by Marlowe Benn
“You can cook?”
“Another legacy from Aunt Lillian.” He whisked the eggs, added milk and herbs, and lit another ring on the range. Julia remembered the cantankerous old woman she’d met last fall, the maiden aunt who had been his childhood playmate, teaching him to jest and joust and to skewer staid respectability with a gimlet eye. Upon her death he’d learned that Lillian, his surrogate mother after her sister Charlotte’s death, was in fact his natural mother. It was still too tender a knowledge to mention.
Tossing butter into the heating pan, he said, “On Cook’s days off, she trussed me into an apron and stationed me at the stove.” He poured the mixture into the hot pan and adjusted the flame. “Mind you, I couldn’t bake bread to save my life. But a good roast chicken or omelet or stack of griddle cakes—I’m your man.”
He shaved cheese onto the board and brushed it onto the firming eggs. After wrapping a towel around the pan’s handle, he shook it gently. “You say she was determined to retrieve her manuscript. Sounds incriminating.”
Julia felt oddly calmed watching him work. “No, she meant she would get it by pleasing him in some way, reassuring him of her loyalties. I’m sure of it. She was thinking about coddling, not violence.”
“That’s a thin line. She might have gone back armed with feminine wiles—plus a gun, just in case.”
“Don’t even say that. I don’t for an instant believe she’d shoot anyone.”
Philip folded the omelet, divided it in half, and slid each portion onto a plate. A sprinkle of herbs, two forks from a drawer, and he set the plates onto the table with a flourish.
“Goodness.” Julia wondered if she could eat any of it.
“Appearances do suggest she’s the killer, my dear.”
She wanted to denounce him for allowing the thought to form, but she could not. Though he could be exasperating at times, Philip’s mind was always sharp. He made no judgments; neither did he simply accept Eva’s innocence. Was Julia rushing too blindly to her friend’s defense?
She remembered Eva’s eager secret about her trip to Paris with Jerome. There was something poignant in her urgency, as if she were trying to outrun fate, to affirm their bond before anything could sever it. Beneath her preoccupied calm, had Eva been afraid? How excruciating to have reached the very brink of her dream. She’d nearly bubbled last week with the jubilant sense that she was about to break free into something new and wonderful. Her new life, her literary arrival, was so close. Timson’s anger about the manuscript had seemed only an obstacle to Eva, not a defeat. Why would she destroy all that by killing Timson, especially when she felt confident she could appease his anger?
Julia forced herself to taste the omelet. That was the wrong question. Instead she should ask, Was Eva’s envisioned future—a published novel, marriage, and a new career—worth risking everything for? Would she have killed Timson rather than let him crush her dreams?
At first Julia had felt certain that no, Eva’s gentle nature and decency made such a thing unthinkable. It was the pretty answer, but was it entirely honest? Any human heart was a maelstrom of raw and even base impulses. Julia had faced difficult choices herself last fall. Then she’d considered her situation dire, though now Eva’s crisis put that dilemma into perspective. Her choice between marriage or accepting Philip’s control of her purse strings hardly involved the risk of prison or death. Maybe Eva’s options had truly been unthinkable: kill a man, or let him destroy everything that mattered to her. How would Julia choose? How would anyone? Gentleness and decency might be no match for such a choice.
Julia managed a second bite, barely. “At first glance, perhaps. But that oaf of a policeman seemed ready to string her up without bothering to look beyond those appearances.”
“I know Hannity,” Philip said. “I’ll grant you he has ham hocks for manners, but he’s not the buffoon you suppose.” He cored several strawberries and slid the plate toward her. “Is the manuscript valuable?”
“Goldsmith paid her an advance for it, so he must figure it will sell well. Valuable in that sense, I suppose. But surely her jewelry is worth far more, and it’s easily turned into cash. The novel makes money only after it’s published.”
“That does seem to be the kicker,” Philip agreed. “Hannity’s probably right. No thief would haul away a bunch of papers unless he was after them. Most likely the jewelry was just gravy. It’s hard not to assume Timson was killed by someone who wanted that manuscript.”
