by Peg Cochran
“Mrs. Van Raalte’s luncheon is in the L’Orangerie,” Estelle said as they handed their coats to the coat-check girl and headed toward the rear of the first-floor lobby.
“You’ll be discreet, of course,” Estelle said when they reached the entrance to the Astor’s dining room, which had been decorated to look like an Italian garden. “Mrs. Van Raalte wouldn’t want flashbulbs going off in her guests’ faces.” Estelle gave a small smile. “On the other hand, she’d be devastated if her little soiree wasn’t meticulously documented in the society pages of the Daily Trumpet.”
Elizabeth hoped that none of her mother’s friends would be at Mrs. Van Raalte’s soiree, as Estelle had called it. She didn’t immediately recognize anyone; nonetheless, she was careful to keep her camera in front of her face as much as possible.
She wasn’t entirely sure what she was afraid of. None of the ladies would be so ill bred as to make a scene in a public place, and Elizabeth was over twenty-one and free to do as she wished. But a lingering guilt remained about her decision to work, and she realized she hadn’t even told her friends about the job yet.
The ladies were on to the dessert course now—an elegant white molded blancmange—and Estelle was having a whispered conversation with Mrs. Van Raalte.
Elizabeth popped the used flashbulb out of her camera. She bit her lip. She hoped the photographs would be to Estelle’s satisfaction. This had certainly been a lot more interesting than typing up Estelle’s daily column, and she hoped to be given more assignments like it if, as it seemed, Kaminsky wasn’t going to take her on any more crime assignments.
Finally, Estelle and Mrs. Van Raalte embraced, kissed the air alongside each other’s rouged cheeks and said their goodbyes. Estelle walked over to where Elizabeth was standing.
“Shall we go?”
They retrieved their coats and began to cross the lobby to the front door. Elizabeth happened to glance toward the Astor Bar where smoke curled above the men clustered around the oval bar.
A man turned toward the door, and Elizabeth thought he looked familiar. She tried to place him. Finally it came to her—he looked like the man who had been talking to Frances DeWitt at the debutante ball. He’d been standing in back of her with his hands on her shoulders.
“What is it?” Estelle said as Elizabeth paused.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
—
“I imagine you’ll want to get yourself some lunch,” Estelle said as they got out of a taxi in front of the Daily Trumpet offices. “How are you coming with that column?”
“Almost done,” Elizabeth said, suddenly conscious of her stomach rumbling.
“Good. I need it by three o’clock this afternoon.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Elizabeth said as Estelle disappeared through the revolving doors into the lobby.
Elizabeth stood on the sidewalk and looked around her. There was a Chock full o’Nuts on the corner—she’d never been there but she’d heard one of the switchboard operators say the service was fast and the food decent. Elizabeth began to walk in that direction.
Chock full o’Nuts was crowded with midtown office workers, most sitting alone at the horseshoe-shaped counter, a newspaper folded open beside their plates.
Elizabeth slipped onto a vacant stool and studied the menu.
“Help you?” A waitress in a frilly white apron stopped in front of Elizabeth.
“A nutted cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee, please.”
The waitress scurried toward the counter along the wall, and Elizabeth watched as the waitress made her sandwich. Suddenly she heard someone call her name.
“Elizabeth!”
Elizabeth turned toward the entrance where a young woman with blond hair and pale skin hesitated by the front door. She was propped up on a pair of crutches and had metal braces on her legs.
“Irene.” Elizabeth waved and pointed to the empty seat next to her.
Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt as Irene made her laborious way to the counter. They had met as children in the hospital where they were both being treated for polio. Elizabeth had escaped with a slight limp, but Irene’s legs had been paralyzed, slowly wasting away until they were thin sticks barely able to support her by the time she was well enough to leave.
They had stayed in touch after leaving the hospital and met several times a year for lunch—Elizabeth’s treat. Irene’s parents were dead, and the Depression had decimated what little money they’d had. Now Irene lived on her own, although she wouldn’t tell Elizabeth where. Elizabeth suspected she was renting a room in one of the SRO hotels.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Irene said.
She leaned her crutches against the counter and took the seat next to Elizabeth.
“I’m on my break and needed a quick lunch,” Elizabeth said.
“You’ve come to the right place,” Irene said, glancing at the menu on the wall. “A sandwich and a cup of coffee for only a nickel. When I want to treat myself, this is where I come.”
“It is good to see you. It’s been too long.” Elizabeth leaned over and gave her friend a hug. “You’re looking well. I love your hat—it’s adorable.”
Irene put a hand to her head. “Thanks.” She ducked her head briefly. “I made it myself.”
“How clever you are!”
The waitress slid a plate in front of Elizabeth. Irene pointed to the sandwich.
“Remember how much Clara loved those cream cheese and jelly sandwiches they used to serve us in the hospital?”
Elizabeth felt a veil of sadness come over her. “Yes, she did love them, didn’t she?”
“Poor kid,” Irene said. “You and I were lucky.” She pointed to her braces. “If you can call this lucky.” She laughed.
