by Radha Vatsal
“I’m on my way-way-way, To Mandalay-lay-lay…” A young boy with knobby knees and a reedy voice sang and swayed in the circle of light, dancing with his broom.
“Oh, let me live and love for aye, on that island far away.” His eyes were closed, so he didn’t notice Kitty watching. “I’m sen-ti-mental—for my Ori-ent-al love, so sweet and gentle—”
“Excuse me,” Kitty interrupted, hating to break the moment.
The little lad swung around to face her just as a burly fellow in overalls emerged from the darkness of a stall, grooming brush in hand.
“G’morning, miss.” He touched his cap. “Back to work, Turnip,” he said to the boy. “And quit the warbling.”
Kitty stepped forward gingerly, not wanting to tread on the spot where Hunter’s body had lain. She had thought she remembered the area exactly, but now she wasn’t sure, since all traces of the tragedy had been cleaned away. The place looked just like an ordinary stable ready for business.
“I was passing and thought I’d check in on the horses,” she said.
“Are you an owner, ma’am?” The groom wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Beg your pardon for asking, but only owners are allowed inside these days.”
“New rule?” She tried to seem unconcerned.
“Don’t know if you heard, but there was a murder on the premises.”
“Ah, yes.” Kitty nodded. “I was there. I’m a friend of Mrs. Basshor’s.”
Groom and boy exchanged nervous looks.
“Is something wrong?” Kitty asked.
The boy opened his mouth to speak, but the man silenced him with a glare. “I told you to get back to work, Turnip.” His calloused hand reached out to stroke a velvety nose that poked out from a stall. “One of our animals fell ill and had to be seen to by the vet.”
“Was that him in his cart I just saw?”
“That’s right,” he replied. “You’re fine, girl. Just fine,” he murmured to the horse he was petting and fed her a carrot.
“That must be hard after all that’s happened. I heard that they caught the fellow who did it. He worked here?”
The stable hand stiffened. “He did.”
“Was he a foreigner?” If the stable hands held any grudges against Lupone or thought he was guilty, her question might prompt them to talk.
“We guessed that, didn’t we, Turnip?” the older man replied. “From his accent. Still, he wasn’t a bad sort. Kept to himself.”
“You must have noticed something.” Kitty tried to probe. “Didn’t you hear or see anything suspicious?”
“Well…” The groom took off his cap, scratched his head, and put it back on. “Actually, no. He was a hard worker. Went away on his days off but always came back on time. We never had any trouble.” Behind him, Turnip’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.
“There wasn’t anything suspicious about him at all? Did he know Mr. Cole from his previous employment?”
“That’s what they’re telling us. That Mr. Cole recognized him, and he would have lost his job—”
“Madam!” The door burst open, and a man in a blue pin-striped suit rushed in. “Madam,” he said again, out of breath. For a while, it seemed to be the only word he could manage. “I’m Phillips, the club secretary,” he added finally. “And you are?”
Kitty froze. “Miss Lodge.” The only name she could think of on the spur of the moment was Elaine Dodge, the character played by Pearl White.
“She’s a friend of Mrs. Basshor’s,” the groom offered.
“Well, Miss Lodge,” said the club secretary, “I must inform you that only owners are allowed into the stables at this time and that all guests must be properly signed in at the front desk and be in a member’s company for the duration of their visit. Is Mrs. Basshor expecting you? I don’t believe I’ve seen her this morning.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t.” Kitty didn’t think it wise to lie any more than necessary.
The boy started to whistle.
“Stop that,” Phillips said. He turned to Kitty. “I regret to tell you then—”
“That I must leave the premises.” She finished his sentence. “I know. I was in the vicinity and thought I’d stop in to see how things are going.”
He bowed and held the door open for her. She passed through. “In the future, madam, please feel free to drive right up to the front. One of our porters will park your vehicle, and you are welcome to wait in the reception area until Mrs. Basshor is able to meet you.”
Kitty felt three pairs of eyes following her as she made her way to her car. She walked a good fifty yards before she turned back to the stables.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the secretary, who didn’t seem too pleased to see her again. “May I take your boy to help me? Something got caught under my chassis and made the most terrible racket all the way over here. I thought he might be able to slide underneath and take a look.”
“That’s fine.” He nudged Turnip. “Go on.”
The boy hurried behind Kitty, and as soon as they were out of earshot of his superiors, he slid his hands into his pockets and started singing again: “Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers…” It was another hit tune but faster and catchier than his previous choice.
“Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows,
Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d sooner sleep in thistles
Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.”
“That’s excellent, Turnip.” Kitty laughed at the tongue twister. “I wouldn’t be able to manage it myself.”
“I know you,” the boy said. “You’re not Miss Lodge. You’re that lady from the papers, aren’t ya?”
Kitty had the grace to blush.
“I was there the night Mr. Cole was killed. I saw you. You went all woozy, and Lewis brought you a stool.”
“That’s right.”
“So what brings you back to our neck of the woods?” He seemed terribly confident for such a little fellow.
