This Dame for Hire (8 page)

“And her husband.”

“Of course,” he said.

This wasn’t that unusual an arrangement. But I wondered why he didn’t live with his parents if he wasn’t married, and I assumed he wasn’t. Or why he didn’t have a place of his own.

“You never told me where your parents live, Mrs. West.”

“No, I didn’t. They live in Connecticut. Madison.”

This meant nothing to me. Except to say Walker would rather stay in New York than Connecticut. Me, too. But it was possible he didn’t get along with the old folks at home.

Myrna bent toward a silver box on the glass coffee table, opened it, and took out a cigarette. By the time she leaned back, Walker held out a light for her.

I took my cigs from my pocketbook.

“Forgive me,” Myrna said. “My manners. I should have offered you one.”

“That’s okay. I like my own.”

Walker was up and giving me a light before I knew what was happening.

“Thanks.”

When he returned to his seat, Myrna said, “Do you have some news for us, Miss Quick?”

“Call me Faye.” I didn’t know how much to say in front of the brother. I glanced his way purposely.

“You can say anything in front of Cornell.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

“I was thinkin your husband would be here, but then I realized he’s probably at work.”

“Yes.” She took a deep draw on her cigarette and let the smoke dribble out.

“It’s not so much that I have any news, it’s more that I wanna ask you some questions.”

“We told you everything we know.”

“Did you?”

“Is that an accusation?”

“It’s a question.”

Cornell took his sister’s hand. “Now Myrna, don’t get upset.”

“I just don’t know what she means.” She sounded whiny.

“Miss Quick is making sure you haven’t forgotten anything, isn’t that right?”

“Ya could put it that way.”

He eyed me real close. “What other way could you put it?”

I ignored his question and said, “Mrs. West, why didn’t you tell me your daughter was pregnant?”

She sucked in her breath like I’d punched her. “How dare you suggest such a thing.”

“I’m not suggestin it, it’s a fact. She was three months pregnant.”

Angry color rose in Cornell’s cheeks. “I presume you have something to back that up.”

These people were always presuming. “Yeah, I do. It’s in the autopsy report.”

Myrna stubbed out her cig like she wanted to destroy it. I didn’t expect that much fury from her. She was a lot different without Porter.

“That’s a lie,” she said.

Cornell said, “Wait a minute, Myrna. Did you see the report?”

Her bosom was heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “Porter did.”

“You didn’t?” I asked.

“No. I couldn’t bear to.”

“Did he tell you what was in it?”

“He said . . . he said there was nothing I needed to know.”

“Damn him,” Cornell said.

“You don’t like your brother-in-law, Captain Walker?”

“No, it’s not that. I
do
like him. I don’t like it when he treats Myrna like she’s not part of the picture. If Claudette was pregnant, Myrna had a right to know. I’m sure he thought he was protecting her, but . . .”

“Porter’s always been that way,” she said.

“And it’s time he stopped,” Walker said.

“Mrs. West, when you were at my office, I asked ya if there was anything else and your husband gave ya a tiny shake of his head, as if there
was
somethin. Somethin he didn’t want me to know. What was that about?”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I think ya do. And if ya want my help finding your daughter’s killer, ya gotta come clean with me, completely honest.”

“Do you know who was the father of Claudette’s child?” she asked.

Just like I hadn’t said anything about her being honest. “No, I don’t.”

“Myrna, is there something you’re keeping from Miss Quick?”

“Porter will kill me,” she said.

“Seems like since he didn’t tell you an important thing ya have some leverage here.”

“She’s right,” Cornell said.

“You’re absolutely sure that Claudette was pregnant?”

“The coroner is absolutely sure, Mrs. West.”

After a few moments, she went for the silver box and Cornell once again lit her cigarette. She inhaled and let it out. “Porter hates Richard Cotten, you know that.”

I nodded.

“No matter what the evidence said, he wanted the killer to be Cotten. But . . . there was this other boy. Claudette had just begun to see him. Only two weeks before she was killed. He was the kind of boy Porter wanted for her. He comes from a very prominent family. They’re in the Social Register. Porter said there was no point in dragging that family into this because he knew Alec couldn’t have had anything to do with it.”

