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October 16th, 1924 The Hotel Ngaio
PAGE knocked peremptorily on the door to Matt’s suite to give him fair warning, then used her key to unlock it and sailed on in to his sitting room. Only to find he wasn’t alone and hadn’t even noticed her entrance. Then the man in a chair with his back to her, who must’ve heard her coming in even though Matt hadn’t, turned and stared at her with curiosity. And she realized it was the senior police officer who’d helped Matt out over a week ago, in nineteen twenty-one. Lt. Cross.
She managed to keep from blushing—what did the man think of her waltzing into Matt’s rooms in such a casual way? No doubt he’d noticed her key, which was still in her hand. Slipping that back into her clutch, she advanced with a smile and a nod for Cross and a scowl for her helper. She wasn’t about to be put on the defensive because of what that policeman might be thinking, so she went on offense. Against Matt.
“Why didn’t you say you were expecting company this evening?”
Her helper rose to his feet with admirable alacrity and introduced his guest properly. “Page, this is Lt. Cross of the NYPD. I’ve spoken to you about how he got me out of a couple jams in the past. Lt. Cross, this is Miss Page Reader. Co-owner with me of the Ngaio, though that’s not generally known.”
The senior policeman had also risen to his feet and now inclined his head toward her with respect. “It’s my pleasure to meet you properly at last, Miss Reader.” Cross was tall and thin and wiry, and his face was all smooth, hard angles. Somehow it made him look younger than he surely was.
Nodding in acknowledgment, she turned again to face Matt. “Why didn’t you invite me to this little conference? Something you didn’t want me to find out about?”
“Of course not.” He shook his head. “The lieutenant just stopped by for a friendly chat. We were discussing how the war on booze is going. I hadn’t thought you’d be interested in that.”
A likely story, as if a police officer in New York City had nothing better to do with his time. Swiveling her head to look the lieutenant in the eye, Page asked him straight out. “Is that right, you dropped in to talk to him about the progress of Prohibition, or the lack thereof?”
The glance Cross gave Matt was partly a rebuke and partly a look of amusement. Meeting her eyes, the man explained. “Well, I had just started to answer some questions he had about how Prohibition is being enforced these days—or rather how it isn’t—but that wasn’t why I’d stopped by.”
Just as she’d thought, and she could guess easily enough what had brought the man here. So Page strolled on into the room and sat in the chair opposite the lieutenant, putting Matt on her left, and the two men finally sat themselves back down. “Should I offer my condolences on your not having gotten a promotion yet, Lt. Cross?”
His chuckle was dry, but he seemed to be genuinely amused. “Congratulations for not getting demoted might be more appropriate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She gazed down at the bare surface of the coffee table sitting between them and shook her head. “I see Mr. Walker hasn’t even thought to offer you refreshment. Would you like a cup of tea? Something else? I can easily ring room service.” She gave Matt a withering glance.
The lieutenant shook his head. “I wasn’t planning on staying this long, and I probably shouldn’t remain much longer. But I appreciate your kind offer.”
Page nodded. “Then I’d better let you get right to why you came.”
Cross didn’t even look at Matt before he spoke, but he’d probably already told her helper. “I wanted to inform you both of what I found out about the incident you reported three years ago.” His expression turned to a puzzled frown. “You’ve been out of town a long time, the pair of you, and no one knew how to get in touch. But having heard that you had returned, I thought we’d better have a word.”
“My, that sounds ominous. But as you say, it’s been three years—if there was anything to be done, wouldn’t you have done it by now?” She had doubted the police would investigate at all, particularly as Matt had only written the lieutenant a letter, so she was surprised something had seemingly come of it.
The lieutenant nodded. “Without either of you around to file a formal complaint, there was no official investigation. It wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway. But I poked into the matter myself, and after I tell you what I’ve found, I’ll have done all I can do.”
Page took a deep breath, which helped her soften her attitude. “Thank you for taking the trouble to look into what happened. I hadn’t expected even that much, and I’m grateful.”
He shook his head. “I only wish there was more I could do, but at least I can give you both a word of warning. Or two.”
Matt sighed dramatically and butted in. “Stop being mysterious and just tell us. It was the lawyer Hawthorne who wanted me roughed up, wasn’t it? But why?” Apparently Page had arrived before the lieutenant could deliver his news.
