Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  Footsteps echoed down the hall and Nancy Vance appeared. She was a statuesque blonde wearing wide-legged pale gray slacks, a tightly fitted, plum-colored sweater and a strand of creamy white pearls.

  She walked toward them with her hand extended. A large diamond solitaire sparkled on her left hand.

  “I’m Nancy Vance,” she said in the cultured tones peculiar to wealthy New Yorkers.

  Elizabeth introduced herself and Kaminsky.

  “Won’t you come in?” Nancy opened the double doors behind her and led them into a sitting room.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the ragged skyline of Fifth Avenue and the green expanse of Central Park beyond dominated the room, giving the illusion that they were floating above the city.

  Two small sofas faced each other in front of a marble fireplace. Invitations engraved on stiff card stock were propped on top of the carved mantelpiece, against a gilt-framed mirror. A small side table held an impressive collection of antique blue-and-white Chinese porcelains.

  Nancy motioned to the sofa. “Please sit down.” She took a seat opposite.

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky had just sat down when an older woman drifted into the room. Her ash-blond hair was swept into a loose updo and she had an onyx cigarette holder dangling from her red lips.

  “Sorry, darling, I didn’t realize you had company.” She peered at Elizabeth and Kaminsky.

  “Mother, this is Elizabeth Adams and her colleague Mr. Kaminsky,” Nancy said.

  Mrs. Vance plucked a pair of glasses from her chest where they dangled from a jeweled chain and held them to her eyes.

  “Adams? You don’t say. Of the Palm Beach Adamses I suppose?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Elizabeth said.

  “Well then I don’t suppose I know you,” Mrs. Vance said and drifted from the room again.

  “Do pardon, Mother,” Nancy said, making a wry face. “She’s hit the gin a little early this morning, I’m afraid.” She sighed. “But that’s neither here nor there. What was it you wanted to see me about?”

  “We’re working on a story for the Daily Trumpet,” Elizabeth said. “And we’re interested in your fiancé, Duff Lambert. I saw a picture of the two of you at a party at the Westhampton Country Club in the New York Daily Mirror.”

  “That must have been the End of Summer Ball,” Nancy said.

  She lifted the lid of a carved ivory box on the coffee table in front of her and took out a cigarette. Kaminsky fumbled in his pocket for his matches, but Nancy was already flicking on the crystal lighter that was sitting next to the cigarette box.

  She took a deep draw on the cigarette and exhaled in a slow, steady stream.

  “The ball was a last-minute event put on by the country club. The weather had been so foul all summer that enough families had stayed past Labor Day when the sun suddenly decided to come out.”

  “That was the Saturday before the big storm, right?” Kaminsky scratched something in his notebook.

  “Yes. Mother and I packed up and left for the city that Monday. We didn’t realize how lucky we were until we heard about the hurricane striking.”

  “Did Duff come back to the city with you?”

  Nancy shook her head and looked down at her lap. “No,” she said finally. Her hair formed a curtain, hiding her expression.

  “No?”

  Nancy looked up. “Duff and I had a row, you see. He stomped off, and I didn’t see him again until we were back in the city and he came to apologize.” She touched the strand of pearls around her neck. “Rather handsomely, I must say.”

  “Do you know where he went after he left you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.” Nancy kneaded the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other.

  “Do you suppose he came back to the city after your row?”

  “He might have gotten into that car of his—he’s dreadfully proud of it—and driven back to the city. I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  Nancy stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the table.

  “What are all these questions about, anyway? You said you’re following a story?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said before Kaminsky could speak. “A story about the days leading up to the storm. Who was where—you know—that sort of thing.”

  Nancy nodded. “It was totally unexpected. We were shocked when we heard how bad it had been out on Long Island. Of course we were drenched here in the city, too. But we heard that entire houses were washed out to sea.” She shuddered. “Mother spoke to Roberts, our caretaker, and we were spared, fortunately. Mind you, there’s plenty of damage, but the house is still standing.”

  “Would you mind if I took your picture?” Elizabeth said. “For the story.”

  “I suppose so. Where would you like me to stand?” Nancy said.

  “You’re fine where you are. It will only take a moment,” she added when she noticed Nancy sneaking a look at the gold Concord watch on her wrist.

  Mrs. Vance drifted into the room as Elizabeth’s flashbulb went off.

  “Darling, are you coming to lunch with me and Joan DeVries? She’s booked a table at ‘21’ and you know how hard a reservation is to come by. She has some news about that horrible woman your father ran away with.” Mrs. Vance turned toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky. “My husband bolted with the most dreadful creature from Argentina. Fortunately the money came from my side of the family so I rarely even give him a passing thought.”

  “We’d best be going then,” Elizabeth said, beginning to gather up her things.

  “I’ll show you out.” Nancy led them from the sitting room.

  “That was something,” Kaminsky said, when the door to the Vances’ apartment had closed behind them.

  “I’ll say. Not much help though.”

  “Not so fast,” Kaminsky pushed the button for the elevator. “We know that Lambert wasn’t with his fiancée that weekend after their Saturday night disagreement. Unless someone else gives him an alibi, it’s perfectly possible he murdered Noeleen.”

