Front Page Affair (22 page)

“Don't do this, Aimee,” Kitty whispered.

“Don't do what?” The needle hovered inches away from Kitty's throat. “Take you away from your friends? Infect you with a deadly disease? I'll try my best not to. But you will have to cooperate. So tell me, who are those men you've brought along?”

“They're Secret Service.” Kitty swallowed. She could feel Aimee's warm breath in her ear.

“My, my. To think that when I first met you, you were a scared little apprentice,” Aimee whispered. “And now here you are, consorting with government agents. You
were
scared, weren't you? Or was that just an act? If so, you should try your hand at the movies. Who knows? You might be better than the rest of us.”

“Where are we going?” Kitty asked.

“To your car.”

“And then?”

“You're going to drive me to freedom.”

Kitty couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of her. She stumbled on the uneven ground and righted herself just in time. “They'll notice I'm missing,” she whispered. “They'll come looking for me.”

“And what will they do when they find us? Risk that I might hurt you? I doubt that. No, Miss Weeks, you are my ticket to safety, my life insurance.”

“You haven't done anything wrong yet, Aimee,” Kitty said, feeling the ground with her feet to make sure she didn't trip in the darkness. “Don't make this worse by bringing me into it.” They were moving farther away from the enclosure, farther from any chance of assistance. “Talk to the agents. Tell them who put you up to it. Tell them that you had to finish what Mr. Cole started—”

“What Mr. Cole started?” Aimee scoffed. “That's a joke.”

“Then why did he go to the stables at the club?” Kitty slowed down.

“Hunter thought it would be amusing to test the serum on one of Mrs. Basshor's ponies, and at a July Fourth party, no less,” Aimee said.

“And he was working for Dr. Albert?”

Aimee was silent for a moment. “Well, aren't you clever.”

“And then what happened? Did someone catch him in the act?”

Aimee didn't reply at once.

“I'm pretty sure that Mr. Hotchkiss didn't shoot your husband, because Mrs. Basshor told me that she was aware of his stealing. So that can't have been a factor. Who did it then?” Kitty asked.

Aimee's giggle made her shiver.

“What my husband knew about the secretary wasn't the same as what the secretary thought Hunter had discovered.”

“I don't understand,” Kitty said.

“The secretary had, let's say, a
fondness
for men. Hunter told him that he had found out his little secret. Of course, Hunter meant that he had overheard Hotchkiss talking to the fireworks fellows and that he had put two and two together once Mrs. Basshor told us what she was paying for the entertainments. But the secretary panicked. He assumed ‘little secret' meant that Hunter had found out about his secret activities—”

“What kind of activities?” Kitty said.

“You don't know anything, do you?” Aimee snapped. “The secretary was a faggot. You don't mess around with that type, but Hunter had no idea, and he never could resist the chance to make an extra buck.”

“So Hotchkiss shot him?” Kitty had never heard anyone use the word “faggot” in conversation but had a vague idea of what it meant.

“That's right. Men of his kind live in terror of being discovered. I only realized the truth later and confronted him at the funeral. He folded at once. The shame of it must have been too much for him to bear, which is why he killed himself.”

Poor Hotchkiss.
That would explain his frantic call the day before he died.

A twig cracked beneath Kitty's foot. Aimee stopped. For a few moments, all Kitty heard was the sound of the other woman's breath. Then Aimee pushed her ahead. “You have to be more careful.”

“Why didn't you tell anyone about Mr. Hotchkiss, Aimee?”

“I was going to. But then he went and slit his wrists before I had a chance to speak to the police. And after that—well, they pinned the murder on him in any case, didn't they? So what would be the point?”

Kitty saw the Bearcat parked on the street. And finally, she heard Soames calling her name.

“Hurry,” Aimee said.

“Miss Weeks.” Soames was about twenty feet away.

Kitty's moment of relief was short-lived. Aimee Cole brusquely swung her around, and she became a shield between the widow and the agent. The needle at her neck kept her in check. She couldn't move or Aimee would puncture her skin.

“Are you all right, Miss Weeks?” Soames came closer.

“Stop right there,” Aimee shouted. “I have a syringe, and I'm not afraid to use it.”

“I'm putting down the lantern.” He bent his knees and placed the light on the ground. He stood, slowly. “Let's not panic. We can sort this out.” He introduced himself. “Why don't you release Miss Weeks, and we can discuss this in private, Mrs. Cole? You are Mrs. Cole, aren't you?”

“Who else could I be?” Aimee spat.

