Something in the silence told me he had also heard the lapse—and regretted it. Which was to his credit.
Still I said, “No, I don’t remember that. Good night, Mr. Behan.”
* * *
I went to bed late and slept poorly, waking the next morning muddleheaded and irritable. After breakfast, I lingered in the kitchen with William’s discarded newspaper. Detective Fullerton was careful in what he’d told the press. As a result, Warburton’s death had been overshadowed by the gaudy slaying of Mrs. Lulu Bailey. At first, there had been some question as to who had shot Mrs. Bailey: it was either Dr. Carman, whom she visited after hours for an impromptu examination, or the doctor’s wife, Florence, who had hidden a Dictaphone in his office, because she did not trust him with female patients.
I was wondering why Mrs. Carman had killed Mrs. Bailey since it was her husband who needed shooting when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t think who would call at this hour and listened as Ethel answered the door. Hearing the wet, wheezing voice of Detective Fullerton, my heart sank.
He apologized for calling so early and asked Louise if she would prefer that her husband were present. Louise said she preferred her husband absent. Then amended it to say that in general, she enjoyed his company. But when police were investigating her connection to dead people, she liked him out of the house.
She did ask if I might be present. Detective Fullerton said he had been about to suggest that very thing.
Louise sat in her preferred chair by the front window. I stood behind her. The detective settled his bulk on the settee. Then he informed Louise that Floyd Lombardo was no longer a suspect. The police would now focus their inquiries on people who had been at Rector’s that evening, especially those in the company of the deceased. She, he assured Louise, was not under suspicion. “Several witnesses have testified that you were seated at the table for the entirety of the evening.”
He turned to me. “You, on the other hand, Miss Prescott, were not.”
Louise said, “Jane was dancing, Detective. A very handsome young man invited her, and I couldn’t ask her to refuse. She was in my sights the whole time, I assure you.”
“Name … of this young man?”
“He said his name was Rodolfo,” I said. “He worked at Rector’s.”
“Worked there?” Louise looked puzzled. I gave a brief smile to indicate this was one of life’s realities I would explain in private.
“How well did you know the deceased, Miss Prescott?”
“Not well. Mr. Warburton didn’t even consider me worth shouting at.”
“I understand he shouted a great deal at … Mr. Hirschfeld. And that Mr. Hirschfeld shouted at him. In fact, they were shouting on the night in question.”
Louise looked at me; I wished she wouldn’t. It made us look conspiratorial.
“Mrs. Tyler, if you were at the table the entire evening, able to see your maid as she danced, then you must have heard the argument. What were the two gentlemen fighting about?”
Louise took a deep breath. “I believe there was a disagreement about the show. Really, Detective, it was almost trivial. Who would sing certain songs, things like that.”
“‘Sing certain songs,’” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Tyler, are you aware that songwriters now make considerable money when their songs are recorded for phonograph?” Louise was not. “Then you are no doubt also unaware that the credit for the song dictates who receives the revenue? And that if a famous singer, such as Mr. Arden, say, consents to record the song, he may be credited along with the author? In recognition of the fact that the public is drawn to the recording for the sake of his voice, rather than the composer’s words?”
Leo’s earlier refusal to let Claude Arden sing “Why Not Me?” now made a great deal more sense.
The detective continued. “If a performer is well known, he may abuse the situation, taking more than his fair share of the profit—at least in the writer’s eyes. I have been informed that there was a certain amount of ill will regarding Mr. Arden’s recording of Mr. Hirschfeld’s song, ‘But on Fridays.’ And that Mr. Warburton was the man who arranged for Mr. Arden to sing it.”
And taken his own share for his troubles, I thought, remembering Leo’s angry accusation: I saw exactly what he did. And how much you and he made off it.
“So, you see, Mrs. Tyler, arguments over who sings a song are not in the least trivial, amounting to significant revenue for the man who wins the argument. Was that the point of dispute the other night?”
