Long after Pourcio drifted off I stood in the middle of the lobby, reading the murky copies of what had once been fresh, screaming headlines. The passage of time had not moderated the-well, what could I call it? Not a tragedy, for those are usually the result of random accident or poor decisions. Crime was too mild a descriptive. It was vile, and it was vicious, the result of the kind of stupidity and selfishness and, perhaps, insanity that is beyond any understanding, yet there was a perverse logic to Lena's- Helen's-actions.
So absorbed was I that I didn't notice when Malone came up. I started slightly upon suddenly noticing him at my shoulder. He flinched with one of those tics, and we both traded grins at this mutual show of nerves. Mine felt sickly.
"It's time for the show to start," he said, giving what seemed to be a reproachful glance at my distraction.
I pulled myself together and hastily shoved the papers away in my pocket. "Okay, let's break a leg."
He'd had enough contact with the performers to understand the theatrical version of warding off bad luck and trailed a half step behind me.
Lady Crymsyn was already in the wings waiting for her cue from me. The waiters and waitresses were busy darting around the tables, making sure everyone got well oiled. The guests were lively and talking, some circulating to greet friends, others on the dance floor. A party mood suffused the whole huge room, as it should. I noted that the air circulation was working, visibly drawing the smoky byproduct of hundreds of cigarettes and cigars upward.
One part of my mind was pleased over how smoothly things were proceeding-and they'd damned well better be smooth considering they'd been planned down to the last martini olive. Another, much more anxious part, was trying roughly to calculate how many drink sales it would take to pay for everything tonight. I consciously shoved the worrywart into a cash drawer and locked it fast. An unfortunate image, considering the fate of Lena Ashley.
Helen Tielli. I remembered the baby teeth Rita and I had found and realized who they'd really belonged to. Had they been keepsakes or souvenirs?
Wiping off a scowl before it could form, I kept moving until the smile I pasted in its place became genuine.
I was greeted a second time as I moved through the crowd-and it was a crowd-affectionately hailed by dozens feeling the effects of drinks and a good time. Some wanted to be known as friends of the owner, no doubt, but it felt immensely satisfying all the same to step up on the stage and tap the microphone to see if it worked. Filtered through the loudspeaker system, the taps turned into minor explosions, startling a few and gaining the attention of all.
Maybe I should have been nervous; I was never much for public speaking until taking a couple of debating classes in college. Those removed the terror of being the focus of an audience. Most of it, anyhow. But this was different. I was in charge, everyone was smiling and on my side, and it made me feel light yet powerful. No wonder Bobbi was so addicted to the spotlights.
The orchestra leader nodded at my cue and wound down the current song, allowing the dancers to find their seats. Several of the women were with Upshaw's party, all looking very decorative. I was curious about Upshaw's whereabouts and interested to see him seated at Booth Nevis's table. So my hypnosis had worked. Neither of them recalled any attempts to kill the other.
A sprinkling of applause brought me back to the business at hand, which was to introduce myself (more applause), compliment the audience, and thank them for being there (and more applause). Damn, but this was fun. I caught a glimpse of Bobbi shimmering in the wings. She grinned and gave me a double-thumbs-up sign.
As I didn't want the focus of the club to be on me, I'd created the mythical character of Lady Crymsyn to fill that part. She was a rare and mysterious creature deigning to share a few moments with lesser mortals. I used words to that effect as part of my introduction before finally calling her forth to present her formally to the house.
Applause. Lots of it. I wasn't sure if anyone understood the idea I was trying to get across, giving the club a personification, or if they thought she was the real owner of the place. It didn't matter. Lady Crymsyn was beautiful and gracious, and their response to her was gratifying. I slipped off the stage to allow her the freedom to get on with her Mistress of Ceremonies duties. Bobbi, having a lot of experience in the area, had written out what was required, and Sherry LaBelle flawlessly got through it all without making it seem rehearsed. She also acknowledged the orchestra, called attention to the outstanding efforts of the staff so as to encourage tipping, then introduced the first act, a local radio comedian who strongly resembled Eddie Cantor.
The spotlight shifted to him, and Lady Crymsyn faded back to the wings. I wanted to go there myself, but Bobbi had forbidden it for the sake of the performers. "They know their business," she said. "If you turn up, they'll think you don't trust them." Not willing to add to their opening night jitters, I climbed to the top tier where my reserved table was, shaking hands along the way as the comic started raking in his first laughs.