Soames sounded calm and steady. Reasonable. If she were in Aimee's shoes, she would trust him, Kitty thought.

“I won't hurt you, Mrs. Cole,” the Secret Service man continued. “Once we're done talking, I can help you. Miss Weeks tells me you're planning to go to Mexico to become an actress. I can make sure you get there safely.”

“Likely story,” Aimee scoffed. “Once you get what you want, you'll leave me in the lurch. I know men.”

“What in God's name is going on?” Booth arrived, dragging a scowling, handcuffed Lupone beside him.

“What is happening is that I'm going to take Miss Weeks to her car, and she will drive me away,” Aimee replied.

“Over my dead body.” Booth raised his arm. There was a pistol at the end of it. He cocked the hammer.

Kitty gasped and closed her eyes. She would never get out of this.

“Calm down, Booth.” Soames stepped into the line of fire. “Let's think things through.”

“I'm done thinking,” Booth said.

Kitty opened her eyes again. Were the two men playing some kind of charade to bluff Aimee into believing that Booth would shoot if she didn't do as Soames asked?

“Get out of my way, Soames. Now,” Booth thundered. “Unless you want me to report you when we get back.”

Soames stepped aside.

There was no one between the barrel and Kitty. If Booth fired, she would be hit. Kitty stared at his outstretched arm, mesmerized.

“My colleague has more patience than I do,” Booth told Aimee. “I suggest you don't push your luck any further. Put down that syringe, and tell us who put you up to this filthy business, and why.”

“Never!” Aimee inched backward, pulling Kitty along with her.

Booth took aim and fired, the shot deafening.

Kitty's heart stopped. The bullet had whistled right past her.

“Bullying won't work with me,” Aimee yelled. “You could ask my husband, only he's dead.”

Kitty felt completely out of her depth. She saw no way out unless Aimee spoke to the men.

“Let me handle this,” Soames said to Booth.

“What? And stand here all night? I'm tired and ready to go home, and I won't have my hand forced by some hysterical cow. If she wants to act like a child, I'll treat her like one. I'm going to count down from five,” he said loudly, “and if she doesn't start talking, I'll shoot again. And this time, I won't miss.”

He looked fierce in the light of the lantern. “FIVE,” he yelled.

“Say something please, Aimee,” Kitty begged. Booth didn't seem to be bluffing.

“Put the gun down,” Aimee called.

The pistol didn't waver.

“FOUR,” Booth shouted.

“This is getting out of hand, Booth,” Soames said.

Kitty smelled Aimee's fear.

“We're running out of time,” Booth boomed. “I'm at THREE.”

“Please reconsider, Mrs. Cole,” Soames urged. “We can help you.”

“Please, Aimee.” A tear trickled down Kitty's cheek. “Just explain to them. Tell them you didn't understand what your husband was doing.”

“I didn't understand? It's he who didn't understand, and he didn't do anything,” Aimee whispered through gritted teeth. “He talked big, but he was a coward. He couldn't bring himself to hurt a horse. Not for all the money in the world, so I had to go down to the stables and do it for him.”

“You injected Breedlove?” Of course, that made sense.

“It's why I left the children's tables for a few minutes. I found Hunter near the stalls with his pistol and the syringe. He was sniveling like a baby.”

“And then you killed him?”

“Stop your chattering,” Booth shouted.

“No one noticed.” Aimee's voice was low. “Everyone looked right past me. No one—not even you—guessed that I had done it.”

“TWO.” The black barrel bore down on the women.

Kitty screwed her eyes shut. She was going to die.

“This is your last chance,” Booth called.

Lupone slammed his head into his captor, and a shot sounded as Booth's arm jerked, Soames dove forward, and then the world went quiet.

Kitty yanked herself free from Aimee's grip. The widow stood still for a moment, her eyes bright, then she sighed, and her body tumbled backward. She fell so slowly, her feet coming off the ground for an instant, that Kitty felt as though she were watching a picture run by an overzealous projectionist who sped up the action once more when Soames rushed over to check Aimee's pulse.

“She's breathing.” He turned to his partner. “You idiot.”

“It's his fault.” Still handcuffed together, Booth smacked Lupone on the head. “And besides, we needed an answer.”

“
You
needed an answer.” Soames applied pressure to the wound on the widow's shoulder. “You're not hurt?” he asked Kitty.

Kitty touched her neck. “I think I'm all right.”

With shaking fingers, she picked up the syringe that Aimee had dropped, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and placed it on the ground beside the younger agent.

