Joe turned around. “Anna.”
She looked at Joe, accusing him with her eyes. “Don’t say it, because I’ll hate you forever and it isn’t true.”
“Anna—”
“Don’t say it!”
Anna sat as far from Joe on the trolley as possible, not because of anything he’d said, but because she knew what he was thinking. This dead man, this Samuel Grayson, had been blackmailing Georges and now he’d turned up dead.
Georges was their prime suspect.
Joe stared at Anna across the cable car. He swore under his breath, got up, and moved next to her. “Anna . . .”
“You think Georges killed him,” Anna said flatly.
Joe said nothing. He simply put his head in his hands.
“You think we should at least look into it. I know you. You’ll jump to all kinds of conclusions, like that Georges drugged Flossie and gave her to the man from Mars. That he has all kinds of sins to hide,” Anna said. “And if you convict Georges, he’s dead meat. And he didn’t do any of it. I know he didn’t do it. If Grayson blackmailed Georges, he’s blackmailed other men, too—guilty ones. And Georges never paid Grayson. So, who gave Grayson the three thousand dollars?”
Joe stayed silent.
Anna said, “I know what you’re thinking. You think that just because Georges says he never paid Grayson, doesn’t mean he didn’t. Fine, but let me ask you this. Would a banker kill a man execution style? That’s the purview of gangsters or military men.”
Joe said nothing.
“So, you think he hired someone,” she stated flatly.
“I didn’t say that,” Joe whispered dully.
“What about his gambling? And Flossie’s violent father, hm? And he is a violent man—a military man. You know what, it was probably the man from Mars. He has the most to hide. So, don’t you dare jump to irrational conclusions.”
“Anna, sweetheart—”
Anna stood and got off the trolley, though it wasn’t her stop.
Grayson had banked at Farmers and Merchants, and Anna knew the manager. He had worked at her father’s bank before the gates of hell had opened and swallowed it up. If the three one-thousand-dollar deposits were made by check, she might convince the manager to tell her whom they were from.
“Hello Mr. Hale.”
“Why hello Miss Blanc. How is your father?”
“Terrible, thank you,” said Anna. “Impoverished. And, I’m afraid he’s dying. It’s the French disease, and he’s in excruciating pain. They’re likely going to amputate.” Since her father was French, this seemed plausible.
The man looked horrified. “Oh, I’m—”
“Thank you. I confess, it’s difficult. We’re very, very, very close.” She regretted that it wasn’t true. Her father was dead to her. And now the only man she was close to was dead to her, and Georges may soon hang though he was obviously innocent. No one who loved their sister that much could kill a man. Unless, of course, that man had wronged his sister. It brought tears to her eyes.
“Please don’t cry.” The banker lent Anna his handkerchief.
“Mr. Hale, would you help me with something?”
“Anything, Miss Blanc.”
“I’m with the police now, you see.
“Yes, I heard.”
“And I’m investigating a murder.” She dabbed her eyes. “The victim was your customer. A Samuel Grayson. I need to know the balance on his account. Also, he made three one-thousand-dollar deposits into your bank—four weeks ago, eight weeks ago, and one a month earlier. I need to know if those were checks. If they were checks, I need to know the names on the checks.” She handed him Samuel Grayson’s deposit slips.
“Are you quite certain he’s dead?”
“I saw him myself. Shot in the head and eaten by ants. Did you know him? I could get you pictures.”
Mr. Hale stood mute for a minute, vigorously turning a finger in his ear canal. A nervous habit? Anna tried not to show her disgust. It was hard to suppress. Disgust lingered very close to the surface. Disgust for Joe, disgust for her father, disgust for blackmailers, murderers, and macquereaus everywhere.
“Right.” He left the room and returned with an oversized leather ledger that he carried with both hands and heaved onto a desk. He flipped through it. “He has a zero balance, Miss Blanc. The checks were from. Hm . . .” He ran a finger down the ledger. “All three checks were from a W.H. Stevens, Esquire.”