“I have some questions,” Kitty said.
“It’s gonna cost you, y’know. Five dollars, if you want to know what I know.” He walked half a step behind her.
“Five dollars?” That was a lot of money. “What do you know?” she asked.
They approached the Bearcat.
“I know,” the boy replied, “that if this is your car, you can afford it.”
Kitty stifled a smile and pointed to the vehicle. “Slide under—they’re watching us. Don’t worry though. I’ll pay you.”
She stood beside the car with her back to the stables. “What can you tell me about Lupone?”
“Well, he was the one who said we should all go out to see the fireworks. Joe—the man you saw inside—wasn’t feeling too good, but he dragged him out as well. Said it was a chance none of us should miss.”
“I see.” That matched what Lupone had told her. “And he was with you the entire time?”
The boy paused, and then said, “I can’t be sure, but I think so. That’s what we all said to the police anyhow.”
“What’s that—that he was with you, or that he wasn’t?”
“That we thought he was but couldn’t be sure. The coppers told us we were just sticking up for him. But that’s not true. Lipton—I mean Lupone”—he corrected himself—“was one of us, but none of us would lie if we really thought he killed someone.”
“And he disappeared later that evening?”
“That’s right. After talking to the cops like the rest of us.”
Kitty put five single dollar bills on the running board, and a second later, they disappeared. “Tell me, have you heard anything about Lupone speaking to Mr. Cole a few days before he was murdered?”
Turnip peered out from under the car. “No.” Noticing her disappoin
tment, he added, “You want to know something for free?”
“I wouldn’t call it free. I just paid you!”
“Do you want to know or not?”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s about Breedlove, Mrs. Basshor’s pony. That’s the one that took ill this morning. They put him down and carted him off before you could say Jack’s your brother.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Kitty tied on her hat. The boy was just talking for the sake of talking now.
“It’s just that they told us he stepped on a nail and was starting with tetanus, but I know that’s not true.” He looked aggrieved. “I sweep the stalls myself. There aren’t any nails lying about.”
Kitty agreed. The place seemed spotless for a barn. But Mrs. Basshor’s pony’s sickness had nothing to do with her.
“I think we’re all set.” She climbed into the car and waved at the club secretary who still watched her from the door to the stables. “They’ll wonder what’s taking you so long.”
Turnip slid out from under the chassis. “Did you see the look on Mr. Phillips’s face? He must be terrified that if word spreads about Breedlove, all the owners will take away their animals. Two deaths in one week.”
“Two?” Kitty looked down at the boy.
“Mr. Cole and the pony.”
“That’s right.” Kitty turned on the engine and drove away. Two deaths in one week. A man and a horse.
She shook her head. There couldn’t be a connection.
Chapter Seventeen
“What do you think?” An hour and a half later, Kitty told Amanda what she had learned.
Amanda examined her reflection in the mirror and wrinkled her nose. “Too feminine.” She returned the swatch of Liberty’s fabric to the Altman’s salesgirl. Then she said to Kitty, “How can Hunter’s death have anything to do with a horse being put down?”
“I know.”
“You’re confused and clutching at straws.” They strolled toward a bank of elevators.
Kitty hadn’t told her friend about her trip to the Tombs. Amanda had been shocked enough that she drove up to the country club by herself. “You’ll get a reputation,” she had warned.
“Where to, miss?” The elevator operator held open the door.
“World bazaar,” Kitty replied. At Altman’s department store, she was on home turf. She knew the giant emporium, which occupied an entire city block, like the back of her hand. The trick was in understanding the logic to how the store displayed its merchandise: impulse purchases, like cosmetics, gloves, notions, small wares, and also men’s apparel, were placed on the street level; ladies’ ready-to-wear, millinery, lingerie, mourning, and other specialty items occupied the middle floors; the topmost levels sold items that warranted a special trip, like home goods or the world bazaar; and groceries and discounted wares were buried in the basement.
“I’m glad we’re here.” Amanda linked her arm through Kitty’s as they stepped out into a pavilion of colorful stalls. “And I’m glad Mama said I could join you.”
“I am too.” Kitty had wanted to run her thoughts by someone, and besides, she had to buy at least a couple of items, or else her father would never believe that she had spent her entire day shopping.
• • •
Kitty returned home by three as promised. She planned to bathe and then study for a couple of hours before the concert. The telephone rang as soon as Kitty put down her parcels.
Grace picked up the line. “It’s for you, Miss Kitty,” she said after a moment.
Kitty pressed the instrument against her ear.
“Miss Weeks?” It was Mrs. Basshor’s secretary. “I must speak to you. This is urgent.”
“How did you find my number, Mr. Hotchkiss?”
“I asked the operator. You’re the only Weeks on the west side of Manhattan, so I thought it must be you.”
Kitty checked her watch. “I don’t have much time, Mr. Hotchkiss.”
“Please, Miss Weeks.”
She could sense the anxiety in his voice. “Go ahead.”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Cole?”
