Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  She opened the door and flicked out the darkroom’s red safety light. A young man was standing next to Kaminsky’s desk. Elizabeth recognized him as the ad salesman who was living at Mrs. Lis’s boardinghouse.

  Kaminsky waved an arm and motioned for Elizabeth to join them.

  “Biz, you remember Tommy Schmidt, don’t you?”

  Elizabeth smiled and held out her hand. “Yes. We met yesterday morning.”

  Strain showed on Tommy’s face. The youthful energy he’d radiated the day before was gone, replaced by a weariness attested to by the slump of his shoulders and the slackness of his expression.

  Kaminsky took a bite of the roll he was holding and butter dripped onto the lapel of his jacket. He muttered a curse and swiped at it with the side of his hand.

  “Let me.” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the spot. She stood back. “That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. You’ll have to take it to the cleaners.”

  “Never mind,” Kaminsky growled. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He motioned to Tommy.

  The young man cracked his knuckles. Elizabeth thought he looked as if he might burst into tears.

  “The police came to interview me yesterday,” Tommy said finally. “Not just me—they were talking to everyone in the boardinghouse, as far as I could tell. They were asking questions about Noeleen Donovan. She’d only been boarding there a short time. She got a live-in job with some rich family in Manhattan and moved out.”

  “But you knew her?” Elizabeth prompted.

  Tommy hung his head. “Yes.” He looked up. “But so did everyone else at Mrs. Lis’s. It’s just that I took her out once.” He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and Elizabeth could see that they were balled up into fists.

  “You were Noeleen’s beau?” Kaminsky put down his coffee cup with such force that the milky brew sloshed over the side. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Tommy’s expression hardened and his face turned red. “I wasn’t her beau. I took her to Ruschmeyer’s for an ice cream once. I thought she would enjoy it. She hadn’t been here long and I felt sorry for her. She was homesick. And now the cops are trying to say I’m the father of her unborn baby.” Tommy dashed his hands through his hair.

  “Take it easy, chief,” Kaminsky said.

  “I can’t,” Tommy cried. “They think the person who got her…in the family way”—his face reddened—“is the person who killed her.” He grabbed Kaminsky’s arm. “I don’t want to go to jail for something I didn’t do.”

  “More like the electric chair,” Kaminsky said, raising his eyebrow and giving a sardonic chuckle.

  Tommy looked absolutely stricken. Elizabeth shot Kaminsky a dirty look. She felt sorry for Tommy. This was no time for jokes.

  “It’s not going to come to that,” she said. “We’ll find out who really did it. Right, Kaminsky?”

  Kaminsky looked at Elizabeth. “You figuring we’re a couple of gumshoes now?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “We’re reporters. We go after the story. You’ve told me that yourself more than once.”

  Kaminsky leaned back in his chair and it groaned loudly under his weight.

  “And so I have.” He looked Tommy in the eye. “What was your impression of Noeleen? I’ve heard what other people have said, and I’d like to see if yours lines up with theirs.”

  Tommy frowned. He looked like he was struggling to put his thoughts into words.

  “She was reserved,” he said finally.

  “Shy?” Kaminsky shot at him.

  “Not shy, I don’t think.”

  “Standoffish then?”

  “No, not that either. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like she had a wall around herself and you couldn’t get past it.”

  “Was she attractive?”

  “Yes. Not pinup-girl attractive. More girl next door. She didn’t go in for that red lipstick and those thin eyebrows like some girls. Although she did have the figure to be a pinup girl.”

  Kaminsky raised his eyebrows and Tommy flushed.

  “I couldn’t help noticing. And I wasn’t the only one.”

  “So you only went out the once?” Kaminsky drummed his fingers on his desk. “Did you see her after that?”

  “It wasn’t too long afterwards that she took that job at the Posts’, but she came around every Sunday to see her cousin. I ran into her a few times, but that’s all.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone by the name of Duff? It would have been after she took the job with the Posts.”

  “What kind of a name is that?” Tommy gave a nervous laugh. “She didn’t mention it to me, no.”

  “Rest easy, kid.” Kaminsky got up from his chair with a groan and slapped Tommy on the back. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t worry.”

  Elizabeth thought Tommy’s shoulders looked a little more relaxed as he walked away.

  “We need to track down this Duff character,” Kaminsky said, plopping into his chair again. “I’m with Tommy—who names their kid Duff?”

  “It’s a nickname,” Elizabeth explained. “His real name is probably something like Arthur Charles David something-or-other the third.”

  Kaminsky snorted. “Whatever his name is, we need to find him and talk to him.” He picked up his telephone. “I’ll see if any of the Posts can shed some light on who this Duff is and where he lives.”

  * * *

  —

  “We can take the Lex up to Seventy-Seventh Street,” Kaminsky said as they left the building. “I guess these rich types all cluster together. I called Mrs. Post and according to her, Duff—otherwise known as Charles Lambert—lives a block away from the Posts. Pretty cozy, if you ask me—easy for him to pop over and see Noeleen whenever he wanted.”

  “But Orla said that all they did was go for a ride in Duff’s sports car.”

