by Radha Vatsal
“I was about thirteen at the time. I’m not sure of my exact age, because no one knows it. When the ship’s cook found me hiding behind a sack of potatoes and asked my name, I told him ‘Julian,’ after Caesar.”
“Why?”
“I decided it was time for a change. Then I stole a look at the onion crate beside me and chose my surname in honor of Weeks & Co. Fresh Produce. Don’t worry,” he said, amused. “We may be named after root vegetables, but I don’t feel sorry for myself, and you shouldn’t either.
“The other boys weren’t allowed to leave the confines of that cold, bleak place,” he continued while Kitty hoped he had no more surprises. “I escaped, and I traveled the world. I don’t know if you can understand what that means after the childhood I’ve given you, Capability, but for a boy like me—with nothing to look forward to—it was heaven on earth.
“And somehow, after starting without two pennies to rub together, I’ve managed to amass a tidy fortune. I’ve done business in Russia, China, Mongolia, and Malaya. I’ve crossed paths with Cossacks and petty potentates and Burmese traders, and I don’t owe my success to anyone. So now you know why I don’t have a birth certificate or some document showing whether my father is ‘native’ or ‘naturalized.’ I don’t know if he was ever married to my mother—from the way the nuns treated me, I suspect not.”
“You’re a bastard,” Kitty said.
“What does that word mean?” He shrugged. “In the end, it’s his inner compass that gives a man his bearings. And for the first time in ages, I haven’t followed mine—”
“By making that fellow sign for you on your application?”
“No.” He seemed surprised by the question. “I’d do that again in a heartbeat. My past is no one’s business except mine—and now yours. It’s my venture with Maitland that bothers me. I swore that I’d never undertake a dealing that I didn’t fully comprehend, and this business of transporting phenol across the border turns out to be much more complicated than I thought.
“It’s not just the difference in laws between the United States and Canada—which I will admit troubled me. But also that I appear to be buying phenol from someone who took pains to conceal his identity from me.”
He put down his tumbler and leaned forward in his seat. “How,” he said to Kitty, “did you recognize Dr. Albert?”
The world went still. Kitty could hear her own heartbeat. Two forks in the road in one day: the first, whether to join Amanda and her friends; the second, whether she should tell her father that she’d been concealing things from him for a while.
The clock struck the half hour, giving her a few seconds respite. In those seconds, Kitty realized, she would be making the most important decision of her adult life.
“The Secret Service,” she said when the last chime died down.
“What?”
She started at the beginning—how the agents confronted her outside the docks and what they’d asked her to do. Mr. Weeks frowned when she mentioned looking through his diary, but she didn’t let that stop her and plunged ahead.
When she finished, she closed her eyes, ready for the ax to fall. But instead, he laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You outsmarted them.” He thumped his palm against his knee. “You discovered what they wanted to keep secret—American Secret Service men tailing a German diplomat. If it was printed in the paper tomorrow, no one would believe it.”
Kitty recalled Soames’s words. “They told me it would cause an international incident.”
He nodded. “That sounds about correct.”
“Why take the risk?” Kitty said. “If the result of being exposed for tailing Dr. Albert could be so serious, why do it at all?”
Mr. Weeks stared at her blankly.
The answer dawned on Kitty. “They must think he’s up to something dangerous—the question is what?”
Chapter Thirty-One
“Wake up, Miss Kitty.” Grace drew back the curtains in Kitty’s bedroom.
Kitty opened her eyes a crack. She had stayed up late the previous night, discussing Dr. Albert with her father. Mr. Weeks hadn’t wanted to talk about his childhood any further—some things never changed—but was eager to speculate on the diplomat’s relationship with Hunter Cole and whether that had played a part in Mr. Cole’s murder. Then, Kitty pointed out that—unless she had been completely mistaken, and she didn’t think she was—until she mentioned Mr. Cole’s name, neither agent seemed to have heard of him. So if Dr. Albert did have something to do with Hunter Cole’s death, the connection must be obscure.
