Imogen made ineffectual gestures while Marty rushed across the room to meet Phil, who had jumped from her chair. They shooed Imogen out of the way and eased Roz back onto the couch, Marty lifting Roz’s feet and Phil placing a velvet throw pillow beneath her head.
“Tuttle, send for Elmira and my smelling salts,” Bev ordered, and headed to the drinks table for the brandy.
“Really, Martha,” Mrs. Abernathy said, “how could you rush in like a common newsboy and announce something so offensive?”
“Who is Tommy Green?” asked the deputy mayor’s wife.
“Some reporter with the Times,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “Always loitering around the Hall pestering men trying to go about their business.”
“More than a pest to some,” Marty said under her breath. “Nemesis is more like it.” Her eyes blazed, and Roz slipped her hand into Marty’s.
“Really,” Mrs. Abernathy continued, “why they let this riffraff run free among decent people is beyond me. The press. Good riddance, I say.”
So even Mrs. Abernathy knew who Tommy Green was. And had an opinion, one that might push Marty into doing something extremely unladylike. Phil stepped in between the two women.
Roz began to rouse; at the same time Bev’s maid, Elmira, arrived with the smelling salts, and Bev handed a glass of brandy to the prostrate woman.
Roz waved both away. “I do apologize. I haven’t been myself lately.”
Mrs. Abernathy and Imogen Trout nodded knowingly to each other.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Abernathy, trying to supplant Bev, Marty, and Phil from around the couch. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself. I’ll take you home. I think our business is finished for today.”
Phil didn’t miss the stricken look Roz cast Marty.
Bev came to the rescue. “Absolutely not. She can’t go out into the cold in her weakened state. She’ll stay right here and have some warm broth. I’ll telephone to Jarvis and tell him he can pick her up here when he’s finished for the day.”
“It’s no—”
Bev plowed on. “But you’re absolutely right. I think we can adjourn for the afternoon. Thank you all so much for taking time from your busy schedules to volunteer for such a worthy cause. Tuttle will show you out. Elmira, ask Cook to send up some hot broth.”
“It is getting late,” said Mrs. Abernathy, who seemed almost relieved at not having to cope with the swooning Roz. “I do have plans, but I hate to leave her here. Oh, not here in your parlor, Bev, but just what will Jarvis say?”
“You’ll call Jarvis right away,” Imogen drawled. “He does worry.”
“He’ll be glad she’s being taken care of, I assure you,” Bev said at her most condescending.
Imogen leaned over the couch and said in a low voice. “Roz, will you be okay if we leave you?”
She sounded sincere enough, but Roz involuntarily shrunk back. “Perfectly, dear Imogen. I’m better now.”
Better, maybe, but not at ease—one might even think she was frightened.
“Ladies,” Bev said.
And Phil turned to watch in wonder as Bev—iconoclast, fast-living modern woman who mercilessly flouted rules and decorum—usurped the meeting with the finesse of the dowager that Phil was and showed the women into the foyer, where Tuttle and a footman were waiting with coats and muffs.
When the door closed behind them, Phil turned to her friend. “I’m amazed.”
“Oh hell, Phil, I did learn a thing or two in all those years at finishing school. Just because I don’t choose to use them is a whole other thing.”
“Thanks, Bev.” Roz raised herself to a sitting position and finally took the brandy that Marty was still holding. She gulped a healthy swig down and shuddered. “I’ve made a fool of myself. Again. But oh, Marty, tell me it isn’t true?”
Phil frowned and looked more closely at Roz as something niggled at the back of her mind.
“It’s true,” Marty said. “Tommy is dead. I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but I was so beside myself. I couldn’t get away from the paper because the police were there, because evidently there is some question as to how and where and why he died. Not that it matters, because they’re not going to do one damn thing about it.”
“Tell us what happened,” Bev said.
“Charlie Miller came down to deliver a diatribe on what he would do if he found out anyone was leaking anything about what Tommy was working on. Then he and Carr went off, and when Carr came back, he yelled at Sydney for not running a tighter ship. I don’t give two cents for Sydney, but I don’t see how it could be his fault. Then Harriet Wells, who had just come back after a day off, tossed her lunch right there on the newsroom floor—sorry, a journalist’s curse, too descriptive.”
But very illuminating, Phil thought. Atkins must have corroborated her story and gone straight to the Times building. Had she put Harriet in danger? She’d been careful not to mention her.
Marty sank down next to Roz. “He always told me to watch my back, not take any time or place for granted. Why wasn’t he careful?”
Phil was surprised to see tears in Marty’s eyes. She motioned Bev to the far side of the room.
“I understand that Marty was Tommy Green’s protégée,” Phil said. “But how does Roz know him?”
