by Radha Vatsal
Kitty put her hands to her head. “This is my life. The agents wouldn’t have known about Mrs. Cole or the vials if I hadn’t alerted them.”
Mr. Weeks went to pour himself a drink but remained standing, his empty glass in his hands. “It could be dangerous.”
“Agent Booth and Agent Soames both agree, which is why they didn’t want me to stay on in the first place, but I insisted.” Booth had arrived at the park shortly before Kitty had left for home. “They’ve selected a spot where I am to wait. I won’t move until they tell me that it’s all right.”
He twirled the glass between his fingers. “You remind me of myself when I was a young man.”
“So you’ll let me go?” Kitty brightened.
“Against my better judgment.”
She stood and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back.”
• • •
Kitty changed into her darkest riding skirt and a dark shirt. She put on a pair of sturdy walking boots and asked Mrs. Codd to pack three sandwiches.
“You’re certain you want to do this?” Mr. Weeks asked when Kitty looked in to say good-bye. “Let Rao drive you.”
“What, and arrive at the scene of the potential crime in my Packard with my chauffeur?”
He gripped her hand tightly. “Then tell one of those men to come back with you. I don’t want you in the car on your own at night.”
Much as she wanted to do this alone, Kitty didn’t look forward to driving back from the Bronx unaccompanied. “That’s a good idea.” And before he could give her any further instructions or change his mind, she hurried out.
• • •
Once at the park, Kitty handed Soames and Booth each a sandwich. She’d been worried that Aimee Cole might arrive while she was away, but fortunately that hadn’t happened.
“This is excellent.” Booth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Do you think Mrs. Cole will come?” Kitty said.
“Did you telephone her apartment from home, like I asked?” he replied.
“I did, and she wasn’t there.”
Soames had been leaning against a tree, eating his sandwich. Now he finished it and tossed away the newspaper wrapper. He stood up straight, brushing the crumbs from his jacket. “We don’t know anything about this Mrs. Cole or what she might do. I know I had said it was all right, but I’d really prefer it if you went home, Miss Weeks.”
A chill stole over Kitty. She wouldn’t have expected Soames, of all people, to forsake her.
“Let her be, Soames.” To Kitty’s surprise, it was Booth who came to her defense. “It’s her doing that has brought us this far, and she understands that she can’t write about or even talk about anything that happens tonight. Don’t you, Miss Weeks?”
Kitty nodded.
“So far, all we’ve got to go on is guesswork,” the big man went on. “A warning to you, Miss Weeks, before you go off and hide. You’re on your own until we call for you.”
“Yes.”
“I have a family at home.” His thuggish features softened for a moment. “I should be spending this evening with them, but instead, I’m here. And while Soames may be gallant, I don’t throw myself in front of a bus for anyone.”
“I understand.”
The sun would set after eight. The park began to clear. Picnickers folded their blankets, sportsmen gathered their equipment, and children cried tears of exhaustion as their parents pulled them away from their games. The lads looking after the horses left shortly before closing time.
Kitty took up her position in a copse of trees and watched as the sky went dark. This wasn’t Manhattan, with its blur of electric lights creating an eternal day. Here in the Bronx, in the midst of the park, she could see the stars clearly. She had forgotten how much she missed them since coming to the city, but even the glories of the night sky couldn’t distract her for long.
Kitty’s legs ached from crouching, and she was being bitten by mosquitoes. There was nothing remotely exciting or romantic about waiting for something to happen. She must remember that for the future. Kitty stood up slowly to stretch her legs.
It must be past ten by now. It looked like Pequeñita Mary wouldn’t be arriving with a syringe loaded with glanders to finish the work that her husband had started. Mrs. Cole wanted to be an actress. Perhaps there was a mundane explanation for all of this—that, like many actresses, she was having an affair and had come to the park, a remote place where no one would recognize her, to spend one last day and night with her paramour.
