Phil let herself into her apartments. “Hello?”
Preswick and Lily stepped out of the kitchen.
“Sorry, my lady, we didn’t expect you back this early.”
“Because I have news. There’s been an interesting turn of events. The editors of the Times have been apprised of Tommy Green’s demise. Marty announced it rather abruptly at the committee meeting. When everyone else had left, Marty and Roz Chandler, who is also a college friend of Bev’s, asked me to find the killer.
“Now, what do you think of that? Though I do think Roz was having second thoughts by the time she left. Which reminds me … Come with me.”
She tossed her muff on the chair, strode past them and into the study, where she spread out the four photos she’d taken from Tommy’s flat.
“Aha!” she said, jabbing her finger at the young girl receiving the trophy. She moved it to the far right, rearranged the other three chronologically across the table.
She turned to take in Preswick and Lily, who stood in the doorway.
“Come and see.” Phil paused long enough to let Lily relieve her of her coat.
“When Roz Chandler, a member of the committee, heard the news, she fainted. I thought it odd that she would even be acquainted with Tommy, and said so. She said that she’d met him when she won a poetry contest when she was a schoolgirl and Tommy photographed her for the newspaper.
“She mentioned a big trophy.” Phil pulled the award photo closer. “Now look at this.”
Preswick and Lily leaned over to peruse the photograph. The bald master of ceremonies, the dark-haired little girl, the trophy that seemed to dwarf its recipient.
“You think this is a young Roz Chandler,” Preswick said.
“I think there’s a good chance that it is. And it wouldn’t be all that unusual on its own, but…” She pulled over the other three. “I believe these are all of Roz Chandler at different stages of her life, and they were all framed and presumably hanging on the wall or set upon a dresser. There were no other photos that I found.”
“It appears,” Preswick said, “that Mr. Green took an inordinate interest in Mrs. Chandler.”
“It may have nothing to do with his murder. But it does cast a new light on his character. I just wonder if his motives were spurious or benign. Though perhaps we’d rather not know. It does, however, open up another line of investigation.”
She caught sight of a stack of newspapers on the sideboard. “Ah, are these the evening editions?”
“Yes, my lady. They arrived just before you did.”
She picked up the top paper.
ANOTHER OUTRAGE BY THE BLACK HAND.
Appalling Arson.
Another deplorable act of arson swept through the lower floor of a three-story tenement on East Thirteenth Street …
Phil looked up. “Tommy Green’s?”
“Yes, my lady.”
… wrecking the lower hall and two street-level apartments, ripping through the walls, and breaking all the windows. All tenants, many of who were scratched and bruised, were removed from the premises as the stability of the building was in question.
An elderly gentleman who lived in the front first-floor apartment was overcome by smoke while he slept and was taken to the hospital. The building is expected to be condemned and all residents will have to look elsewhere for lodgings immediately.
Phil dropped the paper to the table. “A journalist murdered. His lodgings set on fire. An innocent old man nearly killed. And at Christmas. I am not amused.” In fact she was angry and … stymied.
“Something isn’t making sense. Why kill a man and then burn down his apartment?… Rather defeats the purpose of extortion. And there is no mention of Tommy Green living there, or that he’d been found dead. Does it seem reasonable that the Black Hand just coincidentally decided to burn down Tommy Green’s lodgings after someone else killed him?”
“That does stretch the boundaries of logic, my lady.”
Phil dropped the paper back on the stack as a sense of injustice swept over her. “Think of all those people suddenly without homes, and at such a time. Something should be done about them. Perhaps the Times would sponsor a resettlement venture in Tommy Green’s name. I’ll have to suggest it to Marty.
“And something else. How is Sergeant Becker involved?”
“Maybe he’s a member of the Black Hand,” Lily said.
“Why? He already has the Tammany and City Hall officials in his pocket. Surely they keep him busy and rich enough for any man.”
“Because someone in the government is in league with that illegal organization?”
That gave them all pause.
“A ringleader,” Lily said.
“But for what purpose?” Phil frowned and looked over the stacks of notes and books they’d already accumulated in their investigation. “Preswick, where is that map of the city?”
“Here, my lady.” He unfolded the map and spread it out on the table.
She took a pencil and ran it over the city grid until she found Union Square. “So, here is where it all started. For us anyway.” She drew an “X” where the Theatre Unique stood on Fourteenth Street. Two more Xs across the street for Tammany Hall and the Academy of Music.
She traced Fourth Avenue to Thirteenth Street, where she drew an “X” for Tommy’s apartment.
