by Peg Cochran
“All right then. I need to powder my nose, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Lovely. We’ll save a seat for you. Phillips will be thrilled.”
* * *
—
The bar was crowded when Elizabeth arrived, but Gloria had secured a table near the bar and the Maxfield Parrish mural of Old King Cole. Sally Taylor was sitting next to Gloria with Dickie Palmer on her other side. There was an empty seat next to Phillips, and Alice Morgan was there, too, dressed in a dark red silk cocktail dress and diamond earrings. The other women were dressed up as well, and Elizabeth felt slightly dowdy in her plaid skirt and twin set, more suitable for a college campus than a chic hotel bar.
She slid into the empty seat next to Phillips.
“You simply must try the Red Snapper,” Gloria said when the waiter arrived to take Elizabeth’s order. The others already had cocktail glasses in front of them. “It’s vodka and tomato juice and spices, and it’s simply divine.”
Elizabeth acquiesced and moments later the waiter returned with a tall glass topped with a swizzle stick and a wedge of lemon. She took a sip and had to admit it was delicious.
Phillips leaned his head close to Elizabeth’s. “I’m glad you came. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
Elizabeth looked at him. The expression on his face said he thought no such thing. Quite the opposite. She was pretty sure that Phillips thought of himself as a gift all wrapped up in gold paper with a pretty silver bow.
Elizabeth gave a smile that she hoped was reasonably warm without being too encouraging.
“Say, Phillips.” Dickie leaned across Alice. “How did that investment you told me about work out?”
Phillips laughed. “I’m afraid I lost my shirt.”
“Sorry to hear it, old pal.”
Phillips shrugged. “I’m not worried. My old man will bail me out.”
Elizabeth looked at Phillips. He was well-dressed and had impeccable manners. What a contrast to Marino, who had tucked his napkin into his shirt while he ate…and had torn into his pasta with gusto…and had said he was saving money so he could buy his parents a house.
She looked at Phillips again and felt a sense of distaste. She decided she would excuse herself as soon as she could.
* * *
—
The others were ordering another round of drinks when Elizabeth left. She pulled on her gloves, straightened her hat, and walked out onto Fifty-fifth Street and crossed to the uptown side of the street. She headed east toward Lexington Avenue and the subway. The sidewalk was deserted—the people rushing home at the end of the workday had disappeared and the crowd that dined out was still at home dressing for the evening.
It was cold, and Elizabeth walked quickly down the darkened street toward the lights of Park Avenue in the distance. She stayed toward the edge of the sidewalk nearest the street and away from the shifting shadows along the walls of the buildings.
The headlights of a car swept the sides of the buildings as a sleek black Lincoln turned onto Fifty-fifth Street heading toward Elizabeth. The lights temporarily blinded her, and she stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. She stopped for a moment to wait for the car to pass but instead of driving past her, it stopped alongside her and the passenger-side door opened.
Elizabeth didn’t think anything of it at first—people were always asking for directions, and she supposed that was what the man in the car wanted. She took a step closer to the open door.
Suddenly, the man—who was wearing a dark overcoat and a black hat with a wide brim pulled down low on his forehead—grabbed Elizabeth’s arm.
She meant to yell, but it came out sounding more like the squeal of a baby animal than the indignant shout she had intended. She was almost too astonished to be scared but when the man refused to let go and tried to drag her into the car, fear dried her mouth and sped up her heartbeat.
The man was strong, but Elizabeth was determined. It became a tug of war between the two of them.
She couldn’t imagine what he wanted. If it was her purse, he could have easily grabbed it off her arm. Besides, why would someone who had enough money to drive an expensive car want to steal her handbag?
“Get her in the car,” the driver snarled at the man in the passenger seat. “The boss will be furious if we botch this.”
Elizabeth couldn’t see the driver clearly—he was in the shadows, and he, too, had on a wide-brimmed hat that partially hid his face.
The man continued to tug on Elizabeth’s arm and, as he did so, the sleeve of his coat rode up and Elizabeth saw the flash of white skin on his wrist. Without stopping to think, she lowered her head and sunk her teeth into the man’s flesh.
He gave a far more impressive scream than Elizabeth had and immediately let go of her arm.
Elizabeth hesitated for a second. If she ran back toward the St. Regis Hotel, the car would be able to follow her. If she ran in the other direction, the driver of the car would have to turn around and take his chances on going the wrong way down a one-way street.
She began to run toward the lights and safety of Park Avenue. The man who’d grabbed her yanked his door closed and the driver began backing down the street. Elizabeth ran faster, keeping as far away from the edge of the sidewalk as she could.
By the time she reached the end of the street, the Lincoln was once again alongside her. Her heart was pounding furiously and she was gasping for breath. She flew around the corner and straight into the arms of a startled gentleman in a camel-hair coat and plaid cashmere scarf.
He grasped her shoulders to steady her. “Whoa, why the hurry?”
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said breathlessly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“You looked like someone was chasing you,” the man said with a smile to indicate he didn’t really mean it.
Elizabeth managed a short bark of laughter. “Late for an appointment.”
