Louise's Gamble

by Sarah R. Shaber

  What did I hope to accomplish by going to this ball with Orazio tomorrow night? I could scout the scene. Where was the nearest bank of elevators to the Chinese Room, where Sebastian and Orazio had attended Count Sforza’s lecture, and to the Ladies Parlor, where Lucia had played bridge? I remembered how huge the Mayflower was. The rooms where Sebastian, Orazio, and Lucia spent the evening of Alessa’s death were almost a full block away from the hotel’s main entrance. How long would it take to get from those rooms to the Onetos’ apartment? How long did the bridge break last? The Sforza lecture intermission? The lecture reception? The hotel would be jammed packed with people who’d been there that night who might be able to answer my questions.

  If Alessa had been murdered, which seemed more and more likely to me, was it personal or related to her mission?

  If it was personal, Lucia, Sebastian, or Rossi must be her murderer. She didn’t know anyone else. What motives could the three of them have? Either Sebastian adored his wife and was grief-stricken, or he was a better actor than Olivier. He had no motive that I could see. And Rossi? Why would he want her dead? Lucia, though, was a possibility. She hated Alessa for being independent, for postponing children, and for endorsing Sebastian’s frugality.

  Or if Alessa’s murder had been due to her mission, who were the suspects? The Mafia sleeper whose name Alessa had brought back from New York to turn over to OSS? How did I know Enzo didn’t work for him, that his story was true? Besides, if Enzo was Mafioso, the Mayflower likely harbored more Mafia small fish eager to make their bosses happy.

  Who could help me? Only Orazio, it seemed.

  I would have to handle all this delicately to avoid suspicion. And I was an amateur. A file clerk who’d fallen into an operation. Three days at ‘The Farm’ hardly prepared me to pull this off.

  Speaking of suspicion, I was attending this very public ball with Orazio Rossi following being suspended for insubordination after attending a reception at the Onetos’ apartment. Any number of well-heeled OSS people who knew me could be there. Joan Adams, for example. She ran with a wealthy crowd. Don Murray, my boss, whose mother was a Peoples Drug Store heir. Bill Donovan himself, if he was back from Europe.

  If I was seen by the wrong people with Rossi, flouting my instructions to stay away from the Onetos, I could kiss my career goodbye. It might not be the best career in the world, annotating and filing index cards and files, but it was the only one I had.

  My second goal, of course, was to go through Alessa’s knitting bag looking for the information I wanted. How could I possibly get into the apartment to search? Maybe by the end of the evening I could trust Rossi enough to enlist his help.

  I could avoid all this. I could call Orazio and tell him I had sprained my ankle, or was down with the flu. I didn’t have to go and risk everything.

  But Alessa had risked everything . . . and lost. How could I do less?

  Scared and sleepless, I padded down the hall to Phoebe’s room to ask for a Nembutal so I could get some rest.

  THIRTY-TWO

  ‘You don’t need to stand out here with me,’ I said. ‘I’m perfectly able to wait for a taxi by myself.’

  ‘A gentleman doesn’t let a beautiful woman stand on a curb alone,’ Joe said.

  I did look nice. My blueberry-colored dress was even prettier on me in natural light than it was in the Woodies Dress Salon. Phoebe had lent me a black lace evening shawl and black kid evening gloves that fastened above my elbow with a pearl button. The rhinestone and zircon lavaliere and earrings she’d given me last summer looked perfect. And Ada had found a black beaded bag large enough to hold my compact, lipstick, money, house key, and my knife. My knife, what a joke!

  I’d be excited about this evening, especially now that Joe was OK with it, if I wasn’t terrified of being seen by someone from OSS. Or confirming that Alessa was murdered.

  Where was my taxi? The cold air crept under my shawl.

  ‘You’re jiggling,’ Joe said, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.

  ‘I want the taxi to hurry up and get here,’ I said.

  ‘This does have something to do with your job, doesn’t it?’ Joe asked.

  ‘You know I can’t say.’

  ‘Sometimes I think I have a crush on Mata Hari,’ he teased.

