A Daring Venture

by Elizabeth Camden

  “I thought you didn’t drink liquor,” she said.

  “I don’t,” Nick said. “Just a beer now and then.”

  Rosalind picked up the bottle of brandy, holding it up for his view. His brows lowered.

  “That’s not mine,” he said, a note of concern in his voice. The bottle was half-empty, so it seemed a little strange to deny drinking it.

  “It’s all right, Nick. My family in Germany often has brandy with their meals. They even cook with—”

  “But that’s not mine,” Nick insisted. His hands were planted on his hips as he scrutinized the bottle, his face drawn in unease. “I was in that cabinet not two days ago for a cigar, and that bottle was not there. Someone planted it.”

  Suddenly, even holding the bottle made her nervous. She set it back on the shelf with a gentle click. “Is it possible the cleaning staff has been tippling in your office?”

  “Possible. Not likely.” Nick tossed a file folder at her as he went to inspect the rest of the items on the hidden shelf. He grabbed a small slip of paper resting alongside the cigar box, and as he studied it, his face went white.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “It’s a hat-check ticket from the Scandinavian Tearoom. It’s on the ground floor of my aunt’s apartment building.”

  “And?”

  “And I never checked a hat there or anything else. I’ve only set foot in the place one time in my life, and none of the cleaning crew would have gone there. Someone planted this ticket. The brandy too.”

  “Your aunt?”

  He looked baffled as he unscrewed the bottle’s cap and sniffed it. “It smells like brandy,” he confirmed. “I don’t know what she could be planning, because it’s not illegal to drink.”

  “It could be wood alcohol,” she said quietly. “At the Berghütte Research Station, some of the men brewed their own. It’s stupid and dangerous, because moonshine can make a man go blind.”

  If there was too much methanol in the mix, it triggered chemical reactions in the body that produced formaldehyde and formic acid. The combination was deadly, first destroying the optic nerve, then causing seizures and convulsions. In the worst cases, it could kill a man. Of course, the scientists at the research station thought they were too clever to brew bad liquor, but they had a makeshift way of testing it. A heated copper rod dunked in liquor triggered the production of formaldehyde if the liquor was bad. The characteristic stink of formaldehyde was a sure warning the liquor was dangerous.

  “Have you got a penny?” Rosalind asked. She had no idea if the makeshift solution would work, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

  Nick produced a penny, and he had a box of matches alongside the cigars. She poured a little liquor into a glass, averting her face as she did so. As a scientist, she knew that breathing the fumes was harmless, but everything about Margaret Drake gave her the jitters.

  There were no tongs in the office, but a pair of scissors would work. She held the penny clamped between the scissor blades while Nick struck a match, then held it beneath the penny. The flame traveled down the length of the match, drawing ever closer to his pinched fingers, until he shook the match dead, then struck another. Then another. The penny turned black, but after the fifth match, the penny’s rim took on the characteristic glow of heated metal. First yellow, then, by the seventh match, an orangey-red. It took nine matches before the penny looked hot enough for the experiment.

  She carefully shifted the penny over the glass of brandy. “Here we go,” she said as the penny dropped.

  It hissed, sizzled, and then the nose-stinging reek of formaldehyde hit her.

  She reared back. “It’s wood alcohol,” she said.

  Nick cursed under his breath and raced to the telephone. His hand was shaking. “Connect me to Lucy Drake,” he said in an urgent voice, then provided the exchange. She’d never seen Nick look so shaken, but if Margaret would plant poison in his office, she might do so at Lucy’s house too.

  After a dozen rings, the operator broke in. “There appears to be no one home, sir.”

  “Keep trying,” he ordered.

  “It’s ten o’clock at night,” the operator said in a semi-scolding tone. “Most people don’t answer their telephones this late.”

  “Keep trying!” Nick shouted.

  After another dozen rings, an irritated Colin picked up the receiver.

