New York Nocturne (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Six stories tall, the Hotel Brevoort stretched along the east side of Fifth Avenue, taking up the entire block between Eighth and Ninth Streets, a few hundred feet north of the stately white arch that led into the greenery of Washington Square Park.

The hotel's main dining room was an elaborate space of high molded ceilings and serene linen draperies, of white damask and gleaming porcelain and brightly polished silver. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows. Black-coated waiters sailed silently between the tables.

When we arrived at a quarter to one that Sunday, the room was nearly full, the customers being mostly families and couples dressed in their churchgoing best. An urbane buzz of conversation floated in the air, punctuated by the discreet clatter of cutlery. The maître d', whose French accent seemed genuine and whose eyebrows seemed permanently arched, led us to a corner table for four, handed each of us a large pasteboard menu, nodded once, and then sailed impressively away.

“Should we wait for Miss Dale?” I asked Miss Lizzie.

“From what you tell me, I suspect that Miss Dale does not number promptness among her virtues.” She smiled. “And besides, I confess to feeling somewhat peckish at the moment.”

We studied the menu for a few minutes. Miss Lizzie decided on the onion soup and the squab casserole. I chose the soup as well, and the coq au vin. As soon as we lowered our menus, a tall and very thin waiter suddenly loomed between us.

“Wee, maydahms?” His accent was considerably less successful.

Miss Lizzie gave him our order.

“Somezing to drink, perhaps?” he asked. “Zee water? Zee soda pop for mamzell?”

“A glass of water, please,” said Miss Lizzie.

I ordered the same.

“Tray bone,” he said and then sailed off toward the kitchen.

Once the waiter had disappeared, I turned to Miss Lizzie. “Why do you think John had so much money in the safe?” I asked her.

“I can't imagine,” she said. “He was, to all appearances, a very successful business man. I should think that anyone—anyone legitimate—would be happy to accept his personal check.”

“Do you think that maybe he was involved with someone who wasn't legitimate?”

She smiled. “I think that Mr. Liebowitz is right,” she said. “I think we must make no assumptions until we have some evidence to support them.”

We had finished our soup and were nearly finished with our main course when Daphne Dale arrived. She swept up to the table in another symphony of silk—white this time: a rakish beret, a finely wrought lace shawl, a slim ivory shift, a pair of creamy white hose, and white patent leather pumps. She still seemed tiny, almost elfin.

“I am
so
sorry,” she said in her magnolia drawl. “I was just leaving my apartment when I received a telephone call. Long distance, from Los Angeles. In California?” She had the southern habit of ending some of her sentences with a question mark.

“It was a movie offer, to tell the truth,” she said, “for my last book, and I simply couldn't get off the line. Those people
refuse
to understand that we have lives to lead.” Rounding her cheeks slightly to blow out a faint feminine puff of distaste, she fanned her delicate face with the fingers of her delicate right hand. “I positively
ran
over here.”

“That's quite all right,” said Miss Lizzie. “I am Elizabeth Cabot. You know Amanda, of course. Please do sit down.”

Miss Dale sat beside me, placed her white leather purse in the empty chair to her left, leaned toward me, and put her hand atop mine, entrapping it. “You poor little thing.” Her eyes narrowed, and her red cupid's bow of a mouth turned tragically downward. She fluttered her long eyelashes. “This must be simply
awful
for you, sweetie. If I were in your position, I'd be utterly
devastated
.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

She released me, adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, and smiled at Miss Lizzie. “One of
those
Cabots?” she said. “The Boston Cabots?”

Miss Lizzie smiled. “For my sins, alas.”

Miss Dale laughed, a light chime of a laugh that reminded me of small coins tinkling into a cup.

Our waiter once again materialized at the table and bowed to Miss Dale. “A menu, mamzell?”

“I don't think so,” she said. “Do you have any of that lovely caviar? The Russian?”

“Wee, mamzell. Zee Beluga?”

“The Beluga, yes. That would be yummy. Is it very cold? I can't eat it unless it's very, very cold.”

“Wee, mamzell. It is on zee ice.”

