Front Page Affair (5 page)

“All right then. You're free to report to Miss Busby.”

But the Ladies' Page editor still seemed miffed by Kitty's disloyalty, and when Kitty went in, she said that all she needed was the result of this week's home cookery contest.

“Did Mr. Flanagan like your work?” Jeannie asked when Kitty returned to her desk.

“I think so.” Kitty sifted through the entries and picked a recipe for breaded mutton cutlets with onion sauce. It didn't sound too appetizing, but she was in a rush. She dropped it off on Miss Busby's desk.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Jeannie.” Kitty left the hen coop without looking back, so she didn't notice the typist staring after her.

Chapter Seven

Kitty hurried home and changed into her leather boots, a split skirt, and a linen shirt. Then she telephoned Mrs. Clements before calling for her Stutz Bearcat, the sporty yellow roadster that her father had given her for her birthday. Like riding a horse, Kitty drove for pleasure. She went downstairs, hopped into her car, and covered the distance to Durland's Academy on the west side of Central Park at top speed, only to find Amanda Vanderwell already mounted on Lucky Number 7, waiting for her.

“Sorry I'm late.” Kitty parked the car. A lad brought Damsel forward, and she hoisted herself into the saddle. Kitty and Amanda had met the previous summer and struck up a conversation over the rose garden plantings at the Botanical Gardens. Kitty had been dazzled by Amanda's beauty and effortless confidence; what Amanda admired in her had been less obvious—perhaps it was Kitty's freedom to move about the city, which was so foreign to Amanda's rarified and tightly controlled experience of New York, although the Vanderwells and their set had been on the island for generations.

“I hope you have a good excuse.” Amanda flicked Lucky with her crop, and the horse trotted along with Amanda poised elegantly sidesaddle.

“Work,” Kitty said, following a few paces behind, acutely aware, as always, how awkward she appeared in comparison astride on Damsel. But Mr. Weeks insisted. It was safer to ride in the mannish style, he said, for both horse and equestrienne.

“I don't know why you carry on with that nonsense.” Amanda turned and raised an eyebrow behind her veil, but her lips parted in a smile. Coppery hair glinted from below her hat.

“How was your weekend?” Kitty asked as they headed toward the bridle paths that crisscrossed the park.

“Lovely.” Amanda shrugged. “As was to be expected. Did you know that this was the first big party the Astors have held since Colonel Astor drowned on the
Titanic
? And then we found out about what happened to Mr. Morgan, and I can tell you, it gave everyone quite a scare. But”—a roaring sound from one of the automobile mowers trimming the lawns in the distance distracted her—“I did have a fascinating time at Saturday's dinner.”

“Did you meet someone?” Kitty grinned at her friend. Amanda had no shortage of beaus, all of whom she found some reason to reject sooner or later.

“Not in the way you're thinking, naughty girl.” Amanda laughed. “I was seated next to the most intriguing little man though, one of those newfangled psychoanalyst fellows. He regaled us with one story after another, the best of which was that the kaiser started the war in order to win his mother's approval.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Of course, the kaiser, King George, and Tsar Nicholas of Russia are all cousins, related through their grandmama, Queen Victoria—”

“Yes, yes.” Amanda sometimes treated Kitty like she didn't know basic facts, as though attending boarding school in Europe had somehow stunted Kitty's intelligence.

“And Princess Victoria, Queen Victoria's daughter who was married off to the German emperor,” Amanda went on, “had to have her son, the present kaiser, pulled out of her with forceps. He was born with a crippled arm as a result and had to undergo excruciating treatments to straighten it. They say he always felt like he was never good enough for his parents. When he was five years old, his mother decided he must learn how to ride. He had British royal blood, so it was unthinkable that he couldn't. But his mother was determined that her son learn to ride like a British king. Of course, it's hard when you have one arm that doesn't work. And although he kept falling off and begged her to stop, she wouldn't give up until he learned how to do it to her satisfaction.”

“And that's why he declared war on Russia, France, and England?” It was Kitty's turn to be skeptical.

“He wants to prove that he can keep up with the rest,” Amanda replied. “That neither he nor the German nation are to be trifled with. Don't look at me like that,” she said to Kitty. “I'm just repeating what I heard.”

“I thought you found your dinner companion fascinating.”

