Sexus

  “Well,” I said, “and what’s worrying you now?”

  He stared vacant-eyed at the mirror.

  “Ella,” he said, after a long pause. “She ran away from him. At first she didn’t know where I was. I sent them a postcard now and then, from this place and that, but never gave my address. The other day I got a letter from my brother, saying she had written him—from Texas. Begged him to give her my address. Said if she didn’t hear from me soon she would commit suicide.”

  “Did you write her?”

  “No,” he said, “I haven’t written her yet. I don’t know quite what to do.”

  “But for Christ’s sake, you love her, don’t you? And she loves you. And your brother—he wouldn’t object. What the devil are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t want to steal my brother’s wife. Besides, I know she does love him. She loves the two of us—that’s the size of it.”

  It was my turn to be astonished again. I gave a low whistle. “So that’s it!” I chortled. “Well, that’s different.”

  “Yes,” said Sheridan rapidly, “she loves the two of us equally well. She didn’t run away from him because she hated him or because she wanted me. She wants me, yes. But she ran away to make him do something, make him find me and bring me back.”

  “Does he know that?” I asked, having a faint suspicion that Sheridan might have imagined things.

  “Yes, he knows it and he’s willing to live that way, if that’s what she wants. I think he’d feel better, too, if it could be arranged that way.”

  “Well?” I said. “What now? What are your plans?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t think. What would you do in my place? I’ve told you everything, Mr. Miller.”

  And then, as if to himself: “A man can’t hold out forever. I know it’s wrong to live like that. . . but if I don’t do something quick maybe Ella will do away with herself. I wouldn’t want that. I’d do anything to prevent that.”

  “Look, Sheridan . . . your brother was jealous before. But he’s gotten over that, I imagine. He wants her back as much as you do. Now . . . did you ever think whether you’d be jealous of your brother— eventually? It’s not easy to share the woman you love with someone else, even your own brother. You know that, don’t you?”

  Sheridan showed no hesitation in responding to this.

  “I’ve thought all that out, Mr. Miller. I know I wouldn’t be the jealous one. And I’m not worried about my brother either. We understand each other. It’s Ella. I wonder sometimes if she really knows her own mind. The three of us grew up together, you see. That’s why we were able to live together so peacefully . . . until. . . well, that was only natural, wasn’t it? But if I go back now, and we share her openly, she might begin to care for us differently. This thing has broken up the happy family. And soon people will begin to notice things. It’s a small world back there, and our people don’t do those things. I don’t know what would happen after a time. . . .”

  He paused again and fiddled with his glass.

  “There’s another thing I thought of, Mr. Miller. . . . Supposing she has a child. We may never know which of us was the father of it. Oh, I’ve thought it out from every angle. It’s not easy to decide.”

  “No,” I agreed, “it isn’t. I’m stumped, Sheridan. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Miller. I know you’ll help me, if you can. I think I ought to run along now. Spivak will be looking for me. Goodbye, Mr. Miller,” and he darted off.

  When I got back to the office I was informed that Clancy had telephoned. He had asked for the application of a messenger I had hired recently—a woman.

  “What’s up?” I inquired. “What did she do?”

  Nobody could offer any precise information.

  “Well, where was she working?”

  I found that we had sent her to one of the mid-town office buildings. Her name was Nina Andrews. Hymie had made a note of all the details. He had already telephoned the manager of the office where the girl worked, but couldn’t glean a thing. The manager, a young woman herself, was of the impression that the girl was satisfactory in every way.

  I decided I had better call Clancy and get it over with. His voice was gruff and irritable. Mr. Twilliger had evidently raked him over the coals. And now it was my turn.

  “But what has she done?” I asked in all innocence.

  “What has she done?” Clancy’s voice echoed furiously. “Mr. Miller, haven’t I warned you time and again that we want only refined young women on our messenger force?”

  “Yes sir,” I had to say, cursing him under my breath for the dumb cluck he was.

