Pity Is Akin⁠—

Mr. and Mrs. Henry Spalding, of Toledo, dressed for the evening, were admitted without question into the Cozy Club, which had lately become one of the most popular night clubs in New York’s Fifties, owing to the engagement of Marian Moore as hostess. It was early, only a few minutes after twelve, and more than half the tables were unoccupied, but “Reserved” signs were displayed on the vacant ones.

“I guess we’re out of luck,” said Henry, and he and his wife were surprised when a smiling head waiter removed the sign from a table in the second row off the dance floor and seated them there.

“Well,” said Henry, “I didn’t order this. He either thinks we’re somebody else or we look like live ones.”

Mrs. Spalding laughed a little stock laugh, her usual response to remarks by her husband. She was not loquacious as a rule, save on the subject of children, and more often than not, she paid no attention to other people’s talk.

The head waiter brought two menu cards and stood at attention. The sight of a menu, especially an expensive one, always enhanced Mrs. Spalding’s gift of silence and she would pretend not to hear Henry the first five or six times he urged her to order; then, when he began to get cross, she would name viands she had no more taste for than she had for the flu. On this occasion she chose, or was driven to choose, brook trout meunière, broccoli and baked Alaska. The head waiter observed that the baked Alaska would take quite a while.

“We’re in no hurry,” said Henry. “But you can send us a drink.”

“We serve only soft drinks⁠—ginger ale, orangeade⁠—”

Henry handed him two one-dollar bills. “I guess you don’t remember me,” he said.

“I do recall your face, but I see so many people that I forget some of their names.”

“We’d like a couple of dry Martinis,” said Henry.

“I’m sorry, but we only serve Scotch or rye or gin or wine, and all by the bottle.”

“Well, fetch a pint of rye and a bottle of ginger ale.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Spalding’s first highball led her to wonder out loud whether Betty, their three-year-old, was lonely without them.

“She don’t even know we’re gone,” said Henry.

“She may not know you’re gone.”

“Anyway, she ain’t missing us now, because she’s asleep.”

“Lots of times she’s wokened up in the night and called me.”

“I must have been away.”

“No, you were there, but you sleep so sound that you’d sleep through Judgment Day.”

“I hope so,” said Henry. “Let me pour you another libation. We’ve got a long ways to go.”

“Not as much as you gave me before. It might not be good stuff.”

“They’re careful what they serve in a high-class place like this. Besides, I don’t get fooled. I can tell good liquor from bad liquor almost by looking at it. There’d be no deaths from wood alcohol if⁠—”

“Look! Here’s the orchestra!”

It was a “hot” orchestra composed of twelve negro musicians who had made records the previous morning and practiced between afternoon and evening performances at the Palace. But they were still “hot” and the small dance floor was soon jammed, for patrons of the “club” had been arriving in droves and all the “reservations” were taken up.

“I’d ask you to dance,” said Henry to his wife, “only it’s so crowded it wouldn’t be any fun.” They both knew it wouldn’t be any fun anyway. No one had ever nicknamed them Moss and Fontana.

A good-looking young man in a Bunny Granville getup sang a song dealing with the different kinds of treatment one receives from young ladies in London, Paris, Port Said, Stockholm, Yokohama and Bombay. He was assisted by a dancing chorus of pretty girls, almost entirely dismantled.

The customers, by insistent pounding of small mallets on the tables, made them do it over. It was better the first time. A negro tap-dancer of real merit responded to one encore and could have had many more, but it’s tiresome work.

Just as Mrs. Spalding was finishing her baked Alaska and thinking how much better it would have tasted without the prologue of rye, the customers burst into wild applause and Miss Moore, followed at a distance by her personal pianist, walked smilingly into the glare of the spot. The smile was a little crooked, giving her face a childish appearance, though she could have voted for Hughes. The face was queerly pale, looking (so Henry whispered) as if she were hopped up. It was not a beautiful face, but it had, in repose, the woebegone, pity-me quality that never fails to appeal to sob-loving New York.