“And how did he know that?”

“He said people with Alec’s breeding simply didn’t do things like that.”

“Is that right?” I said. “Amazin deduction.”

“That’s why Porter looked at me that way. He was afraid I might give you Alec’s name.”

“Will ya give it to me now?”

“He couldn’t be the father of the child,” she said.

“I still need his name.”

“Oh, Porter will have my head.”

“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I just can’t believe my little girl was pregnant.” She started to cry.

I gave Cornell a pleading look.

He put his arm around her and squeezed gently. “Myrna, tell Miss Quick what she wants to know.”

“If ya got some info and you’re not tellin me, you’re impedin this investigation,” I said.

“Even if you don’t tell Porter about where you got the boy’s name, he’ll know it was me.”

“Ya mean nobody else knew who he was?”

“Well, yes, people did. They went out in public. And that’s another reason Porter thinks Richard killed her. He thinks he saw them someplace together.”

“Did Claudette say that happened?” Walker asked.

“No. Oh, you people don’t know how angry Porter can get.”

“How angry?” I asked. I felt a little alarmed.

“He rages,” Myrna said.

“Ya mean he yells? Nothin else?”

“What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t hit ya or anything like that?”

She sat up straight. “Of course not. What kind of people do you think we are?”

I thought I’d let that one pass. No time to explain it happened in the best of families.

“Myrna,” Walker said. “You have to tell Miss Quick whatever you know.”

There was a long silence while she thought it over and then she said, “Are you going to tell the police?”

“That depends on what I find out.”

“Oh, what’s the difference? His name is Alec Rockefeller.”

NINE

Myrna told me that the Rockefeller kid lived on Park Avenue. Where else? Armed with his address I took a bus across Eighty-sixth Street through the park and another one down Fifth Avenue. I wasn’t in a big hurry, and sometimes I didn’t feel like being underground.

Sitting by the window I watched people rushing to somewhere. Every once in a while I’d see a person, usually a woman, in a coat or jacket, and I’d think:
That person actually went to a store and picked out that item.
It boggled my mind. What could she have been thinking? She paid a lot of filthy lucre for that ugly thing. Why?

And that speculation always led me to taste. A very individual thing. The woman I was passing now was wearing a coat with big green and yellow squares like a checkerboard gone crazy. She must’ve thought she looked swell in it or she wouldn’t have bought it. But how could she see it like that? It was a futile game I played with myself, cause I never came up with satisfying answers.

I quit my rubbernecking and settled down to thinking about Alec Rockefeller. Myrna told me he was in his early twenties, very good-looking, courteous, and charming. He’d come to the funeral and had visited the Wests once a week for about a month and then he stopped. She figured it was too painful for him. She also said he was a second cousin of a more famous Rockefeller but couldn’t remember which one.

My stop came at Sixtieth Street. When I got off, I walked east toward Madison. There were a lotta town houses on this block, and I knew you had to be rolling in dough to live in one of them. And there were trees. Small, but still they were there.

I crossed Madison and walked the final block to Park. The building I was looking for was on the corner of Sixtieth across the avenue.

It was tall and brown except the top two floors, which were a tan color. Even from where I was standing I knew that under the eaves was a lot of decorative stonework. It could’ve been flowers or angels or anything, but I’d never know.

When the light changed, I crossed. Standing in the doorway was a doorman, of course. My life was getting to be nothing but these mugs. This one was wearing a green uniform with the usual generous gilt. I honestly didn’t know how I was gonna get into a Rockefeller household, but I had to try.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

This one looked like something you’d mount on a wall. He touched the shiny black bill of his cap and nodded politely. “How may I help you, miss?”

“I’m not sure I have the right address, but I’m supposed to meet with an Alec Rockefeller.”

“Rockefeller?”

“Yeah, Alec.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any Rockefellers in this building.”

“No Alec Rockefeller?”

“No
any
Rockefeller. Believe me, I’d know.”