“He was. You should have been there to hear him tell it in person.”

“So no new beaus?” Amanda's parents had their hearts set on her making “a good match,” which meant a wealthy match, since the Vanderwells, although they were descended from a distinguished line, had very little cash at present.

“It was the same old boring crowd: Jerry, Potty, and Neville, prattling on as usual. But I did make a decision that I want to tell you about. I said it in front of everyone at our table, including Mummy and Daddy, so I can't back down now.”

“What is it?” Kitty turned to face her friend.

Amanda's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled. “I plan to enroll in a nurse's aide course at the YWCA, and when it's over, I'm going to go to Europe to tend to the wounded.”

“You?” Kitty slowed down. The Amanda she knew barely deigned to tie her own shoelaces, let alone tend to others.

“Yes! And why not? I'll be twenty-four this year, Capability. I haven't met anyone who suits my tastes and Mummy and Daddy's requirements, and I won't have people calling me a spinster. Besides”—she resumed her breezy manner—“nursing is terribly glamorous. Who knows? I may even meet a wounded nobleman who dies in my arms, leaving me his fortune.”

“You mean debt, don't you?”

Amanda grinned. “All the best girls are becoming nurses these days, which is why I want you to give up the paper and come join me.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's right. Give up the paper. You've been complaining about that Miss Busby since you started.”

“She's not so bad…” Kitty began to regret anything unkind she might have said about the Ladies' Page editor.

“You told me she doesn't give you any real work. Just makes you judge contests and open mail.”

“Not any longer.”

“Is that so?” Amanda flicked Lucky with her crop, and he broke into a canter.

After a moment's pause, Kitty urged Damsel forward and followed her friend down the empty path, free and fast on her mount with nothing but greenery around her and snippets of clear blue skies overhead.

They came to a turnoff in the trail, interrupted by a low wall. It was against the rules to ride there, but many of the young bucks did, to get in a jump. Amanda sped up her horse some more, and one-step, two-step, she was in the air, soaring across the barrier as Kitty watched, her heart in her mouth.

Her friend looked so precarious, perched there with both legs on one side of the horse—she could slide off or her skirt might get caught in the stirrups. A moment later, she was safely back on the ground.

“So what's changed for you at the paper?” Amanda called, exhilarated.

Kitty gathered her reins, took the jump herself, and rejoined her friend on the path.

“A man was killed at a party I covered.”

“Hunter Cole at Bessie Basshor's do?”

“How did you know?”

“Mama is a great friend of Bessie's. The only reason we weren't there was because we had been invited to the Astors'.”

“I've been asked to help out with the story. I spent this morning speaking to Mrs. Cole and Mrs. Basshor.”

Amanda snickered.

“What's wrong with that?” Kitty couldn't fathom her friend's response.

“She was a dance-hall girl.”

“Mrs. Basshor?”

“No, silly. Aimee Cole. I bet she didn't tell you that, did she? ‘Rising star of burlesque stage marries Hunter Cole, American blue blood and ne'er-do-well.' It caused quite the scandal.”

“I had no idea.”

“She was called Fatima, or something of that sort, and performed exotic numbers with a serpent and veils. They say”—Amanda lowered her voice even though there was no one else around—“that she was half-naked when Hunter first set eyes on her.”

Kitty couldn't picture timid Aimee dancing on a burlesque stage—or any other stage, for that matter. “You're teasing me.”

“She was scantily clad.”

“Oh my.” The description didn't fit the drab woman Kitty had met. They had come to the end of the loop and paused near the turnoff to the stables.

“If you ask me,” Amanda said, “she's the one who did it. Fatima Cole strangled Hunter with one of her scarves.”

“He was shot,” Kitty corrected.

“Shot, strangled, what's the difference? He's dead. She's not and is probably waiting to collect what remains of the Cole bounty. Anyway, don't forget: four o'clock next week at the YWCA on Fifteenth Street.” Amanda blew Kitty a kiss before she trotted off.

Kitty watched her friend disappear around the curve. Then she gave a pull on her reins and began another round. She knew that Mrs. Vanderwell disapproved of their friendship. Amanda didn't say as much, but from the hints she dropped, Kitty guessed that Mrs. Vanderwell thought she was a nouveau-riche upstart from the wrong side of town, which was why Amanda never came to Kitty's place, and only rarely invited Kitty over. Mostly they met at Durland's or out shopping.

