“But you saw how she was treated. The law doesn’t seem much interested in protecting her rights. How lawful were those punches? The police assume she’s guilty. All they want is proof or a confession—even if they have to beat it out of her.”
“What they want is the truth. All Kessler has is a dead man, a missing manuscript and jewelry case, and their silent owner, who disappeared for twenty-four hours after he was shot. Given her refusal to speak, Kessler would be a fool not to suspect she’s involved.”
“Which is why he needs me to talk with her.”
Philip drew a knuckle across his brow as he thought. For a full minute neither spoke. He crushed out his cigarette. “If I agreed—and I’m not yet convinced I should—you’d have to promise to tell me everything you learn, with the understanding that I’ll pass it along to Kessler. Perhaps with a little discretionary editing, but only a little. A solemn promise, Julia.”
She was torn too. Only the chance to hear Eva’s account of events was worth joining forces with the likes of quick-fisted Hannity. She answered slowly. “I won’t trick or betray her. I must have your assurance that no matter what we learn, she’ll be treated with respect. If she played any role in that man’s death—if, Philip—she’d have had powerful justification. You must promise to remember that.”
Philip considered this, head down. He looked up. “All right. You have my word.” Beneath his bland expression his eyes spoke a steady, even adamant assurance. For all his trying qualities, Philip’s honor seemed sound.
“Then I promise too. I’ll be exactly as candid and forthcoming as you are.” She extended her hand, and he shook it. “So how can I reach her?”
“Don’t you want to know more about the investigation first?”
“I want to hear what she has to say first. Where can I reach her?”
Philip took a small card from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “I was told someone at this number would know.”
Julia hesitated. Her role suddenly felt underhanded, deceptive. “Is this what they mean by being a snitch?”
Philip smiled. “Merely a sleuth.”
Julia went to the hall alcove and dialed the number on the card. It rang fourteen times before she disengaged the line. She tried the call again, with the same results. Wherever it was ringing, no one there seemed available or inclined to answer it. Julia slowly put down the receiver.
“Setback?” Philip said when she returned. He lit a fresh Régie.
“Temporary.” She looked at his cigarette case. “Are you sharing?”
He obliged, and she savored the first vapors. “So what do the police know so far?”
Philip settled into his chair and gestured her back to the sofa. “Timson was shot once at close range. Killed instantly with a bullet through the forehead—”
“All of his men carried guns. There are your obvious suspects.”
“—and his empty shoulder holster was found hanging over the arm of a chair.”
“He was killed with his own gun?”
“Hard to say—because it’s missing. Fortunately it’s a distinctive thing, with a turquoise-and-silver inlay on the underside of the handgrip.”
Odd. Julia wondered if he wore matching spurs. “Do they know when he was shot?”
“Between four and six at best estimate.”
“What do the guards say? We saw at least three of them on those stairs.”
“They swear no one came or went that way after your party came down.”
“Did anyone hear the shot?”
“Unfortunately, no. The man at the landing claimed he never left his post, but he reported several disturbances that could have distracted him from noise upstairs. The others were farther away and say they heard nothing.”
“They could be lying.”
“Which is why Kessler’s had a squad of men there since Sunday, going over everyone’s story backward and forward. So far it all squares. Seems no one trusts anyone else, which means they keep a close eye on each other.”
“So what are the cops doing now?”
“They’re thrashing about in the usual thickets, poking around for that sparkly gun and the other stolen goods. I also suggested they look for—unless they think the killer could fly—the swinging bookcase or secret stair that got her in and out.” He lifted a hand to stay Julia’s protest. “Or him. Tap the walls, twist the finials, that sort of thing.”
“So apart from the obvious horde of gunmen about, who does Kessler suspect?”
“He reasons—rightly, I think—that the missing manuscript is key to this business, so he’s focusing on those who learned its whereabouts that night. Including you.”
Julia did a quick calculation. “There were ten of us in the room. Timson and Eva, Goldsmith and Duveen and the two tourists, plus Austen and me. Martin Wallace and Jerome Crockett were there too. So nine, subtracting Timson. Seven, eliminating Austen and me.”
Philip smiled. “Keep going. You’ll have this wrapped up in no time.”
“Surely Kessler has no reason to suspect Austen or me.”
“Little to none, as it turns out. Someone confirmed you were seen at a midtown speakeasy until after four, and good Mrs. Lewiston downstairs reported your less-than-stealthy return at a quarter to five. Really, Julia, think of my good name.”
She demurred with a look of injured reproach. So much for disappearing into the city’s bosom of anonymity. Was it Benny who’d ratted on them? And she’d thought their return exceptionally stealthy.
“Make that six,” she said. “Kessler said yesterday that he grilled Mr. Wallace and decided his alibi was strong too.”
Philip nodded absently.
“Assuming Kessler’s right about the manuscript,” Julia went on, “who might have wanted it badly enough to kill for it?”
Before Philip could repeat the obvious answer, she provided two alternatives. “Goldsmith and Duveen stood to lose money and face.”
Philip nodded. “Goldsmith will lose a packet if the manuscript isn’t found and published—which gives him ample motive. But Kessler says his wife swore he returned home that night about two thirty and never left again. Paul Duveen and the Clark couple returned to Duveen’s building after seven Sunday morning, which the doorman recalls all too vividly. Duveen claims they were in Harlem all night, though
