It was known as “Chinese Heaven,” until even members of the Asiatic Exclusion League grew tired of the joke.
And yet the tradition remains, and the balcony at the Pantages continues to be effectively off-limits to Europeans; as a result, it has become an ideal refuge for gwailo who don’t wish to be seen by other gwailo.
Especially handy are the loges going down both sides of the the balcony, like small enclosed boats. Illicit trysts are known to occur there, evidenced by the aroma of cigarette smoke, perfume, sweat and other excretions.
McCurdy listens to the piano player in the pit perform the last few bars of “By The Light of the Silvery Moon” while the last stragglers take their seats below. The upcoming motion picture, The Clash of the Wolves, will feature a dog named Rin Tin Tin, a German Shepherd rescued from the trenches who has achieved stardom as a symbol of loyalty and valour.
Hook is late.
In preparation, McCurdy has taken a pinch of white powder to sharpen his senses and to tolerate the newsreels to come.
Fox News may be a product of Hollywood professionals, but he often wonders if the lineup was assembled by a madman—a disjointed nightmare in which horrors flash before one’s eyes, juxtaposed with laughs and oddities, so that the events of the day become a vaudeville show, a chorus line in which the dancers kick every which way.
A cone of dusty light shoots down from behind the balcony, and on the screen below appears a procession of plump men in plumed Tyrolean hats marching down a narrow street like an army of yodellers. Above them, women lean out of windows waving Austrian flags and blowing kisses. And a crush of pedestrians on the sidewalk follows along, the whole throng making its way to a cathedral, there to be blessed by a bishop.
McCurdy gets out his notebook, spreads another line of white powder on the cover and sniffs as the scene switches to Saudi Arabia, where mausoleums and domes in Medina have been levelled by explosives in a government program to combat “excessive veneration leading to shirk.”
Then it is back to California, where a female “beach censor” in a coat and a black straw hat uses a tape measure to determine whether a girl’s swimming suit falls within standards of decency. The young woman in the suit endures this with a long-suffering, contemptuous expression, rolling her eyes at the camera.
So much for up-to-the-minute world news, McCurdy thinks, blowing his nose into his handkerchief.
“Sorry to be late, Ed. I had to get out of uniform, and Constable Quam has been on my arse like a burr.”
“Constable Quam? Is there an Oriental on the force?”
“Of course not. The name is Scottish, as usual.”
“Then I should think it would be McQuam. John McQuam, say. Mind you, Albert McQuam has more gravitas.”
DS Hook gives McCurdy the once-over and gets the picture. “Ed, may I speak plainly?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but I know you will.”
“What have you got into now? Is it the opium again?”
“No. I have to work for a living.”
“Ah. So you’ve picked a new poison?”
“Just a brain tonic is all. Nothing like it to bring out one’s latent mental pep.”
Hook lights an Ogden’s. “So you’ve gone from opium-eater to dope fiend.”
“It’s also good for numbing the nose against cigarette smoke.”
“Well if you’re snorting gagger, please do it out of my sight—surely you know that cocaine is illegal now.”
“I shall take that under advisement.”
DS Hook produces a mickey of rye from an inside pocket. “Care for a nip? Or is rum too legal for you?”
“Delighted. It’ll put me in a nautical mood.”
On the screen below, a boat named the Josephine K is swarmed by men in suits. Crates of an alcoholic beverage labelled Golden Wedding are being unloaded. Above and behind them is the pilot house, windows blown out. Two men in white carry the body of the captain on a stretcher down an almost vertical stairway.
“Calvin, does it ever occur to you that there’s a lot of arresting going on these days?”
“Yes, and not always the right people being arrested.”
“Puts the lie to the fight for freedom wheeze, doesn’t it?”
“You can’t blame everything on the war, Ed. Especially you—not having served.”
“That’s right, Calvin, kick the blind man.”
“In any case, we’re here to talk about the Cunning business, remember?”