Kitty wondered whether Amanda wanted her company at the YWCA only to aggravate her family. Then she dismissed the thought as uncharitable. Stuck in her world of endless social commitments and obligations, Amanda needed a friend from outside her circle just as much as Kitty needed someone to talk to. She considered attending the introductory session to humor her, even though she had no intention of leaving the paper. Especially not at the moment.

Damsel clopped down the turf in the dappled shade, and Kitty urged her to go faster. The horse's speed matched Kitty's galloping thoughts: Aimee Cole might have been a burlesque dancer who married above her station, but that didn't make her a murderess. Still, the widow's past would explain why others dismissed her. It would also explain why Mrs. Cole had seemed so worked up when she told Kitty that the police would pin the murder on someone convenient—after all, who would be more convenient than a dance-hall girl?

Chapter Eight

“Your name, please, sir?” Prentiss, the photographer, said to Mr. Weeks.

“Julian Conrad Weeks,” Kitty's father replied.

Kitty paced up and down the stifling front office on Broadway, staring at the sample portraits displayed on the walls. She had a nine thirty appointment to speak to Poppy Clements, the theater producer's wife who had been at Mrs. Basshor's party, and here she was, waiting for the punctilious Prentiss to fill out official passport application forms.

“Occupation?”

“Businessman.”

“Your age, please, sir?”

“Forty-seven.”

“And date of birth?” Prentiss's nib scratched against the cheap government-issue paper. He wrote carefully, blotting each entry so that the ink wouldn't smudge.

Kitty couldn't see what all the fuss was about. When she'd arrived in New York the previous year, all she'd carried by way of identification were two letters, one from school and one from her father's attorneys, and the nervous young customs official who boarded the ship had seemed embarrassed to check even those.

But this morning, Mr. Weeks explained that the State Department had issued new regulations. Since the war broke out, it had become mandatory for all Americans traveling abroad to carry a passport, and by the end of the previous year, the rules had become even more rigid, requiring a sworn application before a clerk of a court and the inclusion of two unmounted photographs.

“And will you be traveling with your wife, Mr. Weeks?” Prentiss said.

“My wife is deceased. I will be traveling with my daughter.”

Julian Weeks provided Kitty's particulars: Capability Violet Weeks, nineteen years of age, born February 10, 1896, in Selangor, Malaya.

The scratching nib paused. “Selangor?” the photographer said. Then he added, “No matter, sir. Miss Weeks's citizenship follows yours. Your place of birth, Mr. Weeks?”

“Dover, Delaware.”

“And you have a birth certificate to prove that?”

Kitty suspected that Prentiss enjoyed the liberty of asking the many questions that the form required of his customers, although he presented it as a courtesy that he offered gratis to those requiring a photograph.

“I don't have a birth certificate,” Mr. Weeks said. “Do you, Mr. Prentiss?”

Prentiss coughed. “So many men of our generation don't possess one. Was your father native born or naturalized, Mr. Weeks?” Pen poised, he waited for a reply.

Julian Weeks said, “That's a bit much.”

Kitty read from a news clipping, pinned beside a list of the photographer's services and prices:

Statement from Secretary of State Bryan, November 13, 1914: The President, upon the advice of the Secretary of State, has this day signed an order under which the rules governing the granting and issuing of passports in the United States are made much stricter than they have been in the past. The immediate cause of the amendment to the passport regulations was the fact that the Department of State had been recently informed of several cases in which aliens holding themselves as native American citizens have obtained, or attempted to obtain, American passports for purposes of espionage or otherwise in foreign countries.

“I don't believe this,” she said and read out loud: “‘Under the former rules it was not difficult to obtain passports fraudulently.' Anyone claiming citizenship through birth in the United States only had to make a sworn application before a notary. ‘It was not required that either the applicant or witness be known to the notary.'”

She turned to her father. “Now you will need a witness, who must also be an American citizen, to make a sworn statement in support of your application. And that individual must be known to the clerk of the federal or state court.”

“The new regulations have been instituted to keep us all safe,” Prentiss observed.

