Dixie Kupp
Helen Dawes
Helen Steinberg
Helen Riley
Helen Giammori
Four Helens and a Dixie; that's what the professor’s address book revealed. Archie nodded to himself, rose from the bench, and strode back into the recesses of the park. He stopped in front of a large, gnarled tree, one that would be easily identifiable. He knelt before it and dug a shallow hole with his hands. He put all the things he’d stolen, including the money, into the hole, and covered it over again. Then he scuffed at it with his foot until he was satisfied that the spot was indistinguishable from the surrounding sod.
Archie left the park. He walked over to Madison Avenue and went into a bar. He walked straight back to the men's room. Here he washed his hands, scrubbing until he was sure that all traces of his digging activities had been removed. He combed his hair and then took a second look at the back of the blank check upon which he’d been scribbling. It was the only item among the professor’s belongings which he’d retained. The address beside the name Helen Riley was the closest to where he was. It was only two blocks away. Should he call first? Archie thought about it and decided not to phone. If she was the blonde he was seeking, it might only serve to make her panic and run again. So Archie stuck the check back in his pocket, left the bar, and walked the two blocks to the address beside Helen Riley’s name.
It was a reconditioned brownstone which had been split up into six or eight apartments. There was a row of bell-pushes with names beside them. He easily found the one next to Helen Riley, 3rd fl. front. He didn’t push it. Instead, he pushed the button next to 6th fl. rear. After a moment there was an answering ring. Archie opened the foyer door and waited in the inside hallway. He could hear voices from far above, but he couldn’t make out the words. He guessed that 6th fl. rear must be puzzling over where the visitors were. Archie waited a long time after the voices stopped before going up the stairs. Finally he did, and found himself standing in front of a door on the third floor with the name Helen Riley on a plate just beneath the peephole. Archie knocked.
“Door’s open. Come on in," a female voice called.
Archie turned the knob and went inside. He found himself in an area that was too small to be called a living room; it was more of a sitting room, actually. A large mahogany bar rook up about a quarter of the area. It stood against the opposite wall, and with the small sofa and two armchairs in the room, it left very little room for moving around. To the left of the bar was another doorway . From somewhere behind it, the female voice sounded, again.
“Make yourself a drink,” it trilled. “I'll be out as soon as I get myself zipped in.”
Archie contemplated the bar. The alcoholic selection was wide. In a little ice chest behind it he found a cold can of beer. He opened it, sat down on the sofa, and sipped from the can. After a moment there was the sound of the outside doorknob turning. The doorway filled with the bulk of a very tall, very muscular man of about thirty. He wore the uniform of a New York City policeman. He stared at Archie for a moment, a slightly puzzled expression on his face. Then he held out his hand.
“Since Helen isn’t here to make the introductions,” he said, “I guess we’d best introduce ourselves. I’m Angelo Valenti.”
“Archie Jones.” The boy took the cop's hand and matched the firm grip.
“Friend of Helen’s?” the cop asked.
“Not exactly." Archie didn’t elaborate.
“Oh.” The cop poured himself three fingers of Scotch and plunked some ice into it. “Well, have you known her long? ”
“Not exactly.”
Valenti was obviously waiting for Archie to say more. When he didn’t, the policeman cleared his throat and spoke again. “We—Helen and I, that is-—had a late date for tonight,” he said delicately.
“Yes.” Archie glanced at his wristwatch pointedly. “W ell, it is too late for it to be an early date, isn't it?” he said conversationally.
“That's true.” Valenti nodded. “You see, I worked a four-to-midnight shift today. Just got off duty. And Helen was on a late shift at the reservations desk at Kennedy. But I guess you know she works for the airlines.”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” Archie admitted.
“Oh? Well—umm—-just how are you and Helen acquainted? . . . If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Yes! Just how are we acquainted?” Helen Riley had entered from the bedroom, and now she was staring at Archie. “And just who are you, anyway?”
Archie got to his feet and smiled as he considered how to answer. He held the smile a long moment as his eyes studied Helen Riley approvingly. The slight smile with which she returned his gaze said that she was used to being looked at in that fashion.
Helen Riley was a petite girl in her early twenties. She had long black hair which was piled up on top of her head. Its sparkle was reflected by silver-and-jade earrings which passed it along to a dressy, deep green gown interwoven with metallic thread. The gown was off-the-shoulder and the plumpness of high, round breasts rippled with her breathing to lend still more glitter to the decolletage. It hugged the deliciously suggestive curve of her hips, and the skirt was cut quite short in the current style. Her legs, not long, but shapely, were visible to mid-thigh as she stood in the doorway. Archie’s eyes traveled up from them to a face with the pixie-ish appeal and flashing eyes of a Parisian coquette. Helen Riley looked more Latin than Irish, and while her personality was bouncy, there was a smoldering sensuality beneath the surface which was almost immediately felt by every man with whom she came in contact.
Archie felt it as he finally found the words to answer her. “You don't know me-—” he began.
“I know I don’t know you,” she interrupted. “And since I don’t, just what are you doing in my apartment?”
“Well, I knocked, and you said to come on in, so I did.”
“I thought you were Angelo. I was expecting him. I didn’t expect to find some overgrown Boy Scout beatnik sitting here drinking my beer.”
“She’s got a point there, sonny,” Valenti added. “Why aren’t you home in bed where you belong? Or, better still, out getting a haircut? You could sure use one!”
“I’m trying to explain.” Archie flushed at the references to his youth and long hair. He was tempted to put Helen and Valenti on by lapsing into his usual slang, but decided against it. This wasn’t the Helen he was seeking, and the best thing to do was give them some sort of excuse, apologize, and get out of there. “A mutual friend of ours suggested I look you up,” he told Helen Riley. “Professor André Beaumarchais.”
“Is my father -” Helen Riley exclaimed and then stopped herself.
“Your father?” It was Archie’s turn to be surprised. “I didn’t even know the professor was married.”
“You told me your father was dead,” Valenti was saying at the same moment. “And how could he be your father if your name is Riley?”
Helen Riley sat down in one of the chairs and looked from Archie to Valenti helplessly. “Well, I guess I let the kitty out of the sack,” she sighed. “Riley is my mother’s name,” she explained to Valenti. “Andre Beaumarchais is my father. He never married her.”
“Why, the dirty—!” Valenti’s face was turning an angry red.
“No, Angelo! Wait! It isn’t like that. It never has been. He’s always been very good to us. He’s always seen that we had enough money. He used to come to see us whenever he was in New York. He always brought presents for me. He still writes to me regularly. And last year when he came he took me out to dinner. He’s really a kind and generous man. Only he’s not the marrying sort.”