“I have a housekeeper who cooks for me. She’s off on Sundays, but she’ll have left something in the ice box, although it’s certain to be dreadful.”
“You employ a housekeeper who can’t cook?”
“I’ve grown used to it.”
“I’ve grown used to McCluskey, but I don’t enjoy him. In any event, I can cook.”
Here it was. The decision he knew would come. “I don’t think . . .” But his stab at denial was anemic, even to his ear.
“I’ll be there by seven,” she said.
He didn’t tell her not to come.
NINETEEN
DAY 5. SUNDAY, 9/24—6 P.M.
When Noah reached Joralemon Street, daylight had faded, but the streetlights had not yet come up. He walked through the gloom to his front door, glancing at the Anschutz house as he passed. He turned the key, stepped inside, and froze as the door swung shut.
He wasn’t alone.
Everything appeared as it should, but he was certain someone else was there, waiting in one of the other rooms. He turned silently and grasped the door handle to make his escape. But he stopped. A confederate of the intruder might well be waiting outside. These men were professionals, after all.
Noah decided to make his way to the rear. Use the back door. It seemed less of a risk, although he could not be sure why. He reached ahead with his right foot and placed it soundlessly on the carpet. Then his left.
There was a noise, a soft clink of metal on metal. A gun? Knives? The source was in the very direction in which he was headed. Noah began to pivot, to go back the way he had come. Before he could move, he heard singing, soft and tuneless.
“Mrs. Jensen?”
“Dr. Whitestone? Is that you?”
“What are you doing here?”
Noah’s housekeeper appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, her bulk near to filling the opening. She wore her apron and an expression that was at once maternal and abashed.
“Oh, doctor, I’m sorry if I startled you, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of you being alone and having to cook for yourself. With all that’s been going on, I mean. I thought to give you a little company and a good meal. I bought some bass right from the pier, and I’m cooking it up now. With some potatoes and vegetables. Would you like a glass of port?”
Noah repressed the urge to throttle her and glanced at his watch. “I’m not very hungry, Mrs. Jensen. I actually thought I would skip dinner tonight. Thank you for the gesture, but you can get on home.”
“Pshaw!” She gave a wave that caused the flesh on her forearm to quiver like aspic. “You’ve got to eat, doctor. Just proves how much you need to, when you don’t feel like it.”
The woman would be as immovable as Kronos. “All right, Mrs. Jensen. But I’ve got to go out again. If you can serve me very quickly, I’ll have some supper. But then you must promise to go home and relax. We will have a busy week ahead, and I want you rested.”
The old widow beamed. “You just sit right down, doctor. I’ve never told you this, but bass is my specialty.”
Oh Lord, thought Noah.
Mrs. Jensen scurried into the kitchen and returned moments later with a fish that had been skinned but not filleted, surrounding by carrots, onions, and potatoes. Noah put a tiny morsel on his forked and tasted it. He was stunned. It wasn’t wonderful—that would be too much to hope for—but nor was it bad. Perfectly edible. Even tasty. He cursed the day he had told Mrs. Jensen that he preferred meat.
Noah tried to eat quickly, but Mrs. Jensen was having none of it.
“Dr. Whitestone, please stop gobbling your food. Not very healthy, if you ask me.”
Noah moved some fish around the plate, making it appear he had less to finish.
“And here I thought you’d want to know what I heard from Mrs. Tumulty.”
“What is that, Mrs. Jensen?”
“About Dr. Frias and Mayor Wurster.”
Noah put down his fork.
“Mrs. Tumulty works for the Hearns. You know. The boat maker.”
Zechariah Hearn constructed the finest yachts in the east. He was rumored to have a waiting list five years long, on which the names Vanderbilt, Astor, and Roosevelt appeared. Hearn lived in an immense mansion, the largest in the Heights, three stories sitting on the bay, with, of course, a private dock.
“Well, Mrs. Hearn gave a dinner Tuesday last week. And two of the guests were . . .”
“Yes, Mrs. Jensen. Mayor Wurster and Arnold Frias.” She so reveled in gossip that Mrs. Jensen might not finish the guest list before Miriam arrived.
