Phil thought his entrance had more resemblance to a swinging bear than an acrobat, but she would never say so.
Next to her, Lily snorted.
“Thank you, Bobby, for the clarification. And now, Lady Dunbridge, how did you find your way here in time for the grand finale?”
“Sheer luck. When the race started, I noticed that Rico wasn’t riding and I also noticed that my servants, who had been standing at the rail at the start, were no longer there. I went down to find them. Instead I saw Freddy standing at the rail with Mr. Tappington-Jones.”
Atkins blinked at that, though he showed no other surprise.
“When Devil’s Thunder won, instead of being elated, Freddy seemed angry. Tappington-Jones certainly was.”
“And how could you tell this at such a distance?”
“My opera glasses, of course. I’d been watching the race through them. I believe that Tappington-Jones may have threatened Freddy, because Freddy stepped back and then turned and almost ran in the direction of the stables. And I—I believe the phrase is ‘smelling a rat’—followed.”
“A rat. You smelled a rat,” Atkins repeated incredulously.
“Actually, it was a peppermint.”
Atkins took a controlled breath. She hurried on. “I’d found a candy wrapper in Reggie’s auto. Something your men failed to find, I might add. Reggie never let Freddie drive it. And when I saw Freddy drop his candy wrapper on the ground while he was watching the race, it suddenly made sense.”
“Of course it did. A candy wrapper.”
But she had forgotten, much to her chagrin and a near fatal outcome, that Marguerite was also an avid peppermint enthusiast. Never mind, it had come out all right after all.
“And I might have been soon enough to prevent Eddie from being shot if you hadn’t stopped me. Why were you following me? Or was it Freddy you were following?”
“You. And I have to thank you. I didn’t see Freddy from where I was standing.”
“But you did see me.”
“It isn’t often that you see an English countess, with her skirts lifted, racing down the lawn at a racetrack. I couldn’t resist.”
“Well, we’re lucky that it all ended as well as it did.”
“Ended for you and Mrs. Reynolds, hopefully, but just beginning for Freddy Beecham.”
* * *
They soon broke up. A doctor had been found by one of the stable boys, and while he examined Eddie, the rest of them descended the stairs.
Atkins turned to Bev. “I’ll visit in a day or two, if I may, when I receive more news about Mr. Beecham and the state of the investigation.”
“But of course, Detective Sergeant Atkins. I’ll be looking forward to your visit.”
Phil resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. Lily didn’t resist at all, and Phil almost laughed out loud.
“Bobby, make yourself available.”
“I’ll be at Holly Farm,” Bobby said, and dragged his much maligned bowler from his head. “That is if Mrs. Reynolds wants me to stay on.”
“Stay on?” Bev said. “You’re my manager and you’d better start looking around for a new trainer. I don’t want Henry or Sid back on the premises.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, if that’s settled, I’d like to get back to the city. I think champagne is in order.”
They walked back to the clubhouse, packed up their things, and headed for the Packard. Bev walked on one side of Phil and Lily on the other while Preswick walked behind carrying the hamper, the blankets, and other paraphernalia. Lily looked over her shoulder and ran back, took some pillows and a frilly tablecloth from his arms and raced back.
Phil looked a question at her.
Lily shrugged. “He looked silly, and besides he is too old to carry so much.”
“He certainly didn’t look old this afternoon.”
“No, this afternoon he was a hero. But do not tell him I said so.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Phil said, and put her arm in Bev’s. “Champagne is definitely in order.”
25
John Atkins appeared the next afternoon.
“We’ve learned much more since I saw you last,” he said.
“Freddy confessed to everything?”
“Oh, yes.”
Phil tried not to think about the electric chair waiting for him in Sing Sing.
“He was more than willing to tell all once he was offered a lesser sentence, though I don’t see what protection he could possibly expect in prison, where he most certainly will be going.
“I know you are both eager to see the end of this and I doubt that either of you will have to testify. Basically, Mr. Beecham got in heavy debt to certain people who told him they’d call it even if he could fix the Devil’s Thunder race. And if he didn’t, they’d call in his debts and ruin him … or worse.
