“I do, but I don’t like wasting time.”
“I’ll bet you don’t. And you smoke?”
“Now and then, for relaxation. I seldom smoke tobacco, though I confess to a preference for milder herbs that professional journalists do not transport across state lines.”
She laughed. “You a jazz enthusiast?”
He regarded her. “Do I look like a jazz enthusiast?”
She leaned toward him and said, in a stage whisper, “Possibly.” She’d marked him out as attractive and simply not noticed the rest. He was smart, masculine, homosexual, and careful, not at all obvious. He kept his own counsel, playing innocent with the secretaries and smirking with the men when appropriate. She folded her arms. “Mr. Lindstrom,” she said.
He lifted his chin, displaying the chiseled cut of his jaw, and inclined his head toward her. “Miss . . . Thornhill,” he said.
He liked women generally, Emily thought, though she could probably count on him to hate the women she hated. He wouldn’t judge her or get in her way, yet they could provide one another finely tuned camouflage.
So much could go unsaid. They would be confederates.
He reached for her hand and she gave it. He held the back of her wrist, lightly massaging her palm with his thumb, touching the first knuckle of her index finger with a circular pressure.
“Reflexology,” he said. “Ancient Chinese hokum.”
“Do I pass?” she asked.
“You’re perceptive,” he said. “Curious, to a fault. And you’re not alone.”
“Yes, there’s that,” Emily said. “Do you mind dogs?”
“You mean, of the canine variety?” He cast a glance at the newsroom’s glass partition. Globs of dark color moved behind it in suits. Typewriters sounded in the steno pool, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung suspended, wafting out against the ceiling.
“Yes, strictly canine. I have a small dog I must take with me, for research purposes. It was the Eichers’ dog, and doesn’t bark.”
“Does it talk?”
“Not yet. But it might.”
“Separate bylines,” he said, “separate hotels. I like my own space.”
“I believe you’re my man.”
“I believe I am.”
She handed him her card. “My address, on the back. Pick me up there, in an hour. I have an interview on Dearborn, at five. An eyewitness, of sorts.”
“Who’s the interview?”
“Charles O’Boyle, the roomer, the one who fingered Pierson, though too late.”
“It’s so often that way,” Lindstrom said. “And we must clean up after, explaining what it means.”
“We’ll drive all night,” Emily said. “If you’re not an insomniac, I’ll teach you.”
He stood, pulling on his suit jacket. “Agreed then. We shall burn the midnight oil. I very much look forward to not sleeping with you, Miss Thornhill.”
• • •
Emily waited for Lindstrom on the street, under the awning of her apartment house. They would interview O’Boyle, then come back for her luggage, and for Duty. Emily planned to sneak the dog into the Gore Hotel if necessary. He was small enough to fit in a valise and couldn’t bark to reveal his presence. In her experience, maids were easily bribed. Where was Lindstrom? She walked to the curb and looked to the right.
Suddenly, he was taking her arm. The car was running, for he’d pulled up just behind her. “Madam,” he said, “your chariot awaits.”
“My goodness, Lindstrom. I do like your style.”
“It’s brand-new a week ago,” he said, “but thoroughly test-driven. ’32 Chevrolet coupe. I like a classic car, don’t you?”
She stepped inside, and he closed the passenger door with exaggerated care. The interior smelled deliciously new. “So it’s next year’s model?” Emily asked.
“We inhabit the future, Miss Thornhill.” He’d rolled the front windows down and now took his seat behind the wheel.
She laughed. “Lindstrom, this is so absurd. I feel as though we’re off on a first date.”
“And so we are, an intricate and demanding date. You must call me Eric, though, when appropriate, and Mr. Lindstrom otherwise. I’m happy to be taken for your lover, your professional partner, your superior, or your brother—” He grinned at her, speeding smoothly through the Loop, “but I do not wish to be taken for your chauffeur.”
“Fine. And I’m happy to share the driving.”
“Afraid not. Part of my deal with our benefactor. Don’t take it personally. No one, male or female, can drive this car but me, until I return it, sparkling, to my friend.”
“I see, Eric.” She folded her arms, and looked at him. “And is he your special friend, of long duration?”
