5

“I have to go.” The young woman wrenched out of the mail boy’s grip and hurried away, not looking back.

“It’s not your fault,” Marty called after her. “But avoid Sydney. Go straight to Carr’s office and tell him whatever you know.” Marty turned to the mail boy who had accompanied her and who was now watching her retreat with a hangdog look.

“I found her in the toilet, bawling her eyes out. Musta had a fight with her boyfriend, poor thing. We lose more typewriter girls that way.”

“Well, go after her and make sure she doesn’t get waylaid by Sydney.”

“Yes, miss.” He shook his head and shuffled after her.

Phil stood watching. Normally she would have followed Harry and insist the girl tell her everything immediately. But Phil couldn’t be certain what the girl would say, or who would be listening. And unfortunately, without further instructions, she had no idea of what to divulge. Until then, she would have to keep Tommy Green’s murder to herself.

“That was Harry?”

“Alas, yes. Harriet Wells. Tommy’s designated typewriter girl,” Marty said, stepping into the elevator. “Stupid girl.”

“How so?” Phil asked, following her and Bev inside and bracing herself for the descent.

“Straight off the farm. Marched right in and said she wanted to be a reporter. You gotta give her credit. I’m all for women taking a few of these jobs. Half the time the news you read is actually written by the women who typed up the scrawled half-sentences of the reporters and turned them into an intelligible story.”

Phil and Bev exchanged looks. Martha Rive seemed a little bitter.

“But Harry.” Marty shook her head. “She’s sweet, enthusiastic, and types well. She makes eyes at Sydney and follows Tommy around like a puppy, but she’ll never get any real assignments. She lacks brains and guts, if you’ll excuse the expression. And the poor girl doesn’t even have the pedigree to cover social events.”

“Do you think she and Tommy were more than reporter and typewriter girl?” Phil asked.

“Were?”

“If she’s crying over a breakup,” Phil said, quickly covering her gaffe. “And he hasn’t showed up for work.…”

Marty let out a guffaw. “Maybe, but not Tommy. He’s a seasoned reporter, wedded to the news and probably an occasional something on the side. He’s twice her age, overweight, losing his hair, and doesn’t always remember to bathe. But damn he’s good.”

“Will she know where he is?” Phil asked.

“I sure as hell hope so. But I doubt it. Tommy’s the best, but not even the best misses a deadline without a damn good reason. I wouldn’t want to be in Tommy’s shoes right now.”

Nor would Phil. Every second was reinforcing what Phil had surmised upon first recognizing Harriet Wells. He was dead. Murdered in a nickelodeon while waiting to pass information to Phil. But what did Harriet Wells know? And what did she make of seeing Phil in the newsroom the next day?

The elevator jerked to a stop and spilled them out onto the first floor.

“That was really fast,” Phil said.

“Three hundred and fifty feet per minute,” Martha said. “You get used to it.”

They headed toward the exit door on Forty-Second Street. They were halfway there when a group of men poured into the lobby from the street. Phil stopped dead, then grabbed Bev and Marty and turned them around to face the other way.

“What on earth?” Marty said, frowning as Phil began guiding them in the opposite direction.

“Don’t look, Bev, but Detective Sergeant Atkins just came through the door. He shouldn’t see us here.”

“Why not? We’re merely meeting a friend for lunch. And I haven’t seen him once since I’ve been back.” Bev turned to look. “He’s absolutely delicious,” she said to Marty, as she searched the lobby for the detective. “Just like a hero from the cover of a dime novel. Oh, there he is.” She raised her hand and waved. “Yoo-hoo. Detective Sergeant Atkins. Over here!”

Phil cringed. She made a quick calculation on whether she could reach an open elevator before he noticed them. With the way things were going lately, he’d choose the same car to ride in.

He stopped, turned, looking for whoever had called his name. And Phil got a jolt of pure appreciation. Well over six feet, wearing a double-breasted overcoat with astrakhan collar, a felt homburg topping his chiseled features, he was a sight to behold.

Phil was fairly certain all three women sighed as he turned toward them.

He saw Bev, dipped his chin in hello, looked past her, and zeroed in on Phil.

She swore she could hear his sigh of resignation from across thirty feet of marble.

Bev didn’t give him time to get away but bustled toward him. Marty was more than willing to follow, probably sensing an inside track—another term Phil had learned from horse racing—at the police department.

