Ghost of a Chance (11 page)

“Jeff,” I said, “how are we doing?”

“Fine,” he said, “I’m not discouraged.”

“Oh, I thought you might be.”

“No. Look at it this way. The woman we want is probably in New York.” He rang the elevator bell. “There are around three million women in New York. Three million and one, since Aunt Ellie swelled the population. Well, we know it isn’t Thelma Kennedy. Or Sally Kennedy.”

“Or me.”

“Or you. So if we can keep up this pace, by tomorrow morning at ten minutes to eleven, we will have eliminated at least a dozen women. Then we’ll only have two million, nine hundred thousand and… hell, no, I’m not discouraged.”

The elevator doors opened; we got aboard.

“Jeff,” I said, “whoever this woman is, remember that she has a great deal to live for.”

“Oh, she does?”

“Yes. She’s going to marry a fine young doctor. Then she’s going to have five talented sons who will grow up to be the pitching staff that the Giants need so badly. Meanwhile she has returned to the concert stage and her glorious voice has made thousands of people happier, better people. This has virtually eliminated pushing in the subways.”

“I see,” Jeff said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” The operator opened the elevator and we got out. “I’ve been afraid that our lady keeps that large, floppy hat of hers on in theatres, doesn’t curb her dog, writes mystery stories and will eventually drive her husband to such despair that he will sue you and me for not minding our own damn business this winter.”

“Not at all. This woman is worth being shot at for.”

“I’m glad,” Jeff said. “I feel a lot better.”

He had found where the management of the Sultan had hidden the phone booths. He opened a directory and his finger stopped at Cortland, Hollingsworth, 11 Gracie Square, ATwater 9-4313. He went into a booth. When he emerged, he said, “Mr. and Mrs. Cortland will be happy to see us immediately.”

“Do they know why we’re coming?”

“No.” Jeff was puzzled. “When I told Mr. Cortland my name he was lousy with delight. He was thrilled. They’ll have tea ready for us. I don’t know how he could have got to know me, let alone love me.”

“Could he be a business acquaintance?”

“I don’t have any business acquaintances. Where do you pick up such talk, Haila? Business acquaintance, indeed.”

We looked out through the glass double doors of the Sultan. There were no cars parked where they could make a quick getaway. There was nobody watching the hotel. Over the entrance, stretching to the curb, was a canopy. Blithely we stepped out under it; we could not be seen from any rooftop across the street. A cab hurriedly slammed into gear and came charging at us from the corner. The driver heartily invited us to be his paying guests.

“No, thanks,” Jeff said, and the cab moved on. “I’ll feel better with a driver who doesn’t volunteer to give us a ride.”

“I’ll feel better, too.”

“You probably think me over-suspicious.”

“Not at all. I admire you for it. It shows a nice regard for your life and limb. And, incidentally, my life and limb.”

We waited a few minutes, then claimed a cab that a family of five had discarded at the Sultan’s door. Before you, but not Mrs. Hollingsworth Cortland, could brew a pot of tea, we had been safely driven from East Sixty-eighth Street to Gracie Square. Mrs. Cortland was pouring the fourth cup as her husband steered us into the living room. She beamed at us; she was as pleased as her husband that we were there.

This elderly twosome made fact of the old saw that long-married couples grow to look alike. Their smiles, gentle and friendly, were identical. Their eyes, behind identical spectacles, blinked and twinkled with the same great good humor. Their hair was the same white-gray. They were both small and quick with the same eager fussiness. They were aged enough to have earned the right to informal, comfortable clothes, but they were dressed up as if they were on their way to have their pictures taken for their grandchildren’s Christmas present.

“Claire,” Mr. Cortland said, “this is Mr. and Mrs. Coy.”

“Oh,” Jeff said. Now the reason for our welcome was apparent to us. “I’m afraid, Mr. Cortland, that you misunderstood me on the phone. Our name is Troy.”

“Yes, I remember now. You did say Troy. Be seated, Mr. and Mrs. Troy, be seated.”

Our hostess leaned across the table toward me. “Mrs. Troy, lemon or milk?”

“Milk, please.”

“Oh, I’m so glad! So many people make the mistake of taking lemon in their tea. Mr. Troy, what will you have?”

“Milk,” Jeff said promptly.

“Splendid!” Mrs. Cortland cried. “I’m sure you two are a most happy couple. Now we all have our tea, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” we all said.

