Louise's Gamble (18 page)

TWENTY-SIX

E
nzo offered me one of his Camels, and I shook my head.

He lit his and inhaled deeply, stuffing his cigarette pack and matches back into the pocket of his filthy apron.

‘I am sorry not to shake hands,’ Enzo said, ‘but as you see I am working.’

Silver tarnish and cleaning paste encrusted his hands, forearms, and apron.

‘It’s OK, of course,’ I said. Then I plunged in. ‘I was a friend of Alessa Oneto, the countess, and I don’t believe for a minute she killed herself. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I’m asking some questions on my own. I’m on leave from my government job, and I’ll get fired if anyone finds out I am doing this.’

‘I know how to keep secrets,’ he said. ‘I won’t tell anyone. I am also distressed over the Countess’s death.’

‘Would you mind telling me what “errands” you did for Alessa?’ I asked.

‘I failed her,’ Enzo said, without answering my question.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She paid me three dollars a week, and I failed to see that she was in danger. I should have protected her.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘It’s the tradition of my people,’ Enzo said. ‘An obligation.’

I figured he referred to some Sicilian custom. I let it pass.

Enzo stubbed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I will show you something. But you must not speak of me to anyone, as I will not speak of you.’

‘Of course, but won’t you be late for work?’

‘I will say I helped unload the vegetable truck. I’m a good worker; it will be all right.’

Enzo led me down a flight of stairs into the immense basement of the Mayflower Hotel, the invisible world behind the scenes of the elegant hotel. Immediately, I smelled onions browning, something chocolate baking, and meat sizzling, all melded into one delectable odor.

‘Look,’ Enzo said, ‘the kitchens are on this level. You must see.’

He opened a double swinging door into chaos. The noise of the huge kitchen was deafening. Chefs in white toques issued orders to an army of kitchen workers uniformed in blue blouses and white bandannas. Pots and pans crashed and clanged. Smoke and flames roared from gas ranges and were then sucked into ducts overhead. Electric refrigerators that must have cost a fortune lined a back wall. I caught sight of the scullery as an aproned woman came through its door balancing a tall stack of dishes. Almost invisible through the steam, an army of dishwashers scrubbed plates, glasses, pots, and pans in sparkling stainless steel sinks. Whoever managed the Mayflower had the foresight to equip it before the war ended the manufacture of kitchen equipment.

On a table the size of my bedroom, lined with ice, the day’s fresh food lay ready for preparation. Vegetables, eggs, chicken, lobster, even several haunches of beef, were waiting to be prepared. The chicken I’d had at Joan’s apartment only a week ago had been cooked here, loaded into a dumb waiter, lifted to a holding scullery upstairs somewhere, then delivered, still piping hot, to me.

Enzo swung the door closed. He led me down another staircase, two stories under street level, into the sub-basement. Here the ceiling was criss-crossed with pipes and ducts in all sizes and colors. I could hear the steam engines of the boiler room roaring nearby.

We turned into a dimly lit hall off the stairway and into a locker room. Single electric bulbs hung from a low ceiling layered with a spiderweb of steel beams, ducts, and pipes. We ducked around a bank of toilets, where several lockers stood out of sight of the main room.

‘I found this locker for the countess,’ Enzo said. ‘So she could change into old clothes before she went out sometimes. She didn’t like people to stare at her in the shops and on the street.’

‘Enzo, can we possibly open this locker?’

‘Of course,’ he said as he twirled the combination lock.

Alessa’s disguise hung on a single hook. The man’s greatcoat, shiny with wear; two threadbare dresses; a single pair of down at the heel black shoes. A scarf and toboggan she’d knitted herself were shoved on to the only shelf. I felt my throat begin to close, then forced myself to remain calm. I searched every pocket and sleeve of the coat and dresses, even checked the clothing seams for signs they’d been ripped open and re-sewn. I examined the insteps and soles of the shoes for slits where a document could be hidden, taking advantage of what I had learned at ‘The Farm’. I even found a use for my switchblade when I used it to pry apart the stitched brim of Alessa’s worn felt fedora.