  They were quiet as they rode the elevator to the ground floor.

  “I think it’s far more likely that Lambert was the father of Noeleen’s baby. I couldn’t see Father McGrath for the part. He may have had feelings for Noeleen, but I don’t think he would have acted on them.” Kaminsky said as he held the door for Elizabeth.

  “I wonder what drove him to suicide then?” Elizabeth said, skipping a bit to keep up with Kaminsky.

  Kaminsky lit a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  “Perhaps the realization that he was no longer confident of his calling. Maybe he was losing his faith altogether.” He stopped short suddenly and a look dawned on his face that Elizabeth was beginning to recognize. “Or maybe he didn’t commit suicide. Maybe it was murder. Only someone tried to make it look as if he killed himself.”

  “But he’d hardly let someone string him up like that,” Elizabeth protested.

  “That’s true. But I’m not ruling it out.”

  “What now?” Elizabeth said when they began walking again.

  “Back to the newsroom and then I think we should pay Lambert a call—see if we can trick him into admitting where he was that Sunday.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth unwrapped her sandwich—a thick slice of the ham they’d had for dinner the previous night on white bread with the crusts cut off and spread with mayonnaise. Becker was slouched over his typewriter oblivious to the blob of mustard that had dripped onto his shirt from his corned beef sandwich.

  The smell of Becker’s sandwich mingled with the odor of Kaminsky’s egg salad and onions. If it hadn’t been for the clattering of typewriters and the pervasive odor of ink, Elizabeth thought, the newsroom could easily be mistaken for a deli.

  She fin
ished her sandwich, balled up the wax paper and threw it in the trash.

  Estelle Draper, the society page editor, opened the door to her office. She swept out, wafting Tabu in her wake, and glared at Elizabeth as she passed.

  When Elizabeth had started at the Daily Trumpet, she’d been Estelle’s dogsbody—typing up her columns and fetching her coffee. She was furious that Elizabeth had been promoted beyond her grasp.

  The scent of Tabu faded, to be replaced by the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Elizabeth looked up to see Kaminsky approaching her desk.

  “Are you up for a visit to the very privileged Duff Lambert?”

  “Certainly. Let me go powder my nose, and I’ll be right with you.”

  The pipes were banging and the radiator in the ladies’ room was belching steam that smelled of damp and rot when Elizabeth pushed open the door. She got out her compact and “fixed her face,” as her mother would call it.

  Kaminsky was waiting by the elevator, his hat in his hand, whistling and pacing back and forth.

  “There you are,” he said when he saw Elizabeth. “Biz, I think we’re going to break this case and what a story it will be! We’ll show the boss that it isn’t just the youngbloods who can chase down something big.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Elizabeth said. “All the pieces seem to fit. But don’t forget, there’s always the possibility that we’re dealing with two people—the father of Noeleen’s baby and the killer.”

  Kaminsky’s shoulders sagged. “You’re right, of course. We have to keep that in mind.” The elevator dinged, the doors opened and they got on.

  “Orla might have been the killer—murdering her cousin out of jealousy,” Elizabeth said.

  The elevator operator’s head swiveled around, his eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets, his mouth in a startled round O.

  Kaminsky grinned and put a finger to his lips as they continued their descent to the lobby.

  They went through the revolving door and were out on the sidewalk when they noticed a figure careening toward them—a well-dressed young man in a well-cut suit that was obviously bespoke, swinging a walking stick with a carved ivory head and wearing a spiffy brown felt hat.

  Elizabeth grabbed Kaminsky’s arm and pointed at the man.

  “Isn’t that Duff Lambert right there?”

  “I do believe it is. And he’s heading our way. And judging by his expression he’s not very happy about something.”

  “You,” Lambert said, pointing his finger at them when he got close enough for them to hear. “You’ve been talking to Miss Vance, my fiancée.”

  Lambert’s face was red and there was sweat on his brow despite the chill in the air.

  Elizabeth felt everyone’s eyes on them. Lambert’s voice was so loud that people were beginning to turn and stare. Kaminsky grabbed Lambert by the arm and began to steer him down the street.

  “Come on,” Kaminsky said. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee and talk.”

  Lambert’s face settled into mutinous lines, but he didn’t object.

  There was a coffee shop half a block away. Kaminsky opened the door and Lambert and Elizabeth stepped inside.

  “There’s an empty table in the back.” Kaminsky pointed toward the rear of the restaurant.

  A waitress appeared as soon as they sat down. She was an older woman with her gray hair neatly contained in a hairnet.

  “What’ll you have?” she said.

  Kaminsky ordered a round of coffees and then sat back, waiting for the waitress to leave.

  Lambert looked like a volcano about to erupt. “You have some nerve speaking to Miss Vance.” He gripped the edge of the table, turning his knuckles white.

  “We’re following the story of Noeleen Donovan’s death,” Kaminsky said. “You remember Miss Donovan, don’t you? We needed to ask Miss Vance some questions to clarify things.”

