“If he’s gambling and losing, he’s probably drinking, too,” Geoffrey said. “The racetracks are closed for the winter, but gaming parlors are open for business year round.”
“I’ve never been to one,” Prudence declared, “nor to a racetrack, either.”
It was immediately clear to both Josiah and Geoffrey that she was announcing her intention to remedy that situation as soon as possible. Ladies often occupied the upper boxes of Jerome Park where the Belmont Stakes were run, and in good weather picnicked with their escorts on the track’s manicured lawns. But they rarely if ever frequented gaming parlors and casinos. Except for a certain type of woman, who wasn’t a lady at all.
Once Prudence made up her mind, it would only make matters worse to try to stop her. Better to deflect her attention elsewhere and hope she didn’t realize what he was doing.
“We can put someone on Morgan’s tail when he leaves the De Vries mansion tomorrow morning,” Geoffrey decided.
Among the men the firm employed for this kind of work were a number of ex-Pinkertons, all of them expert trackers. The trackers, in turn, used street urchins vouched for by Danny Dennis to relay their information back to the office. Often ragged and barefoot even in the icy slush of winter, they ran through crowds of pedestrians like fish slipping through water weeds. Josiah, who had a soft spot for them, kept a box of boots and jackets in the supply closet.
“In the meantime, we’ll find out all we can about Leonard Abbott.”
“I’ll go to the employment agency,” Prudence volunteered. “They’ll have the most complete records there. We should be able to trace him, if he didn’t lie on his application.”
* * *
Despite the fact that the MacKenzie household was a long-standing client of the Wentworth Domestic Employment Agency, the firm’s owner was reluctant to open her files.
“We do promise both our clients and our applicants a degree of confidentiality,” Claudia Wentworth explained. “There are certain types of information that do not have a direct impact on conditions of employment.” She wore a pince-nez securely anchored on the bridge of her nose. When she twitched or wrinkled her nostrils, it slipped neatly down to dangle from a black silk ribbon attached to her formidable bodice by a discreet gold brooch.
“The list you’ve already provided has proved to be very helpful,” Prudence told her, trying to pull her eyes from the dancing pince-nez. “But we need details about Leonard Abbott’s background. I’m sure you understand why I can’t supply any more information than that, but I wouldn’t trouble you if it weren’t vitally important. Without exaggeration, Miss Wentworth, it’s a matter of life and death.”
“The young man gave us no indication he was the type of individual who would take his own life,” she said, vigorously rubbing the lenses of her pince-nez before repositioning it.
“I can assure you that Mrs. De Vries attaches no blame to the agency for what happened,” Prudence said, wondering who had informed the Wentworth Domestic Employment Agency about the suicide before reporters broke the story. Probably the police, she decided. Detective Phelan would have requested the same information she was seeking to obtain.
“We have already spoken to the police,” Claudia Wentworth confirmed.
“And so you should have,” Prudence agreed. “Once a tragedy like this has occurred, there are no more secrets. I’m sure you understand that the De Vries family would not be probing into their late footman’s private life were it not for a wish to assure themselves that his despair, and also the habits leading to his wretchedness, have not infected other members of the staff. Particularly the younger, more impressionable servants. There is also a most Christian concern on their part to be certain that the wages owed to Leonard, and perhaps a little something extra, be paid to his surviving family.”
In the end it was the purely human weakness of curiosity that compelled the Wentworth Agency’s owner to order the information on Leonard Abbott’s employment application be replicated. It was no secret that Miss MacKenzie was blotting the copybook of her perfect society credentials by partnering with an ex-Pinkerton operative in what was essentially a private inquiry firm. The attempt to imbue it with respectability by adding the word law to the company letterhead fooled no one. As they sat chatting, drinking tea, and waiting for the pertinent facts to be copied, Claudia Wentworth did her experienced best to pick Prudence’s brain.
“The police were not very forthcoming about the details of young Mr. Abbott’s death,” she began.