“No, doctor. Mayor Wurster wasn’t there. The second person was a German. Very friendly with Dr. Frias.”
“Mrs. Jensen, Dr. Frias has recently returned from a holiday in Germany. Perhaps this was someone he met on his trip.”
“And went into business with?” Mrs. Jensen was now smirking in obvious satisfaction. There can be no more pleasing circumstance for a gossip than to know something that someone else does not.
“What sort of business? Who was this German?” But Noah knew. He was the “Schmidt” that Jamie De Kuyper had seen at First Mercantile.
“Well, doctor, I’m surely pleased to have finally gotten your attention. His name was Hafstaengel. Mrs. Tumulty got the name off his place card.”
“And the business?
“Mrs. Tumulty couldn’t be sure. She caught only bits of the conversation when she was serving. But this Hafstaengel fellow seemed to think it was important. Even made a toast. ‘To the future,’ he said. ‘The twentieth century.’”
“I don’t see how that has any meaning, Mrs. Jensen. The twentieth century is only a bit more than two months away.”
“He also said, ‘To making the world a healthier place. With our American partners.’ He tilted his glass at Dr. Frias before he drank.”
“Did the wonderfully observant Mrs. Tumulty remember any details of the German’s business? Its name, for example.”
Mrs. Jensen shook her head sadly. Mrs. Tumulty had apparently not done as good a job as Mrs. Jensen would have herself.
“Did this Hafstaengel say where he was staying?”
“It was his last night in America. He sailed back to Germany Wednesday morning. That was the reason for the dinner. To wish him off.”
And Willard Anschutz died that night. So that was Frias’s important personal engagement. “So where does Mayor Wurster come in if he wasn’t present?”
“He was supposed to be present but seems not to have been able to get back from Philadelphia in time. He’s one of the partners, though. So is Mr. Hearn.”
“Partners in what?”
Mrs. Jensen shrugged.
“Did any other names come up?” De Kuyper, for instance.
“Not that Mrs. Tumulty told me.”
Noah looked down at his plate. He had succeeded in eating a sufficient amount of Mrs. Jensen’s fish to be able to beg off the rest. He told her he was stuffed and tried to hustle her off to clean up, but the woman would not move.
“Is there something else?” he asked.
Her eyes dropped. “Yes, doctor. I did hear something else.”
“Do you wish to share your information with me?”
She obviously did not, but eventually forced herself to speak. “It will be in the Daily Eagle tomorrow or the next day. Admiral Dewey’s fleet is due at Sandy Hook on Tuesday, two days early. Colonel Anschutz will be here on Wednesday. He already knows about his son.”
TWENTY
DAY 5. SUNDAY, 9/24—7 P.M.
Noah finally had succeeded in persuading Mrs. Jensen to leave at 6:45. It occurred to him that the widow, living alone, her children grown and moved away, was lingering simply because she did not have all that much to go home to. But if his housekeeper and Miriam met at the door, all Brooklyn would know by the next morning that he was dallying with the Red Lady. As would certain people who lived on Gramercy Park.
He waited in the sitting room as the clock ticked and took stoc
k. Heavy furniture and dark colors. The décor of an old man. When the clock chimed seven o’clock, he drained the port, repaired to the kitchen to deposit the empty glass, then returned to the front room. Five past.
When the crack of the door knocker came, it sounded like a gunshot. He swung open the door, and her smell filled his nostrils. Miriam didn’t move for a moment, remaining on the doorstep, holding a canvas sack filled with produce, a loaf of bread, and something wrapped in paper. The top of a bottle of wine peeked out the top. She reached up with her other hand and touched him on the cheek. He could hear his heart throb in his chest. Could she?
“Are you going to invite me in?”
Noah stepped aside and let her pass. She wrinkled her nose. “It smells of fish in here. Have you eaten already?”
Noah told her of his surprise visit by his housekeeper. His voice sounded to him stiff, mechanical.
Miriam laughed. Throaty. “I don’t have to cook this, Noah. It’s only a chicken. Anarchist coq au vin.”