“I did, and she told me that she went to the powder room for a few moments during the fireworks.”
“I see. And you didn’t happen to say anything about me? That it was I who told you that she went missing?”
“No, I did not.” Time was ticking away. Kitty wished the secretary would stop beating about the bush.
“I think she found out somehow.” He sounded distressed. “She suggested as much when I saw her at Mr. Cole’s funeral. I accompanied Mrs. Basshor to Connecticut.”
“Well, I can assure you that I never said anything.”
“I appreciate it, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty heard Mrs. Basshor calling in the background. “Hotchkiss,” she trilled in an insistent tone. “Hotchkiss.”
“I’m finished,” Hotchkiss whispered. “Finished.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Hotchkiss. Did Mrs. Basshor find out that you came to see me? Will you lose your job?”
“It’s much worse than that.” The line went dead.
The secretary’s woes weren’t her problem, Kitty told herself as she hurried back to her rooms. She asked Grace to bring in a cup of tea and raced through chapter 2, “Her Responsibilities.”
“The girl must be a link in the chain of life… A woman’s appeal…is supposed to be an emotional appeal. Let us accept the fact and glory in it. Let us train our girl’s quick instincts and emotional reaction to be the biggest and best force in the community…”
Kitty scribbled notes furiously. There was much to discuss here.
“The eighteenth century brought to the world a deeper and better understanding of the rights of man; the nineteenth century has carried the message on; but it remains for the twentieth century to develop a new interpretation of the duties”—Kitty paid special attention to the phrase—“rather than the rights of woman.”
She began the third chapter, “Her Recreation,” in which Miss Morgan described “developing the limited, class-conscious, or group-conscious girl into the socially conscious woman” and discussed the work of the National Vacation Committee, one of the branches of the Woman’s Department of the National Civic Federation, in meeting the recreational needs of self-supporting women and girls. Kitty was halfway through the passage detailing how a fund had been created to help city girls rest from the stresses and strains of their everyday life when Grace knocked on the door.
“Mr. Weeks wants to know when you will be ready, Miss Kitty.”
Kitty left her pencil in the book to mark her page. She would have liked to finish the section today. She washed her face, did her hair, and changed into a pearl-gray dress with lace around the neck and at the cuffs. Then she joined her father for a light supper before Rao drove them to the concert.
• • •
Carnegie Hall thronged with New York’s finest. In a recent bit of busywork for Miss Busby, Kitty had counted the number of families who provided foreign addresses to the Summer Social Register, and compared the figure to the same time last year. In 1914, nine hundred families had left for Europe by May; this year, only two hundred had gone away by the beginning of June, and by the looks of it, the rest were here this evening.
On her way up to her seat, Kitty caught a glimpse of Mrs. Basshor in conversation with her friends, Poppy Clements with a man Kitty assumed was her husband, and other faces that looked familiar but she couldn’t name—she must have seen them in the papers.
Kitty and Mr. Weeks took their places; she unfolded her mother-of-pearl opera glasses and scanned the crowd. Unlike her father, Kitty didn’t care too much for classical performances and would much rather spend the concert watching people.
She spotted Amanda in a box diagonally opposite. Amanda wore a pretty sea-foam-blue gown, Mrs. Vanderwel
l was dressed in dark brown with a string of pearls around her neck, and Mr. Vanderwell sat beside them staring vacantly off into space and fanning himself with a program.
Kitty watched Amanda laugh and flirt with the two young men in the row behind her. She envied and admired the expert way in which her friend seemed to deflect their comments and managed being the center of attention. Kitty found that she became tongue-tied on the rare occasions when she was introduced to an eligible bachelor. The supreme self-confidence of the New York City man unnerved her, as well as his assumption that the world revolved around Manhattan, with a few forays to Harvard or Yale, Groton or Andover. She never knew what to say, and the harder she tried, the more stilted she sounded.
The orchestra started to tune up, and the lights dimmed. Kitty put away her glasses and glanced at the program: Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, followed by Haydn’s Concerto in D Major for Violoncello and Orchestra, then an intermission.
She wished she could have brought along Miss Morgan’s book and read while they played, but even if the light had been sufficient, that wasn’t the proper thing to do. She would have to sit through it all. She closed her eyes and dozed off. It had been a long day.
Mr. Weeks nudged her awake when the pieces ended. “Tired?” he said.
She smiled. “Who knew that shopping could be so exhausting?” She followed her father out, glad to stretch her legs.
“I say.” A business associate approached Mr. Weeks.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, Schweitzer,” Julian Weeks replied and introduced the man to Kitty. “Are we settled, then?”
“Good to go, Mr. Weeks.”
Kitty felt someone jolt her arm.
“I beg your pardon.”
She found herself staring into friendly brown eyes framed by a pleasant face.
For a moment, Kitty thought she might have seen the man before, but she couldn’t put her finger on the occasion.
“I hope you’re all right,” he said.
It had been just the slightest of bumps. “I’m fine, thank you.”