Julia bit into a huge strawberry. At its sweet and juicy perfection, tears welled in her eyes, which she brushed away.
Where was Eva? Was she hiding or abducted? Was she injured—or even alive? That was the most painful question of all. Something deadly had occurred in Timson’s rooms last night. Had Eva found her way to safety, or had she been caught up in his violence?
Julia pushed away the berries. “She’s in terrible trouble. How can I help when I know almost nothing useful about her? I don’t know where she lives or whom she might turn to. Pablo boasts about discovering her, but I’m not sure he’d dirty his precious hands for her now. I have to do something, Philip. But what?”
He didn’t answer for a moment, perhaps discarding one of his usual flippant replies. There were many clichés available. Mercifully he offered none of them. “If she’s found,” he finally said, “and she says she’s innocent, you can believe her.”
“That’s not enough.”
“From a top-drawer white woman, it can be a great deal.”
Julia stared at him. How easy it was to reduce others to convenient categories—Negro writer, Jewish publisher—but she seldom thought of how neatly she too fit into a conventional box: top-drawer white woman. Reduced to wholly impersonal features. And yet without even noticing, she moved, as did everyone, in a world that treated her accordingly. How easy to believe the world was simply as it was for her, a woman for whom doors were whisked open with a deferential nod or quiet miss. Philip’s words reminded her that she too was forever sized up and sorted, no less than the blackest Negro or the most orthodox Jew. The difference was that doors swung open for women like Julia; they slammed shut for women like Eva.
“I’ll believe her.” Julia’s voice dropped. “And do what I can to help her.”
Philip looked at her thoughtfully. “Are you sure she needs your help? Or even wants it?”
Julia had a sudden memory of Austen holding her back when she’d have rushed to Eva’s defense that first night in Duveen’s apartment, after they’d witnessed anger flaring between Eva and Jerome. He’d been right: Eva could steer her own course through whatever tension simmered there. But this was different. It wasn’t a matter of respecting Eva’s right to speak and act for herself. From the hard set of Sergeant Hannity’s jaw, she feared Eva would not get that opportunity.
“I don’t mean fight her battles for her. I just want to make sure she gets the chance to tell her side of whatever happened.”
Philip watched her face. “Wading into this could get unpleasant. People will wonder what you’re up to. You might as well think it through now, because everyone will ask. Why involve yourself?”
She felt a flush of discomfort. Her first response was indignant. Wouldn’t anyone? Who could abandon a friend to such misfortune? But he was right. Natural empathy carried one only through the immediate crisis. Philip was asking about what came after that—the decision to do more, which only rarely followed the initial sympathy. Why insert herself into Eva’s trouble, and on such relatively skimpy footing? A fortnight ago they hadn’t even met. In short, why did she care so much?
Julia sat back. It was hard to explain. She knew only that a fist was clenching inside her chest. It pained her to imagine Eva’s anguish. Even if she was safe and unhurt (please, God), her future might be shattered. Weren’t friends bound by their troubles as much as their joys? Eva had shared with Julia her soaring triumph and her jubilant hopes, and now Julia would not flinch from sharing her horror too. She opened her mouth to answer,
but no words came out.
Philip peered for a long moment into her face and nodded.
The telephone bell was ringing. What time was it? Julia sat up in her bed, pushing back the heavy coverlet spread across her. She’d meant only to take two Spartans and close her eyes for a minute in hopes they might ease her raging headache. But now the drapes were drawn against a weak morning light. She pulled the clock to her face. Seven forty. Had she slept straight through?
The ringing stopped, and Philip’s voice sounded from the hall alcove where the instrument was kept.
Was this news about Eva? Was Eva herself calling? They hadn’t exchanged numbers, but it was easy to try the few Kydds listed in the directory. Julia flung off the coverlet, scrambled into her dressing gown, and stepped into the hall to listen.
“I see,” Philip said three times, at longish intervals. “Yes, all right. Frightfully grateful.” After another maddening silence, he rang off. He turned and saw her.
“That was Kessler. Evangeline Pruitt was located at 5:17 this morning.”
“Alive?” Julia stammered.