Soames took off his jacket and tied it tightly around Mrs. Cole's shoulder. A hint of color returned to the widow's cheeks. “We're going to take you to a hospital.”

He picked her up and carried her in his arms to the agents' car. He told Kitty to follow them. They drove to the nearest police station, where she waited in the Bearcat while Booth, Soames, and Lupone went inside, leaving Mrs. Cole behind.

There were so many different Aimees, Kitty thought with a shiver. Wife Aimee, daughter Aimee, showgirl Aimee, captor Aimee. Even aspiring actress Aimee, and friendless Aimee. The only image that she had difficulty conjuring was Aimee as murderess shooting her husband through the skull. But that's exactly what Mrs. Cole had done.

A police matron and two policemen arrived, and Kitty watched them lift the widow onto a stretcher.

“What happens now?” she asked Soames, who came out to join her.

“Lupone goes back to prison, Mrs. Cole goes to the hospital, and you go home and forget everything that's happened.”

“What about you and Agent Booth?”

“This won't look good on either of our records.”

“You prevented a crime!”

“We injured someone and involved a civilian.”

Kitty realized he was talking about her. “I won't tell.”

“I know you won't, but Mrs. Cole or Lupone will.” They stood alone under the stars for a few moments.

“What did she tell you before Booth fired?”

“She admitted that she had murdered her husband and that the vials came from Dr. Albert.”

“Oh.” Soames exhaled loudly.

“I think she must have hated Mr. Cole. Or hated him in that moment. It's hard to tell. She's a good actress.”

The agent reached out and held Kitty's hand in his. “Well, Miss Weeks, I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

“So do I.” Kitty pulled away. “Good-bye, Mr. Soames.”

“Would you like me to follow you home?”

“I'll be fine.” She climbed into the Bearcat, turned on the engine and headlamps, and drove back to the New Century Apartments.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Kitty's interview appeared on the Ladies' Page the next day, just as Miss Busby had envisioned it:

FOR AMERICAN GIRLS, BY AN AMERICAN GIRL: AN INTERVIEW WITH PHILANTHROPIST AND AUTHOR, MISS ANNE TRACY MORGAN

Kitty scanned the text, which had remained more or less faithful to her account. “Duties rather than the rights of women…with greater freedom comes greater responsibility…the girl must look into the mirror to discover who she is and what she might become.” While Miss Morgan emerged from the piece a living, breathing woman with a will of her own, Kitty felt that the interviewer, referred to only as “the American girl,” remained faceless and receded into the background.

“How are you this morning?” Mr. Weeks walked into the dining room. He had waited for her to come home the previous night and, after she told him everything, meticulously checked her neck under the glare of his desk lamp. “You feel all right? No headaches or fever?”

“Every time I sneeze now, you're going to think I might die.”

“Do you blame me?” He tucked his napkin in his collar. “I want you to stay home this weekend.”

“You won't get any argument from me.” Kitty finished her breakfast and returned to bed. She slept through the morning, woke up for lunch, and—since she was exhausted, and nothing to do with horses would ever be the same for her—declined Amanda's offer to go out for a ride.

• • •

The Weekses boarded a train at Pennsylvania Station and set off for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in California five days later. Julian Weeks had spent Monday and Tuesday at meetings, and then came home and announced that he needed a change and that they ought to leave town for a while.

Kitty hadn't heard from Soames or read anything about the incident in the park in the newspapers. Without her job to give her days a rhythm, she found herself drifting around the apartment, and new scenery sounded appealing. She had packed her bags without any argument and read old
Photoplay
magazines while the train rumbled through a tunnel beneath the Hudson.

They emerged on the other side into the warm, bright sunshine of the mainland. Clapboard houses replaced brick buildings. Lines of cable wire bordered farmland and woods, and here and there, a child on a bicycle waved to the train as it passed.

Kitty left the first-class compartment and took tea in the dining car with a group of young ladies. Later that evening, she chatted with their brothers and parents. She tried not to think about what had happened to Aimee or whether she would see Soames again. She hoped he wouldn't be punished for Booth's actions.

A few days into their trip, Mr. Weeks patted the seat beside him and gestured for Kitty. “The president has sent off his third note to Germany. Listen to what he says regarding submarine warfare: ‘Illegal and inhuman acts, however justifiable they may be…are manifestly indefensible when they deprive neutrals of their acknowledged rights, particularly when they violate the right to life itself. If a belligerent cannot retaliate against an enemy without injuring the lives of neutrals…a due regard for the dignity of neutral powers should dictate that the practice be discontinued.'

