A little later, Phil sent Preswick and Lily downstairs to enjoy the Plaza staff party. When at eleven o’clock, Marty still hadn’t appeared, Phil wandered back into the study to peruse her map.
She didn’t think that Mr. X would return with the notes tonight; probably not until the day after tomorrow, when they were scheduled to go out to Holly Farm.
Still, he’d left without the list of properties that had to be key to whatever he was investigating.
She would return the list to the safe so that when he returned the notes, he could see the errors of improper communication lines. But first she copied the numbers onto a separate sheet.
Then she put the original list into the safe with a short note from herself.
You forgot these. Really, you only need ask.
Now when he used whatever unconventional way he chose to break into her apartment in order to return the notes, he would find hers.
She hoped he didn’t take too long. Marty would be furious if she discovered the notes gone. And Phil wouldn’t blame her.
She looked back at the map. Tommy dead in the theater. A leak at the newspaper. Harriet present at Tommy’s murder. Was she the leaker? Or conduit to the leak? She was friends with the mail boy, Eddie, who obviously wanted more from her. But Phil remembered the way she’d looked at Sydney the day of the wake. And she’d gone to Sydney before going to Carr Van Anda’s office, even though Marty had warned her not to. Had she inadvertently blabbed to one of those two?
Then there was Mrs. Toscana at the wake, and her meeting with Phil downstairs, witnessed by Charles Becker. Phil kidnapped before she could visit the lady. Kidnapped by Becker, and frightened by his companion. The chilling “kill her.” And Samuel Trout saying, “I’ll drive Imogen over to Schuylkill to visit some friends.” She shuddered just remembering. What was Trout’s part in all this? Tommy and Mrs. Toscana. Samuel Trout and …
Trout was a wealthy real-estate mogul whose name had been linked to some shady dealings. A normal state of affairs in the city, everyone assured her. He had also known Mrs. Toscana in childhood, and known Tommy, too.
The day after the kidnapping, a bomb had ripped through the first floor of Mrs. Toscana’s brownstone just as Phil had left the building. A warning to Mrs. Toscana—or had it been meant for Phil as well?
It couldn’t be just coincidental.
She went back to the map. The new neighborhood where the Hand was increasingly active was only three blocks away from the planned location to build the new courthouse.
Maybe they were going to try again nearby. Once the new courthouse was built, other buildings, other businesses, would grow up around it. Union Square over time might become the new center of municipal government.
And real estate would be at a premium.
Was this the plan? Terrorize the neighborhood and buy them out cheap? And who could expedite the sale better than Jarvis Chandler, building commissioner and devoted friend of Samuel Trout. With Trout rich enough to back such a scheme, and Jarvis to expedite the sales, all they needed was a snitch to keep them one step ahead of Tommy’s investigation.…
The different threads of her thoughts that had been floating around in her brain like seaweed in a Brighton tide pool suddenly began to connect into a reasonable scenario. Not the Black Hand, but real-estate fraudsters taking advantage of the increasing violence to mimic them and throw the blame off themselves.
Tommy must have discovered the subterfuge during his investigation. Or suspected. He hadn’t named names in his notes either because he didn’t know or because he was being extremely careful. And his words to Marty to take care of Roz were because he knew that her husband would soon be arrested for fraud.
That’s why he was meeting Phil. To set up his testimony to some federal group to which she must be unofficially connected.
But where did Mrs. Toscana fit into all of this?
The telephone rang. Phil started. It took a few seconds for her to realize that Preswick was still downstairs at the party and she would have to answer it herself.
She hurried down the hall. Hopefully, it was Marty saying she was too busy to make it until after Christmas.
Fingers crossed, Phil thought, and picked up the receiver, realizing that she had never actually answered her own phone.
“Uh, Dunbridge residence. Lady Dunbridge speaking.”
“Phil? Oh, thank God. I was afraid you’d gone out for the evening.”
“Bev? Is something wrong? You sound upset.”
“I just got home from the hospital.”
“Hospital? Are you hurt? What happened?”
