A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  “But are you sure about Miss Petrie?” I was still reeling from the idea that she might be addicted to drugs. The more I thought about it, however, the more sense it seemed to make.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Eddy, my bartender, said she was in here the night Palmer got rubbed out, looking for him. I suppose her supply was running low.”

  I suddenly remembered the compact that she had left at the house. I had put it into my handbag when I changed clothes this afternoon. I reached inside and pulled it out. Flipping the little clasp, I opened it. It was nearly empty, but there was the residue of white powder in the rim and dusted across the surface of the little mirror, far too pale in color for Jemma Petrie’s complexion.

  I set it carefully on the desk.

  “That’s not face powder,” Mr. De Lora said dryly.

  “What … what is it?”

  “Cocaine.”

  Powdering her nose, indeed.

  I had had the impression that she had despised Mr. Palmer, and yet there had always been a certain sort of awareness on her part whenever he was near. Now I knew what that was. She had been dependent upon him to supply her with drugs, and she had hated him for it.

  I wondered what she had been doing since he had died. I had noticed that she hadn’t been looking well. And today she had been unable to meet us due to illness. She was likely suffering from withdrawal.

  That, then, was the reason she had not answered Tabitha’s telephone call the night of the murder, why she had lied to the police about her whereabouts.

  All of these revelations, following so closely upon one another, were enough to make my head spin. I realized that I might very well have discovered more of this earlier on if I hadn’t been so caught up in my subterfuge.

  “Then who killed Grant Palmer?” I asked. “Jemma wouldn’t have done it, not if she was relying on him for her supply.”

  “You don’t think it was Mr. Alden? Maybe he found out what Palmer was doing under his nose.”

  Something in the way he said it, in the way he watched me as he waited for my answer, let me know that he didn’t believe it any more than I did.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think Mr. Alden knew. If he did, he could’ve had Grant Palmer arrested. There was no reason to resort to murder.”

  Mr. De Lora leaned back in his seat. “Yeah, about this murder stuff. Why don’t you let the police worry about it?”

  “The police aren’t always concerned with justice,” I said.

  His eyes met mine, and I thought there was something searching in his gaze.

  “I think you’re right, Mrs. Ames,” Miss Hayes said. “The killer should be brought to justice.”

  “Then I’m outvoted,” Mr. De Lora said with a shrug. “I just urge you to be careful. Did you talk to your husband about any of this?”

  I shook my head. “He hasn’t been home since last night. That’s the real reason I came to see you. I’m concerned about him.”

  “Not to alarm you, but I’m starting to think he may have gotten himself in a little bit of trouble.”

  I felt my chest clench. “Why do you say that?”

  “He told me this morning when we parted ways that he was going to Mr. Alden’s warehouse.”

  I felt a cold chill sweep through me. If that was the case, I assumed he would have been home long ago.

  “I need to go there,” I said, rising from my chair.

  “No one is going to be there at this time of the night.”

  “I don’t care. I need to see if anyone can tell me where he went. Perhaps one of the watchmen will have seen him.”

  “Rose … Amory, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “I’ve got to find Milo, and it’s the only place I know to start looking.”

  I saw Miss Hayes look at him, something passing between them, and he sighed, rising from his chair. He took the gun from the desk and slid it into a holster beneath his suit jacket.

  “All right. I’ll come with you.”

  25

  THE DRIVE TO the warehouse was completed mostly in silence. I was lost in my own thoughts, so many things swirling around my head, concern for Milo foremost among them.

  He had been going to the warehouse to look into things this morning. Had he begun to suspect the same thing I had? Even if that was the case, there was no reason why he should have remained there for the entire day. Something had either stopped him from getting there or from arriving home.

  I didn’t like to think about what the possibility might be.

  I was in a state of nervous tension, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Mr. De Lora, however, was the picture of ease as he sat beside me in the shadowy backseat of his big car, the driver making his way through the streets crowded with carefree people enjoying the bright lights and pulsing life of the city.

  The car moved then to quieter, darker streets as it approached the warehouse. At last we reached it. Perhaps it was only my anxiety that made them appear so, but the buildings looked to be hulking menacingly against the backdrop of the black water, the entire scene awash in sinister shadows.

  Mr. De Lora got out and came around to open my door, and I stepped outside. It was so much different from the bright, cheery world full of laughing people and neon signs; it felt almost as though I had stepped into some other city.

  I felt a surge of apprehension as I looked around the dark, deserted lot, but I tried to push it away. After all, it was possible that we would encounter nothing out of the usual here. Besides, it was too late to turn back now.

  “Let’s go,” Mr. De Lora said. He took my arm and we made our way toward the main warehouse building.

  Our footsteps sounded uncommonly loud as we walked along the cobblestoned ground. I considered slipping off my shoes to walk in my stocking feet, but the sight of a broken bottle and then a scurrying rat quickly relieved me of that idea.

  The area appeared deserted. There was no sign of even a watchman, and I began to wonder if we had come here on a fool’s errand. Perhaps Milo was even now worriedly awaiting my arrival back at the Aldens’ home.

