CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG
Charlotte Armstrong (1905-69) is one of a lustrous group of writers who give the lie to the revisionist history claim that American women mystery writers of the fifties and sixties were downtrodden and unappreciated victims of hardboiled masculine dominance. The Mystery Writers of America awarded her an Edgar for
After a couple of unsuccessful (albeit New York-produced) plays and three relatively conventional detective novels featuring a character named MacDougall Duff, the Michigan-born Armstrong made a major impact and stirred controversy among fans and critics with
Armstrong was as effective at short-story as novel length. “St.
Patrick’s Day in the Morning” demonstrates both her creation of reader anxiety and her strong sense of human interdependence and responsibility — plus the problems it can cause. It also shows her affinity to Woolrich in its unusual variant on one of his favorite situations (the lady vanishes) and to the theater — the main character is a playwright, and the story is easy to imagine as a play.
Very carefully, in a state of fearful pleasure, he put all the pieces of paper in order. One copy of the manuscript he put into an envelope and addressed it. The other copies he put into an empty suitcase. Then he called an airline and was lucky. A seat for New York in the morning. Morning? What morning? St. Patrick’s Day in the morning.
He had been out of this world. But now he stretched, breathed, blinked, and put out feelers for what is known as reality.
See now. He was Mitchel Brown, playwright (God willing), and he had finished the job of revision he had come home to Los Angeles to do. Wowee! Finished!
The hour was a quarter after one in the morning and therefore already the seventeenth of March. The place was his ground-floor apartment, and it was a mess: smoky, dirty, disorderly…Oh, well, first things had come first. His back was aching, his eyes were burning, his head was light. He would have to clean up, eat, sleep, bathe, shave, dress, pack. But first…
He slammed a row of airmail stamps on the envelope and went out. The street was dark and deserted. A few cars sat lumpishly along the curbs. The manuscript thumped down into the mailbox — safe in the bosom of the Postal Service. Now, even if he, the plane, and the other copies perished…
Mitch laughed at himself and turned the corner, feeling suddenly let down, depressed, and forlorn.
The Parakeet Bar and Grill, he noted gratefully, was still open. He walked the one block and went in. The Bar ran all the way along one wall and the Grill, consisting of eight booths, ran all the way along the other. The narrow room was dim and felt empty.
Mitch groped for a stool.
“Hi, Toby. Business slow?”
“Hi, Mr. Brown.” The bartender seemed glad to see him. He was a small man with a crest of dark hair, a blue chin, and a blue tinge to the whites of his eyes. “This late on a weeknight, I’m never crowded.”
“The kitchen’s gone home, eh?” Mitch said. The kitchen was not the heart of this establishment.
“That’s right, Mr. Brown. You want any food, you better go else-where.”
“A drink will do me,” said Mitch with a sigh. “
Toby turned to his bottles. When he turned back with Mitch’s usual, he said in an anxious whine, “Fact is, I got to close up pretty soon and I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean, what to do?”
“Look at her.” Toby’s gaze passed over Mitch’s left shoulder.
Mitch glanced behind him and was startled to see there was a woman sitting in one of the booths. Or perhaps one could say lying, since her fair hatless head was down on the red-checked tablecloth.
Mitch turned again and wagged inquiring eyebrows.
“Out like a light,” said Toby in a hoarse whisper. “Listen, I don’t want to call the cops. Thing like that, not so good for the place. But I got a kid sick and my wife is all wore out and I wanted to get home.”
“You try black coffee?”
“Sure, I tried.” Toby’s shoulders despaired.
“How’d she get this way?”
“Not here,” said Toby quickly. “Don’t see how. So help me, a coupla drinks hit her like that. Trouble is, she’s not a bum. You can see that. So what should I do?”
“Put her in a taxi,” said Mitch blithely. “Just ship her where she belongs. Why not? She’ll have something on her for identity.”
“I don’t want to mess around with her pocketbook,” Toby said fearfully.
“Hm. Well, let’s see…” Mitch got off the stool. His drink had gone down and bounced lightly and he was feeling cheerful and friendly toward all the world. Furthermore, he felt
Toby came too, and they lifted the woman’s torso.
Her face was slack in drunken sleep; but even so it was not an ugly face. It was not young; neither was it old. Her clothing was expensive. No, she wasn’t a tramp.
Then she opened her eyes and said in a refined voice, “I beg your pardon.”
She was not exactly conscious; still this was encouraging. The two men got her to her feet. With their support she could stand. In fact, she could walk. Mitch ran his left arm through the handle of her expensive-looking handbag. The two of them walked her to the door.
“The air maybe?” said the bartender hopefully.
“Right,” said Mitch. “Listen, there’s a cab stand next to the movie theater. By the time we walk her over there…”
Toby said shrilly. “I got to lock up. I got to take care of the place.”
“Go ahead,” said Mitch, standing in the sweet night air with the strange woman heavy in his arms, “I’ve got her.”
He heard the lock click behind him as he set off on the sidewalk, the woman putting one foot ahead of the other willingly enough.
Musing on the peculiar and surprising qualities of “reality,” Mitch had guided her halfway along the block before he recognized the fact that the bartender had taken him literally and was not coming along at all.
Oh, well. Mitch was not annoyed. On the contrary, he felt filled with compassion for all human beings. This woman was human and, therefore, frail. He was glad to try to help her to some place of her own.
The neighborhood business section was deserted. They were moving in an empty world. When Mitch had struggled all the way to the next corner, he could see ahead that there were no cabs near the theater. At this time of night the theater was dead and dark, as he should have known. He guessed he hadn’t quite been meshed with the gears of ordinary time.
Anyhow, he couldn’t turn her over to a handy cab driver. Nor to the police, since there were no policemen
