Front Page Affair (6 page)

“Have you heard that he liked to bet on horses?”

“That's what they say.”

Mrs. Clements seemed frank and intelligent. She knew everyone and was held in high esteem. Kitty wanted to learn what the playwright really thought had happened. She knew she wasn't supposed to be investigating the murder, but Mr. Flanagan hadn't explicitly forbidden her from asking the witnesses about their suspicions.

“Would you have any idea who might want to see him dead, Mrs. Clements?”

“His wife?” Poppy Clements laughed a throaty laugh. “I'm only joking. But wouldn't you, if you were her? The thing that bothers me, Miss Weeks, is that Hunter really wasn't worth killing. Unless I'm missing something, and I don't believe I am, Hunter was a big, hearty, somewhat stupid but not evil man. Maybe he was short of cash and had some debts. But to shoot him at the stables at a party?” She shook her head. “It doesn't make sense.”

She stubbed her cigarette into a chased copper bowl and pressed down on it until the final spark had been extinguished. “What's sad is that he was killed after he was feeling so much better—”

Kitty perked up. “Was he ill, Mrs. Clements?” Finally, something to “work with,” as Poppy Clements said.

“Yes, he was. He must have been. He told me that he had been seeing a doctor when we met at an exhibition back in March or April. He told me that he had been seeing this man regularly and that he never felt better.”

“Did he tell you what for?” Kitty leaned forward. If Mr. Cole had been cured of a serious illness, that would add a poignant twist to the tale.

“Someone pulled him away in the midst of our conversation. I remember clearly because Mr. Clements's physician had recently retired, and I was looking for a replacement. What's strange is that when I asked Hunter about it a few weeks later, he denied that he'd been seeing anyone.”

“Do you think he had something to hide?”

“Possibly.”

“You didn't happen to catch the doctor's name?”

“Yes, I did. It was Michael… Or Lawrence. No, that's not right. It was one of those names that could either be a Christian name or a surname.” She struck a match to light another cigarette. “It was Albert. Dr. Albert.” The match hovered in the air.

“Dr. Albert. You're certain?”

“Positive. But the oddest part is that I asked all my friends, and no one seems to have heard of him.”

• • •

“Come now, that's not possible.” Mr. Flanagan flipped through Kitty's notes. “This Dr. Albert must be in the telephone directory. Look him up and find out what kind of doctor he is. If Cole suffered from a serious illness, then our readers need to know.”

“Have the police made any further progress, Mr. Flanagan?” Kitty said. The fact that her usefulness to him wasn't over, that he was treating her like one of the boys—straight to the point and no-nonsense—was more than she could have wished for.

“If they have, you will be the first to find out. Now run along. You have work to do.” He turned back to the newsroom, and Kitty raced down the stairs, the cool metal banister gliding beneath her fingers.

She found her workplace confidante, Mr. Musser, eating a sandwich in his basement lair.

“May I borrow your telephone directory, Mr. Musser?” she asked the grizzled archivist.

“
Was
?” The old man brushed a crumb from his beard. “
Keinen ‘Guten Tag' heute Morgen
?”

“
Guten Tag
,
Herr Musser
,” Kitty replied, unable to wipe the smile from her face. “Have you heard of a Dr. Albert?”

He put down his sandwich, shuffled out from behind the counter, and pulled a volume from one of the stacks. “Why do you ask?” He thumped a copy of the
Bell Telephone Book for Greater New York, Including All Five Boroughs
in front of her.

“Hunter Cole.” Kitty flipped through the pages. “The man who was shot at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club—he may have been seeing a physician by that name.”

“Albert.” Musser stroked his droopy walrus mustache. “Sorry, it doesn't ring a bell.”

Kitty took out her pencil and began to copy a list of subscriber numbers.

Musser looked over her shoulder while she wrote. “Did you know that the Bell system has ten times the number of telephones, proportionate to the population, of course, as in all of Europe? The company's cables, buried underground, carry as many as
eighteen hundred
wires?”

Kitty kept her finger on the page of tiny type to make sure she didn't lose track. The one drawback to coming to Mr. Musser for advice was that he was lonely and liked to chat about his current preoccupations. Usually, she didn't mind. In fact, for the most part, she enjoyed his little lectures.

