by Radha Vatsal
A good point—Consuelo Vanderbilt, Jennie Jerome, there were so many examples—but it still wasn’t the answer Kitty needed.
America is a country where, to its own undoing, individualism has reigned supreme. The time has come when forces of group conscience and group consciousness must be drawn up in hostile array against the doctrine of individual egotism. The American girl who seeks to avoid the inevitable conflict by looking to European sanctuary is indeed deceived. She longs for the finish and the beauty of the old order… She fails to realize that it lies in her own hands to bring that same beauty into her own surroundings.
Kitty shifted in her chair. When would Miss Morgan answer her own excellent question? What were the qualities, good and bad, that constituted the hallmark of an American girl?
Kitty flipped through the pages. Modern educators allow children to follow their own whims, they insist that the child must have complete freedom, so the girl “will rush with spasmodic enthusiasm into the mood of the moment.”
Miss Morgan went on to discuss immigration and the need to teach foreigners to understand the responsibilities of American freedom.
Kitty heard her father enter the apartment.
“Capability,” he called, “are you ready for this evening?”
She scanned through to the end of the chapter. While she agreed with many of Miss Morgan’s shrewd observations, Kitty couldn’t find a central thesis. And she couldn’t see an answer to what made the American girl unique.
• • •
Kitty changed into a red gown and matched it with garnet-and-gold drop earrings and a garnet bracelet. She checked Grace’s table setting and then joined her father in the living room.
“You look lovely.” Mr. Weeks nodded his approval.
“Thanks.” She smoothed her hair.
“I think you will like Mr. Maitland. He’s Canadian. The smartest fellow I’ve met in a long time.”
Coming from Julian Weeks, who was particular about the company he kept, that was quite a compliment.
Their visitor arrived soon enough. He had buttery skin like a baby and must have weighed over two hundred fifty pounds. He could have been as old as forty or fifty, or perhaps as young as his midthirties. It was hard for Kitty to tell. His size and his flair—he tied his cravat with the élan of a Frenchman—made him seem ageless.
His twinkling blue eyes followed Kitty as she served drinks. He was quite the conversationalist and described—of all things—how the bubonic plague spread through China.
“A Chinese trapper contracted the disease through contact with the tarbagan, a furry creature native to Mongolia,” he said. “Once infected and back in Harbin, he transmitted it to anyone who happened to be near him during his coughing fits. What amazes me is that that’s all it took. All one needs is a single spark to start a fire—and one sick man can contaminate an entire nation.”
Kitty poured herself a glass of sherry and listened intently as her father and his guest spoke about a variety of topics, from the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco, to Viennese art and architecture, to last July’s murder of the Austrian archduke that precipitated the war in Europe.
“It was only because of a series of errors and unlikely coincidences that the Serbian gang’s ringleader, Gavrilo Princip, managed to do in Franz Ferdinand,” Mr. Maitland declared, his deep voice rumbling.
Julian Weeks held his drink loosely in one hand, legs crossed at the knee.
“The archduke and duchess rode in their motorcade alongside the Appel Quay.”
Kitty pictured the scene—the duke in his military garb with medals at his chest, his adoring wife in her white dress and ornate hat, both waving to the crowds they passed.
“The first plotter threw a bomb, which landed on a car behind his target,” Mr. Maitland continued. “The fool panicked and threw himself into the river, but the summer’s sun had reduced it to a trickle, and so it was no trouble for the police to catch him.
“At that point, all should have been settled, everyone should have been safe, but in the confusion that ensued, the leader, Princip, ducked into a nearby coffeehouse. The motorcade changed its route, but somehow the archduke’s driver hadn’t been informed of the decision. He drove up a side street, following the original itinerary, when a general who was accompanying the royal couple ordered him to stop and turn the car around. But the street was too narrow, so all the chauffeur could do was to drive in reverse. Can you believe it? The heir to the Austrian Empire being driven backward down a narrow street after an attempt on his life had been botched just minutes ago!”
Kitty knew the outcome of the shooting—who didn’t?—but hadn’t heard this version of how it unfolded.
“In the coffeehouse nearby, Princip heard noises and stepped out to see what was happening. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His targets were just feet away, crawling along like tortoises in their open car. He didn’t hesitate. He raised his pistol, took aim, and fired. The archduke and duchess fell. At such close range, there was no chance of their survival.”
“Do you think the war might have been avoided if the archduke hadn’t been killed?” Kitty asked.
“He was a fool to visit on one of the holiest days in Serbia, a fool to visit while tensions in their empire ran so high, but no. I think anything could have set Europe off last summer. German, Russia, England, and France, all had been building up their weapons and armies and jumped on the opportunity to discharge them. If not the archduke’s murder, they would have found some other pretext. And now each side has lost too much to call the whole thing off and admit that the war has been an unmitigated disaster.”
Grace knocked on the door to the living room and looked in. Someone had telephoned for Mr. Weeks.
“At this hour?” He didn’t seem pleased.
“He said it was urgent, sir.”
