The Other Typist (16 page)

“Well then. Here’s my statement: Officially, I think you are in fact quite talented, Lieutenant Detective. I mean it. I’m quite genuine. There’s a real hint of genius in these—a certain creative finesse, as it were. I envision a bright future in this for you. You ought to rent out a studio, do some artistic studies. Perhaps even acquire one of those charming little tripod stands and do some landscape work
alfresco
. You might even give that Stieglitz chap a run for his money. . . .” His mocking monologue went on for several more minutes. At one point the Lieutenant Detective slapped the table and abruptly stood up from his chair as though he might lunge at Vitalli in a fit of rage. But no sooner had he shot up than he caught himself and stopped short. He froze and slumped back into his chair as Vitalli looked on with a smile. The Sergeant’s mustache quivered in frustration until, finally, he sighed.

“Frank, I’d like you to step outside with me for a moment.” The Lieutenant Detective nodded and rose again from his chair, this time in a much more wilted manner. “Mr. Vitalli,” the Sergeant continued. “I’ll thank you not to go anywhere. And Rose—you may have your coffee break.”

“Oh, coffee, how civilized,” Mr. Vitalli said. He turned to me. “Why thank you,
Rose,
I would love some.” He smiled, and I checked the Sergeant’s face to see if my orders were indeed to fetch this vile creature some coffee. The Sergeant’s mustache twitched but his expression was inscrutable, so I employed my own judgment and took it upon myself to veto Mr. Vitalli’s request. The Sergeant exited without another word, but the Lieutenant Detective waited for me to get out from behind my post at the stenographer’s desk and held the door for me. Once back on the main precinct floor, he disappeared into the Sergeant’s office, where I assume the two of them hoped to scheme up a new interrogation strategy, and I slunk back over to my desk.

“My, what dismal faces. I take it he’s still not talking,” Odalie remarked from the desk next to me.

“Not a single word, unless it’s to mock us with some prattle about the weather,” I said. “I feel terrible for the Sergeant. He works so hard, you know. And everyone knows this wretch is as guilty as sin!”

“No way to con it out of him? He won’t budge at all?”

I shook my head. “He’s clammed up, says he knows his rights and all that. He’s stubborn. And boy! Nerves of steel, that one. No one can shake his tongue loose.”

Odalie put the eraser end of a pencil between her lips absently, as though smoking a cigarette. She looked thoughtfully into the distance. “But you’re
certain
he’s guilty.”

“As I said, guilty as sin. He’s gone to court twice already, but keeps finding ways to slither free like the snake that he is.”

“And a confession would make all the difference?”

“Oh yes. A confession might scare away all those ninnies willing to lie for him and give him an alibi.”

“Well then.” Odalie’s eyes finally snapped back from the tiny object she’d been contemplating far off on the horizon. Suddenly she was all business, as though she had solved our dilemma. “Then you’d better type up his confession.”

I looked at her, suddenly annoyed. “I said he’s not talking,” I reminded her. “Not a syllable about his wives, or this woman in the hotel.”

“Who says he needs to talk about them? Get him to blather about any old thing. What’s more important is what
you type
.”

What???
I blinked. My mouth fell open stupidly. “I . . . I can’t just—”

Odalie interrupted me by rolling her eyes. “Yes you can. Whatever you type, that’s what they’ll look to in court, and you know it. He’ll say,
‘I never said any of that claptrap
,
’
but they’ll just show him the transcript and say,
‘Oh
,
but Mr. Vitalli
,
we have it all typed up right here
—
how can we have the report if you didn
’
t say it to someone? These things don
’
t just type themselves
,
you know. . . .’”
She stopped, then looked at me and leaned in very close, her eyes twinkling full of meaning.

“But . . . but the Sergeant, the Lieutenant Detective. They’ll know it wasn’t what he said. They’ll know it’s not . . . it’s not . . . exactly
accurate
.”