Cross leaned back in the chair, his face now serious. “Hawthorne was detained by a meeting with a client running over, and he didn’t show up at that address until twenty minutes or so after you’d fled. I was able to confirm that.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
The police officer interrupted Matt’s comment with an authoritative tone. “I did discover who had hired those goons to attack you, and it wasn’t Hawthorne. It was that Riggleston ‘the second’ you had told me about before.”
Frowning, Page intervened. “But even knowing who was behind it, there’s nothing you can do?” If Riggleston had gone to such lengths twice trying to settle a score with Matt, he might still be holding a grudge even now. Would her helper always have to look over his shoulder because of that man? Not if she had anything to say about it.
Lt. Cross took a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. “With someone of Riggleston’s standing, I would need some solid evidence, and while I got a friend of one of those delinquents to tell me about it off the record, he won’t say it so they’ll know.”
Page looked to Matt for clarification, and he explained. “The kid won’t testify in court.”
Nodding, the lieutenant continued. “And those hooligans would never confess themselves, even if I had the evidence to pin it on them, because they’re Lucky’s boys now. He’d take care of them, and they know it.”
She didn’t understand what he’d meant by that and probably didn’t want to know, so she didn’t ask either man to elucidate. “It’s better than what I had hoped for, and at least now we know the truth.” She only had to figure out what to do about it.
Cross shook his head. “I should’ve been able to do more. I did have a word with Riggleston though—to let him know I knew. Maybe that will keep him from trying anything again, but I can’t say whether it will or not, so watch your back.” He looked right at Matt as he said that last. “If I heard you two are back in town, surely he has as well.”
Page supposed it was too much to be hoped the man had drunk himself into an early grave or gambled himself into the poorhouse. “I’m certain Matt will be careful.” But she wasn’t sure of that at all.
Still, the lieutenant didn’t look as if he were preparing to go. “One other thing I need to say. I understand you donated a considerable sum to Hawthorne’s charity?”
She nodded. “And after we got back into town, Matt started volunteering for them. Poking around because of his suspicions, which we now know were unfounded, which explains why nobody’s bothered to attack him there.” Believing his skepticism to be groundless, she hadn’t objected to his helping out, since those poor immigrants could certainly use it, so he hadn’t been wasting his time. And it had likely kept him out of trouble.
Cross didn’t look pleased to hear it though. “It would probably be best if he stopped exercising his curiosity. While there seems to be nothing but suspicion behind Washington’s interest in Hawthorne, some of the immigrants involved in the charity have ties to known radicals.” He turned and gave Matt a stern look. “We’re helping keep an eye on them, so we don’t need you playing amateur sleuth.”
Tapping her toe, Page considered adding an order of her own to that effect, but she didn’t want to do that in front of the lieutenant. And it could wait. Matt had done his volunteer work for today already, and she would have plenty of opportunity to speak to him before he went back to the warehouse on the Lower East Side. So she simply offered an oblique comment in his direction. “Now that we know Riggleston was behind the incident three years ago, it’s clear there isn’t any real reason for you to continue.” And she had already decided to donate more to the charity, and they’d appreciate the money more.
Cross looked like he wanted to say more, but if so, he apparently decided against it. “I thought you should know.”
She smiled at him. “Thank you for stopping by and informing us. And though I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time, Matt was wrong when he intimated I wouldn’t be interested in what you have to say about the ongoing efforts to enforce Prohibition.” She turned toward her helper. “But I think you can catch me up on what the lieutenant’s already told you, so I know what questions I might want to ask.” And let him get out of that.
He grinned in response. “I don’t think there’s a whole lot to tell. So many people brazenly flout the law now that they had to come up with a new word for them—scofflaws. The governor signed a repeal of New York State’s law enforcing Prohibition, probably because it wasn’t working anyway. But the feds are ramping up their efforts, according to Lt. Cross, so we should stay away from speakeasies.”
Apparently the two had discussed the topic, but glancing around, it was clear Matt must’ve cleaned up the place. So he’d known Cross was coming and hadn’t told her. And probably minutes after they’d left, he would manage to turn his rooms into a mess again, but as things stood it wasn’t her concern.
