Hilda was out, but Echo was in. He was sitting at that tiny desk of his, working with an adding machine, his left hand going back and forth from a ledger to the keyboard of the machine as he busily filled in columns of numbers. Seeing me, his eyes lit with resentment.
“You can tell Mr. Whitfield I’m here,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”
He glanced at my small purse. “You didn’t bring your papers? You should’ve been here with them yesterday.”
“Go inside and tell him I’m here.”
“In a moment.”
My stomach tightened. He went back to his numbers.
“I’ll give you thirty seconds,” I said.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up and he kept on writing in that ledger.
“One, two, three …” I began.
“Sit down,” he said.
Instead, I stood over him. “Ten, eleven, twelve––”
“All right.” He put down his pen and closed the ledger. For a moment, he sat there, fuming. Then he appeared to make a decision. He looked up at me, pasted on an artificial smile and stood up.
“Perhaps, Mr. Echo was a bit overzealous in the prosecution of his duties,” he said. “If so, he would like to offer his heartfelt apologies.”
He extended his hand, but I didn’t extend mine in return. So he took it. He actually took my hand, raised it to his lips and gave it a kiss.
“Do you like stories?” he said, still holding my hand. “Let Mr. Echo tell you one.”
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held fast, his hold tightening.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy. He had no money or connections, but he had ambitions, plans. He served in the war, served with distinction, and then he came back. He searched for work. He found none, and so he searched harder.
“Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. By then our hero was practically living in the street, one step away from selling his ass for his bread and butter.” He cast his narrow eyes at me. “But then, he met a man who took an interest in him.”
“I can guess the rest,” I said. “This man picked our young hero up, stood him on his feet and gave him an education—”
“Our hero already had an education—from a fine school, Tuskegee. What he didn’t have was a job.”
“So, this man gave him one.”
“Not just any job. A real job. With responsibilities, and a future. And yes,” he saw the look in my eyes, “this job came with a price. Extra duties, you might say.”
“Enforcement duties?”
He cracked a smile. “The kind of duties every soldier understands.”
He paused to let his meaning sink in. His eyes were dead, cold and filthy gray, like the Hudson River on a winter’s day. He stroked my hand.
“You’re very bright, Mrs. Price. Too bright to be making anymore stupid decisions.”
“I could say the same about Mr. Whitfield … or maybe even about you.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Let’s speak plainly. When you threaten Mr. Whitfield, you threaten Mr. Echo, too.” His grip on my hand switched to my middle finger. He lifted it, pressed it upward. “Mr. Echo has worked hard to attain his position. He will protect it.” He forced my finger backward. I tried to pull free but couldn’t. Pain shot through my hand. “Do you understand?” He pressed.
Soon, my finger would snap. I kicked him. My hard-toed boot got him in the ankle, got him good. He let go, his eyes registering surprise and pain. I rubbed my hand, shaking with anger.
“Don’t you ever touch me again.”
He didn’t say a word, just pressed his lips into a bitter, hard line. Massaging my hand, I started toward Whitfield's office. Echo came at me from behind. He grabbed me by the elbow and whispered in my ear, “We aren’t finished yet.”
I wrenched myself away. Despite my outer bravado, I was unnerved. But I was also determined. Taking a deep breath, I opened Whitfield's door and stepped across the threshold.
The tax collector’s picture could’ve been in the dictionary next to the definition of ‘fat cat.’ His face was sleek and smooth, his belly round. His hair was softly waved and graying at the temples, his mustache perfectly clipped. He looked so very professional and assured, framed by a huge desk and shelves of tax tomes, the soft gray winter light filtering in through the window on either side.
He was examining legal documents, marking them with his left hand. He wore a monocle. He rose, leaned over his desk and shook my hand. His handshake was weak, the skin soft. But his eyes were hard, like black pearls. He kept his voice calm and modulated.
“The early bird, huh?” He chuckled. It was a rumble, deep inside his chest. He gestured toward the chair, “Take a seat.”
But before my backside could touch the seat, he launched into his little speech. It was more or less what I’d expected.
“I expect a full retraction. That column was nothing but lies and innuendos. I want it made clear that the figure you’ve slandered in the present column is clear of blame in the next. Get it?”
I made myself comfortable. “Sure, I do. But I don’t think you do. You see, I didn’t mention you by name. If I wrote a retraction, I’d have to. Your name, your title: I’d have to put it all out there. I’d be confirming what people still only suspect. After all, a retraction’s no good if no one knows whom it refers to.”
His nostrils flared. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”
“Won’t it?”