She began to shiver. She wanted nothing more than to get home and dive under her bedcovers, like she used to do when she was small and convinced that a ghost was after her.
The Lincoln was nowhere to be seen, and Elizabeth doubted that the police would be able to find it even if she went to them. She hadn’t gotten the license plate or a particularly good look at the two men. They’d been careful to keep their faces in the shadows.
But she would call Detective Marino and tell him what happened. She assumed the men had chosen her at random—a woman walking alone down a darkened street. Or had it been meant as a warning of some sort?
Chapter 20
Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief when she reached the door to her family’s apartment. She’d scurried the last few blocks to the subway, looking over her shoulder and being sure to walk near a group as much as possible. If those men had meant to scare her, they’d done a good job.
She’d never been happier to see Jones’s face when he opened the door and took her hat and coat.
“Thank you. How are Rose and my mother today?”
“Rose has slept most of the day, and your mother seems to be feeling better. The pharmacy delivered some crutches today, and she said that tomorrow she would be trying them out.”
Elizabeth went down the hall to her sister’s room. Rose’s cheeks were still flushed with fever, but she gave Elizabeth a small smile.
Elizabeth perched on the edge of the bed and took Rose’s hand.
“How are you feeling?”
“Slightly better,” Rose said. “The pills the doctor gave me seem to be working.”
Elizabeth didn’t believe her—she was still weak and feverish—but Rose was never one to complain. Elizabeth was hopeful, however, that the medicine the doctor had prescribed would soon help her sister.
Elizabeth patted Rose’s hand. “I’m going to check on Mother. Can I get you something? A bowl
of soup, maybe?”
Rose plucked at the bedcovers restlessly. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry at the moment. Mrs. Murphy has been taking good care of me.”
“I’m sure she has.”
Elizabeth hoped that Mrs. Murphy wasn’t wearing herself out. Once again guilt at not being there to help struck her.
She pushed the thought aside and headed farther down the hall to her mother’s bedroom.
Helen was propped up in bed reading.
“Darling,” Helen said when Elizabeth walked in. “Don’t tell me you’ve been working late again and only just got home.”
Elizabeth bent and picked up a magazine that had slid off the bed.
“No, I had a drink with Gloria DeWitt and some friends.”
Helen made a clucking sound with her tongue.
“What a shame that that poor girl’s debut was ruined by her stepmother’s death. She was being touted as the ‘It Girl’ of the season and now it’s all been overshadowed by that dreadful murder.” She gave Elizabeth a sly look. “Was Phillips there? He runs with that crowd, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he was there.”
“You two are becoming quite an item these days.”
Elizabeth sighed and bit her tongue. “Yes,” she said finally.
No other answer would satisfy her mother, and she’d only be peppered with more questions and more pleas to give Phillips a chance.
Helen leaned back against her pillows with a satisfied look on her face.
“I think I hear Jones announcing dinner,” Elizabeth said, giving her mother’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll stop in again when I’m done.”
It was just Elizabeth and her father at table that evening. George looked uncomfortable—he wasn’t used to being alone with his children. He viewed them as Helen’s responsibility.
He cleared his throat and looked at Elizabeth over the bowl of beef consommé Jones had placed in front of him.
“I take it you’re still working at that newspaper.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth put down her spoon. “I’ve been taking photographs for them. You know I studied with Beatrice Harper while I was at school.”
“Yes, of course. What sort of photographs are you taking?”
Elizabeth thought of the dead prostitute, and man who had been bludgeoned in Central Park and the fire at the peg house.
“Estelle Draper—she’s the society page editor for the Daily Trumpet—had me photograph a luncheon that Mrs. Van Raalte was giving at the Astor Hotel.”
“Well.” George exhaled forcefully. “That’s certainly impressive.”
Elizabeth suspected he was more impressed by the exalted name of Van Raalte than her photographic skills.
They struggled through the remainder of the meal making desultory conversation—her father voicing his very firm opinion that the country should stay out of the conflict in Europe and that Candy Thief was sure to win tomorrow at Aqueduct. So Elizabeth was relieved when her father decided to take his coffee in his study.
She carried her cup into the kitchen, planning to chat with Mrs. Murphy while she did the dishes.
Mrs. Murphy was slumped over the sink, her face in her hands, when Elizabeth walked in. She jumped when she heard the swinging door whoosh shut.
“Is everything okay?” Elizabeth asked, setting her cup down on the table.
“Of course. Everything’s fine.”
But Mrs. Murphy didn’t look fine. “You look dreadfully tired,” Elizabeth said.
“Well, your mother did keep us jumping today and then I’ve been so worried about poor Miss Rose.” Mrs. Murphy plunged a hand into the soapy water in the sink. “Do you think Dr. Krause is right and it’s pneumonia that she’s got?”
“I should hope so.”
“It’s only that when you were sick he put it down to being a case of bronchitis at first, when it wasn’t that at all.”
Elizabeth felt a prick of fear. Dr. Krause had seemed quite confident that Rose had pneumonia. But what if he was wrong?
“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I’m sure Rose is going to be fine.”
