Death of Riley (13 page)

Then I had a flash of inspiration. Miss Van Woekem! If anyone knew about New York society, it was she. And she had asked me to pay a call on her from time to time. Now that her goddaughter would be long gone back to White Plains, thus avoiding any embarrassing encounters, this might be a perfect opportunity.

The next morning, dressed in my smart new costume, new shoes, my hair pinned back under a jaunty new beige hat I had bought on a whim after seeing it in Wanamaker's window, I presented my calling card to Miss Van Woekem's maid. I was invited into the hallway and soon summoned to the sitting room on the first floor.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” the old lady greeted me. “I hardly recognized you. Quite an improvement on those dreadful garments you were wearing the last time I saw you. So you've managed to establish yourself in business? Well done.” She nodded, then glanced again at my card. “Already a junior partner too. My, my.” There was amusement in her voice, as if she sensed that the junior partner title had been of my own creation. “Most kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit an old woman. You'll take tea, of course?”

A tray was brought. For the first time in my life I sat in the home of a patrician being treated as an equal.

“So tell me”—she leaned forward confidentially— “are you working on any interesting cases?”

“I am, as a matter of fact.” I leaned toward her and lowered my voice. “One involving your next-door neighbor, in fact.”

“That woman? I'm not at all surprised. An actress, she calls herself.” Miss Van Woekem snorted. “Actress, my foot. The procession of men up and down those stairs requires a new stair carpet at least once a year. Which one is it now?”

“I'm not really at liberty to say,” I said. “Client confidentiality, you know.”

“I shouldn't think there is anything in the least confidential about that woman's activities. She flaunts herself around town with half the male population. Why, when I was at the theater last week, she was sitting at the front of a box with that English lord, giggling and talking loudly so as to attract attention to herself.”

“Would that be Lord Edgemont?” I asked casually.

“That's the one. Of course those two deserve each other. He'd chase anything in skirts. They say he's gone through the entire family fortune. Hardly ever goes home to administer his estates. And his father was such a good man too. Funny how there is always a throwback.”

“So he spends all his time in New York these days, does he?” I took a delicate bite of watercress sandwich.

“Keeps a permanent suite at the Waldorf Astoria, so I understand, although how long before he gets thrown out for not paying his bills, I couldn't say. And when he's finally bankrupt you can bet that Miss Kitty next door will drop him like a hot coal.” She gave a satisfied chuckle.

So far, so good. I took another bite of watercress sandwich and was emboldened to ask, “What do you know of Angus MacDonald?”

She looked surprised. “His name hasn't come up in connection with Kitty Le Grange, surely?”

“Oh, no. This is something quite different.”

“Thank God for that. The old man would drop dead of a heart attack if he heard that his son was involved with actresses.”

“The old man?”

“Angus MacDonald is the son of J.P. Surely you knew that? J.P. MacDonald, the shipping and railway magnate? I've no time for him myself. J.P. likes to think that he's now one of the Four Hundred. Of course he's not. He might be rich as Croesus, but he's still the son of a Scottish peasant. He's actually proud of coming over here with nothing and working his way to a fortune. He's kept those dreadful Scottish peasant Calvinist values, too. Won't touch alcohol. Won't accept any social invitations on Sundays. So young Angus has been misbehaving, has he? Papa won't like that at all.”

I left the house on Gramercy Park some half hour later with all the information I needed and a possible motive for murder too. If Angus MacDonald was the only son of a strict Calvinist millionaire and about to be sued for divorce, he might do anything to keep the evidence from getting to his father.

Twelve

Now I had plenty of leads to follow up. It made sense that my first visit should be to Delmonico's, and from there I could trace Paddy's route home. I stood in Gramercy Park feeling the sun on my face. The twitter of birds and the heady scent of flowers wafted to me from the gardens. I remembered my bleak despair and determination the last time I left this address. My grief over Daniel and Paddy had receded so that it no longer threatened to consume me. Now it felt good to be alive. I strode out along Twenty-first Street like a racehorse released from the starting gate.