Anna gave him a gracious smile, though inside she reeled. W.H. Stevens was the name of Mrs. Rosenberg’s lawyer, linking Grayson to the Jonquil Apartments. This supported Anna’s blackmail theory. Which supported Joe’s unspoken Georges-as-suspect theory, though he was far from proving it.
Anna wandered the two miles back to the station, deliberately taking the long way. Exercise helped her think. If she ever needed her wits about her, she needed them now. She stopped for a Coca Cola. She stopped to buy a new hat on credit, knowing Georges would pay the bill. It gave her no joy. It was Georges’s brotherly companionship that gave her joy, not his money and what it could buy. His money be damned. Her father could keep it, for all Anna cared. She loved her brother.
Still, she stopped once more to buy shoes; but Anna merely went through the motions of walking, drinking, and shopping. Her mind had fixed on Samuel Grayson and how to prove Georges’s innocence.
If Grayson was out of money, he couldn’t be that good at poker, despite what Lester Shepherd had said about his prowess. More likely, Samuel Grayson was a braggart. As far as Anna could tell, he had five dollars to his name, plus whatever had been stolen from his corpse. Maybe he was in debt to some thug in Chinatown who had wanted to make an example of him.
Then there was W.H. Stevens, Esquire. Grayson was definitely in the blackmailing business, possibly putting the squeeze on Mrs. Rosenberg as well as Georges, and who knew how many others. Happily, Anna now had leads to follow.
But there were a hundred things on Anna’s to-do list, and it was already five o’clock. She had to check on the cow ring, organize sewing projects for the criminal ladies, feed Matilda her mush, locate the little villain, Eliel Villalobos, find jobs for prostitutes, solicit donations of food and clothing, nurse any women in the receiving hospital or get Matilda to do it, and kill Joe Singer before he threw her brother in the hoosegow again. But most importantly, she needed to talk to Mrs. Rosenberg and the lawyer, W.H. Stevens. She needed to interview Grayson’s fiancée, Flossie, and she needed to go to the gambling hall where Samuel Grayson played poker, because sometimes the best legal defense is a shadow of a doubt.
If Anna could convince the jury, that is, Joe Singer, that there were a hundred people who may have wanted Grayson dead, it would take the pressure off Georges.
At the station, Anna found Joe Singer writing a letter to Sergeant Tribble regarding the whereabouts and the character of Flossie Edmands’s father.
“Anna, I’m trying to cover all the bases. I hope to God Flossie’s father did it, but . . .”
“But what?”
“No buts. Where’ve you been?”
“I went to Samuel Grayson’s bank. The money came from W.H. Stevens. Likely, Grayson was blackmailing Mrs. Rosenberg. Stevens is, after all, her lawyer.”
“I know. I called the bank.”
It was so easy to do detective work when you were an actual detective. Doors flew open. Innocent mouths talked.
“Mrs. Rosenberg probably killed Grayson. And you know Grayson was broke and likely owed money at some gambling den in Chinatown. They probably conspired with Mrs. Rosenberg and killed him, too.”
Joe took her arm and looked her in the face. “Anna, are you listening to yourself?”
Anna was, and she sounded crazy. She needed to get her bearings, but she would do it on her own. “I . . . have to check on the criminal ladies.” She grimaced. “Goodnight.”
When Anna arrived back in the women’s department, she found Matron Clemens to be out at yet another Friday Morning Club meetin
g, though it wasn’t Friday morning, but rather Tuesday afternoon. She would suggest a new title for the Club. “The Various Times of the Day and Week Club” perhaps, or more aptly, “The Ladies Who Mean Well but Offend Prostitutes Club.”
In the cow ring, women sat idle because Anna hadn’t been there to direct them—and this when the jail was short of bedclothes. Anna heaved in a bolt of linen, a measuring tape, thimbles, spools of thread, and needles. Sheets needed to be cut to size and hemmed. She contemplated the wisdom of giving the ladies shears, weighed against the burden of doing it herself when she had no time and didn’t actually know how. She surveyed the faces of the ladies and reviewed their crimes. There were several shoplifters—part of a ring—a forger, a counterfeiter, and a lady who used tools to snip off jewelry from unsuspecting people. One dear woman had shot her husband in the thigh, having missed the bulls-eye. From what Anna could tell, he sorely deserved it. There was a battered woman seeking refuge with her children, one lady found drunk, barefoot, and without a coat in the streets, and a woman accused of marrying two different men when she was already someone else’s wife. There were several lodgers who just needed a place to sleep, and there was Matilda.
