Several men were standing outside the hotel, possibly waiting for friends, or the next taxi, though there was a line of four or five of them waiting for fares. None of them acknowledged her as she passed. She didn’t smell the telltale tobacco that said one of them knew her much better than the others. So she went inside.
Lily was waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel.
“My goodness, where are you going?” Phil asked.
“I was—” Lily stopped to bob a quick curtsey. “I was watching from the window and saw you cross the street.”
Phil nodded her understanding. She handed Lily the newspaper. “Let us go upstairs.”
But before they could step into the elevator, the concierge came striding over. He was a dapper, middle-age gentleman with graying hair combed back from a high forehead.
“Good afternoon, Lady Dunbridge. These came for you.” He held several letters, which he handed over to her.
“Ah, Mr. Nolan. You didn’t have to do that. Preswick would have fetched them.”
“It is my pleasure. You have several invitations and a letter from Europe.”
She took the envelopes from him, glanced at the one on top. “Thank you. It’s from Mrs. Reynolds.” Something she was certain he already knew from the return address.
“I hope she’s enjoying her trip?”
“It’s very restorative, I’m sure,” she said with a smile, her new irregular’s warning about “ears” freshly imprinted on her mind. Not only ears, but eyes. “Good day, Mr. Nolan.”
He nodded crisply and waited for her and Lily to enter the elevator.
As soon as they were upstairs, Phil dropped the invitations on the entryway table, handed Lily her gloves and coat, and took Bev’s letter to her writing desk. She reached for her letter opener. Paused, thinking that of course she knew exactly where it was. It never left her desk. Right side. Tip pointed to the wall.
So where was Gwen Pratt’s? A very valuable instrument with special meaning. Not something one would likely misplace.
She opened the letter and read.
Lily came back into the parlor.
“What did that boy want?”
“Why Lily, were you spying on me?”
“No, but it isn’t safe.”
“Oh pish, it’s broad daylight on Fifty-Ninth Street.” As if that were a reasonable answer. “But of course you’re very right. Things happen to people in all different venues. It was one of Bobby Mullins’s ‘informants,’ I believe is the word. Bobby is worried about us.
“It seems we are dealing with some dangerous men. But not in the normal sense, I don’t think. I can’t imagine Godfrey Bennington—” She stopped. Actually, she could. As jovial and well mannered as he was, part of her could imagine him taking matters, literally, into his own hands. And doing it ruthlessly.
And if he thought Fauks might be responsible for Rachel Sheffield’s pregnancy and not trying to save her and the baby’s life, he might not want Fauks courting his godchild.
Though it would be easy enough to warn him off.
And the Pratts. If the scandal had held water, surely they wouldn’t have even invited Fauks into their home.
And where was Isaac Sheffield?
“Madam.” Lily’s voice prompted her back to the here and now.
“Sorry, just thinking. Is Preswick back yet?”
“No, madam, though I should think he would have returned in time for your tea.”
Phil glanced at the mantel clock. “A little past. I think I might contrive to make myself a cocktail.”
“Still, he should be here,” Lily said, glancing out the wide window.
Could it be that her prickly lady’s maid was worried about her mentor? He was very strict with her, and though she chafed at his strictures, it had yielded amazing results. Though Phil had to admit Lily wasn’t just a diamond in the rough as they had imagined. Phil guessed that their Lily had at one time seen better days than the ones she was living when they saved her from arrest that day on the Southampton docks.
“Well, let’s hope he’s been able to learn something for his trouble.” She crossed to the drinks cabinet. “Ring down for your tea. And have them send up plenty of sandwiches. I’m quite ravenous.”
Phil made herself a martini and sat down with the afternoon paper. “‘Search Continues for Suspect in Fauks Heir’s Murder.’” She read the article, then tossed the paper aside.
Phil was on her second drink when she heard the front door open. Lily hurrying down the hall from her room. Mumbled voices.
A minute later Lily came into the parlor, scowling. “He says he’ll just tidy up and will be with you shortly.” She sniffed. “He smells like beer.”
Phil tried not to smile. If Preswick didn’t watch out, Lily would be ruling them all. “He was probably doing undercover work.”
“Humph,” Lily said. “I’ll ring for more hot tea.”
Preswick, Lily, and the new tea arrived in the parlor at the same time.
“Ah,” Phil said. “Do help yourself. Preswick, sit down and tell us, did you have a productive day?”
“Thank you, my lady. I had a late luncheon, but I will avail myself of a hot cuppa.”
Preswick poured himself tea, and went to sit at the luncheon table by the turret window. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his notebook and pencil, and placed them on the table.
Phil retrieved her own notebook from the desk and joined him, followed by Lily, who took her notebook from her apron pocket.
Phil smiled with satisfaction, the epitome of a cozy little family with a murder to solve.
“Now what did you learn?”
“Quite a bit, though it was necessary to engage in a small bit of prevarication,” he confessed.
“And a lot of spirits,” mumbled Lily under her breath.
This gained her a sharp look from Preswick.
“Needs must when the devil drives,” Phil reminded her. “Now tell us everything.” Phil poised her pen above the fresh page of her notebook.
