I spent that morning on the phone, double-checking the names of people at two social gatherings I’d missed. A couple of sources also phoned in with information about an affair between the married director and unmarried ingénue of a play …
Then I took a call from the manager of the Savoy Ballroom. He wanted to give me an update on their bathing beauty ball and contest. This would be the second year in which the Savoy held the events. The previous year had been a rousing success, and this year’s looked like it would be too. They were turning the dancehall into a jungle, to bolster the atmosphere. More than two hundred woman had already entered the contest, I was told. Starting in late July, and every Saturday night in August, some forty to fifty young women in bathing suits would parade up and down before an audience. The whole thing would culminate in a ball in early September. Prizes included up to five hundred dollars in cash.
I hung up the phone thinking that everybody was running a beauty contest these days. They were guaranteed moneymakers, almost always pulling in large crowds. More significantly, they served the social benefit of reaf-firming the beauty of colored women, something that had been ignored and disparaged for way too long.
I finished typing up the column and handed it in. Then I set about doing what was really on my mind.
I ran downstairs to the newsstand on the corner and bought a copy of the New York Daily News. I headed out without my coat, thinking I wouldn’t need it for a two-minute errand. But the short spell in the frigid wind was enough to chill me to the bone, and the building lobby was unheated.
By the time I returned to my desk, my teeth were chattering so hard my jaw hurt. I flipped the paper open to the personal classifieds and ran an index finger down the columns. At the top of the third column, two ads down, I found what I was looking for: We are ready. Signed, Margie Winthrop.
I closed the paper and thought about it. If I told Sam, he’d probably just ask me to share the news with Selena. Despite our little talk and reconciliation, I still felt the need for caution.
Speak of the devil. I glanced up and saw her walking past, holding a coffee cup. She must’ve sensed me looking at her, because she slowed down, turned, and retraced her steps to my desk. She peeked down at the newspaper and asked, “What’ve you got there?”
“A newspaper.”
Her eyes went from me to the paper, and back again.
“Is there something in there I should know about?”
“How about everything?”
“You saying you think I’m ignorant?”
“Oh no, Selena. I would never say that.”
She put a hand on her hip. “If there’s anything in that paper that’s got to do with the Black Orchid, then it’s got to do with me.”
She had good instincts, I had to give her that.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If you think there’s something in this paper about the story, then you find it.” I handed it to her. “I’ve got better things to do.”
I smiled politely and waited for her to go away. It took her a moment, but she left. Then I happened to glance down Sam’s way, felt his eyes on me. I smiled at him and gave a nod, as if to say, Don’t worry, I’m playing nice with her. Apparently satisfied, Sam nodded in return, then returned his attention to whatever was on his desk.
Selena was back at her desk, nose deep in the newspaper. Excellent instincts. If only she’d use them to dig up her own stories instead of waiting for Sam to toss her one of mine.
Certain that the coast was clear, I picked up the phone and put a call through to the Bernards. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Dr. Bernard was in no mood to talk. He said he wanted to keep the lines clear and hung up. I was disappointed, but didn’t argue.
For several minutes, I sat there wondering how to proceed. The ring of my phone brought me back to reality.
It was Sheila. She was excited and frightened. “Mrs. Price, another letter arrived just now. This one’s addressed to you and me.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. They want us to go to the Mercer Hotel. You know it?”
“The one on 145th Street?”
“Uh-huh. We’re supposed to register there at six o’clock tonight. And sign in as Anne and Alice Martin. Then we’re supposed to wait for them to contact us.” She paused. “There’s something else, a note. It’s from Billy, written by him. I’ll read it to you.”
“Okay.”
“It says, I am alive, but they know about me. They say they don’t like people like me. My hand hurts. They say they’ll do other things to me, then kill me, if they’re not paid. So, please do what they say.”
“You sure it’s him?”
“I recognize his handwriting.”
“What does Junior say?”
“Junior?” Sheila repeated. “Oh, yes! Well, he’s not back yet. But he called today. He’s—he had trouble with his train.”
“What does your father say?”
She paused before answering. “He doesn’t know.”
I leaned on my desk and dropped my voice. “Doesn’t know?”
“They were out when it came. I just happened to be here.”
“And you’re not going to tell them?”
She was silent a moment. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Please, don’t make me explain. Just trust me. You can’t say anything, not to anyone. Not to them and not to the police—especially not the police.”
“Sheila, I have to.”
“Please!” Her voice became a ragged cry. “I’m begging you. Don’t say a word. Just do this with me. Come and don’t say a word.”
I thought about it. “I’ll have to tell my editor.”
“No, you—”
“Sheila, it would be foolish to run off and do this without letting someone know where we are or what we’re up to.”
“But what if he—”
“Don’t worry. He won’t.”
There was a pause and then a long sigh. “All right.”
“What about the ransom?” I asked.
“I’ll get it. Just be there, tonight, alone.”
“I will.”
There was soft click and she was gone.
“Who was that?”
I straightened up to find Selena standing behind me.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did that have to do with the Black Orchid kidnapping? I bet it did, didn’t it?” She took a step toward me and wagged a finger under my nose. “Sam told me you’d try to sneak something past me.”
“He did no such thing.” Pointedly ignoring her, I pulled open a drawer, fetched a fresh steno pad, and slipped it into my purse. “Just because Sam gave you the Black Orchid story doesn’t mean you have the right to watch everything I do.” I shrugged into my coat. “Now, I suggest you go do your job and let me do mine.”
Before she could answer, I grabbed my purse and walked out. I had a bag to pack. I was a block from my home when it hit me: I had forgotten to leave a message for Sam.