“We saw another burned-out building on our way to Mr. Green’s building.” She added another “X” in the approximate location of the boarded-over storefront.
“And one across the street from the Cavalier Club.” She added another “X” to the map.
“Preswick, do you remember the others we read about?”
“Yes, my lady, I took the liberty of cutting out the articles and putting them in a folder.” He went to the desk, picked up a cardboard folder, riffled through the contents until he brought out a clipped news article.
“A tenement on East Eleventh, one on East Twelfth. Both with similar addresses to Mr. Green’s, which would put them in the same vicinity.”
“So five recent acts of vandalism. It does seem that someone is targeting this neighborhood in particular.” Phil studied her cluster of Xs. There was something there, a half-revealed picture, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle all offering a glimpse of what wouldn’t be made clear until all the pieces were in place.
“May I point out,” Preswick said, “that the Italian neighborhood the Hand usually targets is somewhat farther east than these?”
“So their activities are spreading out?”
“It would appear so.”
“Why here? And why Tommy Green?” Phil tapped her pencil on the paper. “This is an established neighborhood, not a tenement district for recent immigrants. Why the Theatre Unique? That seems to be taking a lot of unnecessary chances. Why not just kill him while he slept? Or in an alley somewhere?”
“As a warning to others?” Preswick ventured.
“What others?”
“The other journalists into not reporting about them,” Lily said.
“Or because he was about to hand over important information to me.”
“Have we become too enamored by the reprehensibility of these Hand people? I really don’t think ‘our people,’ whoever they are”—and she intended to find out at her next meeting with Mr. X—“would expect us to take on a national crime organization.
“What if it isn’t the Black Hand at all?”
“A copycat crime to throw the investigation off the real perpetrator?” said Preswick.
“Exactly, a red herring to keep us from finding out what Tommy really had to tell. His investigation of the Hand must have led him to someone important. Why else risk his life to divulge it to some organization that even I don’t know about?”
Lily bit her lip. “But didn’t Mr. X say it was about the Black Hand?”
“No. He didn’t know what it was about. Tommy would only tell them in person. I assumed it was about the Black Hand because of the note in my pocket and because Tommy was investigating them. Something I’m sure Sherlock Holmes would not condone.”
Which reminded her that she had still to find a copy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s latest book.
“But he left a key, and close at hand so he could retrieve his notes once the deal was done.”
“But that means it would all be ashes,” Lily said.
“Perhaps, but would a secretive man, worried about leaks, hide his information in his lodgings and where it would be easy to break into? No, whatever this is about, it wasn’t solved by burning down his apartment. And unless they had time to cut his throat and risk discovery by searching his pockets before I arrived, whatever he knew is still out there.
“Someone is very determined, or very frightened. And we must be careful.
“Tomorrow morning, the two of you will attempt to discover what this type of key might fit. I’m sure you know exactly where to look and whom to ask. Once we know that, we’ll have a better idea of how to proceed.
“We’ll meet back here in time for our tree delivery, and then we will all go shopping for decorations.”
“But where are you going?” Lily asked.
Preswick cleared his throat.
“My lady,” she added.
“I’m going to make a morning call on Rosalind Chandler. Confront her with the photos we found. Tommy obviously had an interest in her that went beyond being nice to her and not trying to curry political favors from a powerful city official’s wife. There has to be more to it than that, at least on his part. Now, if I can just get her to tell me exactly what her relationship was to Tommy Green, and if it could possibly have anything to do with his murder.”
The next morning, dressed in a visiting dress of turquoise wool, Lady Dunbridge stepped into the foyer of the Chandlers’ East Side mansion and gave her card to the butler.
He flicked his fingers at a footman, who relieved her of her outer cape and muff. She kept the rather large handbag she’d brought for the occasion and followed the butler to a small secondary parlor, where he announced her in stentorian tones.
Roz was completely alone, her feet tucked under her as she sat comfortably reading a book. She’d barely had time to jump to her feet before Phil came forward, holding out her hand.
“I’m so glad to find you home.”
Roz slid her feet into her shoes and met Phil halfway. “Lady Dunbridge—Phil. What a … delightful surprise.”
A surprise, to be sure, Phil thought, though perhaps not delightful.
Roz looked quickly toward the closed door and led Phil to the far side of the room to a love seat by the bow window. “Have you found out anything yet?” she asked, thus alleviating the need of the story about seating arrangements for the ball Phil had carefully constructed on her ride over.
“Would you like tea? I hope you don’t mind me receiving you in my parlor rather than the salon. It’s so much cozier here, and private. I’ll ring.”
