The Girl with the Frightened Eyes Read online

  “Who is he?” Hank asked, as we rescued our drinks.

  “You don’t know him? Harry Semple.” He laughed into his towel. “Everybody calls him Simple. You see why?”

  “And the blonde?”

  Ike rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “That’s Mrs. Joe Gant, in person. You remember Joe Gant?”

  I put down my glass with a jerk. I remembered Joe Gant. He was a gangster—a gangster long dead—the commander of the New York liquor trade when drinking was taboo. But Mrs. Gant? Who was she? I stared hard at her through the fog of smoke. I tried to concentrate on the cut of her face, to link her to Kip Smith through some similarity in structure, some small gesture.

  A face is a face. I closed my eyes and reached back into my memory for the picture of Kip Smith’s familiar profile. It came to me in its general outline and I remembered the brow first, and the simple planes of his jaw. I opened my eyes and looked at Mrs. Gant again.

  Women are deceptive. Mrs. Gant’s brow was lost under hair trained to swirl in gay and generous puffs and drop carelessly over one eye—the eye nearest me. Her cheeks, too, were highlighted with color, accented to deceive. Her mouth was a wide smear, enlarged and reshaped to hide its original pattern. Her nose? Kip Smith’s nose was not at all like this one. Kip had a longer nose, set in a longer face.

  And suddenly she smiled and I caught my breath. There was something in the smile that held my eye and tugged at my brain and reminded me of Kip Smith and nobody else on earth. It was the turn of the mouth that did it. A woman can disguise her lips but no makeup on earth can change the true angle of her smile.

  I nudged Hank. “She might be Paula’s sister.”

  “Why?”

  “Paula Smith’s sister married a gangster.”

  Hank laughed and turned to Ike. “How long ago was she shaking her heart out on a runway, Ike?”

  “She had the prettiest pair of hips in burlesque. How long ago? Maybe ten years? I can’t tell on account of burlesque got murdered here in New York.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “She was the best shaker in the business, the best I ever seen in my life.”

  The “best” in the country approached our table. I made a mental note of her hip swing as she came. She walked in an easy, accented rhythm, a provocative strut.

  She stood over us for a brief moment, allowing us the enjoyment of her torso. Then she sat down near Hank. She lit a cigarette and smiled into his eyes and he wasn’t at all uncomfortable under her smile.

  Hank said, “Hello, photogenic.”

  She let it pass, still frozen in a smile. She said, “Do I know you?”

  “We’re old friends,” said Hank. “We met exactly ten seconds ago.”

  She rolled her head my way to let me share her. “Your boyfriend is very clever with the lip. Do you make jokes, too?”

  I said, “I’m a good listener.”

  She turned to Hank. “Seriously, Mister, haven’t we met before? Where have I seen you?”

  Hank grinned. “I’ve been around. Was it at Monte Carlo or the sands of Nice? Or are you the doll my mother wanted me to marry back in Centerville?”

  Her smile began to fade and she shrugged gently. “Bad comedy,” she said to me. “Your friend was only good in his opening lines. He got corny in the stretch.” She put her hand on my sleeve. “I came over here to apologize for my fat friend. He loses his temper. I thought maybe he embarrassed you.”

  “He flattered me. He’s the first active seeker after my art work in almost three years.”

  She really laughed at that one. She showed me all her teeth and leaned my way. “I had you pegged right then. You’re a real artist?”

  “I used to be.”

  “I like artists,” she said, “especially in uniform. Can I see the sketch you did of me?”

  I handed her the sketch and she leaned back and laughed at it long and loud. She had a rich, deep laugh, feminine and yet hard boiled.

  I said, “You’re killing me. For that laugh you can keep the masterpiece.”

  She patted my hand and her hand was cold on mine. She thanked me and tucked the sketch away. I took one of her cigarettes and let her buy us each a drink. She was good company, tough and loud but full of laughs.

  After a while she asked Hank again, “Where have I seen you, big boy? I know you—I’m just positive I do.”