“I know—his demise has surpassed land speculation as the topic du jour. Some of the rumours are versions of Macbeth, starring one rival or another. Others are versions of W.C. Fields: Drowned in a vat of martinis? O death, where is thy sting?”
“My wife Jeanie heard one at church, to the effect that he was poisoned by an assassin hired by the Drys.”
“That’s one of many, yes. Another is that he was poisoned by an assassin hired by the Wets.”
“Both possibilities make sense: he betrayed them all with the liquor laws, in one way or another.”
“And, of course, there are the stories about Patterson’s Cocktail. Rumours promoted by the government, I expect. Anything to draw attention away from the LCB hooch. Enough legal rye would kill an ox.”
“Should I add the LCB to the list of suspects, then?”
“I’ll try and smoke Taggart out of his hole. He runs the place, after all—for the time being, at least. But he’s devilishly good at avoiding press—except when he wants it, of course.”
Hook fires up an Ogden’s, ignoring McCurdy, who is ostentatiously fanning his face. “Just curious, Ed—is there a rumour that Cunning died of natural causes?”
“Not a one. Where would be the fun in that?”
On the screen, an army of girls in black skirts and white blouses, arms extended in the crucifix position, perform knee bends in a grassy stadium, reviewed by a beefy man in a dark coat, backed by men in black shirts and breeches. Thousands are cheering in the stands, waving handkerchiefs and Italian flags, while Mussolini doffs his fedora hat, baring a head shaped like a ball-peen hammer.
The scene changes with a title card proclaiming “Meanwhile In Merrie England”: Miss Rotha Lintorn-Orman, a boyish woman with close-cropped hair, at a meeting of British Fascist Women, calls for a paramilitary Girl Scout movement, while an ex-camel veterinarian named Arnold Leese inveighs against British Fascists as “kosher fascists” who refuse to attend to the “Jewish question.”
“You can never trust posh women with hyphenated names,” Hook says.
“Especially when they dress like men,” McCurdy replies.
Then a new segment begins, with no connection to its predecessor, in which a mysterious spotlight plays over a deserted city street at night, followed by a daylight scene in which tall buildings collapse in plumes of dust.
The title card reads, “Death rays will wipe out cities when the next Great War takes place…”
“By the way, Ed, can you think of a reason why a man would have two telephones?”
“One for each ear?”
After another pause for refreshment, Hook and McCurdy continue their discussion about the death of the Attorney General.
“Seemingly it’s all about who controls the Liquor Control Board,” McCurdy says. “With profits at every stage of the food chain, liquor has become something like fifteen per cent of government income—not to mention party patronage and slush funds. The Attorney General is more powerful than our lame-duck premier—and for that matter, so is the chairman of the LCB. They go together like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.
“Except that Tweedledum has a gun pointed at Tweedledee’s head.”
McCurdy leaves the possibilities open because that is as far as his thinking takes him. He would like another jolt of powder.
For his part, Hook wonders what a “lame duck” is. So many new expressions these days—who can keep track? “And on the list of persons of interest we also have Mr Patterson.”
“The name Patterson seems to come up regularly, doesn’t it? Actually, I did some research on the matter.”
“Oh come on, Ed. Don’t tell me you were in the library, poring through the stacks.”
“Very well then, yes, I did pay for some information. But I had to commission a researcher, which amounts to the same thing.”
“Not exactly, but continue.”
“Of course, it always went without saying that a Jazz Cocktail would be drunk for the alcohol.”
“Obviously. It’s just as obvious that someone was being paid off to turn a blind eye.”
“Not necessarily. That is Patterson’s genius. When the PPA sued the government to ban Jazz Cocktail from the shelves, our man countersued—and won. Apparently, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, cocktail refers only to a bird and a cock-tailed horse, while jazz is either music or sperm. Nothing in either word implies the presence of alcohol. In the meantime, Jazz Cocktails became so popular that people developed a taste for the product as an end in itself. Of course, it could also have been the other ingredients—sharpened with a dash of cocaine, of course.”