It was a lady’s parlor, furnished in comfortable pastels that complemented Roz’s long-sleeved yellow tea gown. A cheery fire was blazing in the grate, and colorful Christmas postcards were lined up along the white marble mantel. Phil could imagine Roz passing her free hours here. Entertaining her select friends, reading, snatching some peace away from her hurried life as Jarvis Chandler’s wife. Phil wondered if Jarvis ever joined her here.
Tea was ordered, and after one attempt at inquiring whether Lady Dunbridge thought there would be snow for Christmas, and Phil’s reminder to call her Phil, they lapsed into silence. There was only one thing on each of their minds, though perhaps not the same thing.
The butler returned, followed by two maids in black uniforms and crisp white aprons rolling a tea trolley filled with pots and cups and several tiered plates of edibles.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
“No, Willis, that will be all.” Roz smiled at them; the maids quickly curtseyed and hurried away.
While Phil was congratulating herself for not having to employ and manage a household full of servants, Jarvis Chandler strode in.
He’d been frowning as he entered but, seeing Phil, he smiled. “Lady Dunbridge, isn’t it? What a delightful surprise.” The exact same phrase uttered by his wife a few minutes earlier.
“Yes,” Roz said. “Lady Dunbridge was so kind to bring over the last decisions on the flower arrangements for the charity ball.”
Evidently, Phil and Bev weren’t the sole proprietors of fabrications in this group. And Roz had lied without a falter. “We were just about to have tea. Will you join us?”
She seemed eager for him to stay, but a little apprehensive.
And Phil got a mental picture of another young girl, fresh out of finishing school, waiting for the Earl of Dunbridge to call for the first time. Had she worn that same eager, innocent, slightly fearful smile that Roz showed toward her husband?
If she had, she’d lost it soon enough.
“Then I’ll leave you ladies to it. I won’t be home to lunch. Some more ruckus over building the new courthouse. It never ends. You’d think it was the only building on the agenda for demolition. How men can be so shortsighted.” He shook his head. “And don’t forget, we’re due at the McCaffertys for dinner. So come straight home from mass. I don’t want to be late.”
Recalling they had a visitor, he turned to Phil. “I think Roz is responsible for keeping Friday-night mass going. She doesn’t miss a one.” He smiled down at his wife, kissed her cheek, nodded to Phil, and strode out the door, leaving the butler who had been waiting just outside to close it after him.
“I must apologize for his gruffness,” Roz said as she poured tea. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Please,” said Phil.
“Politicians seem unable to agree on anything. It was worse last spring and during the social season. All we heard about was the new courthouse … I’m surprised it didn’t lead to fisticuffs in someone’s drawing room.” Her eyes rolled back. “It’s led me to a few too many gin fizzes, I can tell you.”
She handed Phil her cup. Phil just caught sight of a dark shadow around her wrist. A bruise?
Phil looked up, questioning. But Roz had turned to take her own cup and sat down on the love seat next to Phil.
“Now that he’s out of the way, tell me everything you’ve learned.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen the morning papers?” Phil asked.
“No. I used to have my maid smuggle them in with my tea tray, but I’ve been so busy lately I haven’t had much time for reading.”
Interesting, Phil thought, casting a look over to the open book on the sofa cushions.
“Last night, a fire was set in the building where Tommy Green lived. An old man was seriously injured; tenants are now homeless.”
“Oh no, that’s terrible.”
“It was deliberate, I think, to destroy any material he might have been working on. Did he ever discuss his work with you?”
“Me? Of course not. I hardly knew him, much less talked to him other than a friendly hello.” Her face melted into sadness. “Tommy was always polite when I saw him. Treated me kindly. Not like other reporters, who are always prodding and poking and trying to get you to tell them something you shouldn’t. Most of the time I don’t even know what they’re talking about. I hate politics.”
Her pale and delicate fingers came to her throat. There was a definite bruise around her wrist as if someone—her husband?—had gripped her too tightly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“I take it this wasn’t the life you would have chosen.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—Jarvis is wonderful and I never lack for anything, except … just sometimes I would give just about anything to live the life Bev and Marty … and you live.”
Phil didn’t think that Roz would be more fit for a life of freedom than that of a politician’s wife. There was something about the woman that was singularly helpless. She was about the same age as Phil, Bev, and Marty, but her air of naïveté and innocence made her seem younger.
For a second Harriet Wells flashed into Phil’s mind. Another one whose appearance and actions were younger than her years and who was as equally temperamentally unfit for her chosen profession.
