Trembling, she put her hands over her eyes and made little squeaking noises.
She’d seen enough.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
DORIE TUCKED THE BAG UNDER her arm, adjusting the strap over her shoulder, then looked at her wristwatch. She was on time; it was 8:35, but there was no one here. The room, upstairs over a stationery and greeting card shop, was obviously for meetings. It was unlocked. No one had bothered. There was nothing of value anyway, not even a chair. Just a bare room, its wainscoting painted a dull green, with two windows that overlooked Fifteenth Street. The smell of cigar smoke lingered in the air.
She tromped down the stairs and peered through the glass door of the card shop. The door was locked, but a light shone in the back. She knocked on the glass. After a few minutes, a young woman appeared, wiping her hands on an apron.
“Closed.”
“Just a question,” Dorie yelled. “About the meeting room.”
The woman glanced upward. Maybe she wanted to rent the place. Whatever the reason, she pulled keys on a ring from her apron and unlocked the door.
“Hi. I’ve been out of town,” Dorie said, smiling. “I have been to some of the meetings upstairs, but now no one’s there. Did they change the time?”
The woman, in her twenties, but rough from hard living, was expressionless. She looked Italian, and not long since she’d seen the old country. Dorie nonchalantly pulled the bag from her arm, setting it on the floor between them, its mouth gaping. The young woman glanced at it, then back again.
“They do not meet there now. They move,” she said, her accent soft. She glanced over her shoulder.
“Where to?”
The woman shook her head, frowning. “Call them. They tell you.”
“But I want to go tonight. They’ll all be at the meeting. I’m late already.”
The woman rubbed the bridge of her nose. Dorie knew that sign. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a five-dollar bill. As she bent to get her bag with the silver shirt, she let the bill fall to the scuffed wood floor. The woman stiffened, looked around, and snatched it from the floor.
“There was some trouble and they had to move.”
“Trouble? Like cops?”
“No, no,” the woman whispered. She made one hand into a pistol. A whoosh came through her lips, and a pop.
“Ah. No cops, though.”
“No. They go to the Hotel, um, Bellerive. That’s what I hear.”
“Bellerive. You sure? That’s pretty swank.”
The woman frowned. “I not know swank.”
Dorie didn’t know swank, either. But she could get used to it. She stepped into the bright lights and brocade sofas and plush carpets of the lobby of the Hotel Bellerive. Women in satin gowns and furs draped themselves over arms of men and furniture. Tuxedos and polished shoes mingled with watch fobs and cigars. A man was playing the piano in one corner. She stepped behind a mirrored column and straightened her jacket. Where would the meeting be in this sort of hotel? In a private room? The basement? Surely not right out where the banquets were served.
The bag was over her shoulder. It was awkward, both physically and mentally. She didn’t want to get caught with it, by anybody. It was an abomination, a symbol of the kind of evil wrong-headedness that was making a mess of the world.
Finding the service stairs behind swinging doors, she tiptoed down, listening for sounds of something besides the big steam boiler. The boiler was obvious before it was seen, its sputtering and hissing— and its heat. The basement was a good ten degrees warmer than upstairs.
The central hallway, scuffed and worn, led straight to the back. She poked her head in doors, finding the laundry, the dishwashing room, and a variety of storerooms. At the end of the hallway, nothing.
She backtracked to the stairs, continuing up to the second floor. A large banquet was winding down in the big ballroom, the crystal chandeliers glowing down on the guests. She stared at people in sequins and evening wear. A man with sharp, cool eyes stood at the door. He demanded to know her business. She moved on.
Several small meeting rooms stood empty. Around a corner, down a badly lighted hall sat a man outside a closed door. His arms were folded across his chest. He wore tall leather boots with trousers tucked into them, with puttees over the boots.
She stumbled, slowing her feet. The guard stared at her, his face menacing. What exactly was she planning to do? Even if she’d had her switchblade (and being freshly sprung from the joint, she had no wish to provoke the fates in that direction), what did she think she would do—slice through the room? She would hardly get by one guard without a lot of luck. She kept going forward slowly, trying to think. The guard stood, putting his ham-sized hands on his hips and frowning with his considerable brow.
