by Peg Cochran
“Do you need to take that with you?” The woman’s mouth was pinched in disapproval.
“No. I only need to write something down.”
Elizabeth scanned the photographs quickly until she came upon the one of the dark-haired girl with the widow’s peak. Her name was Virginia Stockwell, and she graduated from Vassar College. Elizabeth pulled a pad and pencil from her pocket and noted down the name.
“Thank you so much,” she said, handing the paper back to the woman.
She scurried back up the stairs and returned to her desk before Estelle noticed she had gone. As soon as she finished typing up Estelle’s column, she planned to track down Virginia Stockwell. With any luck, either she or her boyfriend had seen whomever it was who went into the ladies’ room after Frances.
Chapter 15
Elizabeth knew there was a telephone directory in Estelle’s office. She kept it on a shelf next to a framed photograph of herself taken with Walter Winchell at the “21” Club. Elizabeth didn’t want Estelle to know what she was looking up—and Estelle would certainly demand to know—so she decided to wait until Estelle had left for the day.
Fortunately, Estelle came out of her office just past four-thirty with her hat and coat on.
“I’m giving a small cocktail party tonight before the theater,” Estelle said as she pulled on her gloves. “We’re going to see Of Mice and Men. It’s getting splendid reviews.”
“Have a wonderful time,” Elizabeth said.
Estelle nodded her head and swept past Elizabeth, leaving the faint scent of Tabu in the air around Elizabeth’s desk.
As soon as the newsroom door slammed shut, Elizabeth jumped up from her seat. She glanced over her shoulder then eased open Estelle’s office door. The telephone directory was right where she knew it would be and she eased it off the shelf quietly.
She only hoped Estelle hadn’t forgotten something and needed to return to her office. She continued to glance over her shoulder as she flipped through the tissue-thin pages until she came to the names beginning with S.
Elizabeth ran her finger down the column until she found the name Stockwell. According to the Daily Trumpet article, Virginia’s father was called Robert. There were five Stockwells and Mr. Robert Stockwell was the last on the list.
Elizabeth copied down the information, replaced the directory and scurried back to her desk. She quickly dialed the number, crossing her fingers that Virginia would be at home.
A maid answered the telephone and Elizabeth asked for Miss Virginia Stockwell. The woman asked her to wait and Elizabeth heard her footsteps crossing the foyer floor, then silence and finally Virginia came on the line.
They arranged to meet for tea at the Murray Hill Hotel, which suited Elizabeth perfectly since it was within walking distance.
Virginia had sounded rather curious on the telephone, but fortunately hadn’t asked too many questions. Like most debs, she reveled in publicity—although none of them would ever achieve the fame Gloria DeWitt had—and the fact that Elizabeth was a photographer for the Daily Trumpet was all she’d had to hear to agree to a meeting.
Elizabeth was gathering her things together when the newsroom door banged open and Kaminsky strolled in. Snowflakes melted on the shoulders of his wool coat and his cheeks and nose were red.
“Weather’s turned ugly,” he said as he unwound the striped scarf from around his neck. “Where are you off to?” he asked Elizabeth.
“I’ve remembered something about the night Frances DeWitt was murdered. A couple was hiding behind one of those enormous ferns that line the Silver Corridor. I thought perhaps one of them might have seen something—maybe even the person who followed Frances into the ladies’ room.”
Kaminsky stopped with his hand on the top button of his coat.
“You don’t say?”
“And I’ve figured out who the girl was.”
“Biz, you’re amazing.”
“Her name is Virginia Stockwell and I’m meeting her at the Murray Hill Hotel for tea.”
“There’s a story there, I’ll bet,” Kaminsky said, rubbing his hands together. “Mind if I tag along?” He picked up his scarf and began winding it back around his neck.
“Why not? I got the impression she’d be thrilled to supplant Gloria DeWitt in the limelight, at least for a few hours.”
“Let’s get going, then.”
* * *
—
The Murray Hill Hotel was on Park Avenue, one block from Grand Central Station. Elizabeth was grateful the walk was short—it had started snowing and the sidewalks were already getting icy. She was relieved when they finally reached the seven-story granite, brownstone and brick building.
The lobby floor was marble, and massive chandeliers hung from the high ceiling.
A fire burned in the enormous lobby fireplace, and Elizabeth and Kaminsky stopped in front of it briefly to warm their hands.
They passed a newsstand and Elizabeth glanced at the headlines. It seemed as if they were all about the war in Europe and she felt a quiver of fear, but then reminded herself that Roosevelt had promised them the United States would not enter the conflict.
Virginia was waiting for them in one of the tearooms. It was nearly empty at this hour, but Kaminsky still stood out amidst the handful of ladies in their tasteful suits and dresses, luxurious furs and coquettish hats.
Virginia looked startled when they approached her table and half rose from her seat. She was wearing a black-and-white tweed suit and had a mink jacket thrown over the back of her chair. She wasn’t beautiful but with her heart-shaped face and dramatic widow’s peak, she was quite striking.
