by Liz Freeland
Downstairs, Bernice was already stirring. Literally. Her elaborate, set-in-stone porridge method involved a double boiler and a solid hour of careful monitoring. The end result was creamy, oaty perfection, but the labor required astounded me. With Bernice nothing was easy and shortcuts were deplorable. The coconut cake Otto and I had partially scarfed down in minutes the night before had no doubt been the result of hours of grating, mixing, and baking.
She eyed me without surprise but with a hint of exasperation, perhaps because a scruffy stranger with a drooping mustache already sat at her breakfast table. Where had he come from? Clearly, this was not a normal morning. I approached the table warily. The man slouched in his chair, his legs stretched out, boots scuffed and dull next to Bernice’s polished kitchen floor. Details of his appearance puzzled me—the cap worn inside, the ill-fitting small-checked jacket, the pants like something a bellhop would wear.
And yet it was me to whom Bernice said, “You look like something the cat dragged in.”
I didn’t have time even to mutter my wry thanks before the man at the table added, “But chewed up first.”
His voice jarred me. It took me a moment to realize the visitor wasn’t a visitor at all. “Walter?”
As the question came out, it sounded absurd. Fastidious Walter, scruffy? And yet it was Walter. I would have bet my first cup of coffee on it—and I needed that cup of coffee.
I made for the pot and poured as Bernice glowered at both of us in turn. “Whatever’s going on in this house,” she said, “I don’t like it. First the police come knocking at the door yesterday with a story of you being knocked off a train platform, and now Walter here is telling me he can’t fetch groceries because he’s on some kind of mission. What kind of mission requires a decent man to wear old moth-eaten clothes and paste that ugly hank of fur on his lip?”
Walter lifted his hand to his lip to make sure his mustache was firmly in place.
I knew exactly what his mission was. “I think your disguise is marvelous. I didn’t recognize you at first.”
Walter preened at the praise. “I’ve been a thespian at heart since I played Malvolio in Twelfth Night at my school.” He lifted his hands and recited, “ ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.’ Alas, I achieved no greatness of my own, although I tried to make a go of a stage career for a short while.”
“What happened?”
“I played Merriman in The Importance of Being Earnest and felt I’d found my true calling. When I looked into the matter, I discovered being a real butler in New York paid better and more steadily than playing Wilde on tour in Idaho and South Dakota.”
“Yet you kept your actor’s kit.”
“One never knows when a little spirit gum will come in handy,” he said.
I looked him over again and for the first time I felt more confident about what we’d dreamed up last night. “It’s wonderful.”
Bernice leveled a look a shade short of a glare at me. “Wonderful? Is that what you call all these doings around here? Murders, police, and you getting yourself shoved in front of trains? And now him dressed up like I don’t know what. I hope you two haven’t got Miss Irene mixed up in something shady. If I wanted to work for someone in jail, I would’ve stayed with my husband.”
I filed that last morsel away for future inquiry. “You don’t have to worry about Aunt Irene. Once Walter does his bit, her involvement is finished.” Walter cocked an eyebrow at me, and I added in a lower voice, “At least, the dicey part.”
“And what about you?” Her expression hadn’t budged from outright skepticism.
“I’ll be fine.” I wasn’t sure I sounded very convincing, even to myself.
Walter and I sat in subdued silence as Bernice slammed bowls in front of us and refilled our coffees while muttering about fools, police, trouble, and actors. Walter was clearly put out by the grumbling, but I couldn’t help seeing Bernice’s point. Our plan might work splendidly, or it might blow up in our faces like a vaudevillian’s trick cigar.
“Where is Aunt Irene?” I asked.
“Where she’s supposed to be—asleep, until it’s time for her to work,” Bernice said. “That’s the only normal thing going on in this house today.”
I bolted my oatmeal and then stood, wishing Walter good luck.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “My part’s a breeze.”
“It’s the most important bit, though.” If Walter wasn’t successful, our whole scheme would stall out.
