Installment 9

3

Tom Powell tapped on his watch and looked at it once more. He wound it a couple of times and dropped it into his pocket. He got up from the soft green chair and began to examine the signed photographs of film stars, musicians, singers on the wall of the small room.

The door behind him opened and he turned to face Paul Waverly. “I understand you want to see me,” said Waverly as he entered.

“I’m Detective Tom Powell with the New York police.”

“I’m Paul Waverly and I’ve got to be on stage in,” he looked up, “six minutes.”

“Four more than I need today,” said Powell, sitting down opposite Waverly who had thrown himself down on a big green couch. “Any idea why I’m here?”

“Yeah, I just heard about Mabel a little while ago. What’s the word?”

Powell swung his hat forward and back by the brim between his knees. “You tell me. As far as we know, you were the last to see the girl.”

Paul touched a finger of his cigarette hand to his tongue to remove a tobacco grain. “Well, she spent the night in my hotel room, if that’s what you want to know. At least she was there when I fell asleep. She was gone with the wind when I woke.”

Powell’s brow arched. “Gone with the wind?”

“Half the boy’s are reading the book. The one’s that can read, that is.”

“Book? Right.” Powell pulled out a pad and flipped the cover forward. “How well did you know Miss Herrmann? Was she a frequent...companion?”

Paul smiled. “I haven’t been back in town long enough to have frequent companions. I just came out of retirement.” Paul glanced at the clock, stood up and began adjusting his clothes.

Powell looked up. “Retirement. At your age?”

“Christ. You are one hell of a detective. ” Waverly glanced at the clock. “I met her that night at El Morocco. She made a scene, we left in a hurry. We ate. We tangoed. I fell asleep. She was gone.” Powell stood, looked at his hat, pinching the crown. “I gotta say I liked it. I’m sorry I won’t be playing that song again. She seemed like a good kid.”

Powell studied Waverly’s face. Paul met his gaze for a few seconds and questioningly raised his eyebrows. “Thanks,” said Powell finally and put his notebook away. “I’ll try and catch you when you’ve got a little more time.”

“Sure. You’ll excuse me. My public awaits.”

Powell looked absently at the empty doorway for a moment. Tilting his head down, he put on his hat and left the room.

Installment 8 (Chapter 3--Entertainment is Everywhere)

1

A car horn screamed past Arthur Vine as he stepped onto the hot concrete sidewalk outside his door. He held a beer stein, its top flipped up, chest high before him. “Now, my sudden friend, let us sketch in the backdrop of your existence.” Vine turned south, squinting in the noisy glare of the Manhattan morning. The smell of steaming sausages awoke a sensation within him, which he guessed was hunger. Behind him he heard a rhythmic metallic clicking noise and within a few seconds a small boy passed him pulling a small toy monkey on wheels. The monkey tapped on a little metal drum as it rolled. “Entertainment is everywhere, Jonah. Inescapable,” he mumbled to the fish in the beer mug.

A group of sailors bounced out of the huge arched doorway of the New York Aquarium as Arthur Vine began his slow ascent of the stairs. The sailors broke out in laughter as they raced one another down. A winded Vine reached the top of the stairs and stepped to the side to allow another group of sailors to pass. He placed the stein on a pedestal next to the bust of a 19th century woman. A plaque below the bust read, “On this spot, in the year of 1850, the “Swedish Nightingale, Jenny Lind, made her North American debut.” “Inescapable,” chuckled Vine as he grasped the stein by the handle and entered the great circular fortress.
The air inside the Aquarium was considerably cooler and it washed over Vine refreshingly. Two levels of glass ringed the building and large undersea murals covered the stone walls. “Surely, we must find some of your brethren in such a place, Jonah,” whispered Vine into the stein.

Through the reflection in his face, Vine watched the flowing fins of a fish just like Jonah in every way, except this one had a blue red sheen with not a trace of the green which dominated Jonah’s color scheme. “Betta Splendens”, he read, “Commonly referred to as the ‘Siamese Fighting Fish’. So, you are a fighter, Jonah. You certainly fought for your life on the New York City street.”
“I knew you liked ta drink, Mr. Vine, but you shouldn’t oughta bring beer into the Aquarium.” A big red haired man in a guard uniform looked down at Vine with a wide yellow smile.
“I assure you, Mr. Cornthwaite,” said Vine, returning the smile, “that the contents of this decanter are entirely appropriate to this establishment.”
“Watcha got there, anyway?” Asked Cornthwaite as he leaned down.
“Betta Splendens, it says here, Mr. Cornthwaite, the Siamese Fighting Fish. This particular edition bears the appellation Jonah.”
“Don’t you never say anything simple, Mr. Vine? I aint big on fancy talkers, but you're all right. You don't do it to show off.” Cornthwaite took the stein into his big red hand and, popping open the top, looked inside. “Colorful, ain’t they,” he said lowering his voice. “Where'd you pick this up, Mr. Vine?”
“I found this wayward child lying in the middle of the street as a matter of fact.”
“You don’t say. “He looked up at Vine. “What? Just lyin’ there?”
“Indeed. By all rights he should be dead,” said Vine taking back the stein. “It is a bond we share,” he said and snapped the lid shut.