Julian Weeks excused himself to take the call, leaving her alone with his guest.
“Your father tells me you plan to become a journalist, Miss Weeks.” The big man took a sip of his drink and stared at her so intently that Kitty didn’t know where to look.
“I hope so.” She smoothed the folds of her gown. “Right now, I work for the Ladies’ Page of the New York Sentinel.”
“I own shares in a paper in Canada, the Star-Journal—it’s a daily. The editors there tell me that female reporters, thanks to their tact and intuition, catch stories that the men miss.”
“You should tell that to our publisher.” Kitty kept her tone light. “He doesn’t allow women to step foot inside the newsroom.”
“Well, I’ll leave that for him to discover, but I’m sure both he and you are aware that your sex are the most powerful force behind any newspaper.”
“How is that the case?”
“It’s quite simple. Advertising brings in more revenue than subscriptions or direct sales. The most frequent advertisers are the department stores and other merchants whose clientele is primarily female. I assume that the situation is only more pronounced here in the United States.”
“Why are women’s stories confined to a single page then?”
“Because most newspapers are still obliged to report the news, by which I mean politics and foreign affairs,” Maitland replied. “And I don’t believe female readers care for that kind of information… May I be forward with you, Miss Weeks?” The big man set down his glass.
Kitty nodded.
“I’d like to invite you to accompany me to the Cloisters Museum before I return to Toronto. It opened last year, and I haven’t yet had a chance to visit.”
Kitty opened her mouth and shut it again.
“What’s that you say, Maitland?” Julian Weeks returned to the room.
“I just invited Miss Weeks to join me on a trip to the Cloisters Museum—that is if you don’t object. You’re welcome to join us,” the big man said.
Relieved not to have to reply at once to Mr. Maitland’s offer, Kitty excused herself. She wondered about his intentions. Given the difference in their ages, he couldn’t possibly think—
She fiddled with her bracelet, then looked in on Mrs. Codd. All burners were on, and dinner would be ready soon.
She and Grace made a final examination of the dining table. The corners of the starched damask tablecloth hovered a few inches above the floor, each cover had been set with geometric precision, the starched napkins seemed to float on the plates, and the polished silver reflected the light from the candles placed on either side of the centerpiece.
Mr. Maitland and Mr. Weeks joined Kitty in a few minutes, and then Grace brought out course after course in leisurely succession. Mr. Maitland ate heartily and maintained a steady stream of conversation throughout the meal. If he had any particular interest in Kitty, he hid it well.
She left the two men to their cigars and brandy after dessert and had a cup of coffee in the pantry while Grace washed and dried the dishes and put them away in the cabinet.
“I’ve never seen anyone eat so much,” the maid exclaimed.
“He has quite an appetite,” Kitty agreed.
Grace giggled. “I pity his wife.”
“I don’t think he’s married,” Kitty said, surprised by the sharpness in her own tone.
It was close to midnight when Mr. Maitland left. Kitty had already said her good-byes and was in bed when she heard the front door close.
She lay under the covers, mulling over the day: Mr. Maitland, Miss Morgan’s book, her visit to the prison. As she drifted to sleep, one question nagged at her: What to do about Lupone’s revelation that he had known that Mr. Cole would be at the stables.
• • •
“Maitland seems to have taken a shine to you,” Mr. Weeks said when Kitty joined him at breakfast the following morning. “I didn’t expect him to invite you to the museum. Not that I’m worried, of course.” He sipped his coffee. “I don’t expect you to have any interest in a man like him.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“You know. Older. And so large. I’m sure it causes health problems.”
“He’s a fascinating speaker.”
“That he is, that he is.”
Kitty helped herself to a slice of toast and changed the subject. “So what do the papers have to say about Germany’s latest response to President Wilson’s proposals on the Lusitania?”
Mr. Weeks picked up his copy of the Times. “They’ve printed the reply in its entirety. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Just the gist,” Kitty said.
Julian Weeks began:
“Berlin, July 9, 9 p.m. via London, July 10, 2:37 a.m. The text of the German reply to the American Note is as follows: On November 3, 1914, England declared the North Sea a war area, and by planting poorly anchored mines and by the stoppage and capture of vessels, made passage extremely dangerous and difficult… Long before the beginning of submarine war England practically intercepted neutral shipping to Germany. On November 14, the English Premier declared it was one of England’s primary tasks to prevent food for the German population from reaching Germany through neutral ports. Since March 1—”
“I get the gist.” Kitty laughed. “Not the full text.”
“The gist is that Germany won’t back down. They insist that Britain’s actions have left them no other choice than to retaliate with submarines in order to be able to feed their people. Do you need Rao today?”
Kitty had decided to visit the country club and ask some questions on Lupone’s behalf. “I thought I might go shopping at Altman’s. But I can drive myself.”
“All right.” He returned to the paper. “This is really quite amazing,” he murmured to himself.
“I should be back by three.”
“Don’t forget we have the concert this evening.”
“Which concert?”