Escott was installed between Gordy's mob and Coldfield's party. Smart thinking on my part. Gordy and Coldfield did know of each other, but rarely did their worlds overlap. Escott was the perfect go-between for both. I wasn't exactly trying to form a League of Nations among the various elements of Chicago's underworld, but it wouldn't hurt for these two to socialize.
Coldfield's presence garnered continual looks, some of curiosity, others of disgust, but I made a point of shaking his hand again. He was well aware of what I was doing and played along, barely hiding his amusement at my efforts to improve race relations.
Gordy had also been briefed about who he'd be in close proximity to for the evening. If he had objections, he was canny enough not to voice them, and sometimes Escott had to lean back out of the way so the two gang leaders could exchange a comment. Escott finally gave up and excused himself so he could speak to me.
"She said she would join us later," he began, not bothering to identify which "she" in the room. It was unnecessary. "How long will she be involved with the show?"
"You'll have to be patient; she's got a full card for most of the evening."
He look mildly disappointed. For him that was his version of having a boulder dropped on his head.
"I'll see if she can't come up and take a long break later on," I added, trying to be kindly.
A visible brightening. "Excellent. It seems we have some friends in common in the profession. She's been in a few plays with one of my old cronies. We can compare notes."
The excuse was as long as a boardinghouse reach to me, but if he was willing to use it to get to know her better, then what the hell, why not? "You're being a complete idiot, you know."
"Yes, it's quite refreshing, don't you think?" As he looked down toward the stage where Miss LaBelle lurked, there was a decided glint in his eye and a predatory cast to his face I'd never seen before.
Good grief. I had no idea about this side of him. Escott the wolf? Escott the ladies' man? On the other hand, he was a gentleman.
This would be interesting.
The comic ended his routine, having worked his audience up to a roomwide belly laugh. I'd heard the act before at a dress rehearsal, but it was still damned funny. He bowed out, and Lady Crymsyn returned to introduce a blues man named Jim Waters I'd discovered a couple months back. He'd been playing in a small tavern trading his songs for tips from impoverished college students and other riffraff.
At the time, Waters had not entirely believed me when I said I'd wanted him to work at my club, but all doubts were gone now. He was already seated on a tall stool, his guitar in hand, the orchestra backlit behind him. He composed his own music, and they'd done sufficient rehearsal to make it seem like they'd been playing together for years. Mindful of the legacy left him by the comic, he plunged into a fast-paced number, his grin enough to let everyone know he was having the time of his life. That got the house warmed to him. The next song (after the applause died) was more moderate, but emotionally intense. He speeded up again for his third piece. His fourth and final one for this part of the show was a slow ballad about lost love. It was his best work, deeply moving, and gave him the wistful I-want-to-comfort-you attention of every red-blooded female in the room.
The response as he took his bow was such that I knew he'd be headlining here shortly, if he wasn't snapped up by some other entrepreneur in the meantime.
Then it was Bobbi's turn. The red velvet stage curtains had been drawn shut to allow Waters to exit and the orchestra members to change their sheet music. When the curtains next opened, Bobbi was seated on the white baby grand piano, a single spot picking out all those rhinestones on her gown, making them ripple and spark. She seemed to be framed in silver fire. I heard a gleeful exclamation and single hand clap from one audience member: Joe James, who looked unconscionably pleased with himself at the effect.
Bobbi's accompanist, Marza Chevreaux, did her job with her usual expertise, making it look easy. She framed the music around Bobbi's singing, complementing rather than competing. She idolized Bobbi, but didn't much like me, though her attitude had guardedly softened over time. Bobbi and I had been together nearly a year now, and so far I'd not made her cry, something Marza had not expected.
They worked to good effect for the first few bars, then the orchestra leader gradually brought in more instruments to fill things out. I'd not been awake during the rehearsals, so the end result was a knockout to me. She was definitely the star of the show, not merely background music for the customers. No one was dancing; they were all too busy listening.
Timed down to the minute, the lights came up at the end of Bobbi's set, and the orchestra struck up a number chosen to coax people out of their applause and onto the floor. I figured it would be safe for me to venture backstage now, and did so. Escott unobtrusively tagged along.
