by Marlowe Benn
With a dismissive jeer the hecklers wandered on to skewer the next politician along the row. Most of Miss Gillespie’s audience drifted away with them. She looked forlorn with only her three friends and a few passersby to witness, much less be persuaded by, her doomed message.
Russell and Julia turned away from the square’s noisy cant. He bought a greasy sausage roll from a cart—she declined the offer—and they wandered toward the lake. They sat on a low rock wall circling an oak tree, far from neighboring picnickers.
“There was another pregnancy, years ago,” he said. “We were both so young. Still in college. She was frantic with it, wouldn’t hear of marriage. We couldn’t tell her parents—her father was an iron-handed puritan who’d send her off to a nunnery to stew in shame until it was born. I sold some bonds my grandfather had left me, and off she went. She never told me where or who helped her. The risk was just too great. We knew it was the only way—she was bound and determined to be a New Woman, you know, free love, independent, equal in everything. The thought of a husband and baby, especially at eighteen, horrified her. And she was right. That wouldn’t be the Naomi I loved.”
Love, Julia silently corrected him. Present tense.
“But we cried. Oh God, we cried.”
They sat for some time.
“I’m sorry,” Julia said. “I truly am.”
Russell stood and offered his arm for the walk back to his office. “You’re a brave one, Julia. I’ll give you that. I can’t think of many I’d care to hear this news from, but I appreciate your candor.”
They walked past the mob reforming around a new assortment of candidates. Fern Gillespie was gone, her place taken by a man in an Uncle Sam hat haranguing on the perils of filthy papist foreigners taking American jobs.
“Life goes on,” said Russell.
Three panting youths dashed past, goading each other with crude, exuberant taunts. Russell pulled Julia aside to avoid the sweat and spittle. His arm settled at her waist. It was a quiet, forgiving gesture. “Firuski will be in town again on Saturday, along with that Dwiggins fellow he can’t stop raving about. He wanted me to ask if you’d be interested in a joint Dunster House–Capriole edition of an Archibald MacLeish piece he’s been saving. If you’re free for a drink to discuss it with him, perhaps you and I could have dinner after?”
The spent hydrangeas were lovely in the bobbing shadows of early afternoon. Julia had already declined an invitation from Beatrice Warde to attend the opening of an exhibit of fin de siècle title pages at the Met on Saturday. She admired the flowers as she separated the answer she wanted to give from the one she must. “I’m sorry, Russell, but I can’t. I’ll need to spend the day packing. It seems I’m sailing back to England on Sunday.”
CHAPTER 23
The first thing Julia noticed when Miss Baxter ushered her into Jack’s office later that afternoon was the look on Glennis’s face. Jack bent over her right shoulder, finger pointing to the papers laid across the desk while she sat in his chair like a princess. Her smile to Julia signaled an alert, predatory pleasure, the unerring detection of a suitable bachelor who was not only interesting but attentive. An inventory of caution ran down Julia’s spine. But for whom? She scolded herself: Who was she to judge who would or would not suit Glennis? Or Jack? Far stranger romances were commonplace. And as Glennis had clearly already calculated, a lawyer with good breeding and decent character working at a venerable downtown firm was nine-tenths of the way toward matrimonial prospect-hood. But if the fellow was also an artist?
“I was just explaining to Miss Rankin how we worked out the code of that note you brought in yesterday,” Jack said, straightening quickly.
“It’s terribly clever.” Glennis arched her back. A pale starburst of fine hairs leaped from her head toward the dark wool of his jacket.
“Have you worked out the clinic’s address?” Julia asked.
“Sergeant Warsinske did,” Jack said. “His men have had trouble with Heacock before, so they keep an eye on what he’s up to. He’s been working out of Harlem the last few months. At least that’s where the first direct contact is made.”
“First direct contact?” Glennis widened her eyes in charming bafflement.
“The operation is split into two stages, which occur at different locations. The police suspect the initial overture is strictly verbal, likely through a network of intermediaries. The client gets an appointment slip like this one”—he tapped Naomi’s dog-eared paper—“and is instructed where to take it. That is, they’re told how to interpret the coded address. This apparently keeps their errand private from anyone who might come across the slip.”