“Not the foggiest,” Bev said, looking worried. “But whatever it is, it can’t be good. Tongues will wag starting with Mrs. Abernathy and Imogen Trout. They were already giving each other the look.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Bev continued. “I let myself be dragged in and I dragged you in, too. Anyway, this is the last meeting, and when the ball is over, we’ll wash our hands of it and do our own charity drive next year.”
Marty and Roz sat close together on the settee, their heads together in low conversation.
Marty’s voice rose stridently. “They killed him and I’m going to find out who did it.”
“Oh dear,” Bev said. “Let’s see if we can help.”
Phil and Bev pulled up chairs and sat down facing Roz and Marty.
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” Phil said. “Did they say how he was killed?”
Marty bared her teeth in an absolutely feral expression of anger. “They refused to say. Only that there was some discrepancy and it was being investigated. But when I asked your detective sergeant what it was, he merely said it wasn’t his jurisdiction and that the proper authorities were looking into the matter. So why did he bother to come at all? And why hasn’t anyone else?”
She glared at Phil as if she expected her to know the answer, and although Phil did, she wasn’t about to divulge it.
“I don’t care if Sydney killed the story, I will continue Tommy’s investigation and find his killer if it’s the last thing I do.”
Bev sighed. “In all your free time, between balls, soirées, the opera, and—”
“Sydney killed the story?” Phil asked.
“Yeah, because no one could find Tommy’s notes and it would be old news before another reporter—not me but one of his drinking buddies—gets in gear.”
“That’s so unfair,” Bev said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll do it somehow. Tommy was too smart to be taken unawares by some two-bit crook. It had to be something big.” Marty jumped up and strode to the window. Turned back to the others.
And Phil saw the same investigative fever that she herself often felt.
But they didn’t need two separate investigations working at cross-purposes. And she didn’t need Marty Rive interfering in something that might get her killed, too.
“I have a better idea,” Bev said.
Marty zeroed in on Bev. Bev zeroed in on Phil.
“Really, Bev, you think Lady Dunbridge could do better than I can?”
“Well, actually,” Bev said. “Yes. And she has more time than you.”
Phil cut a warning look to Bev, who ignored it. Phil would have to remind her to hold her tongue. If Phil intended to keep her reputation for discretion intact, she would have to make it perfectly clear to Bev she was not to be a subject of discussion with anyone, even good old school chums.
“Maybe we should leave it to the police,” Roz ventured.
Marty turned on her full force. “They’re all crooks. They’ll either fail to investigate, grab some poor Italian off the street and arrest him, or if it turns out to be someone of importance or they lose interest, they’ll turn a blind eye. Won’t they, Lady Dunbridge?”
So now she was Lady Dunbridge again. “Some, but I have faith that there are a few good men left on the force.”
“Then you’re hopelessly naïve.”
Hardly, thought Phil. But Marty Rive was a loose cannon. Phil had never really thought about what that term meant until now. It could wreck everything. Unless she somehow convinced Marty to let her handle the investigation, which seemed unlikely. Marty was out for vengeance.
“Lady Dunbridge, can you find Tommy’s murderer?” Roz asked in such a small voice that it silenced them all.
“Roz. May I call you Roz?”
Roz nodded in short little jerks.
“Bev may have misled you somewhat. I’m no detective.” Not admittedly anyway.
“Malarkey, Phil.”
“Bev, please.”
“Yes, Bev,” added Marty. “Please.”
“I’m afraid Bev has been a little overenthusiastic.” Phil shot Bev a look that warned her not to say a word.
“Everyone knows you saved Bev from jail and discovered Reggie’s real murderer,” Roz said.
True, perhaps, but Phil was not about to acknowledge it. “I walked off the ship and into Bev standing over Reggie dead in the back seat of his Packard. I merely gave Bev what support I could.”
Marty raised an eyebrow. “What about the Pratts?”
The Pratts? How did she know about that? Not even Bev knew the particulars of that situation, being conveniently abroad at the time. “I was merely a friend helping a friend in need.”
“Well, then, you can be a friend in need to Roz and me,” Marty said. “Tommy was no fool. He knew who to pay to get information and who to protect his back. They’re trying to pass this off on the Black Hand, which as far as I’m concerned doesn’t even exist.”
“They do exist,” Roz said. “Whether they’re organized or not, people are getting hurt—and killed.”
“Oh, Roz. Any hooligan who has to sign his threats with pictures is not part of some widespread organization of crime. They’d do better going after the Sicilian Mafia; every indication is that they’re consolidating their power with an idea of moving into the States.”
This was news to Phil. Marty was a wealth of information, and would be an excellent source of the news. Unfortunately, Phil didn’t think she would share without getting something in return.
“It seems to me,” Phil said, “that the main thing here is to find out what really happened to Tommy Green.”
