Murder Is A Girl’s Best Friend

Chapter 16

WHEN ROSCOE AND I REACHED THE STREET and parted company-thereby ending the threat that Elsie might bump into us and blurt out my real name-I said another silent prayer (of thanks, this time). Then I walked back to Seventh Avenue and headed south, away from the Chelsea Realty office, looking for a coffee shop or a candy store or any kind of store where I could slip inside, get warm, and make a phone call. Though I hadn’t wanted to see Elsie before, I needed to talk to her now-to find out when and where she wanted to meet for dinner.

The first shop I came to was Henry’s Hardware, and I was so cold I went right in. The short, balding man standing behind the waist-high counter in the middle of the store was wearing a red flannel shirt and an enormous I’m-so-glad-to-see-a-customer smile. “Well, hello there!” he said, propping his elbows on the counter and craning his plump round face in my direction. “What can I help you with today? I’m having a big sale on electric fans.” He let out a hearty laugh to show that he was joking.

I smiled and walked up to the counter. “I’m not shopping for anything specific,” I told him, “but I’d like to look around a bit, if that’s okay. And do you have a public phone I can use?”

“I’ve got a phone, but it’s not public.”

“I’d be happy to pay for the call.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that!” he said, pulling a battered old black telephone up from behind the counter and placing it down right in front of me. “It’ll be a frosty day in Hawaii before Henry Thaddeus Hancock makes a nice young lady like you pay for one lousy phone call. It will be just one call, won’t it? A local?”

“That’s right,” I said, smiling. “Just one local call.”

“Then go right ahead, young lady,” he said, sliding the phone even closer. “Be my guest. I’ll go price some items over in the housewares section so you can have some privacy. ”

“Thank you, Henry,” I said, touched by his kindness and generosity. After my dealings with with Jimmy Birmingham and Roscoe Swift, Henry Thaddeus Hancock seemed like the world’s most considerate man. Not wanting to tie up his line any longer than I had to, I snatched Elsie Londergan’s number out of the zippered side pocket of my purse and dialed it quickly. She answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Elsie!” I said. “This is Paige Turner, and I…”

“Hi, yourself,” she interrupted. “I was wondering if you would call. And I’m sure glad you did. I’ve got a real han kerin’ for a hamburger and a beer right about now.” (I hadn’t noticed it before, but even her vocabulary was similar to John Wayne’s.)

“Good,” I said, “because I’m in the neighborhood and I’m hungry. Just name the place and tell the time.”

“There’s a pub on 23rd between Sixth and Seventh called the Green Monkey. I’ll meet you there at five-thirty.”

“Great. See you then.”

I hung up and went looking for Henry. He was in the rear of the store, squatting down next to a cardboard carton full of plastic ice cube trays-the new twist-and-pop kind- removing them one at a time and stamping each with a price of forty-five cents.

“I’m off the phone now, Henry. Thanks so much!”

“Don’t mention it, young lady.” He gave out a grunt and stood up like a true gentleman, his plump round face pink with exertion. “Glad to be of service to you!”

“I have a few minutes to kill before I meet my friend for dinner,” I said. “Mind if I browse around?”

“Please do! I know you’ll find something you need. Everybody always does!”

I wasn’t intending to buy anything, but I didn’t tell him that. He looked so proud and hopeful I didn’t have the heart to admit that all I wanted was to soak up some more heat before I hit the frigid streets for the Green Monkey.

Henry walked back to the sales counter, and I took a stroll down the next aisle over, surveying all the rugged, “manly” items in that section-the fishing rods, tackle boxes, hunting knives, boat paddles, lanterns, and inflatable life vests so indispensable to life in the wild on the untamed isle of Manhattan. The adjacent lane featured more of the same: tents, sleeping bags, tool boxes, hand pumps, saws, axes, flashlights, and lunchboxes.

A lunchbox! I squealed to myself, struck with a sudden happy inspiration. Stooping to inspect the three different models displayed on a lower shelf, I picked up the nicest one and examined it closely. It was made of steel-black enamel outside, white enamel inside-and it had a rounded top, a sturdy handle, two lock clasps, strong hinges, and a pint vacuum bottle with a screw-on aluminum cup top.

It was perfect! The ideal gift! I couldn’t wait to wrap it up and give it to Lenny-who, as I’ve mentioned before, was so intent on avoiding the office elevators he brought his lunch to work every day in a brown paper sack.

Delighted with my serendipitous and timely find (there were only two shopping days left until Christmas), I merrily hugged the lunchbox to my breast and carried it up to the sales counter. “May I pay for this by check?” I asked, knowing I didn’t have enough cash to buy Lenny’s gift as well as Elsie’s dinner.

“Of course!” Henry gushed, pink cheeks glowing. “That’ll be two dollars and twenty-nine cents.”

I made out the check, and Henry put the lunchbox in a shopping bag. “See? I knew you’d find at least one thing you need,” he said, handing the bag over to me. “Henry’s Hardware has something for everybody!” If he had let out a loud “Ho, ho, ho!” I’d have found it entirely appropriate.

