Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

She stood in front of the foyer mirror adjusting the angle until it was just so.

  Jones was tall and thin, which had led Elizabeth, Rose and their brother James, who was in his first year at Yale, to christen him Bones among themselves. Elizabeth suspected he knew, and she also suspected that he was secretly pleased by the nickname, which, after all, was meant affectionately.

  Elizabeth gave one last glance in the mirror, smiled and checked her teeth for lipstick, straightened the seams in her stockings and went out the door.

  * * *

  —

  She walked the few blocks from her parent’s apartment on Madison Avenue to the subway station at Sixty-eighth Street where she would pick up the Lexington Avenue IRT subway line to Grand Central Station and from there, walk to the offices of the Daily Trumpet.

  She felt a growing sense of excitement that had her quickening her pace despite her fatigue from the late evening the night before. Today might be the day her first photograph would appear in the newspaper. Surely, Kaminsky’s story of the murder at the debutante ball would be in the front section of the Daily Trumpet, if not on the front page.

  Elizabeth spotted a newsstand on her way to the subway station. She dashed diagonally across the street toward it, setting a horn blaring as a Checker cab barreling toward her down Sixty-eighth Street was forced to put on its brakes.

  A group of people clustered around the newsstand, and Elizabeth had to wait for an opening before she could get close enough to buy a paper. A sign above the stacks of newspapers and magazines read Melorol Cones Five Cents, and Elizabeth shivered and pulled her collar more closely around her neck. She didn’t imagine they did a very brisk business in ice cream in weather like this.

  A space opened up and Elizabeth sidled closer to the towering stacks of papers. She scanned them quickly. WAR REFERENDUM DEFEATED BY HOUSE declared the headline of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle in bold black seventy-two-point type.

  Just the week before, they had all gathered around the radio to listen to President Roosevelt’s State of the Union address. Elizabeth had gotten a chill when he had talked about the world being in a state of tension and disorder, but her father had assured her that the war, if it came, wouldn’t touch them.

  Elizabeth was jostled as a large man with a briefcase jockeyed into position next to her. She quickly looked over the papers again but didn’t see the Trumpet.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the man behind the counter.

  “Yeah, lady, how can I help you?”

  He was short and bald and had a rough apron, smudged with newsprint, tied around his waist. He jingled the change in one of the many pockets.

  “Do you have today’s Daily Trumpet?”

  “Sorry, we’re all sold out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip in disappointment. She’d have to wait until she got off the subway to find a paper.

  She hurried down the street. Strains of “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön,” sung by the Andrews Sisters, drifted out as the door to one of the brownstones opened. The record began to skip, and Elizabeth heard someone swear before the music was cut off abruptly.

  She charged down the subway steps trying not to look at the blobs of drying saliva and bits of chewing gum discarded on the stairs. At first she had been overwhelmed by the subway, but she felt quite confident in her ability now. She dug a token out of her change purse and deposited it in the slot, pushing through the turnstile with what she hoped looked like practiced ease.

  She joined the crowd of people waiting on the platform. A rush of warm fetid air fluttered the feather on her hat as the train rushed into the station. It stopped with a hiss of brakes and the doors slid open.

  The car was crowded and Elizabeth joined the knot of people clutching the pole in the center of the car. The man next to her was reading the Daily Trumpet, swaying back and forth with the rhythm of the subway as it tore down the tracks. She tried to read over his shoulder, but the paper was folded back to the Sports section, and she knew Kaminsky’s story wouldn’t be buried there.

  With a final lurch, the subway came to a stop at Grand Central Station. Elizabeth glanced at her watch and hesitated. No doubt she would find a copy of the Daily Trumpet at one of the newsstands in the vast marble rotunda that was Grand Central. But she was already late and had better not chance it.

  Elizabeth emerged from the caverns of the underground station and stood on the sidewalk looking up and down the street. She spied another newsstand and hurried toward it, pulling out her change purse as she ran.

