Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  “It does. Let’s keep after this and see if something turns up that pins this on Frances’s lover.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth was well into her second hour typing up Estelle Draper’s column. Sometimes she typed without really reading what she was typing, but sometimes something about the letter Estelle had received caught her eye.

  Dear Miss Draper, this one read. My best friend Jenny is getting married and she’s asked me to be her maid of honor. I’m thrilled to be asked, but I have a problem. I can’t possibly afford to buy the dress she’s picked out for her bridesmaids to wear. I’m sure you can understand how embarrassing this is. What should I do?

  Elizabeth thought about the letter as she pecked out the words. She’d never been in a position like the girl who had written Estelle. There’d always been money for anything she needed whether it was a new dress or hat or a visit to the hairdresser. They had plenty of food on the table and a lovely place to live. Even during the Depression, when they’d had to cut back a bit, they’d never lacked for anything important. She thanked her lucky stars that she was as privileged as she was.

  Kaminsky’s typewriter was going a mile a minute. Elizabeth assumed he was writing up the story of Lady Darlington’s robbery. She’d developed the pictures as soon as they got back to the Daily Trumpet and had been pleased with the results. She wondered if the day would come when she no longer had to supplement her photography duties with work as a gal Friday.

  The telephone rang and she heard Kaminsky pick it up. His side of the conversation consisted mainly of grunts. Elizabeth hoped it meant they’d be called out to a story.

  “Biz!“Kaminsky suddenly shouted. “Detective Marino is holding a press conference at the Waldorf Astoria about the DeWitt murder. Grab your camera and let’s go.”

  Elizabeth barely had time to struggle into her coat as they rushed out the door. She buttoned it on the way down in the elevator, pulled on her gloves and surreptitiously checked the seams in her stockings.

  Kaminsky strode up Lexington Avenue and Elizabeth nearly had to trot to keep up. Walking so fast was fatiguing her bad leg, and after two blocks, she found her limp increasing.

  “Are you okay?” Kaminsky eyed Elizabeth with concern.

  “I’m fine,” Elizabeth panted, unbuttoning her coat and loosening her scarf.

  “I wonder if Marino is going to announce that they’ve got a suspect in custody for the DeWitt murder.”

  “Or found some new evidence,” Elizabeth said.

  Kaminsky grinned as he pulled out his pack of Camels. “Maybe it will corroborate our theory.”

  Kaminsky busied himself with his cigarette. The wind had suddenly picked up and his match went out twice before he managed to get the cigarette lit and the tip glowing red.

  The press conference was being held in the Park Avenue lobby of the Waldorf. A Plymouth with a white roof and trunk and a green hood with NY Police written in bold letters was parked by the curb outside the Park Avenue entrance.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. This was her first press conference, so she was excited and, she had to admit, slightly nervous. She pictured herself jockeying for position with the other photographers to get the best shot. Most of them were probably far more seasoned than she. She knew Kaminsky was pleased with the work she’d done so far, and she didn’t want to disappoint him.

  Kaminsky paused to stamp out his cigarette, and then they went through the door and into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

  People were milling about with serious looks on their faces and sheaves of paper clutched to their chests. Several microphones—Elizabeth noted one from CBS and one from NBC—were lined up in front of the small set of stairs to the right of the lobby, their wires trailing across the marble floor like a tangle of snakes. Elizabeth stepped over them as she and Kaminsky made their way to the other side of the lobby.

  Kaminsky bent his head toward Elizabeth’s. “They must be expecting something big,” he whispered. “There’s Ted Munson from the Times”—he pointed toward a tall, skinny fellow with a receding hairline—“and Bobby Markowitz from the New York Herald Tribune.”

  Elizabeth looked over toward the man in a dark gray pinstriped suit. He had a round face with highly colored cheeks and ears that stuck out.

  “I think those fellows are from the Post and the Daily News.” Kaminsky nodded toward two younger men in dark overcoats with press passes in their hands. “And it looks like even the Brooklyn Daily Eagle has someone here.”

  The group of people standing by the steps leading to the main lobby stirred and suddenly parted. Marino walked through the gap and toward the microphones.

  He was wearing what looked to Elizabeth like a new suit—very stylish, a little flashy and not at all like the stodgy suits her father or her male friends bought from Brooks Brothers every year, with their conservative cuts and expensive fabric.

  Marino stood on the bottom step in front of the microphones. His expression was serious.

  Elizabeth had her camera out and as Marino began to speak, she started to snap away. The flash from her bulb and those of the other photographers made Marino flinch slightly.

  “We have some important evidence in the murder of Mrs. Frances DeWitt that occurred here at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.”

  A murmur went through the crowd, and Elizabeth noticed Kaminsky lick the end of his pencil as he held it above his pad, ready for the story.

  “Part of a receipt was found in the ladies’ room outside the Grand Ballroom on the third floor. The receipt appears to be for the rental of dinner clothes. It’s dated the day of Mrs. DeWitt’s murder, but unfortunately the name of the rental shop has been torn off.”