THE GREEN MONKEY WAS FIFTY PERCENT full (or fifty percent empty, depending on your point of view), and most of the mostly male customers were sitting or standing at the long walnut bar, jabbering noisily. I yearned to join the boisterous, laughing crowd and throw down a fast highball or two, but I took a seat in a booth instead. It was the ladylike thing to do. (No nasty remarks, please!)

Before I even had a chance to light up a cigarette, Elsie Londergan breezed in. She hooked her coat on the rack near the door, waved to the bartender, and slid into the booth across the table from me. “Brrrrrr!” she said, removing her green wool gloves but leaving on her green felt hat, which had a sprig of fake holly pinned to the brim. “I’m wearing thick wool stockings, a heavy wool skirt, two slips, and two sweaters, and I’m still freezing! I think I’ll have a hot buttered rum instead of a beer, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure,” I said, nervously adding up the extra cost in my mind. I’d have enough, I figured, if I didn’t order a drink. I hoped there’d be a dime left over for the subway.

“So, Paige Turner,” Elsie said, craning her chiseled John Wayne chin over the scarred wood tabletop and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you dug up any dirt? Do you know who killed Judy?”

“No,” I said, suddenly feeling very tired and dejected. “I don’t have a clue. But I have spoken to a few…”

I cut my sentence short when the waiter appeared to take our order. Elsie ordered a hot buttered rum and a hamburger with a side of fries. I asked for a hamburger and a glass of water.

As soon as the waiter left, Elsie leaned over the table again. “Hey, why the water?” she wanted to know. “Are you a teetotaler or something?”

“No,” I said, grimacing at the horrible thought, “I’m just trying to keep a clear head.” I didn’t tell her that my head hadn’t been clear since 1951.

Elsie patted the fringe of blue-gray hair sticking out beneath her hat and smiled sympathetically. Then she turned her attention back to the murder. “So, who did you speak to? Have you learned anything important?”

I gave her a quick summary of everything that had happened since I’d seen her the day before, relating the highlights of my conversations with Vicki Lee Bumstead and Jimmy Birmingham. “Gregory Smith’s real name is Gregory Smythe,” I told her, “and Judy knew it all along. And since she always told you everything, I’m surprised she didn’t tell you that.”

“Me, too,” Elsie said, pausing, looking perplexed, obviously giving the matter further thought. Then suddenly her eyes popped wide. “I bet I know what happened!” she sputtered. “I bet Judy did give me his real name, but just didn’t say it right! She wasn’t very well-educated, you know, and she was always getting her words mixed up. She probably thought ‘Smith’ was the right pronunciation.”

Elsie’s explanation seemed possible-even plausible-to me. “Did she ever give you his personal address or phone number?”

“No, but she probably didn’t have that information herself. Cheating sidewinders like Smythe like to keep that kind of stuff secret.”

“What about Jimmy Birmingham? Did Judy ever mention him?”

“Yeah, he was her boyfriend before Smythe. She said he was a poet or a sculptor, or something arty-farty like that.”

“Did he ever visit her in her apartment? Did you ever see him in your building or around the neighborhood?”

“Can’t say. I never met the man, so I don’t know what he looks like.”

I took the picture of Judy and Jimmy and Otto out of my purse and handed it to her. She held it up toward the light for a couple of seconds, then slapped it down on the tabletop. “Yes!” she cried, getting excited. “I did see this joker around the neighborhood a couple of times! I remember because he was carrying that little dog under his arm. Had it wrapped up in a towel. Do you think he’s the one who…”

Elsie stopped talking when the waiter reappeared with our food and drinks. And after the waiter left, she was too busy chomping fries and guzzling rum to speak. And when she started chewing on her hamburger with the gusto of a famished fullback, I realized our conversation wouldn’t be resumed until she had finished eating. So I took a sip of my water, slathered ketchup on my bun, and tackled my own hamburger-matching Elsie bite for bite.

Our plates were clean in under five minutes. “You want coffee?” Elsie asked, popping the last french fry in her mouth.

The jig was up. I could actually hear my wallet groaning. “Yes, I do, Elsie,” I said, sighing, “but I can’t have any. And neither can you.”

“Huh? Why not?”

“Because I don’t feel like washing the dishes.”

“You mean you don’t have enough money?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?” she cried. “I can kick in for the java. I got lucky at bingo last night.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Java would be swell.”

The waiter cleared our dishes and brought us two steaming mugs of coffee. Then we both lit up cigarettes and returned to more homicidal concerns.

“Did Smythe give Judy any expensive gifts?” I probed, wanting to find out if Elsie knew about the diamonds. “Any furs or jewels or anything that might have attracted a burglar or a killer?”

“He gave her a bunch of jewelry, but I bet it was just paste.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Smythe strikes me as a world-class cheapskate, that’s why!”

“But he paid Judy’s rent…”

“Yeah, but that didn’t set him back much. Only sixtyfive bucks a month. You’ve seen my apartment! Well, Judy’s was just like it-a small dark railroad with no doors and lots of cockroaches. Not exactly the Taj Mahal.”