“At Carnegie Hall.” Mr. Weeks enjoyed music and often bought tickets for performances without checking with Kitty first.
“Oh.” That would cut into her time with The American Girl, but the longer it took to find any exonerating evidence, the less inclined the police would be to believe her. And while she was at the club, Kitty thought she may as well look into Mrs. Cole’s whereabouts during the fireworks.
“Leaving so soon?” Julian Weeks asked as Kitty stood.
“I’d like to get an early start.”
Her father frowned, puzzled. “What time does Altman’s open on Saturday?”
“I’m not sure.” To distract him, she added, “By the way, is Mr. Maitland a friend or business acquaintance?”
“A bit of both, I suppose. We might embark on a venture together.”
“That’s nice.” She pushed in her chair. “What kind of venture?”
“Ah.” He nodded. “If it turns out right, it could be very good.”
• • •
Kitty studied the map and wrote out directions. She dressed for the day, called for her car, and drove to northern Manhattan, then on to the Bronx, past the Botanical Gardens, Fordham University, and Van Cortlandt Park. Fortunately, there were fewer streets here so fewer choices and fewer opportunities to lose her way.
She stopped once to have the car filled with gasoline, and then pulled up outside the Sleepy Hollow Country Club where a sign that she hadn’t noticed previously informed visitors that the club was Private Property and Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.
As if that would dissuade a criminal, Kitty thought, parking her car outside. She pushed in the gate and entered on foot.
With her parasol open, she roamed across the lawns as nonchalantly as though her father were a member. No one stopped her.
Kitty wandered over to the rear patio where a few elderly sorts with nothing else to do on a Saturday morning sipped tea or leafed through magazines and newspapers. Some of them may have looked up as she went inside, but no one asked any questions. She made her way to the ladies’ room, only to discover that the woman on duty that morning wasn’t the one who had been there on the evening of the murder.
Kitty washed her hands. “You weren’t here for Mrs. Basshor’s party on Monday, were you?” she said to the attendant who waited for her with a towel.
“No, ma’am. I’m only here on the weekends. Is there something that I can help you with?”
“Would you happen to know the name of the attendant who worked here that day? I think I may have lost my comb and was wondering if she found it.”
The woman opened a cupboard and brought out a wicker basket for Kitty to inspect. “We keep all lost and found items here.”
Kitty rummaged through the contents. “I’m afraid I don’t see it. When will—what did you say her name is again?”
The attendant blinked. “It’s O’Malley.”
“That’s right—O’Malley. And when will she be back?”
“On Monday. She works during the week.”
“Of course, yes.”
“If you give me your name, madam, I can ask her to keep an eye out for it.”
Kitty had the feeling that the attendant sensed that something wasn’t right, that she was neither a member nor a member’s guest. She picked up her purse and dropped a few coins into the bowl. “That’s quite all right. I’ll be back again soon and ask her myself.”
She hurried through the clubhouse and back out onto the patio. The sun was out, the trees rustled in the breeze, and the majestic Hudson River shimmered in the distance. Kitty recalled the scene at Mrs. Basshor’s party. There must have been at least a hundred people out on this patio and on the lawns. A hundred guests, plus waitstaff and grounds st
aff, and kitchen staff and chauffeurs at the entrance. Any one of them could have murdered Hunter Cole.
When he was shot was clear: during the fireworks. Where was at the stables, how was with his own gun. The only questions that remained were why and by whom.
As far as Kitty was concerned, those questions hadn’t been properly answered.
A horse-drawn cart clopped briskly down the driveway toward the front gate. A driver holding the reins urged the animal on; beside him, a gentleman clutched his hat and doctor’s bag while the cart bounced up and down over the gravel. From where she stood, Kitty couldn’t make out what was in the back, except that a large tarpaulin covered the mound.
Kitty walked on. A girl’s voice called, “Thirty love,” as she passed the tennis courts. The speaker wore a long white skirt, her shirtsleeves rolled to her elbows. She tossed a white ball into the air and smacked it across the net with her wooden racquet.
A young man in sharply creased white trousers lunged to return the ball. He hit it back, but it shot over the fence, and Kitty, who had it firmly in her sights, caught it in midair. The ball slipped from her hands, and she ran to pick it up again and tossed it back.
“Thanks,” the man called.
“Thirty fifteen,” the girl said, and play resumed.
She could have been that carefree girl. Kitty’s chest tightened as she neared the stone stables. The yellow-brick building looked lovely with the summer sun hitting its tiled roof, and colorful pansies in planters hung from wrought iron hooks.
The police had their man, Kitty reminded herself. No one had asked her to come here—not even Lupone, trapped in prison.
Whatever the outcome of her visit, it would be on her own head. There would be no going back. She had already done much more than she ought to, with her trip to the Tombs.
She took a deep breath, put her hand against one of the heavy wooden doors, and pushed it open.
Chapter Sixteen
A dusty shaft of light filtered through a single window at the back of the barn and formed a puddle of brightness along the aisle between the two rows of stalls.