“Oh, heavens, Detective, I don’t listen to talk about business. I believe I was discussing clothes with Mrs. St. John.” She smiled, inviting the detective to draw the conclusion that once a woman’s mind was focused on clothes, all other concerns vanished. To his credit, Fullerton did not seem persuaded.
“You have no idea, then, why Mr. Hirschfeld threw a glass at Mr. Warburton?”
At heart, Louise was not a liar. Now she admitted, “I’m afraid that Mr. Warburton was insulting to Mrs. Hirschfeld.”
This I had not heard and I glanced sharply at Louise. Fullerton inclined his belly forward. “How was he insulting, Mrs. Tyler?”
Louise went red. “I couldn’t say.”
“You didn’t hear the words?”
“I heard them. I just can’t repeat them.”
“Perhaps you might whisper them to your maid. Then she can tell me.”
Louise whispered. I listened. Then reported the substance, which roughly interpreted, likened Mrs. Hirschfeld to a bicycle that has gone flat from too many rides from too many owners.
“You can see why Mr. Hirschfeld took offense,” said Louise.
For almost any man, the answer would have been a simple yes. But I had to wonder, would Leo take such umbrage at having his wife’s reputation attacked? The Leo I knew might not. He himself had ridden many a bicycle … or was he the bicycle? If so, I had also ridden a borrowed bicycle—and was perhaps a tiny bit borrowed myself. Which begged the question: Why was Violet Tempest a bicycle and Leo not? Or if both were bicycles, why did many riders make him seem carefree and dashing and her used and worthless?
More to the point, did I believe Leo had stormed off because Mr. Warburton implied that Violet Tempest hadn’t been pure before marrying him?
Not in the slightest.
So why had Leo stormed off?
Then the detective asked a rather interesting question. “Did Mrs. Hirschfeld take offense?”
“Mrs. Hirschfeld was incapacitated,” said Louise bluntly. “I doubt she heard a word that was said.”
“Do you know what led Mr. Warburton to insult Mrs. Hirschfeld?”
Louise frowned as she considered. “I don’t. I was talking with Mrs. St. John at the other end of the table and watching for Jane. I only heard the bicycle part because it was so shocking. But you must know by now, Sidney Warburton was a deeply unkind man. He said all sorts of horrible things to people. Just ask his poor secretary, Miss Biederman.”
“By all accounts, Miss Biederman had left the restaurant by the time the argument occurred,” said the detective. “So, his wife having been insulted, Mr. Hirschfeld threw the glass and left the table?”
“Yes.”
“His wife followed?”
Louise nodded. “I believe she went and found her husband—”
This brought us all to the memory of what Leo and Violet had been doing at the time of the murder. Louise asked the detective if he would like some more tea. The detective said that he would.
As I poured, Louise said, “Detective, you can’t suspect Mr. Hirschfeld. It seems far more likely to me that some business associate of Mr. Warburton’s committed the crime. Someone he’d treated badly or who had a grudge against him.”
“Mr. Hirschfeld is a business associate of his.”
Swiftly changing tack, Louise said, “We should ask Jane. She’s known Mr. Hirschfeld longer, and she notices a great deal. You remember last year, those wome
n who were murdered? Jane figured out who the killer was, even before the police did.”
Fullerton smiled politely, not believing a word of this. Still he asked me, “What is your opinion of the relationship between Mr. Hirschfeld and the deceased?”
I took my time. “They did argue. But there is nothing on earth Mr. Hirschfeld cares about more than this show. Mr. Warburton was producing that show. I can’t imagine anything that would provoke Mr. Hirschfeld enough to jeopardize that.”
Detective Fullerton chewed on his mustache. “But of course, Mrs. Tyler is also financially involved.”
Louise and I both blinked. She said, “Not to the extent that Mr. Hirschfeld could dispose of Mr. Warburton, I assure you.”
“Also,” I said quickly, “one of the first things Mr. Hirschfeld did after the murder was visit Mrs. Warburton to make sure…”
I had meant to underscore the importance of the Warburtons’ financial support. Instead I had made Leo sound like a ghoul who bilked widows of their savings.
