by Marlowe Benn
“I don’t. I’m just repeating what Wallace said.”
Julia’s brief hope of Eva’s escape sank as fantasy gave way to reality. “Walkabout” was Philip’s airy gloss on the situation. The fact remained that she now had no way to reach Eva, no way to speak with her and hear her account of that night. Wherever she was, Eva was not safely hidden under Wallace’s care.
Wallace. The lovely glow of their last hour together dimmed. Why hadn’t he told her any of this? She’d asked him directly, and he’d assured her he’d protect Eva. Nothing to worry about. Was that mere bravado? The male impulse to shield women from bad news? Did he really think she’d bruise so easily? Eva’s disappearance gave her a great deal to worry about, yet his deceit, even by omission, was troubling too.
During her silence Philip refilled their empty cups. He lifted his to his chin but for several seconds simply contemplated her over its rim. “I take it, from your face and from your questions,” he said, “that your friend did not share this information himself last night?”
Her cheeks flooded. That realization had been rising in her thoughts as well, cold and rank as a marsh fog.
He sighed. “Trust is like glass, you know. Once broken, it can never be mended.”
Julia scowled and turned in her chair. She remembered the deep solicitude in Wallace’s eyes as they’d traveled home, his eerily somber What will you have me do, Miss Kydd? As if honoring her wishes were all. His face, full of respect and deference, was not the face of a liar. Her trust was cracked, perhaps, but not broken.
Yet if he’d told her the truth, if Eva was still in his care and safe from danger, then he’d fabricated the story he’d told Kessler. It would be fantastically bold, as well as risky, to hoodwink the New York Police Department in such a high-stakes matter. Wallace was no fool, especially if he was about to launch himself into public service. No, Julia had to admit that any romantic interests he hoped to pursue with her paled in comparison to his civic responsibilities to Kessler. Wallace was smart and ambitious; his priorities must lie with his career, not a brewing dalliance (however delightful) with Julia. Kessler would get the truth, not her.
She set aside her cup and saucer with a hasty clatter. Wallace’s deceit was not her first concern. She had a more urgent new truth to face: Eva had disappeared, and every hour she remained missing deepened Kessler’s conviction of her guilt. Unless she could find Eva herself and learn what had happened that night, Julia’s only hope of helping her evade Kessler’s grip was to present him with a plausible alternative suspect. Her instinct’s favorite candidate, Jerome Crockett, remained elusive, which left her with few options. Best was to follow the spider of interest that had traveled her spine at Coral Goldsmith’s news that her husband had lied about his alibi.
Arthur Goldsmith’s disappearance that night might be as innocuous as Coral suspected—a taxi ride to his office sofa. But he’d witnessed Timson’s violent resolve to keep the manuscript, and he’d seen where he’d put it. Beyond Eva, no one had more stake in the fate of that manuscript than Goldsmith. His anger had been righteous, frightening in its suppressed fury. He had paid for that novel; by rights it belonged to him. And he had raged out into the night, alone, during the very hours Leonard Timson had been shot.
Julia’s forgotten cigarette smoldered nearly to her fingers. With a start she ground it out. She would have to come up with a pretext to talk with Goldsmith. However contrived it might be, she needed to sustain the ruse long enough to gauge his temperament, to see if she could imagine—or convincingly portray—him as Timson’s murderer.
CHAPTER 19
Arthur Goldsmith rose when Julia was shown into his third floor office above West Forty-Second Street. He buttoned his fawn-colored jacket over a turquoise shirt with a white collar and deep-emerald tie. The ensemble, paired with his olive skin and gleaming black hair, carried a Mediterranean élan, as if he had just stepped from his yacht off the coast of Capri. The eminent publisher greeted her with a mix of curiosity and condescension. Julia accepted this. She deserved as much, given the flimsy reason for her appointment. She carried her blue leather portfolio, posing as a prospective designer in search of commissions.
