by Radha Vatsal
“Could you give me half an hour, Mr. Mills?” She joined her father and, for the first time, appraised his friend without clouded eyes. Sylvia Lane was lively and attractive, and she didn’t simper. He could have done much worse. Kitty decided she might as well try to get to know her.
“Will you join us for lunch?” Mr. Weeks said.
“I’d love to, but I can’t stay long. The telephone call—they want me back at work.”
“It must be important,” Miss Lane remarked. “Julian tells me that you usually only work half days.”
“Well,” Kitty said with a smile, “they want me to cover Mr. Wilson’s visit.”
“Is that so, Capability?” Her father stood, one hand on Miss Lane’s shoulder. “That’s wonderful news. We should celebrate.”
“Well, not the entire visit. Just part of it,” Kitty clarified. “He’s meeting the Congressional Union, which is headed by Mrs. Belmont, whom I interviewed recently,” she added for Miss Lane’s benefit.
“Well, it’s marvelous news in any case,” Sylvia Lane said.
“And speaking of news,” Mr. Weeks began.
Kitty held her breath.
“I’ve invited Miss Lane to accompany me to the Railwaymen’s dinner, and she’s accepted.”
Kitty must have looked baffled, because he explained, “The association is hosting a dinner to honor the president during his trip. And I was lucky enough to receive two tickets.”
“That’s perfect then.” Kitty would have to accustom herself to seeing Miss Lane at her father’s side from here on. For Sylvia Lane to go out with him in public, without her brother, would be quite a statement. “I will see the president in the morning, and you will meet him for dinner.”
“I hardly think we will meet him,” Mr. Weeks said. “They’re expecting a thousand guests or some such number.”
“It should be quite the event then.”
“Quite,” Miss Lane said. “I’m really very excited about it.” She looked up at Mr. Weeks and smiled. “Thank you for thinking of me, Julian.”
Kitty rose. “Well, I should be getting back.”
Mr. Weeks said, “So soon?”
“I don’t want to keep them waiting. This is quite an opportunity for me.”
“Yes it is, Miss Weeks—”
“You should call me Capability,” Kitty said.
And what would she be expected to call Miss Lane one day? Mother?
• • •
Kitty met Mr. Mills in the Sentinel’s lobby. He wore a light jacket, woolen hat, and striped muffler.
“Don’t you feel cold?” A gust of bitter January hit them as they stepped outside.
“I’m a warm-blooded fellow, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty didn’t want to know what that was supposed to mean so she cut straight to business. “Where are we going?”
“I have an address on Bowery.”
She didn’t go to that part of town very often. It was a notorious skid row. “He lives there?”
“Lives, works, I’m not sure. It would appear that he’s part of some radical gang.”
“He’s an anarchist?” They’d been in the news lately for blowing up things.
“Worse. A pacifist.”
“Is that so bad?”
“Those fellows never quit. They think God is on their side.”
Kitty smiled, then started to shiver and wrapped her arms around herself. “Let’s take a cab. I’ll pay.”
Mills burst out laughing. “If you want to be a real reporter, Miss Weeks, you travel by subway. Cabs are for emergencies. How else do you see the world?” He chuckled and slapped his hand against his thigh. “Taxicab indeed. That’s too good.”
Kitty followed him to the Times Square subway station and bought herself a token. As much as Mr. Weeks allowed her to move freely about the city, he put his foot down when it came to mass transport—especially of the subterranean kind. He had an idée fixe that a young pretty woman would be harassed underground.
“We’ll take a local to Spring and Lafayette and then walk,” Mills said as they waited on the platform.
She scanned the map. New York’s subways were the first in the world to feature both local and express stops in both directions. The ingenious system consisted of a single trunk line, which ran from South Ferry at the tip of the island to Ninety-Sixth and Broadway and then split into two, one branch going to 242nd Street and Broadway and the other to Bronx Park. An extension under the East River connected the southernmost stop to points in downtown Brooklyn—an engineering miracle, as far as Kitty was concerned. It would have been easy for her to board the train at Seventy-Second Street and Broadway, a few blocks from home, and hop off at Times Square, just a few blocks from work. But as it was, Rao drove her.
