But she’d stopped listening when Constance mentioned the papers. “Trouble in the papers? Why, there’s nothing better than trouble in the papers. Let me tell you something, lady.” She slammed down her glass and leaned woozily toward Constance. “Trouble in the papers is the only thing that’s kept my Dresden Dolls going as long as they have. Don’t ever believe a word of it, of course, but don’t run away from it, either. Trouble in the papers sells tickets.”
She was spitting, and her eyelids fluttered erratically. Constance was beginning to worry that she was too far gone to listen to reason. She wondered if she could get that glass out of her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ward. It’s just that my salary depends upon my staying out of the papers. I’ve come to ask you if you . . . if you . . .”
May was staring at Constance now, interested to hear what might be on offer. Constance took a deep breath and went on. “I’ve come to ask if you wouldn’t mind coming back to New Jersey, just for one night, so that we can put an end to these charges, and?—”
“I’m not going back to that man, after what he’s done!” she cut in. She waved her arm and in doing so, flung her glass off the corner of Mr. Basch’s desk, and the bottle along with it. Both bounced and rolled on the carpet, but did not break. The gin spilled, which, Constance thought gratefully, solved one problem.
“Oh, damnit, the drink’s gone,” May muttered.
Constance leaned over and took her forcefully by the wrist. “Mrs. Ward. Your husband’s done nothing wrong. Do you understand what I’ve come to tell you? It was all my doing. Now I only ask that you keep this from Fleurette. Can you do that? Can you promise not to tell her that it was her sister who stirred up all the trouble?”
She burst into laughter and nearly toppled over in her chair. “You want me to go home and patch things up with my husband, and keep a secret from my own seamstress, all so that you don’t have to be ashamed of your own bad behavior?”
“Oh, I am ashamed,” Constance said. “I’m nothing but ashamed. The trouble is that I don’t want Fleurette to be ashamed of me, and I don’t want to lose my place at the jail. It’s very well for you to get to sing and dance on the stage, but the best that a woman like me can hope for is to keep my badge and to be of some use to the sheriff.”
She couldn’t believe the way she was debasing herself before this vain, drunken woman, but she was getting a bit frantic. If she didn’t bring this to a satisfactory close soon, the police officers would rush in, or Mrs. Ward would fall asleep from drink. She was working against a clock.
But May seemed suddenly to compose herself. “Why should I help you, after what you’ve done?”
“That’s just it! You have no reason to. I can only ask?—”
“No, no.” She jumped up and tottered around Constance in a circle. “No, no, Mrs. Lady Policeman. You’re asking me to do a favor for you, and I’m telling you to offer me something. I work for wages, just like you. So what do you have that I might like?”
At first Constance thought she was after money or jewelry. She patted herself down and May laughed, dancing over to her lawyer’s desk and standing behind it, framed by the window. Constance had the feeling she was practicing a part.
“I don’t want that enormous uniform of yours, or that terrible hat.”
“If you’re asking for money, Mrs. Ward . . .”
“I’m not.”
“Or some favor to be delivered later, if you find yourself in legal difficulties . . .”
“That’s nice, but I might never need it, and then what good would it do me?”
This woman was definitely a puzzle. Constance wanted nothing more than to send her back to her husband and let them drive each other mad. “I can’t imagine what else I could do for you,” she said, but then, all at once, she could.
“Actually—just a minute—if you like to be in the papers, I do know a lady reporter who’s always eager to write something sensational. She could do a terrific write-up about you and the Dresden Dolls. Would you enjoy that?”
May Ward laughed and clapped her hands together. “It’s perfect! Let’s send for her. Only I have an even better idea about what the story should be.”
Constance slumped down in her chair in relief. “Anything you like. Anything at all.”
59
THE LADY SHERIFF RIGHT ON THE JOB
She Serves Warrant on the Alleged White Slaver
“Victim” Laughs at Her Husband’s Charges—
Only New Movie Manager
New York—Constance A. Kopp, the Lady Sheriff (strictly speaking the Under Sheriff) of Bergen County, N.J., bustled into police headquarters last night and said she had a warrant for a man for white slavery and wanted the assistance of the New York authorities.
Detective Cook was assigned. They went to the office of Lawyer Arthur G. Basch, where quite a party awaited them. In it was Siegfried Wallace, theatrical manager, upon whom the Lady Sheriff promptly served the warrant. There was also present Mrs. Mary Bernstein, known to the moving picture stage as May Ward, who plays star roles.
May Ward is the supposed victim of Wallace, and the good looking blonde woman who has been many years on the stage burst into hearty laughter at the notion that she had been kidnapped. Her husband, Freeman Bernstein, says she was.
Husband is “Fired.”
Bernstein had been making charges that she had been stolen and had become a “white slave.” Smiling at a diamond encrusted hand, she said:
“I told my husband three months ago that I intended to get a new manager—that has been his job. We’ve been quarreling all the time lately. He left me once—for three nights. I get a big salary in the movies, and the house and all its furnishings at Leonia are in my name.
“Why, he’s been charging that I use ‘coke’ and other narcotics and that I’m practically an insane person, wrested from his charge. I’m ready to submit to a medical examination here and now as to the use of drugs of any sort.
“I’m a woman of more than thirty-five years old, if I have to admit it, and I’ve traveled many times from coast to coast. Any person trying to kidnap me or make me a white slave would have the liveliest 138 pounds of fighting woman to handle that ever was tackled.
“I have retained Mr. Wallace for my manager, and my husband’s crazy mad about it. That’s all there is to the story.”
The Lady Sheriff insisted that Mrs. Bernstein return last night to Leonia, N.J., and after a bit the actress consented, and was returned home later that night.
Norma gave the paper a loud shake and put it down. “This makes you look ridiculous for going in to rescue a grown woman. I thought Carrie was on our side.”
“It was all Mrs. Ward’s idea,” Constance admitted. “She practically dictated it to Carrie. She was to have a story that made her look wise and worldly, and made me look like a buttoned-up old spinster.”
“Well, that’s because you are,” Norma muttered, and took up the paper again. “What’s this about narcotics? I never heard anything about that.”
“She invented it. She wants to be accused of wild and decadent behavior so that she can deny it in the papers. People will pay to see an actress who might or might not have an opium addiction.”
“I wouldn’t pay a penny for that.”
“No, she hasn’t any hope of attracting you as a patron.”
“And how much did she have to pay Carrie Hart to get a mention of her diamond ring put in?”