by Radha Vatsal
Kitty’s face flushed.
“Give her a chance.” The voice belonged to Jeannie Williams.
“What chance? She’s already been here six months.”
The taps shut off; there was a shuffle, and then the door closed behind them.
Kitty emerged from her cubicle and washed her hands. Her cheeks burned. It was one thing to suspect that the others didn’t care for her, another to have one’s guess confirmed.
Jeannie was the only decent one of the lot, the only one who bothered to speak to her or show any interest in what she was doing. Because Kitty worked for a shorter day, she didn’t take the eleven o’clock break with the typists, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have known what to say because their lives were so different.
She walked through the hen coop without looking left or right and knocked at the entryway to Miss Busby’s alcove.
“I just got off the telephone with Mrs. Stepan,” the Ladies’ Page editor trilled, looking up at Kitty. “She was most pleased with you. ‘So pleasant, so personable, such a good listener.’ Her words, not mine.”
“I’m glad I made a good impression.”
Miss Busby’s coral earrings swung back and forth as she nodded. “Good impression? She thought you were just right! And so it seems that my plans are coming to fruition sooner than I expected.”
“Just right for what, Miss Busby?” Kitty pulled up a chair. “What plans are you referring to?”
“Just right to interview Miss Anne Morgan about her new book.”
“I beg your pardon—the Miss Anne Morgan?” Kitty dropped into the chair.
“That is correct.” Miss Busby looked like a girl who had won the first-prize ribbon at a school contest.
“Why me, Miss Busby?” Anne Morgan was the philanthropist daughter of the first J. P. Morgan, the sister of the current, wounded J. P. “Jack” Morgan. She was known around the world for her personal fortune and charitable endeavors. “Why would Miss Morgan want a girl like me to interview her about her book?”
This was all happening too fast—in less than a week, Kitty had gone from spending all morning behind her desk to covering a party, interviewing a bereaved widow, a hostess, a playwright, a horsewoman—and now an heiress? And not just any heiress but quite possibly the wealthiest unmarried woman in the world.
Miss Busby thrust a slim volume in front of Kitty. “Because her book has been written for and about girls.” She ran a finger beneath the title: “The American Girl: Her Education, Her Responsibility, Her Recreation, Her Future. And Miss Morgan would like an American girl to discuss it with her.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m overwhelmed. And honored.”
“As you should be.”
Kitty panicked. “And I’m not very American. I wasn’t raised here.”
“Really?” Miss Busby paused, but just for a moment. “Well, no one can tell.”
“Do you think I’m up to it, Miss Busby?”
“Well, you better be up to it, Miss Weeks, because I’m not about to refuse Miss Morgan, and I hardly qualify as a girl myself.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Take a deep breath, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty did as she was told.
“There’s just one rub.”
“Yes, Miss Busby?”
“Miss Morgan maintains a busy schedule. The only time she has available to speak to you is Monday morning.”
“This Monday?” The words came out in a squeak.
“That is correct.”
“But that’s four days away.”
“I am aware, so you will not come in to work tomorrow. As soon as we’re finished, you are to go home and start preparing. Don’t think of doing anything else. You must study the book from cover to cover and formulate a list of questions. I’ll do the same, and we will discuss it first thing on Monday morning. The interview is scheduled for ten thirty, and I’ll expect you here at eight o’clock sharp. That should give us enough time. Or if you prefer, I can come in on Sunday to help you.”
Kitty flipped through the book. It was short, just about sixty-five pages. She could read it in an afternoon. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Busby. I can manage.”
“Music to my ears. And you never know—you might find some advice in it that could be of value to you personally. Lord knows, if I were your age, I’d jump at the opportunity.” She twirled a strand of gray hair around her finger. “Sadly, my best years are almost over.”
“I hope I can be worthy of your confidence, Miss Busby.”
The editor’s eyes moistened. She blinked. “Go on. You better finish up.”
Kitty returned to the hen coop in a daze, the volume clutched to her chest. Responsibility… Education… Future. These were momentous topics. And she would have the chance to discuss them with no less a personage than Miss Anne Morgan.
“There’s someone here to see you.” Jeannie Williams looked up from her work when Kitty came in. She stared at the book in Kitty’s hands. “Is that The American Girl? Is it for the Ladies’ Page?”
Kitty nodded. “I’ll be doing the interview.” The words didn’t seem real.
“Oh my!” Jeannie’s hand flew to her mouth. “I admire Miss Morgan so much. She’s such a fine lady.”
Kitty put down the book. “Did you say that someone wants to see me?”
“Silly me.” Jeannie glanced at a chit beside her typewriter. “A Mr. Lucian Hotchkiss. He said to tell you it’s urgent.”
Chapter Ten
It never rains but it pours. Kitty ran down the stairs. She had been stuck behind a desk and bored for months, and now it seemed as though everyone clamored to speak to her. What could Hotchkiss possibly want? She pictured the handsome, fretful secretary before she saw him adjusting his tie beside the three-faced clock in the Sentinel’s lobby. He looked nervous. A young man, likely a reporter, sauntered over and murmured something to him.