“He knew Mr. Reynolds would refuse.”
“He did?” Bev asked hopefully.
“Yes. Evidently Reggie was honest … at least when it came to the track.”
“See, Phil, I told you.”
“Yes, dear.” Phil didn’t dare look up and catch Atkins’s eye.
“Reggie wouldn’t budge, so Beecham brought in a thug to persuade him. But when he threatened Reggie, Reggie pulled out a pistol from the desk, your pistol, and shot him.
“Beecham panicked, convinced Reggie that ‘they’—and we still don’t know who they are—would kill Reggie to get their way and said his only way to survive was to flee.
“They set it up to look like a burglary, a falling-out of thieves, if you will. Beecham promised to get rid of the gun and take care of the police investigation. He told Reggie to take Mimi and go to South America. Beecham would stay in the States and send his horses down when he’d settled somewhere and was ready to start breeding again.”
Phil couldn’t help it—she let her eyes roll to the ceiling.
“Exactly,” Atkins agreed.
“Then when Eddie arrived to drive them to the docks to meet the SS Oceanic, Freddy intercepted him and sent him on his way. He planned to dress in Eddie’s coat, goggles, and hat.”
“But they’re much too small,” Phil interjected.
“Enter the dutiful wife, who was the perfect size for them. They knew Mr. Reynolds was carrying a suitcase of money, which Mrs. Beecham handed off to her husband while Mr. Reynolds was inside Miss Potts’s apartment.
“And now here is something I’m sure one of you can elucidate for me. There is no evidence of any money in the Beechams’ possession.”
“Which probably means, Detective Sergeant,” said Phil, “that it is back in the possession of its owner.”
Atkins held up his hand. “Let us agree to leave it there.”
“Indeed.”
“But how did they manage it?” Bev asked.
“When they were at the docks, Mrs. Beecham took the opportunity to leave the auto, ostensibly to clear the way, but she doubled back, shot Reggie as he was getting out of the car—according to Miss Potts—to go look for his driver. Reggie fell back against Mimi, obstructing her view, and Mrs. Beecham disappeared into the crowd before anyone realized what had happened.
“Then later Freddy hid Eddie’s clothes back at the stables where he knew they’d be found,” Phil said.
“The villain,” Bev said.
“So the broken library window was actually … Freddy returning the pistol to frame Bev?” Phil concluded.
Atkins nodded. “He didn’t even have to break in. Just tossed it though the broken pane and left. Dastardly, to be sure.”
It certainly was, thought Phil.
Atkins left soon after that. He hadn’t asked about any lists, which Phil could only assume meant he didn’t know about them. And quite frankly, he was safer without the knowledge. Now what was she going to do to save herself and Bev?
* * *
When Phil came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, Bev was already eating, and Daniel Sloane was sitting ne
xt to her, nursing a cup of coffee. He stood when Phil entered.
“There you are, Phil. Get yourself some breakfast and come hear the news.”
Phil helped herself from the sideboard and sat down.
“Father brought the morning papers. Show her, Papa.”
Daniel Sloane opened the paper to the second page and handed it to Phil. “I managed to keep Reggie’s name out of most of them, but I’m afraid Freddy’s name is front and center.”
A notice that Freddy had been arrested for race fixing and murder. Phil read on, then looked up. “‘His wife, distraught at hearing of her husband’s perfidy, took her own life’?”
“Well, no need to drag her family through the muck,” Sloane said. “It will be bad enough for them.”
“But read the article below it,” Bev said.
It was a small paragraph stating that Mr. Tappington-Jones had been taken in by the authorities for questioning concerning horse race fixing. Phil wondered what authorities, certainly not Sergeant Becker.
“This is very unusual. I don’t know if you are aware, Philomena, but Tappington-Jones is fairly high up in the Tammany organization.”
“I didn’t. But if he’s been arrested…”
“Not arrested yet, but the mere fact that they actually brought him in for questioning bodes ill for many of his associates. Heads will fall.”
