Murder between the Lines

by Radha Vatsal

  “My contact at the Waldorf tells me that they’re expecting their biggest New Year’s Eve in history with five thousand guests,” the editor went on breathlessly. “They’ve been stockpiling favors and noise-making devices since July. The St. Regis has had to turn people away. There will be ice-skating at the Biltmore. An artificial lake has been created on the second floor of the hotel, and professionals from the Hippodrome will put on an ice show as well.”

  “Miss Busby,” Kitty interrupted the barrage, “you seem quite excited about all this. Perhaps you would like to join us?”

  “Me?” Miss Busby giggled giddily like a schoolgirl. “I’m far too old. Besides, the noise alone would make me faint. You are taking your chauffeur along with you just in case you require assistance, Miss Weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “The most important thing is not to be daunted,” Miss Busby said. “Someone told me that a woman bid fifty dollars for a table at the Ritz-Carlton and still didn’t get it.”

  “Should we put all of this into our story?” Kitty said.

  “I think we should.” Miss Busby nodded. “Our slant should be that with Europe ravaged by war, Americans play while they can… I don’t know, girls, it might be our turn next. This could be our last new year in the city as we know it; by 1917, we might all be under the kaiser’s thumb.”

  “Do you really believe that, Miss Busby?” Kitty had heard reports that prominent citizens—even Mr. Edison—were calling for preparedness out of fear that the Germans might launch amphibious attacks on America’s unprotected eastern seaboard. Mr. Weeks had said that such a scenario seemed highly unlikely; Germany had its hands full battling its immediate foes. It could hardly spare men and resources to wage war in New Jersey.

  • • •

  Sandwiched between Jeannie and Grace, Kitty found herself speeding toward Times Square.

  Mr. Weeks had made his own way to the Lanes’ hotel, and Rao had driven Kitty and Grace to pick up Jeannie from her boardinghouse. All three were sensibly clad in warm coats, hats, and sturdy boots.

  “All the other girls were so envious.” Jeannie’s cheery smile stretched across her cheeks. “They’re bringing in the new year with our landlady in the parlor.”

  As far as ten blocks away from the intersection of Broadway and Forty-Second Street, which formed the center of the revelries, traffic slowed to a crawl.

  “Let’s walk from here,” Kitty suggested.

  Rao parked the car and accompanied the three young women on foot. Merrymakers from nearby hotels and restaurants spilled out into the street in fancy dress. Women laughed as they slung mink stoles around their necks or warmed their hands under gentlemen’s jackets. Policemen blew on whistles to keep the swell of humanity in check, and Kitty, Jeannie, and Grace linked arms in fear of being separated. Vendors sold souvenirs including toy cannons, zeppelins that discharged miniature shrapnel, and tiny flags. Horns honked, and young and old alike blew on, banged, or played anything that made a noise, from bagpipes to accordions to tin cans.

  Kitty, Jeannie, and Grace didn’t speak—they wouldn’t have been able to hear one another in any case—so with Rao elbowing a path for them, they simply tried to take it all in and avoid being crushed.

  “Out with the old and in with the new!” the crowds chanted. Joined by hundreds of voices, a chorus sang “Auld Lang Syne” and “We Gather Together.”

  It was ten minutes to midnight when they finally made it to the Times Building on Broadway. All eyes were on the flagpole from which, at exactly midnight, a ball ablaze with electric lights would be dropped.

  The minutes ticked away, then all of a sudden, every building in the vicinity went dark.

  “Ten,” the crowd roared. “Nine—eight—seven—six.”

  With each number being called, Kitty felt her blood beat faster.

  “Five.” Her neck ached from craning upward. “Four—three—two”—it was about to descend—“one.”

  The ground shook. Times Square was a sea of sound. A globe glowing with the number 1916 appeared in midair.

  All the lights in the Times Building and Annex turned back on, and the crowd went mad, blowing horns and banging on anything they could find.

  Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Greetings flew about, and even strangers embraced.