In response, Hotchkiss reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a lighter. The young man put a cigarette in his mouth and bent over the secretary’s cupped hands.
“Mr. Hotchkiss.” Kitty approached them.
Mrs. Basshor’s secretary fumbled and dropped his lighter.
“Thanks.” The young man strolled off, puffing away.
Hotchkiss picked up his lighter and put it back into his pocket. “Good morning, Miss Weeks.” He sounded more than a little flustered.
“What brings you here, Mr. Hotchkiss?” Kitty said. “May I help you with something?”
The secretary wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Can we speak in private?”
“This way.” Kitty led him to a marble bench in a quiet corner of the atrium.
“Mrs. Basshor doesn’t know I’m here.” The secretary remained on his feet. “She’ll worry if I’m not back soon. You might think it odd of me to be so concerned, but I owe her everything. I’d be nowhere and nothing without my employer.”
“I understand, Mr. Hotchkiss.”
“Yes, well.” He coughed into his hand. “Let me start by saying that I came to you, Miss Weeks, instead of anyone else because I thought I might be able to count on your discretion. You seem to me like a young lady of tact and understanding.”
“I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Hotchkiss, but I haven’t got all day.”
“Of course.” His smile was apologetic. “I believe you are aware that when Mrs. Cole was questioned by the police detectives, she said that she’d been waiting for her husband at the children’s tables for the duration of the fireworks?”
“Yes.” As far as Kitty was aware, no one had been able to confirm Mrs. Cole’s claim. On the other hand, no one had disputed it either.
“I have reason to believe that that may not be entirely accurate.”
“Go on,” Kitty urged.
“When I was at the cl
ub yesterday, wrapping up some housekeeping matters, one of the waiters approached me and said that he had something troubling to report. Apparently, one of the ladies had lost her bracelet and asked him to search for it. He hunted around the children’s tables for at least five or six minutes while the fireworks were in progress. During that time, the tables were empty. He said there was no one sitting there at all.”
“Why didn’t he tell the police?” Kitty’s mind raced through the implications of this new information.
“He didn’t think it mattered at the time.”
“I see. Well, perhaps you should report it now.”
The secretary smiled nervously. “Mrs. Basshor would fire me on the spot if she knew that I was talking to you out of turn, let alone bringing one of her guest’s movements to the authorities’ attention. The waiter won’t say anything for the same reason—the club frowns on it. I could have kept quiet,” he added, “but instead, I decided to come to you.”
“What can I do about it, Mr. Hotchkiss?”
“You could speak to Mrs. Cole and find out what happened. She won’t mind if it comes from another young lady. And in the end, it might be nothing. She may have needed to powder her nose, or something like that. Something she wouldn’t have wanted to tell the detectives.”
“And suppose she doesn’t have a convincing answer?”
“Then perhaps you could inform the authorities?”
“Really, Mr. Hotchkiss.” He wanted her to do his dirty work. He wanted her to question Mrs. Cole and then point fingers if necessary.
“I leave it in your hands,” the secretary replied. “But I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention to anyone that you heard this information through me.”
Kitty sighed. He looked so anxious, and Mrs. Basshor probably would be furious if she found out. “I won’t tell anyone about our conversation, but what I do with what I learn is my decision.”
“That’s all I can ask.” He seemed relieved to have transferred the burden and shook Kitty’s hand. “Thank you, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty watched him leave. So devoted to Mrs. Basshor, and yet he wasn’t without his own scruples and, perhaps, grudges.
She waited for the elevator to the sixth floor. If Hotchkiss was correct and Mrs. Cole had indeed been absent for some time during the fireworks, Mr. Flanagan ought to be informed. The tidbit might offset her news that the Dr. Albert lead hadn’t amounted to much.
She tapped on the glass partition and mouthed Flanagan’s name, but a tall, scholarly man emerged in response to her summons.
“Miss Weeks?” He looked down at her from his rimless, President-Wilson-style pince-nez. “I’m Rathbone, Mr. Flanagan’s colleague. He’s asked me to give you a message.”
“Is he out?”
“He’s up in Connecticut with the police. It seems that the Cole case is about wrapped up. He says to tell you that they’re hot on the killer’s trail and should have him in custody by this evening.”
Chapter Eleven
“I beg your pardon?” The revelation transported Kitty to a moment in the misty past, when her native ayah had taken her to prayer hall in the mountains. Kitty had been absorbed in the rich orange of the monks’ robes, their strange droning chants, the golden statues draped with silky white scarves. She hadn’t noticed her father barge in until he’d grabbed her wrist.
“You have to remember who you are,” he’d said through gritted teeth. Seven-year-old Kitty had been terrified; she’d never seen him look so grim. It wasn’t long after that that he packed her off to Switzerland, and Kitty never saw the ayah again. She had promised herself that she would never make the same mistake: she would never believe that she was part of something, or that she belonged somewhere, when she didn’t.
The problem was, her hopes got the best of her sometimes, and judging from the stab of pain she felt in response to Mr. Rathbone’s abrupt announcement, she realized that she had forgotten her childhood vow and had imagined herself to be more central than she really was to Mr. Flanagan’s investigations.
