The Case of the Murdered Muckraker (16 page)

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Authors: Carola Dunn

BOOK: The Case of the Murdered Muckraker
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“I'm sure he'll walk on past, but if not, don't put yourself in danger, Balfour. And thanks for the warning.”
As she spoke, Daisy was being hustled across the lobby by Lambert and Pascoli, both breathing whisky. Lambert opened the door leading to the passage to the Ladies' Sitting Room, thrust Daisy through, and shut the door behind her.
It was dark—what Daisy had assumed to be a fanlight with iron tracery above the doorway admitted no gleam of light. Daisy promptly opened the door again, just an inch or two, and peered through the crack.
Kevin arrived on the scene, alerted by Stanley. He and Pascoli and Lambert stood in agitated consultation. Beyond them, Miss Genevieve waved her stick and demanded to take part. Sheer force of personality had the little group drifting towards her when a large man in a brown overcoat and soft felt hat bulled through the glass doors and strode across the lobby.
Daisy's friends fell silent. Kevin hurried after him, towards the registration desk.
Though Daisy couldn't see the desk, she heard the impatient ting-ting-ting of the bell. She thought she recognized Kevin's Irish American twang, presumably offering assistance. The stranger's voice was louder. Even so, Daisy only made out a couple of words, those most easily distinguished by any listener's ear: her own name.
A
s soon as Daisy heard the stranger pronounce her name, she eased the door shut with barely a click. So she actually was in danger! She hadn't truly believed all the fuss had any basis in reality.
She felt cold and shaky and much in need of Alec.
What would he advise her to do? Instinct said, creep down the passage to the sitting room and find a window to climb out of. But where would she go then? It was getting dark outside. Common sense said she was safer here with all her friends to protect her.
Common sense went on muttering in her head. Wasn't it rather odd that a man who had come to kill her because she might recognize a face should walk into a hotel and show his own face to any number of people? Surely, even in America, he couldn't hope to get away with killing everyone who saw him!
On the other hand, who else could he be? Could Gilligan have sent a plainclothesman to take her to police headquarters? That prospect was almost as alarming as the notion of a hired assassin stalking her.
A tap on the door made her jump. She held her breath as it opened. Though neither an assassin nor a policeman was likely to knock before coming after her, if he had somehow discovered her whereabouts, she was relieved to see Lambert. Behind him stood Thorwald and Pascoli, their backs turned, keeping watch.
Lambert had brought Stanley with him. The boy was hopping from foot to foot with excitement. “I heard ‘em!” he blurted out. “I snuck up an' listened. ‘Whatcha want?' says Kevin. ‘I wanna see Mrs. Fletcher,' says the guy, real sharp. ‘Mrs. Fletcher checked out,' says Kevin, but Mr. Blick the desk clerk comes out an' hears him an' up an' says, ‘No she ain't her key's not here so she oughta be in but our residents ain't always careful 'bout handing in their keys when they go out.'”
He was forced to pause for breath, and Lambert put in, “Because there's never anyone at the desk.”
Stanley brushed this remark aside as the irrelevance it was. “An' the guy says, ‘Call up an' see is she in,' so Mr. Blick called an' there wasn't no answer, course, an' Mr. Blick says, ‘Mrs. Fletcher's out,' an' the guy says, ‘Mebbe she just don't feel like answering the phone I'll go up an' knock,' an' Mr. Blick, he makes Kevin take him, so I come an' tell the gennelmen.”
“Good for you, Stanley!” said Daisy.
“So we've got to get you away from here,” said Lambert, “before he comes down.”
“Where could I go? I haven't even got my hat and coat.” Daisy had an inspiration. “Wouldn't the safest place be the Cabots' suite?”
“Maybe, but it'd be mighty risky getting you up there. If we have to wait for the other elevator …”
“I'll go up the stairs. It's only the second noor—third to you. But let's not waste any more time. We'll have to ask Miss Genevieve's permission and get her key, and I don't want to be halfway across the lobby when that chap comes down again and gets out of Kevin's elevator!”
Pascoli swung round. “You go get the key, Lambert. Thorwald and I will take Mrs. Fletcher to the stairs, where she'll be outa sight. Come on, let's hustle!”
So Daisy was hustled to the stairs, and then up them at a breathtaking pace which left Mr. Thorwald far behind. Lambert, youth on his side, overtook the
Abroad
editor and caught up with Daisy and Pascoli as they paused on the stairs just below the third-floor level.
