Front Page Affair (10 page)

Julian Weeks began:

“Berlin, July 9, 9 p.m. via London, July 10, 2:37 a.m. The text of the German reply to the American Note is as follows: On November 3, 1914, England declared the North Sea a war area, and by planting poorly anchored mines and by the stoppage and capture of vessels, made passage extremely dangerous and difficult… Long before the beginning of submarine war England practically intercepted neutral shipping to Germany. On November 14, the English Premier declared it was one of England's primary tasks to prevent food for the German population from reaching Germany through neutral ports. Since March 1—”

“I get the gist.” Kitty laughed. “Not the full text.”

“The gist is that Germany won't back down. They insist that Britain's actions have left them no other choice than to retaliate with submarines in order to be able to feed their people. Do you need Rao today?”

Kitty had decided to visit the country club and ask some questions on Lupone's behalf. “I thought I might go shopping at Altman's. But I can drive myself.”

“All right.” He returned to the paper. “This is really quite amazing,” he murmured to himself.

“I should be back by three.”

“Don't forget we have the concert this evening.”

“Which concert?”

“At Carnegie Hall.” Mr. Weeks enjoyed music and often bought tickets for performances without checking with Kitty first.

“Oh.” That would cut into her time with
The American Girl
, but the longer it took to find any exonerating evidence, the less inclined the police would be to believe her. And while she was at the club, Kitty thought she may as well look into Mrs. Cole's whereabouts during the fireworks.

“Leaving so soon?” Julian Weeks asked as Kitty stood.

“I'd like to get an early start.”

Her father frowned, puzzled. “What time does Altman's open on Saturday?”

“I'm not sure.” To distract him, she added, “By the way, is Mr. Maitland a friend or business acquaintance?”

“A bit of both, I suppose. We might embark on a venture together.”

“That's nice.” She pushed in her chair. “What kind of venture?”

“Ah.” He nodded. “If it turns out right, it could be very good.”

• • •

Kitty studied the map and wrote out directions. She dressed for the day, called for her car, and drove to northern Manhattan, then on to the Bronx, past the Botanical Gardens, Fordham University, and Van Cortlandt Park. Fortunately, there were fewer streets here so fewer choices and fewer opportunities to lose her way.

She stopped once to have the car filled with gasoline, and then pulled up outside the Sleepy Hollow Country Club where a sign that she hadn't noticed previously informed visitors that the club was
Private Property
and
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted
.

As if that would dissuade a criminal, Kitty thought, parking her car outside. She pushed in the gate and entered on foot.

With her parasol open, she roamed across the lawns as nonchalantly as though her father were a member. No one stopped her.

Kitty wandered over to the rear patio where a few elderly sorts with nothing else to do on a Saturday morning sipped tea or leafed through magazines and newspapers. Some of them may have looked up as she went inside, but no one asked any questions. She made her way to the ladies' room, only to discover that the woman on duty that morning wasn't the one who had been there on the evening of the murder.

Kitty washed her hands. “You weren't here for Mrs. Basshor's party on Monday, were you?” she said to the attendant who waited for her with a towel.

“No, ma'am. I'm only here on the weekends. Is there something that I can help you with?”

“Would you happen to know the name of the attendant who worked here that day? I think I may have lost my comb and was wondering if she found it.”

The woman opened a cupboard and brought out a wicker basket for Kitty to inspect. “We keep all lost and found items here.”

Kitty rummaged through the contents. “I'm afraid I don't see it. When will—what did you say her name is again?”

The attendant blinked. “It's O'Malley.”

“That's right—O'Malley. And when will she be back?”

“On Monday. She works during the week.”

“Of course, yes.”

“If you give me your name, madam, I can ask her to keep an eye out for it.”

Kitty had the feeling that the attendant sensed that something wasn't right, that she was neither a member nor a member's guest. She picked up her purse and dropped a few coins into the bowl. “That's quite all right. I'll be back again soon and ask her myself.”

She hurried through the clubhouse and back out onto the patio. The sun was out, the trees rustled in the breeze, and the majestic Hudson River shimmered in the distance. Kitty recalled the scene at Mrs. Basshor's party. There must have been at least a hundred people out on this patio and on the lawns. A hundred guests, plus waitstaff and grounds staff, and kitchen staff and chauffeurs at the entrance. Any one of them could have murdered Hunter Cole.

When he was shot was clear: during the fireworks. Where was at the stables, how was with his own gun. The only questions that remained were why and by whom.

As far as Kitty was concerned, those questions hadn't been properly answered.