She accepted the brief grip of Goldsmith’s hand and followed its courteous sweep toward a pair of tight-backed upholstered chairs facing his desk. She crossed the room with languid care, chin high and shoulders relaxed. Her frock suited her beautifully, a cream silk day dress edged in pale pink with a low suede belt. Its fluid skirt moved with every sway of her stride. She’d worn her finest pair of Italian street shoes, pale-rose suede and snakeskin with silver buckles.
Anything? She turned, alert for some inkling of interest. Coral Goldsmith’s astonishing claim of her husband’s attraction amused Julia. Could there be even a grain of truth to it?
No, she decided. Not one glimmer of lusty interest, which was just as well. Whatever desire this man might feel, it would be bloodless and shrewd, like the calculating drive for a good price or sound investment. Julia imagined sex between the two Goldsmiths must resemble the labors of unoiled machinery, steel grinding against steel.
So she had only one card to play, his passion for typography. She was more than knowledgeable in that arena herself and could easily match his enthusiasm. She hoped it might again overcome his more general disregard for her as a young person of no significance.
She was in luck. Several framed type specimens and broadsheets were arranged on the back wall. With an avid click of her tongue, she moved to admire them. Goldsmith hesitated, no doubt totting the moments he’d allotted for this interruption and calculating the cost of any digression. Then he followed her to the display.
The type specimens drew her eye first. She admired his copy of the 1734 edition of William Caslon’s proud exhibition of his foundry’s wares, as well as a striking broadsheet of Rudolf Koch’s bold new Neuland. Koch was an accomplished lettering artist, and his type designs captured his calligraphic skills.
The other sheets were title pages, all American of recent vintage. She recognized Goudy’s Elements of Lettering, featuring his long-limbed but endearing Kennerley types, and Bruce Rogers’s recent confection for the Grolier Club, The Pierrot of the Minute. Goldsmith identified other pages as Rogers’s work, and a handsome selection of Elmer Adler’s ephemera work from the Pynson Printers. As she perused this gallery, he narrated its treasures with growing animation, encouraged by the informed dips and nods of her salmon-pink cloche.
“None of your own books, Mr. Goldsmith?”
He tipped his head with satisfaction, explaining that framed selections of the firm’s own publications were displayed in the company library down the hall. Six of his books, he added, since she was interested, had been selected among the nation’s fifty most handsome productions for 1923 and 1924. He hoped to notch an even bigger proportion in the next judging. Any number of other Goldsmith titles, he noted, deserved honor as well. He credited the several designers to whom he entrusted their books, Rogers and Adler preeminently. “And this good man.”
A smiling fellow with a shock of unruly white hair strode into the room. Introduced as Mr. Dwiggins, he handed Goldsmith a pencil-rendered title page board for Willa Cather’s My Mortal Enemy and immediately excused himself. It was beautifully hand-lettered. Of the many arts she longed to master, Julia said truthfully, calligraphy was high on the list. But being left handed, she might as well wish to dance on the moon.
“It’s always a pleasure to share an interest in typography,” Goldsmith said, resuming his business day with tact. “But I understand your visit has another purpose?”
Julia retrieved her portfolio. Oh yes. She too had work to do. And now he looked to her with genuine interest. She realized with a pang that he was a true comrade. In simpler circumstances she would love to talk shop with him about the exciting new typefaces being resurrected from past eras, when the human hand had guided layout and design, before the last century’s shift to soul-killing industrial bookmaking.
She dreaded to think what today’s ruse might cost her in future opportunities for such pleasures.
She settled into one of the low-backed chairs, and Goldsmith sat in the other, hands folded around one knee. His fingers were lean, nails buffed to a spotless sheen. He wore no rings. Julia crossed her legs, slowly, discreetly, just to double-check.
She heard the faintest shift in his breathing. His eyes remained lowered, and she knew. He was aware of her legs now. The man did love books more than women, as Austen had joked, but not strictly instead of them. Julia—that rare combination of a reasonably fine-featured young woman with a bibliophile’s heart and mind—had indeed aroused his interest. That gave her a second card to play. With luck it would keep her in the room long enough for her planned gambit.
Goldsmith waited, impatience fading his smile. Julia swiveled to better display her ankle.