We’d decided last night that I would spend the morning at my office, awaiting word of Walter’s success or lack thereof. I also had private reasons for wanting to be at work, and to be there early, so I set off immediately after breakfast without disturbing my aunt.
As soon as I stepped outside, I wrinkled my nose at the heavy air. The sun was struggling to break through a dull haze. The overcast sky didn’t seem threatening, only oppressive. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my back after just a few blocks, but I didn’t let the warm sponge atmosphere slow me down. A hint of fear lurked in the back of my mind, yet my senses were sharp and my mind clear. I had objectives. First I was going to sabotage Ford; then I was going to catch a murderer. A cakewalk.
For the first half of my walk from Fifty-third Street to Thirty-eighth I really did feel invincible, almost heroic. Was this how the policewoman I’d seen at Muldoon’s precinct felt every day? To make a real difference in the world, to be in control, must be a grand thing, I thought, envying her.
Then I crossed Lexington and turned south, and for a few blocks the dizzying gothic tower of the Woolworth building spearing into the sky came into my direct view. The stone edifice against the blue-gray haze made it seem even taller, almost part of the sky itself. Months ago I’d read all the details of the building in the papers during the week of its grand opening. It contained two miles of elevator shafts, twenty-seven acres of office space, and its steel piers were sunk 130 feet into solid bedrock. At night, 80,000 bulbs made its summit a blazing landmark able to be seen by sailors forty miles at sea. The copper-roofed tower soared 792 feet and 1 inch above the sidewalk. It was colossal. Awe-inspiring.
Fear flapped in my chest like a moth in a jar. What are you doing, Louise? This was madness. Muldoon was right: I wasn’t a detective. Nor was I invincible, brave, or heroic. I was Louise Faulk, secretarial school graduate who, so far in my twenty years, had only worked jobs found through the grace of family connections. Hardly the sign of an intrepid character. The mere thought of going to the top of that building turned my legs to jelly.
Last night, I’d argued for holding the meeting at a different landmark. Washington Square, for instance. Or Grant’s Tomb. Someplace on solid ground. But Aunt Irene and even Otto had pointed out that those sites were open, which created difficulties if one wanted to trap another person. The observation gallery of the Woolworth Building was both public and enclosed. The only way out was fifty-eight flights down an elevator. Finally, I had agreed. A phobia of heights was a small matter compared to the importance of catching Ethel’s killer.
Eyes trained on the sidewalk, I hurried down the midtown streets starting to perk with another day of commerce. The newsstands were busy, and neither I nor anyone I knew was on the front page. That was something to be thankful for. Nearer the office, a grocer was arranging his fruit displays in eye-catching pyramids. A tower of peaches made my mouth water and my pace slow . . . until I remembered I lacked the means to pay for anything. My money had been snatched along with my satchel. Then an even more distressing realization struck me: No keys. Those had been in my bag, too.
Peaches forgotten, I covered the last few blocks to Van Hooten and McChesney in a few minutes, anxious about what I would do if I couldn’t get in. Jackson sometimes arrived early, but never as early as seven thirty. What would I do if I had to wait? I didn’t even have a nickel for a cup of coffee at the Automat.
I climbed the stoop to the building with a sense of frustrat
ion, but when I pressed the brass door handle, the latch clicked open. Who had arrived before me? I crept inside, peering about furtively, half expecting one of Ford’s thuggish cohorts to jump out at me.
No lights were on. I called out a tentative, “Hello?”
Only the ticking of a wall clock answered me. I looked over both my desk and Jackson’s. Nothing was amiss there. Had someone forgotten to lock the door the previous evening?
A moan rent the air, and I jumped like a rabbit. Then the piteous sound repeated itself, coming from Guy Van Hooten’s office.
I rushed toward the sound but stopped momentarily at the threshold of his office. Guy was slumped over his desk. To see him here at all at this time of day was startling enough, but his appearance—facedown on his desk blotter—sent a shiver of apprehension through me. What had happened?
