by Maia Chance
Inside the cage, the tiger’s amber eyes lit with interest.
“Monster!” I screamed, grabbing Beaulah’s collar and yanking her back. She staggered but did not fall. She clawed at my arms. A blueberry-sized diamond winked on her finger. Surprise relaxed my grip on her collar.
Beaulah wrenched free, her handbag hit the ground, and she once again took off running. She’d left her handbag on the ground.
I tried to gently dislodge Cedric from the bars of the cage. He wouldn’t budge. His tender middle was wedged snug and his legs kicked in the air, two inside the cage and two out. “Don’t worry, peanut,” I sobbed. “Mommy will get you out.”
The tiger stalked nearer, tail swishing.
“Someone help!” I cried, making shooing motions at the tiger.
“The dog’s stuck!” a man yelled.
Someone took a photograph of Cedric.
“Is the tiger going to eat him, Mommy?” a child asked.
“Don’t look, Timmy,” the mother said.
“Should we telephone the fire brigade?” a man said.
“Someone notify a zookeeper!” a lady shrilled.
More photographs were snapped.
The tiger was only two prowls away.
“Allow me,” Raymond said. Very gently, he held Cedric’s sides and seesawed him, and then Cedric was free and in my arms.
“Peanut!” I said, tears dripping. “Poor little peanut. It’s all right now. Mommy’s here.”
“Awwwwwww,” the crowd around me said. Lots more photographs were taken. Raymond took my arm and drew me away.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Hathorne,” I said. Hugging Cedric, I stood on tippy-toe and kissed Raymond full on the mouth.
He kissed me back with cool dry lips. He smelled of balsam shaving lotion, just like Alfie used to wear. This was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
I pulled away, confusion spinning through me, my cheeks pulsing-hot. Ralph and Berta were a few paces off, watching—when had they arrived? Ralph’s eyes were hidden in the shade of his fedora, but Berta’s eyes and lips were round.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” Raymond said. “I’m going to go catch that crazy nurse for you, all right? She won’t get away with this.”
I nodded.
Raymond strode away in the direction Beaulah had fled. Hermie had called him a liar, but I’d seen the steely look of determination in Raymond’s eye. He was going to hunt Beaulah down for me. Well, for my dog, anyway.
The crowd dispersed. The excitement had passed.
* * *
I sank onto a zoo bench. My knees were jellied.
“Mrs. Woodby!” Berta said, arriving next to me. Her own handbag was slung over her right forearm, and Beaulah’s handbag dangled from her left.
Ralph sauntered over more slowly. “Lola, are you all right? And the pooch?” His voice, though charitable, wasn’t exactly warm.
“I think he’s all right.” I cradled Cedric. “He might be bruised.”
“Aw.” Ralph gently scratched Cedric behind the ear. “Poor little fella.”
Cedric wagged his appreciation.
“Say, where did Hathorne take himself off to?” Ralph asked me.
“To catch Beaulah.”
“You’re sure? Because the look on his face reminded me of a guy who’d just had a narrow escape.”
“Don’t be silly. What would Raymond be escaping from?”
Berta had seated herself next to me on the bench and was inspecting the contents of Beaulah’s handbag.
“Beaulah was wearing a big diamond ring,” I said. “I’m pretty sure it was the real McCoy, too—and did you see her fancy new clothes? She’s gotten herself engaged to someone rich. But she was trying to lie low in that hat with the veil. I think you were correct all along, Berta. I think she’s the murderer.”
Berta pulled out Beaulah’s copy of The Tasteful Abode and set it on the bench. “Do not feel too badly about yourself, Mrs. Woodby. You were only attempting to be thorough.” She took out Beaulah’s powder compact, coin purse, peppermints, and—gingerly—the pistol. “Aha. Here it is. The weapon used to murder Senator Morris.”
“Hold on,” Ralph said. “Let me see that.” He took out a hankie, wrapped it around the handle of the gun, inspected it. Then he looked at Berta. “I hate to say it, Mrs. Lundgren, but this isn’t a Luger Parabellum.”
