There was a small thud and Donald sat down on the sidewalk holding his fat tummy with both hands, breathing hard. The chauffeur came out of the car as though he had been shot from a gun.
I had never particularly noticed the man and remembered vaguely that he had a broad flat face and always looked as though his seams were about to split.
There was a sharp crack and Kim was bent like a bow, his knees sagging. I screamed as he went down. Kim was shaking his head from side to side.
The chauffeur helped Donald up, pushed him roughly toward the car. The wonderful sound of a whistle blasted the night as running footsteps came toward us.
The big black car roared off with Donald, and the lights didn’t flash on. The cop, a young one, peered hard at it.
“Got the last number of the license and that’s all,” he said.
Kim made it to his feet and the officer caught him or he would have gone down again. Kim touched his jaw.
“They ought to prop these buildings up better,” he said, “so they wouldn’t fall on people.”
“What happened to him?” the officer asked me. “Who was in that car? Somebody slug him?”
There was no point in implicating Donald. I gave the cop my best smile and said, “I don’t know about the car, officer. This is just a little lover’s quarrel.”
“Don’t give me that!” he said loudly. “What’d you scream for?”
I doubled up my fist. “I don’t know my own strength, officer. I screamed because I thought I’d killed him.”
The cop turned to Kim. “Don’t tell me this dish knocked you flat!”
“This dish, as you so rudely call her, officer, was once the woman heavyweight champion of Atlanta, Georgia.”
The cop hitched up his pants, glared at both of us with deep disgust, and walked off down the street, mumbling to himself.
I took Kim’s arm. “How do you feel, legal eagle?”
“Polite, but firm. The boxing coach in college told me never to lead with a right. And yet I have the vague memory that the citizen who came out of the car led with his right. What happened to Donald?”
“He probably would have liked to kick you in the head, but the law was galloping down on us and the chauffeur had better sense.”
“For a playboy he wants to play rough. Where can we get some medicine?”
“Medicine?”
“Yes, Muscles. My head aches. I need wheatcakes, scrambled eggs, black coffee, toast and marmalade.”
There was a booth in the back of the small, cheery restaurant. After Kim ordered, I opened my purse, handed him the device I had unscrewed from the lamp and told him the whole story. He held the plug so tightly in his lean hand that his knuckles turned white.
“That seems to narrow it down a bit,” he said. “Your unknown admirer is someone who could have had access to the dressing room. I wish you hadn’t handled that bulb, but my guess is that whoever unscrewed it was smart enough to wipe it off. Also, despite popular belief to the contrary, a clear fingerprint is a very unusual thing to find.”
“So my pappy used to say. Joe Ryan, with the flattest feet on the force. A great guy, Kim. You would have liked him.”
“What happened to him?”
“Some eighteen-year-olds with a war souvenir pistol were taking fur coats out of a loft. There were three of them. The old man clumped up the stairs and managed to catch five of the six slugs in the chest. The five slugs annoyed him so much that he shot two of the fur thieves through the head and got the third one in the middle. The third one died the next day, two hours before the old man did. Six weeks later my mother paid a nickel to join Dad. Courtesy of the Eighth Avenue Subway.”
He reached across and touched my hand. “Why do you make yourself sound so bitter?” he asked.
I looked down into my lap, hoping that he wouldn’t see the tears. My voice came out surprisingly small as I said, “What else can I do? Sing Hearts and Flowers.”
“Don’t be like that, Hank,” he said. “You’re not like that underneath.”
I looked at him. “What makes you think you know what I’m like underneath? I’ve consistently lost everybody I’ve learned to love. The world is a rough little place, and I’m the rough little gal who can handle it.”
He took his hand away and shrugged. “Have it your way, lady. Let’s get back to cases. Who could have gotten into your dressing room?”
“Betty doesn’t lock the door. She locks the closet with my clothes and purse inside and leaves the key under the saucer on top of the dressing table. Both rest rooms are in the downstairs hallway. Anybody could find a chance to duck up the stairs and go into the dressing room.”
He thought that one over. “But whoever it was, Hank, that person would have to know your habits. They’d have to know that Betty left after helping you for the first show. They’d have to know that you’d go over to the dressing table and reach for the switch on the tablelamp.”
“That wouldn’t be hard to figure. It’s the only lamp in the room. And anybody could see Betty leave night after night.”
“Would it have to be somebody who was in the club as a customer or an employee?”
