Louise's Gamble

by Sarah R. Shaber

  He wasn’t a kitchen worker or a security guard; he was wearing a quality suit and tie.

  ‘I’m lost,’ I said, the first words that came to my mind.

  ‘Are you a guest? Did you get on the service elevator by accident?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That must be what happened. So surprised to find myself here!’

  ‘Didn’t realize it wouldn’t stop until you got to the basement, I bet.’

  ‘That’s right.’ By now my mind was working. ‘I’m not staying here, actually; I’m visiting my friend Joan Adams, who has an apartment in the hotel.’

  He stretched out a hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Fred Gleim,’ he said, his frown morphing into a warm smile. ‘I’m the Mayflower Hotel silversmith. Since you’re already down here, would you like to see the silver room?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, gushing. Surely a visitor to the Mayflower would jump at the chance?

  ‘Right this way,’ he said, leading me down the long hall through yet another swinging door.

  Inside the high-ceilinged room, big as the kitchens a flight above, overhead lights reflected off table after table, shelf after shelf, and row after row of silver plate. I was struck silent by the sight of hundreds of coffee pots, candlesticks, urns, serving pieces, champagne buckets, trays, compotes, and trays full of silverware, all burnished to gleaming.

  Despite the size of the room it was claustrophobic without natural light. And the acid odor of silver polish was nauseating. I didn’t know how the workers could bear it.

  ‘Incredible sight, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘We polish, repair, and re-plate all the hotel silver.’

  At the back of the room, behind a counter, at least ten men, including Enzo, worked, polishing. No wonder he was filthy with tarnish.

  ‘Must be worth a fortune,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed. We keep an eye on it, too, during parties and receptions so guests don’t walk away with souvenirs. Once after a Christmas party a punch bowl disappeared! Still don’t know how that happened. Teaspoons are impossible to keep track of, though. You’d be surprised how many rich and important people think it’s OK to walk off with a silver spoon because they dined in the Presidential Restaurant and want a memento with the Mayflower emblem. We’ve lost four thousand spoons since the hotel opened,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that it would be tempting,’ I said.

  ‘We’re hosting a USO fund-raising ball here after Thanksgiving,’ he said. ‘Will you be attending?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ I was eager to get away. Mr Gleim was very attentive, as I suppose he was required to be to hotel guests, but I was anxious to put some distance between Enzo, this hotel, and me before I ran into someone I knew. ‘Thank you so much for the tour,’ I said.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he answered, with a slight bow. ‘Will you permit me to escort you to the correct elevator?’ he asked.

  ‘Please.’

  The elevator door opened on the ground floor into the main lobby of the hotel. Even royalty, I thought, couldn’t help but be impressed by the marble floors and sumptuous decor of the grand hotel. I found myself wishing I could go to a ball here.

  I walked, with my best imitation of nonchalance, past the hotel candy kiosk, coffee shop, and cigar stand, terrified of running into Count Oneto, Lucia, or Rossi before finding myself on the street, running late for lunch with Betty and her policeman beau. Three full buses passed me before I broke down and hailed a cab. I swore that as soon as possible I would purchase a Victory bicycle. I was tired of standing on street corners waiting forever to travel a few blocks.

  I met Betty and Ralph at a People’s Drug Store soda fountain around the corner from OSS headquarters.

  Betty’s appearance surprised me. She’d buttoned her dress to the neck, and she’d switched her lipstick and nail polish color from fire engine to brick red. As for Ralph, he was at least thirty-five, with a patch of gray prominent in his buzz-cut dark hair. A big man, he was comfortable in his police sergeant’s uniform, projecting an air of competence and reliability. He stood up politely and shook my hand when Betty introduced us. Was it possible that Betty had grown up and acquired a mature man as her new boyfriend? From the way Ralph looked at her, I figured he’d do about anything for her. I hoped so.

  Ralph went to the counter to pick up our grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate shakes. Betty leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘wonderful.’ Betty was a sucker for a man in uniform, but this policeman was a huge improvement over the boy soldiers and sailors she’d dated before. I hoped she had the sense to stick with him.

