Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  I blinked. Ahead were buildings. And more water. And then the skyscrapers of Manhattan. I’d just assumed Hugh would circle the plane back to the aerodrome. Instead, we were flying toward the city.

  “What are you doing?” I screamed at him.

  “Showing you the town!”

  I’d seen the town—from the proper perspective of street level. I’d even seen it from fifty-eight stories high. The words “go back” were on the tip of my tongue, but the air gulped them down before they could get themselves said. Dear God. I was boneless with fear, but I was rapt.

  Beulah followed the coast. More houses appeared below, and people. It was such a beautiful day, strollers and Sunday picnickers had been drawn to the beach. Now they were all looking up, shading their eyes, pointing as we streaked overhead. I looked down at them, sick with envy. Indian summer? Maybe on the ground. Up here, frigid air blew through my duster, my clothes, my bones. I longed to be back on earth instead of perched aloft, teeth chattering, nerves screaming like the unholy whine of the engine behind me.

  We skimmed over a body of water; then there were houses below. Staten Island? Ahead was lower Manhattan. The Woolworth Building, of course, its tower like a cathedral that had overshot its base. And out in the harbor, the Statue of Liberty.

  After we passed the tip of Staten Island, we flew over the Jersey piers and straight toward Lady Liberty, right by her torch. Crowds waved from the ground, as if we were part of a show. I only had a moment to look back at them all, wondering how I could send a distress signal, before Hugh banked right and we were headed back toward the southern tip of Manhattan. Toward my old friend the Woolworth Building.

  Right toward it. My heartbeat thundered in panic. “Watch out!” I shrieked.

  We shaved by so close I could see into the building’s lantern tower, the place I’d almost died last summer.

  Hugh didn’t look at me. Only laughed.

  He enjoyed terrifying me. And why not? If he did kill Guy, he had every reason now to wish me dead, too, a bothersome woman asking too many questions. It would be so easy for him—a simple matter of a violent dip, a firm shove. My crumpled body would be found on the pavement, or in a field, or just washed up on the shoreline. I could imagine the sensation in the press. WOMAN DROPS OUT OF AIRPLANE. And no one would imagine Hugh had done anything on purpose. Airplanes were inherently dangerous, and there would be no witnesses. Callie might wonder why I’d gone flying with Hugh, stealing her thunder, but she would never know what exactly had happened.

  I would simply be erased. Hugh’s worries would be over.

  The streets of my much-loved adopted city blurred past below me, and each landmark I picked out caused a pang of longing. The elegant Singer Building . . . the Brooklyn Bridge . . . Jefferson Market’s tower . . . the sharp narrow V of the Flatiron Building. I sighted the charred remnant of the space on Thirty-eighth where Van Hooten and McChesney had been. Hugh took us up to Central Park, banking left and flying past the great residential buildings. The Dakota. The Ansonia. With each wide boulevard we passed, I braced myself. Will he do it here? Or will he wait until we’re over water?

  What I wouldn’t do to be safe in my apartment again, or at Aunt Irene’s, or playing cards with Otto in his studio flat. A normal Sunday.

  We crossed the Hudson, flying toward Hoboken. Now, I thought. I braced myself for that shove, rigid in my seat, hanging on so tight my hands ached. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  But he didn’t touch me. When my fears cleared enough for my senses to register the world around me again, Hugh was piloting us back to his air park. We were farther from the ocean than we’d been going in, but we were definitely flying back.

  Landing was worse than taking off. The plane descended by a series of tummy-roiling drops; then, horrifyingly, the engine cut out and we careened toward the ground, rushing and straining in what felt like a death plunge. I closed my eyes again, held on, and shrieked out a final prayer.

  And then it was over. The plane stopped vibrating, even if my bones didn’t. I opened my eyes. We were far from the hangar.

  I yanked off my goggles and slid off my seat to the ground. My body was noodle limp, but my nerves were still jumping. I tore off my cap and hurled it at Hugh. “You sadist!”

  He raised his hands, feigning shock. “I just gave you the ride of a lifetime, and that’s all you can say? That I’m a sadist?”

