by Radha Vatsal
Chapter Eight
“Your name, please, sir?” Prentiss, the photographer, said to Mr. Weeks.
“Julian Conrad Weeks,” Kitty’s father replied.
Kitty paced up and down the stifling front office on Broadway, staring at the sample portraits displayed on the walls. She had a nine thirty appointment to speak to Poppy Clements, the theater producer’s wife who had been at Mrs. Basshor’s party, and here she was, waiting for the punctilious Prentiss to fill out official passport application forms.
“Occupation?”
“Businessman.”
“Your age, please, sir?”
“Forty-seven.”
“And date of birth?” Prentiss’s nib scratched against the cheap government-issue paper. He wrote carefully, blotting each entry so that the ink wouldn’t smudge.
Kitty couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. When she’d arrived in New York the previous year, all she’d carried by way of identification were two letters, one from school and one from her father’s attorneys, and the nervous young customs official who boarded the ship had seemed embarrassed to check even those.
But this morning, Mr. Weeks explained that the State Department had issued new regulations. Since the war broke out, it had become mandatory for all Americans traveling abroad to carry a passport, and by the end of the previous year, the rules had become even more rigid, requiring a sworn application before a clerk of a court and the inclusion of two unmounted photographs.
“And will you be traveling with your wife, Mr. Weeks?” Prentiss said.
“My wife is deceased. I will be traveling with my daughter.”
Julian Weeks provided Kitty’s particulars: Capability Violet Weeks, nineteen years of age, born February 10, 1896, in Selangor, Malaya.
The scratching nib paused. “Selangor?” the photographer said. Then he added, “No matter, sir. Miss Weeks’s citizenship follows yours. Your place of birth, Mr. Weeks?”
“Dover, Delaware.”
“And you have a birth certificate to prove that?”
Kitty suspected that Prentiss enjoyed the liberty of asking the many questions that the form required of his customers, although he presented it as a courtesy that he offered gratis to those requiring a photograph.
“I don’t have a birth certificate,” Mr. Weeks said. “Do you, Mr. Prentiss?”
Prentiss coughed. “So many men of our generation don’t possess one. Was your father native born or naturalized, Mr. Weeks?” Pen poised, he waited for a reply.
Julian Weeks said, “That’s a bit much.”
Kitty read from a news clipping, pinned beside a list of the photographer’s services and prices:
Statement from Secretary of State Bryan, November 13, 1914: The President, upon the advice of the Secretary of State, has this day signed an order under which the rules governing the granting and issuing of passports in the United States are made much stricter than they have been in the past. The immediate cause of the amendment to the passport regulations was the fact that the Department of State had been recently informed of several cases in which aliens holding themselves as native American citizens have obtained, or attempted to obtain, American passports for purposes of espionage or otherwise in foreign countries.
“I don’t believe this,” she said and read out loud: “‘Under the former rules it was not difficult to obtain passports fraudulently.’ Anyone claiming citizenship through birth in the United States only had to make a sworn application before a notary. ‘It was not required that either the applicant or witness be known to the notary.’”
She turned to her father. “Now you will need a witness, who must also be an American citizen, to make a sworn statement in support of your application. And that individual must be known to the clerk of the federal or state court.”
“The new regulations have been instituted to keep us all safe,” Prentiss observed.
“My father was native born, Mr. Prentiss.” Mr. Weeks checked the time on his pocket watch. “Miss Weeks will fill out the rest of the form. Why don’t we go ahead and take that photograph?”
“As you wish, sir.” The photographer blotted the document and slid it into an envelope. He pulled back a black curtain. “This way, please, sir and madam.”
He instructed the Weekses to remove their hats, posed them in front of an off-white backdrop, and requested that they face the camera head-on.
Kitty joked, “Just like criminals.”
“No smiling, please,” Prentiss said.
Kitty tried to keep a straight face.
“Just keep your expression neutral, Miss Weeks.” He ducked behind his camera and held up a flashbulb. The negative was exposed in a burst of light. For good measure, he repeated the process.
“Well, that’s that.” Mr. Weeks put his hat back on as they left the studio. “Thank you for being patient. It’s something I’ve been meaning to take care of for a while.”
They climbed into the waiting Packard, and Kitty gave Rao Mrs. Clements’s address. The playwright lived on Central Park West, so she might not be too late after all.
“Where did your father originally come from?” Kitty didn’t know much about her family’s ancestry. Her mother didn’t have any relatives, and Mr. Weeks preferred not to talk about his parents, who had died when he was young.
“I’m not sure.” Julian Weeks picked up his paper. The headline had to do with Muenter, the man who had shot J. P. Morgan, committing suicide in his jail cell. “What do you make of this business?”
“It’s horrid.” Kitty had read the story this morning: Muenter had climbed the bars of his cell and jumped to the floor, cracking open his skull. “They say he had a history of mental problems and tried to kill himself earlier this week by digging into his wrist with a jagged blade he made from the metal eraser holder of a pencil.” She winced at the gruesome image.
“And the police left him unsupervised long enough that he could try again?”