Berta gasped. “Are you certain?”
“Yep. It’s a Luger, all right—Gil Morris wasn’t lying about that—but it’s an Alphabet.”
“But what does this mean?” Berta asked in a small, lost voice.
“For one thing, it blows your theory about Beaulah Starr being the murderer out of the water,” Ralph said.
“But—”
“That’s the breaks, Mrs. Lundgren. Been there myself.” Ralph placed the gun on top of the pile of Beaulah’s purse contents. They weren’t balanced properly, and they all crashed to the ground.
Berta and I bent to retrieve the items, hands outstretched. We both froze. The book had landed open to a middle page, and a red ribbon bookmark curled from its spine like a lick of blood.
“But this isn’t—this book is filled with handwriting,” I said. I picked it up and thumbed through. Page after page of round, girlish handwriting. “I think this is Grace Whiddle’s diary.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Ralph said. “There it is.”
“But why on earth was Grace’s diary in Beaulah’s handbag if she is not the murderer?” Berta said.
“Beaulah might have gotten Grace’s diary from Violet Wilbur’s handbag,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“During the scuffle at the hotel book signing. Don’t you see? Beaulah could’ve picked up the book by mistake after both of their handbags fell open, thinking that it was her own copy of The Tasteful Abode.”
“There were a whole heck of a lot of green books flying around in that lecture room, you know,” Ralph said. “This diary could’ve even come from somebody else.”
I swallowed. “This investigation won’t end. I feel sick.”
“There is no time to feel sick, Mrs. Woodby,” Berta said. “We must go and see if Violet Wilbur is still at the hotel.”
“What about Cedric? He should be looked over by a veterinarian.”
Berta waved a hand. “Just look at Cedric. He is as fit as a fiddle.”
Cedric was scarfing down a smashed ice cream cone he’d found under the bench.
I looked at the diary in my hands. I looked up at Ralph. “And … what about you? I suppose all you wish to do is read this diary?”
“Well, sure. But first things first. You’ve got to apprehend Violet. I’ll come with you in case you need backup.” Ralph held my gaze a smidge too long.
I glanced away, ashamed for kissing Raymond Hathorne and hopelessly confused about coconut icing. I stashed the diary in my handbag, picked up Cedric, and plucked a shard of ice cream cone from his mouth. We hurried after Berta.
* * *
When we reached the lecture room at the Xavier House Hotel, it was empty except for a bellboy swabbing the carpet up front.
“Wait here,” I whispered to Ralph and Berta. I left them in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I said when I reached the bellboy, “is Miss Wilbur still on the premises?”
“No, madam.” The bellboy didn’t take his eyes off his swabbing. “She left in a hurry. A deranged woman—an obsessive fanatic is my guess—stole books and knocked over the table. Miss Wilbur was frightened half out of her wits.” The bellboy glanced up and his face clouded. “Say, aren’t you—?”
“Thanks ever so much!” I returned to Ralph and Berta. “She’s gone. I’ll telephone her house. It’s not far from here, and she’s had plenty of time to reach home.”
We found a bank of telephones in a marble corridor off the lobby. Berta recited Violet’s street address, I gave the address to the operator, and after a moment she put me through.
I got the maid.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but Miss Wilbur is not in.”
Phooey. “When do you expect her to return?”
“Well, she’s going abroad—”
“Yes, I’ve heard. But those ships bound for Europe always leave in the morning.”
“Oh! Are you the woman who broke into the house this morning? I told the police—”
I disconnected and turned to Ralph and Berta. “She’s not home, and it sounds as though she’s leaving for Europe in the morning. What next?”
“Let’s have a look in that diary before we make another move,” Ralph said. “That thing could be packed with clues.”
I glanced out into the swanky lobby. “Here?”
“Why not?”
Berta, Ralph, and I sat in a row on a velvet couch, and I took the diary from my handbag. The concierge was looking at me hard from his desk. I tugged my hat down to hide my eyes, just as Ralph always did. I opened the diary on the portion of my lap not occupied by Cedric, and we started perusing.
