schoolteacher’s sympathies as not even the grim morgue photograph had been able to do.
Bruner cocked his head wisely. “You’ll want a story to go with the picture, I suppose?”
“Why, yes,” Miss Withers admitted. “Anything that will shed light on her character might help.”
He lowered his voice. “Of course you’ve looked it up, and you know that she was named in my wife’s divorce suit. For no real reason at all, I assure you, except that Virla wanted to hurt me professionally as much as possible. As a matter of fact, no dancing teacher should ever have a wife. Because in my profession once in a blue moon you run into real talent, a personality destined for stardom and bright lights. It is almost impossible to develop that talent, to help the rosebud open into full bloom, without appearing at least to have a personal interest. People misunderstand.”
“You weren’t in love with her, then?”
“ Not for publication,” said Nils Bruner quickly. “But you experts understand how to write such things without—without making trouble, shall I say? Anyway, it’s the truth that I never saw Midge after the divorce, though I always knew that if she struck it rich she’d pay me for the private lessons I had to give her on credit. She never had any money, you know. No family or anything.”
“An orphan—or did she get born in a seashell, like the other Venus?”
“I think she had a mother,” he said slowly. “Supposed to have been a Floradora girl once, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, she boarded out the kid with some people in Brooklyn Heights, and after a while she quit sending money and Midge was on her own.”
Miss Withers agreed that this was all very sad, but the interview seemed to be getting off the track. “It’s too bad you didn’t marry the child,” she said. “Midge was very much in love with you, wasn’t she?”
The pale blue eyes clouded. “No,” he said, “she wasn’t. Something always got in the way. I always thought it must have been some man she couldn’t forget, somebody she met before she was my pupil.”
Reenter the ghost-lover motif. “I see,” said Miss Withers. “A grand passion before she was sixteen? Dear, dear.”
There was a slight interruption while the three pupils, now in street clothes and carrying little satchels, said their goodbyes and wended their way homeward. But the schoolteacher still lingered, vaguely dissatisfied.
“Anything else I can do to help?” said Nils Bruner. “A photograph of me, for instance? I don’t know what kind of feature your magazine plans, but if you can get in the name of the studio somewhere—”
“I’m not with a magazine either,” Miss Withers told him. “I wouldn’t put it past Life or Look or Peep to dig up the Midge Harrington case at this time, but I’m not a ghoul, I’m only a private investigator without portfolio. I supposed you’d heard that the police have the wrong man in prison and that they’re reopening the investigation into her murder?”
Bruner very softly said something in a foreign language, but she could translate his expression. She suddenly realized that she was alone with a powerful and very angry man, a man who had talked too much in the hope of chiseling a little extra publicity and now deeply regretted it. He seemed to be coming a little apart at the seams …
“Probably there’s nothing in it after all,” she said quickly. “The whole thing originated in a spirit message, you know. Some medium named Marika down on Ninety-sixth Street came up with word that Rowan is innocent, but so far she hasn’t named the real killer.”
“The police—they take the word of such a person?” he asked thickly.
“Only because there seems to be corroborative evidence. Thank you for your help, Mr. Bruner. And of course for the picture.” She beat a speedy retreat. Safe and sound in the street again, she took out her notebook and wrote: “ Nils Bruner, Crotona Building. No
Bruner cocked his head wisely. “You’ll want a story to go with the picture, I suppose?”
“Why, yes,” Miss Withers admitted. “Anything that will shed light on her character might help.”
He lowered his voice. “Of course you’ve looked it up, and you know that she was named in my wife’s divorce suit. For no real reason at all, I assure you, except that Virla wanted to hurt me professionally as much as possible. As a matter of fact, no dancing teacher should ever have a wife. Because in my profession once in a blue moon you run into real talent, a personality destined for stardom and bright lights. It is almost impossible to develop that talent, to help the rosebud open into full bloom, without appearing at least to have a personal interest. People misunderstand.”
“You weren’t in love with her, then?”
“ Not for publication,” said Nils Bruner quickly. “But you experts understand how to write such things without—without making trouble, shall I say? Anyway, it’s the truth that I never saw Midge after the divorce, though I always knew that if she struck it rich she’d pay me for the private lessons I had to give her on credit. She never had any money, you know. No family or anything.”
“An orphan—or did she get born in a seashell, like the other Venus?”
“I think she had a mother,” he said slowly. “Supposed to have been a Floradora girl once, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, she boarded out the kid with some people in Brooklyn Heights, and after a while she quit sending money and Midge was on her own.”
Miss Withers agreed that this was all very sad, but the interview seemed to be getting off the track. “It’s too bad you didn’t marry the child,” she said. “Midge was very much in love with you, wasn’t she?”
The pale blue eyes clouded. “No,” he said, “she wasn’t. Something always got in the way. I always thought it must have been some man she couldn’t forget, somebody she met before she was my pupil.”
Reenter the ghost-lover motif. “I see,” said Miss Withers. “A grand passion before she was sixteen? Dear, dear.”
There was a slight interruption while the three pupils, now in street clothes and carrying little satchels, said their goodbyes and wended their way homeward. But the schoolteacher still lingered, vaguely dissatisfied.
“Anything else I can do to help?” said Nils Bruner. “A photograph of me, for instance? I don’t know what kind of feature your magazine plans, but if you can get in the name of the studio somewhere—”
“I’m not with a magazine either,” Miss Withers told him. “I wouldn’t put it past Life or Look or Peep to dig up the Midge Harrington case at this time, but I’m not a ghoul, I’m only a private investigator without portfolio. I supposed you’d heard that the police have the wrong man in prison and that they’re reopening the investigation into her murder?”
Bruner very softly said something in a foreign language, but she could translate his expression. She suddenly realized that she was alone with a powerful and very angry man, a man who had talked too much in the hope of chiseling a little extra publicity and now deeply regretted it. He seemed to be coming a little apart at the seams …
“Probably there’s nothing in it after all,” she said quickly. “The whole thing originated in a spirit message, you know. Some medium named Marika down on Ninety-sixth Street came up with word that Rowan is innocent, but so far she hasn’t named the real killer.”
“The police—they take the word of such a person?” he asked thickly.
“Only because there seems to be corroborative evidence. Thank you for your help, Mr. Bruner. And of course for the picture.” She beat a speedy retreat. Safe and sound in the street again, she took out her notebook and wrote: “ Nils Bruner, Crotona Building. No
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