“I have friends …”
“Yes, you do. But we both know they’re the kind who fade when the dirt starts to fly.”
“Your returns …”
“Are in perfect order. And we both know it.” I bluffed without blinking an eyelash. Did he actually think I’d come down here just to let myself get whipped into submission? If so, I had surprise for him.
I took out a folded sheet of paper out of my purse. The page contained three paragraphs—about as much as I could stand to copy of the letter. I’d also included the signature and underscored the name. I unfolded the page, laid it on his desk and slid it toward him.
“What’s this?”
“Read it and you’ll see.”
Like an animal suspecting a trap, he regarded the page but wouldn’t touch it. Fooled by the fact that it was my handwriting, he was shocked to recognize his own words. And recognize them he did. I could see it in his eyes. For a second there, he looked sick. Then he pulled himself together. He sat up and gave me a severe look.
“I hope you aren’t trying to say that I wrote this piece of filth. It’s not my penmanship and it’s certainly not my signature.”
I just shook my head. “Don’t even try it. I have the original. Trust me, I do. And the original is in your handwriting.”
A trip downstairs to Mrs. Cane had confirmed my suspicions about Whitfield's middle name. She’d remembered an interview from 1920, when he was first appointed as tax collector. The reporter had complimented Whitfield on being such an ardent supporter of the common man. Whitfield had told a story about his father. His father, he said, had been strong willed and determined. His father always told him that he expected him to do well and travel far, but that no matter how well he did or how far he traveled, he also expected him to remember his roots. To that end, he’d named him after the place of his birth: Antilles.
Whitfield deliberated his response. I didn’t expect him to cave in, of course. People like him don’t get as far as they do without developing skins as thick as animal hide. But I hoped that—
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Dead wrong. Except for that brief meeting at Mrs. Goodfellowe’s house, I didn’t—”
“You did and the letter proves it.”
“This letter, this letter!” He balled up the page and threw it into the garbage. “It has nothing to do me. For all I know, you wrote it yourself.”
“You wrote it and you signed it using your middle name. It was easy to confirm that it’s your name. It’ll be even easier to prove that the handwriting is yours. Some people say that men like you want to be caught. I don’t believe that, but I do believe that vanity induces stupidity.”
“You’d do well to remember who I am.”
“Oh, I know who you are all right—and what you are. I also know that if you weren’t worried, then I wouldn’t be here.”
He leaned back and formed a teepee with his manicured fingertips. “How much? How much for the letter and to make you forget about this whole thing?”
“A lot. A whole lot—of information.”
“I won’t—”
“You can’t afford to refuse. Not only do I have this letter, but the will and the means to make sure that everybody reads it.”
His nostrils flared. “All right, all right. But I want the letter, the original, or else—”
“I can’t do that. It’s not mine to give.”
Understanding dawned. “I see. Ruth has it.”
“Ruth? You say you never met Esther, but you know her sister’s name?”
He realized his error. His voice was tight. “Fine. I had something to do with her.”
“An affair—”
“Yes, but I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“When did you first meet her?”
“Sometime that September.” He let it out a ragged breath, resentment poisoning every word. “Esther was sweet, but she wasn’t right for me. She was, you know….”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Talented … but ignorant.”
“And when did you decide that? Before or after?”
The look on his face just about made my day. “I really don’t give a damn what you think.”
“No, but your superiors do. So who ended it?”
“I did.”
That didn’t fit.
“When?”
“Late that October.”
“How did she take it?”
“She was upset, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I repeated.
His sour expression said he didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
“So what’s your alibi for the night she disappeared?” I asked.
“I don’t remember what day that was.”
I told him.
“I was busy,” he said.
“Not good enough.”
“It’ll have to be.”
No, no, no. “Let’s get something straight. Your name, your position—they mean nothing to me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another man who grew up twisted.”
His lips curled. “I’ll sue you if you ever print another word about me. I swear it.”
His arrogance was infuriating—and so naïve.
“Where were you on the night Esther disappeared?”
“Here, damn it. I was probably here. Working like a damn dog.”
“Probably?”
“I was here.”
This interview was over. I got up to go, but then paused. “That was a dumb play,” I said, “having your man attack me like that.”
“What?”
“Why deny it?”
He stood and planted his fists on his desk. “Madam, you obviously have a very wild imagination. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Good day, Mr. Whitfield.”
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
“Mrs. Price?”
“Yes?” Something in his tone made me stiffen.
“Forget about Hilda Coleman spying for you. I’ve fired her. As for that woman, that Miss Henry, I wouldn’t expect her future cooperation either. I really wouldn’t.”