“Nice of you to drop in,” Mr. Cortland said.

“So nice.” his wife agreed. “People don’t drop in for tea the way they used to. I don’t know what’s getting into people. Busy, busy, busy.”

“Why, when we were still in the house on Gramercy Square,” Mr. Cortland said, “hardly a day passed that somebody didn’t drop in for tea. And sometimes stay for dinner. I miss the old house.”

“It was too large for us, Holly. It would have been silly to keep it.”

“Father would turn over in his grave if he knew a son of his was living in an apartment. A four-room apartment.”

“It was the sensible thing, Holly.” She turned to us. “You see, when the children grew up and went their own ways it was impractical to keep the old house for just the two of us. And you know it was, Holly.”

“I miss the old house.”

“Your house,” Jeff said, “was near the Kennedy’s, wasn’t it?”

“The Kennedy’s!” Mrs. Cortland cried.

“Sally Kennedy!” her husband shouted, and they both shook with laughter until their tea cups rattled. “So it’s Sally!”

Mrs. Cortland said, “I thought we had met you through the Albertsons.”

“No,” Jeff said, “In fact…”

“And I thought,” Mr. Cortland said, “that we had met you at the Cunningham’s.”

“We’ve been dying to ask you!” Mrs. Cortland said.

Jeff said, “There seems to be some…”

“At any rate,” our hostess went on, “It’s so nice of you to drop in. So few people do anymore. This is a real treat, having someone for tea.”

“You must come often. Mustn’t they, Claire?”

“Yes, indeed! This is a coincidence! You know, Sally has promised to stop by later this afternoon. We haven’t seen her since she got back. Did you meet Sally abroad?”

“Mrs. Cortland,” Jeff said. He spoke momentously in an attempt to get the floor and keep it. “We are by no means friends of Sally Kennedy’s. We have seen her just once, a few minutes ago. We went to see her about the same thing that we have come to you about.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Cortland said.

“Yes,” Jeff said, “It’s unpleasant.”

He told them just how unpleasant. They forgot about their tea. They edged forward on their seat, staring at Jeff in consternation and disbelief. Jeff made them believe. He told them that they could help us; they promised to do everything within their power.

“When Frank worked for you,” Jeff said, “did he ever talk about himself?”

The old gentleman thought that over. He said, “You mean did he ever tell us about a woman who might be the one you are seeking? No, I can think of no one. He never spoke of his family. He never told me anything of his life previous to coming to us. He came to us through an agency.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Cortland said. “Frank was with us just a short while before he went to the Kennedys. We saw him occasionally of course while he was there, but in the past fifteen years we’ve never laid eyes on him.”

“Mr. Troy.” Mr. Cortland rose and went to his wife. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I appreciate your reluctance to needlessly alarm us.”

“What are you getting at, Holly?”

“Just a moment, Claire.” He returned his attention to Jeff. “I gather that you have already checked the possibility that this woman might be one of the Kennedy girls, Thelma or Sally. I think, in fact, I know that I can assure you that you can check both Mrs. Cortland and our daughter off your list. There is absolutely no one in the world who could gain in any way if… should something happen to Elizabeth or her mother.”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Cortland said. “Why, Elizabeth isn’t even in the East. She’s in California.”

“I see,” Jeff said. “Then we’ve reached a dead end. Unless we find someone… unless you can tell us of someone who knew Frank, who might remember.”

The Cortlands looked at each other and slowly shook their heads. Then Mr. Cortland turned sharply and leaned forward.

“There is someone,” he said. “Mr. Troy, I may be able to steer you to someone who knew Frank rather intimately. He might possibly be able to help you.”

“Who’s that, Holly?”

“Dobbs. You remember Dobbs.”

“Of course. Carl Dobbs!”

“Yes. He’s the lawyer for the Hiram Kennedy estate. In the old days, when Hiram was living, it was his lot to… well, perhaps you know that Frank drank. Rather strenuously at times. And it was Dobbs’ duty, as family lawyer, to rescue him from the hands of the police once a month or so. At last, of course, Hiram had to dismiss Frank. But I’m sure that Frank must have considered Carl Dobbs one of his best friends. Getting a person out of jail is an endearing thing to do, if you are the person.”

“Where,” Jeff said, “can I find Mr. Dobbs?”

