The Fate of a Flapper--A Mystery, page 22
“Smokes, too! We need some good cigars. Gina, over here!” George called, causing all his friends to cheer again.
“You’re a merry bunch,” Gina commented as she held out her tray. Their high spirits were infectious. “Something good happen?”
“You betcha! Stocks went back up again! The rally happened! We’re in the money again! Cigars tonight—we’ll have three El Productos, and the girls will have—well, whatever you girls smoke. Marlboros?” George took a couple of staggering steps and tossed a few dollars into Ned’s tip jar. “Let’s get this joint swinging, Neddy baby! I’m feeling on top of the world!”
Obliging, Ned began to play a quick, toe-tapping song that got everyone up on their feet. George and the other men began to swing the women around, and within a few minutes they had downed their first cocktails and called for another round.
When Gina brought over the next round of drinks, George was holding court. “I wasn’t sure if the rally was going to happen, you know? All our clients were calling us, demanding answers. We didn’t have any answers! I wasn’t sure what to expect.” His words were starting to slur, and his grin was growing wide and dopey. “The stocks rebounded, thank heaven. All those dips that kept happening this month and last, I’ll tell you, even I was a little worried. Usually Dan was the one—” He broke off, a shadow briefly darkening his face, before his grin returned.
“So everything is stable again?” Gina asked, setting his drink down.
He frowned. “Well, nothing is ever ‘stable.’ Hey, we’re back on top, baby!”
* * *
“Wanna tell me what happened?” William Morrish said to her, a little while later. He was sitting in what Gina now viewed as his customary spot.
“Oh, you mean the bomb? We’re all okay,” she said, placing his whiskey tonic in front of him.
“I heard you were there when it happened.” His voice sounded strained.
Gina glanced at him. He looked a little more ruffled than usual. She shrugged her shoulders. “I really am all right.”
“That’s swell,” he replied sounding distracted.
Questions bubbled up in Gina’s mind then, threatening to overspill. What are you doing here really? Why were you watching Fruma that night?
* * *
As George ordered another round sometime later, Gina could see that the alcohol was starting to hit him hard. His words were growing increasingly difficult to understand, and he was getting more rowdy and handsy with the women around him.
When Gina returned with the drinks, George stood up, leaning unsteadily against the high-backed chair. “Say, you wanna have a date later?” He glanced at his female companions, who were slumping in their chairs. “Well, maybe not tonight, a different night.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” she said, looking around, hoping that the Signora and Gooch hadn’t heard her. She certainly had no wish to be scolded again.
“Well, in case you change your mind.” He pulled his business card out of his wallet and dropped it on her tray with a five-dollar bill. “You’ll know where to find me. I could take care of a girl like you real nice.”
Five dollars! She tucked the bill away quickly and glanced at the card. George Abbott. Stocks, Bonds, Provision, Grain, Investments. Carter, Davis & Company. 701-707 The Rookery. 209 South LaSalle Street. Telephone Wabash-3808.
Still, she didn’t want to give him any ideas. “I can take care of myself, thanks.”
“Aw, be nice,” he said, reaching to embrace her. “That fiver should buy me at least a kiss, don’t you think?”
“Buzz off, pal,” she said, attempting to break free of the arms encircling her waist.
“Party’s over, fellow,” Gooch said sternly, appearing out of nowhere. “Let the lady go. You’re leaving.”
With a quick tug, Gooch had pulled George to his feet, removed the glass from his hand, and then captured his arms behind his back.
“What are you doing?” George sputtered.
“Kicking you out.”
George was too drunk to put up much of a fight, although Gina could see the sad awareness cross his face when he realized that his friends were not going to help him. “Bye, George,” they called, the women blowing him kisses. “Thanks for the drinks!”
If it hadn’t all been so pathetic, Gina would have laughed at George’s hangdog expression as the bouncer marched him away across the speakeasy floor. Once upstairs, Gooch and Little Johnny would unceremoniously dump the bum into the alley.
She leaned against the piano, rubbing her arm where George had gripped her.
“You all right, toots?” Ned asked.
“Oh, sure. I’d have wrangled myself free in no time. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“That’s what Gooch is for. Don’t forget it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Gina surveyed the room, looking for empty glasses and the telltale signs that someone might be waiting on a smoke. The people who’d been fawning over George earlier were now snickering about his unceremonious exit.
“What a pip!” one of the women said.
“Yeah, but his cash was just fine. I’ll miss it dearly,” another replied, eliciting gales of laughter from the others. When Ned started playing the Charleston, most of them dashed out onto the dance floor. In her hurry, one of them knocked over a bar stool, which Gina went to right.
Alma was still sitting there, tapping her fingers on the table. “Hey, Gina,” she said. She looked tired.
“Everything hunky-dory?” Gina asked. “Ready for another round?”
“Sure,” Alma replied, giving a helpless wave toward the women dancing the Charleston. “I don’t know how my friends haven’t keeled over. George bought them quite a few cocktails, and they’re still raring to go.”
“I don’t know either,” Gina replied, following Alma’s gaze. The women were doing some high kicks now, while the men watched them appreciatively. “I’ll be back with your drinks soon.”