The lieutenant looked grim. “Best to stay away from bootleg liquor altogether. Demand for drinks has increased to the point there’s not sufficient supply to meet it, so some unscrupulous sorts have begun adding wood grain alcohol to their booze from industrial sources such as paint thinner. So it goes farther. And you wouldn’t want to drink any by accident.”
Matt looked horrified. “Methanol is extremely poisonous. What are they trying to do, kill off their customers?”
“As long as they can make a quick buck, I’m not sure they mind. But they dilute it and cook it, so it only occasionally blinds, maims, or kills somebody. Hundreds in the New York area alone. Thousands around the country. You must’ve heard.”
Page decided she’d heard enough and besides, she had things she needed to do. Standing and giving Cross a polite nod, she turned to her helper. “I won’t need your assistance this evening, so feel free to continue your conversation with the lieutenant—or since he probably has better things to do, stay in and play with your radio.” She didn’t need or want Matt coming along, considering what she’d decided to do.
Strolling out of the sitting room, she could feel the two men’s eyes on her back all the way until she had closed the door behind her. Thankfully neither knew what was in her head, or they surely would’ve tried to stop her. Since she was determined to deal with Riggleston on her own.
She considered strategies as she descended the stairs to the lobby, and by the time she was outside and letting the doorman hail her a taxi, she’d decided she didn’t know enough about the man to formulate tactics. Not in advance. The first thing she had to do was find out where he was.
That would mean canvassing hotels to find out where he was staying or someone who knew where that was, but at least she didn’t have to walk. Probably the driver thought she was nuts when she had him take her just half a block down the street to another hotel, but he was grateful enough for the fare to not care. Not knowing how long it might take to investigate sufficiently to know whether or not Riggleston was there, she dismissed the driver and entered the lobby wondering how much of a tip would be required to find out what she wanted to learn. It would be easy enough to get another cab assuming she didn’t discover that here. And she didn’t.
Soon she was taking a taxi a block south to the Algonquin. Neither Riggleston nor the people who moved in his circle would stay at anything less than a luxury hotel, so that limited the number of places she would have to check. But not that much.
Still, the man had to be in Manhattan and probably in Midtown, so she started with the hotels she knew about in the area confident she could find his sorry self that evening. After a couple hours searching though, she’d turned skeptical.
Alighting from her latest cab in front of the Circle, she added another driver to a long list of those who looked on her quite favorably, however eccentric they thought her, determined to make the spot her final stop for the night, the last luxury hotel she would try. Until tomorrow.
Page followed the routine she’d honed through the evening. Not wanting to alert Riggleston to the fact she was searching for him, she drifted into the lobby and mingled, chatting amiably as she looked for a natural way to drop the man’s name into conversation and see if that led anywhere. All the while keeping her eyes open for an approachable employee. One who could and would confirm Riggleston’s residence in the establishment, if he were there.
Strolling around the vast, bustling lobby of the Circle, she nodded at the familiar faces of those she assumed she’d been introduced to, as well as smiling strangers, and spoke to any who seemed amenable to a little light conversation. So many, in such a profusion of high-end hotels, was a consequence of the booming economy and the apparent fad among the well-heeled to spend all their money having fun. Of course she appreciated having lavishly appointed rooms herself, staff paid to see to her needs, and an excellent dining room with a talented chef. And in places like this there were ballrooms with bands to play music all night long. It was truly a party atmosphere, here especially.
Of course neither this hotel nor any of the others she’d visited served alcohol themselves, but still it flowed freely everywhere she looked. And the celebrations continued, unhampered by sobriety.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a young bellhop coming up to her with a grin on his face. “Anything I can get you, Miss?” And he winked.
No doubt he was offering to procure a drink for her, for some suitable remuneration. A regular entrepreneur, and there were thousands just like him in Manhattan alone, but she didn’t want to encourage his breaking the law. Even if everyone seemed to be getting away with it. Hopefully he’d be ready to earn some money another way though.
Smiling back at him, Page pulled a twenty from her clutch and slipped it to the boy. “You could get me some information. I’m searching for someone, and if he’s here and you can tell me his room number, it’s worth another twenty.”
“So what’s this one for?”
She nodded. “For checking to see.” Clearly the kid wanted to do something to earn what she’d given him, which was heartening.
“Alright. What’s his name?”
