by Holly Baxter
The tenth floor?
Her sudden good luck had thrilled her. Now she was not so sure. It had landed her right in the middle of the investigation into the missing Mr. Webster.
Oh, well. Maybe nobody would notice her.
Or maybe she should consider wearing a disguise.
Because whoever had been shouting at Mr. Webster, whoever had killed him, might very well work right there on the tenth floor.
And she would be passing him every day.
***
Elodie’s cousin Hugh Murphy was tall and fair, his hair close-cropped in an effort to control its natural curl. He often came to Elodie’s house for dinner, and so was present when she made the announcement concerning her new job.
Alyce was overwhelmed. “You mean you will be working in radio?” For her it was as if Elodie had announced she was taking the veil in a new religion.
“Well, I’ll be working with two regulars.” Elodie took another bite of Marie’s wonderful apple pie and glanced around at her family. “It means a raise.”
Her mother beamed at her over the top of her spectacles. “I’m so pleased for you, darling. I’m sure you will make a success of it.”
“How much?” asked the ever-practical Maybelle. She was the beauty of the family, and usually had a date on Friday nights. Indeed, on most nights, but as it happened this time she was home.
Elodie giggled. “I was afraid to ask Mr. Herschel,” she admitted. “But I could see the others were cross not to have it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Maybelle, exasperated at this lack of business sense. “You must know.”
“Actually, it will be another ten dollars a week.” Elodie spoke over-casually. There were gasps around the table. Even Hugh looked impressed.
“Good Lord,” Maybelle said. “That will be nearly as much as I earn!” Maybelle worked as an assistant to the editor of a very expensive magazine called STYLE.
“It will be very welcome.” Marie stood and began clearing the plates from the table. “Well done, Ellie. You should be proud of yourself.”
“A radio writer,” Alyce breathed to herself. She twisted one of her braids dreamily. “A real radio writer.”
“Mr. Herschel’s secretary gave me all the details. I will be working with a Miss Schultz and Mr. Drew Wilson.”
“Drew Wilson,” Alyce whispered. “He sounds handsome.”
“I don’t think you should get your hopes up.” Hugh was amused by Alyce’s obvious rapture. “That name might suit a movie star, but most writers I know are pretty ugly.”
“Well, thank you very much, Hugh,” Elodie said.
He grinned. “Let’s just say good looks are not a requirement for writers. Just good brains.”
“Well, Ellie has those,” her mother said, with confidence.
“We all have brains,” Maybelle snapped. Then her expression softened. “But Ellie has imagination, and that’s what will be important.”
“Tell us your idea.” Marie gathered more dishes onto her tray, but slowly, wanting to hear everything before she went to the kitchen. She was the domestic one in the family. Sewing and cooking were her delight. She had brains, yes, and imagination, and some of Maybelle’s business sense, too, but she was content to stay at home and look after them all. She was engaged to a very nice Scotsman named Bill, but it was expected to be a long engagement because Marie insisted they must save enough make a deposit on their own home.
“Well, it’s called ‘Imperial Hotel,’” Elodie began. “It will have two themes—a continuing story about staff in the hotel, from the manager right down to the lowliest maid, and a weekly story complete in itself, about one of the guests at the hotel. The two strands will sort of be…woven together.” Even now she was not entirely certain how this would be achieved, but hoped that Miss Schultz and Mr. Wilson would be able to work it out. “It ties right in with luggage, you see. With travelling people and so on. I think that’s why the client liked it.”
“Very good.” Hugh had heard most of this the night Ellie had thought it up. “I think it sounds fine.”
Elodie was pleased because Hugh was a fairly severe critic of radio drama. “It has lots of possibilities,” she murmured, hoping she sounded properly modest. She was actually so excited and scared she felt almost ill. First the terrifying moments the other night at the Gower Building, and now this incredible opportunity. And tomorrow night she would be attending a fancy high-class party, albeit in a lowly capacity. Still, she now had a good reason for wanting to see how the rich lived—the radio show. She needed background, she needed ideas. She felt like all her bones were hollow, and her mind seemed somehow to flutter within her skull. Was this really Elodie Browne?