Elizabeth reached a hand into her pocket and pulled out a short braid made of coarse brown hair and fastened at either end with a fading blue ribbon.
“You still have it,” Irene said, reaching out a finger to touch it.
“I promised her I’d keep it forever,” Elizabeth said as she slid the braided hair back into her pocket. “His name was Biscuit, I remember.”
“She loved that horse. Remember how she always talked about when she would get out? How the first thing she was going to do was saddle up Biscuit and go for a ride.”
Elizabeth searched in her handbag for her handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. The image of Clara lying pale and shriveled and small in her hospital bed, barely able to breathe, handing the braided horse hair to Elizabeth for “safekeeping” had never left her. Clara had died later that evening, although the nurses had kept the news from them for several days. Elizabeth had asked after her friend again and again, but the nurses had simply shaken their heads.
Elizabeth decided it was time to change the subject. Irene liked to dwell on the past, while Elizabeth had forced herself to move on.
“I’ve taken a job, you know,” she said, picking up her sandwich.
“Really? Where? What are you doing? I imagine you’re a secretary to some big muckety-muck with a fancy office on Fifth Avenue.” Irene picked at a bit of chipping red nail polish on her thumb.
“Hardly.” Elizabeth laughed. “I’m working for the Daily Trumpet. Gal Friday and occasional photographer, at your service.”
Irene’s blue eyes widened. “You don’t say? How about that.”
“And you?” Elizabeth asked, stirring cream into her coffee. “Are you still at the garment factory?”
Irene shook her head. “I’m working at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel now. Coat-check girl in the Peacock Alley bar.”
“That’s wonderful. Lucky you. The Waldorf is a beautiful place. Exciting, too.”
Irene lifted her chin and grinned. “You won’t believe it, but Ji
mmy Stewart came in one day. The bartender said he ordered a dry martini on the rocks.”
“I loved him in You Can’t Take It with You.”
“Me, too.” Irene grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. “Say, did you hear about the murder last night? At that coming-out party they were having? It was all over the papers this morning. They think this girl pulled a gun and killed her stepmother. Right in the ladies’ room outside the Grand Ballroom.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I did hear something about it, yes.”
“The New York Post had plenty of pictures.” Irene took a sip of her coffee. “I recognized the gal that got killed. She’d been in the Peacock Alley bar that same evening right before the big do.”
Elizabeth put her coffee cup down with a clatter. “You knew her?”
Irene laughed. “Of course I didn’t know her. But I recognized her picture in the paper. She’d come into the bar that night with a gentleman. And they had some kind of row. Quietly of course, but I could tell they were arguing.”
“Maybe it was her husband?”
Irene shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’d hardly know who her husband was, would I? “
“What did the man look like?”
“He was slender. I noticed that his clothes looked very elegant on him. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a mustache.” Irene touched her upper lip. “Very thin. Like that actor William Powell. I think he’s positively dreamy, don’t you? The actor, I mean.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said distractedly.
The man Irene was describing sounded an awful lot like the man she saw talking to Frances DeWitt at Gloria’s debut.
“But they were arguing? You could tell?”
“Yes.” Irene put a hand to her mouth. “You don’t think it had anything to do with her murder, do you?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth admitted.
But she had to wonder.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth scurried down the street toward the Daily Trumpet building. The rain had stopped although the heavy clouds that darkened the sky made it seem even later in the day than it was.
She quickly hung up her coat and hat and slipped into her seat behind her desk, putting her fingers on the typewriter keyboard almost before she was situated. She glanced at the clock and began typing as quickly as she could.
Some of the excitement of photographing Mrs. Van Raalte’s luncheon was beginning to wear off, and fatigue from her late night was catching up with her.
She could see Estelle at her desk, a wavy shadow behind the frosted glass of her office door.
The door to the newsroom opened and slammed shut again.
“Biz,” Kaminsky called.
Elizabeth jumped and turned around. Kaminsky was standing in his coat and hat motioning to her.
“The boss wants an interview with Edward DeWitt for the evening edition along with a couple of pictures of the grieving widower.” He pointed at Elizabeth. “Get your hat and coat and let’s go.”
Elizabeth hesitated. “But Miss Draper wants me to—”
“To hell with what la Draper wants. I need you. Are you coming or not?”
“I’m coming.” Elizabeth jumped up from her chair.
She grabbed her things from the hook on the wall, putting on her coat as she followed Kaminsky to the elevator.
“Do you think DeWitt is going to give you an interview?” Elizabeth asked as she settled her hat on her head. She peered at her reflection in the metal trim of the elevator door and straightened it slightly.
“He called Mr. Dawson, the owner of the Trumpet, who’s a buddy of his. They belong to the same club or something like that. You know these rich people—they all stick together. They go to the same schools, move to the same neighborhoods, join the same clubs. Heaven forbid they should be forced to rub elbows with the likes of us.” Kaminsky stabbed the elevator button impatiently. “He asked for the interview. Said he wanted to set the record straight or something like that.”