Evenings (and two matinées a week) she played a leading part and sang the hit song⁠—“Where Is My Man Gone?”⁠—in the current musical smash, the producer having wisely selected her in preference to a pretty young girl with a pretty young voice. Her chief, perhaps only, virtue as a vocalist was bulldog courage. She hung onto a song until the orchestra or pianist made her quit. The words dragged out in fractions of syllables and those playing her accompaniments were continually asked to stop, go back a line or two and pick her up.

She was not popular with librettists, because by the time she had completed a number it was necessary to start plot exposition all over. Her voice was pitched low and was “husky,” the sort of voice that metropolitan show-goers rave about and which a doctor would consider curable by the frequent use (externally) of silver nitrate and a year’s total abstinence from liquor and cigarettes.

On this occasion she dawdled through a number called “Lonely Nights,” which left most of her female auditors helpless, and then, by unanimous request, did the familiar “Where Is My Man Gone?” at a pace that would have permitted her personal pianist to go out and wash his hands between chords.

Miss Moore did not disappear into her dressing room. She first sat down at a table with two men, one a tall, powerful-looking fellow who was evidently the Cozy Club’s manager.

She had two drinks there, then moved to other tables and drank with the customers, many of whom she seemed to know well and a few of whom introduced themselves to her.

The big manager strolled around the room, stopping now and then to speak to an acquaintance or to ask patrons if they were receiving proper attention. He came to the Spaldings’ table.

“Well,” he said to Henry, “everything all right?”

“Fine,” said Henry. “This is my wife, Mr.⁠—”

“Schwartz.”

“Mr. Schwartz,” said Henry. “My name is Travers.”

“Glad to welcome you, Mr. Travers. And Mrs. Travers. How do you like our show?”

“Miss Moore had me almost in tears,” said Mrs. Spalding, now Travers.

“She gets them all, men and women alike,” said Mr. Schwartz. “Well, Mr. Travers, let me know if everything ain’t satisfactory.”

“I wonder,” said Henry, “if we could meet Miss Moore.”

“Sure!” said Mr. Schwartz. “You’ll find her one of the most charming girls you’ve ever come acrost. And democratic. To hear her talk, you’d think she was just one of us. She ain’t left her success go to her head. I’ll bring her over.”

It was after three o’clock when Mr. Schwartz escorted Miss Moore to the Spaldings’ table.

“Marian,” he said, “this is Mrs. Travers and Mr. Travers. They just wanted to meet you before they went home.”

“That’s mighty sweet!” said Miss Moore.

“The pleasure is ours,” replied Henry.

“Of course you have to say that, but it’s mighty sweet just the same. What about a little drink?”

“I was just going to order another bottle of rye.”

“Well, that’s mighty sweet, but if you don’t mind, you drink the rye yourself and Joe’ll get me a special drink out of my own private locker. I bet you didn’t know I’ve got a private locker. A locker for liquor. A liquor locker. Joe gave it to me and he’s mighty sweet.”

Joe (Mr. Schwartz) went out to procure the special drink while a waiter brought Henry his fourth pint of rye.

“Do you live here in New York?” asked Marian.

“We’re from Toledo.”

“Toledo! Well, that’s all right, too. People has to come from somewheres. But Toledo! It’s hard to believe.”

“Were you ever there?”

“Was I ever where? Listen, Mrs. Who’s-this, your sweetie’s asking me was I ever there! What does that mean?”

Mrs. Spalding had dozed off and could not explain.

“Look! Your wife’s asleep!”

“She’s worn out. She’s had a long day.”

“I’d think she’d be used to long days in Toledo.”

“Were you ever there?”

“You’re asking that again. Here comes Joe with my bottle. We’ll find out from him.”

Mr. Schwartz poured Marian a drink.

“Look at this, Mr. Toledo! It’s hundred-year-old rum; that’s all; a hundred years old. Prewar. I won’t let you taste it because you asked me was I ever in Toledo. And your wife can’t have any because she’s went to sleep on us. When it’s bedtime in Toledo, it’s only Thursday here. Joe, was I ever in Toledo?”

“How do I know?”

“You ought to know everything about me. You think you do, anyway. But I’ve foxed you this time. I was in Toledo in vaudeville with Bill Abbott. What’s your name again?”

“Travers,” said Henry.

“Well, Travers or not, I was with Bill Abbott in Toledo. But I didn’t meet no Travers. Or no Mrs. Travers, if she really is your wife.”