“And then the president goes on to say that ‘the Government of the United States is not unmindful of the extraordinary conditions created by this war…nor of the method of attack produced by the use of instrumentalities of naval warfare which the nations of the world cannot have had in view when the existing rules of international law were formulated, but'”—Julian Weeks emphasized each word as he read—“‘
it cannot consent to abate any essential or fundamental right of its people because of a mere alteration in circumstance.
'

“Mere?” He turned to his daughter, shaking his head. “As you and I both know, there's nothing ‘mere' about the changes that this war has brought about.”

The train hurtled through the heartland, and the Weekses switched to the new Scenic Limited in Missouri. It was a fast all-steel train with a glass-walled observation car, and it took its passengers on a breathtaking journey along the Meramec and Missouri Rivers, the Royal Gorge, and the Feather River Canyon.

Kitty had never seen such vistas, natural beauty on such a grand scale. She felt as though she had tumbled out of the hurly-burly of Manhattan and into a universe where diplomats and Secret Service men had no place.

She and her father disembarked in San Francisco. They set off the next morning for the Exposition, which commemorated the opening of the Panama Canal, “a historic undertaking that connects two continents and the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,” as the pamphlets said. In size and scope, the fair was the third of its class in the United States and the twelfth of its kind held anywhere on the planet.

Kitty visited the Palace of Horticulture and was entranced by the Gettysburg display. She watched the dance performances at the replica Samoan and Chinese villages, while Mr. Weeks spent most of his time at the Palaces of Manufactures and Varied Industries, Machinery, and Mines and Metallurgy. Together, they attended concerts at the Festival Hall and marveled at the display of colored lights that gave the place an
Arabian Nights
air.

They posed for a photograph in front of the Liberty Bell (on loan from Philadelphia). They kept their hats on this time and appeared as they wished to be perceived: a prosperous father with his daughter on vacation. They watched craftsmen from all over the world ply their trades at souvenir stalls.

“Here you may observe up close the handicrafts of alien races,” a tour guide informed them.

Julian and Kitty Weeks took a detour to Yellowstone on their journey back home. And when Old Faithful erupted, Kitty found that all the pent-up tension that she had accumulated over the past month shot into the air along with the cloud of vapor and gasses that hurtled to a height of over one hundred feet and rained back down on her like the tissue-paper nothings that fell from the skies during that fateful daylight fireworks display.

She realized that what Aimee Cole wanted more than anything was to make something of herself, and Hunter Cole had denied her that opportunity. He hadn't given her the place in the world that she craved and wouldn't allow her to try to achieve it on her own.

Thwarted women did strange things. They imploded, like Miss Busby, or exploded, like Aimee. Others were forced to channel their energies into acceptable pursuits, like Anne Morgan, and a lucky few—Pearl and Mary Pickford, for instance—found fame and fortune in the movies. But who knew what sacrifices each had to make and what injustices and indignities they put up with on the way?

She and Aimee were similar in many respects, Kitty thought. Both outsiders, both wanting to prove themselves. But what, Kitty wondered, would she do if she felt trapped? Would she be able to look another person in the face and pull the trigger?

Julian Weeks felt her shudder. “What's the matter, Capability?”

“It's nothing.” Kitty took his arm, and they walked through the park in companionable silence.

• • •

Every day since she left New York, Kitty had scanned the papers, hoping for some tidbit of information on either Soames, Aimee, Lupone, or Dr. Albert—anything, however trivial, that might give her some clue to the aftermath of what happened in the park. She found nothing and came to believe that the affair would remain buried, but on August 15, when she was just hours away from the city, the
New York World
broke a major story, exposing Germany's “secret undertakings” in the United States.

Kitty's arms felt weak as she held the paper and learned that “no less a personage than Herr von Bethmann-Hollweg, chancellor of the German Empire,” had participated in the intrigues from Berlin and that “his emissaries in America included the German ambassador to the United States; his military attaché in Washington; and his chief financial agent, Dr. Heinrich Friedrich Albert.”

Her eyes traveled across the page.

“The
World
today begins the publication of a series of articles raising for the first time the curtain that has hitherto concealed the activities and purposes of the official German propaganda in the United States,” the story began.

She glanced through the litany of charges: Dr. Albert had secretly purchased a sham munitions plant in Connecticut, which took orders from the British and French governments that it never intended to fulfill. He participated in plans to foment strikes in other munitions plants across the country and plotted to buy the Press Association and so control the dissemination of war news in America.

