“Well, it was a fancy-dress ball, you understand. The women all had to come as Blondie and the men had to come as Dagwood. Some of them brought along their dogs, of course, posing as Daisy, the dog in the comic strip. I tried to discourage that, I made it clear in the preball announcements that animals were not encouraged, hoping of course they would understand we didn’t want a plethora of Daisys. But some people missed the point, however bluntly I’d worded it. We had three hundred and twenty Blondies, an equal number of Dagwoods, and at least a dozen Daisys.”
“Dogs running around, do you mean?”
“Yes. Well, not precisely running around. We were prepared for such an occasion, you see. We had contacted an organization that supplies dog-walkers—”
“Dog-walkers?”
“Yes. College students, usually, who will take dogs for their ritual walks during the day, for example, in a situation where both people in a marriage are working people, or at night, should anyone simply not desire the responsibility of walking an animal — a position I find quite understandable, by the way. I loathe dogs, don’t you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I—”
“Positively loathsome,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “Then again, all animals are. Why people would want to keep pets is beyond my imagination. Filthy little things, all of them. In any event, we had this cadre of trained dog-walkers on hand to redeliver, so to speak, any wayward pup whence it had come. Only two of the patrons objected. One of them had a dachshund that was supposed to represent Daisy, can you visualize that, and the other had a Pekingese. We put them in separate cloakrooms — the dogs, not the patrons — and solved the problem that way. But really, can you imagine what bedlam we would have had if everyone were allowed to bring a dog? Some people have no sense at all when it comes to animals. None whatsoever. Loathsome beasts, all of them.”
“When you say you had three hundred and twenty Blondies...”
“Yes, we sold that many admission tickets. Two hundred and fifty dollars a couple. Three hundred and twenty women masquerading as Blondie and three hundred and twenty men with their hair sticking up in front, the way Dagwood’s sticks up — the poor man has a cowlick at the front of his head — and wearing bow ties. Blondie and Dagwood.”
“What was the purpose of that, Mrs. Hargrove?”
“The purpose? Oh, it was just a gimmick, Mr. Meyer. But it earned us eighty thousand dollars in admissions, which wasn’t bad. And the Cadillac we gave as first prize for the best impersonation was donated by a local dealer.”
“Was there a contest or something for the best costume?”
“Well, not merely the costume. Dagwood and Blondie, after all, are not that distinctively dressed in the comic strip. In fact, I think it was the very simplicity of the theme that accounted for its success, don’t you see? The women, after all, could wear whatever they chose, so long as they were blond in the bargain. And the man needed only a bow tie and a little hair pomade. But it was for the overall impression that the prize was awarded. The way a couple walked and moved, the representation, the impersonation of Blondie and Dagwood. They were all masked, you understand...”
“Masked, yes.”
“Yes. So there was absolutely no question of favoritism on the part of the judges. They could judge only by... oh, intangibles. Whether a couple actually created the image of the comic-strip characters come to life.”
“I see. If I understand this correctly then, all of the women were wearing blond wigs.”
“Well, not all of them.”
“You said...”
“Yes, but some of them were natural blondes.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Or if not natural blondes, at least accepting a little assistance from a beautician. Those women, of course, did not need wigs.”
“Of course not.”
“But you are correct in assuming that the overall impression was of a ballroom full of three hundred and twenty blondes, yes.”
“Yes,” Meyer said.
“Yes.”
“All of them masked,” Meyer said.
“Yes. Which is where I think the fun came in, don’t you? Can you picture a room full of masked blond women? Doesn’t it sound a great deal of fun?”
“Yes,” Meyer said, “it does. Mrs. Hargrove, the musicians union told me the affair was held at the Hotel Palomar...”
“Yes, downtown, directly opposite the Palomar Theater.”
“Which ballroom, ma’am, can you remember?”
“Yes, the Stardust Ballroom.”
“Is that a large ballroom?”
“Not so large as their Grand Ballroom, but we didn’t want a room so enormous that the people would rattle around in it. We rather cherished the notion, you see, of all those masked blondes and masked men in polka-dot ties dancing cheek to cheek and buttock to buttock in a more intimate ballroom. That’s why we chose the Stardust Ballroom. That was the fun of it, you see, that was the point.”
“Did you have any opportunity to talk with any of the musicians that night, Mrs. Hargrove?”
“Only Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper handled all the arrangements for me, my contract was with Mr. Cooper, he supplied both bands. They were quite good actually. The other band played Latin-type music, do you know?” she said, and lifted both hands and snapped her fingers.
“But aside from Mr. Cooper, you didn’t talk to any of the musicians in either band?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Then the name George Chadderton would mean nothing to you?”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
“Or Santo Chadderton?”
“Nothing,” Mrs. Hargrove said.
All the way uptown, Meyer kept thinking of an expression Mrs. Hargrove had used: “a plethora of Daisys.” Take the last word out of the proper-name category and basket it, so to speak, as a common noun in the plural, and you ended up with “A Plethora of Daisies,” which — it seemed to Meyer — was an uncommonly good title for a novel. He had begun noticing of late how many lousy novels had very good titles, and was beginning to suspect that a good title was enough to sell even the most meretricious book. He could see the title A Plethora of Daisies adorning the jacket of a hardcover novel. He could see it in perhaps less refined type on the cover of a paperback book: A Plethora of Daisies. He could see it in lights on a movie marquee: A PLETHORA OF DAISIES. He really liked that damn title.
When he got back to the squadroom, he told Carella all about his meeting with Mrs. Hargrove, and Carella told him all about his visits with two of the people on his list of names — Buster Greerson and Lester Hanley — both of whom had shared strictly business, and somewhat casual, relationships with Chadderton. One of them expressed surprise that he was dead; the other had read about it in the papers. Carella and Meyer both agreed it was a damn shame there’d been so many blondes in attendance — natural, bleached, or bewigged — that night seven years ago, since all they knew about the woman who’d spent a goodly amount of time with Santo was that she was a tall, willowy California-type blonde. This was the first time the word “willowy” had put in an appearance; it was Meyer who used the adjective, perhaps because he’d been thinking novelistically ever since leaving Mrs. Hargrove.
“I got a list of all the guests from her,” he said, “and I—”
“The Blondie Ball,” Carella said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, the Blondie Ball. Not the ones who bought tickets at the door, but everybody else. I thought I might check the Palomar, just to see if anybody on the guest list also happened to take a room there that night.”