  Marino paused for a moment as the reporters scurried to keep up, their pencils scratching furiously across the pages of their notebooks.

  Unlike Elizabeth’s family and friends, who spoke in cultured tones unique to their set, Marino had a strong New York accent. Elizabeth found it exciting.

  “Was it torn off on purpose, do you think?” Munson from the Times shouted.

  Marino moved closer to the microphone. “We have no way of knowing.”

  “What was it doing in the ladies’ room?” another reporter shouted—one of the young men Kaminsky thought was from the Post or the Daily News.

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Marino said and the crowd gathered around him laughed.

  “What do you think this means?” shouted Markowitz from the Herald Tribune.

  Marino took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We don’t know. What we would like to know is,” he said, counting the items off on his fingers, “one: how did the receipt end up in the ladies’ room; two: who left it there; three: who at the party was wearing rented dinner clothes and did they have anything to do with Mrs. DeWitt’s murder; and four: we really need to find out what shop did the receipt come from. Because maybe they’ve got a record of who rented a tuxedo that day.”

  Murmured voices from the crowd got louder and louder until Marino held up a hand.

  “We’d like to ask for your cooperation in getting some answers to these questions. Please ask your readers to contact us immediately if they have any information.”

  Kaminsky tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder. “See if you can get a decent photograph of that receipt. We’ll run it with the story and see if anyone recognizes it.”

  Elizabeth made her way over to where Marino was standing. He smiled when he saw her coming, and before Elizabeth could say anything, he put a hand on her shoulder and led her over to a quiet spot in the corner.

  His touch—light though it was—thrilled Elizabeth in a way that no one else’s ever had. She’d had her share of boyfriends and her share of exchanging kisses in darkened corners or under moonlit skies. She couldn’t explain, even to herself, why this was different.
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br />   “Do you have some questions for me?” Marino said, his dark eyes dancing.

  It took Elizabeth a moment to find her voice. “Kaminsky asks the questions.” She gestured behind her. “I take the pictures. I’d like to take a photograph of the receipt from the rental store.”

  “Certainly.”

  He led Elizabeth over to a table that had been set up behind the microphones.

  Again, that light touch on her shoulder. Elizabeth had to force herself to concentrate.

  Marino placed the receipt, which was wrapped in protective plastic, on the table and smoothed it out. Elizabeth noticed he had long, slender fingers—what she’d always envisioned a pianist’s hands would look like.

  She took several pictures, crossing her fingers that one of them would be clear enough to print in the paper.

  Kaminsky came up behind Elizabeth. “Did you get a couple of snaps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go then. I want to get this story in the next edition.”

  Elizabeth turned to say goodbye to Marino, but he was deep in conversation with one of the reporters.

  She left with a feeling of disappointment hanging over her that she couldn’t explain.

  * * *

  —

  “Good night,” Elizabeth called to Kaminsky as she put on her hat and secured it with a hatpin.

  Kaminsky flapped a hand in her direction. He was bent over his typewriter banging out a story about Marino’s press conference, the stub of a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Elizabeth’s pictures had turned out well, and the paper would print one of the tuxedo rental receipt in hopes that someone with information to share would see it.

  “ ’Night Biz. See you tomorrow.”

  The day had turned colder with the setting of the sun, but Elizabeth enjoyed the fresh air after the stuffiness of the newsroom. She decided to walk to the Fifty-first Street subway station and stretch her legs.

  The streetlights made evenly spaced pools of light on the sidewalk, which was crowded with people who had just gotten out of work and were anxious to get home after a long day. Elizabeth took her time, pausing to look in shop windows as she made her way up Lexington Avenue.

  She stopped in front of one window to admire a particularly jaunty looking slouch hat in a lovely shade of cyclamen. Elizabeth remembered reading in Vogue that that shade would be the “It Color” for spring. The shop was still open and she was tempted to go inside and check the price, but she really had more than enough hats already.

  She reluctantly continued walking. It had been a very busy day, and she felt a small sense of triumph at the way things had gone—particularly how interested Kaminsky had been in her theory about who had killed Frances DeWitt. He’d actually taken her seriously. If only she could figure out a way to prove that she’d been right.

  She passed a photographer’s shop and glanced at the display. She nearly kept walking, but the portrait in the window caught her eye and she came to an abrupt halt, causing the person in back of her to stumble into her.

  “Watch where you’re going, would you?” the woman said, giving Elizabeth a dirty look as she walked around her and continued down the street.

  “Sorry,” Elizabeth called after her before turning her attention back to the portrait in the window.

  It was of Gloria DeWitt and Elizabeth recognized the dress she was wearing as the one she wore for her debut. She wondered if the photographer had any other pictures from the debut.

  Elizabeth thought back to her conversation with her friend Irene. She’d seen Frances arguing with a man in the bar at the Waldorf before the debut. And had that man possibly been Guy Dupont, who fit the description Irene had given her?

  She’d been all through her own photographs, but she’d been concentrating on the debutantes and had few pictures of the guests who had been in attendance. But perhaps this photographer had shot more widely and maybe, just maybe, he’d captured one of Dupont.

