by R. J. Koreto
“Where did you get that cigar?” asked Alice.
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean. Your father, Miss Rutledge, stocks an excellent cigar. I don’t remember the last time I had one this good. Anyway, we should think about getting home. I’m sure Captain O’Hara is completing his initial investigation by now. Have you found Lesseps?”
“Oh, he came around while you were gone, something about needing to get the coach home, but Mr. Roth here offered us space in his motorcar,” said Alice. “So I sent Stephen home with a promise of an invitation to Oyster Bay in the summer.”
Philly was looking a little tired as we headed into the small hours. Alice gave her friend a quick kiss. “We will talk soon,” she said, and we followed Roth out the front door. Rutledge had resumed his hosting duties and was saying goodbye to guests as they left. The Roth chauffeur pulled up in a big, elegant touring car, and a few moments later, we were on our way to the Caledonia. It was a quick trip home, and I spent it admiring the motorcar. It was the latest thing, and I knew Peter would love to take a look at it, too.
“If you don’t mind my saying, this is an impressive machine,” I said.
Roth laughed. “I don’t mind. It’s actually my father’s. He likes motorcars.” It must’ve cost a packet, and Alice seemed to read my mind.
“I don’t think Mr. St. Clair is aware, but it’s widely known that Roth & Company is probably the biggest name on Wall Street.”
Roth gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. “We’re among the top, at any rate.”
“Are you in the family business?” asked Alice.
“I graduated from Harvard last year, and then my family sent me on a world tour. I’m settling into a related business, I guess you could say. My father has international interests, and that’s my focus, importing items from Europe and the Far East for sale here.” By then, we were at the Caledonia, and the chauffeur was helping Alice out of the car. We said our thank-yous, and Roth said, “It was a pleasure meeting both of you. I hope we meet again.”
“I am sure we will,” said Alice, and I led her into the Caledonia. The motorcar had barely pulled away when Alice grabbed my arm like she wasn’t going to let go. “You’re coming upstairs, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Of course. I always see you into the apartment, Miss Alice. That’s the rules.”
“No, I mean you’re coming in. We have a lot to discuss.”
CHAPTER 6
“Can’t it wait until morning?” I asked Alice.
“No, it can’t. I want to tell you what I heard, and I want to hear what Mr. Rutledge told you.”
We let ourselves into the apartment. Mrs. Cowles and the servants had already gone to bed. Alice dragged me into the breakfast room, as if she was afraid I’d run away.
“First, I’m going to tell you that I overheard an argument between Mr. Rutledge and Mr. Brackton early in the evening.”
“Really? And how did you do that?”
“Don’t use that tone with me. They had a photographer present, and no one knew where Mr. Rutledge was, so I volunteered to go find him.”
“Why you? The Rutledges must have dozens of servants.”
“You can’t trust servants with something like that. They’d all be afraid to interrupt him. They needed someone who would grab him and drag him downstairs.”
“So you found him.”
“Yes, behind the closed door in his study. I heard yelling. Not ‘angry that someone’s been stealing my good brandy’ angry but enraged. But what was more interesting was that someone was yelling back just as loudly.”
“Why was that more interesting?”
“Because he’s Simon Rutledge! He’s head of one of the oldest families in New York and one of the wealthiest. I was trying to figure out who would dare to argue with him. People listen to Simon Rutledge; they don’t argue with him.”
“But you couldn’t hear the words? Even with your ear pressed against the door?” I grinned.
“You have such a low opinion of me. Do you really think the president’s daughter would demean herself to that level of eavesdropping?” I guess I looked a little doubtful because she glanced away. “Anyway, the door was too thick. But I can tell you who it was. I waited around the corner, and a few moments later, I heard the door open and saw it was Lynley Brackton—the dead man. I’ve been wanting to tell you ever since the murder, but we didn’t have a private moment until now. I waited a minute so no one would think I was spying, and then I fetched Mr. Rutledge. He was all red in the face but calmed himself down.”
“What about Mr. Brackton?”