Kitty wished Aimee luck. She felt guilty about suspecting her and speculating on her private life. Whatever Hunter Cole’s involvement with Dr. Albert had been would remain a secret. The dead man couldn’t tell Kitty, the diplomat wouldn’t tell her, and the widow would be on her way to Mexico tomorrow.
Kitty caught a glimpse of light from the direction of the carousel. She blinked, and it disappeared. A few moments later, she saw it again: a yellow halo bobbing around at the far end of the meadow.
Slowly, it made its way toward the pen. At first, it was so far off that Kitty couldn’t be sure of the direction. But it soon grew brighter, and the person carrying it became clearer until she could make out a hooded figure approaching the enclosure.
The lantern lowered, and the figure extracted something from a satchel and whistled softly. One of the horses ambled over to the fence.
Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth as Booth and Soames rushed from their hiding places. “Don’t move. Arms up,” Booth bellowed.
The figure swung around, and the hood fell back. Soames raised the lantern. Even from a distance, Kitty could tell that whomever they had caught wasn’t a woman, and it certainly wasn’t Mrs. Hunter Cole. It was the small, slight stable hand she had met at the Tombs—Marcus Lupone.
Booth slapped a pair of handcuffs on the Sicilian’s wrists. Soames grabbed the satchel from his shoulders and bent to reach for something that had fallen from his hands.
Kitty remained glued in place. A featherweight mosquito landed on the side of her neck, and she brought up her hand to swat it away—but instead of delicate flesh crumpling beneath her fingers, she felt a steel needle’s cold, hard resistance.
“Don’t move,” a girlish voice whispered in her ear.
“Aimee,” Kitty breathed.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice that nice yellow car?” She tugged at Kitty’s arms. “On your feet.” She slid one arm behind Kitty’s elbows, pinning them behind her back. “Come along.” She pushed her captive forward.
“Don’t do this, Aimee,” Kitty whispered.
“Don’t do what?” The needle hovered inches away from Kitty’s throat. “Take you away from your friends? Infect you with a deadly disease? I’ll try my best not to. But you will have to cooperate. So tell me, who are those men you’ve brought along?”
“They’re Secret Service.” Kitty swallowed. She could feel Aimee’s warm breath in her ear.
“My, my. To think that when I first met you, you were a scared little apprentice,” Aimee whispered. “And now here you are, consorting with government agents. You were scared, weren’t you? Or was that just an act? If so, you should try your hand at the movies. Who knows? You might be better than the rest of us.”
“Where are we going?” Kitty asked.
“To your car.”
“And then?”
“You’re going to drive me to freedom.”
Kitty couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of her. She stumbled on the uneven ground and righted herself just in time. “They’ll notice I’m missing,” she whispered. “They’ll come looking for me.”
“And what will they do when they find us? Risk that I might hurt you? I doubt that. No, Miss Weeks, you are my ticket to safety, my life insurance.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong y
et, Aimee,” Kitty said, feeling the ground with her feet to make sure she didn’t trip in the darkness. “Don’t make this worse by bringing me into it.” They were moving farther away from the enclosure, farther from any chance of assistance. “Talk to the agents. Tell them who put you up to it. Tell them that you had to finish what Mr. Cole started—”
“What Mr. Cole started?” Aimee scoffed. “That’s a joke.”
“Then why did he go to the stables at the club?” Kitty slowed down.
“Hunter thought it would be amusing to test the serum on one of Mrs. Basshor’s ponies, and at a July Fourth party, no less,” Aimee said.
“And he was working for Dr. Albert?”
Aimee was silent for a moment. “Well, aren’t you clever.”
“And then what happened? Did someone catch him in the act?”
Aimee didn’t reply at once.
“I’m pretty sure that Mr. Hotchkiss didn’t shoot your husband, because Mrs. Basshor told me that she was aware of his stealing. So that can’t have been a factor. Who did it then?” Kitty asked.
Aimee’s giggle made her shiver.