“She’s being questioned downtown as we speak.”
Her breath rushed out, as if stoppered for hours, in an exclamation of relief.
“He suggested I might commune with la femme this afternoon. It seems she ain’t inclined to warble for her hosts. He thinks my dulcet charms might persuade her to confess.”
Before Julia could protest the vile assumption, Philip added, “If I can find a sufficiently sturdy pair of coattails, you might care to ride along.”
CHAPTER 13
At two that afternoon they were ushered into Kessler’s offices on the fourth floor of the police headquarters building on Center and Broome Streets. It was a bleak place, oppressive with the remnants of a former elegance. The plaster wore the soot of a thousand cigars. The brown rug and draperies seemed to leak their brackish color into the room. Heavy oak woodwork was yellowed with varnish, and a bronze-and-china chandelier hung morosely overhead.
Kessler was speaking on the telephone, his chair swiveled toward the tall windows behind his desk. Over his shoulder he waved them in. They idly toured the room. Philip narrated what he could about the artist, unknown to Julia, who had produced a pair of bronze statuettes of warring Indians mounted atop a long oak table.
Kessler ended the call and spun his chair to face his guests. He began to greet Philip when he saw Julia and froze.
Philip shook his extended hand. “You remember Julia, my wayward sister? I thought I’d bring her along.”
“Miss Kydd.” Kessler inclined his head. “Please excuse us.”
To Philip he said, “Are you mad? She’s involved in the case.” He hurried around his desk and grasped Julia’s arm. “I’m sorry, Miss Kydd, but you can’t be here.”
“You can’t believe I was involved with that man’s death?” Julia protested.
“Don’t be an ass,” Philip said. “She’s discreet. She might even be useful to you.”
“I’d like to talk with my friend,” Julia said, shaking free of Kessler’s hand. “Not long, just for a quick word. Please?”
He eyed her. “I don’t yet know where you fit into this case, Miss Kydd. Until I do, I will ask the questions. And under no circumstances will you be speaking with Miss Pruitt. Not until we have a great deal more information ourselves.”
“I’ve already told your sergeant everything I know.”
“Then I’ll know more after I’ve read Hannity’s report. Until then, please wait outside.”
“Just grill her yourself, old man,” Philip suggested. “Plumb the depths of her nefarious soul if you must. But do it now, or we both leave.”
Kessler frowned at this but returned to his desk and found his pen to take notes. Julia marveled at Philip’s pull with the man. She knew only that they’d known each other for years. More than that, Kessler was married to Philip’s aunt Arlene, the youngest and now only surviving Vancill sister. Even so Kessler must value Philip’s occasional advice highly enough to defer to the younger man’s judgment. That she was still in the room at all was testament to that.
Kessler’s questions covered much of the same territory Hannity’s had. Julia recounted her tale with what she considered heroic patience. Philip had heard everything before but listened attentively.
“There,” he said when she’d finished. “As I said, she’s a better witness than suspect. Let her stay.”
Kessler still balked. “It’s a stretch having even you here, Kydd. This isn’t some three-ring circus to entertain your idle friends and family. I can’t risk her chattering about this at her next mah-jongg luncheon and jeopardizing my investigation.”
“My concern here is hardly idle,” Julia objected, “and I never chatter, as my brother can—”
“We’re a package set,” Philip said. “Two Kydds for the bother of one.”
“Good God. One of you rooting around in police business is bad enough.”
“Don’t forget how useful this old snout has been to you. Accept our terms and get on with it.”
Kessler dropped into his chair. “I suppose she can stay, but only until Hannity brings up the suspect.” He eyed Julia uneasily. “You’re to be well out in the lobby before he comes. On no account do I want you speaking to or even seeing Miss Pruitt. Is that clear, Miss Kydd?”
Julia nodded. Infuriating, but clear.
“Agreed. Now, what can you tell me about the case thus far?” Philip motioned Julia into one of the deep leather chairs facing Kessler’s desk and drew up another for himself.
Kessler hesitated, scowling at Julia. “We found Timson just before seven yesterday morning, after a call came in to the local precinct. We all knew the man, of course. He’s heavily involved in backroom stuff—mostly numbers rackets. Not one of our more illustrious citizens.”