“Lovely,” she said. “And a glass of seltzer.”

“Tray bone, mamzell.”

As he sailed away, Miss Dale turned to Miss Lizzie. “Aren't they
darling
? I just adore that accent. The French have such fabulous style, don't you think?”

“Fabulous,” agreed Miss Lizzie, and adjusted her pince-nez.

“Now,” said Miss Dale, putting her tiny hands together on the table and interlocking her fingers, “how can I help you all?”

“What we're attempting to do,” said Miss Lizzie, “is learn as much about John Burton as possible.”

Miss Dale frowned. “You know,” she said, “Johnny never mentioned having an aunt.”

“I'm Amanda's aunt, actually. Her great aunt, on her mother's side. No blood relation to John.”

Miss Dale glanced at me with new respect. I had abruptly become a Cabot.

“I liked John very much,” said Miss Lizzie, “but we were not, I confess, very close. As you may know, the police have no idea who killed him. They have even gone so far as to suspect Amanda.”

“Well now,” said Miss Dale, “that's positively
silly
, isn't it?” She turned to me and smiled.

“But it is also potentially dangerous,” said Miss Lizzie. “In order to protect Amanda, we need to discover if there's anything in John's past that might have led to his death.”

“Couldn't you just hire one of those private detective people? I mean, from what I hear, they're all dreadful little men, not the kind you'd want to see
socially
, but they'd probably be useful in a situation like this.”

“Before I take that step, I should prefer to see what I can learn on my own.”

“But Miss Cabot—is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss,” she announced.

“Miss Cabot, honestly, there simply wasn't
anything
. The women all adored Johnny, and the men, all of them, they just envied him to pieces.”

“But envy,” said Miss Lizzie, “can grow bitter.”

“Yes, surely, but everyone
loved
him.”

“Someone clearly did not. And you have no notion who that might be?”

She sat back. “Absolutely none. I was completely flabbergasted when I heard. The idea that anyone would want to hurt Johnny just positively boggles the mind.”

“Do you know of a man named Larry Fay?”

“Surely. He owns El Fay uptown.” She leaned forward, smiling. “It's a marvelous place, but I hear that Mr. Fay has an
unusual
personal history. He's a bit of a rogue?”

“What have you heard?”

“I love this story. Well, apparently, before he owned El Fay, he owned a small taxicab company. The way I heard it, what happened was, one day he drove one of his taxis clear up to the Canadian border—this is all the way from New York City?—and he filled his trunk with liquor. When he got back to New York and he realized how much
money
he could make from bootlegging, he just never looked back. And now he owns one of the biggest clubs in New York.” She smiled. “Isn't that a
fantastic
story?”

“Extraordinary. Did you know that John knew him?”

“I'm not surprised. Johnny knew
everyone
.”

“Did he ever mention Mr. Fay?”

“No. And I'd remember if he had, I definitely would. As a writer, that's the kind of mind I have? I just can't help it, no matter what I do. Information,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “virtually any information, just
sticks
right here.” She tapped at the side of her head, to pinpoint the location.

Miss Lizzie said, “What about a man named Owney Madden?”

“Well now, I know for a fact that Johnny
did
know Mr. Madden. He introduced me to him, up at the Cotton Club. That's this wonderful big speakeasy in Harlem? Very
chic
. Lovely young darkie girls, a
fantastic
jazz band.”

Just then, the waiter arrived with Miss Dale's caviar. It came heaped in a small crystal bowl nestled inside another crystal bowl, the second packed with shaved ice. Lying alongside the caviar was a small spoon made of horn. Next to the bowl, the man set a platter of buttered toast points, and, beside this, three small plates, one filled with lemon wedges, one with chopped hard-boiled eggs, and one with chopped onion.

He put her glass of seltzer beside the plates and said, “Would mamzell perhaps wish for some crème fraîche?”

“No,” she said. “This is just absolutely perfect.”

“Tray bone,” said the waiter and then glided away.

Miss Dale leaned toward Miss Lizzie again. “A single ounce of crème fraîche and I turn into a
balloon
.”