“Cocaine is illegal now.” He sees what his companion is sniffing and his eyes roll upward. “For God’s sake, Ed, put that away. I’ve reminded you twice. I just reminded you a minute ago.”
“How can you be so sure it’s cocaine?”
“It’s white powder, what else could it be?”
“Well for one thing, it could be eucaine, which is substantially the same thing. Veterinarians stock it in quantity, and it’s all the rage. Tried it myself and it’s not bad, though best taken with an alcoholic beverage—unless diluted, it will rot out your septum in no time.”
McCurdy blows his nose into his handkerchief, with a honk that turns heads in the balcony. “And as for relaxants like Patterson’s House of Lords, now that laudanum is verboten, one can explore the bromides—combined with alcohol, the effect has an appeal all its own.”
“You’re saying that these substitutions keep Patterson one step ahead of the legislators.”
“Of course, Calvin. That’s the remedy business in a nutshell.”
“So two random consumers died of something contained in Patterson’s product? Is that what you’re saying, Ed?”
“That’s one line to take, but it could still be tainted hooch from the States. I’m betting on Patterson for the present, but it’ll take more than a suspicion for the chief to spring for an exhumation and autopsy.”
DS Hook gets up from his seat and steps out of the booth while Fox News grinds randomly on. “No offence intended, Ed, but sometimes I think you newspapermen are like maggots.”
“Maggots are used to treat infection. I shall take it as a compliment.”
“In any case, my subordinate and I paid a visit to Mr Patterson. He was speaking to his lawyer at the time. You were mentioned.”
McCurdy places the bottle neatly under his seat. “People are so touchy these days. I do hope he’s a suspect.”
“’fraid not. A slippery customer, but I doubt that he’s murdered anyone. Not on purpose, at least.”
“A pity.”
On the screen below, thousands of white-sheeted figures with pointed hats parade in rank and file down the National Mall in Washington, as a title card reads: “Citizens gather as one hundred thousand members of the Ku Klux Klan, bearing crosses and American flags, march toward the Capitol Building to cheers and the stirring strains of ‘The Liberty Stable Blues’…”
DUnbar exchange. Are you there?
Operator speaking, SEymour exchange. Castle Hotel calling.
Switch
Taggart residence. Are you there?
DUnbar exchange. Castle Hotel calling.
Please make the connection.
Switch
Here is the Taggart residence. Hello.
Here is Ed McCurdy of the Evening Star. I should like to speak to Mr Taggart, if I may.
Mr Taggart is not on the premises. Shall I take a message?
Am I speaking to Mrs Taggart, madam?
I am Mrs Taggart.
I wish to speak to Mr Taggart about the LCB’s response to Mr Cunning’s death—and his own response as chairman.
I wouldn’t know about my husband’s professional associations, Mr McCurdy. You’ll have to call the office.
I’ve called the LCB countless times, Mrs Taggart, I assure you. He is always either in a meeting or out of the office.
Perhaps it’s a hint that he doesn’t wish to speak to you. But again, I wouldn’t know—I’m just his wife.
I was hoping to get a personal statement from him about Gordon Cunning. I’m led to believe they had a close association. Perhaps Mr Taggart has some insight into Mr Cunning’s customs and habits.
My husband and Mr Cunning did enjoy a long association. They went to college together. On the rugby team, I believe.
How would you characterize their relations since then, before his unfortunate passing?
For the third time, Mr McCurdy, I wouldn’t know. My husband’s business with the Liquor Board is none of my business. And now I shall ask you to mind your own business. Thank you for your call, Mr McCurdy. Goodbye.
She returns the earpiece to its cradle. “Clyde, that was a reporter. He wishes to speak with you.”
Taggart is lying on the sofa, having spent a restless night. “Well they would, wouldn’t they? The rumours are everywhere. It looks as though Stalker’s bastards have won this one.”
“I know it’s a blow, darling, but with Gordon gone you’re well out of it. I do admire your ability to adapt to changing circumstances and turn them to your advantage.”
“Thank you, darling, and you’re quite right. That’s politics. One must adapt, change one’s plumage and carry on.”