Phil smiled tightly and joined the other two.

“Imagine meeting you here,” Bev trilled.

“But delightful,” he said, taking Bev’s proffered hand, and sliding a suspicious glance over her head to Phil.

Phil tried to look innocent.

“Oh, where are my manners,” Bev said. “You do remember Lady Dunbridge, do you not?”

“But of course,” he said without an ounce of irony. Fortunately, Bev had been out of the country during their last brush with crime. “Lady Dunbridge.”

“Detective Sergeant.”

Marty cleared her throat.

“And this is our friend Martha Rive. We’re just on our way to luncheon. Would you care to join us?”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I have business upstairs.”

“At the Times offices? We just came from there.”

His eyes narrowed.

“It’s where Miss Rive works,” Phil interjected, trying to signal Bev to say her adieus and leave.

“Oh yes,” Bev said. “We went to Vassar together. Marty, this is Detective Sergeant John Atkins.”

Marty nodded. Phil could see her mentally calculating which offices he might be visiting.

Phil wondered, too. “Fascinating place. And so busy,” she said. Then reminded herself that sounding flighty might work for Bev, but the Detective Sergeant wouldn’t buy it from Phil.

“Well, as lovely as it is to see you, I do have an appointment. Nice to meet you, Miss Rive. Ladies.” He touched his hat and turned toward the blessedly open elevator.

Phil huffed out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, you old spoilsport. We’re totally innocent … this time.” Bev grinned.

Phil smiled back. Bev had no idea of what was happening. For that matter, neither did Phil. A reporter was dead, no one but Phil and Harriet Wells seemed to know about it, and the detective sergeant was going into the New York Times building. To inform them of Tommy Green’s death?

And why was that? Neither Times Square nor Union Square were in his normal jurisdiction, which was the nineteenth precinct on the east side of Central Park. He was often called on to investigate society crimes, since he was obviously a cultured man. Unlike some of his colleagues, Phil thought as the image of Charles Becker going into the Theatre Unique shoved itself into her mind.

But journalism was hardly high society.

Some other situation that needed to be handled with sensitivity? That must be it.

But what?

“This sounds intriguing,” Marty said. “But can we discuss it further over food? I’m a working girl these days and no longer have leisurely luncheons.”

They stopped at the curb to wait for a break in traffic.

“I thought we’d go to the café at the Knickerbocker.” Marty gestured across the street where a red-brick Beaux Arts building rose several stories before them. “The café has decent food, decent ambiance, and an accommodating attitude toward women dining without men.”

Seeing a break, Marty hurried them between trolleys, carriages, automobiles, and other busy pedestrians attempting the same.

The Knickerbocker café was a large bright room with windows that looked onto the street. A row of tables for one faced the windows, and almost all of them were occupied. Other tables were spaced between the small columns of the café.

The maître d’ welcomed Marty and showed them to a table near the windows. There were quite a few women dining alone or with other women, and Phil, who had not yet ventured by herself into an eating establishment, felt an enormous sense of possibility.

Not that she relished the idea of dining alone; she had spent many meals sitting at the foot of a vast empty table while the earl ignored his estates, his wife, and his responsibilities as a peer of the realm.

“It just opened last year and has been a blessing,” Marty said. “One more sandwich from the corner lunchroom, and I might have committed a crime.”

She zeroed in on Phil.

Obviously Phil’s reputation had preceded her. Probably from Bev. Well, tit for tat. Phil had learned that game from some of the great society dames of Europe.

“It’s delightful,” she said. “Though I confess I’ve never been in a lunchroom.”

“Believe me, you are not missing anything. Convenience and economy are the only two things going for them.”

They ordered gin cocktails, which were delivered by a waiter whose expression said ladies enjoying cocktails at lunch was not all that common and might possibly encourage them to be dangerous.

Marty raised her eyebrows comically as he left. “I suppose he thinks we’ll all get ripsnorting drunk if there’s no man to restrain us. I, unlike most of the gentlemen you see here, work better after a good gin cocktail.”

Bev laughed. “We really must see you more often, Marty. Mustn’t we, Phil?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Phil said. She was definitely looking forward to a long and hopefully productive relationship with Bev’s old school chum.

“Wasn’t that odd, seeing Detective Sergeant Atkins this morning?” Bev said. “Do you think he has business at the Times?”