After putting in the order, Gina began to switch out ashtrays and wipe off tables. When she got to where George had been sitting, she noticed something on the floor. It was a fairly expensive pair of spectacles. She chuckled when she saw them, remembering George placing them in his vest pocket earlier. Must have fallen out at some point. Serves him right, she thought. Especially after being so handsy with me.
She picked them up. On the other hand, George might need them, and it wasn’t like he’d be allowed back inside the speakeasy for a while. Gina sighed. Maybe she could still catch him if he hadn’t gotten too far. He’d only left a few minutes ago.
As she passed by Lulu, she said, “Cover for me, will you? There’s something I need do real quick.”
She hurried up the stairs, spectacles in hand.
CHAPTER 22
Little Johnny and Gooch were standing by the exit leading to the alley, exchanging a few words in low voices. Unlike the chandelier-lit speakeasy, the corridor was not well lit, and there was still a lingering aroma left by the bomb and the fire. When they saw her, they grew alert.
“What is it?” Johnny asked. “Do you need us?”
“You hustled that guy out quick!” she called out, as she moved down the corridor.
Gooch looked her over. “Don’t you worry, Gina,” he said. “He won’t give you any more trouble.”
“I know he won’t,” Gina said. “Unfortunately, he dropped his spectacles. Mind if I check the alley? I thought I might still catch him.” Seeing their scowls, she added, “I don’t think he’ll try anything.”
The ringing of a little bell caused them all to turn. That meant one of the bouncers was needed back down in the speakeasy and the other one had to stay at the door.
“Make it snappy,” Little Johnny said, opening the green door. “Don’t go far. If you don’t catch him, then it’s his loss.”
Gina stepped out into the alley, the fog closing in on her almost immediately. As the door shut behind her, she shivered. Even though she knew that Little Johnny was probably watching her through his peephole, the familiar surroundings of the alley had taken on a menacing feel. The two electric lights were dimmed by the fog, and a third light gave off only a dull red glow. The light was intended to be welcoming, to let patrons know the Third Door was open for business, but right now it gave her a vague sense of warning.
As she peered up and down the alley, she saw George with his hand against the wall, trying to steady himself. He was muttering to himself, and a few of his drunken bits and phrases floated toward her. “Can’t believe those guys. Taking my drinks. Why, I oughta—”
Gina was about to bring him his spectacles when a movement in front of her caused her to step into the shadows. A chill ran up and down her back. Someone else was there, watching George. She couldn’t quite see the person’s face or figure, despite the soft red glow of the speakeasy bulb. The person’s furtive movements made her own heart beat furiously. Why is this person watching George? Is it a mugger? Then, in the dim light, Gina saw the glint of metal. Is that a gun?
She clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to keep herself from screaming. The figure shifted, as if listening for something.
Gina froze, clutching George’s spectacles to her chest.
Then a man on the street called loudly to George, and the figure stepped back into the shadows, waiting. Gina waited, too. Another man appeared beside the first, and they said something in joking tones that elicited a great boisterous laugh from George.
“That gin joint’s a total dive,” she heard him say, his voice easily carrying in the still night air. “Their drinks are bad, and the floor show is worse. I know a good gin joint on Maxwell.”
The figure shifted, dropping the gun down. She still couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Should I scream for Little Johnny? Gina wondered. Is George about to be attacked?
Oblivious to his plight, George continued. “Plus, I’ve got lots of jack to burn! Wanna join me? My car’s just around the corner.” George started singing, and the other two men gladly joined in. Soon the sounds drifted off as they moved down the street toward George’s car.
Straining her eyes, Gina watched to see what the figure would do. Just then the Third Door opened again, and a laughing couple came out, breaking the silence. Gina opened her mouth to scream for Johnny, in case the couple was set upon. But the gun and the figure disappeared from view, and the couple passed by in peace.
* * *
Gina sat up straight. She didn’t know what had woken her, but she had not been able to shake the image of the figure in the alley. She’d been thinking about it all night. Had someone been watching George in the alley? Had she really seen a gun?
Finally, she telephoned Nancy, as she tried to sort through her restless thoughts.
“What is it?” Nancy asked. “You woke me up. I was on the late shift.”
Gina filled her in on what had happened in the alley the night before. “Don’t you think that’s strange? If it were an ordinary thug, he’d have held up the couple who came out a few moments later. But this person left when George did.”
“Hang on,” Nancy replied, the sleepy thickness finally disappearing from her voice. “Tell me this again.”
Gina explained again, then asked, “Do you think we should tell George that someone was watching him? That he might be in danger?”
“Nah, why? He’s the sort who’s probably always getting people in a lather. Could have been anyone. Besides, you don’t know for sure what you saw.”
“You’re probably right.” She hesitated. “Still, it was odd.”
“Well, what do you want to do?” Nancy asked. Gina could practically see her cousin, arms folded, toes tapping.
“I’m going to call George. Tell him someone was watching him. Besides, I have his spectacles. He’ll want them back.”
“All right,” Nancy said. “Let me know what he says.”