“The constable in charge walked away for a few minutes—”
“Why did the constable walk away, Capability? That’s the real question.” He shook his head and opened the paper, but not before adding, “I’m afraid the unfortunate Muenter was dead meat the moment he barged into Mr. Morgan’s mansion with his guns drawn.”
Kitty thought hard. Among the documents that had been found on Erich Muenter’s person was a press clipping announcing the Morgan bank’s recent flotation of a hundred-million-dollar war bond on behalf of the British government. When reporters had questioned him about it, Muenter said that he didn’t support one side over another. All he wanted was to put an end to America’s export of war materials to Europe and to “persuade” Mr. Morgan to use his “great influence” to put a stop to the United States’s role in Europe’s bloodshed. The result of his good intentions? Mr. Morgan lay in the hospital, recovering from his injuries, while Mr. Muenter had been found in his jail cell with his head smashed on the concrete floor.
• • •
“Welcome, my dear, welcome.” Mrs. Clements greeted Kitty with open arms. She wore a brocaded caftan with Japanese lacquered chopsticks holding her hair in place. A couple of unruly locks fell onto her forehead. “I can’t believe it’s been almost two days since Hunter passed.” She closed her eyes. “I can’t bring myself to say ‘killed’… Come this way.”
She led Kitty down a hallway lined with books on every conceivable topic, from art to politics, science, and literature. Above the bookshelves hung framed posters of Mr. Clements’s productions: The Lost Girl, Beauty’s Demise, Antigone by the Lake, and others.
“I’m so glad that the Sentinel has put a girl on the case,” Poppy Clements went on. “In my heart, I believe that this is a woman’s story.”
“What makes you say that, Mrs. Clements?” Kitty asked.
“I just sense it. My Clement tells me that I sh
ould follow my instincts, and so I do—even if they’re contrary to popular opinion. My entire career as a playwright is based on that principle. For instance, my current project has to do with the sinking of the Lusitania—but from the U-boat captain’s perspective.”
Kitty must have looked surprised, because Mrs. Clements laughed.
“You see? I already have your attention.”
Kitty followed Mrs. Clements past a souk-like living room. The floor was covered with Turkish rugs, and colorful throws had been flung across every piece of furniture.
“No one thinks about the men who live in those tin cans,” Poppy Clements continued in her lazy drawl. “And I can tell you that it’s awful—they’re stuck inside for days on end, unable to stand straight, no sunlight, no fresh air, no fresh food. As a matter of fact, they have so little oxygen that they’re ordered to sleep when they’re not on duty in order to conserve it. And that’s not all.”
Kitty marveled at the Bohemian decor as they walked through the apartment. It all seemed slightly haphazard and yet of a piece, in keeping with Kitty’s sense of Mrs. Clements’s exotic tastes, and perhaps, her penchant to shock.
“The toilets blow back refuse into the user’s face, which makes me thankful for our American plumbing,” the playwright continued, “and the sailors are forced to wear a single leather uniform for the duration of the journey, which must stink like hell by the time they get home.” She threw open a door. “Welcome to my den.” The Oriental theme continued here too, with a low-slung divan in one corner and filigreed lamps hanging from ornate metal hooks.
“Excuse the mess.” Mrs. Clements cleared away a pile of pillows with a sweep of her hand. “Come sit.” She leaned against an embroidered bolster and patted a seat beside her. “Do the police have any leads on who killed poor Hunter?”
“Not as far as I’m aware,” Kitty replied. All she knew was what she’d read that morning, and the story had been short. “Mr. Cole died of a single bullet to his head. And there were no signs of struggle on the body, so he must have been expecting whomever it was that assaulted him.”
“How awful.” The playwright frowned. “There weren’t any fingerprints? That’s normal police procedure, isn’t it?”
“I believe so.” Kitty was hardly an expert, but she answered, “Apparently, the pistol had been wiped clean.”
“And he was killed with his own gun?”
“Yes.” The woman certainly had a lot of questions.
“And it’s certain that he was killed while the fireworks were in progress?”
“That’s what is being said. Mrs. Clements?”
“Of course, you need to ask me things, not the other way around. Forgive me, my dear. It’s my instinct as a writer. Ask, ask, ask. Never rest until I’m satisfied.” She took out a cigarette from a silver case. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Would you like one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Too young? You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.” Mrs. Clements fitted the cigarette into an engraved silver holder and struck a safety match to light it. She inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of smoke from between her lips.
“I’ve been asked to gather background information. Details about Mr. Cole and how he was regarded—”
“You mean the woman’s angle.”
“That’s right.” Kitty nodded.
“Well, let’s see.” Mrs. Clements picked a fleck of tobacco from her tongue and, with a flick of her elegant fingers, tossed it into the air. “Let’s start with Mrs. Cole. You could say I always made it a point to speak to her.”
“She did tell me you were very kind.”
“And I spoke to Mr. Cole too.”
“Did you talk to him the afternoon he died?”
“Oh yes.”
“Do you recall what he said?”