“Not yours,” Bev said, alarmed.
“Good heavens, no,” Sloane said. “You should know me better than that. But there will be some unpleasantness.” He held up his hand. “Not with me, have no fear. But it is possible that both the Beechams’ and Reggie’s pasts may be freely aired.”
“I see. Well, I’m sure I don’t care.”
“But I do. I’ve decided that a trip to Europe is in order. Just you and me.”
“Europe? You hate ocean crossings,” Bev said.
“Indeed I do, but I have my own reasons for desiring a time away.”
“Hilda?”
“Yes, she, too, will be leaving for a trip abroad quite soon, I understand.”
Bev and Phil exchanged amused looks.
“Oh, it does sound good.” Bev frowned. “But Phil just got here. I don’t think she wants to go back so soon, and I couldn’t leave her all alone. I haven’t done a thing for her except get her involved in racketeering and murder.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Phil said. She would worry about herself, as it seemed she must. “The Continent will do you both good. And,” she added knowingly, “they’re very much au courant on their ideas about mourning there. You’ll have a lovely time.”
“I plan to close up the brownstone while we’re gone. I think you should sell it outright. So many unpleasant memories,” Daniel said to Bev.
“But where will Phil live?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking that the newly opened Plaza Hotel sounds like just the place for me. And right across from the park, too.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Sloane said. “Bev, dear, why don’t you run upstairs and tell Elmira the news and that she should start packing immediately. I’ll just keep Philomena company while she finishes her breakfast.”
As soon as the door closed behind Bev, her father took a crisp white envelope from his breast pocket. “I was asked to deliver this to you, Philomena. It seems you have friends in high places.”
“Me?” Phil said, opening the envelope.
Inside was vellum stationery. An official-looking seal but no lines of formal address, merely …
Madam,
For your services in the investigation of the recent case and with the understanding that you will soon be looking for permanent residence within the city, we’d like to offer you an apartment at the Plaza Hotel gratis for a year and hope to be allowed to call on your services again. We are certain that others will also come to depend on your impeccable discretion.
Once again, thank you for your aid.
Sincerely,
The name had been written and struck through until it was indecipherable. Phil turned it over, looked at the back, and found nothing official. She moved it in front of her face, not even a whiff of pipe tobacco.
For her services? It was not from the New York police department; they would have a letterhead. But whom? And why didn’t they just identify themselves. She put the letter back in the envelope and slipped it into her pocket.
“Where did you get this?”
“A friend of mine, a rather important man in the government and not tainted by local politics, asked me to make certain you received it.” He smiled into his fist. “And to persuade you to accept the offer.”
“The Plaza, that would be nice.”
“Good, then it’s decided.” Sloane finished his coffee. “Though there is one more matter that needs to be considered. There have been rumors that Reggie made a list of subscribers to a certain ‘betting club.’ Just things I’ve heard down at the publishing house, you understand. And that was why Mimi LaPonte was attacked in the park outside our door.”
Phil placed her napkin on the table. “She came here that day to try to sell what appeared to be her diary. I didn’t tell Bev at the time because I didn’t want her to be upset. I felt sorry for the woman, so I gave her some money and never gave it another thought.” She hurried on. “It turned out to be nothing more than the peccadilloes of certain society ladies and several actresses.”
“And stories about my daughter?”
“A few.”
“And a certain list?”
She took a breath. “Yes. The list was stolen, but I made a copy.”
“Then it must be destroyed.”
“Yes, it must.”
“These men will stop at nothing to get that list, though perhaps it’s too late to save them.”
Phil nodded. “However, they may not know that.”
“Agreed. They must think that Reggie had it, and it may still be in our possession, which puts us all in danger.”
“I agree,” Phil said. “And to that end, I have an idea that should put both matters to rest. Though you may think it a bit extreme.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Phil came downstairs carrying a book covered in brown paper. She met Daniel Sloane in the library.
“Is everything of value out of the room?”
