by Peg Cochran
Elizabeth knew she had to tread softly, and she measured her words before she spoke.
“I imagine coming to the Waldorf, especially for such a special event, was quite exciting for Teddy. How wonderful he wasn’t too intimidated to enjoy himself.”
Gloria looked up suddenly. “What do you mean?”
Elizabeth assumed what she hoped was an innocent expression. She also hoped that Gloria couldn’t tell that her palms were sweating.
“The Waldorf is terribly imposing, don’t you think? I shouldn’t imagine that Teddy had ever been there before.”
Gloria shrugged. “Frankly, I have no idea.”
“And he needed to have the right clothes, of course. He could hardly hope to blend in wearing an ordinary suit.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” Gloria stubbed her cigarette out with abrupt, jerky movements.
Elizabeth remembered the ad she’d seen in the paper for S. Rudofker’s Sons—a rental shop in Philadelphia. It had read, Businessmen, Truck Drivers, Collegians, Farmers, Office Workers, High School Youths: They’re All Wearing Tuxedos!
“He most likely had to rent dinner clothes, wouldn’t you think? I can’t imagine he would have already had some in his closet.”
At first Gloria looked confused, but then her expression turned to horror. “The receipt the police found in the ladies’ room. The police couldn’t possibly think…”
“I don’t know. But what if Frances found out about Teddy? And they argued?”
Gloria looked as if she was about to faint—her face was pale and her hands trembling.
“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.
“It can’t have been Teddy. He wouldn’t do something like…like commit murder. Besides, he was with me the whole time.” Gloria grabbed Elizabeth’s hand again. “I swear, Elizabeth. It couldn’t possibly have been Teddy. It had to have been Dupont. You must go to the police and tell them you heard him arguing with Frances. You must.”
Tears glittered on Gloria’s long dark lashes.
Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt on the one hand but also a sense of triumph on the other. Gloria had admitted to sneaking the family’s horse trainer into the ball. And despite what Gloria had said, Elizabeth was fairly sure that there were times when Teddy and Gloria couldn’t possibly have been together. Besides, who was more likely than Teddy to have been the one to drop the receipt for the tuxedo rental in the ladies’ room at the Waldorf?
Chapter 14
Kaminsky was unwrapping his egg salad sandwich when Elizabeth got back to the newsroom. He still had his coat on and had pushed his hat back on his head.
“Where’ve you been?” he said as Elizabeth passed his desk. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
“I’ve been talking with Gloria DeWitt, as you suggested. We had lunch at the Colony.”
Kaminsky whistled. “Quite a classy place from what I’ve heard. Not that they’d let the likes of me through the door at a place like the Colony. You’re turning out to be a real bonus, Biz. With you, we can go places.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to disagree, but the words refused to come out.
“Pull up a seat,” Kaminsky said, pointing to the empty chair at the desk in front of him. “I want to hear the whole story.”
Elizabeth grabbed the chair and wheeled it over toward Kaminsky’s desk.
Elizabeth watched in fascination as Kaminsky opened his desk drawer, pulled out a salt shaker and peeled back the white bread on his sandwich. He salted his onions and eggs liberally, then returned the salt shaker to his desk drawer.
“Gloria seemed quite relieved to think that Dupont was responsible for Frances’s murder,” Elizabeth began.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Kaminsky said, taking a giant bite of his sandwich. A slice of onion oozed out the side.
“But the news about the receipt from the tuxedo rental shop seemed to have shaken her.” Elizabeth fiddled with the gold locket around her neck, opening it and then snapping it shut again. “And for good reason.”
Kaminsky’s mouth was full so he merely raised his eyebrows.
“Gloria admitted to having snuck someone into the ball. The DeWitts’ horse trainer—a young man named Teddy O’Doyle.”
“You don’t say.”
“Now, what are the odds of a young man who works at the stables owning dinner clothes?”
“I’d say it’s about as likely as me winning a poker game with a busted flush.” Kaminsky grinned. “So you’re thinking that maybe this O’Doyle and Frances DeWitt got into an argument and he pulled out a gun and shot her?”
“It’s possible.” Elizabeth swung her foot back and forth. “Maybe Teddy has a temper. Or maybe he didn’t like the way Frances treated him.”
“My money is still on Dupont, but I’ve got to admit this is a possibility.”
Kaminsky shoved the last bit of crust from his sandwich into his mouth and washed it down with the leftover coffee in his mug. A thin film had congealed on top, and Elizabeth shuddered.
“Let’s say Mrs. DeWitt did discover that Gloria had snuck her boyfriend into the ball. My guess is she’d be pretty steamed. So what would she do?” He looked at Elizabeth, his eyebrows raised again.
“I don’t know.”
“Think,” Kaminsky said. “She doesn’t want him there. She’s trying to fix her stepdaughter up with a wealthy suitor. But instead this horse trainer has caught Gloria’s eye.”
