Front Page Affair (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Kitty knew she was killing time. She didn't have a plan, and yet, she couldn't stand idle. One of the Misses Dancey favorite mottoes was “When in doubt, do something. Activity pays dividends.”

With Amanda's request in mind, she took a taxi to Mrs. Basshor's apartment.

“Delphy Vanderwell told me you'd come if her daughter asked.” The hostess's lips twisted into a smile. She lay bundled in a shawl on her chaise longue, the windows to her pale-yellow morning room tightly closed. “My world is smaller without Hotchkiss. I relied on him completely, but I didn't realize how much he meant to me until he was gone.”

“May I be of assistance?” Kitty fanned herself with a magazine. She hoped Amanda would return the favor one day if it became necessary.

“You can tell those damned police fellows to believe me for a start,” the hostess said. “Hotchkiss would never shoot anyone, let alone kill himself. He begged my forgiveness in his letter, but he knew I would have forgiven him for anything. What I can't stand is his absence.”

“So Mr. Hotchkiss wasn't stealing from you?”

“Of course he was. I knew it. And he knew that I knew.” Elizabeth Basshor pulled herself up from her recumbent position. “I told the police that we never discussed what he did with my money. I looked the other way. Did you read the letter he wrote to me before he took his life?”

“Only the parts that were printed in the paper.”

“That was garbage. And the police took away the original for evidence. But I remember it clearly, and nowhere did he confess to shooting Hunter. Nowhere.”

“Why commit suicide then? I mean, if you knew he was stealing—”

“Exactly!” Life flooded back into Mrs. Basshor's face. “He begged my forgiveness, but as I say, there was nothing to forgive. So I have to conclude that he was trying to tell me something that all of us have missed.”

Kitty began to feel light-headed. It was either the heat or Mrs. Basshor's wild guesses. She asked for some water.

The hostess tinkled a bell. “Do you keep a cook, Miss Weeks?”

“Yes.”

“Does she do the marketing or someone else?”

“She does.” Kitty wondered where Mrs. Basshor was going with this.

“Then you must know what I'm talking about.”

“I'm afraid I don't, Mrs. Basshor.”

“What do they teach you girls these days?”

The maid brought in water on a tray, and Kitty gratefully took a sip.

“In my day,” the hostess said, “we had to draw, paint, play an instrument, sing, and dance, as well as run a house. Do you pay your cook well?”

“The going rate.” Kitty wondered whether Mrs. Basshor would come up with another of her personal ambushes. If so, this time she would be ready for it.

“There's a going rate for cooks who do the marketing, and a higher rate for ones who don't,” Elizabeth Basshor said. “You are familiar with that arrangement?” She looked at Kitty in dismay. “No, I can see that you aren't. A cook who does the marketing charges less, because she takes a cut of whatever she buys for her mistress.” She explained it as though to an imbecile.

Fairly certain that Mrs. Codd did no such thing, Kitty replied with a touch of asperity, “I keep a running tab at the grocer's and pay in full at the end of each month.”

“That's what you think.” Mrs. Basshor laughed. “Speak to your grocer, my dear. Ask him whether he's slipping your cook a couple of dollars each month. Not that he'll tell you anything. But that's the way things are done.

“I knew Hotchkiss was pocketing a portion of my expenses. That's par for the course. And when it came to the party, of course he would expect a bonus. So you see, if Mr. Cole had threatened him about it, he wouldn't have been concerned. And certainly not concerned enough to murder Hunter and then take his own life. If your cook was pinching a bit from you when she did the groceries and I accused her, would she shoot me and then kill herself? Really.”

“Put that way, it does make sense.” Kitty's head spun. She had been lectured about phenol by Secret Service agents and now about how to pay one's cook by a society hostess.

“Can you do something about it then?” Mrs. Basshor leaned forward eagerly. “I know what I said when you first came here, about your wanting to be a reporter and all. But you should ignore that. I was angry that you were doing what I had wanted to do and were getting away with it.”

