Amos peered through the tent at the blurred outline of Helen, tongue at her lip, bent over the pad of paper. “You can spell pneumonia? My mother was a teacher; she doesn’t tolerate poor writing.”
Helen frowned. “Are you sure you want to worry her about that?”
“You don’t know my mother. Here’s the picture: London, war is breaking out. All down the streets of Mum’s neighborhood, families fleeing to the countryside. Little tykes are sent off to grandma, even to strangers.”
“Because of the bombing?”
“Righty-o. The kiddies have to get the hell out. But not my mum. No, she will stay, like she stayed before, through thick and thin and bloody Nazi bombs.”
“Is it safe?”
“Course not. It’s the principle. She would never run away from danger.”
“That seems foolish.”
“That it does.” Pigheaded was the word. “So while the bombs are raining down on her, she’ll have me to worry about, not herself.”
“I don’t get it.”
“She can’t worry about herself. If she did, she’d run away to the country like everybody with a brain in their head. So I’m giving her something else to worry about so she can be brave. It’s like a gift, love.”
“Wouldn’t it be better not to give her anything, so she’d leave?”
“Doesn’t work that way. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Helen sighed. “Mothers. Is that the end?”
“Tell her we’ve had decent rain, that the corn and wheat crops are expected to be good. Looks like the Dust Bowl is over for good. She loves hearin’ about crops, for some reason. And the bleeding weather.”
“It makes her feel like the world is the same over here. That’s what my mother says.”
“And where does she live, love?”
“Joplin.”
“Clear across the state? Aren’t you the adventurer.”
Helen grinned. She had a straight set of white teeth that would have pleased his mother. Always thoughts of Mother when he was laid up. Helen made a more-than-adequate replacement. He always fell in love with his nurses, a feeling that faded as soon as he recovered.
“Look in my jacket, will you, ducks? There’s a small notebook. Not the blue one. That little black one.”
Helen handed it to him. “It looks old.”
“Plenty. If this notebook could talk.” He tried to laugh, then thought better of it. His chest felt like a ton of bricks sat on it.
Helen went back to the letter. He opened the cracked leather cover, worn thin over the years. He’d started carrying it again about a month before, as he had off and on for the last ten years, and he was glad now, because he had the time to read it again.
Notes on Miss Eugenia McAughey. 1898-1918.
He thumbed forward to midway, where he’d copied out the short newspaper report of her death. Its cold, factual tone was reassuring, perhaps because it said so little.
Niece of Dover Shipping Magnate Lost at Sea
When the freight and passenger ship the Mantiquainewa sunk in the Irish Sea yesterday, one of the passengers lost was Miss Eugenia McAughey, 19. Known in Dover as the frequent visitor of her devoted aunt and uncle, Horace and Marcella Conwyn, Miss McAughey was a summer member of the White Cliffs Natural History Society and graduate of London College of the Arts. She had an exhibition of her watercolor paintings at the Quex House in Margate last summer.
Miss McAughey was the daughter of Mrs. Conwyn’s sister, Henrietta McAughey, and the late Sir Lowell McAughey of Corsham.
Arrangements through Williams and Wright, Bath.
So little, and yet what more was there to say? One girl lost, when hundreds of others were rescued. Why had she been found in the water, when there was room in the lifeboats? Why had no one helped her? Had she lost hope when the false reports of his death reached her?
None of the questions mattered. Time had passed.
And yet. Damn, even after more than twenty years, he couldn’t let her go.
Helen continued scribbling on the pad as the shadow of the man crossed her hands.
“Reg?” Amos leaned forward inside the oxygen tent, straining to look at the tall, dark-haired man in a severe but perfectly cut suit, who was fingering his brown hat. When he gave his Clark Gable smirk, Amos was sure it was Vanvleet’s son.
“Hello, Haddam,” the boy said. They were the same age, more or less, but still Reg was the boy.
Helen stood up. “Do you want to sign this now?”
“Let’s wait till morning. I might think of more thrilling news.”
The nurse backed out of the room, leaving them alone. The roommate with the snore had been sprung that morning.