“That’s the odd part. He was smirking. As if he had pulled one over on Rutledge. Now tell me what Rutledge told you.”
I gave her a quick summary. “So basically, it looked like he was just trying to avoid scandal. But it was what he said—Brackton was not reliable. A business deal? Or just something in Society? Had he crossed a line?”
“It can’t be coincidence. The fight, the poisoning. The man was widely hated.”
“But I don’t see Rutledge killing him like that. I mean, maybe grabbing a letter opener in a rage and killing him in his study but not like that, staging a poisoning.”
“You’re right. There’s a lot to think about. We have to decide what to do next.”
“Next? We say good night, and then I go back to my room.”
“You know what I mean,” she said with impatience. “What about Brackton’s murder?”
“O’Hara will get some detectives to nose around, and they’ll find out what happened.”
“But that’s just it,” said Alice. “What could have happened? I mean, I was right there. On one side was me, Philly, and Mr. Rutledge. One of us would’ve seen someone dropping something into Brackton’s drink. And who would do that, anyway? It was just us.” She thought for a moment. “Let’s think about that. Not just who wanted to kill him, but who had an opportunity. I was talking with Philly and her father on one side of the punch table. The Bracktons were on the other side—let me think—with whom? Just another woman; I can’t recall her name right now. We’ll sort it out later, but it was a small group, at any rate.”
“Miss Alice, like O’Hara said, it was probably a servant.”
Alice sighed dramatically and shook her head like she couldn’t believe how stupid I was. “For God’s sake, do you think a servant would suddenly get it into his head to break into a greenhouse, pull up some poisonous plants, and try to slip them to a guest? Mr. Rutledge said servants weren’t even allowed in the greenhouse. We’re going to the Tombs tomorrow to see what the police found out.”
“Miss Alice, we just got back to New York. We’re not going to upset things by going to the Tombs.”
“Yes, we are. My aunt doesn’t want you to take me somewhere unsafe. The Tombs are merely unpleasant. Breakfast at nine tomorrow. Good night, Mr. St. Clair.” She swept out of the room and left me to let myself out.
I shook my head and headed to my room in the half basement. I gave myself a shot of bourbon and a final cigarette before crawling under the covers. I kept telling myself it wasn’t my business, but Alice had a point. How did someone get poison into that glass?
* * *
I slept well and was upstairs promptly at nine, entering just as Mrs. Cowles was about to leave. “Good morning, Mr. St. Clair. I understand the party had a most unfortunate ending but that you stepped in and handled the situation with great tact.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Is that what Miss Alice told you?”
She laughed. “Alice? Good heavens, Mr. St. Clair. What trouble I would be in if my information were filtered through the mind of my niece. No, I had other sources. News traveled fast. The official word is that it’s under investigation, but it’s an open secret it’s a murder. I would not go as far as to rejoice in the death, but I shan’t spend a great deal of time mourning Lynley Brackton. He was not a good man. He was not … reliable.”
“That’s interesting, ma’am. When I was speakin
g last night with Mr. Rutledge, he also said Mr. Brackton was unreliable. He made that sound like it was the worst insult in the world.”
Mrs. Cowles gave me a curious look, and then her lips curved into a cool smile. “You’ve been among the most important and wealthy families in the most important and wealthy city in this country, Mr. St. Clair. I have no doubt that if you think about it, you will come to realize just how terrible an insult that is. We must rely on each other. It’s what holds Society, any society, together.”
I nodded.
“Anyway, I would be profoundly grateful if you could discourage what will no doubt be Alice’s morbid obsession with the murder.”
With that, she was gone. I went into the breakfast room, and Alice joined me a moment later. A maid came around with pancakes, bacon, and a pot of coffee.
“Your aunt doesn’t want you to interest yourself in the murder,” I said.
“She found out already? Good for her.”
“By the way, she said Lynley Brackton was unreliable. Just like Mr. Rutledge said.”
