Shattered Angel

by Baird Nuckolls

  The wind continued to blow, whipping flags and signs as he passed, sending bits of trash flying through the air. The corners were particularly treacherous, tunneling the wind. Model A’s, Model T’s, a few Cadillacs, Chevrolets and horse-drawn buggies lined the east side of West Broadway. Morelli stopped at a shop to buy a pack of smokes. He normally couldn’t afford such a luxury, but with Mrs. Hart’s money in his wallet, he was feeling flush. As he stepped out of the doorway, a dark Pierce-Arrow Runabout drove down the street, its driver and passenger looking like movie stars from California. But they were probably from New England, down here putting on the dog, probably for the Dempsey fight. The driver’s hair was parted in the middle and slicked down with grease or something. He looked like he was having a great time. His companion cast a bored look in Morelli’s direction before bending her head toward her lap again.

  Walking up Broadway, his thoughts turned to what Mrs. Hart said about being referred by Sally. After the war, she’d been his Sheba, and he thought of all those nights they’d spent trying to break bed springs in an apartment just north of Little Italy. Those were good times. They’d had long walks in the Village, when he was so busy being with her, he hardly noticed where they were walking. One day, though, he remembered well. They stopped in Washington Square while some fella painted her picture. He had captured the light in her blue eyes, the warmth of her smile, her beautiful chestnut hair. It was a great picture and sometimes he wished he still had it, but she’d taken it with her when she left. He wondered why she’d come back into his life now.

  Morelli found the address that Mrs. Hart had given him on Bleecker. Up the street, a city worker pushed a wide broom in a futile effort to clear the trash and leaves that clogged the gutters on the west side of the street. Pedestrians threaded their way past him, barely noticing him. Morelli watched the wind blow the trash back up into the worker’s face as he lifted his broom to take another swipe at the mess. I’d hate to have that poor man’s job, Morelli thought. On the other hand, he probably got paid year-round, ’cause there was always a mess to sweep up.

  The door below the stairs was unlocked and Morelli went in, figuring that the super might be in the basement. He found a stooped old man with white hair dozing in a chair by the furnace.

  “Hey, fella. This your building?”

  The super woke with a start and straightened up. “Yeah. What do ya want?”

  “Name’s Morelli. I’m looking for a woman with red hair. Do you know her?”

  “Don’t know her name, but there was a pretty redhead up in apartment 3D.”

  “Is she around?” Morelli pulled out a pack of smokes and offered one to the super. There was silence until the ciggy was lit and the super filled his lungs, then coughed hard, before he spoke again.

  “Nah, gone. Moved out.”

  “When was this?” Morelli watched the super closely, trying to figure out how much he knew. “Do you know where she went?”

  “Week ago, maybe. Had a big row with her guy and I saw her headed for the El, dragging a suitcase.”

  “Who was her guy? Did he live here?”

  “Nah, didn’t live here. Just paid the rent.”

  “What was his name?” Morelli laid the pack of cigarettes on the super’s knee to encourage an answer. The old man took the pack and put it away in his pocket.

  “Don’t know and don’t care. He always paid in cash.”

  Morelli pulled the photo that Gladys Hart had given him out of his coat pocket. “Was this the guy?”

  The super peered at the picture in the low light of the basement. “Hard to tell without my glasses, but it looks like him. Don’t know the doll he’s with, though.”

  “She’s his wife.” Morelli told him, putting the picture away. “One last question. Do you know where I might find the redhead?”

  “I heard her say to someone that she got a job at some dive, over near the square. You might look there.” The old man’s head was drooping and he appeared to be falling asleep.

  “Thanks for your time.” Morelli tipped his hat and left the super to his smokes and the warmth of the furnace.

  The walk to the park was thankfully dry. The clouds scudded above the rooftops without splitting open again. Walking back down Bleecker Street, he passed the end of West Broadway and continued on to Thompson before turning right, toward Washington Square Park. The street was busy with pedestrians and he matched his stride to the pace of the crowd.

