Evening Star Newspaper, December 16, 1934, Page 100

ERTRUDE SMILEY gave & few vicious squeezes on her atomizer and dispelled some of her choice Christmas Night into the hot July atmosphere. All around her bril- liantly-hennaed hair and into the creases of her fat, pudgy neck the perfume wafted itself with the promise of loyal protec- tion against the perspiration that would break out on Gertrude when she started pulling the plugs of the eight-trunk switchboard in the stuffy little operator’s quarters of the Belden Arms Hotel. She sniffed the perfume adoringly. It was a gift from old man Hall in 304, and every time he used it, Gertrude thought how his hoity-toity wife would rave if she knew her husband gave the “night girl” $30 bottles of the precious stuff. But then, she certainly had saved old man Hall's life many times. The old fool simply would persist in telling girls he wasn't married and in giving them his telephone num- ber regardless of the consequences. Gertrude was not burdened with clothes to- night. It was too hot. Besides, no one ever came back in the operator’s room unless it was the clerk with messages of one sort or another about the various tenants. Mr. and Mrs. Walker would be in 320 tonight (as if it made any dif- ference; they never got any calls anyway) and & hundred other messages to tell this one and that one “in case any one called them.” Gertrude thought that if she could get through the lobby without having to go in front of that one strong light near the manager’s door she coul®probably make it all right without being detected. She appraised herself in the full-length mirror (one that Willard, the porter, had swiped for her when old lady Swartz had been locked out for non-payment of rent and the management had held her furniture). ERTRUDE chuckled g little. Here was one piece they hadn't held. It was best to be on the good side of the porter. She had dis- covered that long ago. He had filched for her from various vacated apartments the few luxuries that she now had in her little one-room apartment on the second floor, with a first- hand view of the alley. For instance, the mahogany table which now belonged to Gertrude by virtue of a divorce in 806, in spite of the fact that it had a few cigarette burns on it, looked very well at night when the reading lamp with its fat, blue silk shade was turned on. Willard had even picked up some books for her which were stacked in a neat row across the back of the table and were held in place by a couple of bronze owls. Gertrude forgot for the moment that she was looking in the mirror to find out whether or not you could see through her dress. Rem- iniscently she drifted back to the old days when she had looked at herself in full-length mirrors and had seen a gorgeously gowned, slender woman smile back at her. Swell clothes she had had then. Ritzy. Tony. Her days then had been taken up with the races, long drives through the park in a shin- ing limousine and walks with her white poodle running along beside her, virtuous in his clean- liness and with a huge pink or blue bow at his neck. Gertrude sighed longingly. Those were the days. No sharp-tongued second-rate tenant yelling at you just because they didn’t get the right number. No impudent johnny insulting you just because he knew he could get away with it. Gertrude stepped back from the mirror di- rectly on the tail of Ginger, her black and white spotted dog. The dog yelped frantically. With a sight of disgust she thrust the ani- mal into the bath room, shut the door upon its howling protests, emerged into the hallway and put her 150 pounds into the waiting lift. Gertrude never looked at any one when she got into the lift, although occasionally she did glance around. When she did so, it was a good thing that the occupants could not read her mind. The high-class bootlegger in 401. She knew whose apartments he frequented most. Mr. Donaldson, respectable vice president of the National Security Bank-—well, at least re- spectable when his wife was in town. Mrs, Phillips. Her husband was a traveling man. When he was away there were frequent calls for ice and ginger ale as late as 4 o'clock in the morning. One does not drink alone. Not at 4 in the morning. Not Mrs. Phillips, All this Gertrude knew, and much more that would not bear telling. THE telephone room was more stuffy than usual tonight. The electric fan that buzzed cGefiantly against the sultry atmosphere failed to give off anything excepting a hot wind. At the sight of Gertrude the day girl pulled off her earphones without even waiting for Gertrude to seat herself at the board, so anxe ious was she to escape into the outdoors. “You might wait until I got sat down,” Gere trude snapped at her. The girl did not answer. “Any messages?” Gertrude asked this without looking at her. The day girl pushed back the wet, sticky hair from her forehead and wiped with her hand- kerchief all around where the head set had cove ered her ears, “203 is not to be disturbed,” she began, “g18 is drunk and the phone is upset. I told She porter to go up and hang up the receiver, By CLEO LUCAS but so far he