  “Don’t eat or drink anything in your house,” Nick ordered. “Not a drop, even if it looks like water. Margaret planted poisoned brandy in my office.”

  Colin didn’t need any further urging, for it looked like Margaret was out to bring them all down.

  Nick had never been so rattled in his life. After talking to Colin, he called his housekeeper with the same warning. They couldn’t trust anything in the house. It was only because the brandy was so out of place in his office that they’d bothered to investigate, but Margaret could have just as easily poisoned the milk, the jam, anything.

  He instructed Rosalind to call her brother, not only to tell him not to eat or drink anything in their house, but to tell him not to expect her home that night. The subways and ferries had stopped running an hour ago, and she had no way of getting across the Hudson.

  He had no doubt Margaret was behind this. If anyone came to harm . . . if Lucy lost her baby or if Rosalind’s little nephew was hurt . . .

  But he couldn’t lose his head now. Rosalind’s face was white with fear, and he needed to figure out a way to diffuse this situation immediately.

  On their way to his apartment, he stopped at Sal’s Diner. Even at midnight, the counter was occupied with plenty of late-night customers seeking a decent meal, some hot coffee, or perhaps simple human companionship. Nick didn’t want a meal, he wanted a couple loaves of bread, a jar of jam, a bottle of milk, and a round of cheese. It was an unusual request, but they knew him well and gladly supplied his needs. It would suffice until his housekeeper could restock their pantry tomorrow.

  As they waited at the counter for their food, Nick noticed Rosalind gazing around the diner with a faint smile. In this tense, wretched night, he needed to know what had lightened her spirit. “What?” he prompted.

  “This is where we first met,” she said, then glanced back to the last booth in the diner. “Right at that table. I felt like I had met my best friend and Prince Charming all at once.”

  The compliment hurt, for he still wanted to be those things for her.

  As they left the diner, he carried the sack of food in one arm and offered his hand, palm up, to Rosalind. He held his breath, waiting. She didn’t move a muscle, and he lowered his hand, but he wasn’t giving up.

  “Rosalind, life is short,” he said. “If one of us had taken a swig of that brandy . . . or gotten hit by a streetcar on the way to the park . . . well, it would be a real shame if things ended for us like this. You don’t have to accept my apology if you aren’t ready, but maybe you could hold my hand?”

  He offered it again. This time, she hesitated only a moment before slipping her hand into his.

  It felt right to walk along the city streets with her beside him. They were a matched pair, different in so many ways, but she was the right person to share this dreadful night with. He wanted to share all his nights with her, the good and the bad.

  At his apartment building, they had to shake the doorman awake to get the elevator working. The only time Rosalind had been to his home was that awful morning when she threw the newspaper at him after he dragged her name through the mud. He had a long way to go to make up for that, but he would begin tonight. He would light a fire in the fireplace and prepare a late-night snack of sliced bread and cheese from the diner. Maybe not the most romantic of evenings, but somehow he sensed she would be game for a cozy, quiet night.

  No such luck. He realized that the moment he stepped through his front door. Every light in the apartment was ablaze as his housekeeper and Jeannie piled food in the middle of the parlor, almost like they were preparing a bonfire. They bo
th wore gloves. He’d never realized how much food his apartment housed until he saw the bags of flour, rice, apples, and dried beans. Jugs of milk and cider were propped alongside a smoked ham, loaves of bread, and a side of bacon. They summoned Pete the elevator operator to carry it all down to the dumpster, warning him not to touch or give away anything.

  After an hour, the apartment was finally cleared of everything edible, and Nick sent the two servants to bed, leaving him and Rosalind in the parlor. Though it was August, he lit a fire. Rosalind perched on the edge of the sofa, warming her hands.

  “I think I’m too wound up to sleep,” she said. “Do you have anything I can read? A fat novel, perhaps?”

  He shook his head. “Only some kiddie books for Sadie, but I’ve got subscriptions to all the city newspapers, if you’d like.”