  “I can’t imagine how Miss Vance could help you with your story. She didn’t even know Noeleen Donovan.”

  Kaminsky leaned back in his chair feigning relaxation. “So she didn’t know you gave Miss Donovan a ride in your sports car?”

  “You didn’t tell her, did you?” Lambert looked slightly panicked.

  Kaminsky shook his head. “We were merely confirming whether you were on Long Island the weekend Miss Donovan was killed.”

  The waitress silently slid three cups of coffee onto the table.

  The beads of sweat on Lambert’s brow began to increase. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead.

  “I assume she told you I was in New York City when it happened.”

  Lambert picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his lips. Elizabeth noticed that his hand was shaking and he had to use his other hand to steady the cup.

  “Actually, she said she didn’t know where you were,” Elizabeth said. “She said you’d had a row and she didn’t see you again until she was back in the city herself.”

  “I hope you’re not implying…” Lambert stopped, choking on his own words.

  “We’re not implying anything,” Kaminsky said, fiddling with his spoon. “Merely trying to put together a time line.”

  Lambert shoved his hands in his lap and stiffened his spine.

  “For your information, I was here in Manhattan. I drove back on Saturday night after Miss Vance and I had our disagreement.”

  Kaminsky continued to look at Lambert while turning his spoon over and over and over again. Lambert shifted in his seat and started fidgeting with the handle of his coffee cup.

  Kaminsky let the silence lengthen. Lambert squirmed in his chair.

  Finally he blurted out. “You have to believe me. I was here in Manhattan when Noeleen was killed.”

  Kaminsky continued to stare at Lambert, slowly putting his notebook back in his pocket.

  “I have an alibi,” Lambert said, finally.

  “That’s great,” Kaminsky said. “Want to tell us what it is?”

  Lambert pushed back his chair and it made a loud noise as it scraped across the tile floor.

  “I’m not going to tell you.” He was backing away now. “And if you print any of this”—he swept his arm in an arc—“I’ll sue you and the paper for every dime you’ve got.”

  “Well,” Kaminsky said, as they watched Lambert stumble out the coffee shop door. “That seems to have touched a nerve, don’t you think?”

  “It certainly did.”

  Elizabeth was picking up her purse when she noticed a folded scrap of paper lying next to the sugar shaker. She picked it up and smoothed it out.

  “What is it?” Kaminsky dug in his pocket, pulled out a few coins and slapped them down on the table.

  “It’s a name and a telephone number.” Elizabeth held the paper toward the light. “Rhinelander four eight eight six four.”

  “It must have fallen out of Lambert’s pocket when he pulled out his handkerchief.”

  “Yes. I hadn’t noticed it when we sat down.” Elizabeth folded the piece of paper up. “I wonder whose number it is?”

  “Miss Vance’s, perhaps?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Hers would be the Trafalgar exchange.”

  “I suppose there’s only one way to find out then.” Kaminsky put on his hat.

  “What’s that?”

  “Call the number.”

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth sat down, took the piece of paper that had fallen out of Lambert’s pocket from her purse, and put it on her desk. She stared at it for a few moments then unfolded it, smoothed it out and stared at it some more. The telephone number might not mean anything—nothing at all. It could be Lambert’s tailor or his barber or his tennis partner. But for some reason, Elizabeth had a strong feeling it was significant.

  She sighed. Kaminsky was right. The only
way to find out was to call the number and see who answered.

  Elizabeth hesitated then reached for the telephone on her desk and lifted the receiver. Then she put it back down again. What was she going to say if someone answered?

  She stared at the piece of paper some more.

  Kaminsky walked by and the strip of paper fluttered in the breeze he created and threatened to drift off her desk.

  Kaminsky stopped and looked at Elizabeth. He pointed to the telephone number.

  “Do you want me to call?”

  “No, no. I’ll do it.” Elizabeth smiled up at him.

  Kaminsky raised one of his unruly gray eyebrows at her but walked past.

  Elizabeth sat up a little straighter and took the paper in her hand. She read the telephone number again—Rhinelander 4-8864. She picked up the telephone receiver and held it to her ear, her finger poised over the dial.

  Then she put the receiver down again. What on earth was she going to say to the person on the other end of the line?

  She squared her shoulders and picked up the telephone receiver once more. She put her finger in the hole on the dial and rotated it, then watched as it shuddered back to zero. One by one she dialed the mysterious telephone number that had been in Lambert’s pocket.

  There was silence, then the telephone on the other end began to ring. Brrrrrring. Brrrrrring. Elizabeth clenched the receiver in her hand as she waited, half hoping that no one would answer.

  Finally the ringing stopped. There was a click and static came across the line as someone picked up the receiver at the other end.

  “Hello?” It was a deep female voice with an accent that made the consonants sound soft—as if the person had a lisp.

  “Hello?” Elizabeth said in return.

  “Who is this?”

  “Elizabeth Adams.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  The question brought Elizabeth up short. Obviously this wasn’t Lambert’s tailor or barber.

  “Yes,” she finally said. She held the receiver tightly to her ear, listening intently.

  The woman whispered an address on Second Avenue in the lower Eighties.