“He’d had one too many to drink, you know. And he was rambling on. He seemed preoccupied with something, but—and I’ve been thinking about this ever since it happened—for the life of me, I can’t remember the specifics of our conversation. The thing is, I never paid much attention to what Hunter said. He was the kind who always went about something or other, and I pretended to listen, because nobody else would, but mostly I observed. How he held himself, how he moved. It’s useful for my writing.”
“And how did he seem to you that afternoon?”
“As I said, preoccupied. Excited about something or other. But then again, maybe I’m imagining that because of what happened afterward.”
“Do you have any idea what he might have been excited about?”
“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you?” Mrs. Clements seemed amused. She shrugged. “Some people are just like that. They get into a tizzy over nothing. I’m sorry I can’t give you anything particular to work with.”
“Did Mrs. Cole mention anything?”
“No, she kept her mouth shut. And quite rightly, I’d say. Look, Miss Weeks, I meet all kinds of people in my line of work, and I don’t hold anyone’s past against them. So Aimee did what she did—”
“By that you mean she was a dance-hall girl?” This would be a good time to verify Amanda’s information, since Mrs. Clements didn’t seem the least bit prudish.
“She was indeed a dance-hall girl. One of the naughtier ones, possibly.” Mrs. Clements seemed unbothered by the insinuation. “But what you must understand, Miss Weeks, is that it doesn’t matter. People used her as an excuse to avoid him.”
“I’m sorry—”
“If Hunter had more to offer, they’d still gossip, but in the end, they’d overlook Aimee’s past. If he had real money or influence, do you think they would care what his wife did?”
“I see.” Kitty considered the point. “And Mr. Cole had neither money nor influence?”
“Exactly.”
“And not many friends.”
“True again.”
“But he was from a good family.”
Mrs. Clements shrugged. “That only gets one so far these days.”
“Have you heard that he liked to bet on horses?”
“That’s what they say.”
Mrs. Clements seemed frank and intelligent. She knew everyone and was held in high esteem. Kitty wanted to learn what the playwright really thought had happened. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be investigating the murder, but Mr. Flanagan hadn’t explicitly forbidden her from asking the witnesses about their suspicions.
“Would you have any idea who might want to see him dead, Mrs. Clements?”
“His wife?” Poppy Clements laughed a throaty laugh. “I’m only joking. But wouldn’t you, if you were her? The thing that bothers me, Miss Weeks, is that Hunter really wasn’t worth killing. Unless I’m missing something, and I don’t believe I am, Hunter was a big, hearty, somewhat stupid but not evil man. Maybe he was short of cash and had some debts. But to shoot him at the stables at a party?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
She stubbed her cigarette into a chased copper bowl and pressed down on it until the final spark had been extinguished. “What’s sad is that he was killed after he was feeling so much better—”
Kitty perked up. “Was he ill, Mrs. Clements?” Finally, something to “work with,” as Poppy Clements said.
“Yes, he was. He must have been. He told me that he had been seeing a doctor when we met at an exhibition back in March or April. He told me that he had been seeing this man regularly and that he never felt better.”
“Did he tell you what for?” Kitty leaned forward. If Mr. Cole had been cured of a serious illness, that would add a poignant twist to the tale.
“Someone pulled him away in the midst of our conversation. I remember clearly because Mr. Clements’s physician had recently retired, and I was looking for a replacement. What’s strange is that when I asked Hun
ter about it a few weeks later, he denied that he’d been seeing anyone.”
“Do you think he had something to hide?”
“Possibly.”
“You didn’t happen to catch the doctor’s name?”
“Yes, I did. It was Michael… Or Lawrence. No, that’s not right. It was one of those names that could either be a Christian name or a surname.” She struck a match to light another cigarette. “It was Albert. Dr. Albert.” The match hovered in the air.
“Dr. Albert. You’re certain?”
“Positive. But the oddest part is that I asked all my friends, and no one seems to have heard of him.”
• • •
“Come now, that’s not possible.” Mr. Flanagan flipped through Kitty’s notes. “This Dr. Albert must be in the telephone directory. Look him up and find out what kind of doctor he is. If Cole suffered from a serious illness, then our readers need to know.”
“Have the police made any further progress, Mr. Flanagan?” Kitty said. The fact that her usefulness to him wasn’t over, that he was treating her like one of the boys—straight to the point and no-nonsense—was more than she could have wished for.
“If they have, you will be the first to find out. Now run along. You have work to do.” He turned back to the newsroom, and Kitty raced down the stairs, the cool metal banister gliding beneath her fingers.
She found her workplace confidante, Mr. Musser, eating a sandwich in his basement lair.
“May I borrow your telephone directory, Mr. Musser?” she asked the grizzled archivist.
“Was?” The old man brushed a crumb from his beard. “Keinen ‘Guten Tag’ heute Morgen?”
“Guten Tag, Herr Musser,” Kitty replied, unable to wipe the smile from her face. “Have you heard of a Dr. Albert?”
He put down his sandwich, shuffled out from behind the counter, and pulled a volume from one of the stacks. “Why do you ask?” He thumped a copy of the Bell Telephone Book for Greater New York, Including All Five Boroughs in front of her.
“Hunter Cole.” Kitty flipped through the pages. “The man who was shot at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club—he may have been seeing a physician by that name.”