“The Sergeant won’t chastise you for having the courage to do what you both know is just. He will probably even thank you for it in the end.” I was speechless and stared at Odalie stupidly. As indifferent to my shock as ever, she shrugged and turned back to the pile of reports on her desk. “If it’s the truth, it’s the truth, no matter whether it comes out of your mouth or out of his.”

“Do you really think he’ll—”

“I do,” Odalie said with absolute certainty, before I even had a chance to get my question out.

I stood up with a slight stagger. The door to the Sergeant’s office was still shut, but I knew my coffee break would not go on forever. If Odalie was right, I was on the verge of losing an opportunity to stop Vitalli once and for all and set things right. My head was swimming with a newly minted, razor-sharp sense of uncertainty. I adjourned to the ladies’ room, where I splashed some water on my face and held a long staring contest with the very plain yet perplexed girl who stood before me in the mirror.

What was justice, after all, but a particular outcome?

Then, for the briefest of flashes, I saw Odalie’s face staring back at me from where mine should have been. Startled, I jerked away from the sink and knocked over a mop that had been leaning against it. As I recovered myself, the slow realization of what I was about to do came over me. I looked again at the mirror, but this time saw only myself. After a few minutes, when it became clear the staring match was destined for a stalemate, I shook myself free from my twin image standing on the other side of the glass. It was time to muster up some courage and do my job, the way I had always wanted to but had always been too afraid.

The Sergeant and the Lieutenant Detective were still inside the Sergeant’s office when I crossed to the typist’s desk. No one even so much as glanced in my direction, which meant my pale complexion and trembling hands went unnoticed, much to my relief. I took my seat and realized my mind had already made itself up. All I needed now was to transcribe the report. I hoped no one would notice there was no long strip of stenotype paper next to me. That’s when I began to type, slowly at first as I coaxed the first few details forth with some hesitancy, then with increasing speed until I was typing in a frenzy as my imagination strung together a series of events with surprisingly vivid clarity.

The door to the Sergeant’s office flew open, and the Lieutenant Detective stormed through the precinct alone. He strode across the main room and out the front door; likely they’d had a row over how to handle Vitalli and the Lieutenant Detective had decided the occasion called for some fresh air and a cigarette. I paused in my typing for only a fraction of a second to watch him go, then pressed on. My typing had reached an absolute fever pitch; I think if someone would’ve timed me with a stopwatch and counted the words I might’ve set a new record for speed. Once I had it—or enough of what would be needed—I reached to the typewriter’s rollers and yanked the paper free with an exultant yelp, but then caught hold of myself before I attracted further attention. Odalie looked over at me and aimed the most luxurious, satisfied little curl of a smile in my direction, which I gladly returned. It was done. I had done it. So strong was my devotion to this vivid sense of justice, I could barely breathe with the ecstatic knowledge of it.

With the words typed into existence and now in my hand, I crossed the room to the Sergeant’s office and knocked on the frame of the open door. The Sergeant’s eyes were turned to the ground and his arms were behind his back as he paced back and forth. With a shaking hand I held out the report, but he took no notice at first.

“We’ve got to get this. We’ll just keep at it,” he muttered, as though giving instructions to himself. “We’ll go at it from a different angle. Where is Frank?” He raised his head with sudden intensity. “Somebody go find the Lieutenant Detective. We can’t let Vitalli just sit in there and gloat over his victory. We’ve got to really put the screws to him this time.”

“Sergeant,” I commanded. Without being in control of it, my voice spilled forth evenly in the same cool, controlled notes I had unintentionally used the time I had attacked Vitalli, and just as it had before, it chilled me with its unfamiliarity. My hand was still extended in the Sergeant’s direction, and the typed pages wavered ever so slightly with the jittering of my grip. “I typed his statement,” I said. The Sergeant glanced at the pages and his brow furrowed with an air of annoyance. An involuntary sneer crept into his face, and I could see his anger was now going to unleash itself on me.