“Their switchboard,” he continued as she copied the information she needed, “used to require a roomful of boys to handle just a few calls and now needs only two or three girls to serve much larger numbers faster, and with far less confusion.”

“That's progress.” Kitty finished and returned the directory.

“And what is this?” He pointed at her notes.

“It's a list of every Dr. Albert in the city.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“I'm going to call each one of them and find out who treated Mr. Cole.”

“Miss Weeks.” Musser's blue eyes twinkled. “You think they'll tell you?”

“I'll find out if you allow me to use your telephone.”

“Help yourself. I have work to do.” He shuffled off to the back.

Kitty sat in his chair and took a moment to formulate her plan. This was no different from being in drama class, she reminded herself. All she was doing was playing a part.

She picked up the receiver and asked the operator to connect her first call.

“May I speak to Dr. Albert?” she said when a male voice came on the end of the line. It turned out that there was no
Dr.
Albert at the residence, only a Mr. Albert, but Kitty decided to pursue the conversation regardless.

“I beg your pardon,” she said into the instrument. “My brother passed away recently and left a note for his doctor, but he didn't leave an address. I thought I would try every Albert in the telephone directory to see whether I could track him down.”

Silence.

“My brother's name was Cole. Hunter Cole. You don't happen to have known him?”

“I'm sorry, miss. I just own a dry-goods store.”

Kitty thanked him and hung up the receiver.

“Mr. Cole's sister.” Musser ambled out to the desk. “That's a nice touch.”

Kitty grinned. The next Albert was a doctor, but he was out of town on vacation, and his nurse said he had never had any patients by that name. The third was an astronomy professor, who told her that the only Cole he knew was one of his students, and that young man had been fit as a fiddle when he came to class that morning.

Kitty kept going. There were only five names left, and her approach didn't seem to be setting off any alarms. She told herself that she was entitled to make such inquiries, and any doctor would surely want to know what had been written to him by a recently deceased patient.

She struck gold on her fourth attempt.

“Cole, but of course!” the male voice on the other end of the line exclaimed. “Have the note sent over. I'll give you my address.”

“I'd like to verify a few details first, sir.” Now it was Kitty's turn to be cautious. “Would you mind telling me my brother's Christian name?”

“Don't
you
know?”

“Of course I do. I'd just like to be sure that you do as well so that I don't send his letter to the wrong individual.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No, sir. It's my duty to my brother's memory. I'm sure you understand.”

There was no reply.

“Sir? His Christian name, please?”

The voice turned sullen. “I don't recall the Christian names of all my patients.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Five foot ten, brown hair, brown eyes.”

Hunter Cole was taller. “Where did you meet?”

“At my club.”

Kitty heard someone speak in the background. The man giggled. A woman came on the line. “I beg your pardon. May I help you?”

Kitty explained.

“I'm sorry,” the woman said. “Dr. Albert suffers from a weak mind. He isn't allowed to speak on the telephone. Please don't call again.”

Disappointed, Kitty hung up the receiver. Before she could move on to the next name on her list, a mail boy popped his head in.

“Miss Weeks, Miss Busby wants you.”

Kitty slipped the list into her pocket and hurried upstairs. She would finish later.

• • •

“Good to see you again, Miss Weeks.” The Ladies' Page editor seemed in a chipper mood that afternoon. Her hair was up in curls, she wore dangly tourmaline earrings, and she appeared ready to forgive and forget Kitty's betrayal. “Have you had lunch?”

“Not yet.”

“The longer day isn't proving too difficult?”

“Not so far, Miss Busby.”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Well, with all this excitement, I hope you haven't forgotten about your meeting with Mrs. Stepan tomorrow.”

Kitty's blank look must have suggested that she had, because Miss Busby said, “Mrs. Stepan, the chairwoman of the ladies division of the Early Risers Riding Club. You are to meet her and report on their plans for the upcoming season, as we had discussed.”

“Of course.”

“You have the address?”

“Mrs. Stepan lives on Madison Avenue.”

“And you're prepared?”

Kitty hesitated to remind her boss that she had already undertaken three interviews for Mr. Flanagan in the past twenty-four hours. “I am. I'll meet her at eight, right after her ride.”