  “So Noeleen told Orla. Noeleen wouldn’t have been likely to mention that they were doing the deed in the back seat of Duff’s car.”

  Elizabeth noted with some amusement that Kaminsky’s face had turned red with embarrassment.

  The Lexington Avenue IRT train rolled into the station and they got on. The car wasn’t crowded, and they were able to get seats. Elizabeth felt her eyes closing as the train rattled along the tracks—she hadn’t slept well the previous night. In spite of herself, she kept reliving Marino’s kiss over and over in her mind. It wasn’t like she’d never been kissed—she wasn’t sixteen anymore. But it had felt so different from the casual kisses Phillips and other boys like him had given her. She couldn’t put her finger on why.

  Finally the train pulled into the Seventh-Seventh Street station. Elizabeth was nearly dozing when Kaminsky tapped her arm.

  “Biz, this is our stop.”

  She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly, jumping to her feet as soon as the train came to a stop.

  The sky was blue and cloudless, but the temperature had dropped as if to remind everyone that colder weather was on its way. The leaves on the trees had turned from green to vivid shades of gold and red, although a few had already become dried brown husks that skittered along the sidewalk in the slight breeze.

  Seventy-Fourth Street boasted another row of stately townhouses with shiny lacquered doors and brightly polished door knockers and knobs. Kaminsky pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and glanced at it.

  “It’s number one hundred eighty-four,” he said, gesturing across the street. “We need to cross over to the other side.”

  They waited until a navy-blue Dodge sedan with its windows open and radio blaring Tommy Dorsey’s Marie had gone by, then dashed across the road to the opposite side.

  “Pretty spiffy car,” Kaminsky said, watching it disappear down the next block. He consulted his notes one last time. “Here we
are.”

  The Lamberts’ townhouse was similar to the Posts’, although sleeker and more modern in design with a plain limestone front and slightly recessed entryway. Two brick steps led to the front door, where large plaster urns filled with the last of the season’s red geraniums sat on either side.

  Kaminsky picked up the brass door knocker and let it drop, then stood back and waited.

  He was about to knock again when the door was flung open by a young man holding a sweating glass of what looked to Elizabeth like iced tea.

  “Oh,” he said when he saw them. “Can I help you?”

  He had yellow-blond hair that was naturally wavy and, despite a liberal application of Brylcreem, a curl had flopped onto his broad forehead. He was wearing white flannel slacks, a light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and polished brown-and-white spectator shoes.

  Kaminsky pulled out his well-worn press pass. “Charles Lambert?”

  The man nodded.

  “We’re from the Daily Trumpet,” Kaminsky said.

  Duff’s face cleared. “Come in. And please call me Duff. I assume you want to interview me about the polo match at the Meadow Brook Club.” He ducked his head in false modesty. “No one was more surprised than I by that goal I made in the last couple of seconds of the game.”

  “Actually,” Kaminsky began before Duff cut him off.

  “Come on in. No need to stand here on our doorstep chatting.”

  He led them into a wood-paneled room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes with gold lettering on one wall.

  Duff collapsed onto a tufted leather sofa and propped his feet up on the antique, carved, wooden coffee table in front of it.

  “No one expected us to win with a handicap of only twelve.” He shook his head as if awed by the whole experience. “We sure showed them.” He flashed a brilliant smile that revealed large, even white teeth.

  He looked at Elizabeth and squinted slightly. “Say, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said, although she had to admit Duff looked slightly familiar. She’d attended so many debuts and parties since graduating college it was quite possible their paths had crossed before.

  “I know.” Duff snapped his fingers. “You were at the Stork Club a couple of months ago with Phillips. Good man, Phillips. We played tennis together at the Brewsters’ house party last weekend. He has a wicked backhand.”

  Kaminsky looked impatient. “I’m glad we found you at home. I was afraid you might be at work.”

  Duff leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be starting next month.” He laughed. “Suit and tie time.” He tugged at the open neck of his shirt.

  “What will you be doing?” Elizabeth asked.

  Duff made a face. “Strictly tedious stuff. Nothing exciting like working for a newspaper.”

  Kaminsky raised his eyebrows.

  “Working in the family firm,” Duff finally said.

  “And what would that be?” Kaminsky said as if he was really interested.

  “Shipping,” Duff said. “Very boring.” He looked over Kaminsky’s shoulder at the opposite wall, then shifted in his seat and brought his gaze back to Elizabeth and Kaminsky. “But I don’t see what this has to do with the polo match.” He bared his teeth in a broad smile.

  “Actually,” Kaminsky said. “We wanted to talk to you about Noeleen Donovan.”

  Duff’s smile disappeared. He frowned and tilted his head slightly. “Who?”

  Kaminsky gave Duff a look Elizabeth knew well. It appeared benign unless you knew better. Kaminsky was about to reel Duff into his trap.

  “Oh,” Kaminsky said. “Maybe I’m mistaken.” He pretended to rifle through his notes. “Miss Donovan worked for the Posts, who I believe are next-door neighbors of yours out in Westhampton. She told her cousin that you gave her a ride in your sports car.”