  “Mr. Miller,” and his voice took on a devastating solemnity, “the woman who calls herself Nina Andrews is nothing but a common prostitute. She was reported to us by one of our important clients. He told Mr. Twilliger that she tried to solicit him. Mr. Twilliger is going to make an investigation. He suspects that we may have other undesirable females on our staff. I needn’t tell you, Mr. Miller, that this is a very serious matter. A very serious matter. I trust that you will know how to cope with the situation. You will give me a report in a day or two—is that clear?” He hung up.

  I sat there trying to recall the young woman in question.

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “She was sent home,” said Hymie.

  “Send her a telegram,” I said, “and ask her to give me a ring. I want to talk to her.”

  I waited around until seven o’clock hoping she would telephone. O’Rourke had just come in. I had an idea. Maybe I would ask O’Rourke . . .

  The telephone rang. It was Nina Andrews. She had a very pleasant voice, one that aroused my sympathies immediately.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner,” she said. “I was out all afternoon.”

  “Miss Andrews,” I said, “I wonder if you’d do me a favor. I’d like to drop up to your place for a few minutes and have a chat with you.”

  “Oh, I don’t want the job back,” she said in a cheery tone. “I’ve found another one already—a much better one. It was kind of you to . . .”

  “Miss Andrews,” I insisted, “I would like to see you just the same—just for a few minutes. Would you mind?”

  “No, no, not at all. Why, come up, of course. I merely wanted to spare you the trouble . . .”

  “Well thank you . . . I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I went over to O’Rourke and explained the case to him in a few brief words. “Maybe you’d like to come along,” I said. “You know, I don’t believe that girl is a whore. I’m beginning to remember her now. I think I know . . .”

  We hopped into a cab and drove uptown to Seventy-second Street where she lived. It was a typical old-fashioned rooming house. She lived on the fourth floor back.

  She was a little startled to see O’Rourke with me. But not frightened—a point in her favor, I thought to myself.

  “I didn’t know you would bring a friend,” she said, looking at me with frank blue eyes. “You’ll have to excuse the appearance of the place.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Miss Andrews.” It was O’Rourke who spoke. “Nina is the name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

  “It’s a pretty name,” he said. “One doesn’t hear it much any more. You’re not of Spanish descent by any chance, are you?”

  “Oh no, not Spanish,” she said, very bright and quick, and in an altogether disarming tone. “My mother was Danish, and my father is English. Why, do I look Spanish?”

  O’Rourke smiled. “To be honest, Miss Andrews . . . Miss Nina . . . may I call you that? . . . no, you don’t look at all Spanish. But Nina is a Spanish name, isn’t it?”

  “Won’t you sit down?” she said, adjusting the pillows on the divan. And then, in a perfectly natural tone of voice: “I suppose you heard that I was fired? Just like that! Not a word of explanation. But they gave me two weeks’ pay— and I’ve just landed a better job. So it is
n’t so terrible, is it?”

  I was glad now that I had brought O’Rourke along. If I had come alone I would have left without more ado. I was absolutely convinced, at this point, that the girl was innocent.

  The girl. She had given her age as twenty-five on the application blank, but it was obvious that she wasn’t a day over nineteen. She looked like a girl who had been brought up in the country. A bewitching little creature, and very alert.

  O’Rourke had evidently been making a similar appraisal. When he lifted his voice it was apparent that he was thinking only how to spare her unnecessary unpleasantness.

  “Miss Nina,” he said, speaking like a father, “Mr. Miller asked me to come along. I’m the night inspector, you know. There’s been some misunderstanding with one of our clients, one of the clients served by your office. Perhaps you will recall the name—the Brooks Insurance Agency. Do you remember that name, Miss Nina? Think, because maybe you can help us.”

  “Of course I know the name,” she responded with alacrity. “Room 715, Mr. Harcourt. Yes, I know him very well. I know his son too.”

  O’Rourke immediately pricked up his ears.

  “You know his son?” he repeated.

  “Why yes. We were sweethearts. We come from the same town.” She mentioned a little town up-State. “You could hardly call it a town, I guess.” She gave a bright little laugh.