“What my husband knew about the secretary wasn’t the same as what the secretary thought Hunter had discovered.”
“I don’t understand,” Kitty said.
“The secretary had, let’s say, a fondness for men. Hunter told him that he had found out his little secret. Of course, Hunter meant that he had overheard Hotchkiss talking to the fireworks fellows and that he had put two and two together once Mrs. Basshor told us what she was paying for the entertainments. But the secretary panicked. He assumed ‘little secret’ meant that Hunter had found out about his secret activities—”
“What kind of activities?” Kitty said.
“You don’t know anything, do you?” Aimee snapped. “The secretary was a faggot. You don’t mess around with that type, but Hunter had no idea, and he never could resist the chance to make an extra buck.”
“So Hotchkiss shot him?” Kitty had never heard anyone use the word “faggot” in conversation but had a vague idea of what it meant.
“That’s right. Men of his kind live in terror of being discovered. I only realized the truth later and confronted him at the funeral. He folded at once. The shame of it must have been too much for him to bear, which is why he killed himself.”
Poor Hotchkiss. That would explain his frantic call the day before he died.
A twig cracked beneath Kitty’s foot. Aimee stopped. For a few moments, all Kitty heard was the sound of the other woman’s breath. Then Aimee pushed her ahead. “You have to be more careful.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about Mr. Hotchkiss, Aimee?”
“I was going to. But then he went and slit his wrists before I had a chance to speak to the police. And after that—well, they pinned the murder on him in any case, didn’t they? So what would be the point?”
Kitty saw the Bearcat parked on the street. And finally, she heard Soames calling her name.
“Hurry,” Aimee said.
“Miss Weeks.” Soames was about twenty feet away.
Kitty’s moment of relief was short-lived. Aimee Cole brusquely swung her around, and she became a shield between the widow and the agent. The needle at her neck kept her in check. She couldn’t move or Aimee would puncture her skin.
“Are you all right, Miss Weeks?” Soames came closer.
“Stop right there,” Aimee shouted. “I have a syringe, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“I’m putting down the lantern.” He bent his knees and placed the light on the ground. He stood, slowly. “Let’s not panic. We can sort this out.” He introduced himself. “Why don’t you release Miss Weeks, and we can discuss this in private, Mrs. Cole? You are Mrs. Cole, aren’t you?”
“Who else could I be?” Aimee spat.
Soames sounded calm and steady. Reasonable. If she were in Aimee’s shoes, she would trust him, Kitty thought.
“I won’t hurt you, Mrs. Cole,” the Secret Service man continued. “Once we’re done talking, I can help you. Miss Weeks tells me you’re planning to go to Mexico to become an actress. I can make sure you get there safely.”
“Likely story,” Aimee scoffed. “Once you get what you want, you’ll leave me in the lurch. I know men.”
“What in God’s name is going on?” Booth arrived, dragging a scowling, handcuffed Lupone beside him.
“What is happening is that I’m going to take Miss Weeks to her car, and she will drive me away,” Aimee replied.
“Over my dead body.” Booth raised his arm. There was a pistol at the end of it. He cocked the hammer.
Kitty gasped and closed her eyes. She would never get out of this.
“Calm down, Booth.” Soames stepped into the line of fire. “Let’s think things through.”
“I’m done thinking,” Booth said.
Kitty opened her eyes again. Were the two men playing some kind of charade to bluff Aimee into believing that Booth would shoot if she didn’t do as Soames asked?
“Get out of my way, Soames. Now,” Booth thundered. “Unless you want me to report you when we get back.”
Soames stepped aside.
There was no one between the barrel and Kitty. If Booth fired, she would be hit. Kitty stared at his outstretched arm, mesmerized.
“My colleague has more patience than I do,” Booth told Aimee. “I suggest you don’t push your luck any further. Put down that syringe, and tell us who put you up to this filthy business, and why.”
“Never!” Aimee inched backward, pulling Kitty along with her.
Booth took aim and fired, the shot deafening.