  She didn’t immediately see the paper. Surely every newsstand in New York City couldn’t be sold out already.

  “The Daily Trumpet, please,” she said to the man behind the counter as she tried to catch her breath.

  He reached behind him, grabbed a newspaper off the stack and, folding it in half, handed it to Elizabeth. Elizabeth dropped two pennies into the bowl on the counter and scurried away, unfolding the paper as she walked.

  She glanced at the front page and stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. The photograph of Gloria that she had taken in the ladies’ room at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel—the one where Gloria’s famous face was streaked with tears, the one Elizabeth had thrown in the trash can as soon as she’d developed it—was splashed across the front page. The headline, in the largest typeface Elizabeth had ever seen, screamed IS SHE GUILTY?

  Chapter 5

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn as she stared at the front page of the Daily Trumpet. How could this have happened? What would Gloria think when she saw this? Elizabeth had promised her. Kaminsky must have retrieved the photograph from the trash can.

  How dare he?

  Elizabeth looked at the paper again. Printed under the picture was Photograph by Biz Adams.

  She couldn’t quite quell the small thrill she felt at seeing her name in print—even if it was the nickname Kaminsky had so recently bestowed on her. She thought it sounded just right for a photographer with the Daily Trumpet. She’d certainly never imagined when she started at the paper that she’d be taking photographs so soon, and certainly not one that would appear, credited to her, on the front page.

  But then Elizabeth thought about her promise to Gloria and her stomach roiled turbulently, making her feel sick the way she had that time her friend Irene Nowak had talked her into going on the roller coaster at Luna Park on Coney Island.

  The crowd swirled around her in a confusing blur of color, and she wanted to clap her hands over her ears to muffle the bleating of car horns and the rumble of the nearby subway.

  “Pardon me, miss,” a man said, doffing his hat briefly after being pushed into Elizabeth by the crowd that flowed around her.

  She barely registered the impact. Her mind was whirling with shock and horror. Slowly anger crept in and she clenched the newspaper in her hands. How dare Kaminsky!

  She began walking toward the Daily Trumpet offices, the copy of the paper tucked under her arm. A panhandler stepped into her path, shaking his cup at her, and normally she would have dug in her purse to drop a few coins into his outstretched hand, but this time she barely noticed as she dodged around him, her pace quickening with each step.

  By the time Elizabeth reached the front door of the Daily Trumpet office building, she was so warm she didn’t notice the biting edge to the wind or the icy drizzle that had started as she turned the corner.

  She shoved the revolving door so hard, she was all but ejected into the lobby.

  She tapped her foot impatiently as she joined the small crowd waiting for the elevator. After a minute or two the light overhead went on, a bell pinged and the doors whooshed open. The men, removing their hats, gestured for her and the other women to go ahead.

  The elevator operator pulled the iron grate closed with a flourish and pressed the lever to shut the outer door. He raised his eyebrows at Elizabe
th.

  “Sixth floor, please.”

  She felt her stomach drop as the elevator rushed upward.

  The doors opened on the fourth floor and a young man got on, his arms full of files. He was whistling Tommy Dorsey’s “The Lady Is a Tramp” and stood close enough for Elizabeth to smell the Brylcreem in his slicked-back hair.

  He looked Elizabeth up and down then turned to stare at the woman behind him. She had platinum blond hair and was wearing a red coat cinched tightly at the waist.

  “Say, doll, how about lunch today?” He gave a cheeky grin and waggled his eyebrows at the woman.

  “Come on, Jerry, who do you think you are?” She slapped him on the arm. “Cary Grant or something? I’m old enough to be your older sister. Your mother must have dropped you on your head when you was a baby.”

  The doors finally opened on the sixth floor and Elizabeth got out. She waved to the switchboard operators as she went past. She hung her coat and hat from a peg on the wall and went in search of Kaminsky, the day’s newspaper clutched in her hand.