  Elizabeth pushed open the door to the shop and a bell tinkled overhead. No one was behind the counter, but she heard a rustling sound in the back and soon someone appeared in the opening. He had black hair, slicked back with so much Brylcreem it looked like patent leather.

  “Can I help you?” he said as he approached the counter.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I noticed the picture in your window. Of Gloria DeWitt.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Are you making your debut? I do have a few openings, but it’s certainly been a terribly busy season.”

  Elizabeth fiddled with a button on her coat, which she had discovered was loose.

  “I’m not actually looking for a photographer, I’m afraid. But I’m interested in any other pictures you might have taken at Gloria’s debut.” Elizabeth stuck out her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Adams, by the way. And I work for the Daily Tribune.”

  “Clarence Walker.” He shook Elizabeth’s hand.

  “I’m trying to identify a guest at the party for a story for the paper.”

  Clarence raised his eyebrows. “How very intriguing. I’d be glad to show you what I have if you don’t mind waiting a minute.”

  He disappeared into the back room and returned moments later with a cardboard box in his hands. A label on the side read Clarence Walker Photography in fancy script.

  He placed the box on the counter and opened it with a flourish. It was filled with eight-by-ten glossy black-and-white photographs.

  A telephone rang in the back of the shop somewhere.

  Clarence gestured behind him. “I have to get that, but please have a look through these.”

  Elizabeth took the stack of photos out of the box and began to go through them. Many were similar to her own: Gloria on the dance floor with various partners, Gloria curtsying as she was introduced to society, Gloria posing with a group of friends.

  About three quarters of the way through the stack, Elizabeth found a picture of Frances and Gloria’s father sitting at a table. She shuffled through some more and finally came upon one of Frances with Guy Dupont.

  She heard Clarence ending the phone call and moments later he reappeared.

  “Did you find anything helpful?”

  “Yes. Would it be possible for me to borrow this photograph? I promise to return it tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know.” Clarence craned his neck to see the picture Elizabeth was holding in her hand. “I have an appointment to show these to Miss DeWitt tomorrow afternoon so she can make her selection.” His expression turned grave. “I was supposed to show them to her stepmother, Mrs. DeWitt, but now that she’s dead…”

  “I promise I will return it before then,” Elizabeth said.

  Clarence looked at Elizabeth curiously. “Does this have anything to do with Mrs. DeWitt’s murder, by any chance?”

  “Yes. It might be helpful in tracking down her killer.”

  Clarence’s hand flew to his mouth. “You don’t say? I suppose it’s okay, then. It’s not as if Miss DeWitt is even in the photograph.”

  “Thank you.” Elizabeth was tempted to jump over the counter and kiss him.

  “Let me get you an envelope.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a large white envelope with his shop’s name in the corner. He placed the photograph inside and handed it to Elizabeth. “I hope it proves helpful.”

  “So do I,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you again. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder as she left the shop.

  Elizabeth practically ran down the street searching for a telephone booth. She finally found one at the end of the next block. Someone was already making a call, and she had to wait on the sidewalk, tapping her foot impatiently. If only they would hurry!

  The man in the booth had a broad back and was wearing a black-and-gray tweed overcoat and a black felt fedora. He glanced over
his shoulder at Elizabeth and scowled.

  If he thought he was going to intimidate her into moving to another phone booth, he was very much mistaken, Elizabeth thought as she stood her ground.

  Finally, the man replaced the receiver in the cradle and pushed open the door. Cigarette smoke wafted out and Elizabeth held her breath as she entered the booth.

  Elizabeth called the operator and then dialed the number she was given for the Waldorf Hotel. A nasal-sounding woman answered the phone and transferred Elizabeth’s call to the maître d’ at the Peacock Alley.

  “Could you please tell me if Irene Nowak is scheduled to work this evening?” Elizabeth said when the man answered.

  “Irene? She’s here now but I’m afraid she can’t come to the phone. It’s against Waldorf policy.” He paused. “Unless it’s an emergency.”

  “No, it’s not an emergency,” Elizabeth said. “I only needed to know if she would be there. Thank you.”

  She hung up the phone and, with the envelope from Clarence Walker Photography clutched under her arm, continued north on Lexington Avenue.

  * * *

  —

  The Waldorf made Elizabeth think of a woman all dressed up to go out at night. Lights twinkled in all the windows and inside soft music was playing while candles flickered on the tables in Peacock Alley. The air was scented with the guests’ various perfumes.

  Elizabeth made her way to the coat check. A man was handing over a woman’s very luxurious mink coat. It was folded so that the lining showed, and Elizabeth noticed initials embroidered on it in scarlet thread. The woman waited off to one side as her companion accepted a ticket from the dark-haired coat-check girl and carefully placed it in the inside pocket of his suit.

  Irene wasn’t behind the counter. Elizabeth waited patiently, but Irene didn’t appear. Instead, a woman with vivid red hair joined the brunette, and they began to chat.

  Elizabeth was disappointed and was about to leave when someone slipped out from behind the counter and began to walk toward the door, her crutches making a clanking sound with each step.