The Lady of Lyon House (3 page)

Bill had built a miniature theater, complete with revolving stage and velvet curtain and moveable backdrops, and my puppets enacted their playlets with scenery and props, just as in a real theater. I stood behind the stage, manipulating the wires, and it was only when the act was over and the house lights came on that the audience could see me. I was hidden from view most of the time, just exposed for a few seconds as I took my bow.

I thought it odd that the man should come night after night just for those few seconds. I wanted to believe that there was some other explanation for his presence, but I couldn't. He had some secret interest in me, an interest strong enough to make him follow me to the music hall every night and sit through the show until I made my brief appearance. It terrified me. I felt vulnerable and defenseless against this strange behavior.

Down the hall I could hear Sarah Clemmons talking to Bert, trying to sober him up. In a few minutes Bert himself came staggering down the hall and into my dressing room. He was wearing a blue suit with a vivid blue and green ascot, and his large gray eyes were sad. His fading blond hair was rumpled. He carried a folded newspaper, and he tilted a little as he stood in the doorway.

“Hello, Julia baby,” he said warmly. “You don't mind goin' on a little early? Sorry about this, real sorry. Sarah's throwin' fits. I hate to ask you to do this.”

I smiled. “I won't mind a bit, Bert. Dil looks rather upset, I must say, but Hans will keep him in line.”

“Adorable little girl,” he said. “Little girl with her dolls. Do hate to ask you to do this. Really do.”

“Will you be all right?” I inquired.

“Sure—sure. Sarah's makin' some more coffee right now. Gave her the slip so's I could come 'pologize to you. Hey—by the way, have you heard from your sister recently?”

“No. There was a letter three months ago from Bristol.”

“She send any money?”

“Why—a few pounds,” I replied, surprised by the question.

“Didn't mean to be pryin',” Bert said, supporting himself against the door frame. “Guy was askin' me all about her this evening. Asked if you ever saw her, asked if you knew where she was. Seemed to be real interested. Asked if she ever sent you money and if so, how much. Told him none of his damn business. Didn't like th' guy at all.”

“What—what did he look like?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

“Big bruiser of a guy—enormous shoulders. Looked like his nose was broken. Ugly lout, real ugly, wearin' a heavy black coat and gray silk muffler. Talked in a hoarse, gruff voice. Didn't like the looks of him at all.”

“Where were you when he asked these questions?”

“Finnigan's Bar, down the street. The guy bought me a couple of drinks, insisted on it. He 'n another guy were standin' at the bar when I came in, like they were waitin' for me.”

“What did his companion look like?”

“Tall, thin, mean lookin'. Had blond hair and gray eyes and thin lips. Looked like a couple of crooks to me, they did. Wonder why they were so interested in little Maureen?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sad thing, that. Maureen, I mean. Shame. Runnin' off like that and no tellin' what happenin'. No tellin' what kind of crowd she got in with—'ticularly if these guys were any example of 'em. Told 'em they needn't be botherin' you with any questions 'cause you didn't know any more about her than I did.”

Bert sighed and shook his head. In a moment he left. I noticed he had dropped his newspaper, and I picked it up and threw it on the cot. For a moment I had thought that the man asking questions might have been the same one who followed me, but Bert's description did not fit at all. I wondered who the men were and why they were so curious about my sister. They had sounded perfectly dreadful, and I hated to think she would be involved in any way with that sort.

I had few illusions about Maureen. I remembered her as a beautiful, rather surly young woman who had been discontented with everything around her. She was vivacious, with dark brown eyes, glossy black hair and a pouting red mouth, completely unlike me in every way. She took after my father, whereas I was like my mother in coloring. We had been very close, Maureen and I, and when she ran away with the actor it had broken my heart. I could not understand why she would leave me alone. Over the years there had been letters, of course, but none of them told me anything about her. She mentioned small jobs in. the theater and she kept saying she would send for me when she had enough money to keep us in style. I knew that she never would. Maureen was only a memory to me now, and the letters were the letters of a stranger.