“Good of you to come out on this dreadful evening. Is it dreadful out?” Amos said, pointing to a chair.
“Not particularly.” Reggie sat on the edge of the straight-back chair and looked around. He had an aquiline profile and girlish lips. “My father says to tell you not to worry about anything while you’re in here. He’s taking care of everything.”
“Give him my sincere thanks.”
Reggie squinted. “And he wants to know what came of the search for that girl.”
“The long-lost chippie?” Amos’s throat hurt from all the talking to Helen. It was impossible for him to keep quiet. The hospital stays were full of boredom. Tormenting visitors was the only diversion. “I ran down the leads he gave me. Name of Edna something, right? Last known address, they never heard of her. It’s been seven, eight years. Last known employer—Big Lolly—died two years ago.”
“What about the other girls at the hook shop?”
“Good idea, Reg. Only they’re dead or scattered to the four winds. Girls die after two or three years in that business. If they manage to survive and get out, they change their names, addresses, hair color, everything, to erase that life. Can’t really blame them.”
“So you gave up? You want me to tell the old man that?”
“Put it however you want. I couldn’t find the chippie.”
Reggie gave an irritated sigh and stood up.
Amos’s throat burned. “Hand me that water glass, would you?”
Reggie slipped the glass under the tent. “I don’t know why my father keeps a decrepit old boondoggler like you on the payroll.”
Amos felt the water cool his throat. “When he has such a debonair gallant as yourself?”
Reggie walked toward the door. Pretending not to hear was one of the boy’s chief preoccupations. Like when folks around the law firm snickered when he flunked the bar five times. Rumor was he’d finally passed, with outside help. The old man kept him on because he was the son, the only one left, for better or for worse. The word was that his days as the golden boy might be limited. One of the secretaries had hinted he’d overstepped his privilege once too often.
In a second, Reg was back.
“I almost forgot. He says you don’t need to do anything more on Palmer Eustace. The client lost interest. Or something.”
Amos saw the boy’s eyes flick away, toward the window; then he straightened and brought them back.
“Lost interest in the racetrack?”
“He said the auditor was done. Forget it.”
” ‘Forget it’? Those were his words?”
“Yeah, Haddam. Clear?” And then Reggie was gone for good.
Clear as mud. It was clear that Vanvleet had let the boy extemporize. The old man must have been seriously distracted to let that happen. Palmer Eustace was a partner in a racetrack built last year in Blue Valley. Vanvleet said Eustace suspected the partner, one Floyd Wilson, of keeping a double set of books and cheating him out of the profits. Amos had gone along with the auditor and leaned on Wilson.
Forget about profits? Unlikely, in such a lucrative business as horse racing. So maybe Eustace had changed lawyers. But who else in the city had more clout than Vanvleet? Had Vanvleet loused up?
Impossible. Amos lay back on the pillows, feeling the bricks settle
back into position on his chest. He tucked the old leather notebook into his pajamas.
He had to get up to use the bathroom, and he hoped Helen was still on shift, so he could smell the orange shampoo she used. It reminded him of the fruit trees in the glassed conservatory in Eugenia’s aunt’s country house, before the war. And of Eugenia. He reached over to push the call button and collapsed back on the bed.
He’d never met Palmer Eustace. Maybe it was time. But first he had to get out of this sick ward. Damn the Jerries. They hadn’t learned a damn thing. Would there be trenches and gas again? No. Tanks and bombs. Get the job done quickly. What was modern war if not efficient in the killing department?
Helen rushed into the room.
“A mission to the loo, ducks.”
She pulled back the oxygen tent and got him to his feet, her arm around his bony waist. As they shuffled forward, toward the door and bathroom down the hall, with the heady clean smell of her hair in his nostrils, Amos began to cough.
SIX
The clapping of heels on the marble steps rang out in the silence. The wooden handrail leading down to the basement felt warm, safe, but the hallway beyond was cold and silent. The building was just a few years old, built with WPA dollars and Pendergast cement, but it already looked ancient.