  “Did you expect thanks? You deliberately tried to terrify me. Don’t deny it.”

  He pushed his goggles to the top of his head. “I won’t deny that I enjoyed watching you squirm. After all, didn’t you come here to wring a confession from me that I’d killed my brother?”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me you were innocent? I thought you were going to toss me out of the plane.”

  He laughed. Laughed. “Maybe you’ll think twice next time before you go bothering people with your harebrained suspicions.”

  “It’s not harebrained to suspect those closest to Guy. People are rarely poisoned at random.”

  He shook his head. “If I were truly a mad killer, Miss Faulk, would you still be alive after that flight? I could have disposed of you easily.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “There’s your answer, then. Not that you should need proof. I had nothing to gain by killing Guy.”

  “What about the baby? Myrna’s baby is your mother’s only grandchild. You don’t see that as a threat to your inheritance?”

  He ripped off his gloves. “Good God. You really do take me for some kind of monster.”

  “You told Jacob Cohen you couldn’t be sure that the baby was Guy’s.”

  His jaw dropped. “That’s a damned lie. I tried to convince Guy to acknowledge the baby as his own. He wouldn’t. And when Jacob Cohen came here after Guy died, I offered him money. My own money.”

  “Hush money?”

  His face reddened. “Money for the baby’s upkeep. But Jacob said the demented girl wouldn’t accept it. She wants the Van Hooten name and everything that goes with it for her son, or nothing. That, of course, is not in my power. I told Jacob that my mother wouldn’t believe the baby’s paternity—perhaps that’s why he said what he did. I don’t like that fellow. I considered a scheme to pass money surreptitiously to Myrna through Jacob, but I worried bookies and con artists would see more of the money than that child would. For all the difference in their social status, he and Guy were peas in a pod.”

  So he’d offered money for the child’s upkeep and Myrna didn’t want it? She hadn’t told me that. Of course, Hugh could be handing me a line, but everything he said rang true. Myrna was as stubbornly proud as he said, and Jacob, even according to the testimony of his own sister, was just as untrustworthy.

  “It would be like Myrna to care more for the acknowledgment than the money,” I admitted.

  “The girl’s an idiot.” He tapped his gloves against his thigh. “First she was naïve enough to let Guy connive her into his bed, and when she found herself in trouble she clung to the notion that he would sweep her away to our mother’s house, where she would be welcomed with open arms.”

  “You’re certain your mother would shun her?”

  “A penniless Jewess with an illegitimate child?” He sniffed. “Mother wouldn’t even hire her as a maid.”

  Lovely people, the Van Hootens. “A Jewish woman who is the mother of your mother’s first grandchild, and deserves as much respect as any debutante your mother might have picked out for Guy.”

  “You and I might think so, but my mother never would.”

  “So when you were at the office and argued with your brother . . .”

  “You’re a regular repository of tittle-tattle, aren’t you?” Sighing, he explained, “When I heard about the Cohen girl through the grapevine, I thought Guy had behaved abominably. So yes, I argued with Guy, but he convinced me of the hopelessness of the case. Mother would not only not disapprove of the Cohen girl, the scandal of it would make her apoplect
ic.”

  Would you kill our mother?

  That’s what Guy had meant.

  “Guy was Mother’s favorite, and he was shameless in using her partiality to his advantage. But he knew her, and he was sure she would categorically reject this illegitimate child.”

  And Guy didn’t have the moral courage to follow his own heart and go his own way.

  I wondered if they both weren’t selling Mrs. Van Hooten short, though. “That boy is your mother’s own flesh and blood,” I pointed out. “Her grandson. Perhaps she would want a living piece of Guy now.”

  “Even if the child was a reminder of her darling’s indiscretions? An embarrassing public acknowledgement that her boy was less than perfect?” He twisted his gloves in his hands. “No, for once in his life, Guy was right. Mother would see the boy as a stain on the family. She will protect the Van Hooten name to her dying breath. Perhaps you don’t understand how callous people can be when there’s an old family’s reputation at stake.”