“Here's the key,” he panted, dropping it into Pascoli's extended hand.
“Bully! Now you better go check the elevator isn't passing by just when Mrs. Fletcher gets to the top of the stairs.”
“O.K.” Lambert sped off, to reappear a moment later on the landing above them. “It's just coming down now.”
“You watch and see is the bullyboy in it.”
In the waiting hush, Daisy heard the lift mechanism's perpetual complaint. Its sudden cessation startled her and she took a step backwards. She had to grab the rail to save herself from a tumble, so that though she was aware of the clang of lift gates and then Lambert speaking in the passage above, she missed his first words.
“I left him knocking on Mrs. Fletcher's door.” That was Kevin's anxious voice. “
I
wasn't gonna wait and bring him back down not knowing where she is. You guys get her away safe?”
“She's going to hide out in Miss Genevieve's place. Keep the elevator here while she goes past, O.K.?”
“Sure.”
Thorwald arrived from below as Lambert appeared again above to announce in a whisper from the side of his mouth, “All clear!”
Daisy and Pascoli went on up, followed by Thorwald, huffing and puffing. Passing the lift, she waved at Kevin.
“You O.K. now, m'lady?”
“Right as rain.”
“Hot dog! I'll go on down now, keep an eye on what's going on,” he said.
Moments later the door of the Cabots' suite closed behind Daisy and her escort. Lambert stationed himself by the door, presumably to repel boarders. Daisy and Thorwald sank into chairs, while Pascoli started to read the framed newspaper articles hanging on the walls.
“Oh boy, Eugene Cannon sure was some dame!” he exclaimed admiringly.
“In her heyday, she used to terrify me,” Thorwald admitted.
Daisy had expected “Eugene Cannon” and Miss Cabot to be hot on her heels, but the minutes ticked past and they didn't come. Lambert started to twitch.
“Maybe I better go see what's happening,” he muttered.
“No!” said Pascoli. “The less coming and going the better. I bet Miss Genevieve's waiting downstairs so she can tell us when the big galoot leaves.”
“What shall I do if he doesn't?” Daisy fretted. “Suppose he finds out somehow where I am and comes knocking on the door?”
As if in response to her words, someone knocked. Everyone froze.
“Who's there?” Lambert enquired cautiously.
“Who do you think? Let me in, you fool. You have my key.”
Miss Genevieve lumbered in, her sister fluttering after her. Behind them came Kevin, sporting one red ear and waving two envelopes.
“He left a message for you, ma‘am, and one for Mr. Lambert. Warning him to stay outta the way, you betcha. I went and got 'em for you, but Mr. Blick caught me and gave me a thick ear. I tol' him you asked me to get it for you, only he said it's Stanley's job running errands and I oughta be in my elevator. So I got Stanley to give 'em to me,” he ended triumphantly, handing one note to Daisy and the other to Lambert. “Whassit say?”
Though she gave him a severe glance, Miss Genevieve seconded his question. “Do please read it out, Mrs. Fletcher. We are all agog. Mr. Pascoli, you will find a paper knife on my desk.”
With the utilitarian steel blade, Daisy slit the envelope—hotel stationery—and took out a single sheet, which she handled gingerly by the edges. “Fingerprints,” she explained, unfolding it.
The writing was large, at first glance straight from a copybook but actually quite difficult to decipher. “‘Dear Mrs. Fletcher,'” Daisy read with a frown of puzzlement. “How odd to be so polite if his aim is to …” Her eyes flew to the end. “And it closes, ‘Yours truly.' It's signed! I can't read the signature, but underneath he's printed …” A half hysterical giggle escaped her. “It says, ‘Agent, Bureau of Investigation, U.S. Department of Justice.'”
“Agent Whitaker!” groaned Lambert, studying his note.
“Aw, punk!” said Kevin in tones of deep disgust.
“Yes, that could be a
W
,” Daisy said, examining the signature. She turned back to the body of the letter and managed to make some sense of it. “My husband asked him to drop by when he reached New York, to make sure I'm all right.”
“But I'm to stay on the job till Mr. Fletcher arrives,” said Lambert.
“He's putting up at the something Hotel—I can't make out the name—and will come back tomorrow morning when he's talked to the local police.”