Anna figured they would all make fine citizens had they been in different circumstances and she would venture to trust them. She distributed the needles, thimbles, and threads. She gave the shears to the woman with multiple husbands, figuring she had to sew for three different households and would likely have the most practice.
The more hardened criminal ladies—the ones in the felony cells—were perhaps less trustworthy. One lady could not be convinced to keep her clothes on and awaited the men from the bat house. Another had shot her husband successfully, though she swears she hadn’t meant to. Mrs. Rosenberg languished here, because Anna felt it wasn’t fair for Matilda to have to see her. Anna checked to make sure they were well. They appeared to be, though Mrs. Rosenberg had her head between her knees.
Matilda informed Anna that they had not washed linens that morning. Without the matrons to prod the jailer, the washing did not get done. Now, it would have to wait until tomorrow. At least Georges was home and would not need to sleep on dirty linens.
When the ladies were settled for the evening, Anna returned to her tiny apartment. She packed her bags, including her two spare uniforms, two nightgowns, two negligees, three dinner gowns, three tea gowns, three pairs of shoes, three hats in boxes, her toothbrush, her hairbrush, walnut stain for her lashes, a pot of Princess Pat rouge, and sufficient undermuslins to stay with Georges for a week. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was all she could reasonably carry in two trips to the taxi cab, with the driver’s help.
Anna took the cab to Georges’s hotel, knowing he would pay the fare. Georges’s man, the cab driver, and the doorman carried all her things to the penthouse on the eighth floor. She found her brother napping, so Anna made herself at home. She didn’t dare disturb his rest—not to then deliver disturbing news. She would let him sleep.
Fresh gillyflowers stood for “bounds of affection” in a vase by her bed alongside a red foil box of chocolates. Anna bit into six different chocolates, looking for a flavor that would take away her pain. None did. She stripped out of her uniform and filled the large tub in her private bath. As she soaked in the warm, lavender-scented water, she thought of Joe Singer. Being naked reminded her of Joe every time. She climbed out, put her underwear on, and climbed back in. Her drawers swirled in the water.
Anna patted herself dry and changed into a tea gown, giving all her other clothes to the hotel maid to be properly laundered as her own efforts had been ho hum. She kept back only one glorious French lace nightgown and one uniform for the morning. As the maid rolled away a basket full of Anna’s clothes, Georges appeared in the living room, looking haggard.
Anna smiled weakly and hurried to his side. “Georges, dear. Are you well? You haven’t had a fit, have you?”
Georges’s face fell. “Anna, please don’t treat me like an invalid. It’s a blow to my manhood. I’m fine.”
“You are fine, then?”
“I’m as fine as can be. Though your fiancé annoys me.”
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”
Georges sat down on the settee and patted the cushion beside him. “Tell me, Anna. I can take it.”
“I need to warn you, dearest. A man who worked at the Jonquil has been murdered. I think he might be your blackmailer. He was receiving payments from Mrs. Rosenberg’s lawyer.”
Georges looked very somber. “What was his name?”
“Samuel Grayson.”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Anna’s stomach seized. She’d been right. “Obviously that woman was helping him—the one who recognized your picture in the paper.”
Georges placed a hand on Anna’s arm. “She might be in danger. You have told Detective Singer?”
Anna’s guts unwound a bit. Georges was so good, always thinking of others. Even blackmailers. “Perhaps we should call your defense attorney, because the LAPD could finger you for the crime. I expect Joe Singer will call on you in the morrow.”
“Your fiancé thinks I did it?”
“He never said so. I just want to be cautious.”
Georges began to tremble, and in a moment, he was on the floor, jerking and writhing. Anna dropped to her knees. “Thomas! Bring his medicine!”