* * *
—
It was pouring when Elizabeth left the apartment the next day. She struggled against the wind as she tried to open her umbrella. By the time she got to the subway station, the hem of her coat was wet, she’d nearly lost her hat half a dozen times and she was hoping her shoes weren’t completely ruined.
Elizabeth closed her umbrella and made her way down the steps to the subway. She felt the rush of stale air pushed into the station by the arriving train as she dropped her token into the slot by the turnstile.
She made it onto the train just as the doors were closing and was surprised to see several vacant seats. She sank into the closest one and brushed the raindrops off the sleeves of her coat.
As the train swayed down the tracks she thought about Frances’s murder at the ball. If she could figure out who did it, she and Kaminsky would be able to scoop all the other papers in town. Surely the editor would be impressed, and perhaps she would be relieved of her gal Friday duties and made a full-time crime photographer.
The tuxedo rental receipt found in the ladies’ room at the Waldorf certainly implicated Teddy. Elizabeth couldn’t imagine that any of the other guests at the ball had had the need to borrow dinner clothes.
But Gloria insisted Teddy was innocent—that he was with her the entire time they were at the ball. But was that possible? Gloria had had multiple dance partners besides Teddy. It would have been easy enough for him to slip out when Gloria was on the dance floor with someone else.
The gentleman seated next to Elizabeth got off at the next stop. When she glanced at his seat, she noticed he’d left his paper behind—that day’s copy of the Daily News. Elizabeth picked it up and began to flip through it.
There was an article about the surrealism exhibit in Paris that Elizabeth skimmed. There was an accompanying photograph of a work by Picasso. Elizabeth looked at it for quite a while trying to decide what it meant and whether she liked it or not. It was certainly a far cry from the rather tame landscapes her parents collected.
Elizabeth turned a few more pages until she came to the Sports section at the end. She was about to put the paper down when a photograph caught her eye. It was taken at Aqueduct Racetrack and showed Teddy O’Doyle standing with a very handsome horse. Elizabeth read the caption: TRAINER TEDDY O’DOYLE POSES WITH MARGARITA, THE DEWITT FAMILY’S ENTRY IN TODAY’S RACE.
According to the article, Margarita would be racing that afternoon at Aqueduct in the two-twenty-seven race. Candy Thief was the favorite, with Margarita expected to place or show.
Elizabeth folded the paper up and tucked it under her arm as the subway slowed to a stop at her station. The article had given her an idea, and she couldn’t wait to share it with Kaminsky.
* * *
—
Kaminsky was already halfway through his buttered roll when Elizabeth arrived at the newsroom. She shook out her umbrella and leaned it against the wall next to her coat.
“Mornin’,” Kaminsky said, dunking a piece of roll in his coffee.
Elizabeth hiked her skirt up and sat on the edge of Kaminsky’s desk. “I have this great idea.” She swung her legs back and forth.
“Let’s hear it.” Kaminsky picked up his coffee-stained mug and took a long swallow.
“It’s about Frances DeWitt’s murder. Gloria claims that her boyfriend Teddy O’Doyle couldn’t possible have done it since he was with her the entire time.”
Kaminsky raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”
“I think she’s lying in order to give him an alibi. Besides, who else at the ball was more likely than Teddy to need to rent a tuxedo?”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“Margarita, the DeWitts’
horse is running at Aqueduct this afternoon. O’Doyle will certainly be there. Candy Thief is favored to win, but Margarita is a solid contender. I’d like to go out to the track on the pretext of taking some pictures for a story on the race. It would give me a chance to talk to O’Doyle. Maybe he’ll give something away.”
“Maybe. Want me to come with you?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment then shook her head. “I think he’d be more likely to open up if it was only me. With any luck Margarita will win, and I can tell him I’m there to take pictures of the winning horse and its trainer.”
“Good idea.”
“There’s only one problem.” Elizabeth cocked her head in the direction of Estelle Draper’s door.
Kaminsky put down his coffee mug decisively. “Don’t worry about La Draper. I’ll take care of her.”
* * *
—
Elizabeth was busy all morning typing up memos for Estelle, running copy back and forth to the typesetter and fetching a hot dog and a soda from the street vendor on the corner for the editor for an early lunch.
Sullivan gave her a pitying look as he was about to head out the door, his camera in hand.
“I’m off to Mayor LaGuardia’s press conference,” he said to Kaminsky as he stood by the door to the newsroom. “He’s going to talk about the progress of the construction of the New York Municipal Airport out in Queens. It seems His Honor doesn’t like flying into Newark when his ticket says New York. He thinks we should have our own airport.”
He gave Elizabeth a last look as he closed the door to the newsroom behind him.
Elizabeth paid no attention to him. All of her thoughts were focused on how she would finesse O’Doyle into telling her the truth about the night Frances was murdered.
Elizabeth kept her eye on the clock all morning. Dotty, one of the gals running the switchboard, had given her a Long Island Railroad schedule and had told her to take the Rockaway Beach line. Dotty said she and her fiancé Joey liked to take the train out to the track on the weekends, and Joey had even proposed to her there after his horse won by a nose in the third race.