“Have you now, Rose?” he said with ugly sarcasm. “Well done indeed. Some statement! We can’t use any of the drivel he’s been giving us. It’s pure rot! The bastard knows he has us.” He made to go, but suddenly something clicked in me, and my opposite hand shot out to grab his elbow. On a few occasions in the past, the Sergeant has tapped me on the shoulder in passing, but this marked the first time I had ever initiated such contact; as I reached out and touched the Sergeant, I realized this was not how I’d always pictured it. There was something bizarrely forceful in my grip. His eyes traveled from my face down to where I held on to his sleeve with astonishment. My brain played host to a fleeting recollection of the unfortunate interaction I’d had with Mr. Vitalli just weeks before, but I pushed the memory from my mind and managed to regain my composure. I dropped my hold on the Sergeant’s elbow, but held out the report even more insistently.

“Sir, I typed Mr. Vitalli’s statement.
I think
you really ought to read what it says.
”

After a frown and a sigh, the report was finally lifted out of my hands, and I watched as the Sergeant’s eyes moved over it. I could tell the contents baffled him—at least initially. He read it over several times, all the while looking from the report to my face and back down to the report again, as if he didn’t quite understand how the two things he was seeing were connected. His brow knit itself, unknit, and then knit itself again. Finally, comprehension appeared to soak into him like water into a cloth. His shoulders unclenched, his posture straightened. There was a very still, very calm look in his eyes now—so still and calm as to be almost deadly. He cleared his throat.

“I see,” he said in a low, quiet voice. We looked at each other for a long time, saying nothing. He understood now the totality of my offer, but had yet to accept. For a fleeting moment my throat thickened and I could not swallow, fearful I had violated his sense of propriety and that he was about to have me arrested. Truthfully, had that turn of events actually transpired, I might have drawn a strange comfort from it, as it would have confirmed my blind faith in the Sergeant’s unwavering adherence to the rules. But his genuine consideration of my proposition quickly became apparent. “You understand this is highly unorthodox,” he commented in a low voice. If there was a question in it, I did not respond. “What I mean to say is that this is not exactly in keeping with proper
protocol. . . .
” I nodded. “We must be absolutely certain we’ve got our man.”

“I have no doubts,” I said, and when I looked at the Sergeant I knew neither did he. I realized it was time to rally for my cause. I gathered my poise and cleared my throat to speak. “I do not think I exaggerate,” I said, “when I say the only thing more disgusting than this man’s deeds—morally speaking—would be not answering to our consciences and allowing him to remain free.” I did not say
as we have done so far,
but I could see the Sergeant was thinking it.

Further counsel on the matter was interrupted as the Lieutenant Detective came wandering back in our direction. “All right, all right,” the Lieutenant Detective said, shaking out his shoulders and stretching his arms as if he had just completed a series of callisthenic exercises. “I’m sorry I let him get to me. Let’s try it again.”

“Frank,” the Sergeant said, still speaking in that low, quiet voice. He gripped the Lieutenant Detective’s shoulder in a confidential manner. “Frank, we got it right here.” He handed the Lieutenant Detective the report, and the Lieutenant Detective read it over, the scar on his forehead creasing as he frowned at the typed confession.

“You got all this after I stepped out?”

The Sergeant looked at me and held my gaze for several seconds before answering. “Yes,” he said in a steady tone. “We did.”

At the mention of the word
we,
the Lieutenant Detective turned and took note of my presence anew, as if all morning long I had been nothing more than a piece of furniture, an extension of that very contraption by which I made my living. He raised an eyebrow. I suppose even then the accusation was already formulating, but the Lieutenant Detective only nodded and said nothing.