“You wanted to be a journalist?”

“Not exactly. But I did want to do something daring and provocative. I still do.” Mrs. Basshor fluffed her hair. “Anyhow, that's not the point. I'd like you to tell your readers my story.”

“I no longer work for the paper, Mrs. Basshor. They let me go,” Kitty said.

“Who did—the beanpole?”

“Miss Busby has been taken ill. It was her supervisor.”

“Well, that's ridiculous. You're very good. I'll have a word with Frieda Eichendorff, shall I?”

“Please, Mrs. Basshor, don't say anything to anyone.”

“Well, who will help me with what I want to say about Hotchkiss?”

“I'm afraid I can't help you there.”

Mrs. Basshor sighed. “The police, my lawyer, and even my friends think I'm a fool… What will you do now?”

“I haven't formed a plan yet.”

Mrs. Basshor leaned back and placed an eye pillow over her face. “You shouldn't let one individual's actions stop you.”

“What about everything you said about my not being able to get married?”

“Didn't I just tell you to forget it? When you're ready to settle down, come see me. And in the meantime, please help me clear my secretary's name.”

• • •

Kitty reached a decision on the taxi ride back home: if she couldn't glean the information she needed from her father, she must try to extract it from one of his associates.

“Back so soon?” Mr. Weeks called from his study.

Kitty handed Grace her purse and gloves. “It's one o'clock,” she said as she went in.

“I suppose I've grown accustomed to the longer hours you've been keeping recently.”

She drummed her fingers on the back of his sofa. “Would you mind telephoning Mr. Maitland? I think it's a good day for an outing to the Cloisters. If he's free, I'd like to go.”

“Wouldn't it be better if you went with a friend your own age?” Julian Weeks sounded baffled. “Maitland is entertaining but hardly a spring chicken.”

“It's only a trip to a museum, Papa.” The comparison amused Kitty, but she couldn't help resenting him for putting her in this position. If she knew more about his life, she wouldn't have to resort to such tricks.

“Should I accompany you?” Julian Weeks said. He seemed unsure about how to proceed.

“Please don't,” Kitty replied at once, then added, “You've told me time and time again that you don't care for religious art.”

• • •

Mr. Maitland arrived in a chauffeur-driven limousine at three. Kitty and her father exchanged a glance before she climbed in.

“Are you sure you won't join us, Julian?” Mr. Maitland asked.

To Kitty's relief, Mr. Weeks waved them off.

The buildings on West End Avenue flashed past Kitty's window as the motorcar raced uptown. Kitty began to have misgivings. The Misses Dancey had warned their charges not to drive in automobiles with strange men after a discussion on how chauffeurs not only ignited motors, but also passions. The word
chauffeur
, after all, came from the French
chauffer
—to heat.

“Apparently, George Gray Barnard, the man behind the Cloisters' collection, bought many of his pieces from French peasants,” Maitland said. “He paid as little as thirty francs for some.”

“I had no idea. And this was recently?”

“Oh yes, within the last decade. He found farmers allowing their chickens to lay eggs on medieval platforms and supporting their vines on ancient columns. To my mind, that makes him not just a great collector but one of the best.”

“Because he bought things cheaply?”

“Because”—Maitland turned to face her—“he saw beauty where others didn't.”

Kitty shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“He also acquired an arcade from the Abbey of Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa.” Maitland resumed speaking like a lecturer. “No one thought much of it at first, but then the French government made quite a fuss about the arcade leaving the country. In hindsight, it's fortunate that it didn't remain on-site. If it had, it's quite likely that it might have been blown to smithereens by now. France isn't just losing thousands of men each day; she's also bleeding away her history.”

Kitty struggled to find a way to broach the subject on her mind. Should she start with general questions? And if that weren't enough, Mr. Maitland's talkativeness made it hard to get a word in edgewise.

“I'd like to create a museum in Canada someday,” he told her. “One that will have my name on it.” He chuckled. “I'm afraid I'm not self-effacing like Mr. Barnard.”