“My father was native born, Mr. Prentiss.” Mr. Weeks checked the time on his pocket watch. “Miss Weeks will fill out the rest of the form. Why don't we go ahead and take that photograph?”

“As you wish, sir.” The photographer blotted the document and slid it into an envelope. He pulled back a black curtain. “This way, please, sir and madam.”

He instructed the Weekses to remove their hats, posed them in front of an off-white backdrop, and requested that they face the camera head-on.

Kitty joked, “Just like criminals.”

“No smiling, please,” Prentiss said.

Kitty tried to keep a straight face.

“Just keep your expression neutral, Miss Weeks.” He ducked behind his camera and held up a flashbulb. The negative was exposed in a burst of light. For good measure, he repeated the process.

“Well, that's that.” Mr. Weeks put his hat back on as they left the studio. “Thank you for being patient. It's something I've been meaning to take care of for a while.”

They climbed into the waiting Packard, and Kitty gave Rao Mrs. Clements's address. The playwright lived on Central Park West, so she might not be too late after all.

“Where did your father originally come from?” Kitty didn't know much about her family's ancestry. Her mother didn't have any relatives, and Mr. Weeks preferred not to talk about his parents, who had died when he was young.

“I'm not sure.” Julian Weeks picked up his paper. The headline had to do with Muenter, the man who had shot J. P. Morgan, committing suicide in his jail cell. “What do you make of this business?”

“It's horrid.” Kitty had read the story this morning: Muenter had climbed the bars of his cell and jumped to the floor, cracking open his skull. “They say he had a history of mental problems and tried to kill himself earlier this week by digging into his wrist with a jagged blade he made from the metal eraser holder of a pencil.” She winced at the gruesome image.

“And the police left him unsupervised long enough that he could try again?”

“The constable in charge walked away for a few minutes—”

“Why did the constable walk away, Capability?
That's
the real question.” He shook his head and opened the paper, but not before adding, “I'm afraid the unfortunate Muenter was dead meat the moment he barged into Mr. Morgan's mansion with his guns drawn.”

Kitty thought hard. Among the documents that had been found on Erich Muenter's person was a press clipping announcing the Morgan bank's recent flotation of a hundred-million-dollar war bond on behalf of the British government. When reporters had questioned him about it, Muenter said that he didn't support one side over another. All he wanted was to put an end to America's export of war materials to Europe and to “persuade” Mr. Morgan to use his “great influence” to put a stop to the United States's role in Europe's bloodshed. The result of his good intentions? Mr. Morgan lay in the hospital, recovering from his injuries, while Mr. Muenter had been found in his jail cell with his head smashed on the concrete floor.

• • •

“Welcome, my dear, welcome.” Mrs. Clements greeted Kitty with open arms. She wore a brocaded caftan with Japanese lacquered chopsticks holding her hair in place. A couple of unruly locks fell onto her forehead. “I can't believe it's been almost two days since Hunter passed.” She closed her eyes. “I can't bring myself to say ‘killed'… Come this way.”

She led Kitty down a hallway lined with books on every conceivable topic, from art to politics, science, and literature. Above the bookshelves hung framed posters of Mr. Clements's productions:
The Lost Girl
,
Beauty's Demise
,
Antigone by the Lake
, and others.

“I'm so glad that the
Sentinel
has put a girl on the case,” Poppy Clements went on. “In my heart, I believe that this is a woman's story.”

“What makes you say that, Mrs. Clements?” Kitty asked.

“I just sense it. My Clement tells me that I should follow my instincts, and so I do—even if they're contrary to popular opinion. My entire career as a playwright is based on that principle. For instance, my current project has to do with the sinking of the
Lusitania—
but from the U-boat captain's perspective.”

Kitty must have looked surprised, because Mrs. Clements laughed.

“You see? I already have your attention.”

Kitty followed Mrs. Clements past a souk-like living room. The floor was covered with Turkish rugs, and colorful throws had been flung across every piece of furniture.

“No one thinks about the men who live in those tin cans,” Poppy Clements continued in her lazy drawl. “And I can tell you that it's awful—they're stuck inside for days on end, unable to stand straight, no sunlight, no fresh air, no fresh food. As a matter of fact, they have so little oxygen that they're ordered to sleep when they're not on duty in order to conserve it. And that's not all.”