Knowing that a local Silver Shirts group existed should be enough. Enough to ruin Barnaby Wake? Did she need hard evidence that he was attached to it? She had evidence of Tommy Briggs’s membership— could she go through Wake’s closet, too?
She stopped ten feet from the guard. The bag with the shirt sat under her armpit like a tumor. Hot streams of hate spewed from the guard’s nostrils. She blinked at him and smiled. Said good evening.
Then turned on her heel.
Under the awning outside the front doors to the Hotel Bellerive, she stood and bit her lip. The doorman glanced sideways at her but let her be.
What? What? She was a coward, a pip-squeak. She racked her brains. How was she going to shine a light on these bigots? How could she save Thalia Hines from their clutches? She could be brave, and foolish, and confront the whole band of fascists upstairs. But what would she do, could she do? What would the Silver Shirts do to her if she burst in, screaming about Nazis?
The woman at the greeting card shop— what had she said? Trouble. A gunshot. Dorie saw Wendy doing what she had almost done: barging into a clot of angry fascists, accusing them of being what they were, recognizing certain people around the room. Had Wendy followed Tommy that night, confronted him? Had she been killed for it? Had she seen Barnaby Wake? Had he killed her?
A commotion behind her. She turned just in time to be run down by two cops hustling a group out of the hotel. Dorie stumbled, dropped her bag, and fell almost to the cement sidewalk. A policeman grabbed her arm and hauled her upright.
“All right, miss?”
A large group of men and a scattering of women in furs and plumed hats paused behind the cop. A man with a mop of black hair, wearing a well-cut pinstripe suit, leaned over and picked up the strap to her bag. The bag stayed shut, but she could barely breathe.
The man passed her the bag. “We shouldn’t have been taking more than our share of the sidewalk. My apologies.”
Dorie blinked. The cop was grinning at her. She took the bag, holding it tightly to her chest. “Thank you, Mr. Willkie,” she managed to say.
Wendell Willkie touched his hat and gave her a wink. Then the party moved on down the sidewalk, chattering and laughing and slapping one another on the back. She watched them with something like awe, the cool breeze that came up from the river not even registering.
“Looks like you’ve been touched by the Willkie magic.”
She pulled her eyes away from the man himself. Talbot stood with his little notebook and pencil, looking like the cocky reporter again.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing.” She released her stranglehold on it and fit it over her shoulder again. She looked down the street. The party had gotten into autos. “What— what are you doing?”
“Just writing this up.” He squinted at her. “You want to come down to the Star for a minute?”
She shook herself. “My car’s near there.”
They started walking slowly south, toward the newspaper office. Her car was parked north, actually. She had no idea what she was doing tonight. All day, if she was honest. Something about being in jail had curdled her brain. The evening had turned cold and she didn’t have gloves or a hat. She shivered,
pulling the bag close for warmth.
“I didn’t see you at the rally,” he said.
“The crowd was enormous.”
He nodded and kept walking. She lengthened her stride to keep up.
“I should thank you for that lead about Roscoe Sensa,” Talbot said after walking a couple blocks in silence.
She stopped. “Did you find out who snuffed him?”
“No. But I think I know why.”
He smiled and kept walking. Dorie had to pull on his sleeve. “Well? Spill.”
“Can’t tell you yet. I think it’s related to Gibson Saunders’s murder, though.”
“What?”
“I’m off to Chicago tonight on the late train. I’ll know in the morning, if all goes well.”
They stood at the bottom of the steps of the Kansas City Star. It was built like a federal building, a rock-solid institution that you could trust, depend on, believe in. At least the building conveyed that. Harvey Talbot tucked his pencil behind his ear.
“I’ve got to go write up the Willkie piece. Is your car nearby?”
“I can’t believe you’re holding out on me, Talbot. After all the help I’ve given you. After all we—” She stopped, biting her upper lip.