It was still too early in the day for anything to be happening at Delmonico's. A man in a dirty apron was swabbing down the front steps, and a woman was working on the brass on the open front doors. From inside came the clatter of dishes.

The man washing the steps looked up and saw me. “We're closed,” he growled.

“Is there someone I could talk to? A head waiter, perhaps?”

“They don't show up for hours yet.”

“Anyone who might have been on duty at night earlier this week? It's a very important matter.”

An evil grin crossed his face. “Wassamatter—leave some telltale evidence in a private room, didja? Don't worry, no one at Del's ever blabs.” He put down the mop. “I'll see if Mr. Carlo is around.”

He led me inside, then shuffled off into the kitchen area. I relished my chance to stand alone, taking in the scene. At this time of day it was like being in a vast cavern. The only light came through the open front doors and from doorways leading out to the kitchens, but gradually my eyes became used to the darkness and I gaped at what I was seeing. Such elegance! The polished wood and the sparkling chandeliers, the potted palms, the soft plush of the booths, the doors to private rooms now enticingly open—this was how the other half lived all right. Someday I'd dine here myself, if I ever came up with a suitable escort. That was a bad afterthought. Immediately I pictured Daniel sitting in that corner booth with Miss Norton, and I made myself walk around examining the flower arrangements to stop any further thoughts from escaping.

“Yes, miss, may I help you?” The gray-haired man looked haggard and hollow-eyed, as if he hadn't been to sleep in a while.

“Sorry to disturb you. I know you must be busy.” I handed him my card. “My senior partner was conducting an investigation on a couple who may have dined here in a private room last Monday night. I wondered if you keep a record of your customers.”

He looked at me as if I'd suggested he show me his underwear. “Reveal the names of our customers? My dear young lady, it would be more than my job was worth.”

Was that a hint that he wanted a bribe? It could be some of Paddy's money well spent. I regretted that I had been so modest with the amount I had allotted myself for expenses.

“If there is anything I could do to make you change your mind…” I wasn't sure how this bribery business worked. I opened my purse and went to reach inside.

“Not for all the tea in China,” he said firmly.

“And would it compromise your job if you just happened to mention where I might find the reservation book and take a peek for myself?”

“My dear young—” he began again.

“Look, it's very important, or I wouldn't be here,” I said. “My partner has been killed. I know he came here on Monday night.”

“Your partner?” Did I detect a flicker of interest?

“He was—” I was about to say “conducting an investigation.” I swallowed back the words at the last second. I didn't think this man would take kindly to the news that one of his waiters on Monday night had been a detective in disguise. “He was here to meet a business associate,” I finished lamely. “And the business associate was with a young woman, in a private dining room, so I wondered…”

Mr. Carlo still shook his head firmly. “Our confidentiality is as golden as the seal of the confessional in the church. We have never divulged the name of a private customer and never will. Good day to you, miss. We open for luncheon in just over an hour.”

So far my investigation techniques weren't exactly impressive. I left Delmonico's more subdued than I had entered it. I could come back, maybe, and attempt to squeeze more information out of the waiters. But then again, it might be more than their jobs were worth to divulge restaurant secrets. I couldn't even see myself sneaking back to take a peek at the reservation book.

Maybe Riley had all this information down in his little black book. My next task should be to go to the library, or even to New York University, and find someone who could interpret the unknown language. That would have to wait until next week, however. I didn't think there were classes on Saturdays. So there probably wasn't too much more I could do until Monday—except to follow Paddy's route home.

Delmonico's is located on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. It was unlikely that Paddy would have spent money on a cab—I hadn't seen any evidence of his wasting money on anything—and it was too far to walk comfortably, which meant he had probably taken the Sixth Avenue elevated railway. I consulted my notes. His home address was a boardinghouse on Barrow Street, a disreputable neighborhood down by the docks, according to his own description. I knew it was on the far west of the area they call Greenwich Village. I tried to picture the area in my mind. If he had taken die Sixth Avenue El, where would he have alighted? This would be crucial. Somewhere on that route home he had stopped off for a drink and overheard something so shattering that it may have brought about his death.