“What’s the difference between anarchist coq au vin and the regular version?”
“No formal recipe. Just use whatever seems to work at the time. And, of course, everyone present gets a share.” She reached into her bag and withdrew the wine. It was a bottle of Chateau Margaux. Even Noah, who knew next to nothing about fine wines, was aware that Chateau Margaux was one of the most expensive wines in the world.
She saw him stare at the bottle. “A case of this was contributed to our cause from Henry Clay Frick through the stevedores who unloaded his latest purchases from Europe. The case will be reported as, alas, damaged in transit. He will be furious, but what can he do? Search the hold for spilled Bordeaux? This isn’t stealing, you understand. This is justice. Petty justice, perhaps, but justice all the same.”
He located a corkscrew among the kitchen utensils, uncorked the bottle, and poured them each a glass. She lifted hers before she drank. “To drinking a murderer’s wine. Your first act of revolution.”
“My second.”
“What was your first?”
“You.”
Miriam looked around room, just as Noah had done a few minutes before. She saw what he had not.
“These furnishings are anonymous, Noah. They reveal nothing. This might as well be a hotel room.”
“I don’t pay much attention to accoutrements.”
“Nonsense. No photographs? Keepsakes? I still have my favorite toy from when I was small. A little carved duck. All the paint is off it now, but I wouldn’t part with it for anything.”
“I have a photograph of my wife in my bedroom.”
“What was her name?”
“Isobel.”
“And of the fiancée of whose existence you are so possessive?”
“I don’t feel the need to trumpet my affairs.”
“In your own home?” She waited, but Noah didn’t reply. “Well, do you? Of Miss De Kuyper?”
“No.” Noah noticed that his glass was empty, although he had no memory of finishing it.
“Then let me see your wife’s.”
“No.”
“Let me see it.”
The door to the bedroom was closed. Noah realized he always kept it so, an odd affectation for man who lived alone. But all right, he thought. You want to see it. See it.
In a moment, they were inside. Noah turned the switch to engage the dim electric lights, then led her to the chest of drawers. He flipped his hand toward the frame, dismissively as he would to a bill collector. Miriam ignored him, but simply lifted Isobel’s photograph and studied it. She tilted the frame slightly, as if to see a two-dimensional image from a different angle. Finally, she replaced the photograph on the doily, handling it gently, almost caressing.
“I can see why you loved her so.”
Noah felt his eyes fill with tears, but he willed them back. Miriam padded softly from the chest of drawers to where he stood. She raised her hands to his face. Held him. Pulled him to her. Their lips touched. Maribeth’s lips had been stiff when they kissed, like Isobel’s, but Miriam’s were supple. She pulled back for moment, looked at him for a moment, brow furrowed, and then leaned in again. This time, the tip of her tongue flicked against his lips. Then it was inside his mouth.
Suddenly, they were kissing wildly. He raised his hands to her face. Her skin was warm, almost liquid against his palms. Their tongues darted back and forth. He had never kissed anyone like this. No matter how ferociously their mouths pressed together, Miriam’s lips remained soft. He grabbed her around the back, pulled her close. The instant he felt the fullness of her breasts against him, he was fully aroused. More than four years. Too long for any man.
She began tearing at his clothing. He was tearing at hers. They staggered toward Noah’s bed, hitting the side with their legs and tumbling down. Noah’s vest was open, his tie askew. Suddenly, Miriam pressed a hand against his chest. Again, he was stunned at her strength.
“Wait!”
Noah felt a wave of horror that she had changed her mind. She stood up, standing before him. She lifted her blouse over her head. Her breasts swelled in her pale brown camisole. Never taking her eyes from his, she dropped her skirt to the floor. Then her slip.
Miriam paused. Noah lay on the bed, transfixed, wanting to throw himself at her but feeling as if he were pinned by a great weight. The air was filled with her.
Suddenly, she was naked, undergarments in a silken pile at her feet. Dark hair against golden skin. Breasts, full and round, with a pink silver-dollar sized center. She moved to him. Began opening the buttons of his shirt, one at time. Then of his trousers. He lifted his hand to reach for her breast, but she stopped him. “Just a moment more,” she whispered.