"You'll chase her off if you're too eager," I told him out the side of my mouth.
"Nonsense. All performers appreciate congratulations from their peers."
I grinned and left him to it, hunting around for Bobbi in the backstage melee. She was busy with one of the stage crew, gesturing at the curtains, then pointing toward the lights in an authoritative way, very much in her element. I waited until she was finished to offer her my own congratulations. They had to be brief, two other people came up to claim her attention, and she had to hurry off. She did cheerfully comment that I seemed a lot more relaxed. What pleased her, pleased me. I even caught Marza looking at me with-well, if it wasn't exactly a benign expression at least it wasn't openly hostile. Maybe in a couple of decades she might even work up to a smile.
Escott returned wearing a peculiar face, as though he had a pineapple lodged halfway down his throat, but was strangely smug about it. "She's agreed to a late-night dinner after the show."
My God. He actually had a date. "Good. Enjoy yourselves."
"There is a slight problem..."
"Yeah?"
"I don't know of any decent places open that late. It would be most helpful if you could recommend one."
After all this time, Bobbi and I had found several, so I named a few that might fill the bill for him. He was pathetically grateful for the information.
Back in the main room, I made more rounds and shook more hands. As Upshaw was away on the dance floor, I paused at Nevis's table, suddenly conscious of the wire photos folded up in my pocket.
"Great show, Fleming," he said, grinning. "I think you'll make the rent this month with stuff like that to bring them in."
As tonight's party was private, I'd skipped the extra revenue of a cover charge, but my landlord didn't need to be reminded. "Did you take care of your tour all right?" I noticed the bunch of flowers Rita had brought was gone.
She nodded. "Yeah. Booth showed me where it happened and all. It's awful, not what I expected, but I donno what I thought would be there. What's that big thing like a pot?"
I made an educated guess. "A cement mixer."
"You gonna cover up the floor?"
"Yes."
"Make it like new again, huh?"
Better then new, I hoped.
Rita got a speculative look. "Jack, I was wondering..."
"What?"
She fiddled with the clasp on her purse. "Well, I put the flowers there 'n' all, an' I was wondering if you could leave 'em there, under the cement."
For an instant I felt a strong tug within to tell her the real name of her friend, that the monster who'd masqueraded as Lena Ashley did not deserve to be mourned. I pushed it hastily off. Rita needed her illusion and so did Nevis. "Sure. I'll have the workmen leave them alone. It's a... a real sweet thought, Rita."
"Thanks, Jack."
"Yeah," said Nevis. "Thanks."
Time to leave; I didn't trust my face to conceal my inner discomfort, but I'd done the right thing. It would do no good for either of them to know the truth...
Oh, hell.
I should have said something to Blair as soon as he'd told me. He might not give the news to the papers right away, even with the joint crawling with reporters, but there was always later.
Eyes peeled for him, I searched the room. He was at the bar in the lobby. Malone was helping out there, just handing him something with ice and fizz.
"Have a root beer?" Blair asked genially, still on duty.
"I gotta favor to ask, if it's not too late."
Malone, alert to the tone of my voice, did a passable job of ignoring the conversation while soaking up every word.
Blair nodded to indicate he was willing to listen.
"Do the papers know about her real name yet?"
"Not yet."
"Is there a way of keeping them from finding out?"
"Why do you want that?"
"The truth would hurt some friends of mine."
He wasn't too impressed. "How so?"
"They liked Lena; I think one of them even loved her. It would only hurt them to find out who she really was."
The name caused Malone to drop his pretense of not listening.
I spared him a glance. "You don't repeat any of this."
He gave that nervous tic. "No, sir."
"It's going to be a matter of public record in my report," said Blair. "It already is with the people who identified the prints."
"You can bury that part, make sure the papers don't get hold of it. I know how those things work."
"The public has a right to know who she was."
"Gimme one good reason why. They poured out a barrel of sympathy for 'Jane Poe' and then Lena, How do you think they'd feel knowing they'd wasted it?"
He scowled.
"Come on, Blair. The public doesn't have to know they were betrayed."
He grunted. A neutral sound.
"Besides, these are hard times. Some of them spent good money sending flowers to Lena's service. It made them feel better. You want to take that away from them?"