I
f I had it to do over, I would’ve put different things in the little journal I kept about Odalie’s activities. In reading back some of the entries now, I see I’ve refrained from mentioning certain particulars about Odalie’s business that might serve to exonerate me in my current position. Never in our time together did I completely cease to chronicle Odalie’s activities in the little journal I kept, but I must admit that as the creeping heat of early summer reduced the perky spring tulips to nothing but the pronged, petal-less stamens that drooped atop their rubbery stems, I had grown markedly less thorough in what I reported. Well, perhaps
thorough
is the wrong word. It might be more accurate to say I was still thorough in what I reported, yet was much more
selective,
thus allowing for strategic omissions. By then, I suppose it had dawned on me that there were some activities it was probably best not to inventory in my journal, as they might reflect poorly on Odalie’s conduct, legally speaking, and I had grown rather protective of my friend.

As a result, my journal entries from that time (I am looking over them now) are perhaps a little fluffy and inconsequential, reading as they do a little like a ladies’ magazine and focusing almost exclusively on the itemization of beauty and hygiene tips. Here are a few:

Today O purchased several pairs of stockings in that scandalous new “naked” shade Honey Beige. Bequeathed me a pair. Showed me how to fashionably apply powder to stockinged legs because shiny rayon is utterly obnoxious, she says. Legs should never be shinier than the chrome on a Model T, according to O.

Went to my first opera with O today. Have never seen such a fine theater before! Difficult to watch the opera itself and not simply gaze at all the well-groomed spectators dressed in their finest apparel, though must admit was a little disconcerted seeing that many diamonds on display. The show itself was a colorful yet somewhat ugly affair titled
Pagliacci
about a clown who terrorizes his wife with jealousy. Afterward O and I talked about loyalty at great length; she seemed to understand completely my views on this, and it was a comfort to discover we might in fact see eye to eye. I knew I was not wrong in choosing her for my bosom friend!

Today O and I stopped in at the beauty parlor. O got usual trim to keep her bob tidy. I got a wave. She suggested I might get my hair cut like hers someday so we could match, but I said I didn’t know. Cannot see why girls these days are in such a hurry to chop off all their hair. I suppose they think it makes them appear brave. Shame they don’t see it, but there’s a rather large difference between brave and reckless. I did not say as much, but I rather like my long hair, and all the values that go along with it. Am beginning to realize I’m more old-fashioned than perhaps I’ve admitted. And I believe, deep down where she doesn’t show it, O is, too. Someday she will grow bored of the modern-girl life, and I intend to be there when she does. What a life we will have!

Tonight before O and I went out to the speakeasy O pinned my hair under to give me a taste of what it would be like to have hair as short as hers. Also applied rouge to my cheeks and lipstick to my lips. Despite myself, I was very excited to be dressed like O, as from the moment I met her I have wondered what it might be like to be her. A few times throughout the night different gentlemen approached, mistaking me for O—although this means it must’ve been very dark or else they were very inebriated, because I don’t flatter myself to imagine I look much like O. Still, though, they approached, with a very friendly demeanor, whispering O’s name. When I complained later about where they put their hands, she shrugged and laughed and simply said it was all a matter of wit, and if she could outsmart them then certainly so could I. Not so sure about that, because if I were her I would’ve known how to handle men like that, but instead of laughing them off and making them bring me drinks and stealing their cigarettes, I slapped their hands away like an uptight old maid and felt silly about it afterward anyway . . .

The temperature has been climbing steadily. O took me to the big fancy Lord & Taylor department store on 38th Street to go shopping for bathing costumes today, with the idea we might go to some garden parties and visit the beach out on the Sound. Together we picked out something I would never have previously considered in a hundred years. The nuns used to say the amount of flesh a girl is willing to expose is directly proportionate to the amount of blackness in her heart and lack of character in her soul. But when I repeated this to Odalie, she looked horrified and amused all at the same time and suddenly I felt very small and stupid. She showed me how to roll the hems of the bathing costume down for the patrolling censors destined to be on the beach, and how to “peg” the hems so as to roll them up more fashionably when the censors aren’t looking. In the end we bought matching bathing suits in a very athletic jersey-knit fabric, although it must be said she looks a fair sight better in hers than I do in mine. I could’ve looked at her in the fitting room glass all day, she looked so wonderful and vital and fresh—as though she were about to swan dive off the pedestal in the fitting room. At last—I can honestly say I feel I have a bosom friend, and I am so enamored of her! Oh, but I must stop talking about her this way. . . .