I glanced at the tiny porcelain clock on my work table. I had half an hour before I had to go on. I sat down on the cot and opened up the paper, hoping to distract myself until it was time to go down. It was a yellow tabloid, one of the many scandal sheets that delighted people with dull, uneventful lives. There was a story about a Duke who found his wife with the stable groom, and a descriptive account of an ax murder. The front page was filled with news of the Mann case, as Scotland Yard called it. Two weeks ago Clinton Mann, a wealthy dealer, had given a private showing of a collection of uncut precious jewels in the Mann Galleries. That night thieves had broken into the place and stolen the stones, brutally beating Mann, who had his apartment over the galleries. Mann had died of injuries, and Scotland Yard had no clues about the case. It was the kind of story the public loved: precious jewels, a wealthy, influential art dealer, robbery and murder. I tossed the paper on the floor, feeling more depressed than ever.

I sat back on the cot, Hans and Miranda beside me, Dil at my feet, Gretchen in my lap. I looked at the brightly painted creatures. Their world was so simple, so innocent, so full of fun and humorous misadventures. Every night they danced and jiggled before a painted backdrop and caused the audience to howl with laughter. After it was over, they went back into their box, knowing only laughter, only joy. I wished the real world was as easy to live in as that of my painted puppets.

For fifteen minutes I stood in the dark behind the brightly lit box, my fingers nimbly manipulating the strings. I heard the roars of laughter and, finally, the round of applause. The lights came on and I took my bow, smiling demurely. The puppets lay in a lifeless heap on the floor of their theater as the curtain came down. I stepped quickly across the stage and peered through the peep hole. The man was paying the waiter. He left a tip on the table and walked out, moving slowly, that slight smile still on his lips.

A stage hand moved away the puppet theater and the chorus girls began to line up. I was in the darkened recesses backstage when the curtain rolled up ponderously and footlights bathed the girls, glittering on sequins and spangles, making their rather coarse, painted features soft and attractive. The music swelled and the girls sang, slightly out of harmony, slightly shrill, delighting the men in the audience. I went down the short flight of stairs that led from backstage to the hall and moved through the crowded room to the bar where Bill was standing.

“It was great tonight, Julia,” he said, smiling at me. “They all loved it, as usual.”

Bill was a tall man, slightly stooped. He had a hooked nose and a large, ugly mouth, but there were laugh lines about his clear blue eyes and the mouth was always turned up in a smile. His hair had once been a glossy brown, but now it was thin and streaked with silver. His ears stuck out like handles on either side of his head. Bill was so homely that he commanded affection wherever he went. He was easy going, relaxed, completely at ease with himself and the world around him.

“Anything I can do for you, baby?” he asked.

“Bill—that man who just left, the one in the checked coat, do you know who he is?”

“Handsome fellow with a scar?”

“Yes, that's him.”

“No, can't say as I know who he is. He's been coming in every night for a week now, doesn't drink anything but beer, but he leaves a large tip. Polite fellow, well bred, not the usual sort who comes in here.”

“He leaves the same time every night,” I remarked.

“Come to think of it, he does, right after your show. I think you have a fan, baby. Maybe he's one of these newspaper fellows who's going to write an article about you. Hope so. We could use the publicity.”

“Is Mattie in the office?” I asked.

“Yes, and in a foul temper, too. She's been going over the books and you know what that always means. See if you can put her in a good mood, will you, baby?”

“I'll try, Bill,” I replied.

Bill grinned and winked at me. He drew a stein of beer for one of the customers, then picked up the chamois cloth and began to polish the gray marble bar. Bill's world was a pleasant one, a foul tempered wife his greatest handicap, and that wasn't a real one, as everyone knew that Mattie's foul temper was mostly legendary.

I went through the green velvet portieres, crossed the foyer and opened the door to the office. Mattie was sitting behind an immense mahogany desk, a ledger opened in front of her. Her sharp gray eyes were squinting with concentration, and she was nibbling on the end of a pencil. Mattie had beautiful iron-gray hair, worn in a tight braid on top of her head. Her features were severe, almost hard, but she had lovely bone structure. She presented a hard, gruff, formidable exterior to the world, speaking sharply, moving decisively, but those who really knew her knew that this was just a pose.

