by Maia Chance
True. My balloon popped. If Chisholm hadn’t hired Ralph, who the heck had?
“I probably shouldn’t even be here,” I said. “Who knows who else Chisholm has enlisted to snitch on me.”
“Then you are on the lam,” Berta said. Her eyes sparkled.
“Yes. Oh. And I found this.” I dug out the gold lipstick tube from my handbag, and set it on the table.
“A lipstick?” Berta said. “Nanny Potter did not wear paint. At least, not when I saw her last weekend at the Arbuckles’ house.”
“She wasn’t really the type,” I said.
“She was an actress, though,” Ralph said.
I hunched forward, tapped the lipstick, and whispered, “This belongs to Sadie Street.” I removed the cap and showed them the pointy wear pattern. “Digton laughed it off, but I think this is our pivotal clue.”
“You think Sadie shot the nurserymaid and dropped a lipstick in the process?” Ralph asked.
“It’s a theory. Don’t forget that Hibbers saw the missing film reel in Sadie’s weekend bag.”
“Or Eloise Wright’s bag,” Berta said.
“Eloise is the more suspicious of the two,” Ralph said. “All of a sudden she’s managed to scrape together enough dough to leave her husband.”
“Maybe she’s so anxious to be rid of Gerald, she’d rather be broke,” I said.
“That doesn’t happen too often,” Ralph said. “Does it, Mrs. Woodby? Seems to me, usually ladies stick to rich hubbies like glue, no matter how rotten the fellow happens to be.”
My lips said nothing. But my eyes said, X-List.
“If it is indeed Sadie Street’s lipstick that you found,” Berta said, “then—”
“Shh, not so loud.” I looked around. Nobody appeared to be listening.
The waitress arrived. She plopped a thick wedge of banana cream pie in front of me.
There was still a God, then.
“If it is Sadie Street’s lipstick,” Berta said in a whisper, “you must prove it. Then you will be off the hook, and she will be arrested.”
“How can I prove it?” I asked.
“There’s only one thing to do, the way I see it.” Ralph sipped coffee. “Break into Sadie’s apartment.”
“We never learned her address,” Berta said.
I dug into my pie. “Back to square one.”
A lady at the next table spiraled around.
My forkful of pie hung in midair. “Miss Shanks,” I said. “I didn’t notice you without that flea-ridden fox fur.”
“Oh, it’s not fox fur, Duffy.” Ida leered at Cedric. At his lovely, fox-colored fur.
“You need to be straitjacketed!” I cried. “And, by golly, why are you always following me?”
She dragged her chair over to our table and sat. “Because, Duffy, you are where all the excitement is. Isn’t that right, Mr. Oliver?”
Ralph eyed her lazily, but his fingers clenched his coffee cup. “How’d you figure out my name?”
“Sources, my dear. Sources. Now—” Ida turned to me. “—what’s this I hear about Sadie Street’s lipstick?”
Berta grabbed the lipstick, dropped it into the handbag on her lap, and snapped the clasp. “What lipstick?” she said.
“I’m not stupid,” Ida said. “Or blind.”
“Could’ve fooled me, with that dress you’ve got on,” I said. It was the same one she’d had on last night: green tweed with orangey-red trim at the cuffs. I frowned. “Wait a minute.” I bent to peer under the oilcloth. “I knew it!” A few inches up from Ida’s hem was a rip. She’d repaired it with a safety pin. I straightened. “Sneak over any sharp fences lately? Say, anytime last night around midnight?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Ida adjusted her glasses.
I lowered my voice. “Stop bluffing. The police found a bit of your dress on the Arbuckles’ fence last night. Why didn’t you change?”
“I left the city in a hurry. Didn’t pack a spare.” She glanced over her shoulder.
I hadn’t seen Ida Shanks flustered since around the time we were learning our multiplication tables.
“I was only trying to take photographs of the motion picture people in the house,” Ida said. “How was I to know there would be another murder? But, since you have a rather savage gleam in your eye, Duffy, I’ll make you a deal.”
I glanced over at Berta; Berta made a slight nod. I looked back to Ida. “Go on.”