The cool air would have been soothing on this hot afternoon, but for the smell of formaldehyde and the stench of bodily fluids. A cloying dampness hung in the contaminated air. Each breath made Lennox feel less human, and somehow more so.
Talbot seemed to know everyone at police headquarters. He said he’d been a reporter at the Star for two years, and before that for the sister paper, the Times. And he laid his charm on every cop, secretary, clerk, and assistant. The morgue’s door was open and a large, disheveled woman smiled when she saw Talbot.
“Eloise! How’s the body business?”
With her gray hair cut in a blunt flapper’s cap, the woman blushed a deep scarlet. “You shouldna sent those flowers. The boss thinks I’ve got a secret boyfriend,” she said. She wore a wrinkled pink-and-white-striped dress with shoes run down at the heels.
“Well, don’t you, old girl?” Talbot moved around her desk and gave her shoulders a little squeeze. Over her head he gave Lennox a cross-eyed look.
“Oh, stop that, you.” Eloise wiggled out of his grasp. “What is it today, then?”
“My friend here wants to see a body. Oh, excuse me. Mrs. Eloise Perkins, this is Miss Doria Lennox.”
“Do you have one in mind, miss, or are you just a ghoul like your friend?”
Talbot gave her a mock frown. “A particular body, of course, Eloise. You’re a jealous woman, trying to make me look bad in front of my friends.”
Eloise gave Lennox a hard look. A bit possessive of a boy young enough to be her grandson, wasn’t she? Despite all the bad smells, Lennox was starving. Her stomach was telling her to quit skipping meals. Talbot was wearing her out with his charm.
“The jumper,” Lennox said. “The woman they fished out of the river.”
“What for?”
Talbot said, “She might know the woman. Identification purposes, Eloise. You know me. I wouldn’t have any indecent interests.”
Eloise snorted. “Right. Well, ain’t nobody else taking any interest in the poor thing.”
They followed her through the wooden door behind her desk, into another dim hallway, one that led back into the bowels of the morgue. The rooms were shadowed and quiet.
“Nobody blipped off today,” Talbot whispered. “Some days, this is the busiest department in the building.”
They passed an examination room, an enameled porcelain table gleaming in the dim light. A closed door labeled microscopy. Mrs. Perkins stopped, opened an unmarked door, and flicked on overhead lights.
Brown metal drawers with chrome handles were stacked on the wall like file drawers. The clerk shuffled to the end of the row and put her hand on a drawer at knee level.
“Jane Doe, that’s what they’re calling her.”
“Hmm. One O’clock Jane?”
The woman turned to Lennox. “He has to make a joke out of everything.” Then to Talbot: “Have a little respect.”
He bowed solemnly. Eloise pulled out the drawer, revealing a body covered with a sheet. She paused as she picked up the corner of the white sheet, by the head.
“You’ve seen a body before, miss? I mean, just after?”
Lennox pictured her mother’s body in Atchison after the wreck, when blood streaked across her still-downy cheeks. Crystallized tears hung in her eyes, her lips bruised and dark. This couldn’t be as bad as that.
“Yes. It’s all right,” she said.
Talbot stood at Eloise’s left shoulder, his boyish face eager. Lennox stood opposite them, not quite as eager. He had probably seen many dead bodies: sharpers, diamond-cuff dealers, innocent bystanders caught in cross fire. Maybe the two cops killed last year in the raid or the ones gunned down by Pretty Boy Floyd. What was one more?
Eloise pulled back the drape. The white-gold hair was full of sand, tangled and dirty. Then the face. Lennox stared at it, trying to understand why small chunks of flesh were gone from the nose, the chin, one eyelid. The skin was gray, with a tinge of green, dirty with mud and sand, not even washed for the morgue drawer.
Talbot was lifting up the other end of the sheet, at her feet. “One leg broken. Helluva fall from that bridge. Plenty of bruises.”
Lennox saw the long blue bruise down the neck, and the odd angle of it, as if it was broken. But her eyes kept going back to the face, the missing flesh. The river had done this to her, with its carnivorous devils.