  “Fine,” said Hank. “It’s like I said—we’re old, old pals.”

  She looked at him long and hard, unsmiling. A small light filled her eyes and she leaned forward. “Maybe it was in a picture. You ever had your picture in the newspapers?”

  “Every day including Sundays.”

  “You kidding?”

  “In the comic section, baby. You’ve seen me in the comics—and that’s no gag. I’m in between Superman and The Captain and The Kids—daily. On Sundays I ride alone, in sixteen boxes, or maybe fourteen, and all colored up fancy—that’s me.”

  She snapped her fingers. “That’s it! You’re the cartoonist who draws the strip for the fat detective. You’re the one who helped him on that big case last year. The Nazi business. I remember you now. You’re Hank MacAndrews.”

  Hank sighed a deep and mournful sigh. “You see, Jeff. A celebrity like MacAndrews can’t walk around incognito any more. All the time this sort of thing is happening to me—autograph hunters, insurance salesmen, and now pretty little dolls who remember me from a half tone in a newspaper a year ago.”

  She said, “I’ve got a good head for faces.”

  “You’ve got a good head for other reasons, lady.” He studied her curiously. “But how does it happen you can remember a fizz like mine which some of my best friends tell me shouldn’t happen to a dog?”

  “I like all dumb animals. Especially dogs.”

  “Me, I’m a bird man,” said Hank. “I’m nuts about our feathered friends. You ought to see my collection of wrens sometime, lady. Chickadees I like, too.”

  She laughed at him softly. She leaned over the table and touched his arm. “You’re funny. You should be on the radio. All you need is a good writer and you’d panic the public.” She turned to me and winked. “Is he always such a funny man, or is it just me bringing out the smartness in him?”

  I said, “He works best with the ladies.”

  Hank said, “I don’t figure a dame like this. She walks over and tells me she remembers my handsome profile out of a news clipping. She also remembers the case.”

  “Everybody in New York remembers that case.”

  “Nuts,” said Hank. “You must be the type of wench who follows the squad cars. I’ve heard of such dolls—all the time waiting around for a nice grisly murder to happen. Homer Bull used to brush them away from the rear exit of the morgue whenever he had an especially weird stiff down there. You see the same type of thrush at the fancy funeral parlors whenever some handsome Hollywood ape goes to meet his fathers. You get a kick out of such stuff?”

  She didn’t stop smiling. “Nothing pleases me more than a good squint at a bleeding corpse, mister.”

  “Aah, now you’re pulling my good leg,” said Hank. “Give it to me straight, sister—do you really follow the Black Maria? Or is it that MacAndrews has a face to be long remembered?”

  “Everybody in New York followed that Nazi business last year. The papers were loaded with it. You probably lost maybe a million readers from that corny comic strip of yours while that hunt for the lumpy nose guy went on. Me—I just remember seeing your picture, is all.”

  I saw Semple waddling toward our table and nudged her elbow. She got up quickly and there was a small flicker of alarm in her dark eyes. She said, “It’s been peachy meeting you two men—even if I nearly choked to death on some of your popcorn. Maybe next time you’ll have a new writer, though. I’ll see you later, boys.”

  “It’s been charming,” said Hank.

 
She started away from the table, waving Semple to a standstill. Then she turned, suddenly, and came back.

  “You still connected with Homer Bull, MacAndrews?”

  “I’m his personal valet.”

  “You see him regular?”

  “I tuck him away every night.”

  “Thanks, sonny boy. Be seeing you in the funny papers.”

  She went back to her table and spoke to Semple at great length. She was talking seriously and Semple bent his massive back to listen to her. She turned her back to us so that she had a commanding view of the bar and the entrance to the room.

  Hank said, “There’s a little doll with character. I’ll bet she must have been a hell cat back in her day. What do you make of her?”

  “Love at first sight,” I said. “She just couldn’t resist coming over here to meet you, Casanova. That stunt the fat boy pulled was probably just an opening for a way to meet you and stare into your baby blue eyes. I never remember seeing a babe put on such a swell show just to sit and goggle at a big gorilla like you. You’ve never seen her before?”