“I’ll turn over Sadie Street’s address if you keep your lips locked about seeing my torn dress.”
“You really must be desperate, striking a deal like that with me,” I said.
She shrugged. It came off a little jerky.
Could Ida really be a murderer? What motive could she have?
“Deal,” I said.
Ida took a dog-eared notebook from her satchel. She flipped through—it was chock-full of smeary scribbles—licking her fingertips as she went. She found the address, jotted it on a separate scrap of paper, and passed it to me.
I glanced at it. Suite 12D, the Plaza. I stuffed it in my handbag. “This had better be accurate, or I’m going to the police about your torn dress.”
Ida stood, leaned over, and picked up my fork. She took a huge bite of my banana cream pie. “Delicious,” she said, and left.
“Wowie, Mrs. Woodby.” Ralph sipped more coffee. “You drive a hard bargain, don’t you?”
I squinched my eyes at him and shoved my maimed pie away.
26
When we arrived in the city, the air was gritty and stagnant. What a relief. Fresh sea breezes would only remind me of Vera Potter’s corpse.
We planned to break into Sadie Street’s rooms at the Plaza that afternoon, but we needed to leave Cedric at the love nest. Cedric turned heads. I’d reluctantly agreed that Ralph could come. After all, Ralph was the only one who knew how to pick locks.
Once we arrived at the love nest, I went into the bathroom to change. I yanked on a sturdy girdle—steel-boned, not rubber, thanks very much—a black silk dress, and my favorite black cloche. The hat hid my beaver-lodge hair nicely. I pulled on stockings, buckled on my highest André Perugia T-straps, brushed my teeth, and touched up my lipstick.
The gussying-up had nothing to do with Ralph Oliver. Nothing whatsoever. Although, if he happened to glance my way and notice what he was missing—well, that was none of my affair.
In the kitchen, Berta told me that she had decided not to participate in our excursion to the Plaza.
“I’ll stay here and tidy up the kitchen,” she said. She clattered dishes in the cupboard.
“But it’s already tidy—more than tidy.” I pulled on black wristlet gloves. “You could eat off the floor in here.”
“Good heavens, I think not,” Berta said. “And Cedric needs to be walked, come to think of it. He has been cooped up all day.”
“Say, why are you acting so … jittery? And it’s not like you to be so concerned with Cedric’s welfare.”
“What?” Berta yelled over her shoulder. Now the faucet was running full blast. She ambushed the sink with a sponge and a can of Bon Ami cleaning powder. “I cannot hear you.”
“Fine. I’ll be back later. Don’t give Cedric anything starchy. He’s getting fat.”
I collected Ralph from the sitting room. “Nice dress,” he said. His glowing eyes hinted that he meant it.
“What, this old thing?”
“I knew I’d get you to smile at me again. No more Z-List?”
“It’s not a Z-List. It’s an X-List. And you’re still at the tippy top.”
We went down to the street. “Berta is acting funny,” I told him once we were walking along.
“Sure. She doesn’t want to break into a suite at the Plaza. Makes sense. She’s still squeaky clean. You’re suspected by the police for two homicides.”
“Don’t remind me.”
* * *
We rode the Fourth Avenue Line. Ralph said ducking into a subway station was always the smoothe
st kind of getaway. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
The subway car was jam-packed, so we stood and clung to hand straps. It was the first time Ralph and I had been alone together all day. I sensed the stiffness in Ralph’s bearing, his unwillingness to meet my eyes, although my face was about an inch from his lapel.
Dandy. Because I didn’t want to meet his eyes, either. What was he doing, acting wounded, anyway? I was the one he’d kissed in order to check it off some list. I was the one who was being spied on.
The subway rattled along. People shuffled off and on. It wasn’t till after we’d passed the Grand Central Station stop that I noticed the man.
He was halfway up the carriage, on the opposite side, on one of the benches. He wore a drab suit and hat. His distinguishing characteristics were (1) a too-short torso, which brought the waistband of his pants, exposed beneath his open jacket, to the latitude of his underarms; and (2) dried-currant eyes, which were fixed on my face.