“All I can tell you is that he was found in the attic of the De Vries home with a rope around his neck,” Prudence told her, not revealing anything more than what she knew was already appearing in the newspapers.
“And apparently there is some indication that he was involved in what can only be termed shady operations? Detective Phelan mentioned betting slips that had been found and certain indications of possible theft.”
Prudence nodded her head sadly, but said nothing.
“We do our best to ferret out character flaws and weaknesses in the individuals who come to us seeking employment,” Miss Wentworth went on. “As you may imagine, Miss MacKenzie, it requires a certain amount of delicacy and not a little perseverance to ascertain the truth. However, I may say with some degree of pride that we rarely fail in our quest to provide only the best candidates for our clients to interview.”
“My father was always satisfied with the applicants supplied by the Wentworth Agency,” Prudence said. “As I also have been.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Miss MacKenzie. Especially under the circumstances.”
Neither woman was giving much away. In that respect, they were a matched pair.
The neatly inscribed report on Leonard Abbott was not as informative as Prudence had hoped it would be.
“He appears to have no living relatives,” she said, skimming the page that had been handed to her.
“Which is perhaps a blessing in this case,” Miss Wentworth commented. “Those who take their own lives bring shame and great sorrow to their families. And of course they cannot be buried in consecrated ground.” The pince-nez tumbled from her nose again.
“A former employer is listed.”
Miss Wentworth would have to have a word with the clerk who hadn’t had the sense to omit that particular detail from the copy he’d made of the dead man’s file. Employers did not relish having to remember servants who had left their service. For whatever reason. Now she would have to decide whether to forewarn Abbott’s former mistress or hope that Miss MacKenzie would decide not to pursue the matter.
“I don’t see anything here that need cause Mrs. De Vries disquiet,” Prudence said, readying herself to leave. “As I believe I mentioned, she was chiefly concerned that if the late Mr. Abbott had family, any wages owed to him would be paid.”
“Very generous of her,” Miss Wentworth agreed. And decided that she probably did not need to contact his former employer after all.
* * *
“The reference he provided for the Wentworth Agency was a forgery,” Prudence reported. “The name and address of his supposed former employer were entirely made up.”
“How did you find that out, Miss Prudence?” Josiah asked.
“I went to the address he had supplied. It was a boardinghouse. My guess is that he’d decided he could claim it had been a private home at one time and that the change to paying guests occurred after he left. But apparently whoever was supposed to check his references at the agency fell down on the job. Or was slipped something under the table not to investigate them.”
“It makes you wonder how many times that happens,” Josiah said.
“Did you say Mr. Hunter has gone out?” Prudence asked.
“One of his ex-Pinkertons came by right after you left. Amos Lang. He had given him the assignment to keep an eye on Morgan Whitley, and I guess Lang struck pay dirt right away. He sent one of Danny Dennis’s boys to the office with a message just a little while
ago. Mr. Hunter grabbed his hat and coat and was out the door without telling me where he was going.” Josiah was plainly miffed at being excluded from what could prove to be a significant development in the case.
So was Prudence. She’d planned to insist that Geoffrey allow her to accompany him to whichever gambling palace Lena’s son frequented. Now she had no idea which one it was.
“Do you still have the note the messenger brought?”
“No note. Just a verbal message.”
“But you heard it?”
Josiah shook his head. “The boy shot past me like a rat toward cheese when Mr. Hunter opened his office door. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I’d lay odds Lang located Morgan Whitley in a gambling hall somewhere.”
“He’s almost certainly gone to the Mint,” said a voice from the doorway.
Josiah shot to his feet.
“Aunt Gillian,” Prudence said. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I don’t like being pushed aside as though I have neither the brains nor the stamina to keep up with this investigation. Do I have to remind you that if it weren’t for me, Hunter and MacKenzie wouldn’t have a case at all? And William De Vries would be well on his way to being the laughing stock of New York society. Imagine a man who can’t tell the difference between diamonds and glass!” She hadn’t spared so much as a glance for the meticulously attired man who couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Aunt Gillian, this is our secretary, Josiah Gregory. Josiah, my aunt, Lady Rotherton.”