  He shook his head. “The babes swarm around when they see something like me. It’s just personal magnetism. Charm. That’s me—Hank, the charm boy.”

  I said, “You must have become quite a newspaper personality through that case with Bull she mentioned.”

  Hank winked. “Nonsense, mon capitaine, I’m just a simple corn-fed country boy. These little incidents with the women happen at least once every six years. It’s my bulk that appeals to characters like mademoiselle over there.”

  It was getting late.

  People stood in a knot at the bar, casting sly eyes our way for a sign of departing merry makers. Very few departed. The place hummed with the drone of conversation, the high-pitched laughter of the drunk, the half drunk and the cacophony of women hell-bent for hilarity.

  The man at the piano loosened his collar, sipped a cocktail delicately, closed his eyes, put down his glass and began to beat out a boogie-woogie, stamping the pedals violently with both feet. The smoke was a heavy gray cloud of eye-bite. My throat was tight with the smell of it and my eyes fogged with the film of fatigue. Mixed into the broth of noise came the reflex thumping of many feet under many tables to the rhythm of the pedals and some hands strummed the table tops and beat it on glasses.

  The pianist grimaced and bore down hard into a thudded climax until he ran himself out. There was a short burst of applause and he rose to bow and mop his corrugated forehead, nodding his head jerkily and smiling the pat smile all performers reserve for late audiences. The noise flattened out, wavered and rose again to its original pitch.

  Then I saw her.

  She stood on the edge of the crowd at the bar, facing our way. It must have been her red hair that attracted me. I had been looking for redheaded girls ever since that moment on the Staten Island ferry. I had built up a picture of the redhead I wanted, but none had matched the girl in my brain. This one was different.

  Her hair was an off shade of red, not deep, but rich and subtly red. I remembered Kip’s words: “She’s sort of a redheaded Joan Fontaine.” This girl was Joan Fontaine in many ways. Her figure was good, well curved and appealing. Something about this girl made my heart jounce out of its accustomed beat. It may have been her beauty, or the look in her eyes, the frightened, searching, yet sightless stare as she looked out over the tables for a split second and for another second aimed those eyes into mine.

  Then she was gone, through the crowd at the bar and out of my line of vision.

  I got up quickly. I said, “Wait for me here.”

  Hank half rose to follow me, then sank back. I began the slow and bothersome task of edging my way through the customers into the clearing near the entrance to the bar. It took time for this operation. It took more time to struggle through the crowd of anxious customers at the bar and make my way into the lobby.

  The lobby was empty.

  On the street, the big colored doorman leaned against the canopy.

  “A girl just ran out of the club,” I said. “Did you see her? Which way did she go?”

  “Lady just went down that way,” he said, pointing a long finger in the direction of the far corner. She was a small figure, running quickly toward the traffic of Seventh Avenue. I ran after her but I knew I couldn’t catch her. In another moment she would he at the corner, within hailing distance of a cab.

  I shouted, “Paula! Paula Smith!”

  She was at the corner, under the street lamp when I yelled. I saw her turn when I shouted the name, but in that fleeting moment a cab pulled up alongside her and she got in quickly. The cab disappeared beyond the building on the corner, headed uptown into the traffic of Seventh Avenue.

  I increased my pace and continued down the street at the fastest speed I could muster. Halfway down the darkened block I passed a black alley, a narrow lane between two tall buildings. A well placed foot came out of that alley, kicked sharply at my shins and sent me rolling in a heap down the curbing. I fell on my right arm and spun dizzily. The shock stunned me. I wasn’t prepared for the heavyweight who followed his attack with a professional tackle that completely smeared me on the pavement.

  He was on me and all over me in one muscled heap. I tried for a fist at his face, but my effort was only a reflex. My blow hit the air with and went on from there to smite the sidewalk a healthy blow. The sharp needlepoint pain of flesh against stone shot up my arm and brought a curse to my lips. I tried again. I missed again.

