A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  “Winnelda, you’re wonderful!”

  She smiled, reverting to her natural voice. “I do think I have rather a knack for it, madam.”

  Winnelda was a woman of hidden depths.

  “Say something else,” I encouraged her.

  She closed the wardrobe and turned to me. “I’ve watched a lot of American films, you know. The trick to it is not paying any special attention to your a’s and o’s. You treat them just like any of the other letters.”

  Again I marveled at how very American she sounded.

  “Now you try,” she encouraged me.

  I unaccountably felt a bit shy. I hadn’t had much practice at altering my voice, and I was quite certain I would not do as good a job as she.

  “Say ‘I’m American, and it’s really nice to meet you,’” she instructed.

  “‘I’m American, and it’s really nice to meet you,’” I repeated.

  “Very good! Say it again.”

  We practiced for a while, and I began to feel a bit more comfortable with the pattern of speech. I found that I had a decent ear for the accent, though I feared I would never master it as Winnelda had. Furthermore, though getting the cadence was not so difficult, I worried somewhat about particular phrases that might give me away.

  “The most important thing to remember is not to say ‘blimey’ or ‘cheerio,’” she said helpfully.

  “Yes. Thank you, Winnelda.”

  “And a ‘lift’ is called an ‘elevator.’”

  Winnelda continued to coach me on some of the finer points of American vernacular that she had picked up from her wide reading of periodicals and frequent trips to the cinema. I only hoped I would be able to remember them all.

  Our lesson eventually concluded, I thanked her and gave her the night off.

  There was just one more thing I needed to mention. “You mustn’t tell Mr. Ames anything about this,” I said to her before she departed.

  “Certainly not, madam,” she said. “I never tell Mr. Ames any of the wild things you do.”

  I didn’t know quite how to take this comment.

  “If I don’t come home by morning, of course, you ought to let him know that I’ve gone to investigate. He’ll know where.”

  She looked stricken at the thought, so I hurried to reassure her. “I don’t anticipate any trouble, but just in case.”

  “Madam, are you sure…?”

  “Quite sure. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Even as I said the words, I began to wonder if my idea was entirely preposterous. I supposed there was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  CHIEF AMONG MY concerns for the evening was escaping Milo. As it turned out, that matter took care of itself.

  He returned late in the afternoon with no explanation of his whereabouts, and I did not press him about where he’d been. I thought the less questions I asked, the better.

  I did, however, want to discuss my encounter with Detective Andrews that morning. I related our conversation and the impression I had had that he was beginning to suspect a member of the wedding party.

  “What do you think he’s getting at?” I asked Milo.

  “He’s much cleverer than he looks,” Milo said.

  I had had the same impression. There was something in his manner that belied his unkempt and careless appearance.

  “I’m uneasy about him. I think he’s going to try to fix the blame on someone in this house.”

  Milo looked at me. “Well, perhaps he’s right.”

  “I could see how it might look that way, given that Grant Palmer was killed here at the Aldens’ house, but I still feel it must have been those gangsters he was involved with. If not Leon De Lora, then perhaps that rival of his, Frankie Earl.”

  “You think so?”

  I stared at him. “Don’t you?”

  “I think that’s what you want to think, but I’m not sure you do.”

  As usual, he knew me almost as well as I knew myself.

  “You’re right,” I said. “The longer I remain in this house, the stranger it seems to me that everyone is acting.”

  I had seen for myself the cracks in the relationships between Grant Palmer and others in the house. Was it possible that one of them had orchestrated his murder? It seemed fantastic, but it would not be the first time I had seen such a thing happen. If nothing came of my ventures tonight, then I would pause to consider it.

  “What are your plans for this evening, darling?”

  I turned toward my jewelry box, so I wouldn’t have to look him in the face. I was certain he would be able to read the guilt in my expression. “I’m a bit tired. I was hoping to retire early.”

  It wasn’t precisely a lie. I was tired and would certainly retire early if I had the opportunity … after I had visited De Lora’s.

  “Then you don’t mind if I go out with Tom? There’s a gambling establishment he’s been telling me about.”

  It was all I could do not to let out a sigh of relief. I had hoped that some form of New York nightlife would call to him, and I was in luck. What was more, if he was out with Tom, then he wouldn’t be at De Lora’s when I went there.

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said.

  * * *

  AFTER DINNER, HE and Tom took their leave and we ladies had been left to fend for ourselves. Tabitha had not seemed opposed to going to bed early, and I had made my excuses and hurried to my room to change for my adventure.

  I chose one of the more daring evening gowns I had brought with me. It was a dress of smoky blue satin with a low-cut back that hugged my torso and hips before pooling down in shimmering folds around my legs. I put on a necklace made of paste diamonds and sapphires and, with a hint of guilt, removed my wedding rings and put them in my jewelry box.

  Then I pulled on my fur and quietly made my way down the stairs, hoping not to draw any attention to myself. I would have a difficult time explaining why I was going out alone dressed for a nightclub.