He executed something between a bow and the opening steps of a jig, and may have inquired if he could serve her a cup of tea. Neither Prudence nor Lady Rotherton understood a word of what he said.
“What is the Mint?” Prudence finally asked.
“The most exclusive gambling parlor in Manhattan,” Lady Rotherton replied. “It’s located within easy walking distance of William’s office and just off Fifth Avenue. Not everyone who seeks admittance is allowed in. It’s very select. You have to be prepared to lose a great deal of money in a very short amount of time.”
“How do you know about it?”
“If you’re going to keep up with your precious ex-Pinkerton partner, Prudence, you have to ask the right questions of the right people.”
Prudence felt her face flush. She turned away and walked toward the window out of which she could glimpse the spire of Trinity Church. She was not going to lose her temper. No matter how unreasonable her aunt proved to be, and she hadn’t been anything but difficult to deal with since the moment she’d arrived on American soil, Prudence was determined not to forget for a moment that Her Ladyship was her beloved and much mourned mother’s only sister.
“It’s barely past midafternoon,” Lady Rotherton declared. “The habitual gamblers are well into it and the evening sports are hours away from dressing for dinner and a turn at the roulette wheels.”
“What does that mean?” Prudence asked. Her cheeks had cooled and the slender elegance of Trinity’s steeple against the blue of the sky had calmed her.
“It means that we don’t have to dress. We can go the way we are. But if you wait around here and do nothing for another hour or two, it will be too late.”
“I didn’t think ladies were welcome in the gambling halls.”
“They are in this one. A very special type of woman is always welcome, as long as she’s on the arm of a millionaire.”
“Which we wouldn’t be,” Prudence pointed out.
“A title is as good as a fortune,” Lady Rotherton said. “Better. It’s one of the first lessons you learn when you marry into the aristocracy. You can be as poor as a church mouse and as ugly as a bulldog, but if you’re a lord or a lady, you’re welcome everywhere. In fact, no one would dare refuse you admittance.”
“This isn’t England, Aunt.”
“So much the better. Americans worship the ground blue bloods walk on and can’t tell the difference between a duke and an earl. They have no idea how to address us, and even less notion why it matters. Are you coming?”
* * *
The Mint looked like an ordinary office building except that it was windowless and the front door was made of two immense plates of studded steel. A thick-shouldered man stood at the foot of the four steps rising from the pavement and an even thicker-shouldered individual waited by the door. Prudence was sure they both wore revolvers in shoulder holsters. Geoffrey had taught her to read the peculiar bulge in a man’s jacket that meant he was armed.
Lady Rotherton swept past the first man without hesitation, thrust a calling card at the second man, and tapped her foot impatiently as he read it. Prudence glimpsed a signature scrawled in bold black ink on the back of the card. Without a word or a challenge, the security guard tapped a code knock on the door and stood aside as it swung open. He handed the card to the frock-coated greeter, touched a hand to his hat, and turned back to study the street.
The Mint might have looked businesslike from the outside, but its interior was as plush as anything the Vanderbilts had been able to commission for their Fifth Avenue mansions. The entrance hall into which Prudence and Lady Rotherton stepped was a vaulted foyer of crimson, gold leaf, and black marble. Tall potted palms flanked a wide hall down which could be glimpsed the dark, exotic wood paneling of an opulent ground floor bar and the white linen of a glass-doored dining room. Its gas chandeliers had been dimmed to a flattering glow that made it possible to avoid recognizing anyone a guest might wish to avoid.
“Roulette,” Lady Rotherton said. Just the one word.
Prudence was about to correct her, about to say that American men preferred poker. But there wasn’t time. Her aunt’s skirts swished across the royal red carpet as they were ushered toward a black marble staircase leading to the building’s upper stories. The roulette tables, they were told, were on the second floor.