“It’s almost eight o’clock,” the maid said, offering Kitty her dressing gown.
Kitty groaned and jumped out of bed. Now that she had good news to share, she didn’t want to be late to meet her new friends from the Treasury Department. To his great credit, throughout their conversation the previous evening, Mr. Weeks hadn’t once turned on Kitty. He never expressed dismay that she hadn’t taken him into her confidence.
Grace fluffed the pillows and straightened the sheets while chattering on about the latest developments in the Harry Thaw case. “They let Mr. Thaw go, Miss Kitty. They said he had spent enough time at the lunatic asylum and that he didn’t need to be punished any more for shooting the man who stole his wife’s honor.”
Kitty wondered whether the result would have been different if women were allowed to serve on juries. Judging from Grace’s fervent support of the millionaire playboy, probably not. But, in every photograph that Kitty had seen, Harry Thaw looked like a demented leprechaun. If she had any say in the matter, millionaire or not, Mr. Thaw would remain behind bars.
Kitty sat at her dressing table while Grace combed her hair and pinned it into a chignon. “What do you think, Miss Kitty?”
Kitty glanced at her reflection. “Very nice, thank you, Grace.” She looked older and wiser and felt stronger as well. It wasn’t just the new hairstyle that made the difference. It felt liberating to be the daughter of a man without antecedents. It meant she could do as she pleased and that she too could be who she wanted.
Kitty stepped into her pale green skirt and slipped on the matching jacket with military-inspired cording on the edges. She fastened her earrings and joined her father in the dining room.
“You look lovely.” Mr. Weeks smiled. “My Athena. Ready to do battle.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary.” Kitty laughed.
“Have you seen this morning’s news? The pressure seems to be mounting.” He pointed to the paper.
GERMAN AMBASSADOR ANXIOUS TO SHOW THAT BERLIN IS OPEN TO FURTHER COMMUNICATION WITH PRESIDENT.
“I wonder how it will end.” She took her place at his side.
Julian Weeks turned serious. “I could go with you to speak to those men.”
“You’re not supposed to know about them, remember?” She reached across her plate and squeezed his hand. “Besides, I can manage.”
• • •
“Aspirin in Canada.” Booth whistled when Kitty finished her story. “Well, I never.” They met under clear skies in Riverside Park.
“ASA,” Kitty corrected. “‘Aspirin’ would be illegal, and my father and Mr. Maitland aren’t breaking the law.”
“At this point,” Soames said, “I think we’d look the other way even if they were.”
“So, can I have the passport, please?”
“We’ll verify your claims, Miss Weeks.” Booth tucked his newspaper under his arm. “If you’re telling the truth, we’ll see that Mr. Weeks receives his papers.”
“Then I’ll expect them soon. Do you require any additional information from me, or are we all done?”
“Just one question,” Booth replied. “How did you find out about the ASA?”
“I was keen to discover the truth for my own peace of mind,” Kitty said, “so I persevered. I
t took a few tries.”
Booth tipped his hat. “Thank you, Miss Weeks. By the way, you never met us, and none of this ever happened. Come along, Soames.” He headed for their car, but the younger agent lingered behind.
“I’m sorry we had to put you through so much trouble,” he said. “It’s not our usual way, Miss Weeks. The Secret Service doesn’t usually strong-arm civilians. It’s just that we’re in a bit of a struggle—”
“With the Germans?”
He looked sheepish. “Actually, with the Justice Department.”
Now it was Kitty’s turn to be astonished. “I don’t see—”
“Justice runs the Bureau of Investigation. Since the war broke out, we’ve been facing new threats, and there’s a bit of a battle going on between the Bureau and the Service about who will be in charge.”
“So you’re battling Justice?” Kitty said.
“When you put it that way, it sounds awful.” Soames laughed.
“What are you two lovebirds going on about?” Booth yelled from up ahead.
“Tying up some loose ends,” Soames called.
