Those were the words of Sadie Ellis, who was murdered not three days ago.
I took this in for a minute, then said, “I thought you got your stories from the widow Pickett. But it was Sadie, wasn’t it?”
He bunched his lips, saying neither yes nor no.
“You were the man she was sneaking out to meet.”
“It’s a funny word,” he said. “Sneaking.”
“Leaving the refuge without asking, making sure she wasn’t seen. What would you call it?”
“A grown woman going where she pleased.”
“And it pleased her to help you write stories tearing down the very people who were trying to help her.”
“Well, the money pleased her. And the attention. She liked attention. Much the way I like whisky. Even though it doesn’t seem to be good for either of us.”
“How long?”
“I guess we met six or seven times. I’d been watching the refuge, hoping I could get hold of one of the girls to talk to me, tell me what it was like inside. I got a smack in the head from the gargoyle.”
Berthe, I guessed.
“And a few others who said it was a lot of prayer and sewing, but it was a bed and free meals and they liked it well enough.”
Dull, boring truth, I thought, not worth the ink. “Then you found Sadie.”
“And then I found Sadie. It was late at night, but when she stepped under the streetlight, I saw the beating she’d taken and said, You’re not really going back to him, are you? Just a guess, but she liked the interest, and said, What if I am? I told her I had a dollar for her, plus she could keep her skirts down. She asked what she’d have to do, and I said, Just talk. Keep me company.”
His tone had turned wistful. “You liked her.”
“Yes, I liked her. She was sharp and selfish and lively. I liked her.”
“Even though she lied.”
“She didn’t lie. Maybe she tailored the truth a bit, but she didn’t lie.”
“Saying my uncle … looked at her?”
“How do you know he didn’t? Sure, some of the things she told me were fabrications; she was quite a storyteller. But she told me what her days were like, that the other women were unkind to her—”
“There, right there, that was a lie.”
“—and that your uncle was strange and she was afraid of him.”
“Which she obviously said because she knew you wanted to hear it. And you wanted to hear it because you knew Clementine Pickett wanted to read it.”
“You don’t think your uncle is strange?”
“In this world, good men are unusual. Yes, he’s strange. It doesn’t mean he should be insulted by the likes of Sadie Ellis.”
“‘The likes of Sadie Ellis,’” he echoed. “She spoke her mind. She did what she pleased. She was earning money and taking charge of her future. You just don’t like how she did it, Miss Prescott. You and Mrs. Pickett could have a talk about that sometime. The frustrations of liberty.”
I loathed the comparison to Mrs. Pickett, but there was something in what he said. It stuck, uncomfortably, like a bit of apple between the teeth.
“Who do you think killed them?” I asked. “Honestly.”
“Honestly, Miss Prescott? I think it was your uncle.”
* * *
I returned to the refuge to find they had released my uncle without charge—for now. His arrest had had one benefit. The Purity Brigade considered their work done and had gone home. Clementine Pickett, Orville, Mrs. Hilquit … all gone. It was what I had wanted for weeks. But now Mrs. Pickett’s withdrawal in triumph presented only problems. It meant if I wanted to look at Bill Danvers’s wrist, I would have to find him.
* * *
The next morning, I returned to Rutherford’s to hear that the nightgowns had arrived from the warehouse. As I made my way to the lingerie department, I realized I hadn’t spoken to poor Leo since leaving him abruptly Wednesday night. When I saw Mrs. Hirschfeld, I asked how he was.
“Busy,” she said with a smile. “I understand he took you dancing.”
Catching a note of tension in her voice, I tried to make light of it. “Yes, I was feeling sad over the death of a friend, and he was kind enough to try and cheer me up.”
We went to her small office to fetch the nightgowns. When she had piled them into my arms, she asked, “Are you going to see Leo later?”
Unsure what she meant, I said, “I think he’s working today.”
“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind giving him a message from me?”
“Of course not.”
“Tell him Clara came to dinner the other night and was very sad not to see him.”