Lady Rotherton dismissed the greeter with a cutting wave of her hand. He had disappeared before Prudence reached the first landing. Whatever else she was, her aunt never appeared less than commanding. As they walked down a wide, mirrored corridor toward the sound of roulette tables, Prudence realized that Aunt Gillian had correctly assessed the situation before stepping foot inside the Mint.
All around them were the soft, regular sounds of bets being made, cards being shuffled, dealt, and laid out on felt-covered tables. The men they caught sight of in the dim parlors they passed were all clothed in the daytime uniform of the wealthy dilettante who could afford to absent himself from the office out of which his fortune flowed. Bespoke suit exquisitely tailored to minimize belly and beefy shoulders, diamond stickpin securing a silk cravat, heavy gold watch and fob catching the light across the dark expanse of tightly buttoned waistcoat, rings that flashed on fingers whose nails were buffed and manicured to a fare-thee-well. Later in the evening would appear the white tie and tails of evening dress and, she supposed, the female creatures for whom her aunt had disdained to use the word ladies.
But for the moment, Prudence and Lady Rotherton, distinguished by their ramrod-straight posture, swayless gait, and discreetly elegant winter tweeds beneath fur-lined coats, blended right in. The Mint catered to anyone with a grand name and deep pockets. As long as they remained circumspect and inconspicuous, it appeared that respectable members of the fairer sex were welcome. At least until it was time for their less reputable sisters to make their appearances.
The roulette room was worthy of the European elite who had first popularized the game. Its chandeliers were imported crystal, the spittoons polished brass, the whiskey glasses heavy-bottomed and the exact right size for a gentleman’s hand. The wheels themselves had been constructed of rare and expensive woods, the numbers painted with exquisitely delicate curlicues, the all-important ball of polished ivory. Unlike the card rooms, where a hush as thick as cigar smoke hung over the tables, the clicks of the bouncing balls and the soft whir of the wheels were as hypnotic as a pirouette.
Positioned beside her aunt just inside the wid
e, arched doorway, Prudence scanned the dimness for a familiar face and tall figure. Just when she was beginning to think that Lady Rotherton might for once be wrong, she saw him. Standing not far from a dark-haired young man whose skeletal thinness and once handsome, now ravaged face reminded her of Ned Hayes during his worst days. When no one who saw the ex-detective thought he would last out the year.
Morgan Whitley. Impossible for it to be anyone else.
And when Geoffrey turned his head and glimpsed her looking back at him across the roulette parlor of a gambling casino, Prudence knew she was right.
Her partner was furious.
CHAPTER 13
From across the expanse of the roulette room Geoffrey’s eyes bored mercilessly into Prudence’s. They skipped briefly to rest on the imperious figure standing beside her, then flicked away as if the high-handed Lady Rotherton were of no importance at all. It was Prudence he cared for, and Prudence who had heedlessly thrust herself into a situation where no unmarried lady of her social standing should ever find herself. He was well aware of the risks she ran whenever she stepped beyond the bounds of propriety, but this was edging precariously close to the edge of what society would tolerate.
And then Geoffrey reminded himself that he had no right to dictate to his partner what she should or should not do. Prudence had made it clear from the beginning that she was determined to be her own mistress, that the position of subservient female was not one she would endure without putting up a fight. She’d already stepped farther outside the bounds of what was suitable and fitting than almost every other young woman he had known. This latest act was simply the next in what he feared would be a long string of challenges. He had no license to be angry with her. And he wasn’t even sure what to call the violent emotion that had surged through him when he first saw her across the roulette tables. Something other than fury, but just as devastating.
* * *
Morgan Whitley gave no sign that he was aware of being watched. He drifted from one roulette table to another, betting wheel after wheel in search of the one that would bring him luck and a return of the money he had already lost that afternoon. But he seemed plagued by the ill will of the fickle goddesses of fate. The stack of chips in his left hand grew steadily smaller until, finally, he tossed and lost the last one.
Death, Diamonds, and Deception Page 11