  I worried about bringing two more people into my confidence, but I couldn’t make any progress unless I did. Betty might be ditzy, but she’d worked long enough at OSS to understand secrecy, and Ralph was a policeman, for heaven’s sake.

  Ralph set our tray of food down on the table.

  Don’t tell any more lies than necessary, I reminded myself.

  ‘You know I’m working on a special project this week,’ I said to Betty.

  She nodded. ‘Sorting a private library,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but there’s something else I need to do this week, and Ralph, I need your help.’

  ‘Depends on what you want,’ Ralph said. ‘Betty’s vouched for you; she says you have OSS Top Secret Clearance. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘A friend of mine died last Thursday night,’ I said. ‘Countess Alessa Oneto.’

  ‘The woman who killed herself?’ he said.

  ‘You knew her?’ Betty asked. ‘A real countess?’

  ‘We were in a knitting group together. And we didn’t know she was a countess. I was very fond of her, and I don’t believe she killed herself. I want to find out more about what happened.’ Of course, I left out the part about how Alessa might have the key to preventing the destruction of American convoys loaded with millions of dollars’ worth of critical supplies for the North African front. The first slow convoy was scheduled to leave the Port of New York next week.

  ‘What can I do?’ Ralph asked.

  I dived right in.

  ‘I’d like to see the DC Police case file on her death.’

  I waited for Ralph to be shocked, insulted, or at least perturbed. Instead, he wiped his mouth and sucked down the last of his milkshake.

  ‘Is the case open or closed?’ he asked.

  ‘Closed, I think. The coroner issued a death certificate.’

  ‘Then sure, I can get you the file. Our closed files are open to the public. The problem will be finding it. You should see our file room. Papers and files stacked everywhere. Those loathsome crime reporters paw through them and foul up the filing system.’

  ‘Honey, I don’t want the rest of my sandwich,’ Betty said to him. ‘Would you like it?’

  ‘Thanks, baby,’ he said. ‘It’s tongue and cabbage casserole at my boarding house tonight.’

  ‘Ralph,’ I said, ‘I can’t be seen at the police station. Could you possibly . . . I mean it’s a lot to ask, but . . .’

  I waited again for what I was sure would be Ralph’s objection.

  ‘I’ll bring it to you,’ Ralph said, finishing the rest of Betty’s sandwich. ‘If I can find it, that is. Since the deceased was a real countess, one of the clerks might actually have filed it correctly by now.’

  Ralph’s hand reached for the tab. ‘My treat. I get a discount.’

  If Betty didn’t marry this man, she was a fool.

  ‘I eat breakfast at the café on the corner of Nineteenth and C, near the jail, every morning at seven thirty. Can you meet me there?’ he asked.

  Another long taxi ride, another dent in my savings.

  ‘I’ll see you there!’ I said. ‘I can’t thank you enough!’

  ‘I’d do anything to make my Betty happy,’ he said, ‘as long as it’s legal.’ He leaned over and kissed her sweetly, and a slow flush climbed her neck into her face.

  ‘Ain’t
she pretty?’ he asked.

  ‘Stop it!’ Betty said. ‘You’re embarrassing me.’

  I’d never seen Betty blush before, or be embarrassed either. It was a wonder.

  Betty and I walked a few blocks together – she on her way back to work, and me to my bus stop. On the way she grabbed my arm and pulled me into an alley.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  She was as pale as she’d been flushed in the drug store after Ralph’s compliment.

  ‘Louise,’ she said, ‘you’ve been married. Is it true, do you think, you know, that a man . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘Spit it out, Betty,’ I said.

  She lowered her voice even further. ‘That a man can tell if a woman’s not a virgin.’

  I restrained myself from laughing out loud only because Betty looked so troubled. ‘I promise you, Ralph does not expect you to be a virgin!’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Honey, you met him when you were in jail! For possibly having venereal disease!’

  ‘I told him that the guy was lying because I wouldn’t sleep with him.’

  I put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Betty, dear one, Ralph doesn’t believe that for a minute.’

  ‘And he still likes me?’

  ‘Obviously. Listen, you don’t expect him to be pure, do you?’

  ‘Well, no, but he’s a man. And older, too.’