“Don’t be funny, Marian!” said Mr. Schwartz.

“That ain’t funny. What’s funny is for a man to come all the way from Toledo and bring his own wife to my club. And she thinks it’s a hotel. That’s the funniest part of it. Bill Abbott would see how funny that is even if you don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what let’s do, Marian. You have one more drink and then get a taxi and go home.”

“Do you think I’m going home alone? Well, listen! Mr. Travers will escort me home and you stay here and give Travers’ baby a bottle when she wakes up.”

“Wake up, Edith!” cried Henry.

Mrs. Spalding opened her eyes. “I went to sleep.”

“Take a sip of my hundred-year-old prewar rum,” said Marian. “It’ll wake you up.”

“I don’t want anything more to drink.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I’m ready to go home.”

“So are the rest of us, Mrs. Travers,” said the manager.

“Isn’t it funny, I was just asleep a second, but I dreamed about my children!”

“Children!” said Marian, and in another moment was sobbing on Mrs. Spalding’s breast.

“She’s had a little too much,” said Mr. Schwartz. “If you folks will be good enough to leave now, I’ll take care of her.”

Henry paid his check, a small matter of seventy-three dollars, and he and Mrs. Spalding took a taxi to their hotel.

“She was pretty fresh at first. She got me sore,” said Henry. “But when you mentioned children and she broke down, I couldn’t help from feeling sorry for her.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy! She was ready to break down, whatever I said, or anybody else. If I’d mentioned ringworm, she’d have acted just the same.”

“Tell it in your own way, Mr. Spalding,” said Mr. Porter, government prosecutor.

“Well, my wife was with me and we were in evening clothes. That is, I had on my tuxedo and she was wearing low neck. We didn’t have no trouble getting in and were shown to a table near the dance floor. I asked a waiter to bring some rye and he brought a pint bottle. I bought four pints altogether. It was ten dollars a pint. Miss Moore sung a couple of songs.

“Then the manager, Mr. Schwartz, come to our table and introduced himself. I give him my name as Travers. I asked him could we meet Miss Moore and he said he would bring her to our table. She had been drinking at other tables and when she got to our table she was pretty well gone. I offered to buy a drink. She said she didn’t want rye, but Mr. Schwartz would fetch her some rum from her locker. He did so. I bought another pint of rye and drunk it while she drunk the rum.”

“Did she know you were buying it?”

Henry’s eyes happened to stray to where Marian sat. Her head was bowed low and her body was shaking with sobs. Henry felt a lump in his throat.

“I think she did.”

“You just think so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wasn’t she right there when you ordered it and when it was brought in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then how could she help knowing you had bought it on the premises?”

“I don’t suppose she could.”

“Take the witness.”

“Now, Mr. Spalding,” said Mr. English for the defense, “you say Miss Moore was pretty well gone when she came to your table. Do you mean she was drunk?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know?”

“She talked silly.”

“Haven’t you ever heard a woman talk silly when she wasn’t drunk?”

“I suppose I have.”

“Then isn’t it stretching a point to say Miss Moore was drunk just because she talked silly?”

“They talk entirely different when they’re drunk than sober.”

“Did you ever, on any other occasion, hear Miss Moore talk?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you taste Miss Moore’s drink?”

“No, sir.”

“How do you know it was rum?”

“She said so. She said it was a hundred years old.”

“Do you believe all that people say these days about their own liquor?”

“No, sir.”

“You bought four pints of rye. How much of it did your wife drink?”

“She had two highballs.”

“Did Mr. Schwartz drink any?”

“No, sir.”

“Did Miss Moore drink any?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you drank four pints, or two quarts, yourself; that is, all but the ounce or two that your wife drank?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In what length of time?”

“About three hours.”

“And you went home sober?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did your wife think you were sober?”

“I object, your Honor,” interrupted Mr. Porter. “A wife is no judge of her husband’s sobriety.”

“Sustained,” said the court.

“Was there anything,” continued Mr. English, “that would lead you to believe Miss Moore was financially interested in the club?”

“She spoke of it as ‘her club.’ ”

“Do you belong to any club in Toledo?”

“Yes, sir. The Elks.”

“What do you call it?”