  Lowly Faulks could be protective of their name, too. Aunt Sonja had sent me away partly because she was afraid my shame would taint her son’s chances in life. The memory made anger rise in me. Why did shame have to come into it?

  “Just a little more courage would solve a lot of life’s problems,” I said.

  He frowned. “Courage?”

  “Courage to face down so-called polite society, to ask better from people, and see if they might not rise above their prejudices.”

  For the first time since we landed, he looked more thoughtful than angry. “Look, I know nothing of my brother’s publishing business. But if you truly believe Ogden McChesney didn’t kill him, then what about Guy’s other work associates? There must have been someone at work Guy irritated. He certainly had that effect on me.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I said.

  Hugh regarded me for a moment, studying me as he might a map. Then he shook his head. “With you on the case, the criminal world must be all atremble.”

  Just when I’d almost forgiven him for scaring me half to death. I tossed up my hands. “Never mind getting me back to the hangar. I’d rather walk.”

  “No need.” He nodded to something behind me.

  A red car bumped down the field. With Callie driving, it looked like a whirlwind on wheels. The Stutz skidded to a stop not far away and was switched off with a gasp and a shudder. She hopped out, cap askew. Teddy was right on her heels.

  “Louise, are you all right?” she called out. “Did you have trouble?”

  “No, no trouble,” Hugh answered, his mouth a grim line as he eyed Teddy.

  “Then what’s the big idea landing out here?” Teddy asked. “We saw you coming in, and then you disappeared over the hill.”

  “I just wanted to demonstrate a field landing to this friend of yours. Give her a taste of real flying.”

  Callie narrowed her eyes on me. “You could’ve knocked me over with a sneeze when I saw you taking off. What got into you?”

  I shrugged. My knees still felt noodly beneath me, and I was so relieved to see her, I wasn’t quite sure I trusted my voice.

  “Louise is curious by nature,” Hugh said. “Lucky she’s not a cat.”

  “Did you and Teddy go up?” I managed to ask.

  Callie turned toward Teddy, exasperated. “Someone’s having engine trouble. All I did was spend an hour getting lectured and oily. And for this I gave up a chance to meet Lee Shubert!”

  Teddy looked sheepish. “Maybe next time. But at least Louise got to fly. How was it?”

  “A thrill.” I avoided Hugh’s gaze. “I’ll never forget it.”

  CHAPTER 15

  On Monday, Callie returned to Philadelphia for Broadway Frolics’ week of tryouts. I rattled around the flat, wondering what to do next. I sat down to make a list of suspects in Guy’s murder, but after an hour I was still staring at a blank page. In the afternoon, I headed uptown to my aunt’s. Miriam had agreed to start work for her, and I was curious and a little apprehensive about how her first day had gone. I didn’t actually have any idea how competent Miriam was, or how well she and my aunt would get along.

  If the arrangement didn’t work out, what then? Awkwardness all around. Perhaps I should have been there this morning to help Miriam settle in. I would miss having my aunt’s to go to every day, and chumming around with Walter and even grumpy Bernice.

  By the time I was knocking at the door, I’d decided that if things didn’t work out with Miriam, I would simply find a way to squeeze in time to resume my typing duties for my aunt.

  When I saw Aunt Irene, though, she could hardly contain herself. “Weren’t you smart to send Miriam to me. What a marvel. You can’t believe the amount of work she got done today—typed my pages, and actually gave me a few ideas for fixing problems that I hadn’t noticed yet. Wonderful ideas! Of course, the prospect of revising threw me into a tizzy. She’ll have to retype the whole book, I warned her. But Miriam said not to worry, it shouldn’t take her but a week, and anyway what had been done was a little messy anyway.”

  My face froze in a rictus smile.

  “Not that she was critical of you. Not at all. And what do you think—for her first day she brought us a sweet potato pie and insisted we all have a piece.”

  “Uh-oh.” Bernice was never happy about sharing culinary glory. “How did that go over?”