They arrived at a barnlike building overlooking the Harlem River at 699 Fort Washington Avenue. Maitland's chauffeur opened the door, and Kitty stepped out onto the street and, a few paces later, into a world of pious saints, demure Virgins, and gargoyles sticking out their tongues from cornices and capitals.

She followed Mr. Maitland beneath ancient arches, between fluted stone pillars, and past entire walls that had been transplanted from their original faraway sites to create a magical experience that resembled neither wandering through a museum nor a church, but something altogether different.

Mythical beasts leaped out from friezes, tenacious flora curled up columns, fantastical creatures—some human and some animal, some a combination of both—mocked Kitty's astonishment.

Maitland paused to examine a six-hundred-year-old Madonna and Child. Kitty stared at a frieze in which the devil, burning with glee, prodded a row of protesting sinners into the flames of hell.

They walked on to the main attraction—the cloisters, a tranquil courtyard bordered on all four sides by a covered walkway with a fountain at its center.

“Mr. Maitland?”

“Yes?” His voice was hushed. “Did you know that hundreds of years ago, this is where monks prayed?”

“May I ask what kind of business you're doing with my father?”

Maitland turned away, but not before she noticed his look of distaste. “This is hardly an appropriate moment.”

Kitty could have kicked herself. How could she have waited so long only to put the question so baldly?

He headed back inside. “I'm no fool,” he said under his breath. “I had an inkling that you might not be interested in me personally, but I thought you might enjoy my company. I can see that I'm mistaken.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Maitland.” She would love to start again. “I only asked—”

He raised a hand to silence her. “Because you think I'm leading your father astray? Julian warned me that might be the case and he said not to say anything to you for that very reason. But I'm not a Rasputin—I'm a businessman—and whatever decision Julian has made, he's made of his own free will. I don't
lead
anyone anywhere. He came to
me
with the proposal.”

“What proposal, Mr. Maitland?”

“Don't you know?”

“No.”

“I see. You must speak to Julian then.”

He gestured toward a section of the museum they hadn't visited. “I'm going to take a look over there. I'll meet you in a quarter of an hour.”

Kitty took a seat on a bench beside a mother and daughter pair. All roads led to her father. She would have to find a way to broach the question with him.

The child tugged at her mother's skirt. “I want to go home! I don't like it here!”

“None of this is real. There's no need to be afraid,” the mother said.

If only that were true, Kitty thought. The clock was ticking, and she hadn't made any progress.

Maitland returned, and he and Kitty climbed into the car in silence.

“Your father and I are going into the pharmaceutical business,” he said after a while. “But it's complicated. That's the part that Julian doesn't like.”

Kitty had no idea what he was talking about.

“I think you ought to understand that, unlike Canada, the United States upholds Bayer's patent.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Maitland—who is Mr. Bayer, and what does he have to do with my father?”

“Bayer is the company that manufactures Aspirin, Miss Weeks. But Aspirin is just an invented name for a chemical compound. Anyone can make it, and in other parts of the world, they do. However, Bayer currently has a monopoly on the American market.

“In two years, their patent will expire, and then we'll be able to sell our product here. We won't be able to call it Aspirin, of course—Bayer has trademarked that and spends a fortune on advertisements in the hopes that customers won't buy anything else.”

“You and my father are making Aspirin?” Kitty said incredulously.

“ASA,” Maitland replied, “short for acetylsalicylic acid, which is the same thing as Aspirin, but not the same name. And we're not making ASA in the United States, only in Canada—where it's legal.”

“So why won't my father discuss it?”

“That's Julian for you. He gets nervous about details.”

Kitty thought for a moment. “What did you say ASA stands for again?”

“Acetylsalicylic acid.”

“That wouldn't happen to have anything to do with salicylic acid, would it?” Kitty vaguely remembered the word, or something like it, from her list.

“As a matter of fact, it does.”

“And does my father supply you with the phenol to make it?”

Maitland's jaw dropped. “What do they teach you girls?”