  “I see,” said O’Rourke, lingering over his words to draw her on.

  “Now I understand why I was fired,” she said. “He doesn’t think I’m good enough for his son, this Mr. Harcourt. But I didn’t think he hated me that much.”

  As she rattled on I recalled more and more clearly the circumstances of her first visit to the employment bureau. One detail stood out clearly. She had specifically requested, when filling out the application blank, that she be sent to a certain office building. It was not an unusual request; applicants often gave their preference for certain localities for one reason or another. But I remembered now the smile she had given me when thanking me for the courtesy I had shown her.

  “Miss Andrews,” I said, “didn’t you ask me to send you to the Heckscher Building when you applied for the job?”

  “Of course I did,” she replied. “I wanted to be near John. I knew his father was trying to keep us apart. That’s why I left home.

  “Mr. Harcourt tried to ridicule me at first,” she added. “I mean when I first delivered telegrams to his office. But I didn’t care. Neither did John.”

  “Well,” said O’Rourke, “so you don’t mind too much losing your job? Because, if you’d like to have it back, I think Mr. Miller could arrange it for you.” He glanced in my direction.

  “Oh, I don’t really want it back,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve found a much better job—and it’s in the same building!”

  The three of us burst out laughing.

  O’Rourke and I rose to go. “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” asked O’Rourke.

  She blushed. “Why yes . . . why, how did you know? I’m a violinist. That’s another reason, of course, why I decided to come to New York. I hope to give a recital here someday—perhaps in Town Hall. It’s thrilling to be in a big city like this, isn’t it?” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “It is wonderful to live in a place like New York,” said O’Rourke, his voice suddenly dropping to a more serious register. “I hope you will have all the success you are looking for. . . .” He paused, a heavy pause, and then taking her two hands in his, he placed himself squarely in front of her and said:

  “Let me suggest something to you, may I?”

  “Why of course!” said Miss Andrews, reddening slightly.

  “Well then, when you give your first concert at Town Hall, let us say, I would suggest that you use your real name. Marjorie Blair sounds just as good as Nina Andrews . . . don’t you think? Well,” and without pausing to observe the effect of this retort, he said, grasping my arm and turning towards the door, “I think we should be getting along. Good luck, Miss Blair. Goodbye!”

  “I’ll be damned,” I said, when we got to the street.

  “She’s a fine little girl, isn’t she?” said O’Rourke, dragging me along. “Clancy called me in this afternoon . . . showed me the application. I’ve got all the dope on her. She’s absolutely O.K.”

  “But the name?” I said. “Why did she change her name?”

  “Oh that, that’s nothing,” said O’Rourke. “Young people find it exciting to change their name sometimes. . . . It’s lucky she doesn’t know what Mr. Harcourt told Mr. Twilliger, eh? We’d have a nice case on our hands, if that ever leaked out.”

  “By the way,” he added, as though it were of no importance, “when I make my report to Twilliger, I’ll say that she was going on twenty-two. You won’t mind that, will you? They suspected, you see, that she was under age. Of course you can’t check everyone’s age. Still, you have to be careful. You understand, of course . . .”

  “Of course,” I said, “and it’s damned good of you to cover me up.”

  We walked in silence for a few moments, keeping our eyes open for a restaurant.

  “Wasn’t Harcourt taking a big risk in giving Twilliger a story like that?”

  O’Rourke didn’t answer at once.

  “It makes me furious,” I said. “Damn him, he almost lost me my job too, do you realize that?”

  “Harcourt’s case is more complicated,” said O’Rourke slowly. “I’m telling you this in strict confidence, you understand. We’re not going to say anything to Mr. Harcourt. In my report I’ll inform Mr. Twilliger that the case has been satisfactorily dealt with. I’ll explain that Mr. Harcourt was in error as to the girl’s character, that she immediately found another position, and recommend that the matter be dropped. . . . Mr. Harcourt, as I suppose you have already gathered, is a close friend of Twilliger’s. Everything the girl said was true, to be sure, and she’s a fine little girl too, I like her. But there’s one thing she omitted to tell us—naturally. Mr. Harcourt had her dismissed because he’s jealous of his son. . . . You wonder how I learned that so quickly? Well, we have our way of learning things. I could tell you a lot more about this Harcourt, if you’d care to hear it.”