“Not me. Marty was mugged. She wouldn’t give them her real name, because you know, her parents, and refused to stay at the hospital. She told them to call me, but it took me hours to convince them to let me take her. She’s here now. Dr. Endicott is coming over, bless him, on a Christmas Eve. But he’s a good friend of Father’s, and he’s right down the street.”
“Bev, stop talking. Is Marty badly injured?”
“Bruised, nothing broken but her head. She has a big bump on her forehead and, oh Phil, a black eye. It’s just awful. She won’t be able to be seen in public for I don’t know how long.
“She keeps saying she needs to talk to you. She’s tried to get out of bed twice. So I finally promised I’d call you and ask you to come over.”
“She should rest.”
“That’s what I told her, but she’s angry, and I think a little frightened, but don’t say I told you that. Can you please come? Oh, and she said to bring the notes, whatever that means.”
“Of course I’ll come. I’ll be right there.”
Phil dressed in a comfortable skirt and blouse; chose a heavy tweed cape and cloche hat that didn’t require pins; remembered to stop by the study to retrieve the copied list of numbers, which she folded and stuck inside her corset; and went downstairs.
The concierge came to greet her when she reached the lobby. “Good evening, Lady Dunbridge. Going to a party?”
“Yes, just a little get-together. A last-minute affair. Could you please tell Mr. Preswick that I’ve gone to Mrs. Reynolds’s?”
“Of course,” he said, and personally saw her into a taxi.
This was not her idea of how to spend a Christmas Eve. And certainly not the way Marty Rive had intended to spend hers. Phil couldn’t imagine what had happened, but she had a niggling suspicion that it had to do with finding the notes.
Sydney Lord came to mind, though perhaps that wasn’t fair. Anyone could have had them watched. Becker also came to mind.
Tuttle met her at the door, looking graver than usual. “Mrs. Reynolds is with Miss Rive upstairs. The doctor just left.”
Phil handed him her cape and pulled off her hat. “Thank you, Tuttle, I’ll see myself up.”
“My ball gown is ruined,” Marty announced when Phil stepped into the guest bedroom. She was lying on a chaise, wearing one of Bev’s dressing gowns.
Excellent, Phil thought. She can’t be seriously hurt if she’s complaining about her wardrobe. Then she thought again. If Marty was still wearing her ball gown …
“When did this happen? I take it, not leaving the children’s hospital luncheon?
“No.” Marty started to shake her head, thought the better of it. “I never made it to the luncheon. I never even made it home from your place. I was jumped as I was going up the steps to my front door. They stole all my Christmas presents. The thugs.”
She shuddered. “Not that it matters. I can’t really show up at the old homestead with a shiner and without presents. They might lock me in my bedroom and never let me out.”
“At least they didn’t steal your sense of humor,” Phil said.
“I’m not joking. Alva Vanderbilt has nothing over my mother. Those old stories about her locking Consuelo in her room so she couldn’t escape marrying the duke? They were true. Fortunately, I didn’t have to get married to escape. I got a job. I guess times haven’t changed that much.
“It turns out you were right about taking a taxi. Unfortunately, you were wrong about getting from the taxi to your door.”
“So I’m beginning to realize,” Phil said. “If you feel up to it, could you tell me what happened?”
“Oh, I feel up to it. I got out of the taxi, reached back in to get the box of presents, and was just going up the steps when someone grabbed me from behind, pushed me down into the stairwell below, and took off with my box of presents.”
“The idea of those thugs stealing people’s Christmas presents,” Bev said. “It’s un—un-Christmas-like. I told her she should call Detective Sergeant Atkins, but she refused.”
Marty and Phil exchanged looks. They were obviously thinking the same thing. These were no ordinary thieves. They had to have been after the notes.
Bev looked from Phil to Marty and crossed her arms. “Okay, you two. I saw those looks. What’s going on? I want to help.”
Phil didn’t see how they could keep Bev out of it any longer. “Those weren’t just any thugs,” Phil said, and explained the barest bones of what she and Marty had been up to, and why.
“So they were after the notes you got at the Times?” Bev asked when Phil had finished.