Dopily I handed him the piece of paper that I’d written on when Myrna read it to me from her address book.

He stared at it a long time as though the numbers might change. “Well, that’s this building, but no one by that name lives here.”

“Is there a young man who has the first name Alec?”

“No one.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

He took a step back from me and looked stern. “Miss, I don’t have to think about it. I know the name of everyone who lives here.”

“Of course ya do, sorry. Ya wouldn’t be doin your job if ya didn’t, right?”

“That’s precisely right. Good day, miss.” He walked quickly to the door and opened it for an older woman in a dark fur coat, her cheeks rouged so she looked like a puppet.

“May I get you a cab, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“No thank you, Chester. I’m going to walk. It’s such a lovely day.”

“Yes, madam.” He touched the bill of his cap as she turned and started down Park.

Should I or shouldn’t I? I decided I would do it, but I had to make it look good for old Chester. I turned and peered uptown, then east, and when I saw the light was in my favor, I scurried across the avenue and started downtown, the whole time with my eyes on Mrs. Skeffington.

At Fifty-seventh she crossed to my side and headed down the block. I followed.

There were a lot of people on Fifty-seventh, so I didn’t have to be too careful shadowing her. We crossed Madison and about two yards in she went into a store. Only I saw it wasn’t a store when I got there. It was a gallery, and it was up some stairs. The glass in the door was clear, and I waited until she’d disappeared at the first landing before I went in.

By the time I reached the landing she was going in another door. There was a sign on it that said:
GEORGE BAILEY, FINE ART
. I’d never been in one of these galleries, so I didn’t know what to expect. I went to the Met when I wanted to look at pictures. Fact was I went to it a lot. I guess I could say afternoons at the Met had saved my bacon more than once. Being there in the quiet, looking at paintings guys did a long time ago, calmed me down and got my mind going in a straight line instead of all over the lot.

I waited a minute and then I opened the door of the Bailey Gallery. Inside, the walls were white and hung with pictures the likes of which I’d never seen. Every one of them looked like a blank canvas. But the name of the show was above the so-called paintings.
White on White.

There was a girl at a desk with sleek black hair who gave me the once-over, and Mrs. Skeffington seemed to be the only customer. Her back was to me as she stared at a picture that I could now see had white paint on the canvas. I didn’t get it.

But I sauntered over to stand next to her, not too close, but it wasn’t a very big room, so I was close enough. I was looking at the picture next to the one she was looking at. But I could’ve been looking at any picture cause far as I could tell they were all the same.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. S. turn and look at me, so I turned to look at her. She smiled and was starting to turn away when I said, “Mrs. Skeffington, what a surprise.” I put out my hand, which she took in the tips of her soft gloved fingers. Carefully, I said, “How are you?”

I could see she was flummoxed, but she wasn’t letting on. She was a fine-boned lady with eyes that had a sparkle, like Christmas tree lights.

She said, “I’m fine and how are you?”

“Just fine, thanks. Mrs. Skeffington, I can see you aren’t sure you remember me.”

“Oh, no. Of course I do. I’m simply at a loss as to where we last saw one another.”

“It was the Rockefeller party.”

“Oh, of course, of course. How silly of me. The Rockefeller party.”

“The last one.”

“Yes, yes. I recall now.” She fussed with the collar of her brown fur coat.

“That was some shindig, wasn’t it?”

“Shindig?”

“I mean it was a lovely party.” I almost blew it, and reminded myself that a Mrs. Skeffington wouldn’t talk like me. I needed to tone up my chat.

“Shindig,” she said again.

I smiled. “Oh, it’s a word I picked up last week at the Mellons. The boy used it. I thought it had a nice ring to it.”

“Yes, yes it does. Well, are you a devotee?” She held out her arm and swept her black-gloved hand, as though it was a wand, toward the pictures.

“First time,” I said.

“How did you hear about him?”

Good thing I read the social notes in the paper. “Brooke,” I said.

“Really? I didn’t know she knew about Ronald. Did she say she knew him personally?”