Cl.: What?
Sgt. V.: What date did this proposal of marriage happen on?
Cl.: I jotted it down in my little book somewhere. Here. See? March 22nd.
Sgt. V.: No, I can’t touch it. Refer to it if you have to. Was that March 22nd of this year, Miss Podolsky — I mean, Loverly?
Cl.: Sure this year.
Sgt. V.: Thank you. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.
Cl.: You giving me the brush? Just like that? What are you, a fuzz wisenheimer?
Sgt. V.: One more lying peep out of you, sister, and I’ll book you for wasting a city employe’s time. On March twenty-two Mr. Benedict was in London, England. That way out.
Vincentine Astor? She don’t work here no more. Just didn’t show one night, and not even a postal card since. That’s the way most of these broads are, you can’t depend on them worth a damn. The best ones are the marrieds who are supporting some bum and a couple kids, they can’t afford to walk out on the management. Why she quit? How do I know why? Who knows why they do anything? Maybe she didn’t like the color of the hatcheck room. No, I don’t remember him. Not from this photo, anyways. Sure I’ve seen other pictures of him in the papers, TV, you don’t have to get sore. I know they say he came into my club a few times, I’m not saying he didn’t. I’m only saying I don’t remember seeing him. Kickbacks to the what? Oh, the mob. What are you talking about? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Oh, you mean Vincentine might have been kicking back some of her pay to some hoods or something and fell behind and got in dutch? Look, I run a clean club here, Officer, I don’t know nothing about no mob. What? When didn’t she show up? You mean when did Vincentine rat on me? Wait a minute while I look it up. Yeah, here. She quit me it was Sunday, March twenty-ninth. Yeah, yeah, her home address. Here. Say, Officer, you wouldn’t happen to know of a stacked broad wants a job? Reliable? You know?
No, Miss Astor moved out the end of the month, let’s see now, yeah, as of the thirty-first it was. Yes, sir, paid up right to the day she left. No, these are furnished, so she didn’t have to call a mover or anything, just packed her bags and called a cab. No, I don’t know a thing about her private life. I don’t stick my nose in my roomers’ keyholes like some landladies around here I could mention. As long as they’re quiet, I always say. And don’t give my house a bad name. What man? Oh. No, sir, can’t say I ever did. I mean, I never saw him in this house. Though his picture does look sort of familiar, you might say. Say, isn’t this the playboy who—? Well, I never. I’ll be. No, she didn’t leave no forwarding address; I asked her for one but she said it’s not necessary, I won’t be getting any mail. Was that girl mixed up with him?
Detective Piggott: Name, Madam?
Claimant: Miss.
Det. P.: Miss what?
Cl.: Laura De Puyster Van Der Kuyper.
Det. P.: Hold it. Are they like one word, or—?
Cl.: De — Puyster — Van — Der — Kuyper. P-u-y. K-u-y.
Det. P.: Yes, ma’am. Address?
Cl.: Definitely not.
Det. P.: Pardon?
Cl.: I do not have to tell you my place of residence. I never give that information to anyone. A girl never knows.
Det. P.: Miss Kuyper—
Cl.: Miss Van Der Kuyper.
Det. P.: Miss Van Der Kuyper I have to put your address down on this report. It’s regulations.
Cl.: Not my regulations. You claim you’re a police officer—
Det. P.: What else would I be? Sitting here at this table in police headquarters asking you questions?
Cl.: I’ve heard of that kind of smooth talk before. It’s the way they get into your apartment and attack you.
Det. P.: If you were attacked, Miss Van Der Kuyper, that’s a different department.
Cl.: I’m not going to tell you about it. Or anyone. You’d like me to, wouldn’t you? Splash me all over the filthy newspapers.
Det. P.: Age?
Cl.: You may put down I am over twenty-one.
Det. P. (begins to speak, changes his mind, writes, “Over 50”): Look, Miss Van Der Kuyper, we have this confidential communication from your claiming you know or rather knew John L. Benedict Third and you are the Laura he allegedly proposed marriage to. Is that correct?
Cl.: That is precisely correct.
Det. P.: Now. How long were you acquainted with this John L. Benedict Third?
Cl.: For ages and eons. Veritably.
Det. P.: Could you be like more exact, Miss Van Der Kuyper?
Cl.: Exact about what?
Det. P.: About the time you made his acquaintance.
Cl.: Is there time in Paradise? Our marriage plans were murmured in Heaven. I am not ashamed to proclaim our affection to the universe. We met in a secret Persian garden.
Det. P.: Where, where?
Cl.: It is so crystal in my memory. That soft, immoral — immortal evening. The moon great as with child. The drunken scent of frangipani sweet in our quivering nostrils, and of divine cinnamon, and anise, and thyme.
Det. P.: Yes, ma’am. This secret garden was in Persia, you say? Just where in Persia?
Cl.: Persia?
Det. P.: I should think that does it, Miss Van Der Kuyper. Fine, fine, it’s okay. You’ll hear from us in due course. No, ma’am, that’s our job. If you’ll kindly follow the matron...
Trip sheets for when did you say? Tuesday, March thirty-first. Wait a minute. Hey, Schlockie, I got to talk to you; look, Officer, if you’ll give me a few seconds. We got nothing but kooks roll out of this shop.
Oh, say, you still checking the air pollution in here? I’m sorry, Officer, you can’t take his life if you don’t make a funny once in a while, excuse me. These hackies are going to be my death, to listen to them they got beefs not even the Mayor heard of. Yeah, certainly. Tuesday, March three-one. Here it is, Joseph Levine. You want his license number? Picked up the fare at that address as of ten thirty-four A.M., discharged passenger at Grand Central. No, Joe won’t be pulling in till four forty-five, five this afternoon. Think nothing of it. Always glad to do the P.D. a favor. Yeah.
Finally, there’s the story out of Washington, where rumors grow thicker than cherry blossoms at Japanese festival time, that a subcommittee of Congress may launch an investigation into the search for the mysterious Laura in the John Benedict murder case, on the alleged ground that there is no Laura and never has been, that it’s all been some sort of press agent’s plot to promote something or other, a movie or a new TV series or something, as such constituting a fraud on the public innocence, and therefore being the legitimate concern of the nation’s lawmakers, who clearly have nothing more important to do. Good night, Chuck.
My dear fellow, I knew Johnny-B as well as any man alive — even though Al Marsh didn’t have the elemental good manners to invite me to the obsequies — and I swear to you on my honor, and you may print this, that when Johnny wrote that clause in his will about some “Laura” or other and how he was going to marry her, he was simply pulling the leg of the whole mother-frugging world. He told me in absolute confidence that he was through with the marriage bit. It was just after his final decree from that country R.N. from — what’s it called? Titusville? Dwightsville? something rare and wonderful like that. “Muzzie,” Johnny said to me, “just between you, me, and the nearest pub I’ve had it. Up to here. No more wedding marches for Johnny-B. From now on I’m strictly tone-deaf, fancy-free, and staying away from aisles.” His exact words. And you may quote me. No, not Mussie. Muzzie, with a double z.