“The Elks.”

“That will do.”

“We rest,” said Mr. Porter.

“I move for dismissal, your Honor.”

“The trial will proceed,” said the court.

“Miss Moore, please take the stand.”

Marian was still sobbing violently and Henry felt awful.

“Miss Moore,” said Mr. English, “I know what an ordeal this is for a hardworking, innocent, unprotected girl like you and I will ask you only two questions. Did you have a financial interest in the Cozy Club?”

Marian, unable to speak, shook her head.

“On the night you met this Spalding, or Travers, were you under the influence of liquor?”

“Your Honor,” Marian said, turning to the court, “I wasn’t never under the influence of liquor because I never tasted a drop of it in my life.”

“Take the witness,” said Mr. English.

“Miss Moore,” said Mr. Porter, “if you never tasted liquor, what was in the bottle Mr. Schwartz brought you?”

“Cough medicine.”

“Do you suffer from coughs?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why do you take cough medicine?”

“So I won’t suffer from coughs.”

Mr. Porter and Mr. English made eloquent summations, the former arguing for enforcement of the law and against the credibility of the defense’s only witness, while Miss Moore’s counsel spoke feelingly of the sanctity of womanhood, and wolves in evening clothes.

Marian sobbed all through both speeches and the judge’s charge and was still sobbing when the jury returned with a verdict of not guilty. She then recovered her composure, kissed her lawyer and the twelve brave men and true, and rushed to the ladies’ dressing room where her maid awaited her with some cough syrup.

“Gosh, this air feels good!” said Juryman No. 4 as he reached the street. “Her breath had me reeling!”

For three nights Henry Spalding tried in vain to muster enough courage to visit The Snug, where Marian had been employed since the padlocking of the Cozy Club. He knew now that he loved her and had done her a great wrong. He had never been able to resist a woman’s tears.

He was not sucker enough to believe the one about the cough medicine, but wasn’t a woman justified in lying to keep out of jail?

Liar or no liar, Marian was the only woman for him now and he knew he would never go back to Toledo and resume practice on his clarinet until he had seen her and begged her forgiveness.

On the fourth night, he ordered two quarts of Scotch from a bell boy and drank it as he made notes for a report against the hotel. Two o’clock in the morning found him inside the Snug, beckoning Marian to his table.

“Hello, Spalding, or Travers. Set down and buy me a drink. I’m out of rum, and I’ve got to have something while I wait for a friend that’s bringing me supplies.”

“I came to apologize,” said Henry. “I’m sorrier than I ever can tell you and I want you to forgive me for what I done. When I saw you crying in court the other day, my heart just about broke. And I realized⁠—”

“What did you realize?”

“I can’t tell you yet. Not till you forgive me.”

“I got nothing to forgive you for, Spalding, or Travers. All you done to me was get me on the first page of every paper in the country and land me a job here at twicet what the Cozy was paying me. I ain’t sore at you. I really ought to love you.”

“Don’t say that! I mean, as a joke.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do love you. I think I begun loving you the time you leaned over on my wife and cried. And I knew it was the real thing when you cried in the court room. If there’s any chance for me⁠—”

“You seem to only love people when they’re miserable. Maybe it might work the same way with me. Maybe if you could cry⁠—”

“I wish I could. But I don’t cry easy. Anyway, it’s a great thing to know you don’t bear a grudge.”

“Why should I? The only people that’s got a license to be sore at you is the partners that owned the Cozy, and poor Joe Schwartz. You cost him a job and two thousand bucks. And speaking of the devil, here he is now with my rum.”

Schwartz saw them and approached.

“Joe, here’s Mr. Travers-Spalding.”

“I can see it is.”

“He come to apologize for doing me what he thought was a dirty trick. And listen, Joe. Not only that, but he loves me because he seen me cry. Do you think if I seen him cry, I could love him back?”

“It’s worth a trial.”

“But he don’t cry easy.”

“Sing him one of those dirges.”

“He wouldn’t cry at a song. See if you can make him cry, Joe.”

“Get up, Spalding!” said Mr. Schwartz, and Henry rose unsteadily⁠ ⁠…

“Oh, Joe!” said Marian, bending over to look. “He can only cry out of one eye from now on.”