“May I ask you a question?” Kitty said. “Had you heard of Mr. Cole before I mentioned him?”
“We hadn’t, but I went over your story.” Soames dusted his hat and put it back on. “While I couldn’t find any evidence that Mr. Cole had a connection to Dr. Albert, I did learn that, before they married, Mrs. Cole worked for one of Dr. Albert’s associates, a Mrs. Martha Held. Mrs. Held was at the concert where we first met. She was standing right beside you, in fact.”
“The beautiful woman wearing sapphires?” It had to have been the same woman she’d heard speaking in German to her companion.
“I didn’t notice what she was wearing,” the Secret Service man said. “At that moment, it wasn’t her I was looking at.”
“Are you coming or not?” Booth yelled, honking the horn from inside the car.
“Just a minute,” Soames called back. “Can we drive you to the Sentinel, Miss Weeks?”
“I don’t work there anymore. I lost my job.” Kitty hoped Soames hadn’t noticed her blush.
“Any particular reason?” They made their way out onto the street.
“I was busy. I couldn’t stay late like they wanted.”
He turned to face her. “Did that have anything to do with us?”
“Your partner is waiting, Mr. Soames.”
“If there’s anything you need”—Soames climbed into the driver’s seat of the agents’ parked vehicle—“please don’t hesitate to telephone me at the Customs House.”
Kitty watched the car drive away and walked home. As hellish as the worst moments of her encounter with the agents had been, life would seem empty now that they were gone.
• • •
Julian Weeks opened the front door. “All done?”
“All done,” Kitty replied.
He enveloped her in a hug. “Thank you. I’m so proud.”
She enjoyed his closeness, the familiar scent of his birch hair tonic, and then pulled away, smiling. She hadn’t realized that something between them had broken when she went away to school, and now, a decade later, they were moving forward again, not just in tandem this time but in trust.
“So what’s next?” he said. “Now that you don’t have the Sentinel to go to, should I expect to have a daughter who spends every morning at Altman’s?”
“I doubt it.” Kitty laughed.
“Take the day off at any rate. Do something nice for yourself.”
“I think I will.”
Kitty decided to go riding at Durland’s to work off some steam. At this time of the day, the trails would be quiet. Afterward, she could come home and take a shower, and then she would see if Amanda would join her for lunch.
Kitty telephoned the Vanderwells, but Mrs. Vanderwell informed her that Amanda had left for the YWCA and wouldn’t be back until three.
That was quite the reversal, Kitty thought. Amanda working while she prepared to while away time.
“Thank you for your help, Miss Weeks,” the usually grudging Mrs. Vanderwell went on. “I do appreciate your listening to my friend, Mrs. Basshor.”
“How is she faring?”
“No better and no worse, I’m afraid. Still mourning her secretary.”
“Did you know him well, Mrs. Vanderwell?” Kitty said.
“Not really,” Mrs. Vanderwell replied. “He seemed a bit outspoken and overly familiar, but I will admit I would never have pegged him for the murdering type.”
Kitty changed into her riding ensemble and drove herself to the stables. A groom saddled Damsel, and with a leg up, Kitty hoisted herself onto the animal’s back. She cantered around the park for about half an hour but found she couldn’t relax. Too many thoughts crowded her mind. At first, it was Soames, then from Soames, she drifted to the concert. Then to Martha Held, the buxom beauty with the sapphires cascading from her ears. Soames had said that Aimee Cole worked for Mrs. Held, who was an associate of Dr. Albert’s. How did it all add up?
Kitty felt certain that Hunter Cole had met Dr. Albert more than once. He had told Poppy Clements so, and Dr. Albert wouldn’t have recalled him or launched into the lengthy diatribe justifying his desire to keep their meeting quiet if Mr. Cole had only been a casual acquaintance. The murdered man had kept a syringe and vials, filled with some substance, in his toiletries case. He had been shot in a stable where, less than a week later, one of Mrs. Basshor’s ponies had to be put down. Kitty recalled the singing stable hand, Turnip, and his indignation at the thought that Breedlove could have stepped on a rusty nail. Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers—she heard the song as though he were humming it right beside her.