He smiled as though thinking of something delightful. “My friend’s duration is excellent, thank you.” He glanced over at her. “I like that wide-eyed laugh of yours. I hope to inspire it regularly. And you, Miss Thornhill? Are you planning to tell me all about your special friends?”
“In good time, Eric. And you may call me Emily. Here’s Dearborn. It’s 1400 Dearborn. Now then: Charles O’Boyle. Engineer of some sort. He knew the family, and put the police onto what they might have investigated much sooner.”
• • •
O’Boyle lived in a doorman building. The elevator attendant, a petite older woman, managed the wire gate and the levers.
“Seventh floor, please,” Emily said.
“Seventh floor, ma’am.”
Eric tipped his hat to her, and indicated the long empty corridor when the elevator doors opened. Plush carpet of a busy floral pattern stretched before them. “War of the Roses,” he said. And then, “What’s the number?”
She was walking briskly, checking doors. “Just down here.” Emily knocked. “He’s expecting us. Travels a lot on business. Going off somewhere tonight, apparently.”
“Fellow traveler,” Eric said, and stood behind her. “This is your show.”
O’Boyle opened the door. He looked at Eric, and then at Emily. “Miss Thornhill?” he said.
“Yes, Mr. O’Boyle. And this is Eric Lindstrom, my colleague at the Tribune. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us. May we come in?”
“Yes, of course.” He opened the door wide, inclining his head as though performing an official duty.
Duty, Emily thought. She must remember to tell him she had the dog.
“Please, sit,” O’Boyle said.
The furniture was modern; leather chesterfield and two matching armchairs, large coffee table, wall of bookshelves. Emily could see a dining table beyond, and a sideboard, and large, unadorned windows facing the street. The view would be very nice. Emily sat in one armchair, Eric in the other, and O’Boyle on the sofa.
O’Boyle wore a dark suit, smartly cut. He was a bit older than Lindstrom, perhaps, but the neatly trimmed mustache seemed calculated to offset his youthful appearance. Attractive, Emily thought, conservative, a company man. He took a silver cigarette case from his vest pocket and flipped it open, extending it to Eric Lindstrom. “Do you smoke?”
“Not at the moment,” Eric said shortly, “but thank you.” He looked at Emily as though to signal O’Boyle, who then included her in the gesture.
She demurred. Was he prone to ignoring women, in a professional capacity? She supposed he simply didn’t encounter them, traveling for the Dunnegan Company.
“I’m afraid I smoke far too much these days.” He flipped the case shut. “I’ll wait.”
“Mr. O’Boyle,” Emily began.
“See here,” O’Boyle said, producing a sealed envelope. He placed it on the table, next to the cigarette case. “It’s all in this letter, addressed to Chief Duckworth, whom I understand is police chief in Clarksburg.” He paused. “I entrust it to you, Miss Thornhill, to deliver to Duckworth personally, and then to publish, to whatever purpose is helpful, to keep the record straight.”
“We may publish the contents, Mr. O’Boyle? Exclusively, in the Tribune?
At such time as the authorities deem it permissible?”
“Yes, well, that is Chief Duckworth’s decision. But I would like it published, in the Tribune and elsewhere. I want the record straight.”
“Of course.” Emily took the letter and affixed it to her notebook with a paper clip. “May we speak now, though, more informally? I’m sure the letter will clarify a great deal, but I always find that talking, one-on-one, can be so beneficial, in helping to recall details. We give you our word that the letter will be published, unedited, just as you wrote it.”
O’Boyle glanced at Eric, as though seeking his corroboration.
The two men looked at one another across the table and Emily was struck by some frisson between them. Did they know one another? Schools? Clubs? Surely Eric would have told her, unless he was just now recollecting. They did look cut of the same cloth, strong profiles, both of them: Eric very blond, in a beige summer-weight jacket, his blue-green eyes carefully devoid of their usual knowing expression, and O’Boyle dark-haired, blue-eyed, Irish, no doubt. Catholic, of course. Practicing? Somehow, Emily thought not. She judged him to have come from good family, but not wealth. He was self-made, Emily guessed, had not inherited money or privilege, but was educated among those who took both for granted. He wore the suit, the haircut, the expensive, nicely polished shoes, but did not possess Eric’s easy confidence. He was guarded, but why? He was under no suspicion whatever; in fact, he was the hero of the tale.
