One doesn’t dare to cry in America. It is unmanly here.
—Rudolph Valentino, My Private Diary
AS JACK AND I listened, Syble Zane began her story—
“You’ve heard of Rudolph Valentino, Mr. Shepard?”
“Sure,” Jack said, “everyone remembers Rudy and his big gimmick—the Latin Lover.”
“Latin Lover?” Syble Zane rolled her eyes at the phrase. “A moniker pinned on Valentino by the same sort of show business grifter as Harry Amsterdam.”
“Stick to the script, Miss Zane. We were talking about Valentino and a pound of gems with his name on them.”
“Oh, very well.” Syble tossed her head and covered her Egyptian bikini with a powder-blue silk robe. “But you should know, Valentino wasn’t born with a silver spoon. He started out as a penniless immigrant, living on the streets of New York. With luck and labor, he became the biggest silent movie star in the world. He was the most desirable man on the planet. Women swooned. And men either emulated him or hated his guts.”
“Yeah,” Jack cracked. “Hollywood has two species of male. Peacocks and roosters. Go on, where do the diamonds fit in?”
“Soon after he arrived in Hollywood, Valentino met an actress named Jean Acker. The two had a whirlwind courtship. Valentino believed he had found his true love, but Acker only used Valentino to get out of a scandalous romantic triangle.”
“Sounds like a marriage made in Hollywood,” Jack said flatly.
“It was, Mr. Shepard. Like plywood sets and camera tricks, her ‘love’ for him appeared to be a fake. Or at least as fickle as the public’s favor. On their wedding night, Acker locked her new husband out of their hotel room.”
Jack’s laugh was bitter. “That’s a tough break for the Latin Lover.”
“He was devastated,” Syble said. “For months, Valentino wrote Acker love letters and sent her gifts, trying to win her back. But Acker refused to even see him, and their sham of a marriage was never consummated. As you can imagine, the press mocked Valentino for wearing his emotions on his sleeve. It became a public embarrassment for him. Eventually Valentino moved on and he and Acker divorced.”
“And the jewels?”
“According to Harry, Valentino gave them to Acker, one of the many gifts he sent trying to win her back.”
“So how did Harry Amsterdam get hold of all that pricey ice?”
“Jean Acker lost her fortune in the stock market crash of ’29. By then, she and Valentino were long divorced, her acting roles had dried up, and not even Harry Amsterdam could get her decent jobs. In desperation Acker pawned the Tears to Harry for a loan she never managed to pay back. Harry kept the Tears locked up in a safe until he gave them to me.”
Syble Zane tossed her head and flashed perfect white teeth with a pair of incisors worthy of Dracula.
“Those Tears are mine, Mr. Shepard. I suffered enough to get them, and I want them back. Find Harry. Choke those jewels out of him if you have to—”
“Now, just you hold on, Miss Zane,” Jack cut in. “You’re not thinking clear. It wasn’t Harry Amsterdam wearing those jewels that the doorman saw. It was a dame, Harry’s next doxy, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then she’s got the rocks, not Harry. Ah . . . You wouldn’t happen to know the tomato’s name? Better still, her address?”
“I don’t know where she lives as I never associated with the hussy. In fact, I never even laid eyes on her. All I know is that she’s a peroxide blonde named Thelma Dice.”
“And is Miss Dice in show business?”
Syble Zane pursed her painted lips. “If she’s not, I’m sure she’d like to be, or she wouldn’t be hanging off Harry’s arm. Miss Dice has got a good start. That I know.”
“Yeah?” Jack cocked his head. “Tell me more.”
“It’s an old story, I’m sure. Pretending to be thrilled while that sweaty so-and-so slobbers all over her proves the hussy’s got acting chops. Harry will find her a role somewhere, in something.”
“If she is in the biz, this Thelma Dice is probably a member of the Broadway Guild.”
Miss Zane shrugged. “Maybe. So what?”
“So I can find her.” Jack’s expression grew thoughtful. “On the other hand, the broad could have skipped town already. If she’s smart, she already did . . .”
Unexpectedly, the door opened. A petite young woman entered and halted in surprise. The girl’s dull brown hair hung limply down, half covering her face. And her plain beige dress hung on her thin frame like a stage curtain.
“I’m sorry, Miss Zane, I didn’t know you had guests—”
The girl’s melodious voice was impressive, almost regal, but we could hardly see her face. She kept it turned away from us, barely peeking through her hanging hair.
“What do you want, Cora?” Syble barked.