She kept reading: there was no mention of glanders, no mention of the Coles nor of Kitty and her father, but one Mr. Hugo Schweitzer was named as a participant in the nefarious proceedings. Kitty didn't find any mention of the Secret Service agents either.

Her father put down his copy of the paper. “I got out just in time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before we left town, I canceled the deal with Maitland and terminated my arrangement with Schweitzer.”

“Mr. Maitland can't be pleased.”

“No, he wasn't, but he'll survive.”

The train chugged back to New York. Kitty marveled at a facsimile reproduction of a letter between Dr. Albert and one George Viereck, editor of a magazine called
The Fatherland
. “In thinking the matter over,” the letter said, “I do not think that Mrs. R. would be the proper intermediary, inasmuch as she doesn't attend to her financial matters herself. If it must be a woman, Mrs. G., the mother of our friend, Mrs. L., would be far better…” and so on and so forth.

The commercial attach
é
had been busy.
To Kitty, the letter begged the question of how the
World
had acquired this correspondence. Had someone given it to them? Had one of their reporters stolen it? She couldn't imagine just anyone walking into the Hamburg-American building and taking private papers from Dr. Albert's office.

Rao picked up Kitty and her father from the station. The traffic was terrible.

“This is nothing, sir,” the chauffeur said. “Last week, twenty trucks from American Express blocked the avenue for hours. We were told that they were filled with gold all the way from England on its way to the Morgan bank.”

The news at home wasn't as dramatic. Grace and Mrs. Codd had managed without arguing during their absence. Grace hadn't stepped out with any young men, but Mrs. Codd had taken Sundays off to visit her daughter on Staten Island.

Grace unpacked the trunks while Kitty sorted through her letters. She had received one postmarked from Washington, along with others from her boarding-school friends.

She opened the Washington letter once the maid left the room. Soames had written to say that he had been transferred away from New York and that Booth had been placed on indefinite suspension.

“You may want to know about Mrs. C,” he added. “She recovered and told us what we needed. Although I think she should be in prison, she is on her way to Mexico.

“The strangest thing,” he continued, “has to do with Dr. A. He fell asleep on the subway, woke up with a start at his station, and rushed off, leaving behind his briefcase. When he realized what had happened, he ran back to the train, but the briefcase was gone.”

Kitty began to laugh. The Secret Service had “happened upon” Dr. Albert's briefcase—and they, for some reason, made the findings public?

“Capability.” Mr. Weeks knocked at the door, an envelope in his hands. He sounded uncharacteristically pleased as he held up a single sheet of stamped paper. “Our passport has arrived.”

• • •

Miss Busby rang bright and early the next morning. “Your maid told me you'd be back.”

Kitty never expected to be so happy to hear that familiar squawking voice.

“I hope you're well rested, because we have heaps of work ahead of us.”

“Are
you
well, Miss Busby?” Kitty said. It was as though Kitty was back in the alcove with her editor firing off orders.

“Fine. Fit as a fiddle. Never felt better, in fact.”

“You do know that Mr. Hewitt let me go, Miss Busby?”

“Bah. Mr. Hewitt has no say in who goes or stays at the Ladies' Page. I will tell you one thing though. I plan to keep Miss Williams. She's wonderful, that girl. A real worker. And I've realized my limits, so she will take care of the day-to-day tasks while you handle special assignments.

“That interview with Miss Morgan struck a deep chord with our readers. They loved you as a questioner. The Page was flooded with letters praising your innocence and naïveté, and it got me thinking: Why not conduct a series of interviews with other prominent women? We'll start with Dr. Davis, the commissioner of corrections, and move on to Mrs. Isabella Goodwin, the only top-grade female policewoman in the city's detective bureau. And I'd like to throw in a few artists and writers.”

“May I have a few days to think about it?” Kitty asked, overwhelmed by the barrage of information. “I'll need to discuss the offer with my father.”

“Well, take all the time you need, but make it fast. Of course, it goes without saying that I will expect you not to engage in any more of your shenanigans.”

“Of course, Miss Busby. And thank you. I'm flattered.” Kitty hung up the receiver.

“What a voice. I'll bet the entire avenue heard that conversation,” Mr. Weeks remarked. “So what will you do? Do you think you will go back?”

“Do you have a preference?”

“It's not my decision to make. However, I will say that I don't envision you spending the rest of your days planning dinner for me and bossing about Grace and Mrs. Codd.”

“I had considered working somewhere else.”

“Where? A different Ladies' Page?”