“Mr. O’Boyle,” Emily said, “I’m interested, not just in the hard news of this case, but in the family, in who they were, and what was lost.” Emily fell silent. She must let him set the tone.
“They were not lost,” O’Boyle said. “They were cruelly deceived, and taken.”
She realized he was quite grief-stricken. There was anguish in his slightly aggressive demeanor, some sense of guilt deeper and more complex, perhaps, than what William had described: Grethe at the teller’s window.
O’Boyle clasped his hands. “I have it on good authority that Pierson is under arrest, as we speak.”
“We are driving there tonight,” Eric said.
“Soon we should know more,” Emily volunteered, “and Mr. Lindstrom and I will keep you informed, if you so desire. I’ve spoken to William Malone, the Eichers’ banker, and with Mrs. Elizabeth Abernathy, the children’s nurse, but you knew the family more intimately, having lived in the household. Pierson’s methods will come to light, but you are perhaps somewhat aware of Mrs. Eicher’s motives, her frame of mind.”
“Abernathy is hardly a children’s nurse,” he said flatly.
“Agreed,” Emily said. “She asked me to take the Eichers’ dog, and I did.”
He looked at her, incredulous. “You have Duty? I assumed he’d gone with the children. I telephoned Abernathy to ask for the key. She never mentioned —” He shook his head. “I couldn’t have taken him, so I’m glad I didn’t know. Well. Duty.”
“Why the odd name?” Emily asked.
“There is a story about Duty.” O’Boyle lit a cigarette. “He arrived a month or so after Heinrich died, a present for Hart from a nursemaid, back when they still employed one. The Eichers were Duty’s second family. The first was killed by a tornado, west of Chicago, in the plains. Now he’s an only survivor, again.”
Eric shot Emily an unreadable glance. “I think I’ll have a cigarette, Mr. O’Boyle, if you don’t mind.”
“Charles,” O’Boyle said, extending the open cigarette case. “That’s it, then. If they didn’t try to reclaim the dog, in all those weeks—” He’d gone pale and spoke with clipped, painful effort. “The monster has killed them.”
“Probably right away,” Eric said.
O’Boyle stared before him, stunned. “Sorry, I used my last match.”
Eric stood and leaned over the table, touching the cigarette in his mouth to O’Boyle’s, drawing in the flame. It was easily accomplished, nonchalant, intimate.
Nicely done, Emily thought. “Charles,” she said carefully. “Could we start at the beginning? You roomed with the Eichers, for how long?”
“I moved in just after my mother’s death, nearly five years ago. She was my only relative, and maintained a household, where I stayed when I wasn’t traveling. Her illness imposed . . . financial burdens. Dunnegan transferred me to Park Ridge. Rooming was the obvious solution.”
Emily was writing. “You answered an ad?”
“Yes, in the Park Ridge paper. Heinrich had died, perhaps six months before. They wanted local gentlemen, with references.”
“Which you provided.”
“Certainly.” He looked at Eric, and back at Emily. “I spoke first with Lavinia, Heinrich’s mother, the children’s grandmother.”
“Mr. Malone mentioned her. Was Lavinia . . . difficult? Controlling, perhaps?”
“Difficult? No, she was quite wonderful. Wonderful to me, from the moment she opened the door. The children adored her.”
“Had they rented rooms previously?”
“There had been roomers before me, gentlemen, supposedly, who didn’t work out to Anna’s satisfaction.”
“Anna?”
“Asta’s pet name was Anna, but that’s personal, not for publication. The letter is for publication. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Emily said. “You are speaking off the record. You need only say so, and I will hold that part of our conversation in confidence.”
“Yes, just so,” he said, and then added, “I can’t believe she was so rash. It isn’t like her, not at all. Anna was my very good friend.”
“More than a landlady, you mean. Can you elaborate, Mr. O’Boyle?”
O’Boyle stood up suddenly, explosively, and shouted, “Good god! Is this really relevant? What do you think I mean?”
