Richard Deming - Tweak the Devil’s Nose

“That dark place?” Fausta asked indignantly. “I want to go to the Plaza Roof.”

So we went to the Plaza Roof. After that we went to the Jefferson Lounge, the Casino Club and the Barricades. About eleven thirty we drifted into the Sheridan Hotel.

By then I was used to every eye turning at Fausta when we entered a door, and it no longer bothered me because I realized Fausta’s striking beauty covered me with a cloak of invisibility. No doubt everyone who looked at her was aware she was escorted, for had they not been aware of it, every free male in the place would have converged on her the moment she entered, but I don’t think anyone’s eyes left Fausta’s nearly bare torso long enough to note what her escort looked like. My invisibility suited me fine.

The Sheridan’s head waiter stopped us just inside the door to inform us in a regretful voice there were no empty tables. He spoke to me, but his eyes remained on Fausta’s shoulders.

“We will sit at the bar,” Fausta decided.

At the bar seven men simultaneously vacated their stools for Fausta. Rewarding them all with a sweeping smile, she chose the center one. I decided to stand, and after a moment six of the men reclaimed their seats.

After ordering a rum and Coke for Fausta and a rye and water for myself, I turned to look over the house. Almost instantly I spotted George Smith and Isobel Jones at the same table we had used the previous evening, their heads bent together in such earnest conversation, they were oblivious to everything around them. When neither glanced up, I shrugged and turned back to face the bar.

But as Fausta and I sipped our drinks, periodically I glanced over at Isobel and George. For a long time they remained unconscious of anything but each other. Finally a waiter stopped to clear glasses from their table and George looked up. His eyes hardened over when he saw me, then moved on indifferently and stopped on Fausta. I saw him give a visible start.

He shook his head at the waiter, said something to Isobel and slid from his chair. Casually he moved toward the lobby entrance. At the same time Isobel rose and started toward us, a wide smile of greeting on her face.

She said, “Hello, Manny,” and Fausta swung around on her stool to look her over.

Possibly it was one too many drinks that dulled my reactions, but George was out of sight into the lobby before it registered on me that Isobel had nicely diverted our attention while he made a quiet exit. Remembering his sudden start when he glimpsed Fausta, it looked very much as though the diversion was for her benefit, and George had no desire to be seen by her.

Rapidly I recited, “Mrs. Jones, Miss Moreni,” then said, “Pardon me. I see a friend,” and followed quickly after George Smith.

Just inside the lobby I stopped and swept my eyes over the room. George stood diagonally across from me in front of the elevator bank.

A few paces to my right was the bell captain’s desk and Johnny Nelson, the Sheridan’s bell captain, stood next to it frowning critically across the room at a bellhop who had allowed his shoulders momentarily to slump a quarter inch. Once I had unscrambled a case that cleared Johnny of a felony rap, so he owed me a favor. I stepped over to his desk.

“Hello, Mr. Moon,” he said.

I said, “Quick, Johnny. Take a look at the man by the elevator.”

Johnny glanced toward George just as the cage doors opened. George stepped in and disappeared to the rear of the car, so that even though the doors remained open as the operator awaited the starter’s signal, he was out of our range of vision.

“See him?” I asked.

“Yeah. What about him?”

“He a guest here?”

“Yeah. Came in yesterday morning. Name’s Roger Nelson.”

“No,” I said. “You must have looked at the wrong man. The one I meant is named George Smith.”

“Oh. I thought you meant the guy who got on the elevator. Tall gink with a sloppy haircut.”

“I did. Isn’t he George Smith?”

Johnny shook his head emphatically. “Roger Nelson. Reason I remember, his last name’s the same as mine. He’s in room fourteen twelve.”

I thought this over for a minute. “What else you know about him?”

“Nothing. Never saw him before yesterday.”

“Do me a favor,” I asked. “See what the desk knows about him.”

“Sure,” said Johnny. “Wait right here.”

In a few moments he was back. “It’s Neltson, not Nelson,” he informed me. “Roger Neltson. With a ‘t.’ Registered just before noon yesterday. Home town’s Cleveland and firm is Arkwright Typewriter. That’s all our check-in form asks. Is he hot?”

“Not that I know. I was just curious.” I slipped him a dollar and returned to the cocktail lounge.

Fausta and Isobel were still at the bar as I had left them, except that Isobel had also managed to acquire a stool. Isobel was nervously watching the door to the lobby, but when I came through it, she turned her face toward the bar in pretended lack of interest.

Fausta looked at me questioningly, and I asked, “Know a Roger Neltson?”

She looked at me blankly and moved her head in denial.

“Tall, shaggy-haired fellow,” I prompted. “Looks like Abe Lincoln with a shave. From Cleveland and in the typewriter business.”

She continued to look blank. “I do not know such a man.”

Turning my attention to Isobel, I watched her speculatively as she sipped a newly made drink with simulated disregard for our conversation. Feeling my gaze on her, she slid me a glance from eye corners.

“Bourbon and Scotch,” she said, indicating the mixture in her glass. “I’m completely converted.”

I said to Fausta, “Pardon us. I want a few private words with Mrs. Jones,” took Isobel firmly by the arm and led her back to the table she had vacated.

When we were seated across from each other, I glanced back at the bar. Fausta screwed up her nose at me and turned her back.

“All right, Isobel,” I said. “What’s the pitch?”

“Pitch?” Her tone was one of bewildered innocence.

“Who’s Roger Neltson, and why’d you palm him off as George Smith?”

She raised her nose. “And what business is it of yours who my friends are, or what I choose to call them?”

“None,” I admitted. “Except when a guy swings at me, I like to know his right name.”

An amused light danced in her eyes for a moment. “Roger told me about that. Did he really knock you down?”

I stared at her, surprised, then worked up a dry grin. “I still ache all over. But let’s stay on the subject. Why the fake name? And while you were picking one, why didn’t you make it John Smith? That’s the common alias.”

“None of your business.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you. He’s your extramarital boy friend and you didn’t know he was in town till he walked in here last night. You got all flustered, partly because Mr. Smith-Neltson is the jealous type and partly because you suddenly remembered reading about private cops being blackmailers. So you did a little muddy thinking and sprang the first name that entered your head. How come you didn’t give me a fake name too? Something equally original, like Richard Roe?”

She tried to summon forth an offended frown, but her sense of humor got the best of her and she laughed aloud. “You’re a mind reader. Satisfied now?”

“Did I hit it?”

She nodded sardonically. “Fairly close, in your blunt, uncouth way. I’m glad my husband hasn’t your powers of deduction.” She frowned suddenly and added, “Or your dirty mind?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Dirty?”

“You flat-footedly accuse me of having a lover without knowing the first thing about it, really. Mr. Neltson is not my extramarital boy friend, as you call him, but just a friend. I’ll have you know—”