“… that the family would continue to fund the show?” the detective said.
Recovering, I said, “Yes, but he wouldn’t have done that if he’d shot Mr. Warburton in order to be free of his influence.”
“Did the widow seem keenly interested in theater? The sort of person to give Mr. Hirschfeld advice?”
Louise and I glanced at each other. The question had to be answered honestly; Mrs. Warburton’s interest in anything beyond the parameters of that couch and her bank account were minimal. “She does want a song in tribute to her husband,” offered Louise.
“I see.” Placing his hands on his vast thighs as if to signal to them that it was time to go, the detective rose.
Rising with him, Louise said, “Detective, listen to Mr. Hirschfeld’s songs. Listen to ‘Why Not Me?’ The man who wrote that song isn’t capable of killing anyone.”
For all his reputation as a brute enforcer of the law, Detective Fullerton was not the sort to disabuse a lady of the notion that people who create beautiful things are incapable of ugly acts. Presenting her with his card, he said he hoped she was right, and should anything else occur to her, she should contact him at this number. Louise passed the card to me and said she would do exactly that.
I saw the detective out, then returned to the sitting room to find Louise pacing. Fist clenched in the other hand, she said, “We have to go back to Rector’s.”
“Why?”
“The detective thinks Mr. Hirschfeld murdered Mr. Warburton. We have to find someone who saw something that … points him in a different direction. A man like Sidney Warburton must have a hundred enemies. Mr. Hirschfeld told me in confidence that he’d been very difficult about money lately. Apparently, his last show was not a success. If Mr. Lombardo borrowed money from disreputable people, perhaps Mr. Warburton did, too.”
And met with the same fate—the idea hung in the air between us.
“That fellow you danced with, maybe he saw Mr. Warburton there other times. Maybe he knows about other people who would have wanted to…”
Louise swallowed over the words “kill him.” Then said, “Do you think he would be there now?”
Rodolfo’s busiest time would be the evenings, especially the after-theater crowd. But Rector’s also offered afternoon thé dansants or tango teas at which ladies could frolic without escort during the hours when their husbands were at work—a profitable opportunity for a tango pirate.
“He might this afternoon,” I said reluctantly.
“Then we’ll go this afternoon. You danced with him, he’ll remember you. And I don’t dare go alone.”
I held back a groan. From what Michael Behan said, the busboys at Rector’s did a nice side business in selling gossip to the papers. The story of Mrs. William Tyler chatting with a taxi dancer would send thrills of approbation through New York society.
“Mrs. Tyler, if Mr. Hirschfeld didn’t kill Mr. Warburton, the police won’t find any evidence that he did. His wife gave him a very memorable alibi. I think we should just let things proceed…”
“I know he hurt you.”
“He didn’t hurt me, Mrs. Tyler.”
“But you must care a little about his work. After all, he wrote ‘But on Fridays’ for you.”
Had Louise Tyler been Anna, I would have laughed. Laughed and said, Yes, and he wrote “But on Mondays” for the ticket taker at the Odeon and “But on Thursdays” for his uncle Hesh’s secretary. Most likely, there was a drawer full of songs “written for” girls all over the city and possibly New Jersey.
But Louise Tyler was not Anna and thinking of “But on Fridays” took me back to Leo’s visit last year when I had been badly bruised and frightened and he had burst into my room with promises of Delmonico’s and dancing and reminded me that I was alive and life had many wonderful things to offer. He was good at that, reminding you what life had to offer. His songs did it, too, full of his greedy, eager spirit that said, Why not? Why not?
And even if he said why not too often and not always wisely, he hadn’t killed Sidney Warburton and he didn’t deserve that cloud hanging over his first show.
Still—there was one last concern. “Mr. Tyler will be home at five thirty. What will you tell him if we don’t get back in time?”
Louise turned her ring round her finger. “After Rector’s, we’ll stop off at Lord & Taylor. That way I can say I was shopping and I won’t have lied.”
