Commins' Case: Bloody Burlesque ✅

Chapter 2

A carriage deposits me in front of the club. The final rays of the setting sun turn the marquee into liquid gold. A cool breeze off the harbour lifts my hair. I hear a buoy clanging and the soft rumble of a trawler returning from a long day of fishing. A horn echoes across the city. The marquee reads; See Wheeler's Girls live! Every Friday and Saturday night.

I push through the double doors into a small lobby, suffused with purple light and occupied by a large, intimidating bouncer. He is dark with a bald head, sunglasses (despite the lack of sun) and shoulders in two different time zones.

There is a sign that indicates a hefty entrance fee. Marie failed to mention this, and I need to get inside if I wish to look into any customers.

-

I stroll around the back of the club, along a litter-strewn alley, and come upon a metal door that only opens from the inside and a small window set high on the wall/ A pair of rubbish bins sit beneath the window, that may help me get high enough to reach.

I climb up on the bins and try the window. It's unlocked and swings open. I pull myself up for a peak and see a tiled bathroom with several urinals along one wall and a few cubicles. There is an intoxicated man at one of the urinals, one hand on the wall for support. He hasn't seen me. Directly beneath the window is an empty toilet stall. I wait for the gentleman to complete his business before entering. I grab hold of the gutter above the window and pull myself high enough so my feet may enter before me. I slide like an eel through the window and land on the floor before the bare toilet bowl.

I try my utmost not to look into the dirty toilet. I cover my nose with the back of my hand whilst I open the door with my handkerchief. Without touching anything but the floors with my feet, I make my way toward the main room.

-

A generous amount of both gentlemen and ladies populate the tables. Most of the lighting is centred on the stage, and small candles on each table illuminate the expectant faces of the patrons. The barkeeper is busy, but I manage to grab his attention.

"What'll it be?"

I toss him a coin for a glass of the only kind of red wine the bar offers, thank him and turn my attention back to the crowd, looking for anyone that stands out.

I don't have to wait long before an exceptionally tall, tanned man in a powder blue tuxedo struts onstage, a microphone in his hands. He has his black hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and a deep, silky voice.

-

"Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to the show!"

The crowd shows their enthusiasm.

"Are you ready to be captivated?"

More cheers.

"Mesmerized?"

This warrants a louder cheer.

"Titillated?"

Loudest applause yet.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the announcer says. "Please put your hands together for the lovely Blanche Brassiere!"

-

The velvet curtain draws apart, and a single spotlight illuminates a tall blonde with her back to the audience. She is in a backless black dress. A dark and dreary tune begins. She exposes one long white leg through a slit in her dress and peers over her shoulder at the crowd and starts to sing. She has a husky voice, like smoke and silk, that does things to your imagination. Miss Brassiere truly knows how to satisfy a crowd. She slips off stage, threading her way through the tables while she sings. Her dress shows just enough bare skin to make the audience shift in their seats. Her eyes do the rest. She isn't young, like Marie ala Mode. She must be in her late thirties, though she can most certainly turn on the charm.

The song ends. The spotlight winks out, and the curtain falls closed. The audience does their dues with claps and whistles. The announcer comes back out, encourages another round of applause for Miss Blanche Brassiere and introduces the following act.

"Let's hear it for our very own trapeze girl, Antoinette DuPree!"

When the curtain opens again, a wisp of a girl in stockings is swinging back and forth on a trapeze. Blanche was seductive, even classy. Antionette's act, however, is pure lust. She twists and contorts on her trapeze as her stockings peel off, one after the other. Her bra follows. By the time the curtain comes down, Antoinette has not left much to the imagination.

"Like what you see?" A husky voice purrs in my ear.

-

Whilst I was distracted by Antoinette, Blanche Brassiere planted herself on the barstool next to me. She has a drink in hand, her back to the bar. One carefully sculpted eyebrow arches.

Without taking my eyes off the stage, "The first act was better," I tell her.

"Don't patronize me."

"No, truly." I turn to her. "You have a great voice. When do you go on again?"

She smiles. "That's it for me. I'm a one-trick pony. Gabriel thinks I'm getting too old for burlesque."

"Gabriel is the manager, I assume?"

"That's right," she says. "And who are you?"

-

"My name is Claude Commins, a private investigator. I'm looking into the deaths of Georgette and Angelique. Is there anything you can tell me about it?"

"You don't beat around the bush," she says. "Think I had something to do with it?"

"You don't seem like the type," I admit. "Though I have been wrong in the past."

She takes a sip from her drink. "They were good girls. It broke my heart when I found out. Guess you could say I'm the mother hen around here; I watch out for these girls. Try to keep them out of trouble." She shrugs. "Guess I didn't do such a good job."

"Do you have any theories?"

Blanche lets out a bitter little laugh. "Dozens, each as unlikely as the next. How do you explain someone falling out a window that doesn't open? It makes no sense. All I know is, the girls are scared." After a moment, she admits, "I'm scared too."

"Well, if it was indeed a murder," I tell her, "I will catch the one responsible."

Blanche looks up at me. Her red lips part slightly. I see crow's feet beginning at the corners of her eyes, but age has not caught up with her just yet. She nods slowly and says, "You know, I almost want to believe you."

"Do you have any reason not to?"

"A girl like me has been lied to by a lot of me, Mr. Commins."

"Call me Claude."

"Call me Blanche," she responds with a smile.