Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn

apron had once been white came towards her, stopped short as though mastering an emotion, then asked,

      “Table, lady?”

      “Naturally,” Maria replied coldly. “Preferably one overlooking the dance floor, yet not so that I am too much in view. Do I make myself clear?”

      From the waiter’s leer she gathered she did. He waved to a glass-topped table half-shielded by another of the prevailing dried palms, then stood aside and studied the ceiling speculatively while Maria laid down her umbrella and settled herself.

      The waiter became apparent again. “We’ve a special supper on tonight, lady—”

      “I do not require supper, my man. I’ll take— Lemonade.”

      “Lemonade!” The man swallowed something and half-opened his mouth; then he met Maria’s blue-eyed gaze halfway. “Lemonade it is,” he agreed, with a hasty nod, and went off with one mystified glance over his shoulder.

      Maria sat back and stared unemotionally at the grinning girls and boys at the next-but-one table. The longer she stared, without a single tremor of her eyelids, the more uncomfortable the little party obviously became. At last they looked at each other, got up, and hurried off downstairs.

      “Sir Charles Napier was right,” Maria murmured contentedly to herself; then shifting her position a little she gazed over the balcony. Below there swarmed a varicolored mass of men and women working themselves into a state of semi-hysterical riot. They were spinning in circles, wagging their fingers in the air, thumping the polished floor with their toes, all to the accompaniment of the whanging, crashing band.

      Maria wrinkled her nose. “Jitterbugs, I presume,” she mused.

      The smoky air wafting up to her was charged with a surfeit of odors that had an admixture of strong drink, cheap perfume, cosmetics, dead flowers, and perspiration. Her unaccustomed ear­drums were throbbing by now with the din of the orchestra; her eyes were somewhat dazzled by the naked glare of lights from shoddy electroliers. In the distance a sailor was dancing so earnestly he looked as though he were strangling his girl partner.

      “Here y’are, lady....” The glass of lemonade descended from the heights. “A quarter,” the waiter added, seeing her questioning eye.

      She handed it over and he took it solemnly; then as he turned to go she caught his arm.

      “One moment, waiter—perhaps you can tell me something. Do you happen to know if a young lady named Patricia Black ever comes here?”

      “I wouldn’t be known’, lady. I only work here. I don’t dance.” He reflected, eyes on the ceiling, lips tight. “What’s she like?”

      “Slender. Twenty-two years of age. High forehead, golden hair.”

      “Mmm, swell looker, eh? Nope, I ain’t seen her; and I don’t know her name neither. I’m rather struck on blondes, lady, and I know most of ’em, friendly like. I’ve not seen her, ’cos if I had I’d know of it, see?”

      With that he nodded briefly and blundered off.

      “Amazing!” Maria murmured, and leaving her lemonade un­touched for the moment she scanned the floor below once more, searching anxiously for that head of spun gold that was in itself an utter betrayal. But it was not apparent. There were honey-colored heads, plastered in ringlets; corn-colored ones with frizzing; peroxided ones mousy at the roots from this exalted angle— But a head of pure gold? Nowhere! Yet Patricia had come in here. Maria was convinced of it.

      Puzzled, she turned to her drink, tasted it, then making a wry face she set it down again. Warm water with amber tinting was not much to her taste. But she tried again because she was genuinely thirsty, and as she sipped her gaze traveled across the floor to a distant alcove in a backwater of the sea of dancers. Within the alcove sat three scantily-dressed girls in backless gowns, rather like modern versions of the three little maids from the Mikado. They seemed to be boredly occupied in watching the swirling throngs.

      Presently a man with extra large feet and very shiny hair approached them, said something and handed over a ticket. The girl at the left of the trio got up and started to dance gracefully in his arms. Maria lowered her glass slowly, her eyes wide, watching intently from the palm tree’s camouflage as the pair floated under the balcony.

      That slender body, those green eyes gazing absently into space. Patricia, beyond doubt! But now long black hair reached in curls to the top of her creamy shoulders.

      Maria compressed her lips, wondering why the idea of a wig had not occurred to her before. Never once in following the girl had she had the chance to see her hair, and now— Now she wondered at its purpose. Ceaselessly she watched as the pair circled the floor once or twice during the course of the pandemonium that passed for music; then as Pat retired to the alcove again to join her two companions and the dancers streamed off the floor for refreshment, Maria snapped her fingers sharply.

      The waiter hurried forward. “Somethin’ more, lady?”

      “Yes. Information I mean. Here!” Maria dived in her bag and handed over what she understood to be a ‘buck.’ “You can tell me something which perhaps you may know. Those three girls over there in the alcove: what are they doing? I saw one man hand across a ticket. Are they—ushers?”

      “Ushers? What in heck do you think this place is—a church? They’re professionals.”

      “Professional dancers?”

      “Yeah. Their job is to partner guys who come in without a dame to hoof with.”

      “Ah! And the girl at the left end with the black hair. Who is she? Know her name?”

      “Sure—Maisie Gray. Been here around three weeks.”

      “Hmm!” Maria said, and relaxed with a frown. The waiter narrowed his eyes, sucked his teeth, and waited.

      “Who is the manager of this place?” Maria asked abruptly.

      “Just who wants to know?” the waiter snapped. “Want to com­plain or somethin’?”

      Maria flashed him an icy look. “Kindly be civil, my man! I asked you a perfectly straightforward question.”

      “Well, it’s a question I ain’t goin’ to answer, so what are you goin’ to do about it? Anyway, the manager ain’t here.”

      On that observation the waiter turned away impatiently and headed toward a new group of customers pouring up from the hall below. Maria sat on, eyes narrowed and lips tight—then she looked again at the alcove where Patricia sat with her two colleagues. A man had joined them now, a big fellow in evening dress with thick greasy hair and a pale, babyish-looking face. At length he sat down and threw an arm about Pat’s shoulders. Maria watched intently, not sure whether to be horrified or revolted at Pat’s obvious passiveness in his grip. Far from repelling his advances she actually caught at his free hand and squeezed it affectionately.

      Maria pulled out her notebook, wrote down a brief description of the man, then put it away again. Grabbing her umbrella she got to her feet, flashed a look of withering scorn on the waiter as he hurried past with a tray full of colored water, then she descended the stairs and made her way outside again. She stood drinking in the cool night air, thankful for the relief from the fumes and clotted atmosphere in which she had been sitting.

      “So Patricia welcomes the attentions of that—creature,” she reflected, her face screwed into thought as she marched steadily along the pavement. “She goes out at night to this appalling dive and uses her dancing ability to partner those—apes! And the name of the manager remains a mystery.... We shall see! According to Selby’s Unearthing the Culprit it is now necessary for me to have an assistant, preferably one versed in crime if possible.... Hmm—on the East Side perhaps. I understand that is a likely spot.”

      She let herself into the Black residence quietly and went upstairs without a sound. She was rather surprised to discover when she came to relax that she was nearly too tired to undress.