There was a long pause as I waited for her to identify Clara. But she did not seem inclined to do so.
“Of course.”
* * *
The rest of the afternoon, I measured. I sewed. I managed not to stick Emily Tyler with pins when she asked George Rutherford if the smocks “really had to be so plain.” I managed smiles and yes-ma’ams for Mrs. Rutherford, reassuring looks for Louise. I laughed at Hattie Phipps’s recitation about her life as a telephone operator—Kandinsky, Nussbaum, and Schlom, how may I direct your call?—and admired Gertie Walsh’s gossip from Rector’s. I made it all the way to lunchtime before stalking out of the Crystal Palace, and I might have held my temper even then except that Leo insisted on following me, saying he had connections in the employee dining hall and would I care for leftover knockwurst? At which point I wheeled on him and said that I detested knockwurst and on another subject, who was Clara?
I knew as his habitual smile faded that I had him. Or rather, didn’t.
“Clara,” he said, “is a very nice girl my mother thinks I’m going to marry.”
Then the smile reappeared, as if what his mother thought should be of no concern.
“And what does Clara think?”
He paused, as if trying to recall. “I know she has very strong views on public education. I can’t tell you what they are, but I know they’re very strong.”
“And how is Clara’s two-step?”
Taking my hand, he said, “Nowhere near as good as yours.”
Two salesgirls passed us in the hallway, clearly intrigued by the situation. Keeping hold of my hand, Leo led me down the stairs and out to the street where the delivery trucks arrived to be unloaded.
Over the shouts of men and thuds of crates, I said, “So you don’t only discuss the values of public education. She has other charms.”
“Maybe.”
“And you have other dance partners.”
“Swear to God, I can’t remember a single one of them.” His hand snuck around my waist. I turned neatly to avoid it. Surprised at the rebuff, he resorted to, “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know what he was apologizing for, that was clear. But what was I asking him to apologize for? Dancing with other girls? Sitting on divans with other girls? Maybe that was simply … how things were if you weren’t Louise Tyler or Charlotte Benchley. William Tyler might have to make his intentions clear before so much as kissing Louise Benchley. Louise Benchley had a lot more to offer—millions more, to be precise—than Jane Prescott. What Jane Prescott had to offer could be had on the dance floor—or the divan. I fiddled with my top button, queasy with both regret and awareness that in some ways I didn’t regret it as much as I should.
Clara! The wronged party came to me in a stunning moment of moral clarity. That’s who I was angry for, Clara.
“And of course Clara knows about me and all these other women whose names you can’t remember.”
“We don’t talk about everything…”
Which meant they talked about some things, a fact that should have been obvious but hurt nonetheless.
“And how does she feel about kissing, either the practice or the ethical proposition?”
There he was silent. And I had my answer. Putting my hands in my pockets, I started walking. I expected Leo would stay behind, that I would have a lon
g, miserable walk back to the rehearsal room by myself.
“Jane!”
Catching up to me, he took my arm. His head was very close to mine, which made me think of kissing, which made me angry, and I threw him off. For a moment I was either going to smack him very hard or burst into tears. Then I collected myself, announced that I was not hungry, and went upstairs.
Unfortunately, as I headed down the hall to the Crystal Palace, I was aware that I was sniffing quite a lot. Silly tears kept welling up. Wiping them away, I heard Emily Tyler say, “Jane, what on earth is the matter?”
“Nothing, Miss Tyler. I’m … entirely fine.”
“You’re not. Your nails are bitten, your eyes are red, and your nose is running. What’s happened? Is it Mr. Hirschfeld?”
Too surprised to come up with a clever deception, I said, “Why do you say that?”
“Because he likes you, and I rather thought you liked him.”
“He does. Me and five thousand other girls.”
Emily made a pained face of sympathy. Then I noticed her eyes were looking rather red as well. “Did something happen?”