She screwed up her face in concentration: syringes—vials—a sick horse—Hunter Cole—stables—Dr. Albert. Could they all be connected?
She came to the end of her ride and waited for one of the grooms to take Damsel’s reins.
“Frank,” Kitty said, sliding to the ground. “Do you know of a disease that would make it necessary to put a horse down quickly, without any questions asked?”
“I don’t understand, Miss Weeks.”
“Is there something that could go wrong with a horse that the stable wouldn’t want even the lads to know about?”
The groom stroked Damsel’s sleek, dark neck. “Something that would scare the boys, you mean.”
“Perhaps.”
He bit his lip. “It would have to be something that they thought would make them sick too or infect the other horses fast.”
“Exactly.” Kitty nodded.
“Glanders,” he said finally. “If one of our animals had glanders, we’d put it to sleep and wouldn’t want anyone to find out.”
Glanders. Kitty’s pulse raced. Where had she heard about it before? Oh yes, that’s what had killed Mrs. Stepan’s pony, Zsa-Zsa.
“It spreads like wildfire,” Frank continued. “You get fever and chills, sores all over your body, and then, in a few days”—he snapped his fingers—“you’re gone. If the boys thought we had glanders at this place? Forget it, they’d disappear in a minute.” He looked at Kitty. “But not to worry, miss. There’s nothing like that here.”
“I know,” Kitty said. “I was just curious.”
She stopped off at the library on her way back home to look it up. “Glanders,” she read to herself, “one of the most loathsome diseases known to mankind… Almost always fatal to humans. Death may come rapidly or gradually. Victims undergo terrible sufferings… Disease common to horses… Transmitted through cuts in skin. Not harmful if swallowed with food or water.” Kitty thought of the pharmacist, Mr. Murray, and felt thankful. “Germ known for twenty-five years but still no cure has been found.”
“What kind of stories are you writing these days, Miss Weeks?” the librarian asked as Kitt
y returned her book.
“I hardly know myself,” Kitty replied.
It didn’t make sense. Even if it were possible to bottle glanders germs in a vial, why would Hunter Cole—of all people—want to harm a horse? And if Dr. Albert was behind it, why would he want to cause an outbreak at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club?
Just in case, as soon as she arrived home, she put a telephone call through to the Customs House. Soames would think she was crazy to call him just hours after they parted, but Kitty didn’t care; she needed to be certain. The man on the other end of the line, one Agent Burke, told Kitty that Soames wasn’t in, so she left a message for him to call her when he returned.
She rummaged through the bureau drawer in her bedroom, but she couldn’t find Hunter Cole’s vial. She ran into the pantry.
“Grace.” The maid stopped folding linens. “Did you see a small glass tube that I kept in my bureau drawer? I had it beside my camisoles.”
“Oh yes, Miss Kitty. The one with the cork stopper? I thought it might leak and soil your delicates—”
“What did you do with it?” Kitty said, panicked.
“It’s right here.” Grace opened the cabinet below the kitchen sink. She had wedged the vial upright between bars of soap and a lamb’s-wool duster. “It looks like one of those chemical tubes they show in the movies, doesn’t it?” She handed the vial over. “I even thought it might be dangerous.” The maid laughed.
Sunlight streaming through the kitchen window hit the tube at just the right angle. The liquid inside seemed as clear and unclouded as before.
“Do you have a handkerchief, Grace?” Kitty said.
Grace handed her one from the linen pile, and Kitty wrapped the glass vial before sliding it into her pocket.
“Tell Mrs. Codd I may be late for lunch.” Still in her riding gear, she ran downstairs and hopped back into the Bearcat.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Can I help you?” Aimee Cole’s dwarfish maid peered out from behind the door.
“Is Mrs. Cole in?”