  Grace, Rao, and Jeannie beamed, but Kitty felt the slow yet insistent drip of anxiety.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her ears still ringing from the previous night, Kitty woke at ten the next morning. She brushed her teeth, slipped into her dressing gown, and joined her father in his study, since he had long ago finished breakfast.

  “How was last night?” he said.

  “Quite a spectacle.”

  “When did you get in? I didn’t hear you. I must have been fast asleep when you arrived.”

  “About three. We had to write the story and drop Jeannie home.”

  “Were the streets still crowded?”

  “Not like they had been earlier, but a fair number of people were still out and about.”

  “Well, I have good news.” Mr. Weeks handed her the paper. “The new year has started on an excellent note.”

  Kitty took a look at the headlines: LUSITANIA SETTLEMENT NOW LIKELY, FOLLOWING AUSTRIA’S COMPLIANCE ON ALL OUR DEMANDS.

  “Mr. Musser was right.” Kitty smiled to herself as she settled into her chair. Perhaps the country would put all the madness of last year behind it and remain an oasis of calm, even if Europe continued fighting. “Did you get enough sleep?” she asked Grace as she brought in her tea.

  The maid set the tray on a side table. “I’ll make up for it tonight, Miss Kitty.”

  “So what are our plans for today?” Mr. Weeks did his best to appear neutral. “Are we waiting for your beau?”

  “He’s not my beau.” Even as she said the words, Kitty’s face grew hot. Soames would be dropping by this afternoon.

  She tried not to think of what he could want and to distract herself by sorting through her Christmas cards and correspondence. She showered, changed into one dress, then decided it looked frumpy and selected another that she had bought in London.

  The doorbell rang shortly after she and her father finished lunch. They waited in the living room as footsteps sounded in the hallway and Grace brought in their visitor. Kitty wore her hair pulled off her face, the cream-colored dress with lace at the neck, and fleur-de-lis earrings.

  “Good afternoon.” Soames shook Mr. Weeks’s and then Kitty’s hand.

  Kitty felt relieved to sit back down. Mr. Weeks offered their guest something to drink, and he replied that a glass of water would be fine. The agent looked just as she recalled him: tall but not too tall, kind-eyed, intelligent.

  “I was sorry to have missed you the other day, Miss Weeks. I hear you’re still with the Sentinel?”

  “That’s right. And you’re still with the Service?”

  “I am. But I’ve been reassigned. I’m now part of the squad that protects the president.”

  “My father mentioned that.” Kitty forgot to be shy. “How does it work? You’ve actually met the president in person? What is he like?”

  Soames laughed. “A group of us work in shifts. We’re with him all the time.”

  “Everywhere?” Kitty said.

  “Oh yes. At the White House, wherever he travels. This has been my first weekend off in four months.”

  “You mustn’t have a moment to breathe.”

  “The work is demanding. I’m constantly on my guard. After President McKinley’s assassination—well, that’s why the Secret Service was put in charge.”

  “Do you miss the kind of work you used to do?” When she had met him last summer, Soames had been out in the field, solving cases.

  “It’s a change,” he replied. “It’s much quieter with Mr. Wilson.”
>
  “May I ask you one more question about it?”

  Soames took a sip of the water that Grace brought in. “Please do. I always said you’re good at your job.”

  “I feel silly for asking, but…have you met Mrs. Galt?”

  “She’s Mrs. Wilson now.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I have met her. I watch her play golf most mornings with the president, and don’t tell anyone, but I was at the wedding.”

  “No!” Kitty’s hands flew to her face.

  “I was working, but I was there.”

  “What was it like?”

  Mr. Weeks stood. “If you will both excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  Kitty had forgotten how much she’d enjoyed speaking to Soames. He treated her like an old friend, an equal, and his unusual profession was fascinating.

  “It was a wedding like other weddings.” Soames shrugged. “Gifts, flowers, and a beautiful bride. The president is smitten by her. I think I can say this, because everyone knows it—Mr. Wilson is very much in love.”

  There was an awkward silence, and Kitty tried to think of another question. “How does he run the country with so much on his mind?”