  Kaminsky was in the newsroom surrounded by a couple of reporters. He held the stub of a cigarette between the thumb and index fingers of one hand and a buttered roll in the other.

  “Here she is,” Kaminsky said, his mouth full of roll. “Come here, kid.” He put out his arm.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath to steady herself and walked toward the cluster of men crowded around Kaminsky’s desk.

  “Folks, meet Biz,” Kaminsky said, putting an arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. “Let me tell you, this girl’s got what it takes.” He turned around, picked a copy of the day’s Daily Trumpet off his desk and waved it in front of everyone.

  Elizabeth wanted to close her eyes at the sight of Gloria’s pathetic tearstained face.

  “Her first assignment and she lands herself a picture on the front page. How do you like them apples?” He slapped Elizabeth on the back.

  A couple of the men smiled at Elizabeth and then they began to disperse and drift away, anxious to tackle the day’s work.

  Elizabeth waited until everyone had gone back to their desks before facing Kaminsky.

  “How could you?” She was horrified to discover that she was shaking and on the verge of tears.

  Kaminsky reached for the mug on his desk and took a glug of his coffee. “Print that picture you mean?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth had to stifle the urge to stamp her foot. “I threw it away.”

  “And that was a mistake, kid. That was the best picture of the lot. You captured pure, raw emotion in that photo. Do you know how many photographers would kill to have gotten a shot like that?” He punched Elizabeth on the arm. “But you did it. First time out of the gate. I gotta tell you—the editor was impressed.”

  Elizabeth stared at Kaminsky, speechless.

  “We’ve scooped every paper in town.” He spread his arms wide. “Today’s issue is selling like hotcakes.”

  “But I’d promised Gloria I wouldn’t use that picture.” Elizabeth dashed a hand across her eyes hoping Kaminsky wouldn’t notice the tears glistening on her lashes.

  “Listen, kid. We don’t make any promises in this business, right? We report the news, pure and simple. We don’t edit it. We don’t censor it. We report it. And that photograph is news. It tells the story way better than all those other pretty pictures you took.”

  “But what am I going to tell Gloria? She’s going to be furious.”

  “I don’t know. Tell her anything you like. But I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.” He pulled his pack of Camels from his pocket and shook one out. “You’re one of us now, Biz. Reporting the news can earn you enemies. Better get used to it.”

  * * *

  —

  So much for her big triumph, Elizabeth thought as she sat at her desk typing up one of Estelle Draper’s columns. She stared at Estelle’s spidery script for a minute, then picked out a few more words.

  She had hoped that Kaminsky would take her on another assignment, but he’d disappeared hours ago, yanking his coat and hat from the hook and disappearing out the door without so much as a glance over his shoulder. He hadn’t been back since.

  Elizabeth pecked out a handful of words then stopped and read over the copy. Darn. She’d mistyped a word. She was reaching for her eraser when she felt a hand drop down on her shoulder. She glanced at it out of the corner of her eye. It was a man’s hand with rough, hardened skin and nails bitten to the quick. And it was heavy on her shoulder.

  She spun around quickly.

  Sullivan, the photographer who would have been the one to go with Kaminsky to the Waldorf if he hadn’t been sick, was grinning at her—baring his teeth like a barracuda in a smile that wasn’t in the least bit friendly or welcoming.

  “You and me need to have a little talk,” he said, increasing the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been the crime photographer for the Trumpet for twenty years and I plan on staying for another twenty. Me and Kaminsky go way back.” He put a hand over his mouth and gave a rumbling cough that sounded deep in his chest. “I bet you’re real proud of that little stunt you pulled yesterday, but it’s not going to happen again, do you understand? No one’s replacing me, okay? Certainly not a dame.”

  He spat out the last word so forcefully Elizabeth could feel his breath on her face.

  Before she could say a word, Sullivan walked away and went back to his desk as if nothing had happened.

  Elizabeth sat, stunned, holding the forgotten eraser in her hand. She was surprised to find herself trembling.