•   •   •

THERE ARE
a great many more entries nearly indistinguishable from these; one gets the general picture. There are other entries, too, which I will refrain from repeating here. It suffices to say I see now I’ve spent quite a lot of time describing Odalie’s person, down to the finest detail, and in so doing, I was quite effusive in my praise of her various features. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to show these entries to the authorities. They’ve already got the wrong idea about my feelings for Odalie, and these entries would only serve to worsen this impression—I understand that now.

The lists of Odalie’s paramours that I penned in my journal wouldn’t lessen this impression much, either. As spring slid into summer, I became quite the little list-maker. I am looking at one such list right now. It reads:

April 16
—Harry Gibson

April 20
—Neville Eagleston

April 29
—Harry Gibson

May 1
—Lonnie Eisenberg

May 3
—Owen McKeill

May 3
(same night)—Harry Gibson

May 10
—Jacob Isaacs

May 15
—Gib again (after loud quarrel)

May 23
—Bobby Allister

June 4
—Gib again

And so forth.

Perhaps you think me crude for keeping track of such activities. I suppose if I were a proper suffragette I would insist Odalie is “the mistress of her own body,” as they say in all the birth control campaigns these days, and simply leave it at that. But never in my life have I passed myself off as a suffragette or pretended any great love for Margaret Sanger and those of her self-righteous ilk. I have no fascination with women who lobby for the political causes of the fairer sex—hunger strikes, marches in the street. All of that political nonsense holds no poignant allure for me, rankles no sense of outraged justice in my heart. I’m a far cry from a liberated woman. In fact, I’ll go so far as to admit I can be a bit of a prude.

Of course, these lists aren’t 100 percent accurate. There were many times when Odalie utterly vanished from whatever party or speakeasy we were attending, and there was no way of knowing where she went or what she did, and with whom. And there were times, too, when Odalie stayed out all night, returning to the apartment the next morning with just enough time to slip into fresh clothes and sip a cup of coffee at the breakfast table before having to be at the precinct.

Why did I like Odalie so much? I am still, even now, trying to formulate an answer to this question. When I found myself abandoned at a party, I never accused Odalie of being a bad girl-friend, though I might have been well within my rights to do so. Instead, I was quite the cool customer, if I do say so myself. By that time, I knew enough about Odalie’s personality to understand it was imperative that I not be clingy, that I not make demands, or she would pull away from me permanently. And so I developed a routine. Whenever I realized Odalie had disappeared—one minute by my side, the next minute vanishing into a cloud of music, smoke, and shrieks of laughter—and it had become apparent she would not be reappearing anytime soon, I usually went home for the evening (alone, of course) and made a cup of tea. However, on one surprising evening as I was preparing to slip out and make my departure after finding myself once again sans Odalie, I became aware of a face watching me from a distance. The sight of it stopped me dead in my tracks. The familiar apparition crossed the room and came toward me.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Lieutenant . . .” My voice trailed off. I was stunned.

“Given our surroundings, I really think it’s best to consider abandoning your standing policy of austerity and call me Frank. At least for now,” he said with a smile, throwing a cautious glance first over his left shoulder and then his right, making certain no one had heard.

But he needn’t have bothered. No one was paying particular attention to us. The crowd was engaged in its usual revelry. A bevy of girls appareled in dresses made entirely out of swinging strings of beads were shimmying atop a nearby table and attracting a great deal of attention. The beaded dresses were so reflective and bright, the girls’ bodies shimmered with a watery mystique, like the opalescent scales of freshly caught trout. The room was dense with people, and I found myself at eye level with the Lieutenant Detective’s chest as the crowd crushed us closer to each other. On instinct, I scanned the sea of faces for Gib, nervous as to how he might react to the Lieutenant Detective’s presence. But he was otherwise occupied, frowning skeptically at a man doing amateur magic tricks for a small crowd that had gathered at one corner of the room. Near Gib’s elbow I could make out the short, trilby-hatted shape of Redmond, waiting attentively for his boss’s next batch of drink orders. For the moment, the Lieutenant Detective and I were adrift among the masses and utterly unobserved.