“The golden scarab fell out of your earring again. I found it in the hall—”
Syble’s hand went to her ear to confirm the girl’s report. “Just put it on the dressing table.”
“I could take it to the costume department, Miss Zane,” Cora earnestly offered. “I know you like to wear it outside the theater, I just thought—”
“Stop thinking and leave it on the table. I’ll fix it myself.”
Cora nodded. She set the tiny gold beetle on the desk. Then with shoulders slumped in a near-successful attempt to make herself invisible, she crept out of the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
“Freak,” Syble Zane muttered. Then she faced Jack, all business again.
“You were saying, Mr. Shepard?”
“I’ll take the job, Miss Zane. Should be a cinch. My rates are—”
“I don’t give a hoot about your rates,” she declared with an arrogant toss of her head. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars right now, and another five C-notes the moment you put the Tears of Valentino back into my hands.”
Jack pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and I knew why. His typical rate was twenty dollars a day.
“Well then,” he said, slipping on his fedora, “why am I wasting time flapping my gums with you?”
AS SOON AS Syble paid him, Jack hustled us out of her dressing room.
“You know, I’m surprised at you,” I said as we strode down the hall.
Jack stopped in his tracks. “Come again?”
“Be honest. Syble Zane is an awful human being, but she had you wrapped around her fake Egyptian pinky, didn’t she?”
“Stop slingin’ baloney—”
“Did you notice how she only got modest after I arrived?” I stared square into his eyes, something I usually couldn’t do. “Admit it. You didn’t start thinking straight until she put on that robe.”
“Are you saying that dame rewired my brain?” Jack waved his hand. “Nuts to that.”
“Fine. Pretend I’m wrong. Frankly, I’m shocked you believed her sob story.”
“I didn’t believe her story,” Jack said. “I believed her five hundred smackers.”
“You and Sam Spade. Only with Sam it was two hundred.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You would if you read The Maltese Falcon.”
“Do I look like the kind of Alvin who reads bird manuals?”
“It’s not a bird manual! The Maltese Falcon is a classic piece of American literature, written by Dashiell—oh, forget it! Just know this. I can tell she’s trouble.”
Jack pushed back his fedora, put his hands on his hips, stared at me, and shook his head. “Dames.”
His exasperated response triggered a memory.
“Speaking of dames, remember back at the Finch Inn, when Peyton Pemberton was crying over her lost Tears? She mentioned she’d inherited them from her ‘Great Aunt Cora,’ an acclaimed stage actress who ran her own theater company. I know Cora is a fairly common name, but was that young woman we just encountered Peyton’s great aunt? Did she have anything to do with those jewels? She didn’t steal them, did she? Or do something even worse to get them?”
“Good questions. But answers are never easy in this game.” Jack folded his arms. “You want answers, you’ll have to come along for the ride.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” With a hand on one hip, I met his hard gaze. “So what’s next? Now that you’ve got a pocket fat with Syble Zane’s money, where are we going?”
“To spread some of that dough around.”
“Let me guess. You’re going to buy me dinner at Sardi’s.”
“Maybe in your dreams.”
“That’s kind of where we are, Jack.”
“Fine. When the case is closed, I’ll buy you dinner at Sardi’s. But right now—”
With Jack’s abrupt silence, I realized his attention had strayed. Turning my head, I spied what he was staring at—or rather who.
“Excuse me, miss!” Jack called, moving past me.
Cora tried to hurry away, but Jack’s long legs caught up fast. After introducing himself and his profession, Jack offered the girl five dollars for five minutes of her time.
With a silent nod, Cora took the money and shoved it into her dress pocket. “What do you want to know?”
“For starters, what exactly do you do here, Cora?”
“I’m a production assistant. I work backstage.” The young woman clutched at the limp lock of hair veiling half her face, as if to keep it in place. Only one blue eye was visible, and it avoided the detective’s gaze.
“You like your job?”
“I’m grateful to have it . . . I’ve always loved the theater . . .”
“And how well do you know Miss Zane?”
“Well enough. I met her at the first rehearsal,” Cora said.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “And?”
Cora shrugged her small shoulders. “She’s always on time. She’s never missed one rehearsal or performance.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, that’s all I have to say. All right? Can I go now?”
“Just one more thing, if you don’t mind . . .”
Surprising Cora (and me), Jack gently reached out to cradle the woman’s chin in one hand and push her hair back with the other. A jagged red scar ran down one side of the girl’s face, splitting the eyebrow and ripping through her fine-boned cheek.
