“Don’t forget how useful this old snout has been to you. Accept our terms and get on with it.”
Kessler dropped into his chair. “I suppose she can stay, but only until Hannity brings up the suspect.” He eyed Julia uneasily. “You’re to be well out in the lobby before he comes. On no account do I want you speaking to or even seeing Miss Pruitt. Is that clear, Miss Kydd?”
Julia nodded. Infuriating, but clear.
“Agreed. Now, what can you tell me about the case thus far?” Philip motioned Julia into one of the deep leather chairs facing Kessler’s desk and drew up another for himself.
Kessler hesitated, scowling at Julia. “We found Timson just before seven yesterday morning, after a call came in to the local precinct. We all knew the man, of course. He’s heavily involved in backroom stuff—mostly numbers rackets. Not one of our more illustrious citizens.”
“The man was a skunk,” Julia said. “Anyone could see that.” She scooted forward. “I suppose you’re honor bound to investigate all murders, but if ever there was a case for skimping, this has to be it. Can’t you ease up and consider Timson’s death a favor to the city?”
Kessler bristled. “The law doesn’t work that way. No one deserves to be murdered.”
For an awful moment Julia feared Philip would argue the point—Bluebeard? Jack the Ripper? Attila the Hun? She could almost see his mind rising to the juicy bait. But before he could disappear down that rabbit hole, Kessler spoke again.
“As I was saying, Timson’s crooked, but he’s always been careful to keep Carlotta’s high-class downtown clientele happy. And that clientele includes a pretty elite swath from city hall. So when the boys got the call, they knew it could be a tickler and alerted me first thing. I got there soon after Hannity.”
He extended his humidor to Philip, who declined. Kessler lit a Corona Perfecto.
“Who called it in?” Philip asked.
“Carlotta’s manager, a chap named Bobby Hobart. He called us, and then he called Martin Wallace, asking for help in case trouble broke out downstairs.”
Julia dipped her head to shade her eyes beneath her hat brim. She didn’t want either man to notice her interest at the mention of Wallace’s name. The mysterious blond man with a quiet power she didn’t yet understand.
“Now why would he do that?” Philip stretched his legs and lit one of his own Régies. “Why would he phone the enterprising Mr. Wallace?”
“I suppose because he has one of the few level heads up in that neck of the woods. Wallace understands the sensitive nature of the situation. Both colored and white club owners listen to him, and that’s no small testament to his reputation as a square dealer.”
“So first on the scene, or nearly. A prime suspect, surely?”
“He certainly knew Timson moderately well. They had a few business dealings in the past, but nothing special. He’s known as a tough but honest businessman, the sort who sees that giving others a fair shake pays dividends down the line. You’ve met him, at the Stuyvesant? We’ve golfed together on occasion. He owns a few of the smaller Harlem clubs, but he’s mostly involved in commercial real estate. Something of a fresh horse in politics as well. He sits on a passel of those citizen committees the governor likes to ballyhoo. They say he’s caught the eye of the party bosses in Albany. Rumor has it he may take a run at Wadsworth’s Senate seat next year.”
“A criminal profile if ever I heard one,” Philip said.
Kessler ignored this. “But we questioned him at length yesterday. Wallace has no connection to the missing manuscript, and a dozen witnesses confirmed his whereabouts all night. Seems he met no less than Senator James at Carlotta’s that night, and together they went on to one of Wallace’s clubs on Seventh Avenue. Neither left until Hobart telephoned.
“And he’s helping us now. I’ve asked him to talk to the locals, keep a lid on things. Time is of the essence here. Too many short tempers in the mix.”
He glanced at Philip, who for once sat mute. “This needs to be handled carefully. Plenty of unscrupulous people are angry about Timson’s death, and they’re itching for vengeance. I imagine Eva Pruitt seems as likely a killer to them as she does to us. Whether she knows it or not, she’s far better off in here with us than out on the streets, where a justice much rougher than ours often prevails.”
“You mean some kind of vigilante violence?” Julia’s voice rose.
Kessler grimaced at the term. “That’s why we need to wrap this up quickly.”
“At least the papers aren’t yet hounding you,” Philip said. “Maybe they’re sensible enough to see the city’s better off with the johnny dead. As long as you keep the race element quiet.”
“What do you mean?” Julia’s chest constricted again. But she knew exactly what he meant. The race element was a sanitized euphemism for the violence burgeoning throughout the South and elsewhere. Race per se wasn’t the problem. The problem was the Ku Klux Klan’s crusade to punish colored people for failing to respect the “God-given rights of white folks.” Sometimes that meant neglecting to step back when white ladies wished to use the pavement; sometimes it meant laughing too loud when a white gentleman was listening to the wireless. If a mob believed Eva had put a bullet in a white man’s brain, their retribution would be swift and terrible.
“Wealthy white boss dies at the hand of colored employee,” Kessler muttered, translating the danger into the kind of headline that would stoke virulent righteousness—and sell great stacks of newspapers.
Philip watched the smoke curl from his cigarette. “Unfortunately, just the thing to quicken the newshound’s pulse.”
Kessler swept his hand across his mouth. “That’s the last thing we need, and you know it. Race had nothing to do with this case. Pruitt’s the obvious suspect for all the usual reasons. But yes, that’s another reason we need her to talk. I’m