“Riggleston. He calls himself ‘the second’, and proba—” She cut herself off as she saw the expression on the boy’s face. “You know him?” She took a second twenty from her bag.
“Of course I do. He’s staying on the sixth floor—” He scrunched his face, apparently to aid an attempt at recall. “Room 644.” The boy took the bill, then shook his head at her. “But, Lady, you can do a lot better than that guy.” Then he dove back into the crowd, no doubt searching for other opportunities to make a buck.
Page worked her way over to the elevator, subduing a flutter in her stomach as she went. She had no reason to be afraid of Riggleston. He was a coward who’d paid people to harass Matt. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her, particularly not in a public place such as this, and she could always stab him in self-defense if he tried. No, her difficulty was figuring out how to protect her helper from the man.
So she needed to scare him. To find a threat so powerful she could be sure he wouldn’t pursue any indirect attacks against Matt. She wasn’t sure what would accomplish that though. The way Riggleston behaved made her doubt he could be shamed, especially in this era where everyone seemed to be flouting not only the law but traditional social mores. It would have to go right to the heart of what the man valued, and she couldn’t guess what that would be, unless it was money. He would hold dear those resources that allowed him his life of leisure.
Unfortunately, Page had no idea how she could threaten his finances, and she wasn’t sure how she would find a way. Her banker might know, but she didn’t think he would tell her. And she didn’t trust Hawthorne enough. It was too bad her lawyer Hollingsworth was still eighty years in the future. The man was intelligent and creative and could certainly come up with something. But as he wasn’t here, she would have to figure out how to hobble Riggleston herself.
She rode up to the sixth floor in a packed elevator with a group of people who were merely moving their celebrations from the lounge to a higher location. And stepping out into the sixth floor corridor, she found it lined with even more partiers. Mostly couples leaning against the walls, talking and smoking and drinking champagne. So if it came to that, Page could probably just scream rather than resort to stabbing the man.
Her strategy, such as it was, was simply to confront Riggleston and hope he gave her a clue, pointed her in the direction of what he feared she might do. If her threats were vague, perhaps he would fill in the blanks himself.
Even if he only did so in his own mind, it could be enough, but she hoped he’d blurt out something she could use, so she’d know how to destroy him if she had to. For Matt’s sake.
Threading her way through the partygoers, she was wondering whether she could rely on that bellhop’s memory and what she would do if it were the wrong room she went to, when the door to 644 flew open and a woman came careening out. Holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lit cancer stick and a wad of bills in the other, she was wearing one of the worst examples of flapper fashion—a negligible white sheath with fringes which was little more than a negligée. Then Page recognized the woman under the heavy makeup as Miranda Masters. Who had come out of Riggleston’s room.
Page remembered the woman sitting by herself at a table for two in the Algonquin the same day she had dined there with Hawthorne and ran into Riggleston. Miranda must’ve been there with him. So she might be a useful source of information.
Intercepting the woman as she stumbled along the corridor, Page saw she was seriously sloshed. It should make it easier to get answers. “Miranda. It’s been ages. Imagine meeting you here of all places. Where are you headed?”
The woman frowned. “You.” Then she glanced around as if looking for something. “He sent me to get more booze.”
“I think you’ve had enough already. Why don’t you let me buy you a cup of coffee and we can catch up on old times? Let Riggleston wait.”
Miranda squinted back. “Sure. I could do with a cup o’ joe. As long as you make it Irish.”
Ignoring that last, Page took the woman by the elbow and guided her to the elevator. “Is he throwing a party in his room or something?”
The laugh she got in reply was more of a harsh bark. “Or something! Old Riggles really knows how to have a good time.”
That would depend on how you defined a good time, and Page didn’t imagine she’d enjoy anything which involved that man in any capacity. Then the elevator dinged, the doors opened, and she maneuvered Miranda in, past the operator dipping his hat at them. “Ground floor, please.” A couple minutes later she was tipping the man.
Propelling the other woman out, Page was trying to steer her toward the lobby when she ran into the helpful bellhop again. Another twenty had him racing off to bring back two black coffees. “But she wants hers Irish,” she added to the boy’s departing back. She knew what that was now, but she wasn’t going to try to make Miranda’s choices for her. Besides, though Page wanted the woman alert enough to answer questions—and the caffeine in the coffee would help with that—Miranda’s tongue would likely be looser if she remained inebriated.