“All right then, Miss Weeks.” Miss Busby handed her a sheaf of notes on “What to Wear This Summer.” “I'd like you to put this into article form for me by four o'clock. Twelve hundred words, no fluff.”

“Yes, Miss Busby.” Kitty paged through the disjointed ramblings of a prominent ladies' dressmaker:
wide skirts will stay with us until August…pleating is in high demand…knife pleats…three-quarter sleeves or double sleeves (opaque above, transparent below)
. This would take all her ingenuity to convert into something coherent.

Her mind swimming with visions of chiffon and muslin, skirts and sleeves, Kitty returned to the hen coop. She would take care of Miss Busby's article, then finish her telephone calls from home.

Chapter Nine

Julian Weeks picked Kitty up from work. “You seem busy these days.” He stared out of the window as Rao drove them to the west side. Kitty's father had never learned to operate a motor vehicle. He said it was too much trouble; she suspected that he preferred to be chauffeured.

“I've been asked to help out a bit on the Hunter Cole story,” Kitty said. “It's nothing much, just a little background since I was at the party and met some of the people involved.”

“That's good.” He seemed distracted. “You know, I've been thinking that it might be time for us to travel again. Did you know that it's not too difficult to take a trip through Europe? I looked into the matter, and it seems that all we would require is a stamped
sauf conduit
—and then, with American passports, we can go wherever we like, even sightsee on the battlefields.”

“I hope you're not serious.” Kitty turned to him, but his face was impassive. “That sounds morbid.”

He shrugged. “Some of the smaller countries over there still rely on tourist dollars.”

“And how do you intend for us to get there? Swim?”

“Don't be silly. We'd sail on an American vessel. The Germans aren't about to blow those up.”

“Their U-boat captains do make mistakes.”

“That's true. It's possible there might be some danger.”

“It's more than possible.” Kitty knew he said these things just to get a rise out of her.

Rao slowed the Packard and let them off in front of the New Century's colonnaded entryway before driving around the corner to park in the garage at the rear. Not for the first time, Kitty reflected that Mr. Weeks had selected the perfect place for the two of them to live when he finally decided to settle down after a lifetime of doing business abroad.

New York was the business hub of the East Coast, and Manhattan its center. Within the island, the east side was too snooty and downtown too commercial, but the area west of Central Park consisted of the perfect blend of families and self-made men like Mr. Weeks: doctors, lawyers, politicians, and artists from all corners of the globe. He could have picked a gracious home on Riverside Drive, but they required too much maintenance for a no-frills individual like himself. The apartments on Central Park West would have been lovely, but the New Century on West End Avenue turned out to be perfect. Just a block to the west from the stores on Broadway and a block to the east from the park and the river, the New Century combined old-world comfort with new-world conveniences. Filtered water poured out of every tap, and the garage at the back offered facilities for charging one's batteries should one happen to drive an electric vehicle. The construction was solid and entirely fireproof. Each floor contained only two apartments, and in addition to the three main bedrooms, Kitty's home featured a comfortable foyer, a sizable dining room, living room, and study, as well as a pantry and kitchen, two servants' rooms, and a servants' bathroom.

Grace opened the front door, and Mr. Weeks handed her his hat and cane. He told Kitty that he had an appointment that evening and wouldn't be in for dinner.

Kitty looked in on Mrs. Codd and gave the order for a light supper. She didn't mind being on her own too much, and she wanted to finish telephoning in privacy and then write some long overdue letters to her friends in Europe.

Kitty had converted the two bedrooms at the back of the apartment, overlooking the garage, into a suite for herself. She went inside to change. Opening the bureau for a fresh blouse, she caught sight of a photograph in a tiny blue-and-green-enameled frame. A woman in a broad-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over her features smiled at Kitty. It was the only picture she possessed of her mother.

Julian Weeks had said the photograph was taken before he and Violet were married; it was an early one from when she arrived in Malaya as a penniless young governess. He met her a few years later out in a remote area where, friendless and alone, she hired him to help manage the modest rubber estate left to her by the late Mr. Hiram Smith, her first husband. They fell in love, married, and had planned to have another photograph taken with the baby, but since Mrs. Weeks died shortly afterward, that never happened. Julian Weeks had given the photograph to Kitty when she left for boarding school.