  Duff looked confused but then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, the girl who works for the Posts. Of course.”

  “She worked for the Posts. Past tense,” Kaminsky said. “She’s dead.”

  Duff put the glass he’d been holding down on the coffee table with a thud. Elizabeth winced when she saw the condensation pooling on the fine wood.

  “You don’t say.” Duff leaned back and crossed one leg over the other at the ankle.

  “Haven’t you seen the papers?”

  Duff shrugged. “I’m afraid I go straight to the sports section.”

  “She was found stabbed at the Posts’ house out in Westhampton. The medical examiner figures she’d been dead since at least the Sunday before the storm.” Kaminsky looked down at his notes and pretended to be reading. “The medical examiner also said she was pregnant.” He looked up at Duff.

  “Now wait a minute,” Duff said, holding up a hand. “I might have taken her for a ride in my Dolomite Roadster, but that was it.”

  “So you do remember her,” Kaminsky said.

  “I remember I felt sorry for her—cooped up in that house doing nothing but working while everyone else was swimming and partying.”

  “You took pity on her,” Kaminsky said.

  Duff lifted his chin. “You could say that, yes.”

  “Very admirable of you.”

  Duff was looking uncomfortable. “I can’t tell you anything more, and if you didn’t come about the polo match…” He raised his eyebrows.

  Kaminsky shook his head.

  “Then I don’t think I can help you.”

  Kaminsky held up a finger. “One more thing. Were you out in Westhampton the weekend before the storm?”

  “I don’t know.” Duff looked flustered. “I’d have to consult my diary.”

  Kaminsky nodded. “Thanks for your time.”

  * * *

  —

  “He’s hiding something,” Kaminsky said as soon as they left the Lamberts’ townhouse. “Did you see how nervous he got when I asked him where he was the weekend Noeleen was killed?”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  Kaminsky stopped to light a cigarette. The smell of sulfur drifted on the breeze toward Elizabeth. He took a puff and blew out a couple of smoke rings.

  “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who got poor Noeleen in the family way. I don’t think he felt sorry for her. Someone like her would have been invisible to him, except for that pinup figure Tommy said she had. I think he knew exactly what he wanted when he took her for a spin in that fancy car of his.”

  Kaminsky began to cough—a deep rumbling cough that sounded like it came from the pit of his stomach. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth. Elizabeth looked away as he spit into it.

  “Guys like Duff know better than to sully the reputation of some girl in their own social class. That’s what the help is for.”

  “I don’t think that’s fair,” Elizabeth said, thinking of the boys she knew.

  Kaminsky shrugged and stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket.

  “Believe what you want, but people like him eat people like us for breakfast.” He stopped suddenly as the realization hit him.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot you’re one of them.”

  Elizabeth wanted to protest, but on what basis? Kaminsky was right—she was one of them. She’d led a privileged life and still did. It was her choice to work—she didn’t have to. She could stay home, go to parties and plan her wedding like so many of her friends. But the thought of a life like that filled her with distaste.

  They walked along in silence. Elizabeth felt as if a gulf had opened between them and it made her sad. She wanted to bridge it, but she didn’t know how.

  Suddenly the faint sound of sirens joined the normal cacophony of the city—cars whooshing down the avenues, horns blaring, the dull roar
of thousands of people speaking all at once.

  The sirens got louder until they caught Kaminsky’s attention as well. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and listened as intently as a dog sniffing out a rabbit.

  “They’re coming this way,” he said finally.

  “What do we do?” Elizabeth asked, clutching her camera.

  “Let’s see where they’re going. Maybe there’s a scoop for us.”

  There was a note in Kaminsky’s voice that Elizabeth couldn’t identify. It sounded like…desperation?

  The sirens halted abruptly and the sudden quiet was startling.

  “They must have stopped on the next block,” Kaminsky said. He began to walk faster.

  Elizabeth felt her limp becoming more pronounced as she attempted to keep up. Fortunately Kaminsky soon became winded and began to slow down again.

  When they reached the corner they could see police cars pulled up to the curb on the block ahead.

  “Something’s going on,” Kaminsky said, picking up speed again. “And it looks big.”

  A beat cop was making his way toward them, his head swiveling right and left—peering into alleys and doorways. Kaminsky stopped him when they reached him.

  “Officer, can you tell us what’s going on?”

  The officer, whose name was O’Doyle, according to his badge, had a large red face and ears that stuck out from under his hat.

  “We’ve got an accident,” he said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder before moving on. “Nasty business.”

  People were beginning to gather on the sidewalk—pouring out of the surrounding buildings—drawn by the sound of the police sirens and the bustle of activity on the otherwise quiet street.

  Elizabeth still couldn’t see what had happened, but a feeling of dread came over her as they got closer. The crowd parted slightly and she saw a body covered by a white sheet on the ground.

  They had reached the periphery of the crowd when a woman in a housedress and with a dust cloth still in her hand grabbed Elizabeth by the arm.

  “She jumped,” she said, her eyes open so wide her eyelids nearly disappeared.