The elevator finally came, the operator looking slightly aggrieved at Kaminsky’s incessant ringing of the bell. Kaminsky leaned against the back wall whistling tunelessly under his breath.
“We’d better grab a taxi. DeWitt wants us there now.”
The cab sped up Madison Avenue where it got caught in a clot of traffic at Fifty-seventh Street that had Kaminsky drumming his fingers on the back of the seat in front of him. Traffic finally cleared and shortly afterward the driver deposited them in front of an impressive townhouse on Sixty-fourth Street, just off Fifth Avenue.
The butler showed them into the library on the second floor where DeWitt was comfortably ensconced in a leather club chair with a cut-glass tumbler filled with an amber liquid within arm’s reach on a small table.
The room was lined with bookshelves housing leather-bound volumes with gold-leaf lettering on the spines. A jewel-toned Oriental carpet lay over a gleaming dark wood floor and a large partner’s desk stood in the corner facing the door to the room.
DeWitt put down the newspaper he’d been reading but didn’t get up when the butler ushered Elizabeth and Kaminsky into the room.
DeWitt’s expression was somber, but his eyes weren’t red as if he’d been crying or ringed with dark circles as if he had tossed and turned all night. He was a good-looking man in his fifties with a craggy but handsome face that showed no particular signs of grief.
Elizabeth’s palms were sweaty as she took her camera from its case and inserted a flashbulb.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve agreed to this interview.”
Kaminsky cleared his throat. “I understood that you asked for the interview. To set the record straight. At least that’s what your pal Dawson told me.”
DeWitt looked as if someone had thrown a glass of ice water in his face, but he quickly regained control of his expression.
“Yes…I…” DeWitt paused and took a sip of his drink. Elizabeth suspected that being at a loss for words was a new experience for him.
She noticed Kaminsky eyeing the tumbler longingly, but DeWitt made no move to offer him anything.
“Like you said, I want to set the record straight.” DeWitt put down his glass and leaned forward. “I saw the cover of the Daily Trumpet today. What impertinence,” he declared, the faintest flush coloring his cheeks. “I’ll have you know that my daughter had nothing to do with my wife’s death.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They were devoted to each other. Gloria would never have harmed Frances.”
Kaminsky raised an unruly eyebrow and risked a glance at Elizabeth but said nothing.
“Gloria’s at an age where a girl needs a mother to attend to…” He waved a hand in the air. “Frances did a marvelous job of planning Gloria’s debut. I don’t know what we would have done without her.” He took another sip of his drink. “And I know Gloria was very appreciative of Frances’s help.”
Kaminsky continued to stare at DeWitt without saying anything.
“I’ve spoken with the chief of police, and he assured me that, in his opinion, Frances was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer was probably looking for something to steal and Frances surprised him. Maybe she threatened to scream—I don’t know.”
“So the thief was looking for something to steal in the ladies’ room?” Kaminsky said, his pencil poised above his notebook. “Is the police chief a friend of yours, too?”
“What do you mean by that?” DeWitt sat up straighter in his chair.
“Nothing, nothing.” Kaminsky made soothing gestures. “So Frances was beloved by all. According to you,” Kaminsky added after a beat. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
DeWitt shook his head. “I expect you to get the story straight from now on.”
“Oh, we will,” Kaminsky said. “We certainly will.”
* * *
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The butler showed them out. Kaminsky paused to examine an oil portrait hanging in the corridor leading to the foyer and the front door of the townhouse. Elizabeth recognized DeWitt, although his dark hair had yet to sprout the sweeps of gray that now graced his temples. Gloria was much younger in the painting but there was no mistaking the beauty she would become. A woman stood behind Gloria—her mother, Elizabeth assumed. She had the same pale skin but her hair was a rich chestnut and her eyes a light brown—almost amber. Her expression was—sad? Resigned? Elizabeth couldn’t tell for sure.
“So what did you think of that?” Kaminsky said when they were out on the sidewalk and the door to the townhouse was firmly closed. “Bunch of malarkey if you ask me.”
The temperature had dropped and what had been an icy drizzle earlier had turned to fat flakes of snow. Elizabeth looked down at her shoes—burgundy leather T-straps—in dismay. She’d taken them out of the box for the first time that morning and didn’t relish the idea of walking through snow. But the ground was apparently still warm because the flakes were melting almost as soon as they hit the pavement.
“What did I think of—”
“Of DeWitt’s insistence that Gloria and her stepmother got on like a house afire.”
“That’s not what Gloria told me. It sounded more like she despised Frances.”
Kaminsky stopped and scrounged around in his pocket for his pack of Camels. He shook one out, propped it between his lips and scrambled in his pockets for some matches.
“You said your sister knows Gloria? Maybe you could ask her if she knows anything.”
“Rose has met Gloria. As for knowing her—”
“Listen. Do me a favor, would you? See if you can get close to Gloria. Tell her we want to hear her side of the story. She’s more likely to open up to another dame.”
“I suppose I could.”
“Attagirl, Biz. I knew I could count on you.”
* * *