  Still, we moved forward, slowly and cautiously making our way through the towering stacks of crates and boxes, and the scattered equipment and piles of rope that lay crouched in the darkness, ready to trip us at a moment’s notice.

  Finally, we reached the warehouse, and I saw that the door was slightly ajar. It was then I noticed a dark shape on the ground and realized what it was.

  A man lying motionless in front of the door. Milo.

  * * *

  MY HEART LEAPT into my throat, and before I knew what I was doing, I ran to the figure and knelt beside him.

  It wasn’t Milo.

  I realized it almost at once and felt a sense of relief unlike anything I had ever known wash over me. The feeling was so intense that I was instantly weak with it. And then I realized that, though it was not Milo lying there, this man was dead. I stood up quickly, backing away from the body.

  Mr. De Lora came up beside me and lowered himself down for a closer look.

  “The night watchman,” he said after a moment. “Shot in the head.”

  I felt a wave of nausea pass over me, and I pressed my eyes closed, trying to steady myself.

  “The killer’s been here,” I said at last.

  “It would seem so,” Mr. De Lora said, rising.

  “Do you … do you think Milo’s been harmed?” The idea was almost too horrible to voice aloud.

  “This man hasn’t been dead for more than a couple of hours,” he said. “Your husband was supposed to come here this morning.”

  It was meant to be encouraging, but I was not sure that it was.

  “We’ve got to go inside,” I said.

  He hesitated. “Maybe you should wait out here.”

  I realized then that, despite his reassurances, he wasn’t at all sure that Milo was all right. I wasn’t sure either. If this man had been shot here at the warehouse, who was to say that Milo had not met with the
same fate? The thought made me queasy, but I also felt a sudden rush of resolve.

  “I’m going in with you.”

  He looked at me. “Are you sure?”

  “You don’t understand. I … I need to know.”

  “I do understand,” he said. “Because I know what it’s like to love someone and then lose them.”

  I was surprised by this admission. To be honest, I wasn’t certain that a man like Leon De Lora would feel such emotions. Oh, I knew he was human, like any other man, but there was a toughness in him that I imagined extended much deeper than just the surface, as though any volatile human emotion had been hardened like obsidian into that smooth, handsome exterior.

  “I had a wife,” he said at last. “She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. So am I,” he replied. “So all I’m saying is that maybe you should wait here a minute. I don’t expect your husband to be in there, but…”

  He stopped and I considered. What would I do if we discovered something horrible inside that warehouse? As much as I tried to tell myself that Milo was all right, as much as I wanted to believe that I would feel it if something had happened to him, I realized that I had to prepare myself for the worst.

  I thought of that awful moment when I had seen the body of the murdered night watchman lying on the ground. What would I have done if it had been Milo? I felt another wave of nausea. Still, I had to face it.

  “I’m coming with you,” I said again.

  He nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”

  He stepped inside the warehouse and I followed behind him. Everything was dark, with the faint light from outside providing only a dim rectangle of light in the cavernous darkness. I had just turned to look for a light switch when I heard the sound of footsteps behind me.

  I turned quickly and was both surprised and relieved to see Detective Andrews in his familiar rumpled trench coat, a fedora pulled low over his forehead.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Ames,” he said. He didn’t seem nearly as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. I supposed it was a bit rude of me to blurt the question out in that way, but I hadn’t expected to see him here and I didn’t know why it was that he had come.

  “I got a call about a disturbance,” he said.

  I realized suddenly that someone had likely called about a gunshot. “This man has been killed,” I said, motioning to the guard who still lay, lifeless, in the doorway to the warehouse.

  Detective Andrews looked down at the body without much concern.

  “What happened here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. We just arrived. Where did you come from? I didn’t hear your car…”

  Suddenly Mr. De Lora grabbed my arm and propelled me farther into the warehouse and behind a stack of crates just as a shot rang out.

  I realized then what it was extremely stupid of me not to have realized before. Detective Andrews was trying to shoot us.

  “He’s the killer?” I whispered in shock.

  “Just keep moving,” Mr. De Lora said, his hand still on my arm, pushing me through the maze of crates and boxes. More than once I bumped my shin against something as we tried to find our way silently through the darkness.

  A thousand thoughts rushed through my mind at once. Detective Andrews. I didn’t know why I hadn’t realized it before. The way he had tried to divert suspicion, the way he had wanted to so quickly wrap up the case. And he had been smoking that day I had discussed art with him in the drawing room; the matches from the Lightning Lounge must have been his. It was he who was in league with Frankie Earl.

  I heard footsteps inside the warehouse, and suddenly the lights flickered on.

  I looked at Mr. De Lora in alarm. I had not anticipated that the warehouse lights might be turned on. We were going to have to find a better place to hide. Mr. De Lora didn’t look at all alarmed, however.

  “You might as well come out,” Detective Andrews said. “I can wait here all night.”

  It was then I noticed the gun in Mr. De Lora’s hand. He reached behind a crate and let off a shot. I flinched at the sound of it and I heard a muttered curse from Detective Andrews.