“Where did they find her?” she asked.
“Up against the wharf. Wedged between the steamboat and the pier. A dock worker was getting a barge ready and spotted her hair in the water.”
“When?”
“Early this morning. Can’t you still smell the river on her? Poor thing.” Eloise frowned at Iris’s face. “So young. Seen enough, then?”
Lennox fought an urge to smooth out her hair, to soothe the look of chaos on the dead woman’s face. “Did they take her clothes?”
“Oh, yes, miss. The department strips ‘em before we see them down here. All the jewelry and clothes and personal effects.”
“Will there be an autopsy?”
Eloise ruffled her lips. “Waste of money. Unless you know her, miss.”
Lennox tipped her head to look again into the disfigured face crowned by the corn-silk hair.
Anxiety made her step back. “No, no. I don’t know her.”
“Right. So, thanks a million, Eloise.” Talbot gave the old woman another shoulder squeeze and walked quickly around the drawer. He took Lennox’s arm and pulled her out of the room, down the hallway, and into the outer hall. They were halfway to the stairwell when Lennox pulled away.
“Christ, Talbot, I can walk.”
“You’re not going to be sick?”
“Of course not.”
He peered at her face. “You got the look back there, a little green around the gills. I’ve seen it before. Even happened to me once.” He headed toward the stairs. “Let’s get out of here.”
They ordered coffee at the hash house around the corner, the one with a view of both monuments to corrupt progress, City Hall and the County Courthouse. Lennox ordered a hot turkey sandwich and Talbot decided lemon pie would hit the spot. They ate in silence. As Lennox finished her sandwich and her head cleared, she felt awkward and itched to go. If she hadn’t been so hungry, and yes, face it, a little shook-up from seeing the stiff, she would have gone home. She lit up a Lucky. “Bum a butt from you?”
She tapped out one for him and they smoked for a minute. He was half-done with his cigarette when he set it on the glass ashtray and squinted at her through the smoke.
“You weren’t going to be sick, were you? No, it was something else,” he said, scrutinizing her in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was the same way she sized peo
ple up.
“Yeah, I was gaga on the fish nibbles.”
“That was nothing.” He took a drag. “You know something about her, don’t you? You know who she is.”
“I only saw her jump.”
“That’s right. You saw her jump.”
A short, sweaty man in black suspenders paused in front of the booth, eyeing Lennox, then Talbot. Harvey looked up as the man smiled, showing black-edged teeth.
“What are you doing here, Russell?”
“Same as you, Tal-butt. Eating when the deadline looms, like a vulture. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your girlie?”
Lennox stubbed out her cigarette. Talbot’s eyes darkened.
“Dangle, Raunch.”
“She’s not your usual broad, all skirt and pout. She looks like she might know how to count to twenty.” Russell showed her the full complement of bad teeth. His white shirt was thin enough to see his undershirt and matted chest hair, not to mention several days’ worth of stains under his arms.
“Don’t you have socks to wash?”
“Whaddya know, Harve. I got some hot juice on that Blue Valley track. They’re taking a lot of the Pendergast lettuce.” Russell leaned down to her conspiratorially. “I know who really owns it,” he whispered, nodding. He had a powerful stink.
“Who?” Talbot asked.
“You won’t believe it. I had to slip some silk stockings to a certain secretary I know. I got a good supplier for silk stockings, if you’re interested, girlie.” Russell looked around the cafe. “A dinge,” he whispered.
“A colored owner? Who gave you that flimflam?”
“Impeccable source, Harve. Impeccable.” But his lips began to quiver.
“You better get some more sources before you run that one by Big Ed.” Talbot looked at Lennox as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Now scram, hombre.”
Russell waddled away. Talbot flicked back the rogue lock of hair that tickled his eyebrow. “Where were we?”
“Is that right? The Blue Valley track is owned by a Negro? I thought it was some Chicago goons.”
“Probably is. Russell’s a blowhard.”
Amos had been working on something about the track last week. She would ask him tonight, also about the mysterious Edna.
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