“Oooh, you could have a murder…” Alyce’s eyes sparkled and she clasped her hands together in her excitement. “Something really gruesome…”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Browne loved her girls, and worried about them constantly. She badly felt the loss of her husband, and having to make decisions on their behalf often kept her up at night. She tried to be a strong woman, but work was wearying, her pay so low, the many needs of the family so great, that sometimes she despaired. She didn’t want to stifle Alyce’s imagination, but with things the way they were in the city, she felt like she was trying to keep a door closed against an implacable foe.
Alyce turned to her. “But Mumma, you have to have excitement and something to keep people interested.”
“It needn’t be murder,” Elodie said, shivering. That was a little too close for comfort.
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Browne was firm. “There is far too much violence already on your precious radio, young lady,” she said to Alyce. “I declare, that Fu Manchu person, and the Shadow…why even on your Little Orphan Annie there was a kidnapping the other week. You couldn’t sleep that night, as I recall.”
“They’re perfectly fine.” Alyce had grown cross. “They’re exciting. A lot more exciting than those drips Mary and Bob.”
Marie looked a little affronted. She was very fond of the serial “Mary and Bob,” and also of “Moonshine and Honeysuckle,” which told stories of the town of Lonesome Hollow. It brightened her afternoon as she washed up the Sunday dinner dishes.
“Not a murder.” Elodie folded her napkin and slipped it into her own special silver napkin ring—the one shaped like a little sleigh. It had been her father’s when he was a boy. “Just stories of people, ordinary people…”
“They can’t be very ordinary if they can afford Leatherlux luggage,” Maybelle pointed out with some asperity.
“Well, maybe a little excitement now and again…”
“A robbery?” Alyce suggested with a little less eagerness.
“I’ll have to see what the others say.” Elodie was cautious. If Alyce had her way there would be corpses littering every floor of her lovely, elegant Imperial Hotel.
Rather like the Gower Building.
She shivered.
“Are you coming down with a cold, darling?” asked her mother. “You look a little pale.”
“No, I’m fine, Mumma, just kind of excited.”
“Quite understandable.” Hugh wiped the corners of his mouth and put his napkin on the table. “You’re entering a whole new world. I hear it’s a tough world, Ellie. Lots of pressure to produce. You’ll find it very tiring at first.”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Browne had very much wished Elodie would follow her into teaching rather than into the very odd world of advertising. “You’re not very strong, Ellie.”
“I’m as strong as a horse. This is what I want to do, and I’m going to be very very good at it.”
“Bravo,” Hugh said, clapping.
“Well, I have to wash my hair.” Maybelle got up to carry some of the dishes out to the kitchen.
“Oh, gosh—it’s almost time for—” Alyce stood up so quickly her chair nearly went over. “Ellie…”
“Go on, then.” Elodie smiled as A
lyce ran off into the sitting room, braids flying out behind her. Her moment of glory had passed.
Hugh looked at Ellie as the others scattered to their various after-supper occupations. “Scared?” he asked, gently.
“Why do you say that?” Her voice cracked slightly.
He raised an eyebrow. He knew her well. “What’s up? You’re not just excited…there’s something more, isn’t there?”
Elodie sighed. “Something happened the other night.”
“Go on.”
“You mustn’t tell Mumma, or the others. Or anybody.”
“Good Lord, what is it?” Hugh’s reporting antennae were up.
Slowly she told him about what had happened the other night on the tenth floor of the Gower building—the sounds she had heard, the subsequent investigation into the missing Mr. Webster, her fear of being involved. “And now I have to work on the tenth floor, starting Monday,” she finished.
Hugh had lit a cigarette as she talked, and looked seriously at her over the rising smoke. “That’s rough,” he said. “You really should tell the police.”