  She winced when he said newspaper. He frowned, then turned back to continue stoking the fire, jostling the logs until they crackled with a satisfying snap and flare of warm light. They had to talk about this. He’d dump his entire fortune in her lap if it would help alleviate the tarnish he’d flung at this insanely good-hearted woman.

  “I’ll issue a retraction,” he said, still staring at the fire.

  “It won’t help.”

  “Maybe if we got married, it would calm the wagging tongues.” He set the poker back in the stand and risked a glance at her.

  She stared at him as though he’d gone insane. “You would marry me to save me from a scandal?”

  “No, I would marry you because I love you. And, um . . . that’s what I was really trying to say. I love you, and I think you’re wonderful, and I would be over the moon if you would be my wife.”

  His mouth went too dry to keep speaking. Her eyes were still big with surprise, but it was different. She had a watery look as though she was fighting back tears.

  He sat beside her and reached for her hands. She pulled away to the far end of the sofa, clasping her hands modestly on her lap. He obligingly slid to the opposite side of the sofa and did the same, trying not to laugh. It was Rosalind’s straitlaced modesty that had attracted him in the first place. As much as he wanted to lunge across the space between them, he mirrored her prim posture.

  “Um, I think it’s your turn to talk,” he said.

  “Oh, Nick . . . we rushed into things once before, and it was all a little too fast for me.”

  He absorbed her words, parsing them carefully. “But you’re not saying no . . .”

  “No! I mean . . . yes, I’m not saying no. So yes.” She flushed as laughter got the better of her. “What I mean is that I think the world of you, and it would be nice if we could try to court just like normal people. And maybe someday . . .”

  It wasn’t exactly the ringing endorsement he’d hoped to hear. He’d hoped she would fling herself across the sofa and into his arms, along with all sorts of unwholesome, un-Rosalind kinds of behavior, but he was a patient man. He would have to up his game.

  “Okay,” he said, still sitting on the far side of the sofa like a good Puritan. “I’m not the kind of man who is good with words or who can spout fancy poetry. I’ll never be a big fan of Shakespeare or the opera, but I’ll take you whenever you want to go. I can’t compete with your college professors, but I can make you laugh. I’ll be a good father to any children we have. I’m loyal. I’ll guard your back and come through for you in a storm. I can fix a leaky faucet, and I’ve got a good shoulder to cry on. And I’ll wait for you until the stars fall from the sky. So don’t feel like you need to rush into anything. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”

  She hadn’t moved a muscle, not even to breathe. When she finally got around to talking, she sounded a little shaky. “Actually, I think you’re pretty good with words, Nick.”

  He didn’t answer, just stared at her and grinned like an idiot. He could sit here and smile at Rosalind until the sun rose.

  They talked for hours that night. The only time he budged from his spot on the far side of the sofa was to stoke the fire. Sometime in the early hours, they both drifted off to sleep, propped up in their respective corners of the sofa.

  Sadie woke them up as she drifted into the main room, dragging her blanket and looking at him through bleary eyes.

  “How come you’re sleeping in your clothes?” she asked, not even questioning Rosalind’s presence.

  For her part, Rosalind jerked awake, finger-combing her hair and looking as flustered as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  Nick rapped on Jeannie’s closed door, for as much as he welcomed the chance to let Sadie get to know Rosalind a little better, it couldn’t happen this morning. He needed to walk Rosalind to her subway stop, then head down to the police station to file a report against Margaret for planting poisoned liquor in his office.

  A few minutes later, he rode the elevator down to the ground floor with Rosalind. Pete the elevator operator was still on duty. “Anything else for me to carry down, sir?” he asked in an eager voice. Given the size of the tip Nick had given him last night, it was little wonder that Pete would be anxious for more business.

  “Not today, Pete.” He fiddled with Rosalind’s fingers as the elevator lowered. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty, discarding everything from the apartment last night. If Margaret had managed to plant something toxic in his home, it would have been more evidence against her.