Elizabeth stopped swinging her foot. She thought about Gloria and Teddy dancing together. If Frances had seen them, she would have been frantic. “Maybe she tried to get Teddy thrown out?”
“That’s what I would do.” Kaminsky balled up the waxed paper from his sandwich and tossed it into the trash can beside his desk. “And I don’t think she’d ask her husband to do it, either. They’re the type of people who get others to do their work for them. I think she’d approach one of the Waldorf staff.”
“I think you’re right,” Elizabeth said, thinking of her own father and how he would deal with things if she or Rose had done something similar.
“So how about we head over there and see if there’s anyone around who was working that night. My guess is this Teddy wouldn’t go quietly, so someone is bound to remember if there was a disturbance.”
“Right.” Elizabeth got up. “And we can find out whether or not Teddy did leave before Frances was murdered.”
“Because if he did, then it’s less likely he was the one who murdered Frances. And it’s more likely that Dupont is our man.”
* * *
—
The Waldorf’s lobby was quiet—caught in that lull between the crowds finishing up lunch and the crowds arriving for a drink in one of the bars. Check-in time had passed as well, and only a few people stood around the reception desk waiting for the key to the their rooms.
Kaminsky led the way to the elevator to the third floor. He pushed the button and leaned back on his heels to wait, whistling “On the Good Ship Lollipop” under his breath—a rather odd selection, Elizabeth thought with amusement. It was hard to picture Kaminsky with his drink-roughened voice and nicotine-stained fingers as a Shirley Temple fan.
The elevator finally arrived with a decisive ping. Elizabeth was relieved to see it was empty. The operator raised his eyebrows at them.
“Third floor,” Kaminsky barked.
The operator hesitated with his hand on the lever. “That’s the Grand Ballroom, sir. Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
The elevator operator shrugged and was about to close the doors when a slender young man in a tan raincoat and brown felt fedora worn at a rakish angle jumped on.
“Eighth floor,” he said, examining the fingernails of his right hand as the elevator began its ascent.
Elizabeth and
Kaminsky got off on the third floor and stepped into the Silver Corridor. Their images were reflected back at them in the myriad of mirrors as they made their way down the black-and-white checkerboard hallway to the doors of the Grand Ballroom.
The doors were open and waiters bustled about inside the room setting up tables and positioning chairs. Elizabeth and Kaminsky stood at the entrance and looked around. Two waiters with a trolley stacked with linens were draping the tables in starched white cloths with silver overlays, and several busboys whizzed past the door with carts of silverware.
“Looks like they’re planning some sort of big shindig,” Kaminsky said, retrieving his cigarettes from the pocket of his coat.
A head table was set up at the front of the room and a woman in a bright red hat with a long, white feather was fussing with a vase full of flowers. Smaller vases were clustered at one end, and waiters were placing them, one by one, on the individual round tables arranged around the room.
Kaminsky drew on his cigarette and let the smoke stream out his nose as he watched the activity. A man was standing off to one side, his arms folded over his chest, his silver-gray hair suggesting a level of seniority. He was wearing a dark, well-cut suit and a blue silk tie. Kaminsky pointed to him.
“Let’s go ask that fella over there. He looks like he’s in charge.”
Kaminsky showed the fellow his press pass and introduced himself and Elizabeth.
The man bowed his head and looked them over with hooded eyes.
“Cyril Longbottom, banquet manager. How can I be of service, sir?” he said in frosty tones that were appropriately deferential yet at the same time slyly judgmental.
Kaminsky looked around the room. “Looks like you’ve got some big event going on tonight. Is it another debut?”
Cyril shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that. It’s a fundraiser for the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis—the new organization that President Roosevelt founded.”
“You don’t say? Sounds like a good cause. I hope you raise a lot of money.”
“So do I, sir. My niece contracted polio. She was only three years old.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Kaminsky said.
Elizabeth was about to say something, but then changed her mind. Did she really want Kaminsky to know about her experience with polio? What if he became afraid it would slow her down? She didn’t really know him all that well yet—better to wait.
“What is it you wanted to speak to me about, sir?” Cyril inclined his head.
“We’re following up on the murder that took place here on the night of the DeWitt debutante ball.”
Cyril’s lips tightened. “A most unfortunate incident, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah. I’m sure the poor dame that got killed would agree with you.”
Cyril’s lips tightened further. “What is it I can do for you, sir?”
“It seems that a young man who hadn’t been invited to the ball decided to sneak in and help himself to a free dinner and drinks, plus a couple of dances with some pretty debutantes.”
“I’m afraid security is not my—”
Kaminsky held up a hand. “No, no. Keep your shirt on. I’m not blaming you. We wanted to know if anyone noticed the young man—a chaperone, maybe—and tried to enlist one of your staff to have him thrown out.”
Cyril puckered his lips. “If that’s the case, I certainly didn’t hear about it. I assure you there were no complaints from the guests—”
Kaminsky waved him to a stop again. “Like I said—I’m not saying it’s the Waldorf’s fault. We only want to know if this young man got himself thrown out before the murder occurred or whether he was still around when it happened.”