Mattie was kind hearted to a fault, but she concealed her kindness behind a brusque bark and a stiff front. No one was taken in. She would do anything for anyone, although she liked to think of herself as having a granite heart. This was her defense against Bill's natural, affable nature.

She looked up now, unhappy at being disturbed. She wore a light green dress with a cameo brooch. There were stiff white cuffs on her sleeves, and her fingers were stained with ink.

“Good evening, Julia,” she said. “How did the act go?”

“Oh, the same as usual.”

“That's fine. I could hear them laughing all the way in here.”

“They always laugh,” I said, rather disheartedly.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Where is that sparkle? You seem to be disturbed about something.”

“I am, Mattie.”

Mattie closed the ledger and looked up at me. She was frowning. I had the strange sensation that she knew what I was going to tell her before I even began. Her frown grew deeper as I talked, growing into a harsh line between her brows. Her gray eyes grew dark, and the corner of her mouth twitched a little. I told her all about the man following me, about him coming in every night and leaving just after I finished. I even told her about the man Bert had seen at the bar and how I had thought at first that it was the same man asking him questions. Mattie was silent for a while after I finished. Her hands were folded in front of her, and she stared down at them intently.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Why—I don't know, Julia. Men have shown interest in you before, you know. You're not a little girl any more. It's only natural that they should notice you.”

“This is different,” I protested.

“Is it?” She looked up, her gray eyes challenging me.

It was a good bluff, but it didn't fool me. She was brisk, getting up from the desk and arranging some papers in a neat stack. She seemed to have dismissed my problem from her mind, but I knew that she hadn't. I could tell how upset she was. Her hands trembled a little as she fooled with the papers. There was more to this than even I knew, far more. Mattie knew something, and she did not want me to see it or grow alarmed. What I had told her was merely part of something much larger, and she was afraid. I had never seen her afraid before.

She put the papers in a drawer and looked up at me. There was a smile on her lips, but it rang as false as her abrupt dismissal had. I could tell that she was acting, and Mattie was not a good actress. She began to talk about some sewing I was doing for her, and she talked too rapidly, too cheerfully. Mattie knew something, something important, and she was afraid to tell me about it. I wondered what it could be. I wondered why she was trying so hard to conceal her alarm.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE BOARDING HOUSE
was a large, rambling building, gray frame, with dark green shutters and a shabby green roof. Three crumbling red brick chimneys leaned precariously at odd angles. It towered out of the fog like a rather tired monster whose claws had been clipped. A stone wall shut the narrow yard away from the street, concealing the scabby patches of grass and an unhealthy flower bed. Three tall oak trees grew around it, and the back of the house opened onto a dark alley that ran the length of the street. Once a grand residence, now it was a desolate place out of step with the thriving businesses that surrounded it.

The inhabitants kept odd hours, sleeping late in the mornings and staying up until all hours of the night. We all generally got back from the music hall between midnight and one, and there was a late supper in the dining room: cold sausages, beer, sliced roast, pickled beets. We sat up until after three. Two or three of the chorus girls usually had late dates after the show was over and they would come in very late, all full of chatter about the grand times they had had. Bill and Bert Clemmons would play cards in the front parlor with old Greenley, the stage manager, and Sarah would sit before a lamp, writing letters to distant relatives and old friends. Sometimes Laverne played the piano, banging it noisily into the night, singing raffish songs. Mattie would circulate briskly from room to room, attending to various duties, and I would help her, or else I would sit in the parlor and sew or read a novel.

It was an eccentric establishment, buzzing with noise and activity during the night while all around was dark and silent, closed up tight and silent itself from morning till noon while all the surrounding businesses were opening their doors and clamoring with noise. We were all accustomed to it, and we all loved the old place, haggard and threadbare though it might be. To me it was home. I loved the noise. I loved the unusual hours. I loved my little room under the eaves on the top floor, and I loved the odors of boiled cabbage and ancient grease that permeated the wallpaper.