  “That I can’t tell you. I don’t know how he does it. The service trains us to keep our hearts and minds separate.”

  It occurred to Kitty that he might be trying to send her a message. Perhaps he wanted to let her know that his work precluded the possibility of close relationships. Why come and see her then? Maybe he enjoyed her company just as much as she enjoyed his. Was that so wrong? And was it possible for the two of them, a young man and woman, unconnected by blood or years of familiarity, to be just friends?

  “And how about you, Miss Weeks?” Soames said after a moment. “Do you keep busy?”

  “I do my best.”

  “Are there any good stories that you’re working on?”

  “I’m hoping to interview Mrs. Belmont, and I covered last night’s New Year’s Eve celebrations in Times Square.”

  “Now, that is something,” he said.

  “And there’s one other piece of business.” She had a feeling Soames would understand. “I met a girl who died under strange circumstances.”

  “And let me guess…you’re not satisfied with the explanation.”

  Kitty nodded. They had such similar temperaments.

  “You should make inquiries if it bothers you. It is part of being a reporter.”

  Mr. Weeks returned, holding a newspaper. “What do you think of this business about the Ancona, Mr. Soames? Does the president think it will spur on a satisfactory end to the Lusitania negotiations?”

  Soames laughed. “Even if I knew what was on the president’s mind, I wouldn’t be allowed to say, sir.”

  “Ah, not fit for civilian consumption. Is that right?” Julian Weeks sat, crossing his legs. “Secretary Daniels has been making all kinds of noises about needing more money for the navy. What did he say recently? That we’ll need to spend a billion and a half dollars to be on par with the best fleets in the world.”

  “That sounds correct.” Soames glanced at Kitty.

  “They say our army ranks seventeenth in the world in terms of size and capacity. Seventeenth.” Julian Weeks shook his head. “The last time we went to war, we had to call for volunteers, but I doubt that Mr. Roosevelt and his Rough Riders would last a minute against the German machine guns.”

  Kitty cleared her throat. Given the chance, her father would talk about current events all day long.

  Soames brushed off his trousers and stood. “I won’t keep you any longer. I wanted to say hello since I was in the city. I have a few other calls to make before I leave tomorrow.” He turned to Kitty. “I’m visiting Booth and his family.” Booth had been Soames’s partner in the Service. “You won’t believe what he’s doing now.”

  “He runs a boxing club?”

  “No.” Soames grinned. “He’s gone a different route—he owns a grocery store.”

  Kitty tried to imagine the beefy former agent examining tomatoes and weighing bunches of grapes. “Does he enjoy it?”

  “I’m about to find out.”

  Kitty walked him to the door.

  “I’m glad I had a chance to see you.” He put on his hat and coat. “I’m not sure when my work will bring me here again. I hope you understand.”

  “Until next time, Mr. Soames.” She watched him leave. The world seemed more alive when they were together. But she had her life in New York, and he had his at the president’s side in Washington.

  • • •

  Like a cruel joke, Austria’s apology and offer of reparations for the Ancona were rendered toothless by the January 2 reports that the Persia, a British P&O liner on its way from London to Bombay with 160 passengers and 250 crew on board, had been torpedoed near Crete. Three Americans were on the passenger list: Robert McNeely, who was on his way to Aden to take up his post as U.S. consul; a commercial man from Boston; and a lad from Denver who was to begin his studies at school in Spain.

  The fate of the Americans remained unclear, but most of the travelers were believed to have perished. A telegram had been delivered to President Wilson as he honeymooned in Hot Springs, Virginia. Mr. Wilson told reporters that he could not form an opinion until further details became available. Officials in Washington likewise reserved comment on the sinking until the full facts were known. But the U-boat most likely was Austrian, and the international situation looked grim once more.

  Kitty calmed her fears by browsing through the advertisements for the Bonwit Teller sale starting on Monday. The Business Pages were optimistic. UNITED STATES ENTERS ERA OF UNLIMITED OPPORTUNITY, one headline proclaimed.