Their train arrived with a rattle, rumble, and screech, and the doors creaked open. A crowd of passengers poured out in every shape and color, like an advertisement for Ellis Island.
Kitty climbed in. All the seats were taken, so she grabbed a leather strap and stood in front of a Russian babushka with a colorful scarf on her head and a basket of potatoes on her lap. The train rumbled forward. Even in winter, she could smell the pungent odor of bodies packed close. In summer, she thought, it must be unbearable.
They arrived at their stop with amazing speed, and Kitty followed Mills onto the street. She was glad to be back in daylight and the cold air of winter. The subway might be fast, but it felt claustrophobic down there. Mass transit, she realized, was one of the few forms of travel that didn’t offer different classes of service. For the duration of the ride, it was a great equalizer.
They started to walk east, through streets cluttered with tiny storefronts and carts where men repaired umbrellas, sharpened knifes, or sold roasted peanuts, kindling, shoelaces, and suspenders. A sooty-faced boy tagged along behind Mills, asking if he wanted a shine for a nickel. A newsboy yelled the news—in Russian—and then another cried out something in Yiddish. A voice spoke in German.
Urchins surrounded Kitty, begging for money. She tossed over a couple of coins, and they held out their hands until she gave each of them one.
“You shouldn’t,” Mills said. “It just encourages them.”
Kitty closed her purse with a click. “I can’t say no.”
She heard the rumble of elevated trains on Third Avenue. It was the Third Avenue line that had transformed Bowery from a fashionable boulevard into a dump. The raised tracks cast the street below in perpetual shade; the deafening racket and debris from trains deterred decent types. Now vagrants huddled beneath blankets on its sidewalks or leaned against its dilapidated storefronts.
An old man sat on a canvas satchel, his legs outstretched. Kitty picked up her skirts and stepped over him when he wouldn’t move. “This is where we’ll find Mr. Emerson?”
Mills pulled the notepad from his pocket to check the address. “Just a block farther,” he said as they walked under the shadows of rails held up by giant metal pillars. Empty bottles and shards of glass littered the sidewalk.
“And He will come to save you,” a drunk declaimed. “Raining down His righteous anger…”
Mills stopped in front of what looked to be an abandoned storefront and knocked on the door. There was no reply.
“You still haven’t told me why you want to speak to Mr. Emerson,” Mills said.
Kitty answered quickly. “I think he may have an idea who Elspeth Bright went to meet the night she died.” Then she rapped on the door again. “Is anyone in?”
Mills said, “Wait a minute. Elspeth Bright went to meet someone of her own volition?”
They heard a bolt sliding and a chain fall, and a scruffy-looking fellow, still in his union suit, peered out. “What do you want?”
“We’re here to see Mr. Phillip Emerson,” Mills said.
“And who are you?”
Kitty stepped forward. “Friends.”
He looked her up and down and must have decided she seemed trustworthy. “Give me a minute.” The door closed.
“Never let the door close,” Mills said. “That’s rule number one of journalism.”
“And what were you planning to do? Force your way in? He’ll be back. He probably went to change.”
“Sleeping here, I don’t think he cares for such niceties.”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
The door opened again, and this time, the fellow was dressed in trousers and a shirt. He also wore gold-rimmed spectacles. “Come on in.”
Kitty resisted looking at Mills to say “I told you so.”
They entered a musty room that smelled of old cheese and cigarettes. A few rickety metal chairs and a table were the only pieces of furniture. The shutters were down, and the only light came from a single electric bulb that hung nakedly from the ceiling. It was about as cold in here as out on the street, so Kitty left her coat on. Newspaper clippings tacked to the wall caught her attention.
LUSITANIA SINKS, UNRESTRICTED SUBMARINE WARFARE, ARABIC TORPEDOED, E-2 DISASTER. Other than a story about Mr. Wilson’s upcoming visit, the clippings catalogued a litany of horrors.