“My dear Miss Dal … Mrs. Fletcher,” said Thorwald, “do I understand correctly that the immediate jeopardy is averted? Permit me to congratulate you most sincerely.”
“It don't mean there ain't some other creep after her,” Kevin said hopefully.
“Very true,” Miss Genevieve agreed.
“Oh dear! Surely, sister …”
“I hope, young man, that you and your colleagues will continue to keep a watch for suspicious characters.”
“I gotta go home soon, ma'am,” Kevin deplored, “but I'll sure get the night shift on the job.”
“Kevin,” said Daisy warmly, “you're an angel. If Mr. Whitaker had really been out for my blood, only your organization would have saved me.”
Behind the freckles, Kevin blushed rosy red. “Aw, geez, m'lady, it wasn't nuttin.”
“Indeed, we are deeply indebted to your vigilance, my boy.” Thorwald slipped him a crackling green note, which disappeared with a practised ease.
“Tell you what,” said Pascoli, “you ever need a job, you come to me. The news business can always use a kid with get-up-and-go. Here's my card.”
“Yes, sir! I gotta get back to work now, or ol' Blick'll have conniptions.” Kevin's hand went up protectively to his ear as he departed.
“Gosh,” said Daisy, suddenly exhausted, “I want to thank all of you for coming so nobly to the rescue. And now I think I'll go and lie down for a bit after all the brouhaha.”
Though she left the bedside light on, intending to read, Daisy actually dozed off. Through her dreams floated faces from Gilligan's mug book, with Barton Bender's broad, greasy face looming over them in the guise of a dirigible. In the basket dangling below the airship, a scarlet-and-white cat with Mrs. Carmody's face preened itself with long, painted talons. It kept fading, like the Cheshire cat, leaving a sharp-toothed grin. On the ground, a figure in a bowler hat and a bandit's bandanna mask aimed a crossbow at the airship and shot it. Deflating, Barton Bender whizzed around madly, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared. Meanwhile his lady love turned into a winged crocodile, weeping copiously, and flew away. “Rats!” said Detective Sergeant Gilligan. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”
“That's Hamlet's line,” murmured Daisy, waking up.
Not long ago, a dream had helped her solve a murder, so she lay for a few minutes pondering the images. Nothing significant emerged from her ruminations, however, and pangs of hunger began to gnaw at her vitals. What with one thing and another, her tea had been skimpy. It was time for dinner.
Dinner with Lambert, she supposed, but she'd soon be rid of him. She resolved to be extra nice to him.
He was waiting in the passage outside her room. Thorwald and Pascoli were both waiting in the lobby below.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Pascoli cheerfully, “and the more the merrier. Thanks to you, Mrs. Fletcher, I've gotten some swell copy. Dinner's on
Town Talk
.”
The ebullient news editor took them to what he called a “joint,” where a furtive waiter provided a water carafe filled with white wine, which they drank from tumblers. After half a glass, Daisy stopped worrying about what the A.C. (Crime) would say to a headline reading “Joint raided, Scotland Yard 'tec's wife pinched.” She stopped at half a glass, though, as she didn't want to risk getting tiddly and missing Alec at the station.
The wine only made her more determined to meet his train, in spite of Lambert's disapproval. Penn Station, he pointed out, was an ideal spot for any skulduggery instigated by Tammany or Bender.
“You needn't come,” she said.
“We'll
all
come,” said Pascoli. “There won't be any shenanigans with three of us to guard you.”
Whether or not they averted shenanigans and skulduggery, Daisy was glad of her triple escort. Beneath the Roman pillars of the Baths of Caracalla and the lacy Victorian ironwork of the vast railway terminal, spread a netherworld, a Greek labyrinth of cavernous halls and gloomy tunnels. Not so very different from the London Underground, perhaps, but Daisy knew the Tube like the back of her hand and had always felt perfectly safe there.
Here, it was all too easy to imagine an assassin around every corner, or someone creeping up behind her, unheard in the constant din of loudspeaker announcements, rumbling luggage trolleys, and locomotive whistles. Besides, she was sure she would have got lost had not Pascoli and Thorwald steered her straight to the right platform.
The editors and Lambert clustered about her, keeping a lookout in every direction, as the train chugged in. Daisy had eyes only for the passengers as they swung or clambered down the steps from the high train to the low platform. Though Alec's dark hair was hidden by his hat, she spotted him as soon as his head appeared through a door.

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