Installment 7

3

The steam fogged Lionel Barry’s glasses as he washed his bony hands over the porcelain sink. When the water stopped, he heard a single rap on the diamond-shaped window in the door.

Barry stepped out of the autopsy room, wiping his glasses on his white lab coat. “Whaddya got for me, doctor,” said Tom Powell, offering a cigarette from his tin case to the slight man.

“Thanks,” said Barry, leaning close to the open case, his face speckled with reflected light. He picked a cigarette from the case. “Well, the head wound, obviously, was the most severe,” he wheezed. “The top of the skull was crushed most of the way back,” he said, finally putting his wire-rimmed glasses back on, “and the spine was broken in a few places...the neck was totally severed, just the skin holding it together. Some small items, a kitchen knife, a fork, a tin can lid...trash really...were embedded in the skin. Those occurred at the time of death, all bled some, but all seem incidental. Broken left forearm. She’s been dead at least 24 hours, I suppose.”

Powell looked up from his notebook. “No gunshot wounds, strangulation marks, deep knife wounds? Nothing like that?”

“No,” said Barry, reaching under his lab coat to pull out a lighter. “My theory is that she fell from a great height, directly into the back of a garbage truck, either striking the edge of the truck or some heavy object in the truck. Cause of death was a combination of the blow to the head and broken neck. I’ll get you the report in a few hours.”

“Pretty girl, huh? A shame,” said Powell, looking up from his notebook.

“Well, none of us will look too pretty a hundred years from now, detective,” said Barry, his thin lips in a slanted, sardonic smile.

Powell gave an amused snort in response.

Barry raised an eyebrow, thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk down the well-lit subterranean corridor. The clicking of his heels stopped and he turned back to Powell, who was raising a lit match to the cigarette in his mouth. “Oh and she was recently impregnated.” Powell’s lips drew back and he held the unlit cigarette between his teeth.

4

“Paramount doesn’t want to know about her. I talked to the head of publicity. He said she hasn’t been under contract for a year her last movie was poison. As far as he was concerned, she died in 1935.” Powell sat down heavily in the padded green chair across the desk from the police chief, Benson Donleavy.

“Feet down,” said Donleavy as he twirled the cigar on the desk before him. “I guess all bets are off, then. What do we know about her?”

“She was a wild one. Dope, booze, sex--of all kinds, plus any other vice you want.” Powell set his hat on the desk and ran his hand over his slick auburn hair. “She was last seen with Paul Waverly, the musician, at a club and a restaurant last Thursday, the day before he opened at the Raven’s nest.” Powell’s gray eyes looked up briefly from his hat at Donleavy.

Donleavy sat up straight and somewhat self-consciously squared his shoulders. “That’s Russ Treacher’s place, isn’t it? Do you think Treacher is mixed up in this?”

“Hell if I know. I’m checking on it.”

“Well get a move on, we’re going public with this. There doesn’t seem to be any reason not to.”

Powell stood up, put on his hat and buttoned his jacket. “You do what you think you gotta. Look, I’m not sure what happened to her. It looks like she fell out a window. Maybe she got pushed; maybe she was so drunk she thought it was the door. I’m gonna see Waverly at the Raven’s nest tonight. Hopefully, I’ll get a feel for the case from him.”

“Call me after you talk to him.” Donleavy stood up and turned to the window behind him.

Installment 6

2

Selene Davis slammed the trunk and headed out through the tall grass towards the garbage dump. She threaded through a small group of policemen and reporters until she came upon the dead woman embedded in the garbage. She whistled through her teeth, and shook her head. She took the large bag from her shoulder and set it on the ground, unsnapped it, and pulled a large camera out, snapped in a flash bulb aimed it at the exposed head and pressed the button. She popped the dead bulb over her shoulder, loaded a new one, pulled the film cartridge out, flipped it over, reinserted it and framed the head from a different angle.

Tom Powell walked up behind her as the camera flashed. “We’re gonna dig her out as soon as you're done with this.”