Elizabeth hastened to introduce Kaminsky. Virginia’s eyes lit up when she learned he was a reporter and she turned toward him eagerly, wetting her full, red lips.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky had talked on the walk to the hotel and had decided that it might be best if Elizabeth asked most of the questions in order to put Virginia at ease, although Virginia didn’t seem in the least bit disconcerted by Kaminsky’s presence.
They made small talk until the waitress delivered a pot of Earl Grey tea, gold-rimmed white porcelain cups and saucers and a plate full of cucumber and egg salad finger sandwiches on thin bread spread with fresh butter.
Elizabeth poured the tea, then stirred a spoon of sugar into her own cup. She glanced at Kaminsky. The delicate teacup looked out of place in his enormous hand. She was quite certain he would have preferred a whiskey or at least a beer.
Elizabeth removed her camera from its case.
“Do you mind if I take a photograph? For the story—if it makes the paper.”
“Oh.” Virginia fluttered her hands in front of her face. “Let me touch up, first.”
She removed a silver compact and a gold tube of lipstick from her purse and powdered her nose and reapplied bright red lipstick. It reminded Elizabeth of the slash of crimson Votre Rouge that had been on Francis’s face when her body was discovered.
Several of the other patrons turned to look as Elizabeth snapped away while Virginia posed artfully. Finally, she thought she had the shots she needed, and put her camera back in the case.
Elizabeth sat down, turned toward Virginia and cleared her throat. “You were in a unique position to see people going up and down the Silver Corridor at the Waldorf the night of the ball—the night Frances DeWitt was murdered.”
Virginia’s face colored slightly, and she giggled. “Peter and I were terribly naughty, I’m afraid. That’s Peter Smythe. Do you know him?” She lifted her teacup to her lips, pinky raised, and took a sip.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“He’s an awful scamp, but such fun. We thought no one could see us behind that dreadful fern.” She looked at Kaminsky from under her long, dark lashes. “But I guess we weren’t as clever as we thought.”
&nb
sp; Elizabeth noticed Kaminsky had quietly removed his notepad and pencil from the pocket of his coat.
“Were you able to see people going up and down the Silver Corridor?”
Virginia nodded her head. “Yes, I was meant to keep a lookout in case my aunt—she was my chaperone for the evening since my mother is in Paris with some man she met at a house party at the Warwicks’ in the Hamptons—came down the hall. She would have gone bananas if she’d seen me and Peter in a clutch.” She rolled her eyes.
“Did you see anyone in particular?” Elizabeth noticed Kaminsky writing something on his notepad. “While you were keeping a lookout, that is?”
Virginia giggled. “There were some moments when my eyes were closed.” Her face colored again. “But I did see Brenda Sawyer’s mother coming down the corridor. Poor thing—she was thrown from her horse and had her ankle in plaster.”
“Did she go into the ladies’ room?”
Virginia shook her head. “She was headed for the elevator. I heard it ping when it arrived.” She took a sip of her tea. “Then there was that man, of course.”
“Man?” Elizabeth’s posture straightened and she leaned forward in her chair. “Can you describe him?”
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at that.” Virginia made a face. “Dark hair and eyes. Older—at least forty.”
Elizabeth noticed Kaminsky’s hand jump and his pencil scoot across the page.
“Anything else?”
Virginia nibbled on the end of a cucumber sandwich. “Nothing really, I’m afraid. I didn’t recognize him, if that’s what you mean.”
“Did you happen to see if he followed Frances DeWitt into the ladies’ room?”
Virginia selected an egg salad sandwich and put it on her plate.
“He might have. I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“But he could have?”
“I suppose so.”
Elizabeth had arranged to keep the photograph of Dupont that Clarence Walker had loaned her for a bit longer. She pulled it out of her purse and removed it from the envelope.
“Does this man look familiar?” She slid the photo across the table to Virginia.
Virginia stared at it and shrugged. “I don’t recognize him, if that’s what you mean.”
“But could this be the man who you saw go down the corridor and possibly into the ladies’ room after Frances?”
Virginia tilted her head to the side and continued to study the picture. She tapped it with her index finger.
“Yes, I think you’re right. That is the man I saw.”
* * *
—
Elizabeth and Kaminsky stopped in front of the fireplace again on their way out of the hotel. The tearoom had been chilly—catering no doubt to the women who chose to keep their furs on in order to show them off.
The huge logs spit and popped as they burned, the embers glowing red. Elizabeth held out her hands to warm them.
“So it looks like Dupont is the one who gave Frances the kiss-off. Go figure.” Kaminsky buttoned his coat. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going back to the newsroom to write this up.”
“Wait.” Elizabeth put out a hand. “Why don’t we interview Dupont and get his side of the story?”
“That’s a good idea, but don’t you think he’s already on the lam from the police?”
“Possibly. But perhaps the police didn’t take Lady Darlington’s story seriously.”
“Why not?”
“You know: Rejected woman gets revenge by accusing her lover of theft.”
Kaminsky stopped and stared at Elizabeth. “You oughta write headlines, kid. That’s a doozy—we’d be selling papers like hotcakes.” Kaminsky pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. “Our readers would eat that story up.”