She made Noah undress until he was naked as well. With Isobel, they had always made love under covers. She had never seen him erect.
Miriam pushed Noah to the bed and then placed herself astride him. She lowered herself, used her hand to guide him into her. Noah closed his eyes and felt a moan escape. She rocked slowly, forward and back, as he felt himself rise off the bed, his back arched.
A feeling came over him, new in its intensity, beginning at his center and radiating outward. His entire body tingled and was transformed. He heard a loud, deep-throated cry and realized it was him. Suddenly, there was an explosion within him and then without, a release as he had never known. Miriam’s hands on his shoulders seemed all that prevented him from rising ethereally from the bed. Instead of ending almost instantly, as it always had, the release lasted, lingered, aftershocks trembling through him for a magical eternity.
And then he was done. Spent. Exhausted. He opened his eyes to see Miriam smiling down at him. Her face held great tenderness. She moved her hand to his cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She laughed softly. “You’re welcome.” She rolled off, laid next him, and took his hand. “But we’re not done yet. We’ve just started.” She placed his hand on her. Moist and warm. She pressed down on his middle finger to push it inside her. “Where I come from, the woman gets to make some demands as well.”
“I’m not sure I know just what to do,” he said.
“Don’t worry, Noah. I’ll show you. I’m hardly shy.”
That began a night of lovemaking the like Noah had never known. They laughed; they cried out; they used their hands, their lips, their tongues. It seemed every time Noah drifted off to sleep, she woke him by stroking, kissing; one time he opened his eyes to find that he was in her mouth.
Miriam had no inhibitions. None. She violated every rule of proper womanhood. Her passion was boundless, her appetite insatiable. Even more astounding, in one of their few moments of passivity, she told Noah she was hardly unique. Most of the women in her movement felt no compunction whatsoever about enjoying sexual relations in all their permutations.
Finally, closer to dawn than midnight, Miriam, nestling against him, drifted off. Noah was exhausted but wide awake. He played the entire, astonishing night thr
ough his memory. At the end, he knew.
Maribeth had told him to be sure of his decision. Now he was. Finally. Only then did he drift off to sleep.
TWENTY-ONE
DAY 6. MONDAY, 9/25—8 A.M.
Noah’s eyes blinked open to the sound of activity on the street outside. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. He looked about for Miriam. She was gone. He felt the bed where she had slept. Still warm, but perhaps from him. Her clothes were gone as well, and his were folded neatly in the chair under the window.
He heard sounds from the other room. Distinctly those of breakfast being prepared. Noah stretched his arms full and smiled.
“Miriam?” he called.
Seconds later, the door to his bedroom swung open. “You’re still in bed, doctor? Were you dreaming? And who is Miriam?”
“Hello, Mrs. Jensen.”
She wagged a finger at him. “It’s already past eight. I was surprised to arrive and find you still lazing about, I’ll tell you. I was going to wake you, but I thought perhaps you were up late with a patient.” The last sentence was delivered as a question.
“Past eight? My Lord, I’ve overslept.” Mrs. Jensen arrived at six-thirty. When had Miriam left?
“Coffee is in the pot,” she said. She stared at him for a moment before going back through the door.
Noah dressed quickly. As he walked in to drink his coffee and check the morning paper, Mrs. Jensen was poised near the door to the kitchen. A choice item of gossip was to be had, not from one of her friends but right here in this very room, and she would have it.
“So who is Miriam?”
“No one, Mrs. Jensen.”
Mrs. Jensen waited, a dramatic pause. “If you say so, doctor.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “I found a strange bottle of wine in the kitchen, doctor. Looked French.”
“Very perceptive, Mrs. Jensen. It is French.”
“I didn’t know you went in for French wine, doctor. Was it in the house?”
“It was a gift from a patient.”
She wanted to ask which patient, but could not force herself to violate the snooper’s creed and be direct. “You have patients who give you French wine? Oh, doctor, your practice must be looking up.”
Deadly Cure Page 14