Preswick took a sip of tea and sat up straighter. “I took the trolley over to Lexington, where I caught the underground down to Wall Street.
“Once I was there, I spent some time at various news and coffee stands, ostensibly to buy a newspaper for the financial news, but really trying to catch a bit of conversation or a headline that would aid our investigation. The atmosphere was nothing short of frenetic, much talk of short sells, and sell-offs, and cash availability. The volatility of the stock market, a concern about the strain on the monetary system caused by the runs on banks, the constriction of available cash and the ability to pay out loans.”
He turned to Lily. “Not enough cash to make loans or trade stocks,” he explained.
Lily nodded but without much enthusiasm. Phil sympathized. She’d really rather be chasing criminals than trying to understand the nuances of investing.
“But at last it paid off. Two gentlemen at one stand were discussing whether one of them should sell off stock. The other advised him to sell as quickly as he could. I caught the name Fauks. So when they’d bought their papers, I followed them.”
Lily’s interest perked up, and so did Phil’s.
“They walked quickly, standing close, and it was hard to hear what they were saying, but the sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians so I was able to wedge myself closer until I was standing right behind them.”
Phil smiled, imagining Preswick tailing the unsuspecting businessmen. He was obviously very pleased with himself.
“The first gentleman became very agitated. And the second one said in a very exasperated way…” He paused to look at his notes and read, “‘Where have you been? Sheffield can’t be found. Fauks’s stock is plummeting. There’s speculation that he saw the writing on the wall and absconded. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’
“Then a fire truck passed by and I missed the next part of the conversation, but by then people had collected at the curb waiting to cross, and so I w
as able to stick close by.
“When they reached their place of business, they had to pause to open the door against the crowd.” He consulted his notes. “The second man said, ‘Use your head, man. It was copper that started this run on the banks. J.P. bailed out Tennessee Coal, but don’t expect him to help anyone else. Get your money out before it’s too late.’”
“Were they talking about Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel?” Phil asked.
“I couldn’t say for certain—they never mentioned it again after that first time, and then the one went inside and the other hurried down the street.”
“Who is J.P.?” Lily asked, looking from one to the other.
“J.P. Morgan,” Preswick said. “He is an extremely rich banker, and a steel magnate, who forced banks and trusts to put up money to cover the run on the banks last month. He put in his own money and bailed out the brokers who had invested in Tennessee Coal, Iron and Railroad, who had pledged their stocks for loans to stave off the bank run, but then couldn’t pay.”
Preswick looked at Phil and Lily’s blank faces. “It’s very difficult to understand,” he assured them. “I was having trouble myself.”
Phil doubted that. Her staid butler was continually surprising her.
“Then I remembered Mr. Tuttle—you remember Mrs. Reynolds’s butler—had some funds in stocks and I thought he might be able to help.
“I went into one of the exchanges and telephoned him. He’s keeping house for Mrs. Reynolds’s father while they’re in Europe.
“He suggested luncheon at a pub where the brokers go. I met him there and we spent several hours listening and trying to interpret what was going on.
“At one point we fell into conversation with a mature gentleman, not so excitable as most of the others. I told him I had just retired and was thinking about investing in Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel.
“He warned me against it. He said the banks might be saved for the time being, but with Morgan saving the Tennessee coal company, all the smaller companies will either sell or fail.”
“I see,” said Phil. “And if Mr. Morgan buys up everyone else or lets them fail…”
“He’ll own all the steel,” Lily said, frowning.
“He’ll have a monopoly on the major building material of the century,” said Phil. “But isn’t there a law against monopolies?”
“Yes, but he did just save the banking system,” Preswick pointed out.
“Favoritism,” Phil said.
“I believe that is the word, my lady.”
Is that why Perry was killed? What Bobby was worried about? Heavens, was this why she’d been sent to investigate this case?
“I think,” Phil said, “we should study up on the financial situation.”
“Fortunately, I returned with several good articles on the subject.”
“Excellent. This all begins to make sense. Well, some of it begins to make sense.”
“Were you able to learn more from Mrs. Kidmore-Young?” Preswick asked.
“Yes. But it’s all very hush-hush, as it should be. No reason to speak ill of the dead. Unless absolutely necessary.”
She told them about going to the Pratts’ and the missing letter opener. “The jewel I found in the hallway could have very easily come from the handle.”
“You think that poor lady with her bad breathing murdered him?” Lily asked incredulously.
“Not at the moment. But I do think I should inform Detective Sergeant Atkins. First I must telephone Daisy Greville and convince her to attend this house party with us. And then I think I must meet with Atkins this evening.”
“Shall I ring the police station for you?” Preswick asked.
“No, thank you, Preswick. I’ll telephone myself to see if he can join me—for tea.” Seeing their faces she added, “I don’t want to discuss the business over the telephone.”
“Why?” Lily asked.
“Ears,” Phil said. “I learned a little about the telephone company this afternoon from a wise young newspaper boy who, if you see him skulking about, is one of us.”
She rang up Daisy.
It took some cajoling.