Kitty changed into a clean blouse, put on a pair of knickerbockers, and did her exercises: jumping jacks, marching in place, neck and hip rolls, ankle stretches.

She heard footsteps in the hall. Her father must be on his way out. She called good-bye, washed the perspiration from her face, put her skirt back on, and, after making sure that Mrs. Codd and Grace were safely in the kitchen, walked across the foyer to his study, slipped inside, and shut the door behind her.

The apartment had been wired for two telephones: one in the foyer, right outside the pantry, and the second one in Mr. Weeks's study so that he could speak in private. He kept his room dark, with the heavy curtains drawn. It was the one room in the apartment that Kitty hadn't been allowed to decorate and wasn't supposed to be in on her own. She switched on the desk lamp.

Books interspersed with souvenirs that Mr. Weeks had gathered on his travels filled the wall behind his desk. Real estate guides gave way to an ivory Chinese coolie pulling a cart loaded high with fruit, cloisonné bowls stood on top of atlases and almanacs placed sideways, and an antique jade dagger leaned casually against Adam Smith's
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations
.

Kitty particularly loathed one piece that her father had placed on a shelf so that when he sat at his table, it appeared to be looking over his shoulder: a jet-black human figure whose milky eyes seemed to follow one everywhere. She felt its gaze bore into her back as she pulled back his chair and reached for the telephone.

It rang, and she flinched, then laughed at herself for being foolish. He couldn't possibly know she was here—that's not who was calling. She lifted the instrument and felt inexpressibly glad to hear Amanda's voice.

“You didn't tell me whether you'd come to the YWCA training, Capability. It's just the introductory session, and I can't go by myself. Promise me that you will be there?”

“Remind me when it is again?”

“Next week.” Amanda gave her the date and time. “I'll pick you up. And if you like what you hear, might you consider joining?”

“Amanda!”

“I'll quit while I'm ahead.”

Kitty smiled. If Amanda ever chose to go into journalism, she would be a force to be reckoned with. She never gave up. On the other hand, she didn't listen—or she did, but only when it suited her.

Kitty removed the list of Alberts from her pocket and resumed making her calls. Dr. Albert number five turned out to be a dentist; Albert number six was a chemist; and number seven ran a clinic for the needy on the Bowery.

The final Albert, Dr. Beverly Albert, was a woman for whom the name Cole rang a bell. “Is this the Mr. Cole who was recently murdered?”

“Yes,” Kitty replied, her excitement mounting. “Were you acquainted with him?”

“I'm afraid not. I just heard about the shooting from a friend who attended the party.”

Kitty replaced the receiver and stared at the sheet of paper. Something was wrong. Either Mrs. Clements hadn't heard the doctor's name correctly, or one of these people had lied to her. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the Dr. Albert she was looking for wasn't on this list.

She pushed the chair back into its place, stuck her tongue out at the statue, and made sure her father's desk was exactly as she had found it before she switched off the light and left the study.

She wrote her letters to her friends from boarding school and, alone at dinner, mulled over the events of Monday, July 5. Why did Hunter Cole go down to the stables that evening? That seemed to be the central, unresolved question. Was it just to get away from the other guests, or had something or someone pulled him away while everyone else was busy enjoying the fireworks?

• • •

Kitty spent the next morning chatting with Mrs. Stepan in the back garden of the Stepans' home on Madison Avenue. The chairwoman of the Early Risers Riding Club was a young mother, pretty and active with three boys ages four, six, and eight who dashed into the garden and hugged her around the legs before going off to play under the supervision of their nurse. She glanced at them fondly and resumed her story about the glanders virus that killed her childhood pony. “It came as such a shock. One day little Zsa-Zsa was there, and the next day she was gone. I've never cared for any animal as much since, although I do ride every day.”

“That sounds awful, Mrs. Stepan.”

“It was tragic. A terrible disease, but tell me, what would you like to know about our group?”

“Can you describe the events you have planned, who the members are, and some of the benefits of early morning equestrian exercise?” Kitty said.

