I hadn’t realized I was such a martinet. I rather liked the idea. ‘Look at it this way,’ I said to Ruth, patting her on her arm, ‘you’ll have a chance to practice command.’
‘When will you be back?’ Betty asked.
‘Monday next,’ I said.
Then it struck me. I had a week off! I hadn’t had so much free time in, what, almost two years, since I first went to work at the Wilmington Shipbuilding Company.
And since I’d worked for OSS I’d had exactly one weekday free: the Fourth of July.
I would have preferred not to be disciplined, but now I could help Dellaphine cook Thanksgiving dinner. I could sit out on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, and read. I could make a war cake. I could catch up on my knitting . . . and then I remembered Alessa and the injustice of letting the judgment of suicide stand. Maybe she had killed herself, but I wasn’t convinced. She was in the midst of bringing OSS critical information about a sleeper, a Mafioso, based in the New York City docks. She’d returned from New York, and perhaps she’d already had the information she’d promised us! And she was alone in her apartment for several hours. Plenty of time for her to be overwhelmed by someone and forced to poison herself, and for the stage to be set to look like suicide.
By the time I got off my bus and walked into Dellaphine’s kitchen I’d made a dangerous decision. I was going to spend most of this week probing Alessa’s death on my own. I owed her that much. I would be very careful, and if I turned up anything suspicious, I’d take it straight to the DC Police, I vowed to myself.
If I stumbled upon evidence that OSS could use, like the name of our man, I would deal with that when it happened. I didn’t want to lose my job, but with a suspension for insubordination on my record, I wasn’t sure how secure my job was any more. I didn’t trust Don’s reassurances. When I got back on Monday I might find myself in the mimeograph room.
‘What are you doing home this early? Don’t you feel well?’ Dellaphine said, folding a basket of towels at the kitchen table. She’d pulled them off the line, and they smelled of laundry detergent and autumn.
I pulled a towel out of the laundry basket and shook it out. ‘I’ve been suspended, for a week, for insubordination.’
‘My Lord, Mrs Pearlie, what did you do?’
‘I argued with my bosses.’
‘They was mens?’
‘All three of them.’
I folded the towel the way Phoebe liked them, both edges toward the middle so it would hang neatly on a towel rod.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dellaphine said. ‘Will this hurt your future?’
‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I might as well grit my teeth and go on. It’s wartime. Who knows what’s going to happen? I’ve decided not to worry about it and enjoy my week off.’ A week off without pay. I could get through the month all right though. I saved some of each paycheck, even though the government urged us to spend every extra penny on war bonds.
‘That’s right,’ Dellaphine said. ‘Enjoy yourself while you can. Get some rest.’
‘I’m going to help you cook Thanksgiving dinner,’ I said. ‘I know that much.’
I made a Spam and mayonnaise sandwich for myself and took it and a glass of milk up to my bedroom. I needed to collect my thoughts and plan the next few days. I hoped to do my investigating as unobtrusively as possible. My job with OSS might be shaky, but I wanted to keep it if I could.
As I thought of losing my job, a ripple of apprehension cascaded into pure fear. I felt it physically, frigid hands grasping my spine and shaking cold shivers through me. What if I did lose my job with a black mark on my record? Dear heaven, I’d have to go back home to Wilmington and live with my parents! I’d become again the widowed daughter with no prospects. I couldn’t bear it. My resolve ebbed away. Alessa was dead; nothing I could do would bring her back. If the police and the coroner’s office had declared her death a suicide, why shouldn’t I accept that? After all, I didn’t know her all that well. And if OSS had turned over the files on Alessa and her asset to the Office of Naval Intelligence, who was I to challenge that decision? My brief spell as a cut-out and a couple of days at ‘The Farm’ did not make me a real OSS agent. Melinsky was right: I wasn’t trained to deal with an operation this complex.
As I abandoned my plan I felt my panic slowly subside. I managed to eat my sandwich and drink my milk.