  Before she could put her hands back on the typewriter keys, the scent of Tabu wafted toward her and suddenly Estelle was standing in front of her desk.

  “Taking a break, I see?” she said, arching a thin, carefully plucked brow.

  “I…I…”

  “You might as well make yourself useful. Get your things. Mrs. Van Raalte is holding a luncheon at the Hotel Astor and I need someone to take photographs.”

  Sullivan’s words echoed in Elizabeth’s head as she gathered her things together and put on her coat. He’d made it clear he was willing to do anything to keep his position, and Elizabeth had no doubt that he meant it.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth grabbed for her hat, which a frigid wind was threatening to whip from her head and send soaring. She pulled her collar tighter around her neck and hunched her shoulders against the thin icy drizzle that seemed to be coming at her sideways.

  Estelle appeared to be quite comfortable wrapped in her glossy dark gray opossum fur coat with its tuxedo collar and three-quarter-length sleeves. Her felt hat with the jaunty bow in back was well anchored, Elizabeth noticed as she grabbed for her own hat again. And she was wearing black elbow-length gloves that Elizabeth assumed must be deliciously warm.

  Elizabeth had her own hands stuck in her pockets. She’d been in too much of a hurry to keep up with Estelle to pull on her gloves.

  Estelle had long legs and an even longer stride, and Elizabeth felt her limp becoming more pronounced as they kept pace with the flow of the lunchtime crowds.

  It reminded her of her days in the hospital and the struggle to keep up with the physical therapy that had eventually helped her to walk again. But she hadn’t given up then and she wasn’t giving up now. She was right behind Estelle as they made their way to the corner to hail a taxi.

  Estelle stood under the canopy of a shop selling engraved stationery and Montblanc fountain pens while Elizabeth stood at the curb and watched the cars stream toward her, searching for a taxi with its light on—the signal that it was vacant and available.

  A Checker came barreling down Lexington Avenue, and Elizabeth stepped closer to the curb and waved her hand in the air. The taxi skimmed the gutter, sending a splash of icy water in Elizabeth’s direction as the light o
n its roof blinked off.

  “Oh!” she gasped and stepped back, stamping her feet dry and brushing the beads of water off her coat.

  She craned her neck and thought she spotted a dot of yellow in the distance. As it got closer, she saw it was another Checker, one with its light on, and she waved her hand again.

  The taxi pulled up to the curb and stopped with a flourish. Elizabeth held the door open but Estelle motioned for her to go ahead so she slid across the worn leather seat to the other side.

  “The Hotel Astor, please. West Forty-fifth Street and Broadway,” Estelle said as she got in the cab.

  “I know where it is, lady.” The driver turned around and grinned at them. “I been driving a cab since before you was born.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Estelle murmured to Elizabeth as they pulled away from the curb and merged with the traffic streaming south on Lexington Avenue.

  Estelle opened her handbag, retrieved a gold compact with the initials EMD etched on the cover and began powdering her nose. She snapped it shut and dropped it into her purse as the taxi pulled up in front of the Hotel Astor with its impressive French Renaissance façade. It occupied the entire block between Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth Streets on the west side of Times Square.

  A uniformed doorman rushed across the sidewalk toward them, whisked open the taxi door and gave an obsequious bow.

  Estelle walked majestically toward the hotel entrance while Elizabeth dug in her pocketbook for money to pay the driver. She inched her way across the backseat and joined Estelle on the sidewalk.

  They spun through the revolving door and into the hotel lobby. The lobby was warm with the peculiar hush so often characteristic of expensive places.

  Elizabeth had been to the Hotel Astor once before on a date with a fellow from Yale whose name she’d forgotten almost as soon as he’d dropped her off at her front door. More memorable had been the hotel’s rooftop garden where they’d dined and danced in the open air. The very thought gave Elizabeth a chill today as she loosened her coat and brushed drops of water from her shoulders.