  “Bernice took one bite and burst into tears. Said it tasted exactly like the pie her grandmother used to make. I don’t think I had ever seen her quite so emotional.”

  It sounded as if Miriam had made a hit. Despite my bruised pride, I was glad.

  When Walter came in, I half expected him to join in the paean to Miriam. “She might be a good baker and typist,” he assured me, “but I don’t think she’ll ever catch a criminal.”

  His loyalty made me smile. “Give her time.” After typing up the fictionalized account of last summer’s murder, Miriam would know as much about detective work as I did.

  Tuesday brought me no closer to knowing how to restart my investigation, so I suggested an impromptu trip to Philadelphia to Otto. We left on Wednesday morning and attended Callie’s show that night. I was eager to see it. If Callie was right about its dubious chances of success, I might not have the chance to go to the show on Broadway, since I would be working the night shift in a new job the week of the opening . . . and possible closing.

  Broadway Frolics was a frothy toe-tapper of a musical comedy. Callie hadn’t been kidding about the leading actress’s voice, but even that didn’t harm the show overmuch. The revelation to me was Callie herself. She really did get a laugh and applause for her single line. She was also a standout in the chorus, and it wasn’t just pride in my friend that made me think so. By turns, she was graceful, sultry, and wonderfully comic. Otto and I could barely contain ourselves.

  When she came out the stage door and saw us standing there, holding out our programs for her to sign, Callie nearly fell over. She laughed and hugged us.

  “You tricksters—why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “We wanted to surprise you.”

  She glanced around as if expecting someone else to join us. “Did Teddy plan this?”

  Otto and I looked at each other.

  “Teddy?” I repeated. “No, we did this on our own.”

  “Oh.” Anxiety flashed through her eyes, but she shook it off. “I’ve been expecting him to come down, or call, or at least send a wire.”

  “Teddy hasn’t been here?” I’d assumed he would be in Philadelphia for most of the out-of-town run of the show.

  “He’s probably busy with something,” she said.

  I nodded, but her words caused a ripple of worry. It was hard to imagine Teddy busy.

  We went out and celebrated a bit too much, and stumbled back to our rooms at the Continental Hotel on Chestnut Street in the small hours. The next morning on the train back, both Otto and I were feeling the effects of last night’s revelry. In the lounge car, we nu
rsed coffees and headache powders. I was staring out the window when Otto kicked my leg under the table.

  “What’s the—”

  A shadow fell over us. I looked up and Leonard Cain, a thick cigar clamped in his mouth, loomed over our table. “What are you two doing on this train.”

  He had a lot of crust. He might control the clientele of the Omnium Club, but he didn’t own the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  I was about to retort that it was none of his business, but Otto piped up, “Just coming back from seeing a show in Philly.”

  Cain twirled the cigar as he contemplated us through narrowed eyes. Then he sat down. “See, I’m a little curious because I was tipped off that the police were in my club the night you two were there. And then somebody tells me later that they recognized this one”—he jabbed a thumb at me—“from the papers last summer. That she worked with the police.”

  “I wasn’t working with the police that night at the Omnium,” I said. “I didn’t even know they were there until later.”

  His dark brows rose. “How’d you find out?”

  “I spoke to a detective.” That sounded bad, so I added, “But he was just telling me to stay away from your club.”

  “And she has,” Otto said. “We both have.”

  “And yet you just happened to be on this train the same time I am,” he said. “Just coincidence.”

  “That’s right,” Otto croaked.

  Cain paid no more attention to Otto than he would to a gnat. His dead-eyed stare was all for me. “You got nothing to do with the police now, I take it.”

  Otto and I looked at each other. “Not at the moment,” I said.

  Cain’s voice lowered to a gravelly whisper. “If I ever find you sticking your nose into my business again, girlie, watch out. I don’t care how many celebrities you know.” He struck a match to light his cigar and glowered at Otto, who shrank in his seat. “That goes for you, too, songwriter.”

  He left the car in a billow of blue smoke. Otto and I locked glances. Neither of us seemed to be breathing. Beads of sweat had popped out on his brow. I felt clammy, as well.