But my mind still churned with questions about Alessa’s death. It wouldn’t hurt to write down what I knew, would it? Organize my thoughts so I could put them behind me and move on? I got a notebook and pencil out of the top drawer of my dresser.
I began at the beginning.
I first went the knitting circle early in October. Alessa, dressed in her thrift shop clothing, was already a member.
This seemed important. She hadn’t joined the circle in search of a contact within the government; she’d approached me when she’d learned I was a government girl. Not only that, she hadn’t had the Mafia sleeper’s name yet. First she’d needed to assure herself, and her asset, that the information could be passed to a responsible person safely.
Had Alessa picked up this name on her last trip to New York, shortly before her death? If so, where was it now?
And what about Alessa’s illegitimate half brother? Was he her contact, or was he peripheral, someone she visited while in New York? Sebastian told me that they lived in a New York hotel for a time before moving to Washington. Alessa must have met dozens of people in the city, any one of whom could be her asset. I didn’t see how I could find out, and besides, I didn’t know her brother’s name.
Alessa died sometime between 7 p.m. and 10 p.m. on Thursday night when she was alone in her apartment.
Had the DC Police verified Orazio, Sebastian, Lina, and Lucia’s alibis? Had Alessa allowed someone to enter the apartment, who subsequently killed her and set up the scene to look like a suicide? How easy was it, anyway, to get into the residential side of the Mayflower? Was a doorman on duty twenty-four hours a day? I’d never been required to sign in when I visited Joan Adams; did Hays wave everyone upstairs?
Where did Enzo fit in? What kind of ‘errands’ had he run for Alessa? Where had she changed into her ‘thrift shop disguise’? And, in a sudden burst of insight, I wondered if she’d disguised her identity with anyone other than our knitting group.
If Alessa had brought back the name of the sleeper from her contact in New York, where was it? If she was murdered, which I felt in my very bones she had been, had the murderer found it?
I went over my notes. I needed to talk to Enzo first; then I intended to verify alibis. As discreetly as possible, of course.
I wished I could get my hands on the police report. How much did Ralph the policeman like Betty?
I caught myself in mid-speculation. OK, so I hadn’t given up. I did not for one second believe Alessa killed herself. I intended to spend this week investigating her death. If I could solve her murder, perhaps that would lead me to the name of the sleeper before the next slow convoy left New York, or thousands of lives could be at risk.
‘What did you do?’ Ada asked.
‘Stopped shuffling index cards and took some initiative,’ I said, helping myself to a scoop of mashed potatoes and bacon before passing it down the table to Henry.
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ Phoebe said, to me, not Henry. ‘I’m surprised your office could do without you.’
‘It’s just for a week. And I’m allowed to lie about it. I can say I’m working on a special project so as not to lose my influence over my staff,’ I said.
Henry didn’t voice his opinion of my suspension. I’m sure I wouldn’t have appreciated it.
I’d already pulled Joe aside and told him.
‘I knew you’d get in hot water one of these days,’ he said, ‘you’re such a troublemaker.’ He kissed me quickly, before anyone could see him.
‘And I pride myself on keeping my mouth shut,’ I said. ‘Didn’t follow my own advice.’
; ‘You could visit your parents,’ Phoebe said.
I loved my parents, I did, but the thought of going home for any length of time made me feel sick. And here I was taking chances that could spoil my life in Washington. Well, if I lost my government job, I’d move someplace cheaper than ‘Two Trees’ and wait tables at Childs. I wasn’t going home to North Carolina, and I wasn’t leaving the questions I had about Alessa unanswered. I was stuck on this lonesome road, as I’d heard Sister Rosetta Thorpe sing many times on Dellaphine’s gospel radio station.
Before joining the others in the lounge, I sat on the worn needlepoint chair in the hall and took the telephone on my lap. First I called Betty. She sounded like her old self and was eager to help me after everything I’d done for her. She didn’t question why I wanted to meet Ralph, but eagerly agreed to introduce us. She and Ralph were having lunch together tomorrow at a soda fountain near work. Why didn’t I join them? Then I could ask him whatever I wanted.
