how did you know? I'm a violinist. That's another reason, of course, why I decided to come to New York. I hope to give a recital here someday—perhaps in Town Hall. It's thrilling to be in a big city like this, isn't it?” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“It is wonderful to live in a place like New York,” said O'Rourke, his voice suddenly dropping to a more serious register. “I hope you will have all the success you are looking for. . . .” He paused, a heavy pause, and then taking her two hands in his, he placed himself squarely in front of her and said:

“Let me suggest something to you, may I?”

“Why of course!” said Miss Andrews, reddening slightly.

“Well then, when you give your first concert at Town Hall, let us say, I would suggest that you use your real name. Marjorie Blair sounds just as good as Nina Andrews . . .
don't you think?
Well,” and without pausing to observe the effect of this retort, he said, grasping my arm and turning towards the door, “I think we should be getting along. Good luck, Miss Blair. Goodbye!”

“I'll be damned,” I said, when we got to the street.

“She's a fine little girl, isn't she?” said O'Rourke, dragging me along. “Clancy called me in this afternoon . . . showed me the application. I've got all the dope on her. She's absolutely O.K.”

“But the name?” I said. “Why did she change her name?”

“Oh
that,
that's nothing,” said O'Rourke. “Young people find it exciting to change their name sometimes. . . . It's lucky she doesn't know what Mr. Harcourt told Mr. Twilliger, eh? We'd have a nice case on our hands, if that ever leaked out.”

“By the way,” he added, as though it were of no importance, “when I make my report to Twilliger, I'll say that she was going on twenty-two. You won't mind that, will you? They suspected, you see, that she was under age. Of course you can't check everyone's age. Still, you have to be careful. You understand, of course . . .”

“Of course,” I said, “and it's damned good of you to cover me up.”

We walked in silence for a few moments, keeping our eyes open for a restaurant.

“Wasn't Harcourt taking a big risk in giving Twilliger a story like that?”

O'Rourke didn't answer at once.

“It makes me furious,” I said. “Damn him, he almost lost me my job too, do you realize that?”

“Harcourt's case is more complicated,” said O'Rourke slowly. “I'm telling you this in strict confidence, you understand. We're not going to say anything to Mr. Harcourt. In my report I'll inform Mr. Twilliger that the case has been satisfactorily dealt with. I'll explain that Mr. Harcourt was in error as to the girl's character, that she
immediately
found another position, and recommend that the matter be dropped. . . . Mr. Harcourt, as I suppose you have already gathered, is a close friend of Twilliger's. Everything the girl said was true, to be sure, and she's a fine little girl too, I like her. But there's one thing she omitted to tell us—naturally. Mr. Harcourt had her dismissed because he's jealous of his son. . . . You wonder how I learned that so quickly? Well, we have our
way of learning things. I could tell you a lot more about this Harcourt, if you'd care to hear it.”

I was about to say, “Yes, I would,” when he abruptly changed the subject.

“You met a chap named Monahan recently, I understand.”

I felt as if he had given me a jolt.

“Yes, Monahan . . . of course. Why, did your brother tell you?”

“You know, of course,” O'Rourke continued in his easy, suave way, “what Monahan's job is, don't you? His assignment, I mean?”

I mumbled some answer, pretending that I knew more than I did, and waited impatiently for him to continue.

“Well, it's curious in this racket,” he went on, “how things connect up. Miss Nina Andrews didn't go immediately to the messenger bureau in search of that job, when she got to New York. Like all young girls, she was attracted to the bright lights. She's young, intelligent, and knows how to take care of herself. I don't think she's quite as innocent as she looks, to be candid with you.
Knowing Harcourt,
that is. But that's none of my business. . . . Anyway, to make it short, Mr. Miller, her first job was that of a taxi girl in a dance hall. You may know the one . . .” He looked directly ahead of him as he said this. “Yes, the very place that Monahan has his eye on. It's run by a Greek. Nice chap too. Absolutely on the level, I should say. But there are other individuals hanging around who would bear looking into more closely. Especially when a pretty little thing like Nina Andrews walks in—with those red cheeks and that demure country-like manner.”

I was hoping I would hear more about Monahan when again he switched the subject.

“Funny thing about Harcourt. Shows you how careful you have to be when you begin checking up on things . . .”