For some reason, her words brought back Leo’s proud boast that Mother Hirschfeld never lies. I hear her son takes after her. To which I had always said, Omits.
Louise, it seemed, had learned to omit.
10
On the ride over, Louise was full of plans, all of which involved the word “you” to an alarming degree. “Now, when you find him, maybe you shouldn’t ask about Mr. Warburton right away. Instead, you…”
“Mrs. Tyler, the gentleman isn’t going to have any interest in speaking with me.”
“You mean, he’ll only want to dance?”
I took a deep breath. “No. I mean he’ll only be interested in engaging with a lady who can pay him.”
Louise went still. “By engaging, you mean…”
“Talking. Dancing. Lighting her cigarette.” I widened my eyes to indicate metaphor.
“Heavens, I don’t smoke,” said Louise.
Despite Louise’s aversion to nicotine and innuendo, Rodolfo managed to spot us in short order and make his silky way to our table. A brief glance between the two of us; which was the customer? But when Louise said, “How lovely to see you again,” he gave her his full professional attention.
“Such excitement the other day,” she said when he had sat.
“This day for me is already far more exciting.”
Had the young man not been so beautiful, this statement would have provoked giggles. But there was something about his almond-eyed gaze, the way he held his mouth, even the elongated posture that seemed to offer his body for intimate perusal, that made one intensely aware of the many and varied meanings of the word “exciting.” Louise looked as if someone had just offered her a cigarette—and she was no longer certain she didn’t smoke.
For the sake of discretion, I wanted as few words as possible exchanged between Louise and Rodolfo. Therefore, I would ask the questions. I began with, “Have the police spoken with you?”
With minimal movement, Rodolfo’s bearing indicated he was no longer open for business. The chair did not shift, but it felt as if he had put a distance of several feet between himself and us. As if I were smoothing the tablecloth, I slid a five-dollar bill under the napkin nearest him. His shoulders relaxed, his lips parted, his eyes did a strange sort of … smoky lingering. Placing a well-manicured finger on the bill, he tucked the rest of it under the napkin with a small, serene smile.
“My employer has an interest in discovering who killed Mr. Warburton,” I told him.
“We all do, it is a loss to the world…”
“It’s financ
ial loss she’s concerned with.” Louise was embarrassed, but I sensed we were on the clock and I didn’t want her money wasted on continental dramatics. “You knew who Warburton was. He’d been here before.”
“Of course, he often came.”
“With people.”
He nodded. “Always, he has many guests, as he did that night. Many people wanting to talk to him.”
Louise leaned forward. “What sort of people?”
Rodolfo made his living by pleasing. He could sense Louise wanted a particular answer, but was unsure as to what it was. He began by guessing. “Theater people. Businesspeople. Rich people…”
“There are all sorts of rich people these days,” I said. “Did these people make their money legally?” I was careful not to bandy the name Owney Davis.
“I could not say.”
“Perhaps they lent money to Mr. Warburton,” Louise suggested. “Perhaps they—”
Before she could pronounce Sidney Warburton and Floyd Lombardo the victims of criminal assassination by loan sharks, I shook my head.
But Rodolfo understood her meaning. Idly turning over a heavy silver knife, he said, “Forgive me. I thought the police already knew who killed Mr. Warburton. The companion of Miss Fiske.”
“As it happens, Mr. Lombardo was killed well before Mr. Warburton.”
This interested him. “Was he? Ah, she get tired at last.”
“What do you mean?” asked Louise.
The briefest glance of assessment. “I make mistake. The pronouns. He, she … Lombardo made many people angry. No surprise he’s dead.”
“Were any of those people also angry at Mr. Warburton?” I asked.
Rodolfo made a dismissive wave. “Warburton is a successful man, everyone wants something from him. Not everyone can have, so of course they are angry.”
“Can you remember anyone in particular?”
“Who was angry with Warburton?” He gestured all around the room. “The waiter he yells at, the actress he does not hire. The man who threw the glass. His wife…”
Death of a Showman Page 9