  I made it outside without encountering anyone, and stood for a moment on the front porch, looking down the street. The moonlight was bright and the streetlamps glowed warmly, so, when I looked down, it was easy to see where the blood still stained the steps. A cool breeze blew, and I drew my coat more tightly around myself.

  I made my way down the front steps and along the pavement—sidewalk, Winnelda had reminded me as she made her way through a startlingly comprehensive list of American terminology. It was not long before I spotted a cab and waved him down.

  “Where to, miss?” the driver asked as I got into the car.

  I hesitated, realizing I didn’t know where I was going. Milo hadn’t told me where the speakeasy was located. I suppose there was really no reason for him to have mentioned it to me when we had agreed I wouldn’t go there. I hoped this oversight was not indicative of the viability of my entire plan.

  “I don’t suppose you know the location of De Lora’s?” I asked hopefully, trying my American accent on for size.

  He shot me a smile in his mirror. “Sure I do.”

  “Then to De Lora’s, if you please.”

  This was much easier than I had anticipated. The driver pulled away from the curb, and I sat back against the seat.

  I supposed I should feel a bit guilty keeping this from Milo, but I was also quite sure that he was keeping something from me. I needed to know more about Mr. De Lora, and I didn’t think there was any harm in going to his establishment on my own. After all, he had a reputation where women were concerned, and I felt that I might be able to succeed where Milo hadn’t. I wasn’t going to put myself in any danger.

  Granted, I didn’t know what I intended to do should it appear that he might be involved in Grant Palmer’s death, but the least I could do was get some sort of information to bring back to Detectives Andrews and Bailey. I had to admit that I would very much like to prove to them, especially to that smug Detective Andrews, that I wasn’t just some silly society lady.

  We drove alon
g for a while, twisting our way through glowing streets and then to a less populous part of town. The car at last drew to a stop in front of a brownstone building that looked no different from any of the others in the neighborhood. There was no sign and no indication that we had arrived anywhere other than a quiet residential area. I didn’t even see anyone about on the streets.

  “This is it?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Go right up the stairs there.”

  I had read somewhere that it was the custom to have some sort of special phrase, a password, to gain admission. “Is there … some secret code needed to enter?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Just go on up to the door and knock. They’ll let you in.”

  I supposed I might as well try my luck. I paid the driver, tipping him handsomely for his invaluable aid, and alighted from the car, making my way up the steps. I tapped on the door, and a sliding slat of wood in it opened from whence I was observed for a moment. Before I could say anything, the slat was closed and then the door was opened to admit me.

  A gentleman stood beside the door. He was dressed in evening clothes, though it appeared he might have been more at home in a boxing ring than a nightclub. He had deep-set eyes in a puffy face, and his nose looked as though it had been broken several times and had healed correctly none of them.

  “That way,” he said, his head indicating a blue velvet curtain.

  I supposed it would not be wise to linger too long on the precipice, so I pushed aside the blue curtain and stepped through. I had expected to find myself on the ground floor of the building, but instead I stood at the top of a flight of stairs descending into the smoky haze of the room below. There was a band playing a mellow jazz tune and the air was heavy with the smell of cigarettes, perfume, and alcohol.

  As I made my way down the stairs, it was almost like descending into another world. The music swelled louder and the lighting seemed to glow in the smoky air. I had expected a somewhat raucous atmosphere, but everything was fairly subdued at the moment, as though the crowd had fallen under the spell of the languorous tune played by the band.

  I glanced around and saw men in dinner jackets, women in glittering evening gowns, as well as people in much less formal attire. In one corner, two uniformed police officers were drinking from glasses filled with amber liquid.

  I realized that, standing there agape, I was probably giving off the impression that I was completely out of my element. I tried to put on an air of nonchalance as I made my way down the rest of the stairs.

  Milo had said that Leon De Lora had not been there the previous night, but I hoped I would find him here tonight and be able to speak with him.

  I had gone over in my head what might be the best way to approach him. I didn’t want to try to make an introduction based simply on being a woman. That might give him the wrong sort of impression.

  That was what had led me to reason that it would be best not to appear British. Milo had already been here asking questions, and I thought it would likely draw attention if another British person appeared and began to do the same thing. I only hoped I would be able to do a credible job of maintaining my American accent. In any event, New York was a mélange of cultures. Surely my accent wouldn’t be particularly notable.

  I realized suddenly, as I often did when plunging headfirst into mysteries, that I wasn’t exactly sure what my next step was going to be. I had come here to speak with Leon De Lora, but I really had no idea if he was even going to be present tonight. Did gangsters spend a good deal of time at their own establishments? Or did they just let the speakeasies run their course and collect the proceeds? Somehow the latter seemed more likely, and I was a bit crestfallen at the idea.

  Of course, that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways that I might acquire information. If Mr. Palmer had worked here, surely someone was bound to know something about what had happened to him.