“Will do,” Gina replied, hanging up. As she replaced the telephone in the cradle, a curious sense of satisfaction stole over her, knowing that she had ended the conversation for once.
* * *
Gina stared at the card that George had given her, flipping it this way and that, before finally dialing the number. As it rang, she thought about what to say. Hi, George, it’s me, Gina. The ciggie seller who had you thrown out of the Third Door last night.
That would never do. She hung up before the switchboard operator picked up.
Twice more, she did the same thing, dialing the number and then hanging up before she reached the operator.
“Get a grip, Gina,” she told herself, forcing herself to stay on the line as the operator took the call.
“How may I direct your call?” the operator pertly asked.
Gina gave her George’s office extension and waited to be connected.
A crisp-sounding woman took the call. “I’m sorry. Mr. Abbott is not taking calls. He is out sick today.”
Was there a slight note of exasperation in the secretary’s voice? It was hard to tell. Then, without asking if she could take a message, the woman hung up the phone.
Gina hung up, too, a bit shocked by the woman’s rudeness.
How odd, Gina thought. “Out sick?” she said out loud, feeling unsettled. “Something’s not right.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” her papa asked, fiddling with the radio dial. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Thanks, Papa,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I just need to figure something out.”
CHAPTER 23
“I can’t believe you’re afraid of elevators,” Gina grumbled to Nancy as they reached the fifth floor of the Rookery in the Loop. Two more long and winding flights to go. Her calves were already aching. It didn’t help that she’d been wearing her pumps again, instead of donning something sturdier and hideous, like the boots her cousin was wearing. She’d taken them off around the third floor and was holding them in her free hand. “We’d be there by now.”
“Hey, if you’d heard witnesses describe how they’d seen people’s limbs get cut off when the elevator that they were on slipped between floors, you’d feel the same way,” Nancy snapped. “Those are the ones who emerged from those cages alive! The stairs are much safer. Trust me.”
“I suppose,” Gina conceded. They rounded another corner and began to mount the next flight, her hand holding tight to the railing as she continued to pull herself up step by step in her stockinged feet. “So what am I going to say to him anyway? ‘Hello, Mr. Abbott, here are your spectacles and I think someone was watching you? Maybe wanting to kill you?’”
“Exactly,” Nancy huffed.
Gina pulled out the business card that George Abbott had given her at the speakeasy. She’d tried calling again, but no one had answered at all, even after the switchboard had connected her to his office. Was George all right? Or was he still out on a bender? Given the state he’d been in when she’d last seen him, anything was possible. Maybe he’d been fired. Or maybe something had happened to him. She thought again about the furtive figure in the alley, the memory making her shiver.
“Funny thing that the secretary hasn’t answered the phone,” she said, pausing to take a breath.
“Maybe she’s out sick, too,” Nancy replied, each word punctuated by a sharp intake of breath.
“The whole thing is odd, don’t you think?”
“No odder than you wanting to talk to Mr. Abbott. Didn’t you say that he was thrown out of the Third Door because of you?”
“Yeah, but I’m telling you,” Gina said, facing the stairs again. “Something is really off here.”
* * *
At last, they reached the seventh floor. Breathlessly, Gina pushed open the stairwell door that led into a long corridor of offices. As she slipped her shoes back on her aching feet, the first thing she heard was the harsh sound of multiple ringing telephones behind the closed doors up and down the hallway. The sound grew louder as they made their way down the empty corridor. They reached a glass door marked 701–707, with CARTER, DAVIS & COMPANY in fancy white lettering. Below the firm’s name were the names of all the partners and associates.
Gina pointed to George Abbott’s name on the door. “I guess he does work here.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, here we go!”
The wooden door opened into a luxurious office suite, with three empty desks in the middle of the reception area, and a set of closed office doors just beyond. There was also an empty waiting area, full of expensive-looking chairs, lamps, and sofas. On every desk, there was a ringing telephone with no one to answer it.
What in the world?
“Hello?” Gina called. She and Nancy exchanged a puzzled glance. Where was everyone? “The door was open,” Gina said. “Is the office closed?”
She called “hello” again, this time a bit louder, thinking one of the office doors might open.
To her surprise, a gray-haired woman with an untidy bun emerged from behind one of the desks. The name plate on the desk the woman was standing behind read “Mrs. DeVry.”
Had she been hiding? Gina wondered. What else had she been doing behind the desk?
The woman blinked rapidly, as if she were trying to focus. Her spectacles hung from a chain around her neck. In her hands she gripped a pad of paper and a pen. “What do you want?” She sounded more confused than rude.
“Mrs. DeVry, ma’am, we’re here to see Mr. Abbott,” Gina replied, stepping toward her. “We have something important to discuss with him. I called a few times, and”—here she gestured toward the ringing phones—“no one picked up.” She looked around at the empty suite. “Mrs. DeVry, what is going on?”
Mrs. DeVry unclasped and clasped her hands. “None of the associates are here. Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
She put her hand to her head. “The stock market is crashing! They’re all at the Exchange, praying for a rally. Well, they should be praying.” She made a disheartened gesture toward the ringing phones and piles of memos. “I was told to stop taking calls.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to make the ringing stop. Do you?”