“That’s fascinating. We’ll remember that. First on our agenda will be calling on Captain O’Hara and getting the name of the detective supervising the case … but no, first we’ll visit the Rutledges and see what I can find out from Philly.”
“I think she may have been in a bit of a shock last night,” I said. “In the cold light of day, do you think she’ll want to continue dwelling on it?”
Alice rolled her eyes. “A lot you know about debutantes. Today, it will be even better. You hope that some young lady drinks too much champagne and makes a fool of herself so you have something to talk about. Now a death, a murder, that’s something to mark your special day. Everyone in Society will be calling on her or inviting her to hear all the details. Heck, when her granddaughter is coming out decades from now, she can say, ‘ah, but a man was murdered at my party.’” Alice then frowned. “No one died at my debut. Like I said, some girls have all the luck. But yes, we’ll visit Philly first…”
I heard someone ring at the front door, and a moment later, a maid came in and handed me a note.
“Who’s sending you notes?” asked Alice, half curious and half jealous. It was a cheap envelope with nothing but my name on the outside. I tore it open.
“It’s from Captain O’Hara. Probably gave it to a beat cop to run uptown.” I unfolded the note.
“Read it, Mr. St. Clair.”
“I am.”
“I mean out loud,” she snapped.
“Oh, very well. ‘St. Clair—Thanks for your help. Turned out to be easy. Brackton argued with some colored motorcar mechanic the day before, and we arrested him. Got him down in the Tombs. Expect a confession soon.’ Goddamnit. Pardon my language.”
“Goddamnit indeed,” said Alice. “They arrested that nice mechanic who let me drive—that must be him, Peter Carlyle.”
“Must be. Just spoke to him myself. He’s pretty even-tempered, though. You said this guy Brackton started arguments as a rule.”
“Nasty and arrogant. I’m sure it was entirely Brackton’s fault and O’Hara was too lazy to really investigate.”
It broke my heart to think of Peter in the Tombs. As bad as it would be for anyone, it would be worse for a colored man. I wondered if I knew of any lawyers who could take his case, but Alice was ahead of me.
“One final sip of coffee, Mr. St. Clair, and then we are definitely going to the Tombs to get Peter Carlyle released. And then O’Hara will tell us who’s behind his arrest, and I will make them very sorry for what they did.”
“Miss Alice—”
“Don’t you want to get him released?” she challenged.
“Of course. I just don’t see how you’re going to do it.”
“That, Mr. St. Clair, is the easy part. Grab your coat, Cowboy.”
I felt a mix of hope that Alice could spring Peter and fear at what she’d do to get him out.
* * *
A few minutes later, we were in the motorcar heading downtown. Alice looked delighted with herself but almost exploded in impatience every time we got stuck behind a delivery van. I had barely parked near the Tombs when she jumped out of the runabout and marched up the stairs. I ran to keep up with her.
Alice barely stopped at the front desk. “Miss Roosevelt and Mr. St. Clair to see Captain O’Hara. Don’t get up; I know the way.”
“But Miss…” the officer was saying. Alice was already striding down the hall. I followed up and flashed my badge.
“Don’t even bother,” I said.
Alice did indeed know the way and just walked right in without knocking.
“What—Miss Roosevelt—how—why…” He was sitting behind his desk in his shirtsleeves, writing out a report, and he just stopped, the pen frozen right on the paper.
“How dare you. How dare you. We trusted you, and what do you do but lock up Peter Carlyle, who couldn’t possibly be guilty. Get him out of his cell and up here. Right now.”
He just stared at her for a moment, then looked at me over her shoulder. I shrugged. “She has a point, Captain.”
O’Hara sighed. “Take a seat, both of you.” We did, but Alice didn’t get comfortable, sitting on the edge of her chair, no doubt so she could get up and grab O’Hara by his lapels if need be.
“I guess you know this Carlyle?” he asked.
“He’s the mechanic for the Roosevelt car,” I said. “And for most of the well-heeled uptown drivers. I’ve shared a smoke with him often over discussions about engines. I can’t believe he killed Brackton.”
