“I’ll always love you.” Hamp’s voice. His warmth. My eyes snapped open. I blinked and looked to my right, where Hamp had always slept. His place was empty. Of course it was. His pillow was in disarray, but only because I had hugged it in my sleep.
Still half asleep, I rose up on my elbows and looked around our bedroom with groggy eyes, half aware of the early morning street sounds outside. His presence had been so real—for a moment, more real than my surroundings.
I flopped back down with a sigh and stared at the ceiling. Which was the dream? This empty house and empty bed, or the loving words and comforting closeness? Three and a half years since Hamp’s death and still his voice came to me. Three and a half long years …
Turning on my side, I curled up and drew the blankets to my chin. Hamp’s photo gazed back at me from my bedside table. Childhood sweethearts, we’d known each other all our lives. The strong thread of Hamp’s life was interwoven with mine as far back as I could remember. When his thread snapped on that hot July night, I felt as though the entire fabric of my life would unravel.
“I miss you, babe,” I whispered. “I miss you so much.” Briefly, I closed my eyes, and said a prayer, then forced myself to get up.
It was a quiet Sunday. After washing and setting my hair, I wrote Christmas cards, mailed them off and settled in for several peaceful hours of reading The Amsterdam News and The New York Times. The Times was full of talk about the Allies ending arms control over Germany and Britain’s plans for China. I skimmed those articles but read every word of a lengthy piece by Edward Smith on crime and chemistry. The report said that new laboratory techniques were an “often uncanny means” of furnishing detectives with evidence of guilt. I paused, wondering. If the techniques had been available when Esther disappeared, would they have made a difference? Hard to say, but I had a feeling that good old horse sense was the key to Esther’s case.
It was an article about a war widow that finally made me put the paper aside. This woman’s husband had never returned from the war, but as long as she didn’t know what had happened to him, as long as he was still listed as ‘missing,’ she couldn’t give up hope. Hope, she said, had become a curse, one that caused her to live in an endless limbo. That reminded me of Mrs. Todd, lying in her bed of pain.
“If only I knew,” she’d whispered. “Please, God, if I only knew.”
On Monday, back in the newsroom, I dialed COLumbus-8284, the Collector’s office. I expected Hilda Coleman to come on the line, but Whitfield himself picked up. I identified myself, reminded him that we’d met before and exchanged pleasantries.
“I’m calling about Esther,” I said. “Esther Todd.”
“Esther …” he repeated with surprise.
“You do you remember her?”
“Well, actually, no.” He gave an uneasy chuckle. “But of course, I meet so many people. Who was she?”
Not who is she? But who was she?
“I have a newspaper story here, describing a dinner party at Katherine Goodfellowe’s house in September of ‘23. Esther Todd entertained the guests by playing the piano. The story says you were there. There weren’t that many people. You must’ve met her.”
“Maybe I did, but I don’t remember her. Why are you asking?”
It was hard to believe him. Even if he didn’t remember Esther from the party, he should’ve remembered her name because of the heist and its notoriety. I reminded him of the case and explained my interest in it.
“There’s a new theory,” I said, “that her disappearance was the related to a secret admirer.”
“How interesting. But what has this got to do with me?”
When I explained, he reverted to a flat denial. “I told you. I never met her—and whoever told you anything different is lying.”
“I should tell you that I will keep digging. I will find out if—”
“Look, I’m sorry to hear what happened to Miss Todd, but I can’t help you. My sympathies go to her family. I wish them God’s blessings. Did you get all that down?”
“Every blessed word.”
“Good.”
He sounded relieved. But I wasn’t about to let him off so easily.
“There’s another matter you should know about. I’ve spoken to someone who says she was your paramour. She’s told me that …”
I filled him in. He was apoplectic.
“Lies! All damnable lies! I know who you’re talking about. Yes, she was fired. She couldn’t do her job. She was crazy. Told everyone that she was my mistress. I had to let her go. I couldn’t afford to have someone like her around me, around this office.”
I made notes. “So you deny hitting her?”
“I’ve never hit anyone.”
“You deny forcing her to perform intimate acts with you?”
“My God! I don’t believe this. Mrs. Price, I thought you were better than this—that we were friends. I—”
“I’m nobody’s friend, not when they stand between me and the truth.”
There was an icy pause. Then came a question, thick with rage: “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m giving you a chance to clarify matters.”
Whitfield drew a deep breath. “I’ve never committed violence against her or anyone else. Anyone who says anything to the contrary is a liar. I won’t have my reputation sullied by some stupid, silly woman. I won’t have my name associated with crime or dirtied by innuendo. You print a word of what she says and I’ll sue you and your paper so fast you won’t know what hit you. Got that?”
Before I could answer, I heard a click. He was gone. His reaction was more or less what I’d expected. I put the receiver on its cradle and the phone jangled. It was Bellamy.
“Oh, hello,” I said, surprised.
“I was wondering how your investigation is going.”
“I’m not investigating anything, just trying to find new material.”
“Fine. I won’t argue. So, did you find out anything?”
“Maybe.” Cradling the phone between head and shoulder, I reached for a blank sheet of paper and slid it into the Underwood.
“Come on, tell me.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait, just like everybody else.”
“I’m not everybody.”
I didn’t answer. Just started typing. Loudly. He muttered an oath.
“Wow! You sound like a Tommy gun.”
“Really? I’m sorry,” I said, and pounded the keys harder.
“Just tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Did you get anywhere with the boyfriend angle? I mean, I know it’s not likely but …”
I stopped typing and took the phone in my hand. “Look, I’ve got to pull my notes together and I can’t do that if I’m on the phone with you.”
“So answer my question and I’ll get lost.”
I thought about it. “Okay, I’ll tell you this: I’ve got a line on a man who might’ve been Esther’s friend. I won’t give you his name—”
“Why not? Maybe I know him.”
That was something to consider. It went against gut instinct to share information before it went to print, but what was I worried about? He wasn’t likely to tip off another reporter—and suppose he had another piece of the puzzle?
“Sexton Whitfield. The name mean anything to you?”
A pause, then the answer, a bit mystified. “Can’t say it does. Who is he?”
I told him Whitfield's title.
“You mean she was dating a white guy?”
“Not at all.” I could feel his surprise at the thought that a colored man held such a high position.
“You’ve talked to him?” he asked. “Learned a lot?”
“A number of things. But nothing concrete.”
“You going to write about him?”
“Maybe. There’re some angles I want to check out.”
“Like what?”
I glanced at the clock. It was getting late and I had work to do. “Sorry, but I gotta go. Tell you what? Why don’t read the column when it comes out?”
“I sure will,” he said and hung up.