  A story about motor cars to mark the opening of the Automobile Salon at the Hotel Astor, which Kitty knew her father would want to attend, noted that in 1901, when New York State became the first in the country to begin registering automobiles, it registered 954 machines, but then, a mere fourteen years later, that number had swelled to 231,000. But record progress and record exports came with record road accidents, many of them fatal. Nothing was ever simple anymore, Kitty thought. It seemed there had to be a dark side to everything.

  • • •

  “What a wonderful story, girls!” Miss Busby rose from behind her desk to welcome her victorious conquerors. “It really conveyed the spirit of the occasion. How was it for the two of you? Did you feel unsafe? Was it too boisterous?”

  “We managed, Miss Busby,” Kitty replied.

  “Well then, perhaps you will work on some more stories together.”

  “I would like that,” Jeannie said.

  Kitty kept quiet. She didn’t mind having a partner for a story like New Year’s Eve, but in situations that weren’t so hazardous, she preferred working on her own. Fortunately, Jeannie didn’t seem to notice Kitty’s silence, or at least, Kitty didn’t think she noticed. And then, as was her habit, Miss Busby jumped in with the next matter at hand.

  “Any progress on the Alva Belmont interview, Miss Weeks?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m even considering an interview with a divorcée, but you girls are right. Times are changing.”

  “I’m waiting to hear from a friend who knows her. In fact, if you don’t have anything particular for me to do today, Miss Busby, I’d like to leave early and complete all the arrangements.”

  Helena Busby pursed her lips. She consulted her calendar and ran a finger down her to-do list. “There’s nothing here that Miss Williams can’t manage.”

  They were innocent words but ominous to Kitty, considering that the typist had once briefly taken over her job. Kitty reminded herself that she couldn’t have everything. She couldn’t have the security of being the Page’s features girl as well as the flexibility of chasing down stories that Miss Busby didn’t know abo
ut. Something would eventually have to give. Either the editor would become more flexible and allow her to investigate and write about whatever she wanted, or, more likely, Kitty would have to make a difficult choice. But that time hadn’t come yet. She gathered her things and took a taxi home, since Rao usually didn’t wait for her but returned to pick her up later in the day.

  Back at the apartment, she asked her father, who was surprised to see her home so early, whether she might have the chauffeur drive her to Westfield Hall.

  “I thought that was finished,” he said.

  “Miss Busby would like me to follow up.” If it hadn’t been so cold outside, Kitty would have driven herself in her Stutz Bearcat, the sporty, open-topped car that she liked to drive during the spring and summer.

  “Is the school open today?”

  “Classes resumed this morning.”

  Mr. Weeks set aside his papers. “This has nothing to do with the Bright girl, does it?”

  Kitty didn’t answer at once; small fibs of convenience were one thing, but she found it difficult to lie outright.

  “Capability.” Julian Weeks sounded stern.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with her. Not really… I may ask a few questions. I’m curious. I’d just like to put the matter to rest.”

  “There’s nothing there, Capability, or else there’s so much more than meets the eye that you shouldn’t be involved. My god. A girl frozen to death in the snow. Not a mark on her body. If that turns out to be a crime, I’d hate to meet the criminal behind it.”

  Kitty wouldn’t be deterred. “May I go?”

  He shook his head but didn’t refuse her.

  She called for Rao to drive her to Westfield. It didn’t seem fair that a man could follow his inclinations, even put his life in danger if that was where his work led, but a girl had to proceed cautiously, with one hand at all times on the brake.

  • • •

  Mrs. Swartz was in the middle of a class when Kitty arrived. She had gone directly to the science laboratory without checking in at the main building and now watched the schoolmistress through the panel in the classroom door. Mrs. Swartz pointed to a labeled diagram of a flower on the blackboard: “Near the base is a tiny yellow scale covering a small juicy spot, the nectary… Insects visiting the flower, especially those with hairy bodies, often become covered with pollen in their efforts to get at the nectar between the petals and ripest stamens.” She spotted Kitty at the window. “Copy this diagram into your journals, girls. I’ll be back in a minute.”