“Yes, I know,” I admitted. “I was there this afternoon.”

“You were?” Elsie said, taken aback. She braced her broad shoulders against the wooden backrest of the booth and looked at me suspiciously. “And how did that little event come about?” Was it my imagination or was she upset about something?

“I saw an ad for Judy’s apartment in the paper so I went to Chelsea Realty and asked to see it, pretending I was looking for a new place to live. I wanted to see the place firsthand. Your landlord took me over.”

“Roscoe? Roscoe took you there?” She looked kind of panicky now.

“Yes… Is there something wrong with that? I just wanted to get a feel for the crime scene.”

“Did you tell him who you are?”

“Well, no. I put down a phony name and address on the application.”

She turned quiet for a few seconds, mulling over what I’d just said. Then she took one last drag on her cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Paige. You should have spoken to me first.”

“But why? What’s the problem?” I was feeling kind of panicky now myself.

“After you left my place yesterday,” Elsie began, frowning as she spoke, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said: that Judy was probably murdered-on purpose-by somebody she knew. And I was going nuts wondering if that was true. So, instead of just sitting there like a stump, staring into space and trying to figure out who the killer could be, I decided to get up off my buttocks and do a little detective work on my own.”

Bubble, bubble, here comes trouble…

“So I went down to the realty office and had a little talk with Roscoe,” Elsie continued. “I asked him why he went to Judy’s apartment the night she was killed and what time he found the body.”

“And what did he say?” I interjected, panting like a high-strung poodle. I had been wanting to know the answers to those very same questions. Hey, maybe it won’t be so bad having John Wayne as a deputy after all!

“He said he went to Judy’s place around eight-thirty to check her radiators. She had complained she wasn’t getting enough heat. When she didn’t answer the door, he opened it himself-it wasn’t locked-and went inside. He found her dead body lying in a pool of blood in the sitting room. The blood was still warm.”

“He touched it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She closed her eyes and shuddered. “That little weasel gives me the creeps!”

“Ditto,” I said, putting out my cigarette and lighting another. “Did you ask him anything else?”

“I asked him for Gregory Smith’s real name.”

“Did he give it to you?”

“No. He told me to go jump in a lake. He said he already told the police everything, that I should butt out and leave the detective work up to them.”

I hated to admit it (even just to myself!), but Roscoe Swift was beginning to sound a heck of a lot like Dan Street. “So, was that the end of your conversation?” I asked her.

“Not exactly,” she said, slumping her shoulders and casting her eyes down at the tabletop.

Ugh!… “You mean there was more?”

“I realize now I shouldn’t have said anything,” Elsie muttered, “but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.”

A squirt of adrenaline shot up my spine. “What seemed like the right thing to do?” I was trying to keep my voice calm and steady, but I probably sounded like Ralph Kramden in the throes of a roaring hissy fit. “What did you say?”

Elsie raised her eyes and gave me an apologetic look. “I told Roscoe about you.”

I couldn’t speak. A cat had its claws in my tongue.

Elsie nervously cleared her throat and went on. “I thought Roscoe would be more communicative if I told him what was really going on, made him feel like an insider in the investigation,” she explained. “So I told him everything I knew about you. That your name was Paige Turner and you were a friend of Judy’s brother Terry. That you worked for Daring Detective magazine and were trying to help Terry prove that his sister had been intentionally murdered, not killed by chance during a burglary. That you were a very nice person who really cared about Judy Catcher and was determined to find out the truth about her death.”

“And how did Roscoe react?” I stammered, freeing my tongue and flapping it frantically. “Was he surprised by what you said? Did he show any concern? Did he give you any more information?”

“No,” Elsie said, embarrassed. “All he showed was anger, and all he said was, ‘Get lost, Elsie, you’re bugging me.’ ” She paused and gave me a sad little smile. “I’m really sorry, Paige,” she added. “I was trying to help you, not hurt you.”

She seemed distressed so I hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry about it, Elsie,” I said. “You may not have hurt me at all. Maybe Roscoe never put two and two together. Maybe he never realized that Paige Turner and Phoebe Starr were the same person.”

“Phoebe Starr?” She popped me a questioning look.

“My alter ego,” I explained, “the name I put on the rental application.” I stubbed out my cigarette and took a few sips of coffee, brooding over the possible ramifications of this unexpected development. And after several more seconds of silence, I sucked up my optimism and proclaimed, “Even if Roscoe does figure out the Phoebe/Paige connection, what does it matter now? I don’t intend to see him again or ask him any more questions, so it really doesn’t make any difference. He never would have given me any significant information anyway.”

I was trying to convince myself as well as Elsie that Roscoe’s knowledge of my real name and occupation posed no threat to me or my investigation. And, for Elsie’s part, I succeeded. Convincing myself, however, turned out to be a hopeless objective. Because no matter how hard I tried to banish a certain unpleasant thought from my muddled, maniacal mind, it kept coming back to haunt me: If Roscoe Swift had anything whatsoever to do with Judy’s murder-or even just knows somebody who did-then I’m up poop creek without a paddle.