“What do you mean?” said I, wondering what he was going to blurt out next.

“Well, just this,” said O'Rourke, measuring his words. “Harcourt has a whole string of dance halls here in New York, and in other places too. The insurance agency is just a blind. That's why he's breaking his son in. He isn't interested
in the insurance game. Harcourt's one passion is young girls—the younger the better. Of course, I don't know this, Mr. Miller, but I wouldn't be surprised if he had already tried to seduce Miss Andrews—or Marjorie Blair, to use her right name. If anything had happened between them Miss Andrews wouldn't be apt to tell anyone, would she? Least of all the young man she's in love with. She's only nineteen now, but she probably looked the same at sixteen. She's a country girl, don't forget. They start in early sometimes—you know, red, warm blood.”

He stopped, as if to study the restaurant which, unknown to me, he had been gently and slowly leading me to.

“Not such a bad place, this. Shall we try it? Oh, just a minute, before we go in. . . .
About Harcourt
. . . The girl, of course, doesn't suspect that he has anything to do with dance halls. That was just a coincidence, her walking into that place. You know the one I mean, don't you? Just opposite . . .”

“Yes, I know it,” I said, a little annoyed with him for practicing these sly digs on me. “I have a friend working there,” I added. And you know damned well what I mean, I thought to myself.

I was wondering how much Monahan might have revealed to him. I wondered too, suddenly, if Monahan hadn't known O'Rourke for many a year. How they liked to put on these little acts, these expressions of surprise, of ignorance, of amazement, and so on. I suppose they can't help it. They're like cashiers who say “thank you!” in their sleep.

And then, as I waited for him to continue, another suspicion entered my mind. Maybe those two fifty-dollar bills that Monahan had dropped came from O'Rourke's pocket. I was almost certain of it. Unless . . . but I dismissed the following flash—it was too farfetched. Unless, I couldn't help repeating to myself, the money had come from Harcourt's pocket. It was a fat roll of bills he had flashed on me that night. Detectives don't usually walk around with huge sums of money in their pockets. Anyway, if Monahan had shaken Harcourt down (or perhaps the Greek!) O'Rourke wouldn't know about it.

I was routed out of these interior speculations by an even more startling remark of O'Rourke's. We were in the hallway, just about to enter the restaurant, when I distinctly heard him saying:

“In that particular dance hall it's almost impossible for a girl to get a job without sleeping with Harcourt first. At least, that's what Monahan tells me.

“Of course there's nothing irregular about that,” he continued, allowing a moment's pause for the observation to sink in.

We took seats at a table in the far corner of the restaurant, where we could talk without fear of being overheard. I noticed O'Rourke glancing about with his habitual keen, all-encompassing yet thoroughly unobtrusive gaze. He did it instinctively, just as an interior decorator takes in the furnishings of a room, including the pattern of the wallpaper.

“But the fact that Miss Marjorie Blair had taken the job under another name almost led him to commit an indiscretion.”

“God, yes,” I exclaimed. “I never thought of that!”

“It was fortunate for him that he had taken the precaution to ask for her photograph first. . .”

I couldn't help interrupting him. “I must say that you learned a devil of a lot in a short time.”

“A pure accident,” said O'Rourke modestly. “I bumped into Monahan on my way out of Clancy's office.”

“Yes, but how did you manage to put two and two together so quickly?” I persisted. “You didn't know when you met Monahan that the girl had been working in a dance hall. I don't see how the devil you just fell onto that piece of information.”

“I didn't,” said O'Rourke. “I extracted it from Harcourt. You see, while talking to Monahan . . . he was talking about his assignment—and about you, incidentally . . . yes, he said he liked you very much . . . he wants to see you again, by the way . . . you should get in touch with him . . . well, anyway, as I was saying, I had a hunch to go and telephone Harcourt. I asked him a few routine questions—among them where had the girl worked before, if he knew. He said she had worked in
a dance hall. He said it as if to say: ‘She's just a little tart.' When I went back to the table I just took a flier and asked Monahan if he knew a girl named Andrews—at the dance hall. I didn't even know then which dance hall. And then, to my surprise, after I had explained the case, he began telling me about Harcourt. So there you are. It's simple, isn't it? I tell you, everything connects up in this racket. You play your hunch, you throw out a feeler—and sometimes it tumbles right into your lap.”