I spent a few minutes plotting my strategy before calling the Mayflower Hotel and asking to be put through to the silver room. I’d never considered myself much of an actress, but the man who answered the phone fell for my story hook, line, and sinker.
‘Enzo Carini isn’t here,’ he said. ‘He works the day shift, eight to six.’
‘You see,’ I said, hoping I sounded like a young shop girl. I needed to stay as far under the radar as possible. ‘He lent me a dollar at the bus stop today, and I want to pay him back, but I don’t know his address or anything.’
‘If it’s not raining you’ll find Enzo outside the servants’ entrance around ten fifteen tomorrow smoking a cigarette,’ the man said. ‘That’s our morning break time.’
As I hung up the phone and replaced it on the telephone table, I wondered if I should write down all the lies I was telling in case I lost track of them.
TWENTY-SIX
Enzo offered me one of his Camels, and I shook my head.
He lit his and inhaled deeply, stuffing his cigarette pack and matches back into the pocket of his filthy apron.
‘I am sorry not to shake hands,’ Enzo said, ‘but as you see I am working.’
Silver tarnish and cleaning paste encrusted his hands, forearms, and apron.
‘It’s OK, of course,’ I said. Then I plunged in. ‘I was a friend of Alessa Oneto, the countess, and I don’t believe for a minute she killed herself. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I’m asking some questions on my own. I’m on leave from my government job, and I’ll get fired if anyone finds out I am doing this.’
‘I know how to keep secrets,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I am also distressed over the Countess’s death.’
‘Would you mind telling me what “errands” you did for Alessa?’ I asked.
‘I failed her,’ Enzo said, without answering my question.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She paid me three dollars a week, and I failed to see that she was in danger. I should have protected her.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘It’s the tradition of my people,’ Enzo said. ‘An obligation.’
I figured he referred to some Sicilian custom. I let it pass.
Enzo stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I will show you something. But you must not speak of me to anyone, as I will not speak of you.’
‘Of course, but won’t you be late for work?’
‘I will say I helped unload the vegetable truck. I’m a good worker; it will be all right.’
Enzo led me down a flight of stairs into the immense basement of the Mayflower Hotel, the invisible world behind the scenes of the elegant hotel. Immediately, I smelled onions browning, something chocolate baking, and meat sizzling, all melded into one delectable odor.
‘Look,’ Enzo said, ‘the kitchens are on this level. You must see.’
He opened a double swinging door into chaos. The noise of the huge kitchen was deafening. Chefs in white toques issued orders to an army of kitchen workers uniformed in blue blouses and white bandannas. Pots and pans crashed and clanged. Smoke and flames roared from gas ranges and were then sucked into ducts overhead. Electric refrigerators that must have cost a fortune lined a back wall. I caught sight of the scullery as an aproned woman came through its door balancing a tall stack of dishes. Almost invisible through the steam, an army of dishwashers scrubbed plates, glasses, pots, and pans in sparkling stainless steel sinks. Whoever managed the Mayflower had the foresight to equip it before the war ended the manufacture of kitchen equipment.
On a table the size of my bedroom, lined with ice, the day’s fresh food lay ready for preparation. Vegetables, eggs, chicken, lobster, even several haunches of beef, were waiting to be prepared. The chicken I’d had at Joan’s apartment only a week ago had been cooked here, loaded into a dumb waiter, lifted to a holding scullery upstairs somewhere, then delivered, still piping hot, to me.
Enzo swung the door closed. He led me down another staircase, two stories under street level, into the sub-basement. Here the ceiling was criss-crossed with pipes and ducts in all sizes and colors. I could hear the steam engines of the boiler room roaring nearby.
We turned into a dimly lit hall off the stairway and into a locker room. Single electric bulbs hung from a low ceiling layered with a spiderweb of steel beams, ducts, and pipes. We ducked around a bank of toilets, where several lockers stood out of sight of the main room.