Alessa’s knitting bag wasn’t in the locker, of course; it was upstairs in her bedroom next to the desk. I’d seen it when I prowled the bedroom wing of her apartment during the memorial.

Her knitting bag. If she’d had a letter to give to me at the knitting circle, what better place to hide it than in the chaos of her knitting bag! I could have kicked myself for not having the brains to search it when I saw it!

I slammed the door of the locker shut. ‘Damn it!’ I said, under my breath.

‘You are looking for something in particular?’ Enzo said.

‘Yes, I am,’ I answered.

‘Is it important?’

‘Very.’

We stared at each other, both unsure if we should share what we knew.

‘I think,’ Enzo said, ‘that you and I are very good at keeping secrets.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We are.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m a government girl,’ I said. ‘But I work for an important agency. Alessa Oneto promised us information that we never received. I want to find out what happened to her, but I want that information, too. And I’m not supposed to be doing this. I could lose my job if my bosses knew.’

Enzo nodded, reflecting on what I’d told him. He peered around the corner, making sure the locker room was empty. ‘I am
Mafioso
,’ he said.

My heart jumped into my throat, and my hand went to my mouth.

‘Just a
piciotto
,’ he said, ‘very unimportant. Some of the hotel guests play the numbers, some desire companionship, you understand. The Countess wanted a quiet place to change her clothes, that was all. But two weeks ago my
capo
told me to watch over the countess, and that the request came from a friend in New York. As I already had a business relationship with Countess Oneto, I took special care.’

I was still reeling from Enzo’s stunning admission that he was a member of the Mafia. I thought of the Mafia as gangsters wearing double-breasted pinstriped suits being escorted in handcuffs to jail by J. Edgar Hoover. Or lying on a bloody sidewalk outside an Italian restaurant somewhere riddled with sub-machine bullet holes. Enzo was a working man making a few bucks from hotel guests on the side.

‘What did you find out?’ I asked.

‘Very little. Except one day I overheard one of the waitresses, who is engaged to one of my friends at work. She was in the silver room during a break and told her friend she saw the Dowager Countess Lucia Oneto take a diamond bracelet off her arm and give it to Orazio Rossi.’

‘Really!’ I said.

‘Yes. They were having coffee in the quietest corner of the coffee shop. We all laughed, thinking this was of a sexual nature – you know, the dowager countess is still young and attractive – but I filed it away here,’ he said, and he tapped his forehead. ‘Now I wonder if I should have told my
capo
, if perhaps it relates to the countess’s death.’

‘You don’t think she committed suicide either, do you?’ I said.

‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘She made so many plans, you understand? People with plans for the future don’t kill themselves. Now I must go. Can you find the way out? We should not be seen together.’

‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘And thank you. If you remember anything else, would you call me?’ I scribbled my phone number on his matchbox.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Wait a few minutes after I leave, please? Less chance of us being seen together.’

I waited, stewing over everything I’d learned, and a few minutes later left the locker room, headed for the stairs.

‘Who are you, and what are you doing here?’ a deep voice called out from across the wide hallway. I turned to see a heavyset man with a frown on his face and his arms crossed.

He wasn’t a kitchen worker or a security guard; he was wearing a quality suit and tie.

‘I’m lost,’ I said, the first words that came to my mind.

‘Are you a guest? Did you get on the service elevator by accident?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That must be what happened. So surprised to find myself here!’

‘Didn’t realize it wouldn’t stop until you got to the basement, I bet.’

‘That’s right.’ By now my mind was working. ‘I’m not staying here, actually; I’m visiting my friend Joan Adams, who has an apartment in the hotel.’

He stretched out a hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Fred Gleim,’ he said, his frown morphing into a warm smile. ‘I’m the Mayflower Hotel silversmith. Since you’re already down here, would you like to see the silver room?’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, gushing. Surely a visitor to the Mayflower would jump at the chance?

‘Right this way,’ he said, leading me down the long hall through yet another swinging door.

Inside the high-ceilinged room, big as the kitchens a flight above, overhead lights reflected off table after table, shelf after shelf, and row after row of silver plate. I was struck silent by the sight of hundreds of coffee pots, candlesticks, urns, serving pieces, champagne buckets, trays, compotes, and trays full of silverware, all burnished to gleaming.