The manservant came with the syringe and the vial.
“You’re stronger. You hold him. I’ll give the shot.”
Thomas helped Anna pull Georges’s clothes away to bare his shoulder, then held him down, while Anna filled the syringe, held her breath, and jabbed it into Georges’s arm. Georges calmed.
“How often does this happen?” Anna asked.
“Once every few months. Usually, his bromides control it. But I think he’s been under too much pressure, Miss.”
“Indeed, he has. False accusations. And now this murder.” Anna wiped spittle from the corner of Georges’s mouth with her handkerchief. “Let’s get him to bed.”
Anna sat by Georges’s bedside until the black sky began turning gray, holding his hand, and drinking hot cocoa, which Thomas brought her—six cups in succession. It was a world cocoa record. Finally, he convinced her to go to bed. She slept like the dead in her new bedroom in lace and on clean crisp sheets.
In the morning, she awoke to the doorbell ringing, not simply once—she could sleep through one ring—but someone laying on the doorbell as if it were a horn. Anna moaned, “Thomas! The door.”
No one answered.
Anna sought her robe de nuit and remembered she’d given it to the maid to wash. She dragged herself in her French lace nightgown to the offending caller, growling through the door, “Who is it?”
“Detective Singer, and you’re late for work.”
Anna peeked through the peep hole and there he was, looking handsome and fed up.
Anna opened. “Detective Singer? Not Joe? We’re no longer on a first name basis? Honestly, that suits me fine.”
“I’m here in my official capacity. I’m just trying to remember that.”
“Remember all you like.” Anna opened the door to let him in.
“I will.” Joe’s eyes fixed on her décolletage. He grit his teeth. “But that nightgown isn’t helping.”
“Well, I hope you’re discombobulated with desire.”
“Where’s Georges?”
“Mr. Devereaux is sleeping. He had a fit last night. I sat up with him for most of the night.”
“Well, can you wake him up?”
Anna huffed and stomped to Georges’s bedroom, jiggling corsetless beneath her nightgown. “He sleeps very soundly when he’s had a shot.” She knocked gently, then pushed the door open. “Georges?”
Georges’s bed lay empty and unmade. A full glass of water rested on the night table.
Anna’s voice held a lilt of surprise. “He’s gone.” She strode to the window and peeked through the drapes, scanning the bu
stling city eight floors below.
“Do you have any idea where he’s gone?”
“No. A mineral springs, maybe? He was very ill last night. I’m sure he left a note. I’ll just look for it.”
Anna searched around the hotel room and indeed found a note at the place set for her at the breakfast table. She opened it and read,
Dearest Sister,
Thank you for nursing me last night. You are an angel. I didn’t want to wake you, but I am going away to rest—maybe a few days, maybe longer. Please keep the home fires burning. Order anything you like from the hotel.
With bounds of affection,
Georges
Anna stared at Joe with bush baby eyes.
Joe pounded the door frame. “He’s fled, Anna.” He stormed back into Georges’s bedroom and appropriated the glass on the nightstand, dumping the water in a palm plant that sat on a wrought iron stand in the corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting his fingerprints to see if they match the print on the gun.”
CHAPTER 25
Mr. W.H. Stevens’s law office was a dull place for waiting. It smelled joyless, like filing cabinets, piles of contracts, and envelope glue. Anna should have brought a nosegay and a copy of Le Mode. With nothing to occupy her mind, her thoughts ran wild. Georges had gone away to rest, but she did not know where. She knew it looked bad.
The door to the hallway opened and Joe Singer entered. He sat next to Anna on the bench. “Great minds think alike.”
“Did you lift Georges’s fingerprint, yet?”
“Yes. The boys are checking for a match.”
“I could arrest you for stealing that glass. It’s crystal.”
“You don’t have powers of arrest.”
“I could make a citizen’s arrest.”
Joe took the glass out of his satchel and handed it to Anna.
“You know that if you put Georges on trial for the Griffith Park murder, and he’s innocent, he’ll be exonerated, and I will never forgive you.”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 17