He rumbled now, but it was in a more positive tone. "I suppose I can fix things."
"It's not too late?"
"Just don't expect me to repeat the favor."
I had no fear of that. "You're one in a million. From now on all your root beers are on the house."
"Pah!" he said. It was the first time I'd heard him laugh.
"Mr. Fleming?" Malone. "What is it exactly I'm not supposed to repeat?"
I lowered my voice so the other staff wouldn't hear. "That we found out Lena Ashley's real name."
"Oh? Who was she then?"
It didn't seem right to exclude him since he'd probably hear me speak about it in the future, so I pulled out the wire photo reports and allowed him a quick peek.
"Oh, dear God." Even in such a truncated form the basics of the case were ugly. He looked sick.
"You keep quiet about it. I don't want Nevis or Rita hearing even a whisper. Ever."
He shook his head. "N-no, of course not."
I thanked Blair again, folded the bad news into a pocket, and went back to play host.
With the crisis out of the way, it was an easy enough job. The rest of the evening sped by so swift and effortless it worried me. I half expected the roof to fall in, things were going so well.
The second show was as successful as the first, the wait staff ran their legs off keeping up with the drink orders, and it was with a shock I realized it was nearly two and time to close the doors. The orchestra played "Good night, Sweetheart," which signaled the beginning of the end. A large number of guests had already drifted homeward after the last stage act; this took care of the rest until the only ones remaining were Gordy's party, Coldfield's, Escott, Bobbi, and Lady Crymsyn. Malone had signed out the staff once they'd cleaned the bars and put the chairs on the tables. Sometime tomorrow a janitorial crew would come in to see to the floors and rest rooms. Malone stayed behind. The cash register receipts had to be counted, and he was still educating me in his system of bookkeeping.
He resumed his bartender duties one more time, though, as we all gathered in the front lobby for a farewell drink. He opened a bottle of champagne, and I invited him to join with the rest of us in hoisting a glass as toasts were made. I participated as well, having nimbly snagged an empty glass, cupping it in my hand in such a way as to conceal its emptiness.
Miss LaBelle was at last able to break character as Lady Crymsyn to enthuse about the place and how much she'd enjoyed herself. "People acted like I'm the owner. I hope that's all right, Mr. Fleming."
"Call me Jack, and yes, that's exactly what I was aiming for. You did a great job."
She beamed, and Escott beamed at her. No kidding. It was the damnedest thing I'd ever seen from him. I'd have to talk to Coldfield later about this new side, just so I could stop gaping at it.
Miss LaBelle took a tiny sip of her champagne-I approved that she'd had nothing stronger than water the whole night-then regarded me seriously with a set of very intense hazel eyes. "There's one thing I want to ask..."
"Sure, name it."
"Has anyone died in this building?"
Conversation certainly did. There was a lengthy pause.
"Did I say something wrong?" She glanced around at our silent circle, confused.
Escott gallantly stepped into the breach. "Not at all, it was just a bit of a startlement. Have you not read the papers?"
"No, I've been too busy. What did I miss?"
In a few carefully chosen words, he explained about what had been found in the basement, making it seem like very old news. He didn't include anything about the corpse there also wearing a red dress, and rightly so.
She digested the information thoughtfully. "How horrible, but I don't think it's quite right. Was there another death?"
"Several," I said. "A gang skirmish. Some people were killed here."
"That's it, then," she said decisively.
"What's it?"
"That explains the ghost here in the lobby."
Another long pause. Bobbi and Gordy looked at me. I'd also told Escott about the business with the lights, but he was too busy looking at Miss LaBelle. No one seemed too anxious to speak first.
Except me. After I'd swallowed my surprise. "Ghost?"
"Oh, I don't expect anyone to believe me. I've had that all my life. But you've got a ghost." Her utter ingenuousness was not something any actress could have faked, no matter how talented; she was completely sincere. Escott shifted slightly, his expression frozen into a small, tight smile. Maybe he was having second thoughts about wanting to keep company with her. That, or wondering if he could overlook this eccentricity when weighed against her other obvious assets.
"Actually," I put in at last, "I do believe you."
"Oh, that's very kind. Thank you." And she seemed content to leave it at that.
"Miss LaBelle-"
"Sherry."