“We asked around. Brackton had brought his motorcar around earlier in the week, and there was some disagreement about the extent of the repairs, and he accused Carlyle of being a lousy mechanic and a liar to boot. There were witnesses. Anyway, there is no one else even close to being a suspect. He hasn’t confessed yet, but I’m sure he’ll come around to realizing that it’s in his best interest to admit it.” He leaned back in his chair and looked very pleased with himself. Alice looked like she was going to explode.
“Even if you think Peter was capable of doing that, and I don’t, did you give any thought to how Peter could sneak into the Rutledge mansion, into the ballroom, completely unseen?” she asked.
O’Hara seemed a little uncomfortable at that. “We’re still working on that. But we have motive. And he easily could’ve broken into the Rutledge greenhouse. He also maintains the Rutledge motorcar, and either Simon Rutledge or his driver mentioned the greenhouse at some point. It’s a well-known feature.”
Alice sighed dramatically. “With your rather parochial background, Captain O’Hara, you may not realize it, but not too many colored citizens are invited to debutante balls. A black man would’ve stood out a mile away.”
“Well, it was late, and maybe no one would’ve noticed. They were all tired and probably a little drunk.” Alice and I could tell he didn’t really believe it himself, and he saw the look of disappointment in our faces. “Oh, for God’s sake, what do you expect? The best of New York Society was there. You want detectives to start questioning them? We asked everyone, especially those near the punch bowl table, and no one saw anything. You want me to bother all the great families of New York? This arrest made Simon Rutledge very happy.”
“I don’t think it made Peter Carlyle very happy,” said Alice.
O’Hara rolled his eyes and looked at me. “Mr. St. Clair. You’ve been around. You know it’s not a perfect world.”
“I know. But it should be more perfect than this,” I said. Alice turned and gave me a wink.
“Captain O’Hara,” she continued. “I was by the punch bowl with Mr. and Mrs. Brackton. I was not inebriated.” She stood. “I am going to visit District Attorney Jerome today. I will tell him that I will testify that I saw no colored men anywhere near us during the relevant period. I will be believed. Mr. Rutledge won’t be so happy with you then, as he’ll be wondering why you frittered away days after arresting an innocent man.”
&nb
sp; I could just imagine what Mrs. Cowles would say about Alice giving evidence in a murder trial.
“Oh, very well,” he sighed. “I suppose we can keep looking around and see if we can find someone else who had it in for Brackton.”
“And you’ll release Peter Carlyle. Now.”
He sighed again. “It’s going to take a few minutes. You can wait in the lobby.”
“I hope this won’t take too long,” said Alice. “We’ll leave now so you can go about releasing him. Good day.” And with that, she made a typical grand exit without even seeing if I was following.
O’Hara took a moment to speak with me before I followed Alice. “Just between us, was she really going to see the DA? Or was she bluffing?”
“Miss Alice never bluffs,” I said.
CHAPTER 7
Alice paced like a caged tiger in the lobby while we waited for Peter.
“I’m glad you got him out,” I said. “But it’s only temporary. If they can’t find anyone else, they’ll arrest him again and make it stick. We’d best be gathering a few dollars and helping him get out of town.”
“We are not going to see Peter chased away from his home and his job. What we are going to do is find out who killed Lynley Brackton.” She glared at me. “Well? Aren’t you going to try to talk me out of it?”
“Would it do any good?” I asked. She laughed at that. I did realize that she was right about one thing: I didn’t see how anyone except a guest, all members of the best families, could’ve done it. So if Alice confined herself to the cream of New York, we just might get through this without violence. Of course, I was being optimistic.
O’Hara led Peter up himself, and the mechanic was looking a little worse for wear, blinking in the light. He seemed surprised to be released and doubly surprised to see us there.
“Joey … Miss Roosevelt, what…?”
“It seems you have some powerful friends,” said O’Hara sourly. “But this isn’t over. Don’t go too far. I’ll probably be looking you up again.” He gave us a skeptical look and left, shaking his head.