Mr. Emerson emerged from another room, wearing baggy trousers and a fisherman’s sweater. His good looks shone brighter in contrast to the dingy surroundings. He stopped short when he saw Kitty. “I know you. From the navy yard.”
She held out her hand. “I’m Capability Weeks, from the New York Sentinel. And this is my colleague, Phineas Mills.”
“Goddamn it. She told me she was a friend. Sorry, Emerson,” his comrade apologized.
Emerson lowered himself into a chair. “So, what can I do for you, Miss Weeks? Surely, this isn’t about that E-2 mess.”
“What’s that?” For the second time during their visit, Mills flashed Kitty a look of bewilderment.
“You didn’t tell your friend.” Emerson chuckled. “Miss Weeks and I both happened to be present when the E-2 exploded.”
“We’re not here because of the submarine, Mr. Emerson.” Kitty sat down opposite him. “Though I will admit that I would love to know what you were doing at the docks. Mr. Mills and I have come today to talk to you about Elspeth Bright.”
The cocky expression vanished from Emerson’s eyes. He blinked a couple of times. “Elspeth was a wonderful girl…the very best.”
“I heard you were at the Brights’ dinner on Christmas Eve. Strange that they should invite someone whom Dr. Bright fired from his job.”
Emerson shifted in his chair. “I wasn’t fired. I quit. Now, cut to the point, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty didn’t have a specific point, but she wanted to gauge his reaction. “I have reason to believe that Elspeth didn’t die in her sleep.” He didn’t flinch. “I believe she went out to meet someone that night and that the meeting had something to do with the Edison batteries. There must be a lot of money involved in naval contracts.”
Emerson remained silent.
Kitty went further. “Surely you knew about her work, Mr. Emerson.”
He pushed his chair away with a scrape and began to pace up and down. “I knew,” he said finally, “that even with all those experts looking at the proposals, it was Elspeth who understood that the batteries might release too much hydrogen.”
“Do you think someone wanted to silence her?” Kitty had nothing to lose. Anything he said could yield a clue to work from. “Well, Mr. Emerson?”
“What the hell.” The handsome young man cracked his knuckles. “I haven’t told anyone this, and I’m probably giving you the rope with which to hang me—”
“Don’t be so sure of my motives, Mr. Emerson,” Kitty interrupted.
“Don’t do it, Emerson,” his friend warned.
“I owe it to Elspeth.” Emerson’s voice broke. He turned to Kitty. “It’s me she went to meet in the park. I arrived late, but only by a few minutes. She was already dead. I hope you catch whoever did it, Miss Weeks. I’ll wring his neck with my own hands.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The room went quiet. No one moved. Then Mills said, “You expect us to believe this nonsense?”
“Believe it or not. It’s your choice.” Emerson shrugged.
“All right then. What did you do next?”
“I checked her pulse. Nothing. So I went away.”
“You didn’t call for help?” Kitty stared at him. “You just left her?”
He looked at her as though she were crazy. “She was dead. And how would I have explained what I was doing there in the first place?”
“What were you doing?”
He froze. “I’ve said enough.”
“Look, Mr. Emerson…” Mills took a step toward him.
“No, you look, Mr. Mills. Elspeth wanted to speak in private. We agreed on a time, then she pushed it back. I arrived at midnight to find her lifeless in the snow. That’s all you will get from me. You and your pretty friend should leave now.”
“We could go to the police with this,” Mills said.
“Be my guest.” The reverent tone Emerson used when talking about Elspeth had faded away, and he spoke belligerently, like a thug, daring them to bring him in.
“Don’t be a fool, Emerson,” his friend hissed. “You’ll ruin the plan.” He marched to the door and held it open. “Now, the two of you”—he glared at Kitty and Mills—“bugger off.”
• • •
Once they turned down a side street to leave the rumble of the trains behind them, Mills paused. “I’m sorry that fellow was so rude.”
Kitty took a deep breath. “That’s the least of my worries, Mr. Mills. It’s Mr. Emerson’s words that have hit me hard.”
