Elizabeth nibbled at the last piece of buttered toast on her plate. Her mother was sectioning her grapefruit half, Rose was stirring brown sugar into her oatmeal, and her father was hidden behind a copy of the New York Herald Tribune. Elizabeth was grateful that her parents didn’t take the Daily Trumpet. They would have been horrified to read about her experiences the day before in the story that she was sure would be on the front page. They would probably try to put their foot down again about her working. If they knew what else she was planning, they would be even more horrified.
She finished her toast, took a last sip of coffee, and carried her dishes into the kitchen. Mrs. Murphy was leaning over the kitchen table where she had a copy of the Daily Trumpet spread out. Jones brought her a copy every morning from the newsstand on the corner.
She looked up as Elizabeth entered, a horrified expression on her face.
“Oh, my sainted aunt!” she exclaimed. “Child, you could have been killed.”
“Everything turned out fine,” Elizabeth said. “And the killer is now in custody.”
“Still! It near gave me a heart attack reading this.” Mrs. Murphy tapped the paper with her finger.
“I think it would be best if you didn’t show that to Mother and Father,” Elizabeth said. “I wouldn’t want them to worry.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Murphy said, folding up the paper. “I can’t think what your mother would say if she knew about this.” She shook her head. “You never said this job was going to be dangerous.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It’s usually quite run-of-the-mill. Generally we arrive when everything is all over and it’s simply a matter of taking some photographs. I doubt anything like that will ever happen again.”
Mrs. Murphy made the sign of the cross. “Heavens, I hope not.”
Elizabeth felt tingles of excitement as she put on her hat and checked her stocking seams. She had butterflies, too. Today she was making a decision that would change things—possibly forever.
Kaminsky was at his desk when Elizabeth arrived at the newsroom. He was leaning back in his chair, a self-satisfied look on his face and the latest edition of the Daily Trumpet in front of him on his desk.
“Would you look at that, Biz?” He waved the paper in front of her face. “Front page photo and story. The editor is beside himself. We’ve scooped all the other papers—they didn’t cover the story at all, if you can believe it.”
Elizabeth had to admit to a frisson of pride seeing her photograph splashed across the front page.
Kaminsky opened the paper to an inside page. “Look at this spread. We’ve got two whole pages and four more pictures.”
Elizabeth couldn’t recall ever having seen Kaminsky so pleased before.
“Almost makes me want to celebrate with a shot of Old Schenley’s.” Kaminsky linked his hands and stretched his arms out in front of him. His knuckles cracked loudly. “Surely the sun is over the yardarm somewhere in the world.”
Elizabeth gave him a stern look.
“What? Don’t you think we deserve a celebration? You, especially—considering what you went through.”
Elizabeth suppressed a shiver. She didn’t want to think about it. She’d been sure she’d have nightmares last night and had been relieved that instead her sleep had been peaceful and dreamless.
“You go on ahead and get your Schenley’s then. I’ve got an appointment.”
“Oh?”
But despite the obvious curiosity in Kaminsky’s voice, Elizabeth didn’t elaborate. He’d find out soon enough.
The address was on West Seventieth Street. Elizabeth walked down the block scanning the building numbers until she found the one she was looking for. She checked the number against the classified ad she’d torn out of the paper. This was it.
It was a nondescript building—neither elegant nor particularly shabby—but the steps were swept clean and the glass sidelights on either side of the door were free from smudges and fingerprints.
With a certain sense of trepidation, Elizabeth mounted the cement steps and opened the door.
A woman came out of a small office—barely more than a cupboard—near the front door. Her gray hair was swept back into a no-nonsense bun and she wore a plain gray dress and sturdy black tie shoes.
“You’re the gal who called about the apartment,” she said to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. I’d like to see it, if I may.”
“I’ll get the keys.”
The woman disappeared into the cubbyhole that served as an office. Elizabeth spent the time looking around. There wasn’t much to look at. The foyer was small with an elevator at the back, a drooping fern in a pot on a pedestal near the front door, and opposite it, a sand urn for cigarettes.
The woman reappeared with a large metal ring from which numerous keys dangled.
“Fourth floor,” she said tersely.
Elizabeth followed her onto the elevator. It was small, and she could smell the woman’s face powder and the faint scent of Oxydol laundry detergent.
The elevator ascended to the fourth floor with fits and starts and came to a sudden stop that jarred Elizabeth’s teeth.
“Follow me.” The woman got off the elevator and began to walk down the hall.
The carpet was clean if worn and the wallpaper was faded but in decent condition. It was quiet, although they heard Doc Barclay’s Daughters playing on the radio when they passed apartment 4B.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. The hallway was imbued with the odors of food long since cooked and eaten combined with the smell of mothballs and a hint of furniture polish.
The woman stopped in front of the door to apartment 4F. She selected a key from her ring of keys and inserted it into the lock. She had to jiggle it slightly, but eventually it turned and she opened the door with a flourish at odds with the setting.
She marched ahead of Elizabeth into the apartment and stood aside for Elizabeth to enter.
It was small. And dark. Elizabeth had expected that. But she hadn’t been prepared for exactly how small the apartment would be. It was furnished with a chintz-covered sofa and a small armchair in the sitting room along with a scarred wooden table in front of the sofa and a lamp, which leaned crookedly to the left, on another table nestled next to the arm of the sofa.
Elizabeth walked over to the window and looked out. The apartment backed up to an airshaft with a view of a solid brick wall. Elizabeth figured she’d be at work most of the day, only getting home after dark, so who needed a view?
She sighed and turned around. The rental agent motioned toward the bedroom.
The bedroom opened off the sitting room on the left. Elizabeth peeked inside. A twin bed that sagged in the middle was shoved against the wall. An oak dresser was against the opposite wall. One of the legs was missing, and it was propped up by a book.
Elizabeth followed the woman back through the sitting room and to the kitchen, which was off to the right. The appliances were small, but there was a stove and a refrigerator and a sink—everything she would need to make simple dinners for herself. Oddly enough, there was a shower in the corner of the room.
Elizabeth gestured toward it and looked at the rental agent.
She raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “Thirty-five dollars a month due on the first.”
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take it,” she said with a feeling of trepidation combined with incredible exhilaration.
She couldn’t wait to tell Kaminsky.