When I first noted him staring at me, I glanced away. New York is a big city. People stare.
I glanced back.
Mr. Highpants was still staring.
I elbowed Ralph. “See that man?” I whispered. “The one with his pants pulled up past the equator?”
Ralph’s eyes slid around. “Nope.”
I scanned the crowded carriage. Mr. Highpants was gone.
* * *
When Ralph and I emerged from the station at Fifty-ninth and Lexington, the sun had dipped behind the high buildings to the west. Lexington was a canyon of shadows.
We headed on foot along Fifty-ninth. Fellows in suits and hats streamed down the sidewalk, a few young girls in secretarial garb mixed in. Every pair of eyes was hidden by hat brims. From the street came chugging engines and horn beeps.
The Plaza came into view, rising up from the corner of Fifty-ninth and Fifth Avenue. The Plaza was a monumental, modern French château of creamy stone, with steep green roofs and hundreds of black-edged windows. A big paved square, planted with frail young trees, sprawled in front.
“Suppose you’ve been here a bunch of times,” Ralph said when we’d stopped at the curb, waiting to cross the street. His jaw was tight.
Did my high society past make him edgy?
“Yes, I’ve been here,” I said. “Cotillions, banquets, wedding receptions, galas, luncheons, you name it. But I’ve never visited in the capacity of a burglar.”
“First time for everything.”
We were still waiting at the curb, and a flock of pedestrians had bottlenecked around us.
My spine prickled. I cut a glance to my left.
Mr. Highpants stood off to the side, half hidden behind two businessmen, his dried-currant eyes fixed on me. The crowd started migrating, and he was swallowed up.
My greasy lunch churned in my stomach. “I saw him again!” I whispered to Ralph as we were swept along. “The man from the subway. He’s following us.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. He has a way of vanishing.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“You don’t often see the same stranger twice. Not in this city. And he was staring.”
“What can I say, kid? You’re a knockout.”
We reached the entry of the Plaza, with its broad steps, white columns, and ornate glass and gilt canopy. I kept a lookout for Mr. Highpants, but I didn’t see him again. Only swanky motorcars and darting bellhops.
“Shall we go in?” I started up the steps.
Ralph grabbed my hand and dragged me back down to sidewalk level. “Just a little pointer—this is if you and your Swedish sidekick are crazy enough to try and set up an agency—”
“Berta told you about that?”
“Sure. Last night. We had to kill time after you ditched us. And the pointer is, use the service entrance.” He pulled me along. True, he was on my X-List. But his hand felt too reassuring to let it go.
We went around the corner and down a short stair to the ground floor. A door was propped open to let out puffs of starchy, soapy steam. The hotel laundries.
Inside, we crept around whitewashed basement hallways until we found a bare, concrete service staircase. No one noticed us.
Ralph started up the steps. I winched myself up the banister behind him. Flight after flight we went. It was the Mount Everest of staircases, but I was no Sherpa. And the steel boning of my girdle was digging into my cupcakes. Maybe I should’ve worn Eloise Wright’s rubber girdle, after all.
Ralph glanced back at me. “Holy Moses, Lola. Are you okay?”
A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead. “Of … course.”
By the time we reached the twelfth floor, I was pretty certain I’d developed asthma.
Mental note: Reduce cinnamon roll consumption. Perhaps eat health bread instead? Nix that. May as well eat cardboard.
“Here we go,” Ralph said. He knocked on a paneled door.
“What’re you doing?” I asked, panting. “Sadie’s filming at Dune House.”
“Here’s another tip: Don’t go crashing down doors when you can get someone to open it for you. Saves energy.”
“We’re going to crash the door down?”
“Not if we don’t have to.” He gave the doorknob a jiggle. “Locked.” He fished in his trousers pocket and pulled out a funny little instrument, much like a pocketknife. Except in lieu of blades, it had steel pokey bits of various shapes and sizes.
“Where did that come from?” I whispered.
“My motorcar. I always keep a spare.”
“I need one of those.”
“Shh.”
“But I do. If I’d had one of those to begin with, I could’ve picked my way into Horace’s safe.”