“Why are you interested?” Marty asked. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t.” Not in the classic sense of the word. “And I have to wonder, Roz … how on earth do you know him?”
Roz shrugged slightly. “Everybody knows Tommy.”
Phil looked to Bev, who looked clueless. “I don’t.”
“Sure you do,” Roz said. “He photographed the ground-breaking ceremony for the new police headquarters. The mayor and Jarvis and Mr. Trout all wielding shovels while the wives stood looking on admiringly.”
“After overspending several million dollars,” Marty added.
“Why would I remember that?” Bev asked.
“Because you were there when he came up and asked if I would like him to send me a copy for my scrapbook, and you thought it was so odd that he would think to do that.”
“Oh yes,” Bev said. “It gave me hope you were becoming more democratic in your choice of friends.” She cut a look toward Phil. “He was a bit of a lowlife.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Roz said. “He just fit in with the people. Cared about them. That was what made him such a good reporter, isn’t it, Marty?”
“Yes. He was, if you’ll pardon the newsroom language, a damn good reporter. Damn good.” Marty seemed to deflate. “Oh, Tommy. What did you get yourself into?”
A reminiscent smile flitted across Roz’s lips. “I first met him when I won a citywide grammar-school poetry contest. I think I was in fifth grade. He must have been just starting out because he was covering the award ceremony. I just remembered that. They gave me a trophy that was so big I could barely carry it.”
Alarm bells sounded in Phil’s mind. A young girl, a big trophy, a photograph in Tommy’s apartment.
“I kept that trophy until I married Jarvis. I can’t explain it. Tommy was rough and uncouth, but he was always friendly in a not-always-friendly world. He always tipped his hat to me, smiled, not encroaching or anything. He never pushed for inside information. Not like the others. It can be pretty solitary being a politician’s wife. When everyone is done asking favors, you’re pretty much on your own.”
Marty huffed out a breath. “He was a pain and a half, but he was a good reporter. And a good friend.” She laughed, a dry sound that threatened to tumble into grief.
“Well, Phil?” Bev said. “You can’t let Roz and Marty down.”
Phil felt the frisson of chase fever rise in her blood. She had every intention of investigating. And Roz and Marty just gave her the excuse she needed to poke around at the newspaper for Tommy’s notes.
“I always try to be supportive of my friends, and I hope you will consider me as one.”
Roz nodded.
Marty gave a begrudging half-shrug. “I can pay.”
“I can, too,” Roz said doubtfully. “Perhaps not all at once. Jarvis is very frugal—and I wouldn’t want it to come out that I was involved. They’re planning to run Jarvis for mayor in the next election, and he can’t have any scandal associated with his name.”
“He’s a tightfisted scoundrel, but you don’t have to get involved,” Marty spat out. “I’ll pay whatever you need to retain your services.”
“Phil would never charge to help a friend, would you, Phil?” Bev said.
“Certainly not.”
“But you mustn’t tell anyone.” Roz templed her hands like a child’s plea. “If it got out I’d hired a detective…”
“Of course not.” Phil’s reputation depended on it. “And I’m not a detective, just a friend. But if you’re worried, the police…” Will keep you out of my hair while I do investigate.
“No!” Roz bleated.
“Forget the police,” Marty said, giving her friend an odd look. “The lives of reporters are not worth much. They’ll ‘look into it,’ find nothing, and then let it die. It happens all the time. Tommy Green deserves more than that. We all do.”
A few minutes later, Bev closed the door on Roz and Marty and leaned back against it. “Sorry I got you into this mess.”
“No, you’re not. You volunteered me.”
“True, and I’ll reward you with another holiday cocktail I’ve invented.” Bev breezed past her.
“What is it this time?”
“Schnapps and coffee liqueur and—”
“Say no more. It sounds like afternoon tea at the Hotel Sacher.”
“Just what I was going for,” Bev said blithely, and flounced over to the drinks cabinet where Tuttle was waiting to assist.
Once the drinks were poured into glasses, sprigs of mint gracing the edges and the aroma of peppermint filling the air, Tuttle left them, and Phil got down to business.
“Well?” she asked, regaining her breath from the potent mixture. “Just what have you gotten me into?”
“Me? I didn’t, did I?”
“You know full well you did.” And that it fit into Phil’s own plans was a bonus, something she didn’t need to tell Bev.
“I suppose you’ll have to help them now.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up.” Phil hated having to keep things from Bev. But Bev was too much of a free spirit, too enthusiastic and devil-may-care to trust with life-and-death information. Phil was all those things, but she had a finely honed sense of self-preservation. She’d had to in order to survive the shark-infested waters of London high society.
And her success had made her singularly qualified to deal with the plights of Manhattan’s high society. And as for the Black Hand, it was nothing compared to the wrath of a spurned duchess, disappointed prince regent, or a Manhattan hostess.