“But what can I tell them? Only sounds, only…nothing.”
He nodded. “I take your point, but you can set the time of the thing for them and that might be important.”
“Oh, I never thought of that.”
“Well, you should consider it. I’m not saying you have to, I really understand that you’re scared and don’t want to be suspected of anything, but if it might help—”
“I should be a good citizen.” He nodded. She toyed with the corner of her napkin rolled into the little silver sleigh. “I might lose my job.”
“Oh, come on…why should it make any difference?”
“Because I was supposed to have my idea in by five o’clock. Mr. Herschel is very…”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Ellie. Be sensible. Herschel need never know anything about it.”
“But what if they catch the person, and there’s a trial, and I have to testify…”
“I doubt if it would come to that. If they catch him they would have to have a lot more evidence to take to court than the word of a frightened girl. Time might be important to catch the guy, but it wouldn’t convict him because you didn’t actually see him.” He paused. “Or did you?”
“No—but he might have seen me. And if it’s someone who works on Ten every day, and he sees me…”
“Ah,” said Hugh. He was silent.
Elodie brightened. “Maybe it was someone from outside.”
“Very probably was.” He saw the risk, but really didn’t think it very great. The last person to murder someone on the tenth floor was someone who actually worked on or was connected with the tenth floor, he thought. Unless it had been a spur of the moment thing. Someone intent on cold blooded murder would take care to do it well away from his own territory. Only the bootleggers didn’t give a damn where they left the bodies. Indeed, they wanted them found as an example of what happened to people who cheated or displeased them. So it was bound to be an outsider. It stood to reason. Why else take the body away?
Elodie thought further. “I won’t say anything myself, but if they ask me, I’ll tell them.” She turned to him, laid her hand on his arm. “Or you could tell them. Say you can’t reveal your source but tell them the time. That would take care of it all.”
“It’s not on my beat.”
“It’s a crime, isn’t it?”
“Only a missing person, so far,” Hugh pointed out. “I’m pretty much a homicide guy, Ellie.”
“You don’t want to get involved, either.”
“Look, tell you what. If they find a body, I’ll get involved, okay?”
“Okay.” Elodie was relieved.
“But if the guy has any sense, they won’t find the body,” Hugh said. “Plenty of places to hide a body in Chicago.”
Of course he was wrong.
Chapter Four
When the long sleek black Cadillac limousine drove down Kercheval Street and stopped in front of the Browne house, a sort of tremor ran through the neighborhood. Curtains flicked, doors were gently pulled ajar, people waited to see who was inside. Had Maybelle Browne finally found a millionaire to marry? Or had she gotten involved with one of Them? “They” were well known to favor Cadillac limousines. And hearses. What was the neighborhood coming to? Was someone going to open a speakeasy?
The limousine was for Elodie.
She came slowly down the steps, amazed. Bernice had told her she would be picked up, but she had assumed it would be a taxi. Even that seemed extravagant. She could easily have taken a streetcar, she thought. But no, here it was, chrome gleaming, white sidewalls without a mark, and a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel who stared straight ahead, obviously accustomed to better addresses. And there was Bernice, hanging out of the rear window, beckoning to her.
“Come on, Ellie, we have to get there before it starts.”
Elodie went to the curb and Bernice opened the door. When she did Elodie saw that she was not alone in the car—there were two other girls in there, too. All, like herself, were dressed in black. She got in and settled herself next to Bernice.
“My goodness.” The others giggled.
“Isn’t it a hoot?” said one of them, an ice-blonde with pale grey eyes. “I’ve never been in one of these before.”
“Neither have I.” Elodie looked at Bernice. “You never said.”
Bernice shrugged elaborately. “Mr. Lee knows how to do things. He’s always been good to his staff. This is only the second or third limousine, anyway. The one he uses for things like this.” “This,” presumably, being the collecting of oddments, such as groceries, dry cleaning, or girls to serve at his parties. “The other cars are much newer.”