  ‘It will never amount to more than a crush if we can’t find some time to be alone together.’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  I wondered if Joan would be willing to lend me her apartment when she visited friends out of town. She might be terribly shocked, but then again I’d been married, so maybe it wouldn’t seem too dreadful. Or perhaps Joe could rent one of the many cabins – ‘camps’, they were called – on the Potomac for a weekend.

  My taxi arrived. Joe handed me into it expertly, even lifting my gown so it didn’t drag in the dirt as I climbed in, tucking the skirt around me once I was seated. He’d done this before, clearly! I wondered for whom, exactly, and added that to my long list of things I’d like to know about him.

  Six blocks away from home my taxi joined a queue of mostly limousines unloading passengers who were dressed to the nines, either in evening wear or dress uniforms. My pulse quickened as the liveried Mayflower hotel footman opened my door and handed me out of my cab. I felt like a movie star attending a Hollywood premiere!

  Orazio waited for me at the entrance to the hotel. He took my arm and threaded it through his.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. You look nice, too,’ I answered.

  Orazio wore an impeccably tailored double-breasted tuxedo with satin lapels and a satin stripe down his trousers. His hair was slicked down with brilliantine, as always.

  As we moved toward the open doors of the Mayflower and heard the music and throngs of people my excitement mounted. I felt guilty for enjoying myself. I was here because of Alessa – I didn’t want to forget that.

  The lobby was lit by four priceless bronze and gold torchieres, blazing with gas flames, assisted by massive crystal chandeliers. Red, white, and blue bunting draped the mezzanine rail. A USO banner hung over the front desk. Pretty girls in khaki dresses with USO patches mingled with soldiers and sailors who must have been given tickets. No way they could afford it themselves.

  I checked my evening shawl at the cloakroom. The attendant hung it between a full-length mink and an Army nurse’s blue cloak.

  ‘We need to walk all the way to the end of the Promenade and back to get the full effect,’ Orazio said when I rejoined him.

  Twenty-six feet wide and a full block long, from Connecticut Avenue to Seventeenth Street, the Mayflower Promenade was a wide hall through the main floor of the hotel. Along its length it showcased priceless art and antiques. As we strolled, along with hundreds of other guests, we stopped to admire the exhibits.

  ‘I walk through this gallery every day,’ Orazio said, ‘but at night, when the hotel is lit and decorated for a fancy event, it looks like a palace.’

  We gawked at two Louis XIV gold consoles, a collection of Aubusson tapestries, and, of course, the stunning white marble statues that occupied the place of honor in the center of the Promenade: ‘The Lost Pleiad’ – her hand shading her eyes, searching – ‘La Sirene’, and ‘Flora’.

  We passed the Presidential Restaurant, where Orazio and I had dined the other night, on our left and the Mayflower Lounge on our right.

  ‘The bar’s set up in here,’ Orazio said, steering me into the Lounge. ‘I have four drink tickets, but, of course, we can purchase more later.’

  ‘Two drinks is more than enough for me,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like a cocktail, or champagne?’ he asked.

  ‘Champagne, please.’

  He handed me a bubbling flute and took one for himself. I felt so Greta Garbo holding a champagne glass in my gloved hand.

  ‘Let’s stop at the ballroom before we go on,’ Orazio said. ‘We’ll come back to the Promenade later.’

  We stood ins
ide the door, drinking in the scene. The Ballroom was the most elegant room I’d ever seen. Bunting hung everywhere, obscuring much of the vermilion, gold, and ivory decorative painting. Its high vaulted ceiling was lined on three sides with two tiers of VIP balcony boxes. Black and gold marble pillars separated the boxes. Lush gilt ornamentation crowded what empty space there was between boxes and pillars. Four chandeliers, larger than their fellows in the lobby, lit the room brilliantly.

  ‘That’s the presidential box,’ Orazio said, pointing, ‘where the president sits during Inaugural Balls. And the murals are by one of my countrymen, Ampelio Tonillo, a Venetian.’

  Couples already crowded the ballroom, mingling and chatting, waiting for the dance music to begin.

  ‘There’s a disappearing stage: it will rise when the music starts. There’s a movie screen, too,’ Orazio said, ‘though they won’t be using it tonight.’