Kitty’s heart stopped. The bullet had whistled right past her.
“Bullying won’t work with me,” Aimee yelled. “You could ask my husband, only he’s dead.”
Kitty felt completely out of her depth. She saw no way out unless Aimee spoke to the men.
“Let me handle this,” Soames said to Booth.
“What? And stand here all night? I’m tired and ready to go home, and I won’t have my hand forced by some hysterical cow. If she wants to act like a child, I’ll treat her like one. I’m going to count down from five,” he said loudly, “and if she doesn’t start talking, I’ll shoot again. And this time, I won’t miss.”
He looked fierce in the light of the lantern. “FIVE,” he yelled.
“Say something please, Aimee,” Kitty begged. Booth didn’t seem to be bluffing.
“Put the gun down,” Aimee called.
The pistol didn’t waver.
“FOUR,” Booth shouted.
“This is getting out of hand, Booth,” Soames said.
Kitty smelled Aimee’s fear.
“We’re running out of time,” Booth boomed. “I’m at THREE.”
“Please reconsider, Mrs. Cole,” Soames urged. “We can help you.”
“Please, Aimee.” A tear trickled down Kitty’s cheek. “Just explain to them. Tell them you didn’t understand what your husband was doing.”
“I didn’t understand? It’s he who didn’t understand, and he didn’t do anything,” Aimee whispered through gritted teeth. “He talked big, but he was a coward. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt a horse. Not for all the money in the world, so I had to go down to the stables and do it for him.”
“You injected Breedlove?” Of course, that made sense.
“It’s why I left the children’s tables for a few minutes. I found Hunter near the stalls with his pistol and the syringe. He was sniveling like a baby.”
“And then you killed him?”
“Stop your chattering,” Booth shouted.
“No one noticed.” Aimee’s voice was low. “Everyone looked right past me. No one—not even you—guessed that I had done it.”
“TWO.” The black barrel bo
re down on the women.
Kitty screwed her eyes shut. She was going to die.
“This is your last chance,” Booth called.
Lupone slammed his head into his captor, and a shot sounded as Booth’s arm jerked, Soames dove forward, and then the world went quiet.
Kitty yanked herself free from Aimee’s grip. The widow stood still for a moment, her eyes bright, then she sighed, and her body tumbled backward. She fell so slowly, her feet coming off the ground for an instant, that Kitty felt as though she were watching a picture run by an overzealous projectionist who sped up the action once more when Soames rushed over to check Aimee’s pulse.
“She’s breathing.” He turned to his partner. “You idiot.”
“It’s his fault.” Still handcuffed together, Booth smacked Lupone on the head. “And besides, we needed an answer.”
“You needed an answer.” Soames applied pressure to the wound on the widow’s shoulder. “You’re not hurt?” he asked Kitty.
Kitty touched her neck. “I think I’m all right.”
With shaking fingers, she picked up the syringe that Aimee had dropped, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and placed it on the ground beside the younger agent.
Soames took off his jacket and tied it tightly around Mrs. Cole’s shoulder. A hint of color returned to the widow’s cheeks. “We’re going to take you to a hospital.”
He picked her up and carried her in his arms to the agents’ car. He told Kitty to follow them. They drove to the nearest police station, where she waited in the Bearcat while Booth, Soames, and Lupone went inside, leaving Mrs. Cole behind.
There were so many different Aimees, Kitty thought with a shiver. Wife Aimee, daughter Aimee, showgirl Aimee, captor Aimee. Even aspiring actress Aimee, and friendless Aimee. The only image that she had difficulty conjuring was Aimee as murderess shooting her husband through the skull. But that’s exactly what Mrs. Cole had done.
A police matron and two policemen arrived, and Kitty watched them lift the widow onto a stretcher.
“What happens now?” she asked Soames, who came out to join her.
“Lupone goes back to prison, Mrs. Cole goes to the hospital, and you go home and forget everything that’s happened.”