New York Nocturne (11 page)

“What time was that?” asked Miss Lizzie.

“At ten o'clock. I tried again, later, around eleven, but it was the same thing.”

Miss Lizzie nodded.

At ten o'clock, John and I had been at El Fay. By eleven, we were on our way to the Cotton Club.

“I tried again the next day,” said Miss Dale. “Saturday. In the morning. And some horrible policeman picked up the telephone. He told me about poor Johnny. And that was how I learned about it—over the telephone, from a stranger.”

She looked down, her eyelids fluttering again, and she sighed loudly. She looked up bravely. “And now, of course, it's too late for me to apologize.”

I glanced at Miss Lizzie. Her face was politely blank. She asked Miss Dale, “Did the policeman identify himself by name?”

She thought for a moment. “O'Deere? Was that it? Yes, O'Deere. I remember, because it seemed such an awfully
silly
name for a policeman.”

“And the police spoke with you again?” asked Miss Lizzie.

“Yes. A Lieutenant Becker. He came to my apartment on Saturday evening.”

She glanced over at me then looked away. I had been, of course, as she knew, the reason for Lieutenant Becker's visit.

“Did he ask you,” said Miss Lizzie, “about the key to John's apartment?”

“The key?”

“Yes. At one point, when you were involved with John, you did have a key to the apartment?”

Miss Dale nodded. “Albert,” she said flatly.

“You
did
have a key?”

“Well, yes. At one time I did. And Becker—the lieutenant—he did ask me about it. Whether I still had it or not? And, you know, I
truly
thought I did. I looked all over for it, all over my apartment, while the lieutenant was there.” Once again, she shrugged. “But I must've lost it somewhere. Misplaced it?”

“When might that have been?”

“I've no idea. You know how it is. You put something away, for safekeeping, and then it just goes and disappears on you? I mean, it's been
years
since I used the thing.”

“Hi,” said a woman to my left. “Sorry I'm late.”

It was Mrs. Parker. Suddenly the smell of chypre was heavy in the air.

“Mrs. Parker,” said Miss Lizzie. “Do you know Miss Dale?”

“Sure I do,” she said. “We're old friends, aren't we, Daphne? Of course,
old
is a word we'd both probably want to avoid.”

“What a lovely dress,” said Miss Dale sweetly. “Did you make it yourself?”

Chapter Thirteen

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Parker, just as sweetly. “I had one of my slaves run it off.”

The dress in question was a pink cotton affair, low-waisted, nicely cut, but nowhere near as elaborate as Miss Dale's silk number.

“Mrs. Parker,” said Miss Lizzie, “won't you join us?”

“Love to,” she said. She tugged out the chair beside Miss Dale's and hooked the strap of her purse onto the chair's back.

Miss Dale's purse was lying on the seat of the chair. She leaned over, her blonde ringlets swaying, and snatched it up as though afraid that Mrs. Parker would sit on it, or pilfer it. She set it on her lap and put both her hands atop it, protectively.

Mrs. Parker sat down.

“I didn't realize,” said Miss Dale to Miss Lizzie, “that you knew Dorothy.”

“Mrs. Parker is an old friend,” said Miss Lizzie.

“What a nice surprise,” said Miss Dale. She looked again at Mrs. Parker and produced a smile.

“Daphne and I,” said Mrs. Parker, removing a white cloth glove from her left hand, “haven't gotten along all that terribly well since I reviewed a novel of hers. What was it called again, dear?
The Flesh Pokers
?
The Flush Strokers
?”

“
The Flesh Seekers.
You know perfectly well what it was called. And your review was—well, Dorothy, you
know
it was a good deal less than kind.”

Laying the glove on the table, Mrs. Parker cocked her head. “I honestly don't understand how you can say that, Daphne. Nearly the entire review consisted of direct quotations from the book.”

It was a duel of drawls—Mrs. Parker's Northern Finishing School against Miss Dale's Sunny Southern Maid.

“You took everything completely out of context,” said Miss Dale. “And you did it deliberately. Just to make me look silly.”

Removing the glove from her right hand, Mrs. Parker said, “So far as I could see, Daphne, you certainly didn't require any help from me to look—”

“Mrs. Parker?” said Miss Lizzie. She was smiling her bright, controlled smile.

“Yes?” Eyebrows innocently raised, she dropped the second glove beside the first.

“Miss Dale has been kind enough to come here and answer my questions. I wonder if you'd mind if we finished with that?”

“No, of course not. Sorry. I'll just sit here and be as quiet as a little bird.” Putting her hands on her lap, scrunching her thin shoulders together, she smiled and settled more deeply into the chair. “Chirp,” she said.

“Thank you. Now, Miss Dale—”

She was interrupted by our waiter, who sailed up to Mrs. Parker and said, “Mamzell? Somezing to eat?”

She let her little bird pose fall away, sat up straight, batted her eyelashes, and smiled at him. “No, thanks, Pierre. I'm trying to quit. But you know what I
would
like?”