"Sherry, would you please tell us more about the ghost?"
"I don't know that much. She's here in the lobby, mostly by that bar."
Malone, caught between amusement and apprehension, looked around. "She's here?" he asked.
"More over that way," said Sherry, indicating a spot just to his right. He, too, put on a tight smile and moved out from behind the bar altogether.
"Er-what does she look like?" Tic.
Her brow puckered. "It's not like she's anything I can describe. It's really hard, like trying to explain color to a blind person. I just know that she's there, but not in a physical sense."
"Is she scary?" asked Adelle Taylor, hanging on every word.
"Not at all. She's just there. I get the impression she likes what you've done with the place, Jack."
"Thank her for me," I said in a faint voice.
"She heard you. I think she likes you a lot, too."
"Oh. Uh, that's nice."
Sherry blinked and stared at the bar area, concentrating. "She... she's sorry about not being able to help more when you were hurt. What does that mean?"
Gordy shot me a look. I felt my mouth drop open, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. "Oh, jeez," he muttered.
"And she's saying something about some grenades. That she didn't know about them until it was too late or she'd have warned you."
"Oh, jeez," I echoed.
"Yes, she was pretty upset by that, but glad no one was hurt this time."
"Sherry... could you ask if she left the whiskey on the bar last week?"
"She heard you. Yes, she did, but she didn't know that you don't drink that. She just wanted to make friends."
"Oh, jeez." I had gooseflesh creeping on my arms. Honest-to-God gooseflesh.
"This is fascinating," Escott said. To his credit, he did appear to be fascinated. He must have made a decision about her, and it had been in her favor.
Now where had I seen that earnest, inquiring expression on him before? Then I abruptly realized his interest was genuine, beyond his current infatuation. He'd looked just like that during our first interview in his office last August after he'd swiped my home earth to ensure that I would talk to him.
"I should very much like to hear more about this gift of yours," he said.
"Just don't make fun of me for it."
"Certainly not."
Ah, what the hell. He believed in vampires, why not ghosts? Why not in a pretty young girl who talked to them?
"I wish I could see ghosts," said Adelle.
Sherry's eyes flashed at her. "No, you don't!"
"Why? Do they scare you?"
"No, but some of them can be terribly annoying."
"This is a very strange conversation," said Coldfield. His luscious date nodded cautious agreement.
Sherry giggled. "Yes, it is. I'm sorry."
My proposal for another round of champagne met with relieved agreement and worked to bring things back to normal again. At least no one suggested we try having a seance. There was a general change in the crowd as the ladies trooped off to a rest room. God knows what they would be talking about there. Escott looked at his watch.
"You can sleep in tomorrow," I reminded him.
"Hm." He'd gone a touch dubious, now, which was deadly to any budding romance.
"You don't seem to mind that she's a medium."
"She did not once mention that word, nor shall I," he said, sounding huffed.
"Sure, after all, there are more things in heaven and earth-like me for instance. Besides, she's quite a good-looker. You can talk acting, not metaphysics."
He raised an eyebrow. A warning.
I backed off with a grin, my job done. She'd ceased to be a scientific inquiry and was firmly back to being a romantic conquest.
"Heard you got a break," Gordy said. He was addressing me.
"Huh?"
"When you were talking with Blair."
"How the hell you know that?"
His mouth thinned. A smile. "I'm a medium."
I glanced over at his bodyguards, obviously the source of his information. "They look more large than medium to me."
Now his head bobbed slightly back and forth. Laughter. "So what's the story?"
Apparently Escott had been keeping Coldfield up-to-date on matters at my club. Both leaned in to hear better.
"Okay, but this stuff doesn't go past the door. I don't want Nevis and especially Rita learning about it. I made an arrangement with Blair to keep it out of the papers."
They murmured assent to my condition, then I produced the wire photo articles and delivered the news about Lena's real name. Shocked silence for a moment, then some quiet remarks of disbelief.
"How'd she end up here?" Coldfield wanted to know.
"On the run from the New York cops," said Gordy. "What I don't get is how she hooked up with Nevis. He's not on the side of the law, but he'd draw the line at this."
'"Nevis couldn't have known," I said. "Same for Rita."
"I fear I am unfamiliar with this case," said Escott. "I was out of the country at the time."