“I see. Thank you so much, Mr. Van Dyne,” Glennis said.
Jack’s auburn hair seemed to glow in her gratitude. “It’s at that location,” he continued, “where one actually meets one of Heacock’s associates. Unless he’s moved on recently, it’s an ordinary apartment on West 129th. One goes there first to pay. Everything is strictly cash in advance. Someone there sizes up the situation, makes sure nothing’s fishy. If all looks square, you’re told when and where to find Heacock. From there it gets murkier. Warsinske doesn’t have a fix on where he actually works. It probably changes a great deal.”
“Well, it’s this first person we need to see,” Julia said. “We need to learn who set up and paid for his services.”
“Julia thinks it might be the father,” Glennis said.
“That’s what I understand.” Jack moved away from the desk and smoothed his tie. “I gather it’s not uncommon for surrogates to make the arrangements. Give this to your driver.” He handed Julia an address written in bold capital letters. “And tell him to take you as close to the entry as possible. This is not a part of the city you two should be wandering around in. Make sure he waits for you.”
“Please. We’re hardly bumpkins.”
“I’m serious. If anything makes you uneasy, anything at all, stay in the taxi and go home. I can make time tomorrow to go there myself.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Julia said. “We don’t mind a little intrigue, do we, Glennis?”
Glennis seemed torn. She was eager for adventure but also loath to squander the offer of manly assistance. She nodded vaguely.
As they were leaving, Jack pulled Julia aside. He said in a low voice, “We’re set for two thirty Friday. All the papers will be ready to sign.”
Forty-eight hours until Julia would be stripped of her Kydd legacy. She gave a curt nod.
Jack hesitated. “There’s something more I think you should know.” Julia waited, watching Glennis dawdle near Miss Baxter’s potted ferns. She wasn’t sure she could bear much more, given the pained and reluctant tone of his voice.
“It was a shock to everyone,” he said. “Lillian Vancill’s will. Not that Philip was her heir but that her estate should be so sizable. Her death makes him a very rich man.”
“Bloody hell!” Julia’s outburst surprised them both. “Well, bully for him. Two new fortunes to wallow in.”
“Julia, he had no idea. You saw how she lived. And besides—” He slapped his mouth.
“For heaven’s sake, what?”
“He doesn’t want you to know.”
“Jack?” It was a well-modulated demand, but he refused to say anything more. Fine. She had no time for his games. She thanked him curtly and promised to return on Friday at the appointed hour. Just as well he wouldn’t share whatever last foul secret Philip was harboring. Whatever it was, it could wait. More imminent concerns awaited her in Harlem.
Jack was an old hen. As Julia stepped from the taxicab, she scoffed at his cautions. The street was busy with ordinary people doing ordinary things. Most passed without a glance, heading home with parcels of marketing or laundry, eager to start supper or rest their feet. It was nearly five. She hadn’t thought about what hours Heacock’s people might keep. She hoped it wasn’t too late to see someone today.
Glennis froze halfway out of the taxi. Gripping the door handle
, one foot on the pavement, she said, “Are you sure?”
Julia had to bend over to hear her.
“But, Julia, they’re all colored. Every single person here. I’m not sure we should get out.”
For pity’s sake. There wasn’t time for such nonsense. “Wait here then,” Julia said and left Glennis cowering in the shadows of the locked taxi.
She climbed four flights of narrow stairs, each landing lit by a dusty bulb between two facing doors. At 4A she took out Naomi’s appointment slip, readied herself, and rapped softly. Someone scrambled on the other side. Chin down, she gazed at the floor, presenting to the peephole a profile of chastened femininity. The chain clattered back, and a man in a collarless wrinkled shirt and brown braces eyed her. “You got an appointment? This is an appointment-only establishment.”
His voice was deep but labored and wooden, as if he had struggled to memorize his brief line. His large frame blocked Julia’s view of the interior. She held out the slip, thumb covering the date. He examined it, then her face, and stepped back into the apartment to allow her in.
