The Bootlegger

“His wife. Marion Morgan Bell. The movie director.”

“Director? Such a beauty should be the star.”

“Would you like me to ask Mr. Bell to introduce her to you?” Fern asked icily.

“I meant nothing to get sore about, only that at a distance, at least, she appears to be extraordinarily beautiful.”

“Such a handsome man,” Fern shot back, “deserves at least one beauty.”

She watched Isaac Bell rake the speakeasy with a probing gaze that missed nothing. His violet blue eyes settled on her and darkened in recognition even as he smiled hello.

Fern waved.

“What are you doing?” asked Zolner.

“Here’s your chance for a close-up.”

Bell and Marion made their way slowly across the crowded speakeasy, stopped repeatedly by fans jumping up to tell Marion how much they liked her moving pictures. Few directors would ever be recognized by the general public, but when Marion appeared in a movie magazine, her face was remembered.

“I’d like to stop at Fern Hawley’s table,” Bell told her.

“Who’s the man with her?”

“Let’s find out.”

The society woman’s companion rose politely when they stopped at the table. He stood with poise and grace, a trim and elegant man as tall as Bell and slightly thi

Bell and Prince André shook hands firmly. Bell introduced Marion. Pleasantries were exchanged. They agreed to sit for a moment.

Prince André engaged Marion in a technical conversation about film, drawing on the Russian model. Marion told him that she was shooting a comedy about a Russian ballet company stranded in New York.

“What will you title it?”

“Jump to New York.”

“What could be better? We should all ‘jump to New York,’ should we not, my dear?”

Fern Hawley said to Bell, “My friend is laying on the charm for your wife.”

“I’m used to it,” said Bell.

“How often does it end in fisticuffs?”

“No more than half the time.”

Fern’s grin made her eyes even more opaque. She pursed her Cupid’s bow lips to ask, “And the outcome when it does?”

“They don’t do it again. Is Prince André a recent arrival?”

“I knew him in Paris.”

“Was he a refugee then?”

“Far from it. His family had estates in France.”

“And also in America?”

“None I know of,” Fern said. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” said Bell with a glance at Prince André and a private smile for Marion.

“A blunt question,” Fern said.

“Blunt away,” said Bell. “What’s on your mind?”

“When we met the first time, when you were chasing… whoever you were chasing?”

“Yes?”

“I had the impression that you could, under the right circumstances, like me very much.”

“I’ve always liked characters,” said Bell.

“Good characters or bad characters?”

“I mean, different types — nonconformists, bohemians.”

“I’m not sure I’ve been complimented.”

Bell gri

“So you could like me?” Fern smiled. Her almond eyes slid toward Marion. “Under the right circumstances.”

“They don’t exist,” said Bell. He turned to Prince André. “We’ve entertained you far too long, sir. Forgive the interruption.”

Marion slipped her hand into his arm and they continued across the speakeasy. “I’ve yet to meet a Russian refugee who wasn’t a prince or at least a count.”

“He’s a tough-looking prince,” said Bell.

“I thought so, too. Did you see his hands?”

“Powerful. His shake felt more American than European.”

“He told me he fought in the cavalry.”

“I hope Miss Hawley knows what she’s doing.”

Marion said, “Miss Hawley strikes me as a woman who has known what she was doing since the day she broke every heart in kindergarten. Do you find her attractive?”

“I certainly would,” said Bell, “if I weren’t with the loveliest woman in the world.”

“How would you feel if I bobbed my hair like hers?”

“I like your hair the way it is. But I’d take you bald, if it made you happy. Where do you suppose Fern Hawley found Prince André?”

“If broke aristocrats find rich American heiresses in New York the way they do in Hollywood, he would have wrangled introductions so he could show up in some place she was comfortable — a country club or an expensive restaurant.”

“She told me they met in Paris.”

“I’m sure Miss Hawley was comfortable in Paris.”

“May I have this fox-trot?”

They danced to a jazzed-up “Melancholy Baby,” Bell sweeping Marion around other couples in order to pass repeatedly close to Fern and Prince André’s table. The heiress and the Russian refugee were deep in conversation.

When Bell and Marion returned to their table, Marion said, “Despite her stick-it-in-your-eye smirk, Miss Hawley is not happy.”

“Why?”

“I think she’s disappointed.”

“Could the bloom be off the rose?”

“No, that rose is still blooming. It’s something else.”

Bell noticed a broad-shouldered man in evening clothes watching Fern’s table from the bar, his highball glass untouched. When Prince André looked toward him, he straightened up slightly, as an employee might, confirming Bell’s strong impression he was a bodyguard. The Russian’s active gaze wheeled his way. Before he could see Bell watching, Bell turned to Marion.

“Speaking of blooming roses, I forgot to tell you Pauline sends her warm regards.”

Across the room, Prince André rose to his feet and extended his hand to Fern Hawley. He guided her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms.

Marion said, “You see what I mean about the rose? These two enjoy each other. Isn’t he a wonderful dancer?”

Bell agreed. “He looks like he trained in the ballet.”

“He’s tall, for the ballet.”

“Maybe he was a short boy. At any rate, I’m shopping around for the right fellow for Pauline.”

“Who?”

“Dashwood is nuts for her.”

Marion looked skeptical. “I’ve always thought that Dashwood is uncommonly close to his mother.”

“She starred in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and taught Dashwood how to shoot.”

“Mr. Freud would have a ball with that one. On the other hand, if anyone could wean Dashwood, it would be Fräulein Grandzau.”

Bell glanced through the crowds again. “Do you suppose you could get Fern Hawley to open up to you?”

“I’ll try. How can we get the prince out of the way?”

“I’ll ask the waiter to tell him he’s wanted on the telephone.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know how Miss Hawley happened to be sitting in her limousine on a slum street outside the back door of Roosevelt Hospital the night the killer who shot Joha

“But you hate coincidences. I’ll try and work my way around to it… Too late, there they go!”

Bell watched closely as Fern and Prince André left straight from the dance floor. A waiter ran after them with the feathered boa she had left on her chair.

“You’re right,” said Bell. “She is disappointed in him. There’s something in the angle she holds her head.”

“You should be a detective… Where are you going?”

Bell’s reply was a terse, “Don’t follow me.”

The man he had observed at the bar moved quickly to escort Fern and Prince André out of the speakeasy. Bell followed. A thug in a topcoat, who Bell had noticed lounging under the electric canopy earlier, blocked a newspaper photographer trying to snap a picture of Fern and the prince. Moving to stop Bell, he put a hand on his arm.

“Save yourself trouble, mister. Go back inside while you have teeth.”

The tall detective knocked him to the pavement.

But by then the bodyguard — Bell had no doubt anymore he was that — had shut Fern and the prince’s car door. The chauffeur stepped on the gas and sped into busy Lenox Avenue. The bodyguard faced Bell, took in his partner on the sidewalk with a swift glance, and opened his coat to show his pistol. “Want something, mister?”