  ‘It’s a fairy tale,’ I said. And I’m Cinderella, I thought.

  Orazio squeezed my arm. ‘I’m so glad you agreed to come,’ he said. ‘It would be a shame to waste this.’

  ‘I’m glad, too,’ I said, and I was, except that I’d rather I was with Joe.

  We turned and continued our stroll down the Promenade.

  ‘Where is Sebastian tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘At a friend’s apartment for dinner. He couldn’t bear to be here. Alessa bought her ball gown at Saks when she was in New York. She brought it back on the train. It’s still hanging in her closet. Sebastian has not yet cleaned out any of her things.’

  ‘Poor man.’ Would a woman about to kill herself buy an evening gown? I didn’t think so.

  Orazio bent over to whisper in my ear. ‘Sebastian feels a bit guilty, I think,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sebastian loved Alessa wildly – as a man should love his wife, of course. He worried that she was bored here. In fact, she went to New York to see her friends often enough that he fantasized that she had a lover.’

  ‘No!’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘When I rode the train with her to New York, he asked me to see if a man met the train. Of course, no one did. It was a ludicrous idea. Now Sebastian feels guilty that he even suspected her.’

  ‘Poor man,’ I said.

  ‘Lucia will be here tonight though. Nothing would cause her to miss the opportunity to wear her jewels.’

  Except for the diamond bracelet she gave you, I remembered. He’d told me he pawned jewelry for Lucia, but maybe he was a gigolo! I studied him while he waved at an acquaintance across the room. I didn’t know any gigolos, but Orazio was handsome and gracious enough to fit the bill.

  ‘Isn’t the Chinese Room at this end of the Promenade?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Orazio said. ‘Sebastian and I were at a lecture there the night Alessa died. Would you like to see it? It’s as stunning as the Ballroom in its own way.’

  ‘Yes, please, I’ve heard so much about it.’

  Orazio pushed open a door and led me into a salon glowing with the reds and blues of the Chinese Chippendale style. The walls gleamed with gilt and red lacquer murals. Although smaller than any of the other rooms we’d seen, it still seemed huge by my standards.

  ‘How many people were at the Count’s lecture?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, a couple hundred or so. Count Sforza is a fine speaker and a good man. If it weren’t for him, America would think all Italians were either fascists or mobsters.’

  ‘That’s not so!’ I said.

  ‘You don’t think so? I’m glad to hear it. But Sforza is an aristocrat. When the war is finally won, and Mussolini is dead, the people of Italy, and Sicily, will reject the monarchy and govern themselves. For the first time in its history, Italy’s wealth will be distributed to everyone.’

  So Orazio was still a socialist. Not surprising. I wasn’t interested in politics tonight though, and I steered the conversation back to the floor plan of the hotel.

  ‘The Ladies Parlor is across the hall?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, you can go see it. I can’t join you though. It’s for women only.’

  ‘No, that’s not necessary.’ I didn’t ask him if he’d seen Lucia leave the Parlor the night Alessa died. I didn’t want to seem obsessed with her death. ‘Have we walked a block yet?’

  ‘Almost. A few more steps through the vestibule, and here we are!’

  A doorman swung the double doors open wide, and we stepped out on to Seventeenth Street.

  ‘That building across the way,’ he said, ‘is the National Geographic Society. I have spent many free afternoons there.’

  Without the National Geographic Society the OSS wouldn’t have maps of half the countries we were fighting in.

  ‘You don’t have your wrap, come back inside,’ Orazio said. ‘It’s chilly.’

  Once the doorman closed the door behind us, we heard music.

  ‘The Mayflower Orchestra is playing,’ Orazio said. ‘I do so hope you don’t jitterbug.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Hardly,’ I said, though Madeleine and Ada had tried to teach me. ‘The foxtrot and the waltz compose my entire repertoire.’

  ‘Thank God,’ he said.

  We found our way back through an increasing throng to the Ballroom. The stage rose, and Sidney Seideman, the famous violinist and conductor, climbed up the steps to take his place leading the orchestra. Seideman oversaw several orchestras in Washington, but on a night like this he was expected to be at the Mayflower.