“What is zat, mamzell?”

“I'd like a big water glass, half-filled with water. You can throw some ice cubes in there, too.”

“Tray bone, mamzell.”

She batted her eyelashes again. “
Merci beaucoup
.”

He nodded once and then floated away.

“He's about as French,” said Mrs. Parker, “as a fucking hotdog.”

Miss Dale turned to her. “Must you
always
be such a horrible
potty
mouth?”

“Well, Daphne, coming from someone who's famous for sucking the chrome off a fender—”

“Miss Dale?” said Miss Lizzie.

Miss Dale turned away from Mrs. Parker. Mrs. Parker looked at me, waggled her eyebrows, and smiled.

“Yes?” said Miss Dale.

“You have no idea when the key to John's apartment might have gone missing?”

“No,” she said, sullenly. “None.” She reached toward the bowl of caviar and then, as though deciding against this, moved her hand to the glass of seltzer and lifted it.

“Did you know,” said Miss Lizzie, “that there was a safe in John's apartment?”

She had raised the glass perhaps six inches off the table. “Pardon me?”

“A safe. A place to store valuables.”

“No.” She raised the glass to her mouth and drained it. “I didn't.” She placed the glass on the table.

Miss Lizzie said, “Do you know of a woman named Sybil Cartwright?”

“No,” she said. “Who's she?”

“A friend of John's, apparently.”

“No.”

The waiter reappeared at that moment, carrying Mrs. Parker's tumbler of water. He set it in front of her. “Nozing else, mamzell?”

“This is fine,” she said. “Thank you, Marcel.”

“Tray bone,” he said, and sailed away once more. As soon as his back was turned, Mrs. Parker turned, reached into her purse, and plucked out a small silver flask. She unscrewed the cap.

“Miss Dale,” said Miss Lizzie. “What—”

Miss Dale was looking at the gold watch on her left wrist. “Oh my,” she said. “I've
got
to go. I'm supposed to meet somebody in fifteen minutes.”

Mrs. Parker, smiling, was pouring liquor into her glass of water.

“But your lunch,” said Miss Lizzie. “You've barely touched it.”

Miss Dale lightly brushed her fingertips against her stomach. “I seem to have lost my appetite.”

“What a shame,” said Mrs. Parker. She reached in front of the woman with both hands, lifted the bowl of caviar, and set it down beside her tumbler.

“I'm sorry,” said Miss Lizzie. “If you do think of anything else, could you telephone me? I'm at the Algonquin. Room three eleven.”

Mrs. Parker returned the flask to her purse.

“If I think of anything,” said Miss Dale, standing up. “Well. Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye,” said Miss Lizzie. “And thank you for coming.”

“Goodbye,” I said.

Mrs. Parker had picked up the caviar spoon and scooped up some caviar. Sitting back, she raised the spoon in a salute toward Miss Dale, “
Au revoir
, Daphne.”

“Dorothy,” said Miss Dale curtly, and then she turned and walked away.

Holding out the spoon toward Miss Lizzie and me, Mrs. Parker said, “Anyone else want some?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“No, thank you,” said Miss Lizzie. “You certainly have an enlivening effect on the conversation, dear.”

Mrs. Parker stuck the caviar spoon into her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed for a moment, and then she plucked out the spoon and swallowed. “I know,” she said. “I'm the death of the party.”

“It's probably a good thing that you didn't arrive any earlier.”

“I'm sorry. Honestly. But I can't stand the bitch. She's as phony as a Park Avenue hooker.” She licked the back of the spoon then suddenly said, “But speak of the devil.” She turned to me. “I brought you something.”

She stabbed the spoon back into the caviar, swiveled around in the chair, and snagged the strap of her purse with one finger. She swung the purse onto her lap, opened it, reached inside, and took out a slim book. She handed it to me.

The Flesh Seekers
.

On the cover, a tall dark man in a smoking jacket dominated the foreground. The New York City skyline stretched out behind him, backlit with a lurid sunset that oozed orange and red across a purple sky. In the man's right hand, he held an empty champagne goblet. His left hand was wrapped around the waist of a young blonde woman in a silver satin evening gown whose slender body was arched backward, her long hair trailing, her long, bare arms dangling. She was either swooning or dead. The man was studying her throat as though mulling over the merits of taking a large bite from it.

“If you finish the thing,” said Mrs. Parker, “‘you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.'”

I showed the book to Miss Lizzie.

She adjusted her pince-nez and peered at the cover. “Yes. When you're done, you must let me borrow it.”

I laughed. I realize now, looking back, that this was the first time I had laughed since John's death.

Mrs. Parker asked her, “Did you actually learn anything from Daphne?” She stuck the spoon in her mouth.

Briefly, Miss Lizzie summarized what Miss Dale had said.

“And how much of that,” said Mrs. Parker, “do you think is true?”