As I'd read it all by now, my memory was fresh with the facts. I filled him in.
In 1923 Helen Crespi, then a sweet sixteen, married Walter Tielli. By 1929, at the ripe old age of twenty-two, she had two children and sudden widowhood when her husband was killed in a construction accident. His insurance company had crashed along with the rest of Wall Street, leaving her a worthless policy. She scrabbled along on what little she could make as a shop girl. Compared to the rest of the country she was lucky; she had a job, but the wear of working twelve hours a day selling trinkets at a five-and-dime got to her. After a few months she wanted out.
She had no close relatives to help. Her husband's relations had troubles of their own. She went to state agencies and orphanages, trying to get her children adopted out. All refused. She maintained she could no longer afford to care for them properly. No one believed her, especially when the social workers interviewed her neighbors.
Helen was by then playing house with a guy named Dixon, who ran numbers for the local mob. He sometimes contributed to the household funds, but preferred taking Helen around to the clubs. She was a pretty girl, and he liked to show her off. This was more to her taste. Dixon was willing to support her, but complained about the children interfering with their bedtime fun. This inspired Helen to continue her efforts with the orphanages.
No one was sympathetic. She was a mother; it was her sacred duty to care for her children, not run off to dance at the clubs all night or to live in sin with a man not her husband.
Dixon was preparing to leave her; he'd already moved to a nearby hotel and cut off his money.
Then one chilly day Helen Tielli decided to take her young children on a picnic in the country. In a hamper borrowed from a neighbor, Helen packed some sandwiches, a couple bottles of pop, a butcher knife, matches, and a small can of kerosene.
Hamper in hand, she herded the boy, seven, and the girl, three, onto a northbound bus. Once clear of the city, she asked the driver to stop. The trio tramped into some woods at the side of the road until Helen found a suitable spot to camp. Cold as it was, the children had no complaints. A picnic was an unheard-of excursion for them, a treat. They ate their sandwiches and drank their pop. Helen held the youngest until the little girl fell asleep. The boy, Walter, Jr., wanted to go to the bathroom. Helen left the girl napping on the picnic blanket to follow her son deeper into the woods. She carried the butcher knife and can of kerosene; the matches were in her coat pocket. The boy asked about the knife. She said it was in case they met a bear. Trusting his mother could protect him from such a threat, he relieved himself against a tree. When he was done, she cut his throat. It didn't work too well. Blood poured out of him, but he didn't die right away as he should have, so she stabbed him several times.
The kerosene was to burn up the body, to get rid of evidence. She slopped it over him and the first match she lighted caught. Flames exploded to life, foul smoke roiled up. Only Walter, Jr. wasn't quite dead. He rolled and shrieked in agony, trying to crawl away. She looked on, not moving as he cried to her for help.
Some hunters heard his screams and came running. Helen hurried back to the little camp and stabbed her sleeping daughter, then vanished into the woods. She was found hours later trying to hitchhike home. She thought the state troopers had stopped to give her a ride.
The boy died on the spot of his burns and wounds; the girl lived to be turned over to a state orphanage. Dozens of couples stepped forward, volunteering to adopt her.
During her confession with the cops which was quoted from in a national magazine, Helen said she'd intended to set the girl on fire, but she "felt bad" about the boy and decided against it. Not once did she call the children by their names or show any further remorse. She appeared not to care about anything except when she would be allowed to go home. Her boyfriend Dixon would be waiting for her, she peevishly insisted.
"Good God," said Escott.
"She was declared insane," I went on. "They put her in a nuthouse. She spent a week there before smuggling herself out in a delivery truck. Someone got careless with their routine bed checks, and she slipped away. There was a big hunt, but no one knew what happened to her after that."
"Until she comes to Chicago as Lena Ashley and went to work for Booth Nevis," said Gordy.
"And we all know how that ended." I shook my head. Justice, it would seem, had finally caught up with Helen Tielli, imprisoning her in a death almost as ghastly as that which she'd inflicted on her own flesh and blood. "The 'Murder Mom' got hers after all."
"How alliterative," Escott said, frowning at the sheet bearing that headline.
"That's what the papers called her until some group of mothers protested that it was scaring their kids."
"What happened to Dixon?"