  The elevator stopped, and he released Rosalind’s fingers. “Ready to face the day?”

  She gave him a confident nod. “Ready.”

  Their eyes met, and the zing of chemistry flared to life. He was still suppressing a grin as he strode into the lobby, Rosalind beside him matching his stride in perfect harmony.

  A man wearing a New York City police uniform blocked his path. “Mr. Nicholas Drake?” he asked. Additional police officers stood nearby. Had they already gotten word about what happened in his office last night?

  “That’s me,” Nick acknowledged.

  “We need you to come down to the precinct to answer some questions about the murder of Margaret Drake. You need to come immediately.”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  Nick refused to leave the lobby of his apartment building until the police told him what was going on. It didn’t take long.

  In an uncharacteristic move, Margaret had given her housekeeper the day off yesterday, insisting Mrs. Loomis visit her family in Brooklyn. When the housekeeper let herself into the apartment last night, she’d heard terrible noises from the bedroom and found Margaret writhing in pain, barely able to breathe, and completely blind. All were classic symptoms of wood alcohol poisoning. As Margaret lay twisting in agony, she named Nick as the man who’d brought her a bottle of brandy as a peace offering. She drank some of the brandy in her afternoon tea and accused him of poisoning her as she was carried to the hospital. The doctors said Margaret would be dead before lunchtime.

  Once again, Nick had underestimated his aunt. Margaret hadn’t been trying to poison him. She was planting evidence in his office so she could make her suicide look like a murder and frame him for it as her final act on earth.

  Nick used the telephone booth in the lobby to call his attorney and private investigator, arranging for them to meet him at the police station. Then there was nothing for him to do but follow the officers.

  “I’ll go with you,” Rosalind said.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  She looked stunned at his refusal, but he didn’t want her there. This was degrading enough without having Rosalind witness his humiliation.

  He followed the officers out the door. The police had a carriage waiting, and Rosalind kept pestering him to go along. There was only room for four people in the carriage, and he wanted Pete, the elevator operator, to come with them. Pete could testify that Nick feared poison had been planted in his apartment. Pete was mostly an unbiased witness, but it would have been better if Nick hadn’t tipped him so lavishly last night. It could be interpreted as a bri
be.

  “I can squeeze in,” Rosalind said, already trying to nudge her way into the carriage.

  With firm hands, Nick grasped her shoulders and turned her in the other direction. “I’m sure the work at the laboratory is piling up and waiting for your attention,” he said.

  He did his best to ignore her wounded look as he put five dollars in her hand and pointed her to the nearest subway station. This was his mess to solve, not hers.

  When he got to the police precinct, he learned that Margaret’s diary had been left on her nightstand, conveniently opened to the page recounting her meeting with him at the Scandinavian Tearoom, when he had threatened to kill her. In her diary, Margaret noted her mortification that so many of her neighbors heard the alarming threat. She listed the names of the ladies who witnessed his outburst, and as Nick sat in the hard chair of the police detectives’ office, he saw two of the well-dressed ladies coming in to make their statement. Margaret had planned well.

  “I want to see that diary,” Nick’s lawyer groused. “It’s obvious Mrs. Drake planned to frame him, just as she tried to frame Rosalind Werner.”

  “The diary has already been turned over to the district attorney,” the detective said.

  “Then make a copy,” Vinni replied.

  “We can do that,” the detective said, “but it might be more productive to get a transcript of what she’s been telling folks at the hospital. The doctor claims she is incessantly rambling about your gift of the brandy.”

  “I thought they said she’d be dead by lunch,” Nick said. “Is she still alive?”

  A glance darted between the two detectives. “The last we heard, she is holding steady.”

  Aunt Margaret was supposedly suffering convulsions, breathing difficulties, and blindness. All of those conditions could be faked. Nick wouldn’t put anything past Margaret Drake.

  “I want to see her.”

  The detective almost sputtered his mouthful of coffee onto his desk. “That is not likely to happen. It would be considered a security risk.”