“Possibly,” Marty said. “But there are ten or so floors rented out to other businesses. Tell me, how did you come to know Atkins? Wait. Now I remember, Reggie’s murder.” She glanced at Bev—apologetically? “I hear the detective sergeant is not a man to be trifled with.”

Bev laughed. “I’ve considered trying to trifle with him ever since he strode into my home like a Western cowboy and practically accused me of killing my husband.”

Bev’s last words got the attention of several nearby diners.

She pulled a long face, but Phil could tell she was enjoying herself immensely.

As Bev continued to expound on the detective sergeant’s qualities, Phil took a quick glance around the room, scrutinizing the waitstaff, the lone diners, the man in the bowler hat pulled low, the boisterous group in the corner, even the people who passed by on the sidewalk outside.

Any of them might be Mr. X. Or he might be loitering behind one of the topiary orange trees, tied with golden bows, that adorned the café’s entrance, waiting for an opportunity to enlighten her about the situation. Why didn’t he contact her? He couldn’t expect her to read his mind.

Perhaps he would arrive along with her order of rarebit. He’d played a waiter before, unbeknownst to her at the time.

She would know more once she spoke privately with Harriet Wells. But how to maneuver it. She didn’t dare ask Marty. She was too canny by half.

“You don’t think it could do with your missing reporter?” Bev asked delightedly.

Phil had to stop herself from kicking her under the table. It might be exactly to do with Tommy Green, regardless of the ten floors of other businesses he might be visiting. And Phil didn’t want Bev barging unawares into her nascent investigation.

Marty snorted, arousing several looks of censure from the surrounding diners. “A reporter missing a deadline? The police would hardly take it serious. Reporters are notorious for tying one on at their local pub. But not Tommy. And that’s what worries me. If he wasn’t so stubborn…”

“Stubborn? What is Mr. Green working on?” Phil asked the question nonchalantly, but Marty was a wily reporter for all her debutante-ball assignments. Her eyes flashed.

“La Mano Negra.”

“The Black Hand?” Phil said.

“You’ve heard of them?”

“I’ve seen it mentioned in the papers,” Phil said.

“They extort money from people by threatening to cut off their fingers and things like that,” Bev said, and shuddered.

“Yes, things like that,” Marty said. “There’s been an uptick in activity in the Italian neighborhood east of Union Square; more recently it has spread into closer environs. That’s Tommy’s beat, so it was natural he was working on that. But he was like a starving dog on this one. I guess because he’d been foiled on his last big story.”

“You should have asked John Atkins when we saw him,” Bev said.

“I might have gotten a word in, except that you were too busy flirting.” Marty took a healthy sip of her cocktail. “I know his reputation for playing fair, though in police jargon no one is certain what that means.”

“Hmm,” Bev said. “So Carr was waiting for Tommy to turn in copy about the Black Hand?”

Phil had forgotten that being Daniel Sloane’s daughter, Bev must have picked up a certain amount of knowledge of journalism.

And Bev would invariably manage to insert herself into the investigation, whatever it was. Phil was glad of her enthusiastic, if somewhat flighty, help. They’d been fast friends since their Paris finishing-school days. It had given them outward polish and done nothing toward damping the evil genius that resided inside them both.

Bev might be able to lend a little inside knowledge, but to her it was just a game. Phil’s catapulting into the investigative business had started from a desire to help her friend, but it had become much more than that. It had become a profession, one for which she was exceptionally well-suited. And this had more urgency than most.

Because … if Phil hadn’t been a dowager countess whose sangfroid was impeccable, she’d have to admit that perhaps a little piece of her heart was involved.

“I get the feeling it’s bigger than a few acts of arson and extortion,” Marty said. “But neither Tommy nor Carr are talking.”

“Too worried about another paper scooping them?” asked Bev.

“All I know is that rumor had it he was onto something big. But before you get excited, they’re all on the trail of something big. Really big. Very few of them have the patience to actually follow it through. Tommy does. And that’s why I’m worried. Maybe he’s discovered something bigger than a bunch of thugs terrorizing a neighborhood. He’s routed out big stories before.

“Just last spring, he exposed the real costs of the proposed new courthouse. The powers that wanted it moved to Union Square had estimated the cost at nine million dollars, when in actuality it would cost closer to twenty million—which the board would have missed if Tommy hadn’t ferreted out the discrepancies. It was a beautiful investigation, but it didn’t make him any friends, I can tell you.”