I shrugged. "Doesn't say. She must have paid attention to his business, maybe heard a name or two, so when she got here she could ask around for work. Nevis gave her a job. I'll have to find out from him how he met her."
"What an unholy mess," said Escott. He handed the papers back to me.
I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. I'd felt sick before about the crime, but that was nothing compared to what swept through me now. Could they see anything of it on my face? Bobbi would instantly notice, but she was thankfully away in the rest room.
"He'll wonder why you're interested," Escott went on.
"Nevis won't remember any of it."
"I like how you operate," said Gordy.
That was the highest compliment he could pay anyone, and everyone there knew it, but I was too mentally distracted to offer an appropriate thanks. I was saved by the return of the ladies. Adelle slipped a hand under Gordy's arm.
"It's late," she stated. Her tone was cheerful rather than reproach, but unmistakably insistent. The others nodded agreement with her, and the men sensibly surrendered. Escott left with Sherry, Coldfield with his troupe, Bobbi went along with Gordy's crew so he could drop her home.
"See you later?" she asked.
How I loved that imp's smile of hers. "Soon as Malone and I get the receipts counted."
I pushed ugly suspicions out of my head and locked up, heaving a sigh of relief. No need for me to breathe regularly, but the old habit for the release of tension remained strong. I felt like a wrung-out rag, but it was a good kind of feeling for a job well-done. Maybe an army of staff and entettainers had done the real work tonight, but ultimately the success of Lady Crymsyn was my responsibility. Tomorrow I'd know whether or not it had all worked; Escott had promised to check the papers for reviews and have them waiting for me. If he had time. Ghosts or not, he still seemed most taken with Miss LaBelle...
The bar light was on, but then Malone was busy washing up the champagne glasses in the sink there. I offered to help, but he said he had everything under control, so I told him to come to the main room with the cash drawer when he was done. He nodded absently. I made a quick trip up to the office to get the account books and a money bag. By the time I'd come down he'd finished and turned off the light. I wondered how long that would last.
Passing into the main room, I paused to look up at Lady Crymsyn's portrait. It was still beautiful even after hundreds had seen her. For some reason I thought she'd be subtly changed for the attention as any woman might be changed.
Not Lady Crymsyn. Me. I'd had a lifetime in a few hours. No wonder I was weary, and even slightly disjointed in mind. There was also disappointment, sadness, and a supreme desire to avoid what I had to do next.
Putting it off, I studied the portrait. The color seemed to overwhelm the canvas. I'd never before noticed how many different shades of red the artist had used in the composition. He'd been invited to the opening, but begged off, having another engagement. I wanted him here to tell me why the reds were suddenly so prominent, when until now it had been the face of the woman that had dominated. Maybe it was a sign of great art for a single piece to be so many things at different times.
Or maybe it was my mind trying to get me to focus on another woman in a red dress. I really did not want to; the evening had gone so well.
Malone was at the far bar, already sorting through the wads of cash he'd taken from the club's registers. There was a huge pile of ones, fives, and tens, a lesser, but still most respectable stack of twenties and fifties, and even a lovely collection of C-notes. I was pleased by the take, but not nearly as much as I'd have been had Lieutenant Blair not strolled in with his news and clippings.
Seated at one of the booths, Malone and I counted through the money, recorded it, wrapped rubber bands around the paper, and sealed the coins into sturdy bank envelopes, all ready to deposit. I deemed that this would be a task for which I would never grow weary.
"That's all then," he said, folding the last one shut.
"Not really."
He gave me an inquiring look. "Have I missed something?"
I was too well aware of the vast emptiness of the place. The fans still hummed, gently circulating air, clearing out the last of the smoke. Was it also drawing away the music and laughter that had filled the room hardly more than an hour ago?
Suppressing another sigh, I pulled out the now rather crumpled wire photos and put them on the table between us. "There's some things missing here. I want you to fill in the spaces."
For a moment, as he stared without comprehension at the sheets, I had the stabbing hope that I'd been wrong. That Escort's chance comment about it being an unholy mess had triggered a false conclusion.
But only for a moment. Malone's face went utterly white, and he slumped back in the padded seat of the booth. He released a long sigh of his own that sounded alarmingly like a death rattle. He looked dead, a dead man with only his stricken gaze to show that someone was still trapped inside the unresponsive body.