hasn't done it. The rest are here.” She pushed a long sheet of paper under Gertrude's outstretched hand. A light flared up on the board. Instantly Gertrude’s hand pulled the cord high in the air, loosed it and caught it again, like a drummer showing off with his sticks. “Operator One,” she said. If you had heard Gertrude talk in ordi- nary conversation and then heard her profes- sional voice you would have sworn that it could not have been the same person. When she had adjusted her earphones and answercd a flickering light on the board her voice took on an entirely different intonation and pitch. It became pinched, high and a little antage onistic. The lights began to flash—403, 503, 809, 1115. Deftly, Gertrude's fat little fingers moved over the keys. “Operator One—the drug store? Thank you.” “Drug store——" (the new drug clerk had a nasal twang that grated on Gertrude). “Four bottles of ginger ale—what kind of cigarettes, dear?” (in an aside). Starting early tonight in 402. At this rate—— 1114 asking for a wire in that quiet tone of him. Up to some deviltry, Gertrude knew. “My wife's gone to her mother’s for a week, honey.” “Oh, darling, graaaand!” Little fool. Playing with fire. 502. No use listening in on them. They were nice people. A game of bridge probably. Or at best a walk along the lake front. 809. A bookie. “Hotspurs in the fifth. Long shot. got.” Gertrude must remember that. If she could borrow a buck from the desk clerk tomorrow she would put it up. The girl in 707 had some burning conver- sations. She wasn't so dumb, either. “Get off the wire, operator,” she yelled, and when Gertrude had been so careful about plugging in, too. Gertrude’s neck flushed red. She hated worse than sin to be caught listening. “Belden Arms, Belden Arms, Belden Arms— just a moment, I'll see—I'll connect you with 408—I'm ringing them, madam—-" All you THE wheezy old fan buzzed on while Gere trude’'s face began to drizzle perspiration. The heat was terrific. It was almost ominous with its heavy, oppressive waves that seemed to bear down on Gertrude’s plump shoulders. Somebody wanted the porter. Somebody else wanted the engineer. The lights were out in 817. He had no ice cube pans, the sour-faced man in 220 complained. Gertrude connected him with the engineer, who was German and who growled to be disturbed in the defrosting room whence he had gone to escape the heat. The hot July night dragged on and on. Jack Morris was fighting with his wife. The con- versation was vile. It made Gertrude sick to listen to it. Would these people never go to bed, she wondered, so that she could get away from the board. There were a couple of hours between 2 and 4 when they did quiet down a little. Then things started again. 1201, Gertrude’s hand flew to answer it. Now here was an apartment that was going to bring forth some excitement one of these nights. A bunch of gamblers. She knew it instinctively. None of the tenants fooled Gertrude for long. She could pick them out by the sound of their voices, together with a little listening in, and catalogue them as neatly and as accurately as if they had answered a police questionnaire. These voices in 1201. Low. Quick. Camou- flaged. Their words a code. They had a lot of calls. They made a lot of calls. To the Morri- son. The Sherman. Yellow Cab. Numbers on Sedgwick street. The bootlegger in 401. “Operator One,” Gertrude said in her best pro- fessional tone, THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, DECEMBER 16, 1934. lllustrated By PAUL KROESEN “Then things began to happen. There was a shot. Instantaneously the board lighted up as though some one had turned on a switch. “Miss Smiley?” It was the voice of Pat O'Toole. 1201 was in his name. He left a box of candy for the operators regularly once a week. Gertrude liked the sound of his voice. It sounded like that of a person who would help you out of a jam if you got into one. “Yes, Mr. O'Toole.” Gertrude prided herself on always being able to call the name back to the tenant. Smart, that was. Good business. Made the tenant realize you were alert. O'Toole’s voice got low. So low that Gertrude had to press the earphones close to her head in order to hear him. “Miss Smiley, I want to ask a favor of you,” said O'Toole. “Sure.” “I wonder if you'd keep a little money for me for an hour or so.” Gertrude’s reply was one that she had made many times before. “We have a safe for that purpose. I'll ring the manager and he’ll take care of you.” “Oh, no, no, no, no,” O'Toole said quickly, “it isn't that important. If you could just keep it in your purse for an hour or two—" “I really can’t——" “I'll be right down——" When Patrick O'Toole appeared in the tiny doorway of the operator’s room, the lights on the board seemed suddenly to have flashed on all at once. Thus it was that the gambler in 1201 hurriedly pushed a roll of bills into Gertrude’s flat, worn leather purse that was lying on top of the switchboard and dis- appeared before she had time to remonstrate. TWICE Gertrude reached up to get her purse, but both times the restless tenants of the Belden Arms deluged her with calls. Then things began to happen. There was a shot. Instantaneously, the board lighted up as though some one had turned on a switch. “Call the police.” “Where was the shot?” “What's all the excitement?” “Where was the murder?” Gertrude answered each one of the excited voices calmly and in the manner she had learned after years of service at a hotel switch- board. Things like these were bad for a hotel. They must be treated as quietly as possible. “Nothing at all, madam, must have been a tire.” “I'm sure you were mistaken.” *“Yes, I'll let you know when I find out.” (Yes, I will) The light under 1201 glowed brightly. The receiver must be off the hook. That’s where the shot had come from then, Gertrude decided. 