  I was about to say, “Yes, I would,” when he abruptly changed the subject.

  “You met a chap named Monahan recently, I understand.”

  I felt as if he had given me a jolt.

  “Yes, Monahan . . . of course. Why, did your brother tell you?”

  “You know, of course,” O’Rourke continued in his easy, suave way, “what Monahan’s job is, don’t you? His assignment, I mean?”

  I mumbled some answer, pretending that I knew more than I did, and waited impatiently for him to continue.

  “Well, it’s curious in this racket,” he went on, “how things connect up. Miss Nina Andrews didn’t go immediately to the messenger bureau in search of that job, when she got to New York. Like all young girls, she was attracted to the bright lights. She’s young, intelligent, and knows how to take care of herself. I don’t think she’s quite as innocent as she looks, to be candid with you. Knowing Harcourt, that is. But that’s none of my business. . . . Anyway, to make it short, Mr. Miller, her first job was that of a taxi girl in a dance hall. You may know the one . . .” He looked directly ahead of him as he said this. “Yes, the very place that Monahan has his eye on. It’s run by a Greek. Nice chap too. Absolutely on the level, I should say. But there are other individuals hanging around who would bear looking into more closely. Especially when a pretty little thing like Nina Andrews walks in—with those red cheeks and that demure country-like manner.”

  I was hoping I would hear more about Monahan when again he switched the subject.

  “Funny thing about Harcourt. Shows you how careful you have to be when you begin checking up on things . . .”

  “What do you mean?” said I, wondering what he was going to blurt out next.

  “Well, just this,” said O’Rourke, measuring h
is words. “Harcourt has a whole string of dance halls here in New York, and in other places too. The insurance agency is just a blind. That’s why he’s breaking his son in. He isn’t interested in the insurance game. Harcourt’s one passion is young girls—the younger the better. Of course, I don’t know this, Mr. Miller, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had already tried to seduce Miss Andrews—or Marjorie Blair, to use her right name. If anything had happened between them Miss Andrews wouldn’t be apt to tell anyone, would she? Least of all the young man she’s in love with. She’s only nineteen now, but she probably looked the same at sixteen. She’s a country girl, don’t forget. They start in early sometimes—you know, red, warm blood.”

  He stopped, as if to study the restaurant which, unknown to me, he had been gently and slowly leading me to.

  “Not such a bad place, this. Shall we try it? Oh, just a minute, before we go in. . . . About Harcourt . . . The girl, of course, doesn’t suspect that he has anything to do with dance halls. That was just a coincidence, her walking into that place. You know the one I mean, don’t you? Just opposite . . .”

  “Yes, I know it,” I said, a little annoyed with him for practicing these sly digs on me. “I have a friend working there,” I added. And you know damned well what I mean, I thought to myself.

  I was wondering how much Monahan might have revealed to him. I wondered too, suddenly, if Monahan hadn’t known O’Rourke for many a year. How they liked to put on these little acts, these expressions of surprise, of ignorance, of amazement, and so on. I suppose they can’t help it. They’re like cashiers who say “thank you!” in their sleep.

  And then, as I waited for him to continue, another suspicion entered my mind. Maybe those two fifty-dollar bills that Monahan had dropped came from O’Rourke’s pocket. I was almost certain of it. Unless . . . but I dismissed the following flash—it was too farfetched. Unless, I couldn’t help repeating to myself, the money had come from Harcourt’s pocket. It was a fat roll of bills he had flashed on me that night. Detectives don’t usually walk around with huge sums of money in their pockets. Anyway, if Monahan had shaken Harcourt down (or perhaps the Greek!) O’Rourke wouldn’t know about it.