“Oh—” Slumping against the wall, she gave it a quick blow with her fist. “I know you’re devoted to Louise, but right now, I could throw her out a window. Lecturing me about George Rutherford as if I were a complete idiot. ‘He’s a married man.’ ‘Dolly’s upset.’ As if I meant to run off with him.”
She glanced at me. “I suppose you heard about my folly in Saratoga.”
“I did hear you were fond of someone.”
“Very fond, as a matter of fact.” Hands behind her, she leaned against the wall, bouncing off it as she spoke. “Snapper Wilkes was funny and handsome and … well, if you’d seen him ride a horse, you’d understand. And he liked me,” she added softly. “We’d sit and talk about horses and new songs and where it was nicest in summer, and he acted like I was just about the smartest girl he’d ever met. At least that I had something to say.”
Not, I realized, how she must feel at home, with her mother obsessed with her sister’s marital prospects and her brother’s social standing.
“I hate William for pulling me off that train,” she said.
“He only did it because he cares.”
“He did it because Mother told him to and they’re all afraid of scandal. Scandal—you should have seen me on that platform. Screaming. ‘I’ll go where I want. It’s supposed to be a free country, isn’t it?’”
This I knew from Louise. I also knew William’s response, which was to start listing things that weren’t at all free, like food and clothing and shelter, and to wonder aloud if Mr. Wilkes’s salary would stretch to include Emily. Mr. Wilkes had apparently been under the impression that Emily had her own income. When informed otherwise, he had regretfully agreed to part.
But there was no point in pressing the matter with Emily, so I said, “Still—there are better ways of forgetting Snapper Wilkes than flirting with George Rutherford.”
“I’m not flirting with him. I’m auditioning. Did you know Miss Rutherford gets a stipend?” I shook my head. “Well, she does. Which means if I win, I’ll have my own income and I won’t have to go begging to William or Mother.”
“And if you don’t,” I said lightly, “there are other jobs.”
Emily smiled. “And other men. Although I don’t think you should give up on Mr. Hirschfeld just yet.”
That afternoon took us through a very ragged run-through of the full show. I constructed wings out of wire and paper and made some of the nightgowns look worn and shabby. Leo I ignored. Except for those times I looked up to see he was uncharacteristically subdued. No leaping eyebrows or hysterical grins, no matter how many wrong notes were sung—and there were quite a few.
At one point, I heard the first notes of the “Pickle Barrel Rag,” played as a mournful dirge. It was an attempt at reconciliation, and I admit it reminded me of the joy of dancing at the Acme, the blare of the trumpet, Chick Tricker sitting at his corner table.
And Bill Danvers.
Bill Danvers, who worked at the Acme.
If I could prove that Bill Danvers made a living by threatening women who tried to leave their employment with Chick Tricker, if I could prove he had left the Acme that night, that he had a scar on his wrist, similar to the one Otelia Brooks gave her attacker …
I whispered, “Mr. Hirschfeld, are you working at the Acme tonight?”
“I am.”
“I need you to take me there.”
Leo looked suspicious. “Is this a trick?”
“It’s not a trick. I want to go back and I need you to take me.”
“Miss Prescott, nothing would please me more, but I confess that in your present mood, you frighten me. Although I’m still quite enamored. Also, I can’t tonight.”
“Why? Is tonight reserved for Miss Pastrami?”
The briefest pause in the music. “No. But we singing waiters take turns using the guest table. One night, I get to bring … a friend, the next night, Stumpy. Tonight, Mario’s bringing his cousin. At least he said she was his cousin; she looked awfully pretty for a cousin…”
I wasn’t interested in Mario’s cousin or Leo’s expansive views on pulchritude. “How can I get in, then?”
“Get in where?” Released from rehearsal, Emily Tyler was upon us.
“Miss Prescott wants me to take her dancing at the Acme. Sadly, I am unable to oblige her.”
“Well, that’s very wrong of you, Mr. Hirschfeld. Jane, I think we should teach Mr. Hirschfeld a lesson.”
“What do you mean, Miss Tyler?”