  He had probably not recognized Leon De Lora as my companion. It had been dark inside the warehouse, after all. Detective Andrews hadn’t realized that his foe would also have a gun.

  Mr. De Lora motioned to something behind me, and I turned to see that we had somehow found our way toward a great stack of rubber tires. Pulling a knife from his pocket, Mr. De Lora stabbed it into one, and white powder trickled out.

  “The cocaine,” he told me.

  There was another shot just then, and I didn’t have time at the moment to put all the pieces together.

  Another shot rang out, but I heard it hit a crate on the far side of the warehouse, and I realized that he didn’t know where we were. He was baiting us. Mr. De Lora realized it, too, and didn’t fire a return shot.

  If Detective Andrews was no longer sure of our location, we were safe for the moment. But as for how we would escape the warehouse, I didn’t know. The doors were securely locked. I had seen as much on my earlier visit with Mr. Alden and Milo. The only way out was through the door we had just entered, and Detective Andrews was standing there with a gun.

  It seemed we were likely to be at an impasse.

  There was a moment of silence, and I was afraid that he would hear the sound of my heart that was drumming noisily in my ears. But it seemed he was not going to attempt to come after us, not when Mr. De Lora was armed and he couldn’t be sure of our position.

  “All right,” said Detective Andrews at last. “Have it your way.”

  I was relieved. Perhaps he was going to leave. Perhaps we would get out of this alive, after all.

  Then I heard a loud clang and a strange splashing sound, as though something had been spilled, and caught a whiff of a strong odor. Then a scrape followed by the sound of the door to the warehouse slamming.

  And then I heard the most dreadful sound of all, a low whoosh followed by a low crackling noise. The sound was unmistakable.

  Mr. De Lora understood it at the same time as I did. He turned to me. “He’s set the place on fire.”

  26

  I FOUGHT DOWN the panic that welled up in me, the mindless need to run, to escape. We had to think. I knew from my visit here that these doors were reinforced and could be unlocked from the inside only with keys. That door Detective Andrews had just locked was the last means of exit that had been available to us. Mr. De Lora and I were prisoners inside a burning warehouse.

  When he had warned me that I was playing with fire and would likely get burned, I had not imagined the consequences would be so literal. But here we were. I was going to burn to death with a notorious American gangster. This was not at all how I had imagined my life ending, not when I was carrying my first child. A surge of emotion nearly choked me, and I fought down a sob.

  But no. I couldn’t think that way.

  I glanced around. We weren’t far from one of the warehouse walls, and I made my way to it. There was a door set there, and I raced to pull on the handle. It was locked, as I had known it would be.

  I pounded on the door and called loudly for help, knowing even as I did so that it was a futile waste of energy. No one was here; no one was going to hear us.

  I turned back to Mr. De Lora, who had followed me, though his eyes were not on my ineffectual efforts but roaming the warehouse. I was glad that Detective Andrews had not turned off the lights again, for it would have been even worse to be locked here with only the glow of the advancing fire to see by.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I said. I was surprised at how calm I sounded, given the circumstances. It was just as well, for hysteria would be of no use to anyone. I remembered then what Mr. Brown had told me: the windows on the upper floor weren’t boarded up. Perhaps we could get out there.

  “We need to get upstairs,” I said. “Th
e windows aren’t boarded up.”

  Mr. De Lora was still looking around the warehouse when suddenly his eyes stopped on something across the room. “This way,” he said.

  He took my arm and led me along the outer wall of the warehouse. The fire was still crackling behind us, growing in intensity. It seemed that Detective Andrews had spilled one of the barrels of flammable fluid and it had added to the fury of the blaze. It had moved along the floor and had already overtaken the first row of crates, the dry wood igniting as easily as kindling.

  Already the scent of smoke was beginning to grow heavy in the air. If the fire didn’t kill us, the smoke certainly would.

  I had been following Mr. De Lora blindly, lost in a series of morbid thoughts, when he stopped suddenly in front of a metal ladder that led upward to a catwalk that surrounded the second story.

  I looked upward. I hoped this would work, for if not we would be more likely to roast alive as the heat and smoke rose.

  “You go first,” he said.

  I nodded. Clasping the rungs, I began to climb.

  Despite the impediment the flowing folds of my taffeta gown provided as it pooled around my legs and caught on the rungs beneath my feet, I reached the landing relatively quickly, and Mr. De Lora was soon there beside me.

  The smoke was thicker here, drifting upward in quick plumes. We also had a much better view of the fire from this vantage point, and I could see it as it blazed its way through one stack of wood crates and moved on to the next. I felt another surge of alarm as the smoke seemed to grow even denser.

  “We’re going to suffocate if we don’t get out soon,” I said.

  “It’s a possibility,” he admitted.

  He didn’t look in the least bit concerned about it, and I wondered if he knew something I didn’t. I reminded myself that he had faced much direr situations on the battlefields of France, and perhaps even on the streets of New York. He wasn’t going to let something like the possibility of perishing in a warehouse fire ruffle his calm.