The lock gave way with a click. Ralph folded the gadget, stuffed it back in his pocket, and pushed the door open. “You can’t pick that kind of safe. If it has a dial, you either have to use the combination, or blow it open with nitroglycerin. I could teach you about that. Later.”
Something about that word—teach—brought on a belly-swooping memory of our kiss in the movie palace. Then there was later. Were Ralph and I going to have a later?
Oh—and then there was the bit about blowing things up.
“Come on,” he said.
We crept in, and he shut the door.
* * *
We were in a marble foyer. White statuettes of sylphs stood in niches. The chandelier was modern, gold, and sharp looking. Ladies’ shoes were strewn across the floor.
We went through to the sitting room. Sculptural furniture of blond wood and steel, huge mirrors, glinting gold, geometric motifs on the wallpaper. Tall windows offered a staggering view of the angular black skyline and the salmon-colored sunset beyond. But the place was a pigsty.
“Doesn’t she have a maid?” I said. “She must have a maid.” Gilt-rimmed plates with half-eaten crackers, empty drinks glasses, cascading ashtrays, and open magazines littered every surface that wasn’t scattered with slinky garments and jewelry.
Ralph poked through a pile of sheet music on the grand piano. “You’d be surprised how people live when they think no one’s looking. It’s something you figure out in my line of work. When you’re a detective, you’re not usually showing up with an engraved invitation.”
Empty booze bottles cluttered the sideboard. I sniffed through them. Gin, gin, and more gin, with a few bottles of vodka and rum to spice things up.
I wandered into the bedroom. White satin and gold velvet snarled the bed. The carpet was ankle-deep with evening gowns, furs, and high-heeled shoes. I poked around Sadie’s vanity table. She had an ample supply of depilatory cream. Well, guess you wouldn’t want any stray hairs cropping up when the movie camera came in for a close-up.
I found a lipstick. I pulled off the cap and screwed it up.
Pointy as a pin. I knew it.
And then I saw it. In the corner. I think my heart stopped for a few beats.
It was a weekend bag. The weekend bag. He
rmès Frères, fawn-colored calfskin.
I hurried over, knelt, and pulled the bag open. Clothes and shoes were stuffed inside. I recognized the sleeve of the yellow golfing suit Sadie had worn last weekend. Nestled inside the dirty clothes was a round, flat, metal canister.
The moment called for brass band music.
“I found it!” I yelled.
Ralph appeared in the doorway. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“No. I mean, this must be it.” I held up the canister. Something inside clanked.
“Careful.” Ralph said. “Look at that—the fleur-de-lis imprint. It was just sitting in that bag there?”
“Yes.” I jimmied the lid with my fingernails. “It looked like Sadie just tossed the bag aside when she returned from the Arbuckles’. She’d never even unpacked the bag—the clothes she wore last weekend are still in there.” The canister lid popped free, and I lifted it.
A big, flat metal spool lay inside, with a shiny black ribbon of film looped around.
Ralph let out a low whistle. “You’ve got it, kid. Let’s get out of here.”
I replaced the lid and tucked the canister under my arm. Ralph pulled me to my feet. As he did so, he grunted with effort.
Note to self: Although health bread tastes like stuffing exhumed from an antique teddy bear, eat it.
We made a break for it.
Halfway down the service stairs, I stopped in my tracks. Ralph stopped, too.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered. “I heard footsteps above us. But they’ve stopped.”
I couldn’t get Mr. Highpants out of my head. I held tight to the banister and stuck my head out into the middle of the stairwell. Up above, flights of stairs coiled around and around. Dizziness rocked through me. I didn’t dare look down.
“I don’t hear anyone,” Ralph said.
“Maybe he’s following us. Maybe he’s waiting for us to start walking again.”
Ralph shook his head. “Don’t let some creep from the subway get under your skin.”
27
Back outside the Plaza, evening was huddling down. The air smelled of burnt peanuts, horse manure, and motorcar exhaust. Traffic gushed past. Across the way, Central Park was green, shadowy, and serene.
“What next?” I said, pretending not to pant. I mean, is one supposed to get breathless going down stairs?