‘I found this locker for the countess,’ Enzo said. ‘So she could change into old clothes before she went out sometimes. She didn’t like people to stare at her in the shops and on the street.’
‘Enzo, can we possibly open this locker?’
‘Of course,’ he said as he twirled the combination lock.
Alessa’s disguise hung on a single hook. The man’s greatcoat, shiny with wear; two threadbare dresses; a single pair of down at the heel black shoes. A scarf and toboggan she’d knitted herself were shoved on to the only shelf. I felt my throat begin to close, then forced myself to remain calm. I searched every pocket and sleeve of the coat and dresses, even checked the clothing seams for signs they’d been ripped open and re-sewn. I examined the insteps and soles of the shoes for slits where a document could be hidden, taking advantage of what I had learned at ‘The Farm’. I even found a use for my switchblade when I used it to pry apart the stitched brim of Alessa’s worn felt fedora.
Alessa’s knitting bag wasn’t in the locker, of course; it was upstairs in her bedroom next to the desk. I’d seen it when I prowled the bedroom wing of her apartment during the memorial.
Her knitting bag. If she’d had a letter to give to me at the knitting circle, what better place to hide it than in the chaos of her knitting bag! I could have kicked myself for not having the brains to search it when I saw it!
I slammed the door of the locker shut. ‘Damn it!’ I said, under my breath.
‘You are looking for something in particular?’ Enzo said.
‘Yes, I am,’ I answered.
‘Is it important?’
‘Very.’
We stared at each other, both unsure if we should share what we knew.
‘I think,’ Enzo said, ‘that you and I are very good at keeping secrets.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We are.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m a government girl,’ I said. ‘But I work for an important agency. Alessa Oneto promised us information that we never received. I want to find out what happened to her, but I want that information, too. And I’m not supposed to be doing this. I could lose my job if my bosses knew.’
Enzo nodded, reflecting on what I’d told him. He peered around the corner, making sure the locker room was empty. ‘I am Mafioso,’ he said.
My heart jumped into my throat, and my hand went to my mouth.
‘Just a piciotto,’ he said, ‘very unimportant. Some of the hotel guests play the numbers, some desire companionship, you understand. The Countess wanted a quiet place to change her clothes, that wa
s all. But two weeks ago my capo told me to watch over the countess, and that the request came from a friend in New York. As I already had a business relationship with Countess Oneto, I took special care.’
I was still reeling from Enzo’s stunning admission that he was a member of the Mafia. I thought of the Mafia as gangsters wearing double-breasted pinstriped suits being escorted in handcuffs to jail by J. Edgar Hoover. Or lying on a bloody sidewalk outside an Italian restaurant somewhere riddled with sub-machine bullet holes. Enzo was a working man making a few bucks from hotel guests on the side.
‘What did you find out?’ I asked.
‘Very little. Except one day I overheard one of the waitresses, who is engaged to one of my friends at work. She was in the silver room during a break and told her friend she saw the Dowager Countess Lucia Oneto take a diamond bracelet off her arm and give it to Orazio Rossi.’
‘Really!’ I said.
‘Yes. They were having coffee in the quietest corner of the coffee shop. We all laughed, thinking this was of a sexual nature – you know, the dowager countess is still young and attractive – but I filed it away here,’ he said, and he tapped his forehead. ‘Now I wonder if I should have told my capo, if perhaps it relates to the countess’s death.’
‘You don’t think she committed suicide either, do you?’ I said.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘She made so many plans, you understand? People with plans for the future don’t kill themselves. Now I must go. Can you find the way out? We should not be seen together.’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘And thank you. If you remember anything else, would you call me?’ I scribbled my phone number on his matchbox.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Wait a few minutes after I leave, please? Less chance of us being seen together.’
I waited, stewing over everything I’d learned, and a few minutes later left the locker room, headed for the stairs.
‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ a deep voice called out from across the wide hallway. I turned to see a heavyset man with a frown on his face and his arms crossed.
Louise's Gamble Page 14