“They had to be,” Marty said. “And the only person who knew we had been at the Times building was Sydney. I’m going to kill him.”
“But not before we find out who killed Tommy, please,” Phil said.
“True. Though I can’t imagine Sydney rousing himself to commit murder, especially if it involved blood.” Marty frowned, winced.
Bev called for Tuttle and asked for two pink gin fizzes—“I still haven’t perfected my Christmas cocktail”—and a pot of tea for Marty.
“I’ll have a cocktail, too,” Marty said.
“The doctor said you shouldn’t drink until tomorrow.” Bev turned to Phil. “Though I don’t see why not. She refused to take any of the pain powders that he left.”
“I told you; I need to think.” Marty lay back against the chaise and closed her eyes.
“You need to rest,” Phil said. “Besides it’s almost Christmas and I’ve declared an investigation moratorium until after Boxing Day.”
“But—”
“But Christmas comes but once a year—murder happens all the time. Besides, all the obvious suspects are celebrating. We have time, and besides, we made a little headway after you left.”
“You kept going without me?”
“Not exactly, but we did try a little later. We think the numbers are addresses and, if we’re right, they coincide with the addresses of the buildings bombed or torched recently in the neighborhood of Union Square.
“We had to estimate some of them because we didn’t have the exact addresses for all of them, but we’re fairly certain. And we plan to confirm the others on Tommy’s list tomorrow after we finish at the newsboys’ charity dinner.”
“Tuttle and Mrs. O’Mallon and several of the servants are going to help serve,” Bev said.
“Yes, Preswick suggested we join them.”
“Did you bring the notes?” Marty asked.
“No,” Phil said. “They are not leaving my safe.” Once she got them back. “But I did bring a copy of the list. I was hoping you were up to looking at it. Each address has additional numbers after it that we couldn’t decipher. I hope you might have an idea, but not if—”
“Let me see.” Marty sat up. Pressed her hand to her forehead.
“Perhaps you should wait,” Bev said.
Marty wiggled her fingers. The knuckles were scraped. “Let me see.”
“Be patient.” Phil unbuttoned the top buttons of her blouse and slipped her hand in to retrieve the folded paper.
When she looked up again, Bev was grinning; Marty grimaced.
“I figured it was the safest place.”
“Or one sure to get you violated,” Bev said.
“I suppose, but … what do you make of these?” Phil handed Marty the paper and sat down beside her. Bev moved behind the chaise so she could see over their shoulders.
“These are the addresses,” Phil continued. “See. ‘Three, three, two, one, one.’ Three thirty-two Eleventh Street. The others fit a similar pattern, but they each have these additional numbers at the end that don’t seem to have any kind of pattern. Sometimes there is one number or two. Neither Preswick nor Lily nor I had any idea what it could mean.”
Marty looked at the paper for so long that Phil began to worry.
“Marty, are you still with us?”
“Shhh. I’m thinking.”
Tuttle brought in drinks, and Phil and Bev both tiptoed across the room to fortify themselves while Marty thought.
“He did this before,” Marty said finally. “Can I have some tea now?”
Bev poured her a cup and took it to her.
“Tommy?” Phil asked as she sat back down next to Marty.
“Yes. While he was covering the ins and outs of the courthouse relocation, he discovered that several parcels had been bought by investors. These extra numbers might be lot numbers.”
“Did he discover who was buying up the property?”
“I don’t know. The news of the buried costs broke in The Sun before he finished, and Tommy’s reporting was left high and dry. With the proposition dead, Carr decided just to print the outcome, which was not to build the courthouse at Union Square, and the whole thing became academic.”
“Do you think he could be following a similar pattern here?” Phil asked.
“It sure looks like it,” Marty said. “But we can find out at City Hall. The building department keeps track of all that.”
“It will have to wait. Tomorrow’s Christmas,” Bev reminded her. “Then we all go to Holly Farm for Boxing Day. The servants are off, but Tuttle will go out earlier with a couple of housemaids to set up, then return to the city, and we’ll be on our own. Like the pioneers.”