  The crowd cheered as he raised his baton, and the band launched into Glenn Miller’s ‘String of Pearls’. The crowd moved into the middle of the dance floor like an ocean wave rippling on to a beach.

  I confess that in the excitement I forgot about Alessa for a time.

  ‘I think we can foxtrot to this,’ Orazio said, taking my hand and leading me out on to the floor. We joined couples in glamorous evening dress, sailors, USO hostesses, and military officers in dress uniforms weighed down with chest hardware, moving about the vast room in time to the music. As it died away, Seideman turned to face the audience. After a few words of welcome, he introduced, to deafening applause, the Incomparable Hildegarde, the most famous supper club entertainer in the world.

  She was a blonde hazel-eyed Milwaukee beauty, wearing a slinky sequinned gown and the lipstick and nail color Revlon had named for her. Hildegarde didn’t waste any time. She took a microphone from Seideman with a white-gloved hand, turned, and began to sing her signature tune, ‘Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup’. It was a slow waltz.

  Orazio took me into his arms, and we danced with our bodies touching. ‘This is very romantic, no?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said, surprised at the warmth I felt rising in my body from the feel of his arms around me. I thought guiltily of Joe, and then dismissed it. Who wouldn’t feel wonderful in such a place with practically anyone!

  As Hildegarde’s voice trailed away, Orazio and I separated and applauded with the rest of the crowd. Through a gap in the crowd I noticed a familiar figure in military dress blues. Colonel Platon Melinsky, my former handler, lounged against the rail of a VIP box. He was holding the hand of an auburn-haired beauty in a flowing dove-gray gown. The beauty was Myrna.

  I turned quickly to Orazio. ‘I need to go powder my nose,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  He didn’t have time to answer before I bolted out of the ballroom, my heart pounding and a roar of blood sounding in my ears. I headed for the nearest ladies’ room, glad I’d worn my sensible black pumps instead of splurging on high heels.

  The lavatory was next to the Ladies’ Parlor. I burst through the door with intense relief, glad to find an empty stall, where I sat and waited for my pulse to slow.

  I’d been worried about seeing someone who knew me, and now the worst had happened.

  I must leave the Mayflower, now, before Melinsky spotted me and wanted to know why I was with Orazio Rossi when I’d been warned away from the Oneto household! What a
wasted opportunity! I’d been here an hour and already learned new information about the night of Alessa’s death.

  And I’d miss the chance to search her room: a slim chance, to be sure, but a chance nonetheless. Yes, solving the puzzle of Alessa’s death preoccupied me, but it was more important that I look for the name she’d brought back from New York City! The first slow convoy to Casablanca left in just a few days!

  I felt myself calm down, and then a thought struck me.

  Did Colonel Melinsky know Orazio Rossi? He’d never met him! He’d seen his name in a police report, that’s all!

  As my handler, one of his job requirements was to stay away from, first, Alessa, and then the Onetos. That was the definition of an operation involving a cut-out. So if Melinsky saw me with Orazio, he would have no idea who he was! The USO benefit ball was a huge event with thousands of people attending; it was feasible I could be an innocent guest of a friend. I wasn’t under house arrest. I had to stay far enough away from Melinsky, and Myrna, that I didn’t have to introduce them to Rossi. I’d already taken countless risks and told so many lies that what did one more matter?

  Relieved that my plan was salvaged, I left the stall to repair my make-up in front of the lavatory’s gilded mirror. This was some bathroom. Marble sinks, marble floors, and marble walls. I’d heard somewhere the fixtures were gold-plated.

  I saw a second reflection appear in the mirror. Standing nearby was the Dowager Countess Lucia Oneto.

  ‘Why, hello,’ she said, ‘Mrs . . .?’ Lucia looked youthful in her dusty pink tulle gown. As Orazio said, she liked to show off her jewels. She wore a long string of fat pearls around her neck, a four-strand wide pearl cuff with a diamond clasp, and diamond and pearl drop earrings.

  ‘I’m Louise Pearlie,’ I said, reminding her. ‘How nice to see you again, Lucia. What a lovely dress.’