“I was told you’re a serious bibliophile, Mr. Goldsmith,” she said, “and now I’ve seen for myself the care that goes into the design of your books. They’re consistently handsome, as attractive as they are legible. I particularly admired that pretty little edition last year of Mrs. Browning’s Sonnets and that stunning title page of Mr. Hergesheimer’s latest. And how refreshing to see colophons in trade books. I wonder why more American publishers don’t follow your lead in this. Colophons can make such a difference in raising readers’ awareness of type, don’t you think? We both know standards could bear a good deal of raising.”
Goldsmith accepted this meandering speech with grace, shadowed by puzzled boredom.
“It’s no secret I’m a fine printer myself,” Julia hurried on. “I was hoping you might look at a sample of my work. It would be a great honor to design something for you—something small, a pamphlet or catalog, perhaps. It would be an honor to play even a tiny part in your distinguished company, Mr. Goldsmith.” She readied the blue leather portfolio in her lap.
Goldsmith listened, dark eyes alert behind hooded lids. He straightened. “Thank you for thinking of our firm, Miss Kydd, but Mr. Adler supervises all of our typographic work.”
“Will you at least look?” She patted her skirt, smoothing it toward her knee.
At this he extended his hand and accepted the portfolio. Julia continued to smile, willing him to glance through the entire stack of sketches. Fortunately, her examples were credibly informed by the latest developments in type design and typography. She’d handed Goldsmith half a dozen title page drawings modeled on recent editions from French and British publishers of the sort she thought Goldsmith might like. She wanted to pique just enough interest to make sure he scanned all six designs.
Her smile was in preparation for his reaction to the final sketch. He was about to close the portfolio when he saw it, a bold rendering of HARLEM ANGEL in forty-eight-point Goudy caps letterspaced in two lines spanning the width of the type page.
He snapped the portfolio shut. “Your final sample is premature, Miss Kydd. It’s also, under the circumstances, in deplorable taste.”
Good. She needed to provoke him beyond his cool, arrogant aplomb. She met his reprimand with confusion, then apologies. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Goldsmith. I sketched that before the troubles and must have forgotten to remove it. I’ve been so distracted, worrying about poor Eva Pruitt. Please forgive me.”
This wheedled a tense conciliatory nod out of him. She leaned forward. “You must be upset too, at all the things they’re saying. Is Eva’s manuscript really missing?”
“I don’t know what gossip you listen to, Miss Kydd, but yes, the manuscript is gone.”
“How awful. You paid for it, and then to get—nothing.”
He stood and moved to his desk, where he picked up a pocket appointment calendar.
Julia rose as well. “You must feel cheated.”
At last he seemed discomfited. His eyes dropped to the floor, or perhaps to Julia’s ankle.
She shifted her weight to suggest the hip beneath the drape of her dress. “Leonard Timson was a ruthless, dishonest man. He stole from you. You had every right to be furious.” Julia did her best to rekindle that angry spark. Anger might rock him further off balance, spur him into an indiscreet account of that night.
“Indeed,” Goldsmith said. “But the man is dead now. His crimes are no longer relevant.”
His words had the tone of a dismissal, but beneath it Julia heard a chilling, almost boastful ring. Was this some kind of Machiavellian assertion that Timson had paid for those crimes, that the two men were now square? Was Goldsmith implying he’d returned early that morning for the manuscript—and revenge? This was the possibility Julia had come to explore, but now that Goldsmith was suggesting it himself, she was too startled to pounce.
The moment passed. When he lifted his gaze, she saw nothing but cool control. His brazen composure made it clear there would be no further discussion, much less any reckless blurting. He wished to be done with the subject.
But not necessarily with her. A new glint of humor shone in his eyes. He was enjoying this. Their conversation had become a sport to him, a tussle with a playful puppy or willful child. A game—with shapely ankles in the bargain.
Julia, however, could not be turned aside so easily, not on the brink of a breakthrough. She tried again. Her shoulder brushed his sleeve, in case that still carried a trace of charm. “I can’t stop thinking of poor Eva. I understand she’s missing again.”
