Hannity watched Austen pour himself coffee and join Julia beside the mantel. “Well, how about that? Mr. Hurd just saved us a trip uptown, O’Leary. Isn’t this cozy?”
“The gentleman is our guest,” Philip said from his corner, into the uncomfortable silence. “I trust you’re not here to investigate our social calendars, Sergeant.”
A dull flush spread across Hannity’s throat. “No, Mr. Kydd. Sorry, sir.”
Did they know each other? Did Hannity work with Philip’s uncle Kessler?
Hannity wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He straightened his shoulders and started again. “So who else, Mr. Hurd?”
“Let’s see. There was Paul Duveen, a pretty well-known critic and writer. And a couple from California. San Francisco, I believe. Max and Dolly Clark. I’m sure Duveen can tell you—”
“Just tell me what happened last night.”
“We were invited upstairs after the show. Duveen and the Californian couple were there, and Arthur Goldsmith, the publisher. The owner, Leonard Timson, was there, of course, and his friend, a Mr. Wallace, who shared our table during the show. Shortly after we arrived, the headline performer, Eva Pruitt, and her escort, Jerome Crockett, joined us. I believe that’s everyone.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Hannity said as O’Leary hunched busily over a notebook, scribbling. “Had you been to Carlotta’s before?”
At their denials he continued, “Any special reason why you went there last night? Just curious about coloreds?”
He meant to goad them. Julia bit back a testy reply, glad when Austen answered. “I work in publishing, Sergeant. The big buzz last week was Eva Pruitt’s new novel. Arthur Goldsmith just bought the rights to publish it. We thought it would be fun to see Miss Pruitt’s show.”
“You work in publishing too, Miss Kydd?”
“Not as such, no.” Even though she considered her fledgling Capriole Press a venture every bit as serious as Austen’s work at Boni & Liveright, Hannity would never understand.
“So what happened in Timson’s apartment? After the chitchat. Miss Kydd?”
Julia sat, not too gracelessly, she hoped, as a new thought struck. Did Hannity suspect her of something? Was that why he refused to answer her questions? The notion was absurd, but she’d heard tales of innocent people nattering on unawares to policemen, delivering all sorts of information that could be construed as incriminating. She desperately missed a hat brim, so useful in shielding one’s face while allowing a good view of others’. Until she knew more, she needed to be cautious. “After Eva and Jerome arrived, we drank champagne. Talk turned to her novel.”
“First names, huh? You’re pals with Pruitt and Crockett? Met them before?”
“Last week,” Julia said carefully, “at a literary party.”
“What exactly do you mean, ‘talk turned to her novel’?”
“Apparently Timson learned about Eva’s book and stole the manuscript,” Austen said. “He had no right, of course, but wouldn’t listen to Eva’s objections. He made something of a show in locking it away in his safe.”
“You saw him lock the papers in the safe? Her jewelry too?”
They nodded. So he’d already talked to others, if he knew about her jewelry case.
“What did Miss Pruitt do then?”
Julia’s heart plunged. As she’d feared, he was focusing on Eva. If only Julia had worked harder to dissuade her from returning for that manuscript. Without Wallace to calm him, Timson’s fury might have boiled over if she’d confronted him again about it. Had he pulled the trigger this time? Good God, was Eva dead?
“It’s what Timson did that matters,” Julia exclaimed. “He drew his gun and threatened her. He’s a ruthless man, Sergeant. Ruthless and violent. If anything’s happened to her, he’s the one you—”
Hannity made a maddening tsking sound, as if Julia were a child speaking out of turn. “So they quarreled. Then what?”
Julia’s fears burst out. “Why are you asking these questions? Is Miss Pruitt all right?”
Hannity strolled to the windows. He looked down over the quiet courtyard. “So when did everyone leave Timson’s rooms?”
Julia saw again Eva’s lax face, surrendering to whatever fate the gun in her cheek might deliver. Had she felt a premonition of what awaited her later? An inadvertent twitch and—Julia twisted for breath as her mind braced for the fatal explosion. She only faintly heard Austen explain that Goldsmith had left first, followed by Wallace. Jerome had escorted Eva downstairs, and the rest of them had left soon after.
“What time would you say that was?”
“Maybe two thirty? Before Eva’s last performance, whenever that was.”
“Where’d you go next?”
“Julia and I parted ways with Duveen and the Clarks. We left them waiting for their car.”
“You both came back here?”
“Not directly. We went on to a club near where I work. We had a few drinks and settled our minds after what had happened. It was quite late before I saw Miss Kydd home. Around five, I think.”
Hannity made a sour face.
“Did either of you go out again after that?”
Austen shook his head.
“Have you seen or heard from anyone who was there last night?”
Again, no.
Hannity paused to make sure O’Leary recorded every scrap of information. “Timson was alone when you left him?”
“Quite alone,” Austen said.
Julia couldn’t bear it any longer. “You must tell us what’s happened, Sergeant.” She was reduced to pleading. “Please.”
“I must, must I?” He eyed them for several long seconds. “Well, you’ll read about it in the papers soon enough. Last night someone shot Leonard Timson. Put a slug right between his eyes.”
He smiled at the noise that escaped from Julia’s lungs. Into the silence he added, “And one other thing. His safe was standing wide open, empty. Bare as a baby’s bottom.”
Julia marshaled every strength to fathom this news. Eva was alive. Timson, not Eva, was dead. But his safe was empty. The implication was monstrous.
“So it’s only natural to wonder,” Hannity said with exaggerated patience, “if Pruitt’s manuscript has something to do with it.”
“Surely not.” Julia jumped up despite herself. “That place was filthy with guns. We saw at least half