“Lots of moaning and groaning about her mother,” I said.
“Where does she get that purple and green ink?” Ralph said.
“Her horrid mother gives her such an awful time about her figure,” Berta said. “Goodness! In my village in Sweden, it was always the thin girls who despaired over their figures.”
“Times have changed,” I said. “Now we’re all supposed to look like number-two lead pencils.” I turned a page. “Grace said that it was wintertime when she overheard that conversation in Eugene Van Hoogenband’s study, right? She said it was snowing outside.”
“January, I believe,” Berta said.
I found January. The first days were cluttered up with grumblings about her mother and unemotional notes on Gil’s courtship, and then—a long entry dated January 7, 1923.
34
It was all there in the January 7 entry of Grace Whiddle’s diary. Inchbald & Sons, Fine Clothiers’ war profiteering. Fizzy Van Hoogenband’s second wife and kid. Even details about Muffy’s tipply problem.
“There’s more,” I said, pointing to the next passage.
What about Hermie? Said Mr. Van H. What of the revolting little shrimp? said Senator M.
Mr. Van H said Well, he has that skeleton in his closet, you know, from France. Oh you mean the girl? said Senator M. Yes the girl, and goddammit how can you be so blahzay blasé about it? Old O said It was a war for God’s sake. These things happen in wartime.
“‘Old O’ must mean Obadiah Inchbald,” I said.
Ralph and Berta nodded.
Senator M said there is no proof of any of that. No proof? Said Mr. Van H There were witnesses, the girl’s family and that private from Inchbald’s own regiment—Yes but that private died, didn’t he? I tell you, as long as Hermie keeps his sorry trap shut and leaves off bragging about that goddam Silver Citation Star at every turn no one will ever know about this.
Berta said, “I would wager that Hermie got a French girl in trouble during the war.”
“Hermie, a father?” I said.
“Mrs. Woodby, has it escaped your notice that even the most putrid men sire children with great frequency? And soldiers, well, they are thought dashing by silly young girls.”
“There isn’t anything else about France,” I said. “See? The subject changes to something about steelworks.”
“Where?” Ralph tensed.
“Here.” I tapped the page.
The men were getting up to go and then Mr. Van H said to Senator M that he sure as hell hoped the steelworks contracts were all cut and dry because he wished to begin work on twenty new bridges by summer, and Senator M said Oh, I nearly forgot, good news, Eugene, the legislation passed and you are sitting pretty, but don’t you go forgetting your promises to me. The old battleship has her heart set on a diamond necklace from Tiffany and you know how she is if she doesn’t get her bobbles baubles.
After that, a new entry started, all about Gil’s bad breath and Gil’s girlish hands.
Ralph let out a long, low whistle. “Jackpot.” He grinned.
“I don’t understand what this last passage means,” I said, “other than that Senator Morris planned to buy Muffy a diamond necklace.”
“That’s not the important thing,” Ralph said. He glanced around the lobby and lowered his voice. “The important thing is, it’s proof that Senator Morris was in Eugene Van H’s pocket. Senator Morris passed legislation to make sure that all state bridge-building contracts used V. H. Steelworks—that’s Van H’s gig. This is what I’ve been looking for, what I was hired to find. Do you know what a crime it is for Van H to have bribed a politician like that? To set up a sweet deal that favors his own company, a deal that excludes the usual competitive bidding for government contracts? Van H is headed for the lockup.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Berta murmured.
“I mean, Van H ought to go to prison,” Ralph said, “but who knows what’ll happen at trial.”
“With any luck, Van Hoogenband will have forgotten all about Berta and me by then,” I said.
“He won’t have any reason to go after you as soon as my client has this diary in their possession,” Ralph said. “Say, could I borrow it for a few hours? I’ll need to show it to my client. I’ll return it.”
I looked at Berta. She nodded.
