Murder, She Reported
Page 24
Rain was pelting the sidewalk with such ferocity that the drops bounced off the pavement on impact. A torrent of water rushed down the gutter and swirled in an eddy around a drain that had been blocked by a sheet of newspaper. Elizabeth glanced down at it. The headline in large black letters was still visible: PRIME MINISTER NEVILLE CHAMBERLAIN TO MEET WITH HITLER.
Elizabeth shivered. She was terrified that the United States would get involved in the war in Europe despite Roosevelt’s promise to stay neutral. Her younger brother James was in college—old enough to be called up if the country went to war.
Shops were dark, streetlights were dark and she occasionally caught the narrow beam of a flashlight through a window. With the heavy cloud cover and pelting rain, it felt more like six o’clock than three o’clock in the afternoon. The morning had been fine, but the bad weather had moved in as swiftly as a freight train and with every bit as much power.
Elizabeth had one hand on her umbrella and the other on her hat, but despite that, the wind yanked her hat from her head and sent it flying into the gutter, where it landed in an oil-slicked puddle.
She was glad she hadn’t chosen to wear her new one. She would have been devastated. She retrieved the brown felt fedora and looked at it in dismay. It was very nearly ruined. She stuffed it into her purse and continued to battle her way east to Lexington Avenue.
The Lexington Avenue bus chugged to a stop in front of Elizabeth, sending up a spray of water. She didn’t bother to jump away—she was nearly wet through already. She collapsed her twisted and useless umbrella and stepped on board. She handed her fare to the driver and elbowed her way as politely as possible through the crowed. The bus was stuffy and the smell of wet fabric hung in the air.
Wind buffeted the bus as it made its way down Lexington Avenue with rain beating at the windows and running down them in torrents. Elizabeth could hardly see out—she hoped she wouldn’t miss her stop—not that she could get any wetter than she already was.
All the stoplights were dark and traffic was in a tangle at every intersection with horns blaring in angry bleats as cars attempted to bully their way forward.
Elizabeth reached over the head of the woman seated in front of her and rubbed a spot on the window clear of fog with the sleeve of her coat. She peered at the street sign as the bus lumbered past it. Her stop was next.
Elizabeth maneuvered her way to the back door of the bus as they rolled to a stop at Forty-fourth Street. She stepped off and looked down at her shoes in dismay. She’d landed nearly ankle deep in a puddle that was spreading in ever widening rings toward the opposite side of the street.
The force of the wind nearly took her breath away and she gasped in surprise. She was glad she didn’t have to walk more than a few blocks. She couldn’t remember there ever having been a storm as strong as this one. There’d been no warning from the weatherman on the radio that morning either or she would have put her plastic rain boots over her new brown serge open toed pumps.
Elizabeth was thoroughly relieved to reach the shelter of the Daily Trumpet building. Water dripped from the hem of her coat and her shoes made a squelching sound as she walked across the marble floor of the lobby toward the elevator.
The light over the elevator flashed and the doors whisked open.
“Would you look at you?” the elevator operator said as Elizabeth stepped on. “It must be raining cats and dogs out there.” He pulled the door closed and the elevator began its ascent.
“It is,” Elizabeth said as she rummaged in her handbag for a handkerchief to wipe her face.
Ralph Kaminsky, a veteran crime reporter for the Daily Trumpet who was as crusty as a piece of week old bread, was sitting at his desk, his chair tipped back on its rear two legs, nursing cold coffee from a chipped white mug. He turned around when the door to the newsroom shut behind Elizabeth.
“If you don’t look like a drowned rat,” he said, plunking down his mug.
“I feel like one,” Elizabeth said dryly, pulling off her gloves and staring at the damp leather in dismay.
“They’re saying it’s a hurricane,” Kaminsky said, letting his chair drop back into place with a thud. “The storm hit the south shore of Long Island around two-thirty this afternoon with no warning.” Kaminsky picked up his mug, frowned at it and put it back down again. “O’Connor’s out on the Island chasing down a story. A guy dropped dead at some Guinea restaurant out there and since Frank Costello was seen eating a bowl of spaghetti at a nearby table, he’s convinced Costello must have had something to do with it. He’s claiming he’s going to scoop all the papers.” Kaminsky snorted. “I wish him luck.”
He pulled a pack of Camels from his jacket pocket and shook one out.
“O’Connor said the storm was bad. He said something about making for higher ground. Then the phone went dead. I never much cared for the fellow, but still…He’s got a wife and kids at home.”
“Higher ground?” Elizabeth stopped with her raincoat halfway unbuttoned. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”
Kaminsky scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “I don’t know. But I’m afraid it might be.”
The door to the newsroom banged open again and Becker, another reporter, walked in, carrying the faint scent of cigar smoke with him. Water dripped from the brim of his hat and his raincoat was splotched with water.
He yanked off his hat and threw it on his desk.
“The East River’s overflowed three blocks inland and flooded the Consolidated Edison plant at One hundred thirty-third Street. There’s no power above Fifty-ninth Street and the Eighth Avenue IND’s knocked out.”
He unbuttoned his raincoat and without bothering to take it off, sat down at his desk and began banging out a story on his typewriter.
No sooner had Becker sat down than the door burst open again and Mildred, one of the switchboard operators, stuck her head into the newsroom. Her platinum blond hair was styled half up and half down with tight curls brushing her slim shoulders.
“Bridges and tunnels are all closed,” she said, cracking her gum and leaning into the newsroom. “Someone just called it in. And the Staten Island Ferry is stuck in the terminal. Looks like nobody’s going nowhere tonight. Guess I’ll have to stay over at my boyfriend’s place.” She gave a cheeky grin.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky exchanged a glance.
“It’s bad, I guess,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes. It sure sounds like it.”
The telephone on Kaminsky’s desk rang and he grabbed for the receiver. Kaminsky listened, grunted a few times and then slammed down the receiver.
“Good thing you’re already wet,” he said, looking at Elizabeth. “The editor got wind of the fact that the water’s rising fast in New York Harbor and there’s a storm surge of eight and a half feet at the Battery. He wants pictures and a story.”
Every great mystery needs an Alibi
eOriginal mystery and suspense from Random House
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