I suppose this would give him a certain detachment where the brothel activities were concerned. He certainly looked detached – no pun intended. He was a small, compact man with extremely wide shoulders and a broad chest that tapered down to a girlish waist, flat hips, and short legs which looked slightly bowed when he walked. His face was birdlike, the features sharp, the eyes deep-set black dots, watchful but serene. Of all of us, he was the most composed during the cab ride.
Crampdick was playing Dick Tracy, so we got off a block away from the brothel and walked to it. From the outside it looked like anything but what it was. Squeezed between a couple of posh Park Avenue apartment houses, it looked more like an ultra-respectable Victorian mansion than a house of ill repute. Cupids and gargoyles scampered over its facade, their cheeks puffed out with the effort of blowing their heavenly trumpets. Here and there a figure out of Greek mythology stucco'd out and leered lewdly at passersby. Heavy draperies sealed off all the windows from the outside. But Gothic triumphed over all with a gabled roof right out of Hawthorne. The house stood as a monument to how individually artistic elements can be scrambled together to create massive ugliness.
I half expected a footman in livery to answer when Crampdick struck the ornate brass knocker against the solid mahogany door. But I was disappointed. It was a demure maid in a simple black dress and an unfrilly white cap who answered. She nodded when Crampdick uttered the banality which served as a password and led us through the old-fashioned foyer to a large parlor.
Here the furnishings were somewhat brighter and more festive. Snug little couches – loveseats, really – in bright colors ringed the room and a long bar extended the length of one wall. A bartender was looking businesslike behind it. The only other person there was a matronly woman who rose to greet us.
"How do you do? I am Mrs. Vendergash. It's so nice that you gentlemen could come." Her manner of speaking went with her looks. Both were suburban-tea-party style with the ladies' auxiliary waiting in the wings.
The rest of us browsed around while Crampdick made certain financial arrangements with Mrs. Vendergash. "I'm sure the young ladies are impatient to meet you," she announced when they'd finished. "Please excuse me while I go and fetch them."
"I told her we wanted to spend the night," Crampdick whispered to me when she'd gone. "And I arranged to have her send down all the girls so we could make a selection at our leisure. That way I'll be able to contact the three girls S.M.U.T. planted here without being obvious about it. She insisted that if it was done that way we would have to allow the other customers to mingle with the girls too. I told her that would be all right. You're the expert, Mr. Victor. How does it sound to you?"
"Ginger-peachy."
"In a little while, it may be necessary for each of us to accompany one of the girls to a room. That way we'll be in position to supply truthful testimony after the raid. But if we time it right we won't have to actually do anything. The police should arrive in time to save us from that."
"Thank goodness for that," I told him fervently.
"However, we do want to be sure that none of us go off with one of the S.M.U.T. girls," he continued. "So when they come down, I'll point them out to you. After all, there's no sense in duplicating our activity."
"Crampdick," I told him, "you've really organized this magnificently. You're a credit to S.M.U.T."
"Thank you, Mr. Victor." He beamed. "I really do appreciate such praise coming from a man of your wide experience in this area."
At this point, Mrs. Vendergash returned, herding her flock of soiled doves before her. No plumes and feathers for these doves, however. It was much too hoity-toity a place for the girls to be garbed obviously. They didn't bounce around in their underwear or sport filmy negligees. On the contrary, they looked like a smart set of debutantes ready for the cocktail hour. Their hairstyles were subdued, their frocks simple, their bodices demurely high. And they were quiet and well-behaved as they arranged themselves around the room like so many pieces of luscious but still unpeeled fruit.
There were about a dozen of them. While Jock O'Steele and Singh Huy-eva were getting acquainted, Crampdick pointed out the three S.M.U.T. plants to me. One was a tall brunette with Slavic features and impressive hips framing an even more imposing derriere. The second, also a brunette, was smaller, pixie-ish, with a kittenish expression I'd come to associate with European gypsy girls, and a high bosom so sharply pointed it looked capable of piercing a man's flesh should it be pressed against him. The last of the trio was a blonde, medium height, full-lipped, petulant-looking, full and round in the chest, which was perched to accentuate the promise of perfection in the pelvic area.
All three were young. All three were extremely attractive. All three seemed well- suited to the brothel environment. What I couldn't figure out was how three such sensual creatures had come to enlist in S.M.U.T. in the first place.
I turned my attention from them to the other girls. As my gaze traveled around the room, I saw that each of them measured up to the high standards Mrs.
Vendergash must have set for her establishment. There wasn't one who would have looked out of place in a bathing beauty contest.
My gaze settled on a redhead across the room. She returned it and smiled. When I smiled back, she crossed over to me.
"Hello there," she introduced herself. "My name is Adrian."
"Hi. I'm Steve."
"Shall we have a drink, Steve?"
"I'd love one. Scotch on the rocks."
Adrian called out the order to the bartender, and a few moments later he brought the drinks over.
"What's your line, Steve?" Adrian made conversation as we sipped at our drinks.
"Gynecology," I told her, straight-faced.
"Are you a doctor?"
"No." I improvised. "I'm a tactician."
"What's that?"
"I'm an expert in the strategy and tactics of gynecology."
"Oh. Sort of a family planner, you mean?"
"Yeah." I decided to let it go at that. "And tell me, Adrian," I changed the subject, "do you enjoy your work?"
"Oh, very much. It brings me into contact with such interesting people."
"Intimate contact, eh?" I couldn't help saying.
"Oh, Steve, you have a sense of humor." She chuckled brightly. "I like that." She took my hand in hers and pressed it snugly against her breast. "I can see that we're going to get along very well," she told me throatily.
"Sure. It's going to be a real relationship," I agreed.
"Then shall we get started?" she suggested. "Shall we finish our drinks and go upstairs?"
"Okay." I was more than willing. But I noticed that none of the other three men from S.M.U.T. had made a move as yet. "Still, let's not hurry things," I added. "Why don't we have another drink first?"
"Of course, Steve." She signaled the bartender to do it again.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Every so often my sense of the absurd prompts me to such banality.
I sensed that she was groaning inside, but Adrian was too well-trained not to come up with an answer. "My mother is a widow and she suffers with arthritis," she recited. "I have to support her and I'm putting my kid brother through college, too."
"Through med school, of course," I said helpfully.
"No. Business administration. He wants to open a candy store."
I began to wonder just who was having fun with whom. "I can't help admiring your spirit of sacrifice," I told her anyway. "But I wonder, do you vary the story for matinees?"