“What happened?” Phil asked.

“The council nixed the plan, Union Square was saved from years of construction. But—” Marty bit her lip. “I don’t guess it matters now, but somebody had been cooking the books, and somebody had been buying up real estate in anticipation of the new location. Tommy had them dead to rights on fraud, but when the police raided the offices, everything had been cleared out, the company disbanded. They’d been tipped off. Had to be.”

“They were going to build near Union Square?” Phil asked.

“Along the east side.”

“That’s so far from City Hall and all the law offices,” Bev said, astounding Phil, since Bev never showed much interest in current events outside racing.

“There’s the subway. At least that was the argument. When it fell through, all those real-estate speculators and property owners were a little miffed. But the neighborhood was saved.”

“Did he ever get in trouble for his investigation?” asked Phil.

“He got called a lot of names, muckraker being a favorite, but I say, if there’s muck then it should be raked. And Tommy was the one who could do it.”

It was said with so much ardor that Phil knew Harriet Wells wasn’t the only one who admired Tommy Green.

And Phil had no doubt that given the chance, Marty Rive would follow the trail and wrestle the information she found to its knees. As a journalist she could go places ordinary people didn’t, poke about in people’s personal lives because she was a woman.

It was frustrating, luncheoning on Welsh rarebit and green salad with a woman who might be able to give her a lead on who might have had a motive to kill Tommy Green. And being unable to confide in her.

Unfortunately, she would never be able to trust Marty with a secret. Phil got the distinct feeling that if it was ever put to the test, Martha Rive would be ruthless to get a story, even if it wrecked an investigation.

“Phil?” Bev said into her thoughts. “Is something wrong with your lunch?”

Phil looked up from the forkful of rarebit that had stopped two inches from her plate. Bev and Marty were watching her with concern.

“What? Oh no, my mind had just wandered to … Christmas presents. I haven’t been able to find a book I wanted to give Preswick for Boxing Day. No, actually I mean Christmas Day. He and Lily and I will celebrate together.”

“Lily is her lady’s maid,” Bev told Marty.

“That is modern of you,” Marty said with a wry smile.

“Thoroughly,” said Phil. Though she hadn’t really broached the subject with Preswick and Lily. Lily might welcome the change. Preswick would certainly balk. She would just have to convince him. Somehow.

“Shall we order coffee? I need to get back to the newsroom.” Marty raised her hand to the waiter.

When cups of steaming coffee were placed before them, Phil asked, “Are you in the newsroom whenever you’re not out on an assignment?”

“I make a point to be, because, you know, if I’m not describing dresses and canapés, I can always type someone else’s real news.”

And pick up on some leads of your own, Phil thought. “That must be extremely long hours.”

“Yes, when the clock strikes five and the daytime typewriter girls bundle up in their department-store coats and scarves and head for the elevators, I work on my own stories.”

“And then dresses in a screen behind her desk before going off to cover the social events of the evening,” Bev added. “Isn’t she amazing?”

“She is indeed,” Phil said.

Marty pushed her chair back. “Well, amazing or not, this reporter must go back to work. I don’t want to miss anything today.”

“So that if Tommy Green gets the sack, you’ll be ready to step into his shoes?” Bev asked archly.

Marty frowned. “If I had to. But he won’t get fired. He’s too valuable a reporter.”

Not anymore, thought Phil, and felt a pang of sadness for the respected journalist.

“Ciao,” Marty said. “Lunch is on me. I have an account.”

And before they could protest, Marty Rive swept out of the café and out of sight. A minute later they saw her dodging traffic, barely slowing down as she made her way back to the Times building.

“Well, she is ambitious,” Phil said.

“Always has been,” Bev agreed. “And fun. But yes, now that I think about it, mainly ambitious.”

Which meant at this point Phil would do better to try to confront Harriet Wells as she left after work. Find out what she knew, and why she was on the scene, before she talked to anyone else. Unless Harriet was already baring her soul to Detective Sergeant Atkins. He had a way of doing that, especially with young women.

“Shall I give you a lift?” Bev asked, once the Packard had been summoned.

“Thanks, but I think while I’m here … there’s a bookstore on Forty-Third Street I want to visit. My usual store has already sold out of the book I wanted to get Preswick. Then I might look for a few things for Lily.”