  The park was a welcome open space in this part of the city. Not as grand as Central Park uptown, it still had its graces, including the Arch at the base of Fifth Avenue and the bell tower of Judson Memorial Church across from it.

  The sun peeked through the clouds, warming the park. As he entered it, he noticed vapors rising like ghosts from the drying grass. It was quiet. One turn around the park and there was no sign of the café.

  Checking his watch, he decided to call it a day and head out to the fairgrounds for the Dempsey fight. It was going to be a madhouse just getting there. Maybe he should go and see Mrs. Hart again and get some more information. The trail was cold before he’d even gotten started.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Hart Mansion

  Friday at Four

  The ladies who arrived for tea were shown into the west drawing room. It had nice light at this time of year, still warm enough, but not of a glaring nature. Harmon announced them in turn. Mrs. Rudolf Vandermeer, a delicate, nervous woman, who was always the first to arrive. Mrs. Talbot Raines, wearing an outrageous hat with dyed peacock feathers flying out of it. Mrs. Theodore Johnson and her good friend, Mrs. Walter Holtz, came together. Mrs. Jamison Bentley Adams, and Mrs. Harold Tilsdale, her oldest friend.

  Betty Tilsdale and Gladys had been to school together. The other women were more distant acquaintances, in some cases, rivals. It was advisable to keep one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer. She’d learned that from her late husband. Howard Eldridge was a consummate businessman. He understood the intricacies of power in all relationships, which is what made him so successful in his banking career and also what made him so easy to live with as a husband. They had been well matched, aware of each other’s innate abilities and able to combine them into a successful partnership. She sometimes despaired of ever learning the things that Howard had understood implicitly. She had hoped that she and Aaron would be a stabilizing influence on each other, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Perhaps there was something in what Angel had said and he was drawing away from her. But she couldn’t think about that now.

  “Betty, how good to see you. Martha, thank you for coming.” Gladys held out a hand to each woman as she entered, drawing her into the circle and steering her to a particular seat. It was very important to keep certain ladies apart, as well as to seat others together to encourage the flow of information. She’d learned that from Howard as well.

  The tea was served and the ladies got down to business. Sybil Vandermeer was in favor of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as the theme of the ball. Gladys gently reminded her that it was September already and not entirely appropriate. Martha Raines wanted to be in charge of the design for the decorations, but Gladys was glad to have Betty make it her own responsibility; Martha had dreadful taste in colors. They would be sure to clash, or worse, be so drab as to be invisible.

  Evelyn Holtz suggested they have a jazz theme, but that would never do. Too loud and jolting; this was to be an evening of calm and beauty. It was time for all the important people of New York to meet and engage in conversation about the future of their fair city. The museum was too important. Flora Adams suggested a theme of prosperity; after all, they were well clear of the Great War and New York was booming—buildings were going up all over downtown—including the plans for a new building the newspapers were calling a “skyscraper.” It was to be the tallest ever built. Gladys shivered at the thought of something that impossibly tall. It couldn’t be safe.

  “Mr. Hughes is gathering items for a new Egyptian
exhibit and this ball will be a primary support for that endeavor,” Gladys told them. “Perhaps we can use that as the theme.”

  Betty agreed immediately and the other women murmured their support, imagining what sort of Egyptian motifs they might include in their attire. The discoveries by Lord Carnarvon of the tomb of King Tutankhamun in the past year had made the general news frequently. Gladys wasn’t terribly interested in the thing, but if it would raise money for the museum, she was in favor of it.

  She looked down at her notes. “Now, let’s talk about the invitations.”

  When they’d finally made all the decisions that Gladys required, the conversation shifted to family and children. Wilma Johnson’s son, Theodore Jr., was engaged to a young lady from Chicago. They had met at Columbia. Gladys kept quiet; Angel had rejected the idea of college, which didn’t bother Gladys, but then she’d spoken about wanting to work for Aaron at the bank. She had no real qualifications and Gladys didn’t want her getting in the way. Now she was staying out until all hours; yesterday morning’s conversation worried her greatly.