“Very little, I expect. Over the years, I've noticed that when people are telling something less than the truth, they will use certain specific words. Words like
frankly
and
truly
.” She smiled. “Words like
honestly
.”

Mrs. Parker said, “Honestly, I really am truly and deeply and frankly sorry that I was such a horrible nasty bitch to Daphne Dale.”

And, for the first time since we had been together in New York, Miss Lizzie laughed. I had forgotten what a good laugh she had, deep and relaxed and up from the diaphragm.

I asked her, “What don't you believe?”

“For one thing,” she said, “I'm a bit dubious about movie people conducting business on a Sunday.”

“Really?” said Mrs. Parker and licked at the caviar spoon. “She knows movie people?” She turned to me. “The only movie people I know are ushers.”

Miss Lizzie looked to me. “And I wonder about her reason for speaking to your uncle. From what you told us, John was very cool to her. He wasn't someone, I suspect, to whom she'd have gone for a loan. And, from her clothes, the way she comports herself, she's used to having money. No matter how well or badly her books might be doing, I can't believe that she'd find it difficult to raise a thousand dollars.”

“She could make it in a week,” said Mrs. Parker, “working Park Avenue. Of course, she'd have to put in a couple of shifts a day.”

“In any event,” said Miss Lizzie, “I believe that the argument between them was about something else.”

“She was telling the truth,” I said, “about talking to the police on Saturday morning. She knew Detective O'Deere's name.”

“Yes. And she was probably telling the truth about Lieutenant Becker's visit.”

“What about that key?” said Mrs. Parker, scooping up some more caviar. “The key to John's apartment. Do you think she actually lost it?”

“Perhaps. Keys are rather like virtue, aren't they? They are notoriously easy to lose.”

Mrs. Parker smiled. “Yeah,” she said, “and notoriously difficult to find again.”

Our taxicab arrived at the Broadmore Hotel a little before three. Miss Lizzie led the way across the sidewalk, her handbag dangling like a large padlock from her left arm, the rubber tip of her walking stick tapping quietly at the pavement. Mrs. Parker and I followed behind.

The hotel was a smallish brick building between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, five stories tall. No doorman stood outside, and when we entered the small, stuffy lobby, we discovered that no one stood behind the desk at the moment.

We walked over to the single gray elevator.

Miss Lizzie pressed the
UP
button. The door bumbled open, we stepped in, Miss Lizzie pushed the button for the fifth floor, and the door bumbled shut.

On the fifth floor, we followed Miss Lizzie as she stepped out into the hallway and turned to the right.

The carpet runner beneath us, vaguely Persian, was frayed and worn, red patterns scuffed down to pink. When we came to room 505, Miss Lizzie knocked on the door.

Nothing.

Miss Lizzie knocked again.

Still nothing.

She switched the walking stick to her left hand and took out her watch. “Three o'clock. She promised me she'd be here.” She had telephoned the woman from John's apartment.

She knocked again, harder this time.

Nothing.

“How aggravating,” she said.

Mrs. Parker leaned forward and turned the doorknob. When she pushed the door, it swung silently inward. Inside, the room was quite dark.

Mrs. Parker cleared her throat. “That can't be a good thing,” she said.

Miss Lizzie took the cane into her right hand, stepped into the room, moved her left hand off to the side, found a light switch, and flicked it on.

We followed her in.

It was a small room, floral wallpaper all around, cheap pine furniture—a dresser, a writing desk, a pair of upholstered chairs. The place was very neat, everything carefully ordered. The bed was made.

But the bedspread was soaked in blood, so dark it was almost black, and lying limply in the midst of it, like a rag doll flung there, was a pale, young, dark-haired woman in a filmy black gown. Her throat had been cut, flesh and muscle sliced down to the pink windpipe, and the horrible red wound gaped up at us, a tortured, lunatic mouth.

For a moment, I tottered. My lungs would not work.

I heard Mrs. Parker suck in her breath. “I think,” she said, “we should get out of here.”

“One moment,” said Miss Lizzie. She turned to me. “Amanda?”

“I'm okay,” I said reflexively.

“Why don't you wait in the hall, dear. I'll be right out.”

I could smell it now, the same dense, coppery smell that had hung in the air of the library when I found John. “Why . . .” I said. I did not know then, I do not know now, what I was about to ask.

“Hey,” said Mrs. Parker softly. She touched my arm. “Come on.”

I shuffled alongside her out into the hallway, and a moment later, Miss Lizzie joined us, a white handkerchief in her hand. She used it to pull the door shut and carefully wipe down the knob, and then she tucked it into her purse.

“We'll go down the stairway, I think,” she said. She turned to me. “Can you manage that?”

“Yes.”

We took the dimly lit stairway all the way down, the three of us hushed, the soles of our heels clicking softly against the steps. When we reached the lobby, it was still deserted.

“You two go on,” said Miss Lizzie, and Mrs. Parker and I walked toward the door.