The room held a small desk, two filing cabinets, and four mismatched wood chairs drawn into a semicircle. Another chair, surrounded by a sea of crumpled newspapers, was stationed beside the door, where this fellow apparently resided. The room was deserted, except for a gray-haired woman behind the desk.
She gave Julia a hard look. “No more appointments. We’re finished for the day.”
Julia crossed the room. “I’m afraid I’m not actually on your schedule,” she began.
“Barney,” the woman snapped, “what’d you let her in for? Can’t you do one thing right? No appointment, nobody gets in. God help me, boy, sometimes you’re worse than useless.”
“She got one, Ma! I saw it. The little paper. Look.” He pawed at Julia’s hands. “Show her!” Fear ballooned his voice.
“Sorry, miss,” the woman said. “Sometimes I swear he’s too slow to catch a cold.”
“A friend of mine came here for an appointment,” Julia said quickly, “not long ago. I’m not here about that. I simply have one quick question.”
The woman slapped shut the binder spread across her desk. “Out. No questions. Ever. Barney, get her out.”
Barney licked his lips. A strand of slicked hair fell over his eye. He reached for Julia’s arm. “But, Ma. She has—”
“Button your stupid flap, boy. Get her out. Now!”
Barney was no boy but a grown man at least ten years Julia’s senior. He seized her wrist and tugged her toward the door. The distance was not far, but they covered it in fits and starts as she resisted, heels scraping across the dirty linoleum floor. He flung open the door and pushed her out. She dipped her left shoulder and knee in the semblance of a violent stumble and flung herself with a noisy thud against the wall. With her right hand she grabbed Barney’s arm, pulling him toward her to ease her crumple to the floor. “Good heavens,” she exclaimed.
“You all right, miss?” he asked, sinking to one knee.
“I’m not sure.” Julia’s voice was shaky but loud enough to carry into the apartment. She fumbled furiously in her handbag. “If you’ll just be kind enough to help me up.”
Shielded from his mother’s glaring eye, Julia found what she sought and opened her palm to show him a pair of ten-dollar bills. From the bulge of his eyes, she guessed it might be half a month’s wages or more. She gave him one of the bills. “If you help me, Barney,” she whispered, “I’ll give you the other one too.”
His mother shoved back her chair. “Idiot! Get rid of her!”
Julia lolled against Barney, hooking her arm behind his neck as he righted her. He smelled of boiled pastrami. “Outside,” he grunted, low but clear.
“Thank you.” Her fingers lingered for a moment on the back of his hand, out of sight. Loudly she said, “Sorry to have troubled you, ma’am.” The door did not close until she reached the landing below, and a coarse blasphemy struck the unfortunate Barney.
Julia sat in the taxicab across the street for a good twenty minutes, watching the building entrance. Glennis fidgeted the whole time, whining of criminals and savages. The driver snoozed, slumped against the window, cap pulled low. At last Julia saw Barney’s mother leave. If a reflection off a passing motorcar hadn’t briefly lit that angular face and thin mouth, she might not have spotted her. In a shapeless black coat and wide-brimmed hat pulled low, the woman easily disappeared into the crowd. She was well suited for her work.
Another ten minutes passed. Shadows pooled in the street. A steady snore came from the front seat. Had Barney’s courage failed? Had he stung her, content to enjoy Julia’s loss of ten good dollars? Surely twenty was enough enticement. He seemed willing to talk; Julia was sure of it. As she fretted, ten more minutes crawled by. Glennis fumed nervously, arms taut across her ribs.
Julia nearly sang out when she saw him. Barney stepped onto the stoop, looking in all directions. He wore an ill-knotted green tie and a brown tweed jacket over his braces. His hair was freshly slicked back. She imagined there would be a splash of some hideous shaving balm to contend with as well. She slid out of the taxi.
He saw her and trotted down the steps to the pavement. “Ma told me to sweep up,” he said. “I can’t be too long. She watches.”
Julia took his arm. “We’ll be quick, Barney. You’re awfully nice to help me.” Inside the building she spoke plainly. “My friend saw Dr. Heacock about three weeks ago, but the question isn’t really about her. I know who she is, naturally. I hope you can tell me who made the arrangements, who paid for the doctor’s services.”