  It seemed that there were waiters moving amongst the tables, but there was also a bar at one side of the room. I thought this seemed as good a place as any to start. After all, the barkeep was at the social nucleus of any such establishment.

  I walked up to the bar, which was made of highly polished mahogany. The shelves behind it were filled with a vast array of bottles. A quick glance showed a good many expensive liquors and impressive vintages. It appeared that De Lora’s did not deal in the sort of low-quality bootleg alcohol I had heard plagued many speakeasies.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked. He was a tall, broad man, and, like the gentleman at the door, gave the impression that he might be equally comfortable pouring drinks as slitting throats.

  “I don’t want a drink at the moment,” I said. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “You’re free to look.” The tone in which he said this seemed to distinctly discourage looking, but I pressed ahead anyway.

  “I thought you might help me. I’m looking for Leon De Lora.”

  The bartender watched me for a moment, his features expressionless. “What do you want with Mr. De Lora?”

  I smiled, trying to appear perfectly at ease. “I’ve heard a lot about him, and I’m very interested to meet him.”

  Until that moment, I had not paid much attention to the gentleman at the end of the bar. He was leaned against the sleek surface on one elbow, angled slightly away from me, but when he heard my question, he turned.

  He was the sort of man who instantly drew one’s attention. He was tall and very handsome with slicked black hair and eyes so brown they looked almost black in the dim light. A scar ran along one cheek, but somehow it didn’t detract from his looks. Instead, it complemented his appearance with the aura of danger. Not that he needed a scar to do that. There was something about the way he carried himself, about the watchfulness in his unreadable dark eyes that set one immediately on edge. I knew who he was at once.

  I offered him a smile. “Mr. De Lora, I presume?”

  14

  HIS EYES SWEPT over me in a slow, assessing way before returning to my face.

  “You have an advantage over me,” he said. “That doesn’t happen often.”

  Despite the light tone in which he spoke, there was an intensity in his gaze that was a bit disarming. I would have to be on my guard.

  “Rose Kelly,” I said, using the name I had chosen as my American alias. Winnelda had assured me it evoked just the right image.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Rose,” he said. He moved toward me, taking my hand in his. I could feel the warmth of it through my glove. The pressure held for just a moment and then he released it, leaning against the bar. As he shifted his elbow against the bar’s edge, his jacket moved, and I caught sight of the shoulder holster he wore beneath it and the gun that rested there. I looked away quickly, though my heart rate had increased ever so slightly at this very visible reminder of what was at stake.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I came to meet you,” I said.

  He smiled. “So I heard. It’s not every day a beautiful woman comes into this place looking to meet me.”

  I found this hard to believe. I imagined there were any number of young society women who made their way to this club for a look at him. He was terribly handsome, but, more than that, there was a hard edge to him, a glint in his eyes that belied the easy smile on his mouth. He looked smart in his impeccably tailored evening clothes, but he wore that gun just as easily as he did a dinner jacket and I could sense the energy tinged with menace that was barely contained beneath the polished exterior he presented. Leon De Lora was just the sort of trouble a great many women would enjoy getting into.

  “I imagine you’re more popular than you let on,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I try to avoid attention whenever possible. Though you knew who I was readily enough.”

  “Your picture often appears in the paper,” I said.

  “But yours never has.”

  “How can you be certain?” I asked.

  “I’d
remember a face like yours.”

  Whatever his reputation, he had a way with words. Having lived with an expert charmer for several years, however, I was certainly not going to lose my head over his flattery. What was more, I was glad to realize that he hadn’t seen me or Milo in any of the society columns.

  “Can I offer you a drink?” he asked.

  “Not just now, thank you.”

  “No bad bathtub gin here at De Lora’s, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  I smiled. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Ah, yes. I forgot. You came here to meet me. Well, come and sit down.”

  He took my arm and led me to a booth in the corner, inserted into its own little private alcove in the wall. The seats were made of a dusky dark blue velvet and the surface of the table was a gleaming dark wood that reflected the light that hung above us. I realized, as I slid into my seat, that we were shielded from view from the rest of the room in this secluded corner. This was not the only such booth in the club, but it was a little disconcerting to be tucked away, out of sight, with this notorious man. Of course, I had put myself in his power the moment I had walked into his establishment, so there was no reason to start worrying about it now.

  Besides, we were not really alone. As we settled into our seats, I did not miss the movement of two large men who stood with their backs to the booth, their watchful gazes moving restlessly around the room. I wondered if there was some particular danger from which they were protecting him or if this was merely a necessary precaution in his line of work.

  I let my fur slide off my shoulders and tried to maintain an air of ease even as he leaned toward me slightly, his arms on the table between us.

  “Now, sweetheart, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  I was slightly caught off guard by this casual endearment, but I reminded myself that I was meant to be an American comfortable with this sort of crowd.

  “I hesitate to tell you,” I said coyly.

  “Why’s that?”

  I gave a little laugh. “It’s a bit embarrassing.”