“Have you been following us?” I asked, recalling the strange sensation I’d felt while strolling around the city during the weeks previous. I’d noticed something had been amiss lately, some strange inkling causing me to cast a glance behind us as Odalie and I went about the town. It had felt like something was perpetually just out of sight—the flash of a familiar shape refracted in a shop window here and there, only to vaporize as soon as I tried to determine its location.

“Why would I do that?” It was a response, but hardly an answer, and I said so. He ignored my reproach, and after some minutes leaned in closer and touched my elbow in a confidential manner. “Listen,” he said in a low voice. “I think it’s best if you got out of here, and right away.”

I didn’t tell him I had been on the verge of making my departure for the evening only some minutes before. His admonition had struck up something within me, something rough and stubborn and flinty. Suddenly I had the urge to stay. I caught Redmond’s eye and waved him over. The dwarf toddled in our direction, surprisingly deft at making his way through the milling crowd. Soon enough he was at my side, his friendly, beady pupils glinting up brightly from the dark purple shadows that perpetually ringed his eyes.

“’Lo, Miss Rose,” Redmond said. “You look lovely tonight.” I appreciated the comment but did not let it go to my head; Redmond was, rather like myself, always a creature of good manners.

“Why, thank you, Redmond,” I said, borrowing Odalie’s signature lilt with the inflection of my voice. “I think I could use another champagne cocktail, seeing as how the night is still young.”

“Course.” Redmond threw a look in the Lieutenant Detective’s direction, but stopped just short of asking him if he also wanted a drink. He waited a few moments for me to deliver an introduction or friendly word, but when he read in my expression my utter lack of welcome toward the Lieutenant Detective, Redmond shrugged and turned to go. When it came to the mysteries of human behavior, Redmond was clever and had that particular blend of insight and indifference that only those who are condescended to on a regular basis possess.

“I’m not playing a game,” the Lieutenant Detective said once Redmond was out of earshot. “I really think you ought to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“Why? Because this is not a place for a
nice
girl to be?” I was haughty now, indignant. “I bet . . . ,” I began, but demurred, suddenly intimidated by what I had the urge to say. Then there was a surge of spite and I decided to go ahead and finish the sentence. “I bet you wouldn’t mind bumping into
Odalie
here. You’ll be sorry to hear, but she’s already departed for the evening. And the gentleman who escorted her away for the evening appeared
very
entertaining.” The Lieutenant Detective looked surprised, but not offended or displeased. He studied me briefly with a curious expression on his face.

“No, Rose, you don’t understand.” He put an arm around me, pulled me to his side, and pivoted my body so we were both looking in the direction of the entrance. “There’s going to be a raid tonight, and I think it’s best if you weren’t here,” he said in a low voice, as if to encourage me to concentrate on what was happening before me. My eyes began to focus on a handful of sour-faced men gathering there, the scattered group of them trying to appear nonchalant as they surveyed the room. All at once I took in the Lieutenant Detective’s meaning. “We’ve dallied too much already; they’re getting ready to close off the door and they’re going to give the signal any minute. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

We?
Why was he helping me? I would’ve thought he’d have preferred to let them throw me in the clink and gloat at me behind the bars. But before I knew what was happening, the Lieutenant Detective had hold of my upper arm and was steering me through the room. My head jerked wildly about; I was trying to catch a glimpse of Gib or Redmond to see if they had detected the undercover policemen who were now positioning themselves in strategic corners of the speakeasy. As we drew near the entrance, I realized the Lieutenant Detective was going to have to explain about me.