Front Page Affair

by Radha Vatsal

  Marcus Lupone probably didn’t have very many friends here, Kitty thought, taking a bite of toast. More than likely, his English wasn’t good. Perhaps, once he realized that Mr. Cole had been murdered and the police would be questioning everyone, he panicked and fled. He understood that he would be an obvious suspect. But to the police, his act of self-preservation would only make him seem that much more suspicious.

  Grace came in with a message for Mr. Weeks. “Rao says the Packard has to be taken to the mechanic this morning, sir.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He didn’t tell me, sir. At least, he said something about the oil, but I didn’t understand.”

  “I see.” Julian Weeks let out a deep breath and turned to Kitty. “I hate to ask, but would you drive me downtown?”

  “What time do you need to be there?” she said.

  “By ten.”

  That meant she wouldn’t be able to start reading until eleven at the earliest.

  “You don’t have to wait,” Mr. Weeks said. “You can drop me off and come straight back.”

  Normally, she would have been happy to oblige him, but still she hesitated.

  “This isn’t a request, Capability.” His tone was sharp. “I have a meeting to attend.”

  “Of course.” Kitty pushed back her chair. His needs came first.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Bearcat wouldn’t start. It sputtered to life when Kitty turned on the electric ignition and then went dead in a couple of seconds.

  “What’s the matter now?” Mr. Weeks drummed his fingers impatiently against the leather seat.

  Kitty stepped out of the car, removed her gloves, and lifted the hood. “Just some leaves.” She pulled them out and dusted off her hands.

  This time, the engine roared. Kitty made sure her hat was securely fastened with her silk scarf and stepped on the gas. With a lurch, the vehicle surged forward.

  Wind on her cheeks, she sped past other automobiles on West End Avenue. Ladies used to be relegated to electric motors since they were slower, cleaner, and safer, but no longer. These days, almost everyone drove gasoline-fueled cars. The Bearcat had no sides or doors and no top, just two leather chairs, the driver’s controls, and a jaunty round monocle windscreen behind the hood. Kitty loved the sensation of being in control of such a powerful machine and the thrill of being completely exposed to the elements.

  Julian Weeks held his hat in his lap and his cigar clamped between his white teeth. Stronger, braver men might have quaked at some of his daughter’s maneuvers. She swerved around a horse-drawn cart and raced past a tram coming around the bend, its bells clanging. Through it all, she maintained good form, sitting confidently upright in her seat, neither looking stiff nor slouching behind the wheel, as her instructor, Mr. Berriman, had informed her that “certain classes of motorists” were wont to do.

  While motor-vehicle owners didn’t have to pass a test to operate their vehicle, Kitty knew the rules: She must not drive while intoxicated. She should stop after an accident. She must signal with her hand before making a turn and should remain within the speed limit or else face a penalty of up to one hundred dollars.

  “Who are you meeting today?” she asked her father after several blocks.

  “Someone from out of town.”

  Julian Weeks didn’t seem in a particularly talkative mood. Kitty didn’t mind since she enjoyed just being in his company, and besides, she needed to have her wits about her to negotiate the chaos that came with driving through Manhattan on a weekday morning. Mr. Weeks’s destination, the Edelweiss Café on the southern tip of Manhattan, obliged them to drive through some of the most congested parts of the city and negotiate shoppers with packages, rushing businessmen, and peddlers pushing carts, not to mention other motorcars and autobuses.

  The right-angled grid gave way to the city’s original winding paths, now paved over and flanked by commercial buildings like the Morgan Bank and the U.S. Sub-Treasury as the Bearcat neared Mr. Weeks’s destination. Wall Street, so called because it had once been the site of a wall built by early settlers to defend themselves from the natives, was now the nation’s—if not the world’s—financial hub. The sun barely penetrated the valleys where pedestrians and motorcars inched along on narrow roads, hardly suited to their present heavy use.

  Kitty pulled up at the corner of the block where the café was located and let her father out.

  “Thanks, Capability.” He patted her shoulder and stepped out of the vehicle. She watched him disappear into the sea of businessmen on the sidewalk.

  It was all men, Kitty realized as she retied her head scarf. Men in suits, men with sleeves rolled up, men hurrying along as though civilization depended on their efforts, and men loitering—like those two fellows in dark suits with newspapers under their arms who hurriedly looked away when she noticed them staring at her.

  There wasn’t another woman in sight. All at once, Kitty felt vulnerable and ill at ease in her bright yellow motorcar. She switched on the engine and drove past the café, then turned right at the end of the street and right again, thinking she would be headed home. Instead, within a few blocks, it became clear that she had no idea where she was going.

  A sense of panic threatened to overwhelm her, and she slammed her palm against the steering wheel. That was what came from doing a favor. Kitty hated losing her bearings and had no internal compass. It appeared that she only managed as well as she did because of the city’s grid. Take away her usual markers, and she was lost.

  She didn’t slow down to read the signs on the lampposts. She turned right, then left, then right again. Nothing looked familiar. The eerie sounds of an Oriental violin led her to believe she might be close to Chinatown and the police headquarters.