“Meant to each other?” His voice was harsh, accusing. Or was it? He looked at her sideways. “I have to go.”
“Talbot? Can I use your telephone?”
He looked at her hand on his arm. “On one condition,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“That you— “
He looked down at her from under his eyebrows. She felt her heart thump. It was so aggravating having feelings. Why couldn’t you just go through life with a friendly dog and a pint of gin to keep you company? Why this longing? How did you get rid of the damn longing?
“What?”
“Pick me up at the station tomorrow night,” he said.
Dorie followed him up the broad steps, then up the stairs to the newsroom. Reporters sat scattered around the floor, banging on typewriters, answering ringing telephones, tossing balled-up paper. She found the place fascinating in its ordinariness. Astounded that proclamations came from these grimy quarters, that lives were ruined, made final, elevated, celebrated. Such a leap—from inky words to real life. A sort of magic.
But reality was a filthy chair by a messy, scratched desk. She sat on the chair, wondering why she was here, feeling in an odd state, almost suspended. She was tired of worrying about Thalia Hines. She remembered she had come to use the telephone. Talbot was reading over his notes at the typewriter. She dialed Amos’s home number.
“Where are you?”
“At the newspaper. I ran into Talbot downtown. And Wendell Willkie.” She winked at Harvey.
“Listen. Eveline Hines has been calling— or rather, Mother Ruth. She’s worried about Thalia tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
Amos sighed. “It’s Eveline. She—” His voice broke.
She felt her stomach lurch. “No. Not yet, Amos.”
“No … no. She’s just slipped off. Unconscious.”
Perhaps she’d been right this afternoon, then. Just a matter of time. Hours perhaps. That was what he didn’t say.
“Her last wish, Ruth says, was that Julian and Thalia be with her at the end.”
The Commander must have liked Julian more than she’d let on. Had Mrs. Hines told anyone else about Thalia’s parentage? God, Dorie hoped so. Was the request for both heirs of Leslie Hines at her bedside a last attempt at legitimacy? Did Amos know about the man called Teddy?
It didn’t matter at this stage. Eveline was dying.
“Both of them, Ruth said,” he repeated, as if reading her mind. “She was so happy today. Saw her old friends, chatted and laughed. Held court. She put on her last party, Lennox. I wish you could have seen her. Flushed with a last small joy, she was.”
“The Willkie people?”
“And an old friend from London. Thalia popped in, too, looking quite lovely. It must have pleased her mother. I have to hold on to that.”
“An old friend? Who was that?”
“Some fellow from London. She knew him during the war.” A voice in the background. “Gwendolyn says his name was Lafferty. She called him Teddy.”
“No one you knew?”
He cleared his throat. “We have to find Thalia. She didn’t come home after the Willkie rally.”
“Where do we look— Barnaby Wake’s?”
She had good reason to believe Wake was in a meeting. Would Thalia be there, too? Amos muttered something about having no bloody idea.
“Amos, listen. I think Barnaby Wake is a member of the Silver Shirts. Both Wake and Tommy. And I think Wendy found out. That would explain why Tommy was killed. He could link Wake to the murder of Wendy. It didn’t matter at first because Wake didn’t know who Tommy was. He was just another dumb fascist. But then Wake started to date Thalia and things got a little uncomfortable. Maybe Tommy even asked for a little hush money.”
Talbot stared at her under his hank of untidy hair. She didn’t care what he heard, what anyone knew about Barnaby Wake. What about Harriet Fox, heartsick and alone? So like Arlette years before, and there was not much Dorie could do this time. Arlette— where was she? The thoughts, the memories, popped by like frames edited into a strip of celluloid.
“Is this a theory?” Amos demanded. “Do you have proof?”
“The meeting is going on right now at the Hotel Bellerive, right down the hall from the Willkie dinner.” She looked at her watch. It was after ten o’clock already. “They may still be there.”
“You have proof?”
She sighed. Goddamn Amos.