A horse-drawn cart clopped briskly down the driveway toward the front gate. A driver holding the reins urged the animal on; beside him, a gentleman clutched his hat and doctor's bag while the cart bounced up and down over the gravel. From where she stood, Kitty couldn't make out what was in the back, except that a large tarpaulin covered the mound.

Kitty walked on. A girl's voice called, “Thirty love,” as she passed the tennis courts. The speaker wore a long white skirt, her shirtsleeves rolled to her elbows. She tossed a white ball into the air and smacked it across the net with her wooden racquet.

A young man in sharply creased white trousers lunged to return the ball. He hit it back, but it shot over the fence, and Kitty, who had it firmly in her sights, caught it in midair. The ball slipped from her hands, and she ran to pick it up again and tossed it back.

“Thanks,” the man called.

“Thirty fifteen,” the girl said, and play resumed.

She could have been that carefree girl. Kitty's chest tightened as she neared the stone stables. The yellow-brick building looked lovely with the summer sun hitting its tiled roof, and colorful pansies in planters hung from wrought iron hooks.

The police had their man, Kitty reminded herself. No one had asked her to come here—not even Lupone, trapped in prison.

Whatever the outcome of her visit, it would be on her own head. There would be no going back. She had already done much more than she ought to, with her trip to the Tombs.

She took a deep breath, put her hand against one of the heavy wooden doors, and pushed it open.

Chapter Sixteen

A dusty shaft of light filtered through a single window at the back of the barn and formed a puddle of brightness along the aisle between the two rows of stalls.

“
I'm on my way-way-way, To Mandalay-lay-lay
…” A young boy with knobby knees and a reedy voice sang and swayed in the circle of light, dancing with his broom.

“
Oh, let me live and love for aye, on that island far away.
” His eyes were closed, so he didn't notice Kitty watching. “
I'm sen-ti-mental
—
for my Ori-ent-al love, so sweet and gentle—
”

“Excuse me,” Kitty interrupted, hating to break the moment.

The little lad swung around to face her just as a burly fellow in overalls emerged from the darkness of a stall, grooming brush in hand.

“G'morning, miss.” He touched his cap. “Back to work, Turnip,” he said to the boy. “And quit the warbling.”

Kitty stepped forward gingerly, not wanting to tread on the spot where Hunter's body had lain. She had thought she remembered the area exactly, but now she wasn't sure, since all traces of the tragedy had been cleaned away. The place looked just like an ordinary stable ready for business.

“I was passing and thought I'd check in on the horses,” she said.

“Are you an owner, ma'am?” The groom wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Beg your pardon for asking, but only owners are allowed inside these days.”

“New rule?” She tried to seem unconcerned.

“Don't know if you heard, but there was a murder on the premises.”

“Ah, yes.” Kitty nodded. “I was there. I'm a friend of Mrs. Basshor's.”

Groom and boy exchanged nervous looks.

“Is something wrong?” Kitty asked.

The boy opened his mouth to speak, but the man silenced him with a glare. “I told you to get back to work, Turnip.” His calloused hand reached out to stroke a velvety nose that poked out from a stall. “One of our animals fell ill and had to be seen to by the vet.”

“Was that him in his cart I just saw?”

“That's right,” he replied. “You're fine, girl. Just fine,” he murmured to the horse he was petting and fed her a carrot.

“That must be hard after all that's happened. I heard that they caught the fellow who did it. He worked here?”

The stable hand stiffened. “He did.”

“Was he a foreigner?” If the stable hands held any grudges against Lupone or thought he was guilty, her question might prompt them to talk.

“We guessed that, didn't we, Turnip?” the older man replied. “From his accent. Still, he wasn't a bad sort. Kept to himself.”

“You must have noticed something.” Kitty tried to probe. “Didn't you hear or see anything suspicious?”

“Well…” The groom took off his cap, scratched his head, and put it back on. “Actually, no. He was a hard worker. Went away on his days off but always came back on time. We never had any trouble.” Behind him, Turnip's head bobbed up and down in agreement.

“There wasn't anything suspicious about him at all? Did he know Mr. Cole from his previous employment?”

“That's what they're telling us. That Mr. Cole recognized him, and he would have lost his job—”

“Madam!” The door burst open, and a man in a blue pin-striped suit rushed in. “Madam,” he said again, out of breath. For a while, it seemed to be the only word he could manage. “I'm Phillips, the club secretary,” he added finally. “And you are?”

Kitty froze. “Miss Lodge.” The only name she could think of on the spur of the moment was Elaine
Dodge
, the character played by Pearl White.

“She's a friend of Mrs. Basshor's,” the groom offered.