“Very good, sir. Let me make a few inquiries, if you’ll bear with me for a moment.”
“Sure, sure. Take your time.”
Kaminsky pulled a chair out from under one of the tables, turned it around and straddled it. He removed a toothpick from his pocket and began cleaning under his fingernails.
Elizabeth watched as Cyril circled the room, talking to each of the waiters and busboys in turn, their heads close together. Finally, he nodded at the last young man, who was wrestling a podium up to the front of the room, and began walking back toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky.
“Any luck?” Kaminsky said, pocketing the toothpick and returning the chair to its rightful place.
“I’m afraid not, sir. Several of the waiters were on duty that night, but it seems no one was aware of the sort of disturbance you described. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance to you.”
Cyril nodded dismissively and began subtly shepherding Elizabeth and Kaminsky toward the door.
“Well, there’s our answer,” Kaminsky said as they rode down in the elevator. “It looks like this Teddy fellow was still on the scene when Frances was murdered.”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth had been hoping otherwise. Gloria wasn’t going to be happy when she found out her boyfriend was being suspected of murder.
* * *
—
Elizabeth heard rustling sounds behind her and turned around to see Kaminsky getting up from his desk. He grabbed his hat and coat and started out the door. Was he off to a story, she wondered. She glanced at the clock. Four o’clock. More likely he was headed across the street for his daily shot of Old Schenley’s and his beer chaser.
She turned back to her typewriter and squinted at the piece of paper beside it, filled with Estelle’s nearly illegible scribbles. The windows rattled and an icy draft seeped around their edges. Elizabeth’s hands were cold and her fingers were beginning to cramp. She flexed them several times and pulled her hands inside her sweater to warm them.
Gloria was going to be devastated if it turned out that Teddy had killed Frances. Although it seemed unlikely that their relationship would last regardless. Girls from families like the DeWitts didn’t marry horse trainers, no matter how charming and good-looking they were.
And it wasn’t just snobbery, Elizabeth thought. There were too many differences—in upbringing, in tastes, in manners—for it to be a companionable and lasting union.
She still thought it was far more likely that Dupont had killed Frances. He obviously hadn’t heard the fable about the goose that laid the golden egg. There’d be no more money coming from Frances now. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen to rob Lady Darlington of her jewels.
Elizabeth could still picture Gloria running out of the ladies’ room, blood staining her exquisite white gown. She remembered walking down the Silver Corridor with no idea as to what she was about to encounter.
As the image came back to her, Elizabeth recalled other details including the rustling of the giant potted ferns, where a couple was sheltered from prying eyes.
Had they seen anything, she wondered? At the time it had looked as if they had eyes only for each other, but perhaps they had noticed someone approaching the ladies’ room.
But how to find out? Elizabeth absentmindedly tapped her pencil against her chin. She’d seen the girl’s face but didn’t know her. But she thought she would recognize her again—she’d had a widow’s peak that was quite striking.
The Daily Trumpet had run a feature a week before the ball on all the debutantes. Rose had purchased a copy of the paper with her allowance and had spent hours poring over it, longing for the day when she’d be dressed in a long, white gown making her own debut.
Surely that issue of the Trumpet was in the archives somewhere. Elizabeth glanced at the door to Estelle’s office. She could see a wavy image of Estelle seated behind her desk, her head bent over something she was working on.
Elizabeth jumped up from her seat and left the newsroom. She was too impatient to wait for the elevator and instead ran down the six flights of stairs to the basement, where the archives were located.
The
cement-walled room was lit by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling. A woman with short, stiffly-permed gray hair sat behind a battered wooden desk. She had an index card in the roller of her typewriter and a stack of newspapers by her elbow. She looked up and frowned when Elizabeth walked in.
“Can I help you?” she said in tones that suggested she would rather do anything but.
“Yes.” Elizabeth was still a little breathless from her race down the stairs. “I’m looking for a particular issue of the Trumpet.”
“Date?” the woman barked, peering at Elizabeth over the edges of her reading glasses.
“I’m not sure,” Elizabeth said, smiling as persuasively as she knew how. “The issue came out a week or so ago and featured the debutantes who made their debut at the Waldorf ball the other night.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean the night that woman was murdered?”
Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded. She didn’t want to talk about it. She only wanted that one issue of the paper and then to get back upstairs before Estelle noticed she was gone.
“Waste of time and money, if you ask me,” the woman said, drawing her gray cardigan around her. Elizabeth could see that it was darned in spots.
But she got up from her desk and disappeared into the vast cavern of metal shelves stacked high with old issues of the Daily Trumpet. Finally, she returned with a newspaper in her hands.
“Is this it?” She showed it to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth held out her hand. “If I could flip through it?” Elizabeth quickly turned the pages until she found what she was looking for. She folded the pages back and showed the woman. “This is the article I wanted. Thank you so much.”