  The ladies finished their tea and cakes, speaking quietly to each other. Gladys heard Evelyn Holtz speaking to Wilma Johnson.

  “Have you heard anything about Mayor Hylan?”

  “No, he’s still up in Saratoga Springs with his son, as far as I know. Theodore is concerned about his illness, but I doubt the mayor will be well enough to return home soon.”

  “I’ve heard that the pneumonia has made him so weak, he can’t get out of bed,” Wilma stated; she always knew things. “They are feeding him broth by hand, as well as a wide range of patent medicines, but he hasn’t been getting any stronger. I’m afraid for the city, if he should die.”

  “Do you really think it will come to that?” Betty interjected, with a frown. Neither she nor Gladys were friends of the mayor or his wife, Miriam, but their husbands’ business interests had put them in contact in the past. “Who is managing the city in his absence?”

  “Murray Hulbert, the port commissioner,” Evelyn informed them.

  Wilma made a face. “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing, if ever I’ve seen one. I’m sure he is filling the mayor’s head with platitudes up in Saratoga Springs, while he’s plotting terrible things down here in the city.”

  This surprised Gladys. Wilma was not known to have many political opinions and she wondered whose opinions she was sharing: her husband’s or her son’s.

  “I know. Harold says he doesn’t trust Hulbert as far as he can throw him. Can you imagine?” Betty and Gladys both laughed at the image of her stout husband tossing Murray Hulbert down the street.

  Betty’s laugh was still remarkably girlish and Gladys smiled. Betty hadn’t changed much since their school days. She’d married well; Harold Tisdale was an excellent businessman and a good provider. His shipping company owned numerous warehouses down at the port and they were constantly busy, with ships arriving from all corners of the globe. Gladys approved of his manners, as well as his business sense. He was a supporter of the opera and the symphony; she could count on him to make a generous donation to the museum as well. Plus, they had both been supportive of her marriage to Aaron. Not all of her friends were so accommodating of the younger man she’d fallen in love with. They felt it besmirched Howard’s memory for her to remarry so soon, and to a man who was not of their set.

  Gladys hoped that Aaron would grow to become the kind of man that Harold was, the kind of man that her former husband, Howard Eldridge, had been: a cornerstone of the community, a man of worth. She wasn’t entirely opposed to his political ambitions, but his political friends were not her friends. She made a mental note to call Harold and ask him for more information about Murray Hulbert. She had her own interests to protect.

  ***

  Gladys spent the time after the ladies left, working in her study. The room was silent, except for the ticking of the clock over the fireplace, until Harmon opened the door after knocking discretely. Gladys was finishing a note to one of the museum board members and did not look up. A quiet cough, followed by a much louder one, brought her head up suddenly. It was unlike Harmon to be so intrusive.

  It was quickly clear that the person coughing was not her butler, but rather, a painfully thin young man with a pale complexion. He coughed again into a large white cotton handkerchief and looked up sheepishly.

  “Madam, I have brought you a candidate.” Harmon gestured to the young man.

  Gladys looked at him more closely. His suit was old, but clean and pressed. She could see that his collar and cuffs were worn nearly translucent; however, he had a gold watch chain hanging from his vest pocket. A lank thatch of sandy brown hair fell over his forehead and he tossed his head to clear his eyes, as he stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. The motion was obviously one of long habit. If he came to work for her, she would have Harmon require he get a proper haircut.

  “Come here, young man. What is your name?”

  “Henry Rutledge, ma’am.”

  “Where are you from, Mr. Rutledge? Who are your family?”

  “Charleston, ma’am. South Carolina. My parents, Richard and Lydia Rutledge, are both originally from Charleston.”

  Gladys thought about it for a minute. “Are you related to Chief Justice John Rutledge?”

  “Not directly, ma’am, although there may be some connection, as we’re all from South Carolina.”

  “Hmm. And what brings you to New York City, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “I came here to study law.”

  “Where are you studying?”