Cora shook herself free and stepped back.
“Not all of us take Syble Zane’s path to the stage, Mr. Shepard,” she said. “Some of us pay a high price for defending our honor.”
“Who did that to you?” Jack demanded, sounding as outraged as I felt. “Harry Amsterdam?”
Cora slowly nodded. “I said no to Mr. Amsterdam’s advances. And I paid the price. Now I’ll never walk on a Broadway stage again.”
“And yet you’re grateful to stay here? Backstage, working in the shadows?”
Cora’s head came up sharply and she finally met Jack’s gaze. “I may not be able to walk onstage again, Mr. Shepard, but if I leave, the man who did this to me wins. And I’ll never let that happen. Like I said, I’ve always loved the theater and I always will. I’m grateful to be close to the thing I love.”
With that, Cora squared her small shoulders, turned on her heel, and made her exit.
Then so did we.
FEELING TERRIBLE ABOUT what had happened to Cora, I followed Jack through the stage doors and into the alley, stumbling over my two-toned 1940s heels to keep up with his long strides.
“What was all that about?” I demanded. “Questioning that poor girl, I mean? Were you out to prove I was mistaken? Okay, I admit it. My theory about Cora was totally wrong. I don’t see how that shy, damaged young woman with no money or connections could have become a great stage actress or run her own theater company. Are you happy now?”
Jack shook his head. “You got my motive all wrong. I just wanted to ask Cora some questions. It’s called background, doll. You wanna be a detective? Ask questions. And follow leads. You never know where they’ll take you.”
“Okay then. Where are they taking us now?”
“Downtown. We’re going to see a man about a tomato.”
“Listen, Jack, I’m fairly sure we’re not heading to a farmers’ market. Can’t you be a little more specific?”
“We’re going to talk with a bigwig from the Broadway Guild.”
“Now? It’s eleven o’clock at night. Won’t the offices be closed?”
“Yeah, they keep banker’s hours. And union president Clark Delbert is a gentleman and a real straight shooter. As such, he won’t do us a lick of good.”
“But—?”
Jack adjusted his fedora. “Look, sweetie, I’m not checking Thelma Dice’s union papers or her last job application. I’m looking for the dame herself. I need to find out where she works, and if we get lucky, where she flops down at night. The joe we’re going to see knows the real score, and his office never closes.”
Jack walked ten blocks with me in tow, still getting used to my two-toned heels while gawking at the heavy vintage cars (as long as rowboats) and the spectacle of a Times Square that hadn’t existed for eighty years.
Plenty of lights still dominated this crossroads of the world, but not all of them were neon and none included digital video displays five stories high. On the other hand, many of the old Broadway theaters weren’t much different in appearance than they were when I lived in New York City. The movie theaters were something else again. Their façades were elaborate, with giant marquees that went up two or three stories, their entrances plastered with images—hand-painted posters of the movie’s stars, scenes from the picture, or bombastic quotes praising it in huge letters.
I passed a theater premiering Out of the Past with Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer. Not two blocks away, John Garfield and Lilli Palmer were starring in Body and Soul. The “thirty-cent matinee” featured a second film, Robert Cummings and Susan Hayward in The Lost Moment.
We left Broadway and cut over to Seventh Avenue. Both the theaters and the crowds began to thin out. Below Fortieth Street, the avenue became a canyon of midsize office buildings of brick and granite with storefronts on the ground floor—dress shops, cafés, liquor stores, pharmacies complete with lunch counters, barber shops, newsstands, hairdressers, and occasionally staid, solid banks with brass doors and granite walls.
It felt strange not seeing a single one of those ubiquitous phone stores from my time. No ATMs, McDonald’s, Starbucks, or vegetarian anything. And the air was laced with smoke—not just the tobacco smoke from the cigarettes every other pedestrian we passed was puffing on, but the sharp, heavy smell of smoke from coal- and wood-burning stoves that tenants used to keep warm in cold-water flats.
Just off Seventh Avenue on Thirty-Third Street, Jack made a sudden stop. We’d arrived, apparently, and I found myself in front of the type of establishment that was all too familiar in my time as well as Jack’s, and enduring tradition that was not about to die out anytime soon.
I’m talking about the all-American dive bar.
With a theatrical flourish and a sly wink, Jack opened the frosted glass door and stepped aside for me to enter.
“Welcome to the Vagabond Café, honey. Watering hole for the weary traveler and a gritty little slice of my New York . . .”