“The papers are going to have a field day with this one, huh, Powell?” she said, rummaging in her bag.

“Pretty Jane Doe, naked in a garbage dump, with her head open wide, I guess so,” said Powell, pushing up the brim of his hat.

“Jane Doe?” said Selene, looking up from her bag. “You mean to tell me you don’t know who she is?” she asked.

Powell looked about distractedly, flipping open his cigarette case.

“You need to get out more, Powell. That’s Mabel Herrmann.” The camera flashed. “She’s a movie star.”

He raised his eyebrows and his cigarette drooped very slightly in his mouth.

Flash. “I can understand a shut-in like you not recognizing her, but the reporters should have.”

“They haven’t been over yet, I kept them away until we got what we needed,” he said, his mind working. “I’ll take care of the press. Just get your pictures. And keep this under your hat, understand.”

Selene smiled, “Now who am I gonna tell. Kennedy’ll be back in a couple of days and I go back to civilian life--and a new camera. This job pays ok and it's steady work, but I like my life to be my own.” She lifted her department-issued camera to her eye and flashed another picture. “Don’t worry about me, you’ve got bigger problems.”

“Good. You done yet?”

“Yeah. Do you want some of her after you’ve dug her out?”

“No. You can get those at the morgue.”

“The morgue,” she repeated. She snapped her case shut and headed back to her car.

3

The steam fogged Lionel Barry’s glasses as he washed his bony hands over the porcelain sink. When the water stopped, he heard a single rap on the diamond-shaped window in the door.

Barry stepped out of the autopsy room, wiping his glasses on his white lab coat. “Whaddya got for me, doctor,” said Tom Powell, offering a cigarette from his tin case to the slight man.

“Thanks,” said Barry, leaning close to the open case, his face speckled with reflected light. He picked a cigarette from the case. “Well, the head wound, obviously, was the most severe,” he wheezed. “The top of the skull was crushed most of the way back,” he said, finally putting his wire-rimmed glasses back on, “and the spine was broken in a few places...the neck was totally severed, just the skin holding it together. Some small items, a kitchen knife, a fork, a tin can lid...trash really...were embedded in the skin. Those occurred at the time of death, all bled some, but all seem incidental. Broken left forearm. She’s been dead at least 24 hours, I suppose.”

Powell looked up from his notebook. “No gunshot wounds, strangulation marks, deep knife wounds? Nothing like that?”

“No,” said Barry, reaching under his lab coat to pull out a lighter. “My theory is that she fell from a decent height, directly into the back of a garbage truck, either striking the edge of the truck or some heavy object in the truck. Cause of death was a combination of the blow to the head and broken neck. I’ll get you the report tomorrow.”

“Get me something short tonight, if you can. Pretty girl, huh? A shame,” said Powell, looking up from his notebook.

“Well, none of us will look too pretty a hundred years from now, detective,” said Barry, his thin lips in a slanted, sardonic smile.

Powell gave an amused snort in response.

Barry raised an eyebrow, thrust his hands in his pockets and began to walk down the well-lit subterranean corridor. The clicking of his heels stopped and he turned back to Powell, who was raising a lit match to the cigarette in his mouth. “Oh and she was recently impregnated.” Powell’s lips drew back and he held the unlit cigarette between his teeth.

Installment 5 (Chapter 2--"Who'm I Gonna Tell?")

1

Detective Tom Powell squinted from under his brown hat at the burnt-orange sun that filtered through the smoke-filled sky. He flicked his cigarette at the massive pile of garbage before him. “All right, let’s see it.” He followed the thin old man down shoreline of decaying meals, broken toys and discarded newspapers. The old man slowed, then stopped and pointed into the pile. “Right there,” he said.

“Nice,” Powell said flatly, as he stared into the cloudy eyes of the woman who stared up at him. Only her head and part of one shoulder protruded from the dense pile of refuse. A large wound above her brow seemed to lay her skull wide open. Powell reached into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a pad. “Green eyes. Looks like brown hair. What do you make her age at pop, middle to late twenties?” The old man stared down at the head and said nothing. “Any idea where this particular garbage came from?” The old man looked over at Powell and shrugged.

“I might as well ask her,” he said reaching up into the garbage above the body and pulled out a small rectangular sheet of paper. He studied the telegram. “Hotel Duval, September 11,” he said slowly as he wrote on his pad. “Gotta start somewhere. I’m gonna call for the coroner and some uniforms. Don’t touch anything till I get back, OK?” The old man looked down at his rugged shoes. “Hmm…,” he said.

Installment 4...

From the start...