  “New York Law School, ma’am, but I’m afraid I’ve run out of the necessary funds to continue at the moment.” He fell into another fit of coughing and covered his face with the handkerchief again.

  Gladys eyed Harmon askance, wondering just what he’d been thinking bringing this boy to her if he were ill. He read her mind, as he often did, and answered the unspoken question.

  “Mustard gas during the war, madam. Nothing contagious.”

  “Perhaps you should be in the country, taking a rest, Mr. Rutledge.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m quite all right.”

  “Have you done this sort of work before, Mr. Rutledge?” She toyed with the fountain pen she’d been using.

  “Not specifically, ma’am, but I was a clerk in my uncle’s shipping office for some time before the war. I can type, and I’m well organized. I have learned my way around the city fairly well. I am quite confident I can meet your needs.”

  Gladys put down her pen and motioned Harmon forward. He stepped closer to her desk.

  “Harmon, is this the best you can do?” She spoke softly, but not so quietly that Rutledge could not hear her.

  “Yes, madam, given your requirements and time constraints. He’d applied recently for a position as a clerk at the bank, but there were no openings. Mr. Huntley, the manager, seemed impressed with his qualifications.”

  “Well, if Mr. Huntley approves, then we should give him a trial. Two weeks, beginning today. I have a great deal of work for him already.”

  “Yes, madam. Shall I leave him with you, then?”

  “Yes, Harmon. And will you please send Angel in to see me in a few minutes?”

  “I believe she’s gone out ma’am.”

  “Gone out? Oh yes, that brawl that Aaron invited her to see. Is she coming back to stay here tonight?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. I will endeavor to find out.”

  “Thank you, Harmon. That will be all.”

  The butler nodded and left without another word. Gladys looked Henry Rutledge up and down.

  “What are your politics, Mr. Rutledge?”

  “Ma’am?” He looked at her with an open face and steady gaze. “I have no such opinions, ma’am. I am here to assist you in your work, whatever that might entail.”

  “Whatever that might entail, Mr. Rutledge?” Gladys narrowed her eyes. Rutledge held her gaze.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

&nbs
p; “Then we shall get along very well, Rutledge.” She handed him a sheaf of papers from her desk. “Draft replies to these for me. I want to see how well you’ll be able to work independently. You may sit over there.” She pointed to a small desk in the corner with a typewriter and a wooden chair. Rutledge took the papers and set to work.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Dempsey Fight

  Friday evening

  The town car inched slowly through the crowd of people. There were more people on the road than cars, and his chauffeur, Sam, had to be careful not to run any of them down. Aaron Hart tapped his gloves against his knee with impatience. He hated waiting. Angel sat next to him on the leather seat, her white fur stole shining in the darkness. Her golden gown looked like liquid metal in her lap. She, at least, made him smile.

  Gladys would neither attend an event such as this, nor wear such stylish clothes. Aaron wished she would dress better, in the current fashions. Her clothes were still the same styles she’d worn during her first marriage. At forty-two, she was a handsome woman, but you could barely see it under the high necklines and flounces. Her daughter, Angel, on the other hand, was the bee’s knees. Nineteen years old, and she had all the style that New York City had to offer. He preferred to squire her around on his arm. But all the money belonged to Gladys and Aaron had no desire to upset her; he knew all about the butter on his bread.

  He turned toward Angel. “Are you excited?”

  She was looking out the window at the crowd of people and he noticed the men looking in at her through the glass.

  “Oh yes. It’s so nice of you to bring me tonight, Aaron.”

  She slipped her gloved hand under his arm and gazed up at him with a look of wonder on her face. Aaron warmed in the light of her smile. She was such a delightful girl. He couldn’t understand how her mother could be so restrictive. Getting out on a night like tonight was just the sort of thing Angel would enjoy. They reached the Polo Grounds and Sam pulled into a clear area where they could get out. Sam opened the door for them. Aaron climbed out. Angel reached up and took Aaron’s hand as he helped her from the car.