  I despaired.

  ‘He doesn’t care, or he wouldn’t be seeing you,’ I said.

  ‘So you don’t think I have to tell him about my old boyfriends?’

  ‘God no. Do you want to hear about Ralph’s old girlfriends?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Take my advice, begin your life over, starting with the day you met Ralph.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I’d barely gotten inside the door when Dellaphine called out to me from the kitchen.

  ‘Mrs Pearlie,’ she said, ‘a telegram come for you. It’s on the hall table.’

  Telegrams were rarely good news these days, so I ripped open the Western Union envelope with trembling hands, then heaved a sigh of relief. Orazio Rossi invited me to dinner. Tonight. With apologies for the short notice, he asked me to meet him at seven p.m. in the Presidential Restaurant of the Mayflower Hotel.

  Accepting Rossi’s invitation was out of the question.

  How could I show up at the Mayflower Hotel yet again, and with a man who worked for the Onetos? If anyone I knew saw me – like Joan, for example – and it got back to OSS, well, I didn’t want to think about the consequences.

  How likely was that, though? Not very; the Presidential Restaurant was expensive. Besides, wouldn’t it seem odd if I didn’t accept? That’s what I could tell Melinsky. He didn’t have a high regard for me, anyway.

  This might be my last chance to talk to someone in the Oneto inner circle about Alessa. Rossi’s role had intrigued me ever since I’d heard that Lucia had given him a diamond bracelet right off her wrist. And why had he invited me in the first place? Perhaps he wanted to talk about Alessa’s death himself. If so, I’d be all ears.

  I called Western Union and sent a telegram to Rossi accepting his invitation.

  ‘Dellaphine,’ I called out as I went upstairs, ‘I won’t be here for dinner.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she answered me.

  I stood at my closet and considered my wardrobe choices. The Presidential Restaurant was tall cotton, as my grandmother would say. I owned several acceptable dresses, thanks to Ada’s reach-me-downs. And I could borrow jewelry from Phoebe. But then a horrible thought struck me. God, this wasn’t a romantic invitation, was it? What if Orazio Rossi had seduction on his mind! I wasn’t bad looking for a thirty-year-old woman with glasses. I was a widow, and in many men’s eyes that meant I was sexually available.

  In that case I should dress down. I’d wear my new green suit dress and low heels, enough make-up to be presentable, and a little jewelry, my good watch, and my pearls. That should deliver my message loud and clear.

  J. Edgar Hoover ate lunch at the Presidential Restaurant in the Mayflower every day: him and lots of other Washington big shots and celebrities. As I waited to be seated, I scanned the restaurant. I didn’t see anybody famous, but the room held four hundred tables! Plenty of space on those walls to hang all the state seals and portraits of the first four presidents.

  The maître d’hôtel showed me to Rossi’s table. He stood up immediately and grasped my hand.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘Such a last-minute invitation. So inconsiderate of me.’

  ‘I was happy to accept,’ I said. ‘My Tuesday evenings are often open.’

  Rossi pulled out my chair to seat me. Right away I noticed the table tent, a folded card illustrated with a caricature of Hitler drawn with enormous ears. Keep talking, the caption read. I’m listening.

  ‘Most of my evenings are open also,’ Rossi answered, smiling with me.

  Thank God he wasn’t wearing black tie. I hadn’t thought about that possibility until I was in the taxi on the way here. I wanted to dress down, not look like a rube.

  Rossi, his black hair slicked back as always, wore a glen plaid suit that looked British and tailor made. A gold clip secured his tie to his shirt. Well, the Onetos had lived in London for a few months, hadn’t they? I guessed that London tailors were less expensive during wartime.

  Our liveried waiter appeared at our table ready with a pad and silver pen to take our order.

  ‘A cocktail?’ Rossi asked me. ‘Please, whatever you want.’

  ‘A Martini,’ I said. ‘With a splash of vermouth. No olives.’

  ‘I’ll have a Calvert and ginger,’ Rossi said. ‘Do you like oysters?’ he asked me.

  ‘Love them, as long as they’re not raw or fried.’