“Who is your client?” I asked, pushing the diary into Ralph’s hands. “Or are you still going to keep your lips buttoned about that—and about every single other thing that might be of the slightest interest to me because Ralph Oliver, Private Detective, absolutely must keep as cool as an icicle every minute of every day?” Whoops. Probably shouldn’t have blurted that.
Ralph tucked the diary in his inside jacket pocket. His eyebrows lifted slowly.
“Oh dear,” Berta murmured. “I will just pop away to make a telephone call.” She scurried off.
“Let me tell you something, Lola,” Ralph said in a low, impassive voice, “and listen hard because I’m only going to say it the once—”
“Ralph—”
“Let me finish.” Ralph’s voice had gone rough.
I shut my trap.
“If you stick with this agency,” Ralph said, “I can promise you that there will come a time when your safety, or Mrs. Lundgren’s safety or my safety or, heck, your dog’s safety, will depend on you keeping mum about your work. I’ve only been doing my job, and I’ve been trying to do it right. I can’t be blamed if it knocks you a little sideways when I won’t sit, roll over, and beg for you, okay?”
“Well, I never!”
Ralph kept going. “What I think, Lola, is that you haven’t really come to grips with your life. You’re stumbling forward, and sure, changes are tough, and the gumshoe trade, it’s real tough. But one of the reasons you’re stumbling is because you’re looking over your shoulder the whole time. That’s your business, not mine. But you and me, kid, well, the reason we can’t quite get started might be, like you said, partly because I’ve got to keep details about my work under wraps a lot of the time. And sure, maybe it’s also because in general you blow a little hotter than I do, or that you like to talk about coconut icing when I prefer to just taste it—”
Oh. Gosh.
“—but another reason we can’t get started is because you don’t really want us to get started.”
“That’s not true.” My indignation drained away. “I love being with you, Ralph.”
“Oh yeah? Then why do I get the feeling you’re playing games with me? One minute you’re calling me Ralph and looking all mushy at me with your big blue eyes, and the next thing I know, you’re petting that damned pretty boy Hathorne and calling me Mr. Oliver.”
“I’m not playing games with you.” I studied my dinged-up shoes.
“What about you coming clean to the world? Your job is a secret, I’m a secret … I’ve got too much pride to be some lady’s dirty little secret, Lola. I’m a grown man, not some—some chew toy. I have to insist on being trea
ted with respect, so if you’re ever ready for that, well, let’s talk. Till then, go ahead. Go back to your ritzy world.” Ralph swept a hand around the hotel lobby. He stood. “Me, I’m done.”
“You’re only leaving now because you have what you wanted!” I blurted. “Go on, take the stupid diary!”
Ralph looked down at me for a long, steady moment. Then he sauntered across the lobby while Cedric whined and tried to jump out of my arms to follow him. Ralph pushed through the doors and disappeared into the summer evening.
My bottom was glued to the sofa cushion. My tongue felt like a chalkboard eraser. I stroked Cedric to calm myself, to keep the tears dammed up.
I heard Berta’s boots tap-tapping toward me. “I am finished with the agency,” she said, stopping a few paces away.
My heart faltered. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But why?”
“Where to begin? Is it because you refuse to keep track of your business expenses in the log? Is it because you refused to don a bathing suit in order to collar Grace at Coney Island? Well, is it?”
I made a limp shrug.
“No!” Berta cried. “No, it is not.”
The concierge looked up sharply. He picked up his telephone.
Berta went on, “I was willing—goodness knows why, upon reflection—but I was willing to overlook your slapdash way of doing business because, in spite of everything, you are a rather fine sleuth.”
“And because we’re friends, too,” I said meekly. “Right?”
Berta sniffed. “What I am not able to overlook, Mrs. Woodby, is that you turned down Ida Shanks’s offer to trade information regarding her informant in exchange for giving her an interview.”
“Um,” I said.
“I have just spoken with her on the telephone.”
No.
“I wished to ask her, one last time, to divulge information about her informant,” Berta said. “Well. Ida told me, to my great surprise, that she had already offered to divulge what she knew about the informant to you, and you had refused.”
“Yes,” I said, “but did she tell you what she wanted in return?”