“I, don’t know, Mr. O’Boyle.” Emily looked at Eric, who raised his brows subtly, then looked down at his notebook, writing. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the family,” Emily went on, “to understand—”
O’Boyle faced her. “They were like family, to me. I was, for three years, the only lodger; I paid to have both rooms, and moved out two years ago. I was working in Chicago and my circumstances had much improved. Still, I spent holidays with them, visited every few weeks. I was there when Lavinia died, and a week afterward. I was there Christmas past, and stayed on into the new year. All this might never have happened, if she had listened to me. If I had convinced her—” He looked away, shaken.
“Of what, Mr. O’Boyle?”
“She told me she was going to sell the house, mentioned changes about to happen. I was alarmed and completely surprised. I’d assumed Lavinia’s death would result in an inheritance, but realized my mistake. I determined to take the situation in hand.”
Emily fixed her gaze, patiently, on O’Boyle. He wanted to say more, but required her assistance. “In hand,” she repeated quietly.
“You didn’t know her!” he said abruptly. “You’ve no idea who she was, nor does Malone, nor, most certainly, does Abernathy—” He walked quickly to the dining room, and took, from the center of the table, a silver tray and tea service, which he placed before Emily. “She was an artist. This is her work.”
The gleaming tray was octagonal, and the subtly matching pieces, sugar bowl, creamer, a tall, generous carafe, were sleek, forceful, with squarish handles. The work was eminently formal, each piece finely etched with a monogram, a large A, or E, in graceful double lines.
“Beautiful,” Emily said.
Eric stood to look more closely, the three of them gathered together as though over a cool, reflective fire. “Exceptional Danish design,” he said. “Timeless.”
“The Eichers were Danish. This is her mark.” O’Boyle turned the creamer over to reveal the circular, raised EAE, touched it, replaced the creamer on the tray.
“Do you have other work of Anna’s?” Eric asked.
He said her name very naturally. Emily reflected that she could not have done so. Asta Eicher’s mark,
glimpsed quickly, disturbed her: the bold A completely encircled by the linked, facing Es, with their sharp feet, and the pronged midline joining all. The A was pinioned, encased. Emily had helped her grandfather brand horses and cattle. He maintained there was an art to burning the hide just enough; it was not a wound, but a mark. This woman was marked, bound. She had said as much in this emblematic symbol of the work that so defined her. How much did O’Boyle know?
“I’m trying to find other pieces,” he was telling Eric. “Not easily done. She stopped designing or producing soon after she was widowed. I bought this from her, one of the few pieces she’d kept. I wish now I’d bought more, but I wasn’t in a position to do so then. Later, she concealed her circumstances, until last December.” He bent to remove the tray.
Emily stayed his arm. “Please, leave it. It’s beautiful. May I?” She acknowledged his nod of assent and pushed the tray to the center of the table. It’s as though she’s here with us, Emily wanted to say, but refrained. “It snowed a great deal last Christmas,” she said.
“Yes, a huge storm, several feet of snow. I arrived early on Christmas Eve, before it started, and I’d bought the children a Canadian toboggan, big enough to fit us all. We went sledding on Christmas, after dinner and Annabel’s play, and the children had opened their presents. I have a snapshot.” He brought out a small envelope. “I took these photos. I’m having the negatives enlarged.”
The snapshot showed the three children, arranged on the sled youngest to oldest, bundled in coats, scarves, matching blouson hats, in heavily falling snow. None looked at the camera. Annabel looked forward and to the side, snow on her hat and shoulders; Hart looked down; only Grethe looked up, squinting into the storm.
“Those hats are quite smart,” Emily said.
“Canadian, as well. I was there some weeks, for Dunnegan.” O’Boyle offered another small photo. “I took this on the front porch, a week after Thanksgiving and Lavinia’s funeral, just before I left. It’s probably the last photo of the four of them, together.”
Asta Eicher stood behind the children, a half-smile, somewhat wistful, on her face, her dark hair waved at the front and pulled back. Grethe, nearly her mother’s height, very thin, looked girlish, her long hair tucked behind her ears. Hart and Annabel stood with their shoulders back, as though poised for some adversity, Hart very sober, in shirt and tie, sweater, short trousers, hands at his sides. Annabel wore a dark dress with white cuffs and collar, like a pilgrim; she looked wary and devastated, Emily thought, quite different from the child in the sledding photo, only a month later.
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