  She drove past a group of men gathered on the sidewalk. One grabbed his crotch and called out something crude. Kitty stepped on the gas, made a sharp turn, and escaped down a quiet street. She allowed the motor to coast while she caught her breath. New York had never seemed so ominous.

  Something at the end of the road caught her eye. Of its own accord, the Bearcat rolled forward.

  A covered stone bridge floated above the street. It spanned the distance between a redbrick building and a forbidding structure with turrets on top and slit-like windows. Kitty had seen this view depicted in postcards: this must be the infamous Bridge of Sighs connecting the criminal courts to the Tombs prison.

  Kitty’s hands clenched around the wheel. These thick walls right in the middle of Manhattan held thousands of prisoners, condemned men and women packed into cold, damp cells without adequate sunlight or ventilation. She’d heard horrible stories about the place. That it had been built on the site of the old Collect Pond, which was once Manhattan’s source of fresh water and later became so polluted from the waste of nearby abattoirs and tanneries that it had to be filled in. That the prison’s foundations started to sink into the sludge from the moment construction began, and that vestiges of the old waterways still trickled beneath it, leading inmates to claim that the entire building swayed in sympathy with the East River.

  A whistle’s sudden blast nearly deafened Kitty.

  “Didn’t you hear me, madam?” an irate policeman barked. “Move on. There’s no sightseeing permitted here.”

  “I’m sorry.” Kitty hadn’t realized she’d been gawking. “Am I correct that this is the Tombs?”

  “That’s right.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Murderers, thieves, the worst of the worst. They’re all holed up in there.” He nodded with satisfaction. “It’s no place for a young lady like yourself.”

  It was no place, Kitty thought, for the stable hand Marcus Lupone either. “Do they bring inmates over in the mornings?”

  “At all hours.”

  “I think I may have a friend inside.”

  “You may?” The policeman seemed skeptical.<
br />
  “I do.” Kitty had read stories of wives going into the prison to see their husbands, mothers delivering food to their sons. “Are visitors allowed inside?”

  “Ye-es,” the policeman said hesitantly.

  “Could I go to see him?”

  The policeman looked at her with incredulity. “You’re sure you’d want to go in there?”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “No, no. It’s perfectly safe for the rest of us. Who is it that’s inside anyway?”

  “His name is Lupone.”

  The officer shook his head. “Never heard of him, but park your vehicle over there”—he pointed to a vacant area—“and follow me.”

  “Ah—” Kitty had asked about visiting out of curiosity. She hadn’t expected to succeed.

  “You want to come back tomorrow? The place is packed on Saturdays.”

  “I see.”

  “Just leave your car right there.” He chuckled. “I promise no one will steal it.”

  Kitty turned off the engine and followed him to the prison like a sleepwalker. She gave the guard at the front desk her name, stated the purpose of her visit—to see Mr. Lupone—and signed her name and time and date of entry in a thick ledger.

  The policeman left her, and she waited on a wooden bench, beginning to regret her impulsive decision. What would she say to Hunter Cole’s alleged killer? Since he didn’t know her from Adam, how would he react? Would they bring her to his cell?

  Two guards led a shuffling prisoner by, his shackles clanking on the floor. His face was bruised and battered.

  Kitty stood. This was too much. Had she lost her mind? She should leave this minute.

  “This way, please.” A bored-looking guard with a circle of keys hanging from his belt beckoned.

  “Oh dear,” Kitty said.

  “Scared?”

  She nodded.

  He laughed. “They’re just criminals.”

  She followed the man down a gloomy, mildewy hall. She heard footsteps, prisoners’ voices. She could be killed in here—or worse. And no one would know.

  They turned the corner and came to a row of doors. The guard unlocked one and motioned for Kitty to step over the threshold.

  “I should go inside?”

  “I’ll be with you.”

  She didn’t like the look on his face. “Where is Mr. Lupone?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  “I prefer to wait outside until he arrives.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Kitty drew herself up straight. “I’m a reporter with the New York Sentinel.”

  The guard smirked. “And they let you in?”

  “Yes, they did.” Kitty hoped she sounded firm.

  Lupone soon arrived, escorted by another guard, his hands cuffed behind him. “Who is this?” he asked in thickly accented English. A mop of dark curly hair fell over his forehead.

  “Why don’t you both wait outside?” Kitty told his guard. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lupone on my own.”

  The guard snickered. “Very pretty for your first visitor, Marcus. Don’t pretend you don’t know her.”

  Bruises darkened the stable hand’s neck and one side of his face. The guard pushed the door open. A single lightbulb hung from an electric wire above two chairs and a table.

  Lupone lowered himself into one. The door closed behind them. “Who are you?” he said.

  “I’m here from the newspapers,” Kitty replied. “I’d like to help you.”

  “I no do anything, lady,” Lupone said. “I no shoot anyone. You help get me free.”

  “Can you tell me what happened the evening Mr. Cole was shot, Mr. Lupone?” Kitty couldn’t believe how composed she sounded. Just like a professional.

