Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

Closer to the Tanner Building, he saw that a light was burning behind wide curtained windows on the second floor. Outlined against the curtains, gold letters indicated the House of Bonnée. Spud went into the small office-building lobby through an entrance next to a decorator’s shop. There was an elevator a few steps to the rear, but the bronze door was closed and no attendant was in sight. At the right was a staircase. A sign on the wall said

HOUSE OF BONNÉE

Second Floor

Spud walked up, going over in his mind a hastily concocted story about selling cosmetics which he hoped might get him an interview with the head of the House of Bonnée.

He stopped before stained-glass panels in a double door. It opened readily. He went into a reception room done in colored mirrors in the most modernistic style. To the left, arranged on steps of crystal shelves, were bottles and jars. Close by the shelves was a cashier’s booth with a window of chromium bars. Straight ahead he glimpsed a line of curtained booths through an open door. The curtain of the third booth was drawn back far enough to disclose the back view of a woman with a waving machine spread out octopus-like above her head.

On the other side of the waiting room, a girl with slender legs revealingly crossed looked up from a magazine. She was dressed entirely in white except for a small apron of violet hue embroidered in one corner with “The House of Bonnée.” The girl’s blonde hair was clustered thickly to her head in a mass of becoming curls. She stared at Spud questioningly for a few seconds out of ingenuous blue eyes before she wrinkled her saucy nose with a smile and asked: —

“Was there someone you wanted to see?”

Spud switched his story, deciding it was too late for a credible salesman’s tale. He took a chance and said, “I suppose I want to talk to Monsieur Bonnée.”

The girl laughed and lowered her lids inquisitively. “Monsieur happens to be Madame,” she said, “and Madame happens to be away. It’s after hours except for customers with late appointments. Suppose you stop in tomorrow.”

Spud gave an embarrassed smile and took another glance at the woman visible through the door.

“My name’s Rogers,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me. I just wanted to know if my wife’s still here. I was to meet her sometime after eight, but I was delayed.”

“What Rogers?” asked the girl.

“Stephen.” Spud clutched at the first name which came to his mind. “I believe Mrs. Rogers comes here regularly.”

“There are three customers inside.” The girl stood up. “Wait just a minute while I see.”

She went toward the booths and closed the door behind her, shutting them off from view.

Spud walked swiftly over to the cashier’s cage and peered through the bars, taking in a telephone switchboard, a safe, a glass-topped desk, and a couple of files. He left the window and sat down in a chair, feeling that for once the Captain must be wrong. There was decidedly nothing suspicious, nothing out of the way, about the House of Bonnée. New York was filled with such outfits, catering to the city’s women from the Bronx to the Battery. He stood up again as the girl came back through the door.

“Your wife’s almost ready,” she said. “Won’t you sit down and make yourself at home? We carry a unique line in the House of Bonnée. I’ve been trying to interest Mrs. Rogers in this particular brand of perfume.”

She took a bottle from the steplike shelves and adroitly broke the seal. Leaning over Spud, she smiled, removed the stopper, and held it to his nose. It was pungent, and strong with a sweet acidity.

“It’s twenty dollars an ounce,” said the girl, “and the newest thing in our line. It’s called Black Violets.”

“I’m sorry.” Spud reached up and pushed the bottle away. “I wouldn’t care if it cost seventy-five dollars a dram—it doesn’t appeal to me.”

“You get used to it in time.” The girl stoppered the bottle and returned it to the shelf.

Spud reached into his pocket for a cigarette, took it out, and searched for a match. It was very peculiar how heavy the match seemed to be. He closed both hands tightly about it, trying to keep it from falling to the floor. With one last effort, before his hands dropped inertly beside him, he grasped the cigarette and broke it in two.

2

Cappo shut off the engine of the Packard at twenty minutes past nine. He had a streak of frugality when it came to spending the Captain’s money on the car. The past thirty minutes had become ones of agony at the thought of high-test gasoline being uselessly burned. Twenty minutes more dragged by lingeringly before he once more started the motor. A short distance down the block a machine moved away, leaving a vacant parking space. Cappo moved the Packard on down until it was nearly opposite the Tanner Building and backed it in. Not until then was he able to distinguish the lettering on the windows of the House of Bonnée. Again he put out the headlights and shut off the motor.

Spud had been gone an unconscionably long time, but he had given Cappo no orders to investigate or interfere.

The man in the Protective Agency uniform came back again. Cappo shivered under the warmth of his chauffeur’s driving coat and turned away.

Upstairs in the Tanner Building, the lights went out in the windows of the House of Bonnée.

Cold air struck in sharply at the Negro. He twisted around with relief, thinking that Spud had returned, and found the blue-uniformed watchman holding open the door of the car.

“Waiting for someone?” the watchman asked.

“Yessah,” said Cappo.

The man got in beside him and closed the door. “You’ve been here an awful long time. Who are you waiting for?”

“The gentleman I drive for.”

“Oh,” said the watchman. “Who’s he?”

“He’s my employer,” Cappo told him steadily. “The man I work