Bev slipped off her shoes and sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs beneath the folds of her silk skirts. She took a sip of her drink, made a face. “Needs some fine adjustments, I think.”
Phil put her glass down on the side table. “Bev, I’ll need some information, but first, call Tuttle to get rid of this chewable cocktail. I need something dry so I can think.”
Bev happily agreed. “Tuttle, my peppermint cocktail was a dismal failure. Would you mix us two dry—very dry—martinis?”
Tuttle nodded and, whisking the glasses away, strode to the drinks cabinet.
While they waited, Bev fell into silence, and Phil fell into rumination. She was either having a brilliant insight or else the fumes of her drink were impairing her thoughts.
A reporter investigating an organized crime ring; two women on a committee made up of the wives of the city’s biggest politicians and businessmen asking her to investigate.
It appeared that she would have to expand her search beyond the Black Hand.
“Phil, have you thought of something?”
“I need to know more about Roz and Marty. I understand why Marty feels as she does about Tommy Green’s murder, but Roz … You say her parents pulled her out of college.”
“Yes, and the next we heard she was engaged to Jarvis Chandler.”
“He’s quite a bit older than she,” Phil said. “Who exactly is he?”
“Building commissioner for the city, powerful both at City Hall and Tammany. Also very thick with Imogen’s husband, Samuel Trout. Real-estate mogul who owns a good portion of lower Manhattan.”
“A convenient friendship,” Phil said.
Bev shrugged. “The only reason I know any of this is because Reggie, when he wasn’t totally involved in his horses, tinkered with the idea of buying up property. A notion I’m glad to say evaporated when he won his first race.
“Horses are so much more interesting than land and buildings, don’t you think? Oh, thank you, Tuttle,” Bev said, taking a glass from the quietly appearing butler.
“You mean going to the races is more interesting,” Phil said, and savored the dryness of her martini.
“Well, that, too. But I do love the horses. Strange, isn’t it? I never cared that much before I owned them.” She tittered. “And I love being at the stables, and even in that little house at Holly Farm. Who would have guessed?”
Certainly no one Phil had known.
“I know, why don’t we all go out to Holly Farm for Boxing Day?”
“Bev. Tell me more about Jarvis Chandler.”
Bev shrugged. “He’s fifty if he’s a day, rich, and just as unfaithful as most of the rich men in town. Unworthy of Roz.”
“And Roz?”
“And Roz what?”
“Does she have a lover?”
“I rather doubt it. Why? What could that have to do with some reporter’s murder?”
Blackmail came to mind, but Phil didn’t say so. Right now, she was just trying to collect every odd bit of information that could be put into the pattern or discarded later. She certainly didn’t want Bev going off half-cocked. Which was the only way Bev seemed to go.
“Maybe we could invite the delicious detective sergeant to join us.”
“Bev, please concentrate. You promised your friends that I will find Tommy Green’s killer, and now you keep changing the subject.”
Bev sighed. “I wonder if that’s what he was doing at the Times building the other day.”
Phil gritted her teeth. “Roz has a typically boorish husband. What about Marty?”
Bev shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder about Marty.”
“How so?”
“She just seems to have a one-track mind.”
“Journalism.”
Bev nodded, finished her martini, reached for Phil’s glass, and took both over to the drinks tray to be replenished. “The whole time we were at school, she was fixated on becoming a journalist. Had several newspapers delivered to her digs every day. Went to every lecture, every conference they would allow her into, came down to the city to talk to professional journalists.
“She met Tommy Green at a suffragette rally. She came back singing his praises. After that, she was constantly meeting him in the city, and he became her mentor, and introduced her to his mentor, Jacob Riis. A really well-respected journalist.
“She’s a really good reporter, but…”
“She’s female,” Phil finished.
“Exactly. She’s stuck with society news. She should put her foot down, which she does, but it gets her nowhere. Carr will assign her a story, then Sydney reassigns it to one of the men.”
“Sydney Lord? So that’s why she doesn’t like him.”
“It’s sort of a love or hate kind of thing. You saw him in action. Handsome enough, smart enough, but thinks much too highly of himself. Would definitely have his way with Marty if she’d let him. But she won’t.”
“Even if he promised her a good story?”
“Not even. She’ll make it on her own terms, or die trying.”
“What do you know about Tommy Green?”
“I guess I met him at that ribbon-cutting ceremony, but I don’t really remember. I mean, why would Roz pass the time of day with a reporter, much less cultivate his friendship?”
Why, indeed?
There was a lot more she needed to learn about these people before she could begin piecing together a plan. But she wouldn’t get it from Bev. She might learn more from Marty, but she’d have to be very subtle. If reporting was Marty’s end-all, woe to anyone, including Phil, who got in the way.
No, this was a job for Preswick and his butler underground.