“He’s uptown now. In Rockefeller Center, I believe. Dobbs, Last and Knapp.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cortland.”

“God speed you, young man.”

“And do come back to tea,” Mr. Cortland pleaded, “when circumstances are happier.”

We promised that we would.

We hurried through the city of
the future that was Rockefeller Center. We found the gray, sleek building that we wanted and were shot up a vertical tube inside it at the speed of the future. We walked down a sterile corridor that was a tube laid horizontal. We found the fireproof, feather-touch doors marked Dobbs, Last and Knapp. We went through those doors of the future and stepped smack into the past. It was a shock. It was like finding King Arthur in a zoot suit.

The furnishings, complete from chandeliers to wall hangings to the multi-design carpets, were at the latest early Victorian. The offices of Dobbs, Last and Knapp, as the grand-daddy of the partnership must have first furnished them, had been recreated here. Every stick and stitch had apparently been carefully carted uptown from lower, little old New York The solid respectability of the rooms made the rest of Rockefeller Center seem as giddy as Coney Island.

When, after a twenty minute wait, we were ushered into the presence of Mr. Dobbs, we found him a reflection of his environment. He was a man in his sixties, tall and spare. His cool gray eyes sat far behind a long, proud nose. His mouth was thin and the thin smile of welcome that flickered across it would have frozen the most callous invader in his tracks. Mr. Dobbs was forbidding.

He listened to Jeff’s story without once looking at him. He sat behind his barricade of a desk and set a target for his eyes three feet over Jeff’s head. He didn’t speak when Jeff had finished. He cleared his throat and made a note on a pad before him. It might have been a note on the business at hand. It might have concerned a tariff law of the late eighties.

Finally he said, “Frank Lorimer.”

Jeff said, “Yes.”

Mr. Dobbs looked at Jeff as if he had made an entirely irrelevant and unnecessary remark. “Frank Lorimer,” the lawyer said, “has been attempting to reach me. He called me at my home yesterday, several times, but I was not in. I left word that if he called again, I would see him here at the office late this afternoon. I took for granted, of course, that what he wanted was money.”

“When he couldn’t get in touch with you,” Jeff said, “he got panicky. He called me.”

“It seems so. Mr. Troy, have you gone to the police with this story?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what was their attitude?”

“They were inclined to think,” Jeff said, “that it was all an alcoholic dream of Frank’s.”

“Hmmm. Frankly, Mr. Troy, I am similarly inclined.”

“No,” Jeff said. “No, that’s…”

“Young man.” The lawyer leaned forward. He spoke severely. “I knew Frank Lorimer. He was indeed an alcoholic. And, when in his cups, he was prone to imagine the most incredible, outlandish and macabre fantasies. It was, unfortunately, my duty as his employer’s attorney to listen to quite a few of them. Well, I see that Frank has not improved with the years.”

“Mr. Dobbs…”

“And if I had forecast an end for Frank Lorimer, it might well have been just such an accident as did occur, an accident due to drunkenness. Now you say that the police agree with me. You, Mr. and Mrs. Troy, seem to be alone in your theory.”

“Mr. Dobbs, since we’ve become involved in this thing we’ve been locked in a cellar, followed by thugs and shot at. Those, sir, are not alcoholic dreams.”

The lawyer looked at Jeff, inspected him as if for future reference. It seemed as though Jeff’s logic had momentarily confused him. Then he smiled. He was content again. Once more he had put everything in the right pigeonholes. He didn’t let us in on his conclusion. Instead he chose to humor us.

“Very well,” he said, “you have come to me for help. In what way can I help you?”

“We’re trying,” Jeff said, “to find the woman.”

“Ah, yes. Naturally. And you think that at one time or another Frank might have told me of some woman who might now be the one.” Mr. Dobbs closed his eyes and moved the tips of his long fingers across his forehead. “I’m certain that Frank had never married. Fortunately. Nor had he any family that he was in touch with.”

“Do you know of anyone that he worked for besides the Cortlands and the Kennedys?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“This woman could be in the family of one of his employers. Mr. Dobbs, Hiram Kennedy was a rich man, wasn’t he? I gather that he didn’t leave anything to Thelma. Who got it all?”

“It’s rather complicated, Mr. Troy, and entails a great deal of personal family history that I’m not sure would interest you.”

“I’d like to hear about it,” Jeff said. “Family histories are what I’m after. If you don’t mind.”