“Or,” Elizabeth said, stepping around a puddle of water that was beginning to ice over, “Lady Darlington changed her mind and declined to press charges in the end and Dupont is sitting pretty right now in his paid-for apartment.”
Kaminsky stopped, dropped the stub of his cigarette and ground it out with his toe. “You could be right. So maybe he isn’t halfway to Chicago by now.”
“Lady Darlington said she’d rented him a place in the Ansonia Hotel.”
“What are we waiting for then?” Kaminsky pulled his scarf up to his chin. “We can get the seven train from Grand Central to Times Square and change there for the number one. The Ansonia is at Broadway and Seventy-third Street.”
The train was crowded when they got on—weary office workers whose starched white collars were now wilting, salesgirls whose lipstick had long since worn off and manual laborers whose work clothes were damp and mud-spattered. Elizabeth and Kaminsky grabbed for a pole as the train rumbled to a start.
“You know, I just remembered something,” Elizabeth said as the train picked up speed leaving the station.
“What’s that?”
“I saw Guy Dupont at the Astor Bar when I went to photograph that luncheon for Estelle.”
Kaminsky raised his bushy eyebrows and stared at Elizabeth. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Quite sure. He was standing at the bar having a drink with several other people.”
“Other men, I assume.”
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Yes, I don’t remember seeing any women with him.”
“That’s probably because the Astor Bar is well known for being a hangout for homosexual men.”
Elizabeth tightened her grip on the subway pole.
“But how can that be? Dupont was romancing Frances and then Lady Darlington….”
Kaminsky looked down at his shoes as if they’d suddenly become fascinating.
“How can I put this? Dupont is interested in taking advantage of women, but it’s probably men he’s actually attracted to. He isn’t the first and won’t be the last.”
“Oh.”
Elizabeth felt so naïve. She’d heard talk of homosexuals, of course, but in theory, not in reality.
She and Kaminsky didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, and Elizabeth was relieved when they arrived at their destination.
The snow had started again when they exited the station at Seventy-second Street. The sidewalks were slick and Elizabeth slipped on a patch of ice. Kaminsky grabbed her arm to steady her. His face, under the streetlight, looked as weary as those of the passengers on the train.
The Ansonia, a Beaux Arts building with a mansard roof, looked like a castle with its turrets and rounded corners. Pulled up onto the curb outside the front entrance were several police cars, their headlights illuminating the darkened front of the hotel.
“What the—” Kaminsky said.
They both quickened their pace.
“Even if we can’t corner Dupont, it looks like we’ll have another story, at least. I hope it’s a good one,” Kaminsky said, panting slightly.
A policeman was stationed at the front door of the hotel, and he stopped Elizabeth and Kaminsky when they tried to enter.
“Residents only,” he said, putting out a hand to stop them.
“We’re visiting someone,” Kaminsky said. “He’s expecting us. Guy Dupont.”
The policeman looked startled. “Who did you say, sir?”
“Guy Dupont. He lives here.” Kaminsky pointed to the upper floors of the hotel.
Another policeman had come up in back of the first one.
“I’m afraid Mr. Dupont won’t be seeing anyone today,” he said with a smirk.
“Why not?”
He laughed again. “On account of he’s dead, that’s why.”
Chapter 16
Kaminsky pulled his press pass from his pocket and handed it to the cop. The cop took it, turned it over, looked at both sides and handed it back to Kaminsky.
“The wife buys the Dai
ly Trumpet,” he said. “She goes for all that gossip and the advice columns. Waste of two cents, if you ask me.”
Elizabeth glanced at Kaminsky, but his expression didn’t change.
“Third floor,” the cop said, leading them inside and jerking his thumb toward the magnificent cascading white marble staircase with its mahogany balustrade that wound its way up all seventeen floors of the hotel.
“Thanks.” Kaminsky touched a hand to the brim of his hat. “Let’s take the stairs,” he said to Elizabeth.
As they climbed the three flights, Elizabeth stared up at the skylight in the ceiling five hundred feet above the lobby. Lady Darlington had certainly found Dupont a beautiful place to live.
They reached the third floor, and Elizabeth was surprised at how wide and gracious the corridors were. The hallway was hushed—no sound coming from behind the closed doors and, oddly enough, no curious neighbors standing around trying to see what was going on.
Halfway down the hall, a door stood open and a policeman leaned against the wall beside it. He was young and slightly bug-eyed with excitement.
Before the cop could say anything, Kaminsky handed him his press pass. The officer glanced at it and waved them inside.
The apartment wasn’t nearly as grand as Lady Darlington’s. The foyer was small with a coat closet on one side and an umbrella stand on the other. They walked into the parlor and Elizabeth braced herself for what they would find.
The room wasn’t large but was comfortably furnished with a plump horsehair sofa in a deep red, a chair and ottoman in the same color and a sideboard upon which stood a radio, an empty crystal tumbler and a large ashtray with several cigarette butts in it.
The most significant feature of the room was the body sprawled on the floor. Dupont was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown over a white dress shirt and black trousers. He looked as if he had been relaxing at home—a newspaper was laid open across the arm of the chair and a glass half-filled with an amber-colored liquid sat on a table next to it—and had been surprised by a visitor intent on murder.