As I walked down Twenty-sixth Street toward the El station, I heard a clock on a nearby tower chiming eleven. This made me pause and think. I was already halfway to the high society areas of Upper Manhattan. My frugal upbringing reminded me that I should save the expense of an extra train ride whenever possible, even though I apparently had an endless supply of money to play with. Eleven o'clock might be just the sort of time when a man-about-town might be bestirring himself. If I were sensible, I'd go first to the Waldorf Astoria and interview the wayward English lord.

Thus I turned back and set off up Fifth Avenue. I knew where the Waldorf Astoria was. Daniel had pointed it out to me on one of our Sunday walks. “That's where the real nobs stay,” he had told me. “It costs more to stay a week there than you could earn in a whole year.”

I should never have thought of Sunday walks with Daniel. I reminded myself that M. Murphy, junior partner and businesswoman, had better use her brain to come up with a plan of campaign for meeting Lord Edgemont.

I must tread carefully. I could be blundering into a murderer's den, although I didn't think so. I tried to analyze whether Lord Edgemont would make a likely killer. Not personally, of course. The young man who had punched me and leaped from the window in no way resembled the English aristocracy, as I had witnessed them in my childhood. But then men of Lord Edgemont's standing could afford to hire a killer to do their dirty work—if he needed to hire a killer, that was. I had been told he was in financial difficulties, which Miss Van Woekem hinted would bring the relationship with Kitty Le Grange to an end anyway. If his money ran out in New York, he'd have to go home to his wife and estate in England, so she'd get him back—if that was what she wanted.

So no real motive for murder there, even if she planned to drain his coffers to the last penny with alimony demands. Since working with Paddy I had come to learn that marriages among the rich were more like business deals and that some women became considerably richer by divorcing several husbands. What a strange world. When I married, it would only be for love.

I reached the imposing facade of the big hotel and stood on the sidewalk staring up at the high colonnade, collecting my thoughts before I tackled the doorman at the front door. Then I decided that nothing ventured was nothing gained. I was perfectly safe in a hotel, surely, when a cry could bring any number of servants running to my aid.

So I held my head erect and nodded to the doorman as I swept past him.

“I am afraid that Lord Edgemont does not reside here,” I was told when I presented myself at the reception desk.

I felt this was a poor attempt to brush me aside and I wasn't about to be brushed. I tried my hand at an English accent, as I had heard it spoken by my aristocratic playmates. “Oh, but I have it on the best of authority that his lordship resides here at the moment. Is this establishment no longer to his liking?”

If a man could bristle, this one did. “This is the Waldorf madam. I believe you want the Astoria, next door.”

“It's not the same hotel?”

“Oh no, madam. Two quite separate hotels, each owned by a member of the Astor family.”

“You're telling me that two members of the same family run two different hotels in this building?”

He nodded. “Two separate hotels. The Astor cousins were not on speaking terms when the two hotels were built.”

Well, if that didn't take the cake. I wondered if Daniel knew that interesting fact. Next time I saw him I'd have to—I murmured my thanks to the man at the desk and went next door, where a matching glass door was opened by a matching grand doorman.

“Lord Edgemont?” the young man at the reception desk asked suspiciously. “May one inquire what this concerns?”

“Some business that the senior partner in my establishment was conducting with him. I wish merely to appraise him of the current status of the situation.” Truly my way with words was improving by the minute. I was amazed at myself.

“I'm not sure if he is in occupation of his room at the present. Is he expecting you?”

“No. As I said. He was dealing with my senior partner, who is regrettably indisposed. But I have received an important communication from England and he may not wish to wait until Monday …”

That did the trick. “Very well, miss. I'll have one of our bell hops escort you up to his room. Frederick.” He snapped his fingers and a young boy with hair as red as mine and a face so freckled that he looked like an orange sprung into action.