  “I take everyone out of stables like Mr. Cole say.”

  “He asked you to take the other lads out?”

  “Si.”

  “When? That afternoon?”

  “No, no. A few days before. I meet him outside, and he say, ‘Marcus, on Monday, at the party, take all the lads to see the fireworks.’”

  “Did he tell you why he wanted everyone out?” Kitty had conjectured correctly. Hunter Cole hadn’t just strolled down there; he’d had a plan. A plan to meet someone. His killer, no doubt. He may have been concerned about the meeting, which was why he’d brought the pistol to Mrs. Basshor’s do.

  Lupone shook his head. “Mr. Cole tell me nothing.”

  “But you weren’t surprised to see him at the club on the day of Mrs. Basshor’s party?” If Lupone was telling the truth, the police’s case against him no longer made sense.

  “Of course, no. I know he was coming.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “They no believe me! But why I kill Mr. Cole? He a very nice man.”

  It was the first time Kitty heard anyone say that. “Do you have proof that Mr. Cole met you before the party? Did anyone see you talking to him?”

  “I no think so.”

  Kitty believed him. “But you were working at the club under false pretenses.”

  Lupone looked confused.

  “You made up a false name when you worked at the club.”

  “Sure. I try to be English, but I no kill anyone.” He leaned toward her. “Signorina, you find me a lawyer.”

  “I’ll try,” Kitty said. “I’m just a reporter.” She knew it was a weak excuse when a man’s life was on the line.

  “I understand.” Lupone’s handsome face turned fierce. “You only want to speak to me for story.”

  Embarrassed and ashamed, Kitty had no reply.

  “Guard,” he called. “Guard!”

  The door swung open.

  “I finished.” He rose to his feet.

  “So fast?” The jailer winked.

  Kitty felt dirty from the way he leered at her. Lupone’s guard led him one way, and the other man led Kitty toward the entry hall. Before they reached it, he turned and held out his hand.

  He expected a tip. Kitty gave him a dollar. Anything to get out. The hand didn’t budge. She put in another.

  Minutes later, Kitty was back on the street. She felt inexpressibly relieved to have made it out of the prison in one piece and didn’t blame the stable hand for feeling used.

  She asked a passerby for directions and started the Bearcat. She would make it up to Lupone. She wouldn’t be able to hire him a lawyer, but she could find the evidence to prove his innocence.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back at the apartment, Mrs. Codd was busy preparing dinner, and Grace had set the table for their guest. Kitty said she’d take a sandwich in her rooms for lunch and hurried off to shower. She scrubbed her body and washed her hair and then soaked in the tub until she felt she had released every last bit of grime from the prison. She cleaned inside her ears and brushed her teeth. Then she changed into a comfortable robe and ate her sandwich while Grace brushed her hair. It was nearly three o’clock. Kitty had a few hours left before their visitor arrived. Her father hadn’t yet returned.

  She sat at the desk in the bedroom that she had converted into a private workroom for herself and began to read. Anne Morgan opened her first chapter, titled “Her Education,” with a question:

  How can the girl of America be prepared and prepare herself for all that life will bring to her? How can her secret garden best be planted and watered, so that its soil may bring forth an ever-growing beauty of blossom and fulfillment, and its shady walks and running brooks bring rest and inspiration to the weary traveler along the road of life?

  By way of an answer, Miss Morgan turned to her own experience of the American girl abroad—a type she’d had ample opportunity to witness in action, she said, pointing out that it was sometimes possible to make accurate deductions about a whole class based upon the careful observation of
a few “isolated specimens.”

  It has interested me exceedingly to observe the American girl who lives abroad, insignificant numerically though she is, and to note that notwithstanding her marvelous adaptability to her surroundings she is still the American Girl, unlike any other girl in the world.

  Kitty liked the “notwithstanding her marvelous adaptability” point—it reminded her of herself, both in New York and in Switzerland. She read on, ready to be bowled over by Miss Morgan’s insight and candor.

  No intelligent person can fail to remark how the qualities, both desirable and unfortunate, which make her unique, are, after all, American qualities.

  Yes! But what were those qualities? Kitty hoped Miss Morgan would enlighten her readers.

  For generations, now, current literature has been filled with descriptions of the American girl. We find her in English novels as a wild, undisciplined creature, with a desire for every luxury and a corresponding objection to any personal restraint. Germany and France present her to the world as an unsexed primitive force with an appendage of dollars, which should unquestionably be used to reinstate financially some old and historic name.

  Kitty smiled. No doubt the author spoke from personal experience. On his death, her father, the first J. P. Morgan, had left her three million dollars. It was a staggering amount to bequeath to an unmarried daughter, especially when his married daughters had received so much less. (The current J. P. Morgan, Miss Morgan’s brother, had received the lion’s share of his father’s fortune.)

  Kitty continued reading:

  The internationalism of the American girl is far in excess of that of any other nationality. Intermarriages always have existed, and always will exist, but never, since the days of the barbarian invasions, has one country supplied so many instances.