“Except the carpet, and that I’m willing to sacrifice.”
“Ready?”
He nodded and walked behind the desk. He ran a loving hand over the top, and for a moment Phil wanted to say never mind we’ll find another way. But this was the best way. The thug Tappington-Jones had sent to shake down Reggie had been found with his hand in the drawer of the desk. All the newspapers had reported on it.
Sloane opened one drawer, then reached in to the cavity of the side drawer. There was a click and the inkstand released. Phil turned it to reveal the secret compartment.
She hesitated. With a final wistful look, she slipped the book inside, then turned the inkstand until it clicked again.
Daniel stepped away from the desk, his expression tight. “Ready?”
Phil dragged two wastepaper baskets filled with wadded paper under the desk. Daniel took a can from where it had been placed by the windowsill.
“Step back,” he said.
She did. “Be careful.”
Daniel unscrewed the top and poured liquid over the top of the beautiful oak wood. Poured a ring of liquid around the legs, then emptied the rest into the wastepaper baskets.
“Go.”
Phil hurried to the door, just as a whoosh echoed behind her. Then Daniel was pushing her into the hallway.
Lock the door,” he said. “I’ll call the fire department.”
Alarm spread through the house. Tuttle tried to open the door, but Daniel stopped him. “It’s better to leave it contained. The fire brigade is on its way.”
At that moment, fire engine bells could be heard ringing from afar, getting louder. Daniel went out to meet them.
&nbs
p; “It seems to be contained to the library,” he yelled, and the brigade pulled the heavy fire hose down the narrow air shaft between the brownstones.
The breaking of glass. A larger whoosh.
Phil swallowed. She hoped Daniel hadn’t overdone things.
It was over in less than an hour.
“Looks like a case of arson,” the fire chief said.
“I agree,” Daniel told him seriously. “As a newspaperman and publisher, I’m often the target of anger and revenge.” He sighed as if resigned to his fate. “An unfortunate part of life. Thank you so much.”
“You want us to investigate?”
“No, I’m planning on closing up the house. Selling, actually. I don’t want my daughter subjected to this kind of criminality anymore.”
He reached into his wallet, pulled out several large bills. “This is for you, and this is to buy the lads a few beers.”
“Thank you, sir.” The fire chief touched his hat and went out to help his men roll up the hose.
Daniel walked away and stood in front of the now open library door. Phil came to stand beside him.
The acrid smell of smoke mixed with gasoline permeated the drenched furnishings of the library. The two chairs were beyond repair. The ceiling was covered in black soot, and the few books that hadn’t been removed from the shelves earlier were swollen with water and ash.
And in the center of the room, the three-hundred-year-old desk was a pile of embers. And beneath it, nothing but a charred hole where the carpet had been.
He stepped away and pulled the door closed. “Well, it had to be done. The rest of the house is unscathed. You and Bev will be able to stay here for the time being. I’ll keep the staff on until it’s sold, then try to get them all jobs elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry,” Phil said. “I couldn’t think of another way.”
“Don’t be. This is the best way to put this chapter to bed. Now I have an article to write and a few calls to make. I’ll say good day.”
* * *
The papers reported the fire the next day. “The fire brigade was called to a brownstone at 6 East Sixty-Eighth Street, former residence of Daniel Sloane, currently occupied by his daughter, Beverly Reynolds. The quick response of the engine company contained the fire to the library, and while most things were saved, an antique desk and what was purported to be a newly acquired manuscript that had been stored inside were completely destroyed. Said Mr. Sloane, ‘The desk was a family heirloom and will be missed, but the manuscript is irreplaceable. I had just purchased it, intending to publish it next fall. The diary of a woman about town. I had only read a few pages when the fire broke out, but it promised to be a hilarious roman à clef on the foibles of some of the local society members when their manners were down. Alas, now we’ll never see it. Unfortunately, it was destroyed in its entirety. Though sad not to have been able to read more, I’m certain some ladies will be glad to know that their misadventures are still their own.’”
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