528. That was the manager calling. “Get the police, Miss Smiley.” The operators were not allowed to call the police unless he told them to do so. “Police station.” “The Belden Arms,” the manager said, “apart- ment 1201. Right away.” The cops. Gertrude hated them. She hoped O'Toole had beat it. If she could only make some one answer up there. 802 flashed. Then the booth phone. The board would get busy, of course, just when she wanted a little free time. Old man Phillips was calling his wife from the lobby. Gertrude put in a separate plug and called his wife. “Your husband is calling you on the lobby phone.” “My God! Thanks, Miss Smiley.” Gertrude smiled. She hoped it would be beads or perfume in the morning from the old girl. She was getting tired of candy, and besides she had dropped a hint to Phillips about candy being fattening. The light that had burned steadily under 1201 now flashed. The cops were there. Call- ing the station. The detective bureau. Cor- oner’s office. “Murder at the Belden Arms. Yeah. A bunch of gamblers.” Gertrude held her breath. “A guy named Doyle Yeah, O'Toole killed him, all right, but he plugged O'Toole in the belly. The rest ran off and left O'Toole here.” Trembling, Gertrude’s fat, sweaty hand reached for her purse that was now swollen with the bills Pat O'Toole had put in there not 20 minutes ago. The lights played on the board. Let them wait. Let them wait for once, She’d take all their rotten insults this time. It would be worth it, if—oh, God, it was true. It was wonderful. Quickly Gertrude's fingers ran through the roll of bills. Twenty of them. And still more. Thirty grand she counted. And still that wasn't all. OME one was coming. Hastily Gertrude thrust the bills back into her purse and sat on it. It was the dick. Gertrude had known it would be. Quickly she inserted a plug into a vacantepartment and pretended to be talking. “Yes, madam, will you spell the name again, please?” “Get many calls for 1201?” the dick snapped. Gertrude answered him through tight lips, “Not many.” “Give me a head set,” the dick said. The air was stifling. Gertrude glanced at the clock. Just an hour until her shift would be over. “Know anything about this Pat O'Toole?” “The employes are not allowed to talk with the tenants. Belden Arms, Operator One—" “Yeah? Sez you. I've heard all that old line before.” “You don't mind hearing it again, do you?” The detective took off his head set and laid it down. Then he went over and put his arm on Gertrude’s shoulder. “Oh, come on, baby, Let's don't fight again. You know that——" The ambulance siren screamed through the thick morning air and drew up at the alley en- trance of the Belden Arms Hotel. There was a good deal of talking and banging of doors and then the ambulance sped away &g:zin. Ten minutes later. “Belden Arms, Operator One——" Gertrude nodded toward the detective. “It’s for you, Flannigan.” She pushed the key in and held her hand over it so Flannigan wouldn't know she was listening. “O'Toole died on the way to the hospital,” the voice sald. “He never regained conscious= ness. You better go on out to Doyle's Night Club and see what you can find out.” Gertrude felt her breath catch in her throat. Oh, sweet life! No more insuits from people who thought they were better than you were, No more $15 dresses that were always ripping out under her arms and in the hems. She would be able to sleep days or night, which- ever she preferred. SA’I’URDAY. That was pay day. She would wait until after she had her check. Then she would stand up in front of the manager and tell him what she had been longing to tell him for five long years. That he could take his job and—well, no matter. She would like to tell him, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn't say anything. Let him wonder. Dawn was streaking through the two narrow windows. It made the room look dirty. The hall door banged heavily and the day girl came in. “Another burner,” the day girl said. “Say, it was hot last night. I didn’t sleep a wink. Anything new and different?” Gertrude glanced over her list. “608 doesn’t want to be called all day, 1019 checked out, 408 wants her calls transferred to room 909 at the Sherman House, 618 is still drunk and the receiver is still off the hook. That's all, I guess. Oh, yes, they had a little fracas in 1201 last night. The dicks just left.” “Bunch of gamblers in 1201,” the day girl Continued on Fifteenth Page