He nodded, loosing several pesky strands of hair. “That depends.”
Did he want more money already? Julia gave him an innocent smile. “On what?”
He stared dumbstruck, as if she were lit up large, a face on a moving picture screen.
“Barney?”
“On if you can find her papers.”
“Oh yes. That would do it, I’m sure. Are the records upstairs?”
“Ma keeps them in her cabinet. Only, they’re secret. She’s the only one who reads them.”
“Come on, Barney. Quick. Let’s give it a try.”
He mounted the stairs two at a time, turning at every landing to watch Julia hurry to catch up. Her shoes pinched, not made for such exertions. She hoped to heavens she wouldn’t perspire. There was no time to get her frock cleaned before Sunday, and she loathed packing away soiled clothing. She slowed to a manageable pace. Barney simply took more time to gawk.
He groped across the dark office to switch on the desk lamp with an anxious glance at the drawn blinds. The chairs had been straightened and the newspapers tidied into a rough pile. He probably had little to do all day except peruse them, front to back and back to front, between clandestine knocks. “Sometimes she looks up here. She can see.”
“You live nearby?”
He poked his thumb to the west.
“Let’s hurry, then.”
Barney took a key from under the desk, and Julia quickly unlocked the top drawer of the file cabinet. Her heart leaped when she saw bold surnames—Adams, Bennet, Dingley—printed across the tab of each file. This would be child’s play. But in the second drawer there was no Rankin, no files at all between Post and Swanson. She tried Pearsall. Nothing. She scanned the names again. Negri, Pola. Pickford, Mary. Post, Emily. Swanson, Gloria. False names, of course. Assigned or chosen, it made no difference. There was no way to find Naomi’s file.
“Barney,” Julia said, switching to a whisper at his frantic palm in the air. “They’re made-up names. I can’t find my friend.”
“You sure?” He clutched the wadded ten-dollar bill in his fist. “You look in both places?”
“Both? Show me.”
“These have names,” he said, running his fingers down the top two drawers. “Those have numbers.” He pointed at the bottom drawers.
“May I look?”
He unlocked the third drawer, and they crou
ched beside it. Across each file’s tab was a four-digit number. The first was 0601, followed by another 0601, 0701, 1001, 1201, 1201, 1301, and so on. Inside each file appeared the false name: Borden, Lizzie. March, Jo.
Julia rifled through the numbered files. The first two digits increased successively, while the last two crept up, changing every fifty or so files. With Barney’s eyes glued to her every movement, she turned her face away to think. What was the system? When it came to her, she vowed to kick herself later for being so thick. Of course. How simple. The appointment slip should have taught her. These were dates, inverted in the European fashion. 6 January, 6 January, 7 January, and so on. With a little cry that made Barney beam she pushed back to the 09s. 0509: one file labeled with the date of Naomi’s appointment. The name beneath the number was printed in clear, schoolmarmish letters: Pankhurst, Emmeline.
Naomi. Who else would choose the name of the prominent British suffragist? It made a wan joke in the midst of such squalid despair.
A car horn blared in the street, and Barney jumped. “Hurry, miss.”
Julia bit back a curse. There were only seven or eight lines written on a single sheet of paper, nothing intelligible. Medical information, perhaps. At the bottom was printed simply Paid in Full, Cash. This told her nothing more than what the appointment slip revealed. Watching her expression, Barney groaned.
She looked up into his broad face, creased with worry. “You’ve been awfully helpful, Barney. But this doesn’t say what I hoped it would. I need to know who paid.”
His chin sank to his chest, and she saw a smear of saliva on the top of his head, a remnant he’d failed to work through his thinning hair. It was as endearing as it was repulsive.
“Do you remember visitors, Barney?”
“Our ladies?”
“Yes. Do you remember the ladies? Or rather, who comes here to pay for them to see the doctor?”
“Yeah. I get to look at them as much as I want.”
Julia could believe that. He’d surely memorized her features by now.
“Do you remember a visitor who came about Miss Pankhurst? A few weeks ago?”