But perhaps neither of them were quite as innocent as they seemed?
“Perhaps I should get to the reason for my call,” Phil said. She reached for her bag and brought out the photos from Tommy Green’s apartment.
“Yesterday before the fire, we went to Tommy’s lodgings. It had been searched, possibly by the police; they seem to have a blatant disrespect for other people’s property.”
Most do, anyway, Phil thought. To give Detective Sergeant Atkins his due, he would never “toss” a place in a way that would leave it in that kind of disarray.
“Did they find anything?”
“I don’t know. I’m not in their confidence. But they overlooked these.” Phil handed Roz the first one of a young Rosalind accepting a medal for her poem. “Is this the occasion of your poetry award?”
“Yes, yes,” Roz said, taking the photo with trembling fingers.
She peered at it, while Phil watched for her reaction and remained alert in case Roz tried to consign it to the fire.
She needn’t have worried. “How sweet. He asked my mother if she’d like a copy. She was so grateful.”
“Mrs. Hastings?” Phil said.
“Yes.” Roz frowned. “Marty told you I was adopted.”
Phil nodded.
“It was when I was a baby. The Hastingses were the only family I ever knew.” Tears sprang to Roz’s eyes. “I miss them so much.”
Phil steeled her sangfroid. “There are three more photographs. They all had been framed and were the only photographs we found.”
Phil handed Roz the next one, a picture of a group of girls in their graduation dresses standing on the stairs of what must have been their high school.
Roz dabbed at her eyes with a dainty initialed handkerchief. “I don’t recognize this.”
“Your high-school graduation?”
“My—Oh yes, the newspaper did take a photo.”
“Why do you think Tommy had it framed in his apartment?”
“I have no idea.” Roz handed it back to Phil. “Why would he keep either of these?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“No.”
“What about this one?” Phil handed Roz the third photograph.
“This was a ground-breaking ceremony. The one I told you about, when Bev was there.”
“And this.” A wedding photograph that had to be Roz Chandler’s.
“I don’t understand. These were all in his rooms?”
Roz shoved the photograph back at Phil. She seemed genuinely surprised and frightened. Was she playing a deep game, or was she really this unaware of his attentions?
“Well, it’s academic now. He won’t be bothering you again.”
“But he didn’t bother me. I mean, I didn’t know.”
Unrequited love? It could eat at a person, Phil supposed. Especially if it went unexpressed. Had these been merely the product of a lonely man’s obsession? A lovely young girl met on his first assignment and …
“He never said or did anything to make you think he was interested in you in a more—”
“Licentious way?” Roz finished for her.
“Well, perhaps it was more platonic than lurid.”
Roz got up and walked to the window, where the bare branches of the trees turned the panes into broken shards of glass.
Roz turned suddenly. “I hope that you’ll keep this to yourself. It’s all so sordid.”
“It may have been innocent admiration.”
“Men never have innocent admiration.” Roz’s words were so sharp and bitter that they took Phil aback. “Unfortunately, I’m rather busy, I have a—”
“I completely understand,” Phil said, sliding the photographs and newspaper article back into her bag, and standing up. “I’ll leave you now. But are you certain that Tommy never confided anything to you that might put him—or you—in danger?”
“Or course not. Like I told you, I hardly knew him. But I’ll light a candle for his soul at mass tonight.”
“Then I’ll wish you good day. Though you realize that I will continue to investigate his death. Someone…” She paused long enough to give Roz a pointed look. “… should care about what happened to him.”
She picked up her purse and started for the door.
She heard the rustle of Roz’s skirts, then Roz caught up to her and closed the door again.
“Please don’t tell. I do want you to find out. I don’t know why he had these pictures, but he was always kind. Always the perfect gentleman. Always.”
Her hand was pressed to the door, leaving no doubt about the bruise on her wrist. Phil noticed, and Roz saw her. Their eyes met and, like all well-bred upper-class women, they pretended that nothing was wrong.
“I’m always discreet.” Phil left her then. She didn’t even wait for the butler to call a taxi but went down the steps and turned into the wind. A brisk walk in the fresh air would do her good. She felt like maybe she had stumbled into something private that she should probably leave alone.
But that wasn’t the way investigations worked. You collected all the pieces first; you only dismissed that which was known to be impossible.
And as Mr. Sherlock Holmes would say, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
And Phil intended to get to the truth. She tucked her hat into the wind and strode down the sidewalk, her determination rising. She just hoped it would be solved by Christmas.