“You can’t go around calling people fascists, Lennox, as much as you dislike them. Or murderers. We’ve been through this, lass.”
“I know, I know. But I have— “
Dorie reached for the bag between her feet as Talbot shoved the early edition of the Star in her face. He pointed to a small item on the second page, down in the right-hand corner.
“What do you have, Lennox?” Amos said.
“Just a sec.”
She set down the receiver on the desk and grabbed the newspaper. The small photograph of Barnaby Wake in his smiling best set off the headline: CHOIR DIRECTOR SUED FOR ALIENATION OF AFFECTIONS.
“Holy Mary.” Dorie skimmed the article quickly, picking out the name Edward Marchand. He was divorcing Agnes and blaming it all on Barnaby Wake. She picked up the phone.
“I’m reading the early edition. Have you seen it? Here’s the headline.” She read it, then the first paragraph. “The reporter talked to Marchand. I can’t believe they print this stuff. These ink monkeys’ll print anything.” Talbot smiled and wiggled his eyebrows.
“What else does it say?”
Mrs. Agnes Marchand was not available for comment. Mr. Marchand told the Star that he feels Mr. Wake’s behavior needs to be known. That is why he is making public his private marital difficulties, despite the blow to his own pride.
“I’m told by good sources,” Marchand said, “that at least one member of the choir is ‘under distress,’ and has been disowned by her family.”
He refused to elaborate.
“Did you go back to the Marchand’s?”
“Tried. She was in there but wouldn’t open the door.”
“You think he beats her?”
“He was the type. Although I have to say that I’m fairly impressed with his tactics. Not only is he divorcing his wife but he’s telling the world who cuckolded him. That takes guts.”
She folded the paper. “Do you think it’s over for Wake? Can somebody really be sued for alienation of affections?”
“It’s the scandal that’ll get him. I’m sure that’s what Marchand had planned,” Amos said. He sighed. “What are we going to do about Thalia?”
“I’ll drive by Wake’s and see if I can find her.”
“We should have been with her tonight, of all nights
.”
Neither of them had an excuse. Except they were bored with Thalia’s antics, and she was tired of them. “You’ve got to find her, Lennox.”
Amos hung the receiver back on the telephone. He felt guilty laying all that on the girl. Eveline’s sudden decline today had hit him hard. She’d seemed so lively, so animated, at the reception. He recalled her bright eyes while she’d talked to the Lafferty fellow. She must have used up whatever reserve of energy she had. Maybe she would awaken and hang on. But something told him she was tired of fighting.
Gwendolyn was wrapped in a tartan blanket on the sofa. The sight of her warmed him, brought him back. If he let himself, he could be back in France, watching Eveline bandage soldiers. He’d had a dream like that a few nights before, with mud grabbing his feet as he struggled in vain to run to her, warn her, because mortar shells were coming. He hadn’t known Eveline Hines during the war. Yet it had been their common ground all these years.
And now, he was going to lose her. And with her, another fragment of the past, the memories that linked them. Without her, would he be able to recall any of the pure motives, any of the good they had all embraced going into the conflict? Without her, would a piece of him die? A chill racked his frame. He made himself look at Gwendolyn.
“Some tea?”
“That’d be lovely.” She smiled at him, letting her eyes dash to the letter on the table for a second. It had been waiting for them in the postbox when they returned from the picture.
He put the kettle on, got out the cups and the tea. The ritual was soothing, after all these years in America drinking scalding coffee. He wiped off the tray, set two spoons on it, the sugar bowl, poured milk in the creamer. His kitchen hadn’t been this clean and organized in— well, ever. He looked through the doorway to her musty little head bent over the letter, her hair doing its odd dance in the draft.
The draft. At least he could quit worrying about that. He’d run into his city councilman at the rally today. “Too old, old boy!” the politician had shouted to all and sundry, as if it were hilarious. As if he was not just old but ancient, decrepit.
“Top age is thirty-four! Besides, we got so many volunteers, looks like nobody’ll get drafted.”
Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set Page 48