  My third effort never really got started. A ham-like fist had hold of my throat and I felt my head drawn back and then thrown forward sharply until it met the concrete. After that a period of complete emptiness set in. I rolled off a dangerously high precipice into a sea of flames that swirled around me and developed into lightning flashes.

  I was out cold.

  I revived at a small dark table, supported by Hank and the doorman and surrounded by several bright constellations of personal stars. My head rolled among the stars, unhinged and away from my body. Hank fed me a shot of whisky.

  Hank was questioning the doorman. I heard the doorman say, “All I see is this heap of fightin’ down the street. The man took a powder before I got there.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “It was powerful dark down there, mister.”

  I gulped the rest of the liquor and retrieved my head and part of my consciousness. I said, “Who came out of the club after that girl?”

  “You did.”

  “He means before he came,” said Hank.

  “People comin’ out all the time.”

  “After me?” I asked.

  He rubbed a long finger over his jaw. He said, “Lemme think, now. You come out and then after you Mister Boucher. (He said “Boosher.”) After Mister Boucher comes fat boy and his lady.”

  “Where did they go?” Hank asked.

  “They went home, I guess.”

  “By cab?”

  “No, suh! Mr. Semple and his lady they come in their own car. Chauffeur. Big black Rolls. They down here most every night in that there Rolls. I know that boat just by the sound of that motor by this time. Swank.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  He laughed a rich, deep laugh. “Only one way they can go, suh—Seventh Avenue. This here’s a one way street.”

  Hank slipped him a dollar bill and we let him go.

  Hank asked, “Did you spot him?”

  “I’d know his fist anywhere.”

  “Big?”

  “Big enough to handle my neck like an accordion. I’ll be needing a few more short ones and a few longer than that before I feel that my tongue is connected to my body.”

  Hank went to the bar while I tossed things around in my whirling intellect. I tried to wipe away the conviction that the girl was Paula Smith. I knew her from only an eig
ht word description given to me half in jest. Any other redheaded girl in the same situation might have turned at a shout, whether or not her name was yelled at her. It came to me, suddenly, that I had been caught when this girl looked at me for a watch-tick moment in The Frog. It was her eyes that had set me moving and driven me on to near annihilation in the street. Her eyes had been full of fright when they met mine. In my mind this fright had somehow tied in with the quest for Paula Smith. Paula Smith, then, was running away from somebody in The Frog.

  I credited Semple with my disaster. Semple was a yellow dog, the type of fistic genius who limits his encounters to fitting circumstances. He would lie in wait for me in that alley, trip me, rush me and pound me to bits in the darkness. I pictured him leaving his buxom girl friend, running ahead of me into the alley and waiting there.

  My imagination took Semple to the alley, but my clearing head refused to accept him in that spot. After all, the doorman had seen Semple drive away in the Rolls. If he left the Rolls before Seventh Avenue, his girlfriend was a willing accomplice to my mutilation. It didn’t make sense.

  I stood up and walked gingerly to the bar.

  CHAPTER 5

  From the table to the bar was only a distance of ten or twelve long and well-aimed steps, but in that distance I felt my brain take hold of itself again and begin to think rapidly and in several directions.

  I meditated upon the purposes of my assailant. I hadn’t been robbed. I hadn’t been challenged. Somebody had deliberately stopped me from proceeding in the general direction of that taxicab and that girl. For this reason my mind soldered the link between my antagonist and Paula Smith. The solder never really set. I couldn’t quite convince myself that the girl in question was Paula for certain.

  Hank was waiting for me at the bar, still sober. He said, “You didn’t catch her?”

  “I caught a fist and nothing more.”

  “Too bad. You might have ended it all tonight if you had reached her.”

  I suddenly developed a great respect for his observation. “How did you know I went after a girl?”

  “Detective logic,” he smiled, enjoying his deduction. “You’ve been getting astigmatism all night staring out at that mob in there and hoping for a squint at your girlfriend, Paula Smith. I gather that the doll you finally spotted sold you a bill of goods, somehow. You thought the beautiful redhead near the bar was your mystery girl?”