“One of the stable hands did it.” Rathbone twirled a pencil between his fingers.
“A stable hand? Why? Why would a stable hand want to shoot Mr. Cole?”
Mr. Flanagan’s associate shrugged his shoulders. “Calm down, Miss Weeks. I’m not conversant with the details, but I believe it has something to do with the fellow being Cole’s acquaintance from the racetrack. He was dismissed from his job there because of some wrongdoing and only found employment at the country club by providing a false name. Mr. Cole recognized him… Really, it’s best you wait until tomorrow. There will be a full account in the papers, and you can read all about it.”
Kitty shook with anger. How dare he? How dare he treat her like another member of the news-hungry public?
“It’s all I can tell you.” His tone was dry as he returned to the newsroom.
But she wasn’t a little girl anymore, Kitty thought as she made her way downstairs. And she no longer had to accept others’ valuation of her place in the world and what she should or shouldn’t do as a result of it.
• • •
Kitty collected her things and hailed a cab to take her home. She had gone less than half a block before she changed her mind and redirected the driver to Aimee Cole’s address.
She had a role in this story too. She had met the dead man. She had met his wife. No one had been charged with the crime yet. She still had opportunities to have her questions answered.
A striking woman with sparkling eyes and red hair arranged in ringlets opened the door to the apartment. “Can I help you?”
Kitty tried to contain her disappointment. Mrs. Cole probably wasn’t in.
“It’s me—Aimee!” the woman squealed once it became clear that Kitty hadn’t recognized her. She pulled off the wig and transformed back into her unremarkable self. “I know you must think I’m awful, playing around so soon after what’s happened, but I’m all alone, and I’ve nothing to do except look through my old things.”
She flung the door wide open, and Kitty followed her inside. Open boxes and cartons littered the living room. Flouncy garments spilled out of one; another overflowed with shimmery bits. Aimee tossed her wig into a box of hairpieces.
“It started with my not being able to find my black gown,” she explained. “The funeral is tomorrow, and I need something decent to wear. Mama’s gone to the shops to buy me proper mourning.”
She cleared a pile of scarves from the couch. “Souvenirs from my former life. Will you have some tea?”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Here, take a look at this while I put on the kettle.” She handed Kitty a linen-bound album.
Kitty opened it, expecting to find photographs from Aimee and Hunter Cole’s marriage. Instead, the album was filled with page after page of clippings, photographs, and postcards of Mary Pickford, the motion-picture actress famed for her long, red curls—no doubt the inspiration for Aimee’s wig.
Kitty leafed through the pages: here was thoughtful Mary in an advertisement for Mender of Nets; there she was looking saucy in Female of the Species. She was on alert in Tess of the Storm Country, forlorn in Cinderella, and ready for romance in Hearts Adrift. Reviews from Photoplay and Motion Picture Weekly had been interspersed with the pictures. Some had been starred with a thick red pencil, while portions of the others had been circled or underlined for extra emphasis.
“The Eagles Mate is a lively feature without a real kick,” Kitty read a marked review to herself, “but it has Mary Pickford, the best kick or punch that could be put in.”
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Mrs. Cole returned to the parlor. “She looks like she’s not much more than a child, but she’s America’s highest-paid motion-picture heroine.”
“I’m partial to Pearl White myself.” Kitty put the album on the coffe
e table. She loved Pearl’s films, but she hadn’t created a shrine to her like Aimee Cole had for Miss Pickford.
“Pearl doesn’t hold a candle to Mary,” Aimee replied. “We’re the same age, you know. Both twenty-three this April. But Mary’s been working forever. She started onstage when she was five years old. Her mother brought her down from Toronto, and little Gladys Smith, as she was called then, has been supporting her family ever since.”
“Have you seen all her pictures?”
“All her features. The one- and two-reelers are too numerous to count. But take a guess—tell me how much you think Mary makes.”
“How much she earns, you mean?”
“That’s right.” Mrs. Cole’s eyes blazed.
“I have no idea.” Kitty hadn’t encountered such devotion to an actress even among her school friends. And for a married lady of twenty-three, the passion certainly seemed, well, unexpected.
“Give it a try,” Aimee cajoled.
“A hundred dollars a week?” It was a wild guess. Kitty knew that society reporters made fifty, and they were the highest paid in the business, so she took that number and doubled it.
“Try two thousand.” Aimee sounded giddy, as though she’d just been handed that sum in cash.
“That’s astounding,” Kitty replied. “Every week?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s more than a hundred thousand dollars a year!” Kitty couldn’t believe any woman could command such a salary. It was a heady figure.
“And the best part is that Mary started just like everyone else,” Aimee said. “Five dollars a day, which doubled to ten, and then, when the public began to recognize her, she signed with IMP for $175 a week. She switched to Majestic for $225, then signed with Zukor for $500”—she rattled off the numbers—“and last year, Mr. Zukor raised her to a thousand a week, and this year, she got him to raise it again. In addition to her salary, she earns a percentage of all her pictures’ profits, and he even pays her mother a stipend.”
“That’s quite something.” Kitty was fascinated.