  ‘Oysters Casino to start,’ Rossi directed the waiter. ‘Thank you again for coming,’ he said to me. ‘I don’t have many friends here, and the atmosphere in the apartment is so terribly sad. I needed to get away.’

  ‘How is the Count?’

  ‘Melancholy. He won’t talk about books or politics; he listens to classical music and broods. Lina still cries at least once a day. Lucia stays in her room or goes out with friends.’

  Our drinks arrived. My Martini was delicious. The Mayflower used a better quality gin than Gordon’s.

  Rossi had opened the door by speaking of the Onetos first, so he must not mind gossiping about them.

  ‘Tell me, Orazio, do you think Alessa killed herself?’ I asked.

  Ice tinkled as Rossi fiddled with his highball glass. ‘I would have said no, except what else could have happened? She was alone in the apartment. We were all out. The police said it was suicide.’

  ‘You told me at the reception that Alessa was quiet on the way home from New York on the train?’

  ‘More than quiet. Somber. Preoccupied. If Sebastian and I had guessed her mood, we would never have gone to Count Sforza’s lecture. Of course, if Lucia had not been out too, perhaps murder would be likely!’

  ‘What?’ My hand jerked, and a few drops of my Martini sloshed over the rim of my glass.

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Rossi said, reaching across the table and squeezing my hand. ‘I wasn’t serious! I am sorry I shocked you. It’s just that Lucia despised Alessa; I’m sure she’s not sorry she’s dead.’

  Our oysters arrived, and we concentrated on eating them as neatly as possible with the aid of linen napkins the size of small tablecloths. Crisp bits of bacon sprinkled over the oysters complemented their texture perfectly.

  When we were finished Rossi beckoned to the waiter. ‘Shall we switch to champagne?’ he asked me.

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said.

  ‘And what shall we have to eat?’

  We both studied the menu. I couldn’t help but linger over the beef selections. I ate it rarely now, and I recollected the haunches on ice in the hotel kitchen. It wasn’t the most expensive item on the menu – the lobster thermidor was. But it would be m
ore polite to order chicken or ham.

  ‘We must have beef,’ Orazio said. ‘I’ve had none for a week. You?’

  ‘Beef would be delicious. But it’s so expensive, Orazio!’

  ‘I’ve had nothing to spend my salary on for weeks,’ he said. ‘Let me enjoy it.’

  Rossi ordered us porterhouse steaks with peas, creamed mushrooms, and Potatoes Anna.

  When the champagne came, Orazio raised his flute. ‘Let’s toast to fun and friends,’ he said, ‘despite the war.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said and sipped from my glass. I adored champagne: one of the many tastes I’d acquired over the past year that would set all four of my grandparents spinning in their graves.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you said Lucia disliked Alessa. I don’t understand why. She was a lovely person.’

  ‘She was,’ Orazio said. ‘But, you see, Lucia wanted a daughter-in-law she could dominate. That was never Alessa. And Lucia blamed Alessa for encouraging Sebastian’s frugality. Lucia loves to spend money.’

  And give away diamond bracelets, I remembered.

  ‘When Lucia plays cards and loses, I pawn jewelry for her,’ Orazio said, as if he had read my mind. ‘Her debts are piling up. Sebastian has no idea. He can afford to redeem them, but he might refuse, and Alessa would have supported him, even at the risk of losing some family pieces forever. Then there was Alessa’s family, respectable minor aristocracy only,’ he continued. ‘But Alessa’s father –’ he lowered his voice – ‘had an illegitimate son with the daughter of one of the Mafia chieftains in the local village. And insisted on supporting the child. Sebastian married Alessa against Lucia’s wishes. They were very happy. But Sebastian is young, and perhaps Lucia hopes he will remarry appropriately.’

  The Mafia. Alessa’s brother was a Mafia chieftain’s grandson. Enzo was Mafia, small potatoes indeed, but Mafioso nonetheless. The Mafia ran the unions and the New York City docks. The sleeper who Alessa’s asset had been about to reveal to us was Mafia. Could the Mafia reach into a grand hotel in Washington and murder Alessa? No, it was ridiculous. This was the real world, not a Jimmy Cagney movie.