“Say no more. I’ll leave you to it.” The Packard pulled up, Bev climbed in, and was quickly swallowed up in traffic.

Phil waited for another minute while she perused the street for any possibly disguised mystery men, then went back into the hotel, where she telephoned her apartment.

At four o’clock, Phil was sitting in the Knickerbocker lobby, still empty-handed. A quick trip to the bookstore had yielded no book for Preswick. She would have to do something about that tomorrow. Christmas was rapidly approaching.

She was making a mental list of things she might have delivered and things she would have to shop for herself, when a rather odd-looking couple walked into the lobby. They were conservatively dressed in clothes of good quality but not quite in the height of fashion. The lady was much younger, perhaps not even out yet. Granddaughter and grandfather on an outing for tea?

He was tall and attenuated, slightly stooped but immaculately dressed in a dark brown overcoat and bowler hat. She was petite and had an exquisitely clear, porcelain complexion beneath a black felt hat. Her eyes and hair were dark, almost black. Much too exotic-looking for a lady’s maid, and yet too demure for anyone to guess that beneath her sensible tweed overcoat she had a stiletto strapped to her ankle.

A habit that had appalled Phil on first seeing it, and which had now become an indispensable item in the household.

They stopped before Phil, obviously very pleased with their “mufti,” as Preswick called it.

Phil gestured for them to sit down. And for the next few minutes, they sat on the plush couches of the Knickerbocker lobby while Phil told them about what had passed during her visit to the newspaper that morning.

“Her name is Harriet Wells. She’s evidently Mr. Green’s typewriter girl. I recognized her, she recognized me. She was frightened. We must be very discreet. Detective Sergeant Atkins was there today. I’m not certain he was going to the Times offices, but it pays to be circumspect until we know for certain.

“Unfortunately, there’s more than one exit, and since I’m the only one who will recognize her, we can’t watch separate doors. We’ll have to risk waiting in the lobby for the change in shifts.”

At a quarter to five, they crossed the street to the Times building, where they took up position across from the elevators to wait. When it came, a rush of people poured out of all four elevators. It was nearly impossible to find anyone, but Phil moved back and forth until everyone had pretty much departed.

Phil and Lily and Preswick reconvened just as a second load of workers were deposited at the lobby and made for the respective doors. Twenty minutes and several loads later, the rush had eased to a remnant of tired people, and no Harriet.

“We’ve missed her,” Phil said.

“Or she’s working late,” suggested Lily.

“Well, we can’t wait for her all night. I’ll have to find another way of getting in touch with her. We might as well leave,” Phil said, feeling inordinately disappointed. She could have been shopping, buying decorations. Or learning to make fruitcake, though she detested candied fruit. Nonetheless, it was Christmas in the New World, her new life. The possibilities seemed endless.

“This way, my lady,” Preswick said. “There is a trolley stop right outside.” Seeing Phil’s expression he added, “And a taxi stand.”

They headed toward the street but had to slow down as several pedestrians rushed past them and descended down the stairs of the ornamental kiosk that designated the entrance to the subway station.

“The subway! How stupid of me,” Phil exclaimed. “I just assumed Harriet Wells would come out to the street to take the trolley home. But the subway would be much faster if she lived far from work. Hurry, maybe we can still catch her.”

They joined the throng pressing down into the station. The platform was crowded, and she could hear the whistles of oncoming trains.

Preswick immediately strode through a set of iron railings to join the queue at the ticket booth. As Phil perused the crowd, a train came into the station and screeched to a stop. Its doors opened just as Phil spotted Harriet Wells at the back of a group, all cramming themselves into the already crowded train.

Phil ran to the gate just as Harriet pushed her way into the train; the doors closed behind her, leaving several passengers on the platform.

Preswick reached them, holding three tickets. He stopped to get his breath. “Sorry, my lady. I couldn’t get them any faster.”

“You did your best. I should have thought of the subway sooner. Oh well, since we have the tickets already…”

“But we have no way of knowing where she is getting off the train. We’ll never find her now,” groused Lily.

“Yes, we will, just not today, but since we have the tickets, and the train, I believe, stops at Union Square…”

“It does, my lady,” Preswick said.

“We might as well talk to the theater manager. Then there are some lovely holiday things to see in the square.”