All the girls were very pretty, Elodie saw. And they were perfectly assorted—Bernice had red curls, another girl had a sleek black cap of hair cut close to her skull in strong contrast to her very white complexion, the ice blonde had marcelled waves, and Elodie had a brown bob. A varied choice. She began to have doubts about exactly what her “duties” might be. “Listen, Bernice….”
“Mr. Lee’s parties are very dignified.” Bernice obviously knew exactly what Elodie was thinking. “We just have to carry trays of drinks and canapés, and help with the buffet, that’s all.” She looked at Elodie. “That’s all,” she said, apparently slightly offended that anyone should think anything else.
“She’s right.” The dark-haired girl, whose name proved to be Betty Ann, nodded. “I’ve done two of these already. And he pays us well, too. We even sometimes get tips from the guests. Last time I took home almost twelve dollars!”
The others looked impressed.
“Mr. Lee just likes pretty girls,” Bernice continued. “He is a connoisseur of beautiful things.” She pronounced it “connosewer,” and Elodie tried not to smile. Her mother spoke beautiful French, and had taught it to all her daughters. Their grandmother had been French, and Mrs. Browne liked to keep up their cultural heritage. “You never know who you will meet,” she liked to say. She meant “marry.”
The limousine had pulled smoothly and quietly away from the curb in front of the Browne house, and now was turning in the direction of Lake Michigan and the Golden Mile, so-called because of all the mansions there that looked out over the vast expanse of water. The lake was so huge it had ocean-like storms, but on good days offered a glorious blue-green vista that stretched to a horizon every bit as distant as that of a sea.
Elodie sank back against the soft chestnut brown leather upholstery. She was determined to enjoy the evening, watching how the rich and famous lived and moved and talked. It would be excellent preparation for working on “Imperial Hotel,” which was supposed to be a luxury establishment in the heart of New York City. She was sure it would be glamorous and exciting. And it would help her to temporarily forget the tenth floor—and Monday.
***
The home of Mr. Lee
Chang was enormous, newly built in the moderne style. White as a wedding cake, it was set behind a long lawn that stretched down to Lakeshore Drive. Beyond the road there was a narrow beach and what looked to be a private jetty. A rather large motorboat was moored at the far end.
As the limousine moved up the long graveled drive Elodie took in the stark lines and the many glass-brick expanses of the house itself. It seemed to glow in the dusk, and golden light was behind every window. Uniformed men stood at the end of the drive, apparently waiting for the guests to arrive. The double front door stood open, and as the car passed by she glimpsed a wide hall with a floor of huge black and white squares filled with side tables bearing enormous flower arrangements in red and gold. Then the car continued around the back, and all the glory of the front was lost in the very workaday appearance of the rear face, which was plain but not unattractive. The one strange thing was an enclosed passage about sixty feet in length and made totally of glass, which stretched from French doors across the rear lawn to a small windowless building that stood against a background of trees and shadows. The passage also glowed with a golden light, and appeared to be carpeted in an unusual pale green.
The girls decamped and the limousine drove away, purring like a big cat in the silence of the evening. No—not silence, but a hush, as if waiting for a curtain to arise. Slight sounds rose from crickets, a breeze from Lake Michigan, the distant wash of small waves on the shoreline. An owl hooted suddenly in the trees, making Elodie jump. She followed the others into what proved to be an enormous kitchen, where she met the housekeeper, who looked them over with a sharp eye. Seemingly satisfied, she handed out frilly white aprons, and began to instruct them in their duties. She explained the general layout of the house, in case any of the guests required directions or information, but they were not to speak unless spoken to. She told them where the cloakrooms were for men and women, and what to do if any of the guests became ill. Or drunk, Elodie thought to herself, looking at the ranks of wine and champagne bottles on a table in the center of the gleaming kitchen. Mr. Lee Chang must have a very very good bootlegger, she thought. As far as she could see, all the labels were French or British, the real thing.