Closer up, he looked even worse: a ghostly pale, greenish complexion beneath a thick stubble; bloodshot eyes covered by half-closed lids; forehead crinkled in pain. His jacket lay on the floor, a discarded necktie trailing it across the carpet like a tail. I picked my way across loose change and crunched over some fallen papers. My progress wasn’t silent, but Guy still lay collapsed over his desk in his shirt sleeves and suspenders. And the smell . . . The putrid odor made me hold my breath and then fling open the blinds and window behind us.
Despite my revulsion, I leaned close and gave him a firm shake. “Mr. Van Hooten?” My voice quavered. “Guy?”
I was wondering if I should call a doctor when his head snapped up. He weaved in his chair and groaned.
I held his shoulder to keep him vertical. It took effort to prevent his torso from crashing back down onto the desk. “Mr. Van Hooten, what happened to you?”
Blurry red eyes blinked at me out of his round face. “Myrna?”
Heaven only knew who Myrna was. Maybe one of my predecessors—even on his best days, I sometimes detected the struggle to recollect my name in my boss’s face. Understandable, really. We met so rarely.
“I’m Louise, Mr. Van Hooten. Louise Faulk. Your secretary.”
His gaze remained bleary, but he said, “Oh right. The new one.”
“Six months new,” I muttered. “But never mind that. What happened? Who did this to you?”
“Did what?”
I gestured with my free hand at his person. A stain trailed down his front, and an imprint of typewriting had transferred itself from something on his desk to his sweaty cheek. I looked down. My report on Ford Fitzsimmons’s book, right where I’d left it days earlier, had served as his pillow. The manuscript itself was fanned out unevenly across the desk and accounted for a few of the papers strewn across the floor. His pencil cup had been knocked over, and several desk drawers gaped open, their contents spilling out onto the floor. It looked as if he’d been knocked out and the place ransacked. My mind whirred. My missing key . . . Ford . . . Mug. What if they’d discovered the office key in my bag?
“Should I call the police?” I asked.
That word—police—worked on Guy like a tonic. His eyes cleared. “Good God. What for?”
“So they can get to the bottom of this.”
He laughed, then regretted it. He lifted his fist and pressed it against his brow. “Honey, the only thing responsible for this is a bottle of whiskey, and there’s no point in asking the police to get to the bottom of it. I already have.”
With his shiny leather boot, he toed the metal wastepaper basket next to him. A tall bottle stood in it, drained dry.
I dropped my hand from his shoulder. “You mean you’re only drunk?”
He thumped forward again, but this time his fall was broken by his elbows bracing on the desktop. “There’s no only about it. I might not be dying, but at this moment there are a thousand angry Irishmen step dancing on the inside of my skull.” He stilled, taking inventory. “Maybe a few dozen in my stomach, as well.”
Now I understood the putrid smell and the stain. I frowned, shoved the waste basket closer to him, and then backed a safe distance away.
He crooked a brow at me. “What did you think had happened?”
Now probably wasn’t the time to tell him that I’d imagined an angry author had come to—to what? What could Ford have done? Forced Guy to buy his book by violence?
As he looked at me, his slight sneer collapsed. “Say—you’re the girl who knew that poor woman who bought it in Greenwich Village, aren’t you? I heard about that. No wonder you’re so jumpy.” He laughed. “The police!”
As if it were all a fine joke. “You were moaning,” I pointed out.
He nodded and lurched forward again, propping his head in his hands. “My head. It’s going to split open like the Grand Canyon did.”
I moved over to tidy Ford’s manuscript pages . . . the better to whisk them away, I hoped. “The Grand Canyon was formed by erosion.”
His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. “Never mind geology. I need chemistry. You must know a remedy for this sort of thing.”
“When my uncle overdoes the schnapps, he swears by tomato juice, lime, and egg.”
He considered this combination with horrified awe. “That sounds revolting. I’ll try it!”