Sitting down on a small sofa well out of the way of the crowd, Page pulled Miranda down beside her and stared into the woman’s bloodshot eyes. “You used to seem so cool and in control. I must say I’m surprised to have found you in this state. And with Riggleston.”
“What? He’s got enough money to show a girl a good time, and he does.” Miranda made an effort to focus her eyes. “Anyway, life is boring, so I find my kicks where I can.”
Page could only shake her head. Boring? For a lot of people, especially the poor, it could be quite a struggle, but how could life ever be dull? Demanding and rewarding to different degrees—depending in part on the work you did and how well you liked it—but there was always something interesting. All the various people you interacted with, and for the ones who could afford hobbies or travel, the opportunity to find satisfaction outside of a job. And for people like Miranda, no need to work and plenty of time and resources to enjoy life in ways more edifying than getting wasted with the likes of Riggleston.
The bellhop returned then, a cup and saucer in either hand, and presented them their coffees with a grin before darting off to serve someone else. Page took a careful sip of hers to make sure she’d gotten the right one. Miranda was blowing on hers to cool it down.
“Surely you don’t need Riggleston to show you a good time? You must have the money to enjoy life on your own dime.”
The woman stopped blowing on her coffee and glared at Page. “I don’t have any funds to speak of. A small allowance from my father is all.”
“I suppose getting a job is out of the question?” And by the expression on Miranda’s face, apparently it was. “What about finding a husband?”
“Why? My father pays all my bills as it is, every boutique and restaurant. I doubt a husband would be any more generous. Likely he’d pay closer attention to how I spend his money. And my time. And he’d surely lay down similarly stupid rules.”
Page was perplexed. “If your father pays for all your clothes and dining out and gives you an allowance on top of that, what else do you want?”
Miranda snorted. “What my father gives me is not enough to really party on—what he likes to call ‘debauchery’.”
“And I assume Riggleston is happy to waste his money on you. Have you asked yourself why?” The man certainly had no problem being debauched, or debauching others.
Squinting as if she only dimly understood what Page was asking, Miranda’s answer was aggressive. “Why wouldn’t he spend it on me? He wastes plenty wagering on horses—at least he gets a return on his investment with me.”
“He’d be better off saving something for the future.” Maybe she could get him to put all his money in the stock market. But she’d still have to wait a few years for that to wipe out his finances.
Miranda shut her eyes tight, then opened them again and seemed slightly more lucid. And she had yet to take a sip of her coffee. “He doesn’t need to. His dad set up some sort of trust for him. He can’t touch the principal, but he’s guaranteed a fat check every quarter.” She swayed, listed to one side then righted herself. Without spilling anything. Any liquid, anyway. “What’s he going to do but spend it?”
The woman was clearly in no condition to hear the answer to that, and Page wanted answers to her own questions. She hoped Miranda was capable of comprehending them. “A trust? My income comes from a trust too.” But she saved all she didn’t need and compounded the interest. Even if she kept giving a lot away, by the time she got back to the twenty-first century, she’d probably have more than she would know what to do with. “The bank takes care of that. Who handles Riggleston’s trust? Perhaps a bank as well? Or a lawyer? Or don’t you know?”
Miranda blinked and finally took a sip of coffee—without any noticeable effect. “Sure, I know. The old man’s lawyer set up the trust.” She blinked. “I don’t remember his name, though.”
Having caught a nibble, Page still sought some useful information and kept angling for it. “So this lawyer handles the trust? But Riggleston probably goes to a bank, to cash his check if not receive it.”
The woman’s eyes opened wide. “Now that you mention it, he doesn’t get an actual check at all. The money just moves from the trust into his account.”
“Sounds like the bank handles the financial end of things. Do you remember which bank?”
“Sure, it’s U.S. National. Or American State, or that kind of thing. Anyway, it ended with the word ‘bank’.” She giggled as she took another sip of coffee and almost choked. “Now, you clearly need me to tell you how to have a good time...”
But Page tuned out the woman’s words. Could it be that Riggleston’s trust was administered by the American International State Bank? The same one which handled the Travelers’ Trust? Unlikely, but it would be someplace to start. She knew the manager there. Difficult to get a banker like Mr. Douglass to talk, but she could try. If that didn’t work, there might be another way to get the information.