She had come on serious business, not to gad about with the elite. She had nothing to wear to a weekend party.
“You came all the way to America without the proper wardrobe?”
Daisy confessed that she did have a couple of evening gowns. But nothing for a country weekend.
“Eglantine’s can outfit you acceptably in a trice. Use my name.” She gave Daisy the telephone number.
She’d granted her maid a few days off to visit relatives.
“No matter, Lily can see to us both. No more arguing. Members of the banking interests will be there, Daisy. Very rich men, bankers and financiers. There will be scads of opportunity to make deals. It would be a shame to have come all this way and not be able to invest.”
“Who is giving this party?” Daisy asked.
“Didn’t he telephone the hotel? Godfrey Bennington.”
“Godfrey? No, he didn’t, but … of course I’ll come.”
“Have your luggage sent downstairs tomorrow night and a truck will pick it up the next morning. I’ll pick you up at ten sharp Thursday morning. And don’t think about changing your mind.” Phil rang off and called the nineteenth precinct station. Luck was with her and Atkins came on the line.
“I have something to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“It’s rather sensitive. Shall we meet in the park? Our bench?”
She heard a sound that was either a cough or a choke.
“Say in an hour?” It would take her that long to freshen up and take a circuitous route in case she was being followed.
15
Thirty minutes later, Philomena Amesbury, Countess of Dunbridge, stepped off the elevator into the Plaza lobby. She wasn’t dressed for an evening’s soirée or drinks party but in a walking skirt and jacket of navy blue twill. A woolen cape hung about her shoulders and the wide-brimmed felt hat trimmed with ruched silk ribbon was perched securely on her head.
She made no secret of leaving the hotel, but stepped into a taxi and told the driver to drive slowly around the block.
She turned just enough to see that one of the “journalists” had jumped into the cab behind her.
“Slowly if you please.”
“Lady.”
The other taxi stayed behind them as her driver turned the corner and drove down Fifth Avenue. When they reached Fifty-Seventh Street, she said, “You may let me out here.”
He tossed her a look that said he didn’t appreciate being taken out of line for such a short drive, but he pulled to the curb; she paid and got out. The second taxi stopped several yards away. From the corner of her eye she saw the man climb out. She also saw a small newspaper boy running down the sidewalk in pursuit.
She didn’t wait, but made her way down the street, slowly as if window-shopping. She knew exactly where she was going and if all went well, she would still be in plenty of time to meet the detective sergeant—and without her “tail.”
She was fairly certain Mr. X wouldn’t be so unimaginative, so this was either a journalist or someone who had gotten wind of her involvement and wanted to find out what she knew or put a stop to her interference. Either way, she had no intention of letting him succeed or follow her to the park.
She stopped at the show window of a small store on the south side of Fifty-Seventh. When she was certain the man had seen her, she stepped inside the shop. She didn’t think he would follow her inside Martinson’s Ladies Foundations.
A bell jingled over her head as she entered the store.
The clerk, a robust woman of middle age, came to greet her. “We’ll be closing shortly if Madam would like something specific.”
“Yes,” Phil said breathlessly. “I do believe I’m being followed. A cutpurse or something. Do you have a back door?”
The woman looked alarmed. “I’ll telephone the police.”
> “No, that isn’t necessary. My husband told me not to come out this late, but I didn’t listen.”
The woman pursed her lips. “I ’spect he knew best, now didn’t he?”
Phil nodded contritely. Looked around. He’d taken up a position outside the door and was pretending to look in the window.
“Nasty-looking character,” the clerk said. “This way. It lets out onto the alley and there’s a cut-through two doors down. It’s not a fitting place for a lady, but…”
“Thank you very much. You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.”
They hurried through the back of the store and the woman unlocked a heavy wooden door. Phil stepped out into a garbage-filled alleyway. Fortunately the chill of autumn prevented it from assaulting her nose. She sped along the brick pavement, her hand to her hat until she reached the passage the woman had told her about. One quick look showed that it was empty. She could see traffic on the street through the opening ahead.
She hurried toward it, slowed down before she reached the sidewalk, then peered around the corner of the building. The man was still there looking in the window. Holding her hat to her head, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved toward him, as any other pedestrian might.
But as she reached him, she pulled her hand from her hat and along with it, six inches of strong steel hatpin.
She stopped behind him, and stuck it into his neck, not far, just enough to get his attention.
“Move, and it will be the last thing you do.”
He stilled.
Well, that was successful. “Who are you?” Not Mr. X. Even in his most outrageous disguise, he’d never smelled of cheap liquor and body sweat.
He said nothing. She pressed the tip a little deeper into his neck.
“I’m just a mere businessman looking in a shop window.”
“You followed me from the Plaza Hotel. I want to know why.”
“What are you talking about?”
She gave him a little jab.
“Okay, okay. I’m a journalist!”
“For which paper?”
“With … with—” He moved so fast, she was afraid for a moment that she’d actually stabbed him, then his hand gripped her wrist and twisted it. She managed not to drop the pin, but she was certainly at a disadvantage. She stomped in the vicinity of his foot. Missed, tried again.
Tell Me No Lies Page 17