“The man was a skunk,” Julia said. “Anyone could see that.” She scooted forward. “I suppose you’re honor bound to investigate all murders, but if ever there was a case for skimping, this has to be it. Can’t you ease up and consider Timson’s death a favor to the city?”
Kessler bristled. “The law doesn’t work that way. No one deserves to be murdered.”
For an awful moment Julia feared Philip would argue the point—Bluebeard? Jack the Ripper? Attila the Hun? She could almost see his mind rising to the juicy bait. But before he could disappear down that rabbit hole, Kessler spoke again.
“As I was saying, Timson’s crooked, but he’s always been careful to keep Carlotta’s high-class downtown clientele happy. And that clientele includes a pretty elite swath from city hall. So when the boys got the call, they knew it could be a tickler and alerted me first thing. I got there soon after Hannity.”
He extended his humidor to Philip, who declined. Kessler lit a Corona Perfecto.
“Who called it in?” Philip asked.
“Carlotta’s manager, a chap named Bobby Hobart. He called us, and then he called Martin Wallace, asking for help in case trouble broke out downstairs.”
Julia dipped her head to shade her eyes beneath her hat brim. She didn’t want either man to notice her interest at the mention of Wallace’s name. The mysterious blond man with a quiet power she didn’t yet understand.
“Now why would he do that?” Philip stretched his legs and lit one of his own Régies. “Why would he phone the enterprising Mr. Wallace?”
“I suppose because he has one of the few level heads up in that neck of the woods. Wallace understands the sensitive nature of the situation. Both colored and white club owners listen to him, and that’s no small testament to his reputation as a square dealer.”
“So first on the scene, or nearly. A prime suspect, surely?”
“He certainly knew Timson moderately well. They had a few business dealings in the past, but nothing special. He’s known as a tough but honest businessman, the sort who sees that giving others a fair shake pays dividends down the line. You’ve met him, at the Stuyvesant? We’ve go
lfed together on occasion. He owns a few of the smaller Harlem clubs, but he’s mostly involved in commercial real estate. Something of a fresh horse in politics as well. He sits on a passel of those citizen committees the governor likes to ballyhoo. They say he’s caught the eye of the party bosses in Albany. Rumor has it he may take a run at Wadsworth’s Senate seat next year.”
“A criminal profile if ever I heard one,” Philip said.
Kessler ignored this. “But we questioned him at length yesterday. Wallace has no connection to the missing manuscript, and a dozen witnesses confirmed his whereabouts all night. Seems he met no less than Senator James at Carlotta’s that night, and together they went on to one of Wallace’s clubs on Seventh Avenue. Neither left until Hobart telephoned.
“And he’s helping us now. I’ve asked him to talk to the locals, keep a lid on things. Time is of the essence here. Too many short tempers in the mix.”
He glanced at Philip, who for once sat mute. “This needs to be handled carefully. Plenty of unscrupulous people are angry about Timson’s death, and they’re itching for vengeance. I imagine Eva Pruitt seems as likely a killer to them as she does to us. Whether she knows it or not, she’s far better off in here with us than out on the streets, where a justice much rougher than ours often prevails.”
“You mean some kind of vigilante violence?” Julia’s voice rose.
Kessler grimaced at the term. “That’s why we need to wrap this up quickly.”
“At least the papers aren’t yet hounding you,” Philip said. “Maybe they’re sensible enough to see the city’s better off with the johnny dead. As long as you keep the race element quiet.”
“What do you mean?” Julia’s chest constricted again. But she knew exactly what he meant. The race element was a sanitized euphemism for the violence burgeoning throughout the South and elsewhere. Race per se wasn’t the problem. The problem was the Ku Klux Klan’s crusade to punish colored people for failing to respect the “God-given rights of white folks.” Sometimes that meant neglecting to step back when white ladies wished to use the pavement; sometimes it meant laughing too loud when a white gentleman was listening to the wireless. If a mob believed Eva had put a bullet in a white man’s brain, their retribution would be swift and terrible.