“Bev,” Marty snapped. “We’re following a lead. We can’t go on an excursion. There are Tommy’s notes to be studied. And we should get down to the records department first thing and see if these properties have been sold.”
“The Department of Records is already closed for today,” Phil said. “Preswick said all of City Hall will be closed for two days since Christmas was in the middle of the week. So we won’t be able to get in until Friday. If then.”
“Ugh. First thing Friday, then. I’ll go down there.”
“You are not going down there.”
“Why the hell not? Where do you get off being so bossy? We’re the same age and you don’t even have a college degree, do you?”
“True,” Phil said.
“But she graduated from Madame Floret’s École de Jeunes Filles,” Bev said, in Phil’s defense.
“Sometimes attitude is everything,” Phil said.
“I suppose,” Marty said. “Still maybe I should stay behind—”
“Absolutely not,” Bev said. “I just lied to your mother about you being out on assignment covering a breaking story and being stuck at the paper. Though what could possibly happen on Christmas I can’t imagine. You’re off the hook, but I still have to make the rounds of Papa’s charities on Christmas Day, so you have to humor me and celebrate the next day at Holly Farm.
“Besides you’ve never been to the farm, and even though most of the horses are wintering in Virginia, we have a few lovely ones left behind for riding. I should buy a sleigh.”
“Bev!” Phil and Marty cried together.
“Very well. But you have to admit, some time away might clear the palate and make us see things more clearly.”
Phil nodded. She was more inclined to agree with Marty, but with a kidnapping, a bombing, and a mugging, Phil must be making someone uncomfortable, and perhaps it was time to regroup. Besides, going to Holly Farm would give Mr. X an extra day to return the notes, and give her a chance to consult with Bobby Mullins. So she merely said, “I’ve been so looking forward to it.”
“I’m not,” groused Marty.
“It will be good for you,” Bev said. “The doctor said for you to take it easy. Which means a quiet Christmas dinner here and a trip to the country for the benefits of fresh air.”
“It’s December.”
“Fresh and invigorating.”
“Oh, all right,” Marty said. “But first thing Friday we go to City Hall.”
“Not we,” Phil said. “We’d be bound to run into Jarvis or Trout or someone else who will recognize us. We’ll send Preswick. And he’ll report back to us.”
Marty crossed her arms. “I want to be out there, doing something.”
“So do I, but doing what? Here’s the major problem…” Besides the missing notes. “If this were about leaking news to another newspaper, that would be a matter for you and the paper. If it’s leaking to crooks so they can cover their tracks, that’s another situation. Everything we’ve learned so far has been perpetrated by nameless thugs.
“We need to look for a specific someone. Someone who killed Tommy for some reason, find out the reason, and work out from there.”
“But the notes,” Marty insisted, but sounding decidedly sleepy.
“We read through them last night. He doesn’t mention anything that will lead us to his killer.”
“Because he was being careful. He might have left hints throughout, but I wasn’t looking that closely last night. I need to look at them again. I know him better than anyone. And I might be able to pick out hints.”
Phil suspected they could get more out of Mrs. Toscana than from Tommy’s scribbles, if she would only talk. But Phil didn’t want to drag the brothel owner into this more than she already had. Besides, she bet Bobby Mullins would be a storehouse of information. He might be living in the country, but that didn’t mean he didn’t keep in the know about what was going on in the city. Another good reason for visiting the farm.
“And you will,” Phil assured her. “But it’s my first Christmas in America. Preswick and Lily are looking forward to celebrating. You’re banged up and can barely keep your eyes open. We’re all going out to Holly Farm on Boxing Day and then we’ll take up the investigation again.”
Marty didn’t argue. She’d fallen asleep.
“She must be done in,” Phil said.
“She is now,” Bev said. “I slipped one of Dr. Endicott’s sleeping powders into her tea.”
It was late when Phil returned home. There were a few Christmas Eve revelers still on the streets, but mainly everyone was nestled in their beds waiting for the arrival of the St. Nick of Mr. Clement Moore’s poem.
Still no sign of snow.
And still no notes.
With any luck, it wouldn’t be St. Nick visiting her boudoir on Christmas Eve.