Despite the size of the room it was claustrophobic without natural light. And the acid odor of silver polish was nauseating. I didn’t know how the workers could bear it.

‘Incredible sight, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘We polish, repair, and re-plate all the hotel silver.’

At the back of the room, behind a counter, at least ten men, including Enzo, worked, polishing. No wonder he was filthy with tarnish.

‘Must be worth a fortune,’ I said.

‘Indeed. We keep an eye on it, too, during parties and receptions so guests don’t walk away with souvenirs. Once after a Christmas party a punch bowl disappeared! Still don’t know how that happened. Teaspoons are impossible to keep track of, though. You’d be surprised how many rich and important people think it’s OK to walk off with a silver spoon because they dined in the Presidential Restaurant and want a memento with the Mayflower emblem. We’ve lost four thousand spoons since the hotel opened,’ he said.

‘I can see that it would be tempting,’ I said.

‘We’re hosting a USO fund-raising ball here after Thanksgiving,’ he said. ‘Will you be attending?’

‘I’m afraid not.’ I was eager to get away. Mr Gleim was very attentive, as I suppose he was required to be to hotel guests, but I was anxious to put some distance between Enzo, this hotel, and me before I ran into someone I knew. ‘Thank you so much for the tour,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he answered, with a slight bow. ‘Will you permit me to escort you to the correct elevator?’ he asked.

‘Please.’

The elevator door opened on the ground floor into the main lobby of the hotel. Even royalty, I thought, couldn’t help but be impressed by the marble floors and sumptuous decor of the grand hotel. I found myself wishing I could go to a ball here.

I walked, with my best imitation of nonchalance, past the hotel candy kiosk, coffee shop, and cigar stand, terrified of running into Count Oneto, Lucia, or Rossi before finding myself on the street, running late for lunch with Betty and her policeman beau. Three full buses passed me before I broke down and hailed a cab. I swore that as soon as possible I would purchase a Victory bicycle. I was tired of standing on street corners waiting forever to travel a few blocks.

I met Betty and Ralph at a People’s Drug Store soda fountain around the corner from OSS headquarters.

Betty’s appearance surprised me. She’d buttoned her dress to the neck, and she’d switched her lipstick and nail polish color from fire engine to brick red. As for Ralph, he was at least thirty-five, with a patch of gray prominent in his buzz-cut dark hair. A big man, he was comfortable in his police sergeant’s uniform, projecting an air of competence and reliability. He stood up politely and shook my hand when Betty introduced us. Was it possible that Betty had grown up and acquired a mature man as her new boyfriend? From the way Ralph looked at her, I figured he’d do about anything for her. I hoped so.

Ralph went to the counter to pick up our grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate shakes. Betty leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘wonderful.’ Betty was a sucker for a man in uniform, but this policeman was a huge improvement over the boy soldiers and sailors she’d dated before. I hoped she had the sense to stick with him.

I worried about bringing two more people into my confidence, but I couldn’t make any progress unless I did. Betty might be ditzy, but she’d worked long enough at OSS to understand secrecy, and Ralph was a policeman, for heaven’s sake.

Ralph set our tray of food down on the table.

Don’t tell any more lies than necessary, I reminded myself.

‘You know I’m working on a special project this week,’ I said to Betty.

She nodded. ‘Sorting a private library,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but there’s something else I need to do this week, and Ralph, I need your help.’

‘Depends on what you want,’ Ralph said. ‘Betty’s vouched for you; she says you have OSS Top Secret Clearance. That’s good enough for me.’

‘A friend of mine died last Thursday night,’ I said. ‘Countess Alessa Oneto.’

‘The woman who killed herself?’ he said.

‘You knew her?’ Betty asked. ‘A real countess?’

‘We were in a knitting group together. And we didn’t know she was a countess. I was very fond of her, and I don’t believe she killed herself. I want to find out more about what happened.’ Of course, I left out the part about how Alessa might have the key to preventing the destruction of American convoys loaded with millions of dollars’ worth of critical supplies for the North African front. The first slow convoy was scheduled to leave the Port of New York next week.

‘What can I do?’ Ralph asked.