Miss Lizzie smiled politely.

Ignoring the onion, the lemon, and the chopped egg, Miss Dale used the caviar spoon to scoop up a large dollop of translucent gray eggs. She dabbed them onto a toast point and spread them carefully along the surface, meticulously nudging a few reluctant eggs along the sides and into the corners, then neatly poked the spoon back into the bowl. Holding the toast with her pinky extended, she took a dainty bite, closed her eyes, and thoughtfully chewed on it.

She opened her eyes and smiled dreamily. “Scrumptious.”

“I am so glad,” said Miss Lizzie. “But tell me, Miss Dale. What do you know about Mr. Madden?”

“Hardly anything at all, really. Well, I know that he's had a checkered past, of course, like Mr. Fay. They say he actually
killed
a man once. But honestly, you'd never ever suspect that, to talk to him. He's so soft-spoken and so gracious, and so
enormously
charming.” She took another bite of toast.

“What was John's relationship with him?” Miss Lizzie asked.

Miss Dale delicately swallowed. “I assumed that Johnny knew him because, like I said, Johnny knew virtually
everyone
. It was just one of the things he did.”

Miss Lizzie nodded. “I understand that you and John were intimate for a time.”

Miss Dale fluttered her eyelashes. She carefully set down her toast point, wiped her hands on her napkin, and then put her right hand between her breasts in an impersonation of surprise that might have been more persuasive if she had taken less time to prepare it. “Wher
ever
did you hear
that
?” she said.

“From Albert Cooper. You know Albert, I expect. John's majordomo.”

Miss Dale took a sip of her seltzer. “Albert, yes, of course. I could never understand why Johnny kept that awful man around. He has this horrible
lumbering
quality, don't you think?” She shivered theatrically. “He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You did have an intimate relationship with John, did you not?”

She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Well, yes, briefly, but that was
years
ago. Literally
ages
. We decided, mutually, that we got along ever so much better as friends than we did as lovers.” She leaned slightly forward again, smiling. “I do hope I haven't shocked you.”

“Not as yet,” said Miss Lizzie, who smiled back. “Amanda tells me that you and John had an argument on Friday night.”

“Oh no,” said Miss Dale. “Not an argument. Not really.” She glanced over at me then looked back at Miss Lizzie. “I did explain all this to the police.” She picked up her toast point and took another, less dainty bite.

“Perhaps you could explain it to us,” said Miss Lizzie.

Miss Dale swallowed. “Well,” she said, “frankly, it was a financial matter, of sorts.”

“Of what sort?”

Miss Dale was spreading caviar on another toast point. “A friend of mine had let me know,
very
confidentially, about a truly marvelous business opportunity. It required an investment on my part, naturally.” She looked at Miss Lizzie. “My books have been doing very well, of course, thank goodness for that, but just at the moment, what with one thing or another, my resources have been stretched just the
tiniest
bit thin.”

“And you asked John for money?”

Miss Dale took a bite of her toast, chewed again, and swallowed. “A loan. A small one.”

“How small?”

She set down her toast, picked up her glass, and sipped at her seltzer. “A thousand dollars.”

“And what did John say?”

“Well, he explained that his own resources were stretched a bit thin, too, at the moment.” She shrugged her small square shoulders. “And that was that.”

“From what Amanda tells me, you didn't take his refusal quite that calmly.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” she said, as she turned to me, smiling. “Were you
spying
on me, sweetie?”

“You were just across the room,” I pointed out. “Twenty feet away.”

“Of course I was,” she said. “And in a way, of course, you're absolutely right.” She turned back to Miss Lizzie. “I was a
bit
out of sorts on Friday. It was, well, it was my time of the month?” She turned to me and gave me a saccharine smile. “You wouldn't know about that, sweetie. You lucky thing.”

She turned again to Miss Lizzie. “And I suppose,” she said, “that I overreacted a tiny bit when Johnny turned me down. I honestly did regret it later. Almost immediately. And as soon as I got home, I telephoned him to apologize. But he wasn't there.”