“I mean you and I should go to the Acme tonight. No, don’t worry, I’ll pay. Poor Mr. Hirschfeld—we’ll leave him to sing for his supper, and we’ll have a grand old time.”
13
That night, as we made our way back to the Acme Café, I took an inventory of my failures in the time William’s mother had been away. I had let Louise fall into the hands of Dolly Rutherford. I had not succeeded in returning Emily to Vassar; that alone would not have been so bad, but having her get caught up in something as crassly commercial as the Miss Rutherford’s pageant was a different matter. As was flirting with George Rutherford. And now I was escorting her to one of the most notorious dance clubs in the city.
I had also, in a fit of idiocy, allowed Emily to lend me a dress. She had insisted, saying she couldn’t go to a club with someone who didn’t “look the sort of girl I would be friends with.” She had said it flippantly, but I suspected her of matchmaking. It was a beautiful dress, a column of dark purple velvet with a short-sleeved overlay of white silk printed with violets and greenery. A dark purple sash accentuated the waist, and a low-cut neckline accentuated the rest. I felt both outrageously pretty and terrified I would tear the garment.
Leo, of course, couldn’t have been happier. As I observed at the outset of the evening, two women probably struck him as the minimal requirement. He answered with his latest effort: “Women everywhere / as far as the eye can see. Yet there’s only one girl who’s the one for me.”
“And her name is Clara,” I sang back. “Or Myrtle. Or Edith. Or Josephine…”
But no one was happier than Emily, whose spirits were sky-high as she practically pranced down the squalid streets in rose silk slippers—I thanked God it wasn’t my job to clean them—to the doors of the Acme, where she was admitted straightaway, the concierge at once recognizing a rich, giddy young thing intent on making a spectacle of herself and spending gobs of money in the process.
It was a very different business going to the Acme in the company of said giddy young thing rather than one of its waiters. Thanks to Emily, we were seated at a table close to the dance floor. Suddenly, all those glittering famous people I had glimpsed from the back of the room were within mere feet of me. No games of stuss or peanut shells up here, just champagne, diamonds, and merriment. And the blast of cornet and trombone, so vibrant it captured your senses; all you wanted to do was move and b
e part of it.
Sadly, I hadn’t come here to dance. I looked to the corner where I had last seen Chick Tricker, but it seemed the club’s owner had other business that evening. I was happy not to be under his direct gaze. But it presented a problem. If Bill Danvers was here this evening and there was no boss to draw him into the light, I might not find him in the rabbit’s warren of the club. He could be working on another floor or even in another club; Chick Tricker had a few of them.
Leo appeared at the table to take Emily’s order for a bottle of champagne. Kneeling at my feet, he put a hand on his heart and began singing in Italian. I resisted the urge to kick him.
Leaning down, I whispered in his ear, “Tell me if you see Bill Danvers.”
“That’s not very romantic,” he whispered back.
“No. It’s not.”
Leo stood. “What are you going to do if you see this guy?”
“I’m going to look at his wrist,” I said, and got a very funny look from Mr. Hirschfeld.
As I watched for Danvers, it occurred to me that if his job was to keep the girls in line, I should watch the girls. There were already several working the floor this evening; it was Friday, and the club was full of people who had just been paid. Then I remembered the dark-haired girl Danvers had assaulted. She might have more information than anyone else about his comings and goings that night. Although she might be too scared to talk to me. And it was going to be hard to find one girl in this excited, noisy crowd.
Then I heard Emily ask, “Who’s that enormous man in the corner?”
She pointed out a brawny gentleman standing off to the side in an ill-fitting tuxedo. “That’s Frank Walters,” I said. “He used to be a boxer. Now he works as a bouncer.”
Emily’s eyebrows hopped and she turned in her chair, eager to catch sight of any and all tantalizing depravity. It occurred to me that I might utilize her hunger for experience, and I wondered aloud if I might ask her a favor.
“I used to work with a girl who fell on hard times. I have a feeling she might be working here, but … against her will, if you understand.”
Death of an American Beauty Page 16