Kitty marveled at the Bohemian decor as they walked through the apartment. It all seemed slightly haphazard and yet of a piece, in keeping with Kitty's sense of Mrs. Clements's exotic tastes, and perhaps, her penchant to shock.

“The toilets blow back refuse into the user's face, which makes me thankful for our American plumbing,” the playwright continued, “and the sailors are forced to wear a single leather uniform for the duration of the journey, which must stink like hell by the time they get home.” She threw open a door. “Welcome to my den.” The Oriental theme continued here too, with a low-slung divan in one corner and filigreed lamps hanging from ornate metal hooks.

“Excuse the mess.” Mrs. Clements cleared away a pile of pillows with a sweep of her hand. “Come sit.” She leaned against an embroidered bolster and patted a seat beside her. “Do the police have any leads on who killed poor Hunter?”

“Not as far as I'm aware,” Kitty replied. All she knew was what she'd read that morning, and the story had been short. “Mr. Cole died of a single bullet to his head. And there were no signs of struggle on the body, so he must have been expecting whomever it was that assaulted him.”

“How awful.” The playwright frowned. “There weren't any fingerprints? That's normal police procedure, isn't it?”

“I believe so.” Kitty was hardly an expert, but she answered, “Apparently, the pistol had been wiped clean.”

“And he was killed with his own gun?”

“Yes.” The woman certainly had a lot of questions.

“And it's certain that he was killed while the fireworks were in progress?”

“That's what is being said. Mrs. Clements?”

“Of course, you need to ask me things, not the other way around. Forgive me, my dear. It's my instinct as a writer. Ask, ask, ask. Never rest until I'm satisfied.” She took out a cigarette from a silver case. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you like one?”

“No, thanks.”

“Too young? You'll get the hang of it soon enough.” Mrs. Clements fitted the cigarette into an engraved silver holder and struck a safety match to light it. She inhaled deeply and blew out a long stream of smoke from between her lips.

“I've been asked to gather background information. Details about Mr. Cole and how he was regarded—”

“You mean the woman's angle.”

“That's right.” Kitty nodded.

“Well, let's see.” Mrs. Clements picked a fleck of tobacco from her tongue and, with a flick of her elegant fingers, tossed it into the air. “Let's start with Mrs. Cole. You could say I always made it a point to speak to her.”

“She did tell me you were very kind.”

“And I spoke to Mr. Cole too.”

“Did you talk to him the afternoon he died?”

“Oh yes.”

“Do you recall what he said?”

“He'd had one too many to drink, you know. And he was rambling on. He seemed preoccupied with something, but—and I've been thinking about this ever since it happened—for the life of me, I can't remember the specifics of our conversation. The thing is, I never paid much attention to what Hunter said. He was the kind who always went about something or other, and I pretended to listen, because nobody else would, but mostly I observed. How he held himself, how he moved. It's useful for my writing.”

“And how did he seem to you that afternoon?”

“As I said, preoccupied. Excited about something or other. But then again, maybe I'm imagining that because of what happened afterward.”

“Do you have any idea what he might have been excited about?”

“You're a persistent one, aren't you?” Mrs. Clements seemed amused. She shrugged. “Some people are just like that. They get into a tizzy over nothing. I'm sorry I can't give you anything particular to work with.”

“Did Mrs. Cole mention anything?”

“No, she kept her mouth shut. And quite rightly, I'd say. Look, Miss Weeks, I meet all kinds of people in my line of work, and I don't hold anyone's past against them. So Aimee did what she did—”

“By that you mean she was a dance-hall girl?” This would be a good time to verify Amanda's information, since Mrs. Clements didn't seem the least bit prudish.

“She was indeed a dance-hall girl. One of the naughtier ones, possibly.” Mrs. Clements seemed unbothered by the insinuation. “But what you must understand, Miss Weeks, is that it doesn't matter. People used her as an excuse to avoid
him
.”

“I'm sorry—”

“If Hunter had more to offer, they'd still gossip, but in the end, they'd overlook Aimee's past. If he had real money or influence, do you think they would care what his wife did?”

“I see.” Kitty considered the point. “And Mr. Cole had neither money nor influence?”

“Exactly.”

“And not many friends.”

“True again.”

“But he was from a good family.”

Mrs. Clements shrugged. “That only gets one so far these days.”