“With pleasure.” Mrs. Stepan rattled off a list of fetes, charity breakfasts, and a gala. She mentioned names—some were prominent women who Kitty had heard about—and then the benefits of regular riding: improved circulation, better complexion, and a chance to begin one's day in communion with the natural world, away from the commotion of the city.

“Of course, we're in the city.” Mrs. Stepan laughed as they finished, and she lead Kitty to the door. “We ride in Central Park, but that's an oasis, don't you think? Do you ride, by the way?”

Kitty nodded.

“Well, then you must join us sometime if you can be there by six. We're a friendly group, I promise.”

Kitty walked back to the
Sentinel
. It wasn't that far, and the route wasn't complicated. Most of Manhattan's streets and avenues were organized along a rational, unswerving grid. Numbered streets ran from east to west, bisected at sharp right angles by avenues that ran north to south. There were those who said the plan was motivated by shameless commercial considerations (it resulted in nice rectangular plots for development) and had none of the grandeur of avenues radiating outward from the city center, like Haussmann's Paris.

But Paris was Paris, Kitty thought, picking her way down the sidewalk, dodging litter, peddlers, and a steady stream of businessmen and women. There were some people who didn't care for New York, who found it too crass, too brash, and visually unappealing. Kitty had to admit that she had felt the same way when she first arrived. She'd been alarmed by the throng of humanity in all colors, by the metal trains that rattled along overhead rails, and by the skyscrapers, some twenty, thirty, and even forty stories high, that pierced the heavens.

But she had become accustomed to it all; even the smell of rotting garbage on a hot summer day no longer repelled her. She smiled as she pushed through the heavy revolving doors at the
Sentinel
. This was home. She lived in a city that always looked toward the future.

Kitty was in one of the stalls in the women's restroom when she heard a couple of the typists enter and start chattering away at the basins.

“Who does she think she is?” The sound of running water threatened to drown out the words, but Kitty could still hear them.

“All hoity-toity and never in like the rest of us. Where is that pricey miss this morning?”

Kitty's face flushed.

“Give her a chance.” The voice belonged to Jeannie Williams.

“What chance? She's already been here six months.”

The taps shut off; there was a shuffle, and then the door closed behind them.

Kitty emerged from her cubicle and washed her hands. Her cheeks burned. It was one thing to suspect that the others didn't care for her, another to have one's guess confirmed.

Jeannie was the only decent one of the lot, the only one who bothered to speak to her or show any interest in what she was doing. Because Kitty worked for a shorter day, she didn't take the eleven o'clock break with the typists, and even if she did, she wouldn't have known what to say because their lives were so different.

She walked through the hen coop without looking left or right and knocked at the entryway to Miss Busby's alcove.

“I just got off the telephone with Mrs. Stepan,” the Ladies' Page editor trilled, looking up at Kitty. “She was most pleased with you. ‘So pleasant, so personable, such a good listener.' Her words, not mine.”

“I'm glad I made a good impression.”

Miss Busby's coral earrings swung back and forth as she nodded. “Good impression? She thought you were just right! And so it seems that my plans are coming to fruition sooner than I expected.”

“Just right for what, Miss Busby?” Kitty pulled up a chair. “What plans are you referring to?”

“Just right to interview Miss Anne Morgan about her new book.”

“I beg your pardon—
the
Miss Anne Morgan?” Kitty dropped into the chair.

“That is correct.” Miss Busby looked like a girl who had won the first-prize ribbon at a school contest.

“Why me, Miss Busby?” Anne Morgan was the philanthropist daughter of the first J. P. Morgan, the sister of the current, wounded J. P. “Jack” Morgan. She was known around the world for her personal fortune and charitable endeavors. “Why would Miss Morgan want a girl like me to interview her about her book?”

This was all happening too fast—in less than a week, Kitty had gone from spending all morning behind her desk to covering a party, interviewing a bereaved widow, a hostess, a playwright, a horsewoman—and now an heiress? And not just any heiress but quite possibly the wealthiest unmarried woman in the world.

Miss Busby thrust a slim volume in front of Kitty. “Because her book has been written for and about girls.” She ran a finger beneath the title: “
The American Girl: Her Education, Her Responsibility, Her Recreation, Her Future
. And Miss Morgan would like an American girl to discuss it with her.”