“Well, Miss Lodge,” said the club secretary, “I must inform you that only owners are allowed into the stables at this time and that all guests must be properly signed in at the front desk and be in a member's company for the duration of their visit. Is Mrs. Basshor expecting you? I don't believe I've seen her this morning.”

“I'm afraid she isn't.” Kitty didn't think it wise to lie any more than necessary.

The boy started to whistle.

“Stop that,” Phillips said. He turned to Kitty. “I regret to tell you then—”

“That I must leave the premises.” She finished his sentence. “I know. I was in the vicinity and thought I'd stop in to see how things are going.”

He bowed and held the door open for her. She passed through. “In the future, madam, please feel free to drive right up to the front. One of our porters will park your vehicle, and you are welcome to wait in the reception area until Mrs. Basshor is able to meet you.”

Kitty felt three pairs of eyes following her as she made her way to her car. She walked a good fifty yards before she turned back to the stables.

“I'm sorry,” she said to the secretary, who didn't seem too pleased to see her again. “May I take your boy to help me? Something got caught under my chassis and made the most terrible racket all the way over here. I thought he might be able to slide underneath and take a look.”

“That's fine.” He nudged Turnip. “Go on.”

The boy hurried behind Kitty, and as soon as they were out of earshot of his superiors, he slid his hands into his pockets and started singing again: “
Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers…
” It was another hit tune but faster and catchier than his previous choice.

“Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows,

Some soldiers send epistles, say they'd sooner sleep in thistles

Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.”

“That's excellent, Turnip.” Kitty laughed at the tongue twister. “I wouldn't be able to manage it myself.”

“I know you,” the boy said. “You're not Miss Lodge. You're that lady from the papers, aren't ya?”

Kitty had the grace to blush.

“I was there the night Mr. Cole was killed. I saw you. You went all woozy, and Lewis brought you a stool.”

“That's right.”

“So what brings you back to our neck of the woods?” He seemed terribly confident for such a little fellow.

“I have some questions,” Kitty said.

“It's gonna cost you, y'know. Five dollars, if you want to know what I know.” He walked half a step behind her.

“Five dollars?” That was a lot of money. “What
do
you know?” she asked.

They approached the Bearcat.

“I know,” the boy replied, “that if this is your car, you can afford it.”

Kitty stifled a smile and pointed to the vehicle. “Slide under—they're watching us. Don't worry though. I'll pay you.”

She stood beside the car with her back to the stables. “What can you tell me about Lupone?”

“Well, he was the one who said we should all go out to see the fireworks. Joe—the man you saw inside—wasn't feeling too good, but he dragged him out as well. Said it was a chance none of us should miss.”

“I see.” That matched what Lupone had told her. “And he was with you the entire time?”

The boy paused, and then said, “I can't be sure, but I think so. That's what we all said to the police anyhow.”

“What's that—that he was with you, or that he wasn't?”

“That we thought he was but couldn't be sure. The coppers told us we were just sticking up for him. But that's not true. Lipton—I mean Lupone”—he corrected himself—“was one of us, but none of us would lie if we really thought he killed someone.”

“And he disappeared later that evening?”

“That's right. After talking to the cops like the rest of us.”

Kitty put five single dollar bills on the running board, and a second later, they disappeared. “Tell me, have you heard anything about Lupone speaking to Mr. Cole a few days before he was murdered?”

Turnip peered out from under the car. “No.” Noticing her disappointment, he added, “You want to know something for free?”

“I wouldn't call it free. I just paid you!”

“Do you want to know or not?”

“I'm all ears.”

“It's about Breedlove, Mrs. Basshor's pony. That's the one that took ill this morning. They put him down and carted him off before you could say Jack's your brother.”

“What's wrong with that?” Kitty tied on her hat. The boy was just talking for the sake of talking now.

“It's just that they told us he stepped on a nail and was starting with tetanus, but I know that's not true.” He looked aggrieved. “I sweep the stalls myself. There aren't any nails lying about.”

Kitty agreed. The place seemed spotless for a barn. But Mrs. Basshor's pony's sickness had nothing to do with her.

“I think we're all set.” She climbed into the car and waved at the club secretary who still watched her from the door to the stables. “They'll wonder what's taking you so long.”

Turnip slid out from under the chassis. “Did you see the look on Mr. Phillips's face? He must be terrified that if word spreads about Breedlove, all the owners will take away their animals. Two deaths in one week.”

“Two?” Kitty looked down at the boy.

“Mr. Cole and the pony.”

“That's right.” Kitty turned on the engine and drove away. Two deaths in one week. A man and a horse.

She shook her head. There couldn't be a connection.