“You can say that again.” He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. “Do you think he’s telling the truth? It’s not at all what I expected.”
Kitty didn’t have a ready answer. “I don’t know what to think. On the one hand, he seems to have truly cared about Elspeth. On the other, how are we supposed to believe that he arrived at the park at midnight, only to discover that she had died? It doesn’t sit right.”
“I wonder if there was anything between them.”
Kitty didn’t want to admit she had suspected something of the sort, and worse. It felt like a violation of Elspeth’s privacy. “I’m tired, Mr. Mills. This may make me a bad reporter, but I’d like to take a cab home. May I give you a lift?”
He considered the offer. Then he tipped his hat. “That’s all right, Miss Weeks. I’ll walk.”
• • •
That evening, Kitty and her father ate dinner at a restaurant. Mr. Weeks wanted a change, and every now and then, he enjoyed a taste of France.
A waiter poured wine into long-stemmed glasses and served a dish of snails sizzled in butter.
“You go ahead,” Kitty said.
“You really should try them, Capability.” Mr. Weeks pushed the plate toward her.
“No thanks.” Kitty had an appetite for adventure but not when it came to her stomach.
“I hope you don’t mind my inviting Miss Lane to the Waldorf.”
She watched him spear the soft flesh and pop it in his mouth. “Not at all.”
“I only had two tickets, and I didn’t think you’d want to spend hours in a crowded hall listening to the president discuss preparedness for war.”
“I can read about it the next day, and I’m sure I’ll be tired from the morning. Miss Busby said that Mrs. Belmont and her friends plan to press Mr. Wilson to change the constitution.”
“I don’t envy the man.” Mr. Weeks wiped away the speck of grease that had landed on his tie.
“Neither do I.” Kitty began to feel queasy. She put it down to the sight of the buttery dish combined with the events of t
he day that had led to Mr. Emerson’s unsettling revelation. She still didn’t know what to make of it—she didn’t trust him, but that didn’t mean that everything he said was a lie.
• • •
Kitty fell onto her bed and closed her eyes. She saw Elspeth, Dr. and Mrs. Bright, and opposite them, Mr. Emerson, Prudence, and Georgina, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Marquand. They were all at dinner, talking over each other.
Why wouldn’t Emerson say why he and Elspeth arranged to meet? Was it a secret lovers’ rendezvous, or something to do with the batteries? Perhaps it was a mercenary plan to stop her from revealing their flaws. At any rate, Kitty couldn’t hear the Brights and their guests clearly. If she could only piece together their stories, she felt sure they would lead her to the heart of the matter and allow her to discover why a seemingly healthy girl like Elspeth had passed away sometime during the dark, cold hours between the end of dinner and midnight.
• • •
The next day’s paper printed the president’s itinerary in exhaustive detail, leaving nothing to the imagination. Kitty read through it for incidentals, tidbits she could add to her story for color.
Mr. Wilson would leave Washington at midnight and travel by rail in his special car, New York, to Pennsylvania Station, where he would arrive at 6:05 a.m. He would eat breakfast on the train and then drive to the Waldorf Hotel, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson; his physician, Dr. Cary T. Grayson; his secretary, Joseph P. Tumulty; and Charles Swem, his stenographer. The party would be escorted by Collector Dudley Field Malone and two representatives of the Railway Business Association, H. H. Westinghouse and W. L. Saunders. In the morning, he would receive the delegation of women from the Congressional Union at his hotel. At noon, he would drive in an open car via Fifth Avenue to address the Clerical Conference of the New York Federation of Churches at Aeolian Hall. After luncheon back at his hotel, the president would take care of official business at the University Club at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Fourth Street. Then, before he returned to the capital, again on the midnight train, he would deliver two speeches, one to the Railroad Business Association and another—which showed how important the fledging industry had become—to the first annual dinner of the Motion Picture Board of Trade. Somewhere in the time that remained, a German delegation would seek to approach him to have milk shipped to starving babies in Germany.