He nodded. Wisely he forbore mentioning the breach of contract suit Coral had initiated.
Julia winced. “Aren’t you worried for her? One of your most promising authors?”
“A tender heart will get you nowhere, Miss Kydd,” he counseled, “should you seriously pursue thoughts of becoming a publisher.”
His words as good as patted her on the head. He was now simply milking the company of a softheaded woman. Yet Julia plunged ahead. Her pride was already damaged; she had little more to lose.
“I was thinking of those awful policemen who questioned me after Mr. Timson was shot. Thank goodness I could tell them I was at home in my bed. Did they hound you as well?” Her sentence trailed off.
Goldsmith gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you interrogating me?”
Julia faltered. “I only wondered—”
“You can’t seriously think I murdered the fellow.”
At his bark of astonishment, she realized how ludicrous she was. Hopes of his guilt had blinded her to the obvious. Goldsmith was a fastidious man, vain and precise. Such a man would never abide the messy drama of a point-blank gunshot. He channeled his aggression into clean, bloodless assaults—legal, moral, and economic. Wherever he had gone that night, Goldsmith had not returned to gun down Timson.
He strode to the door. “Audacity does not become you, Miss Kydd.”
Cheeks burning, Julia gathered up her portfolio.
“I will tell you this,” he said. “Miss Pruitt is in a volatile relationship with a difficult man. If you’re searching for villains, I suggest you begin there.”
He grasped the doorknob. “And I assume you have no interest whatsoever in designing for us, so we’ll say no more of that either. Don’t ever waste my time again, Miss Kydd. Good day.”
The puppy had been scolded, the child sent to bed.
He held open the door with perfect manners, and Julia passed through the reception lobby clutching her last tatter of dignity. She’d sacrificed a great deal of pride and gained precisely nothing. Only after she reached the hall and called for the elevator did she realize that her fists were clenched, more from his echoing amusement than his anger.
CHAPTER 20
“Do you remember Arthur Goldsmith, Eva’s publisher?” Julia asked Wallace the following evening. She spoke lightly. It must be a delicate, careless overture. The time had finally come for such talk, and she couldn’t risk crushing it with urgency. After an evening of all things Schubert in Blossom Time at the Majestic, they were settled on the banquette cushions in a private dining alcove at Chez Mareill
e.
Lifting a finger for patience, he squeezed a lemon wedge over the last two oysters. He carried the smaller one, plump and mottled in its shell, to her mouth. Julia accepted the morsel and dispatched it quickly. As usual the experience was tolerable but hardly transcendent. Nevertheless she smiled and prepared for the kiss that followed. A kiss always followed.
“Julia. How lovely to see you.” Julia looked up to see Mrs. Macready. “Welcome, Mr. Wallace,” she added coolly.
“Leah.” He doused the final oyster with an extra squirt of lemon.
“Enjoy your meal,” Mrs. Macready said, already moving away to greet another party.
How very odd. Her tone was unmistakably chilly. Julia turned to her companion and tipped her chin in silent query.
“We go way back, Mrs. Macready and I,” Wallace said.
“Who is she, exactly?” Julia had longed to know this from the moment they’d met.
“She owns this place. Or rather her late husband did, and she enjoys his fortune, as you see.”
“You don’t seem on very good terms.”
“She snubs me, you mean? At every opportunity.”
“How unpleasant.”
“Quite.”
“She’s been kind to me.” Julia remembered Mrs. Macready’s recent friendly company in the ladies’ lounge and her soothing reassurances last fall, helping Julia to understand Philip’s lashing mood the night his aunt Lillian had died. He’d been stung to lose the irascible old woman of whom he was inordinately fond; Julia could only imagine his grief at later learning she was his natural mother. On that and so much else, Philip remained quiet.
“Long ago I offended her in some way, and now nothing I can do or say can atone.”
Julia nodded, even though she remained curious why Wallace’s experience of the woman was so different from Philip’s. Was it also romantic? Wallace no doubt had many former paramours in the city. Had something gone badly wrong between them? Or a business deal gone awry? That too she could imagine.