He meant that he’d try it after I made it for him. I cast a reluctant glance at the manuscript. Perhaps I could just snatch it on my way out.
“Get going.” He clapped me away. “Chop-chop. Fetch me a Louisa’s Uncle’s Special.”
I stared at him.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“First, the name’s Louise, and second, I don’t have any money. Last night my purse was—well, I don’t have it today.”
His lips curled in annoyance. “Girls are confounded things. Never have any money.” He picked his jacket off the floor, hunted through the pockets for his wallet, and fished out a fifty-dollar bill, which he tossed onto the desk. “That should cover it.”
I gaped at the bill. I’d rarely seen one that large. “A fifty for tomato juice and an egg?”
“If the grocer raises a stink, tell him to keep the change. I’m a desperate man.”
I took the fifty and hurried out. The man at the corner store didn’t rejoice at the large bill, but he said nothing and I returned with the ingredients within twenty minutes. Back at the office, I nearly bumped into Guy coming out of the washroom, freshly shaven, and, disturbingly, shirtless. He’d obviously attempted a rudimentary sink bath, because he was patting his glistening torso with a handkerchief.
“Bring it to me when you’re done,” he said.
I reddened, both from coming across my boss half naked and being ordered about like a servant. But I proceeded to the office’s little kitchen area and mixed the concoction. Guy was in the last stages of buttoning a clean shirt when I brought the glass in. Heaven only knew where the shirt had come from. I supposed that was what he thought desk drawers were for—to keep an emergency change of clothes in.
He swept a glance my way. “On the desk, please.”
I made a show of placing the drink and all the change from the grocer next to the smudged desk blotter. He picked up the glass immediately and jeered at me between gulps. “A smart girl would have kept the change and blamed it on the grocer.”
I edged toward the manuscript. “What if you’d found out?”
He started to laugh, but then his face became a frightful mask of bulging eyes and gaping mouth. A tear or two streamed down his cheeks. I worried he would pass out. Then a belch loud enough to rattle the building’s foundation rumbled out of him, followed by a whoop. “Damn! That uncle of yours knows his stuff.”
I picked up the book and turned to go.
“Leave that,” he said.
I froze.
“I read it last night,” he added.
Unable to contain my amazement, I blurted, “You read a book?”
His expression darkened. “Maybe you think I’m as much a no-hoper as old Grandpa McChesney does. Imagine—that old geezer hunted me down at the club where I was h
aving dinner yesterday to tell me that I was a drag on the firm. Said the paperweights were doing more work around the office than I was, among other insults. What do you think about that?”
I shifted. What could one think? It was true. Guy was obviously waiting for me to echo his outrage, however, so I offered a lukewarm, “No one likes to be compared to a paperweight.”
“Damn right, they don’t. I told the old fossil I’d show up at the office when I was good and ready, and then he’d see what I could do.”
“So you got drunk?” That would show him.
He shrugged sheepishly. “I might have already been a bit ripped when I talked to the old man. And then I was so mad I stumbled back here and polished off my friend there.” He nodded toward the bottle. “But I did read that book you’d put on my desk.” He frowned and craned his head to look at the memo I’d written. “Louisa. That’s you, right?”
“Louise.”
“Right. Well, the book seemed quite good—especially after I’d had a few snorts of the hard stuff. I might not have been entirely lucid by the end.”
That “not entirely lucid” gave me hope. “To be honest,” I confessed, “the more I’ve considered it, the less the book appeals to me. The writing is good, but the story is a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “You’re a woman. You probably don’t appreciate action and so forth.”
“I do, usually. But this story—that coincidence of the two men meeting on the boat, for one thing. It seemed amateurish.”
Guy finished tying his tie. “I got the impression from reading your memo that this writer was something of a protégé of yours.”
“I do know him, but only a little. He’s a rather unsavory character, to be honest.”
“Fascinating.”
“No, criminal,” I said. “The police were searching for him last night.”
