He sent a quivery smoke ring into the air. “All of which is why he’s most interested in Eva Pruitt. She argued with Timson. He’d confiscated her property, which then disappeared. No one saw her from about four a.m. Sunday, when she was seen arguing outside her dressing room, until she turned up at the local precinct early yesterday morning. And she refuses to answer questions.”
“Arguing with whom?”
“Top suspect number two, Jerome Crockett, who also had motive, opportunity, and no alibi after that argument. His flatmates claim they heard him come in sometime around dawn, but at ten when Sergeant Hannity went round to question him, he found evidence of hasty packing but no Crockett. No one’s seen him since.”
Julia recalled the proud, arrogant man. “He’s Eva’s lover. He’s a poet, a rather fierce one, and an intellectual. She’d deny it, but I think Eva’s a little afraid of him. I am. When she and Timson were arguing over the manuscript, she gave Jerome several panicky glances. I think she was warning him not to lose his temper. He looked like he might explode. A few minutes later he had to stand by and do nothing when Timson held a gun to her head.”
Julia considered this. Jerome Crockett must have seethed with fury and hatred. “Wouldn’t that drive any man into a rage? If he loves her as much as she believes, maybe he sneaked back later to get her manuscript. Or maybe he shot Timson simply as a jealous lover. This could be a simple crime of passion.”
“If Crockett restrained himself during the actual abuses, why wait and lose control later?”
Julia didn’t know. She ran her fingers through her hair. “At least we’re down to just four plausible suspects.”
Philip quirked an eyebrow.
She lifted one finger at a time. “Goldsmith, Duveen, Eva, Jerome. All had a strong motive to retrieve Eva’s manuscript, and all had at least theoretical opportunity to kill him. As soon as I’ve had a chat with Eva, I plan to cross her off the list too. My money’s on Jerome.”
Philip made another face of astonishment. “Culprit by dinnertime?”
“I certainly hope so.”
He shooed her toward the telephone alcove with a flick of fingers. “By all means then, extract her story. Wrap up this pesky business.”
She tried the number again, but with no better luck. From the hall she asked, “Do you know where she went? After the police released her?”
“Wallace came to fetch her. He promised to set her up in a private place to stay, out of view. He’s the one who gave Kessler that number.”
Julia considered who might know Wallace’s friends and associates. She could only think of Pablo Duveen, whose taste for gossip was nearly as avid as his appetite for all things Harlem. She returned to the telephone, consulted the directory in the drawer, and dialed his number.
Duveen had much to say, but eventually Julia was able to thank him and end the call. “Bother.”
“Thwarted again?” Philip asked when she flopped back down onto the sofa.
“He knows less than we do.”
“Pity. Though hardly a surprise.”
The doorbell rang. “I’m not home, Fee,” Julia reminded Christophine as she passed by from the kitchen to answer it. “You saw how terrified Eva was yesterday. There must be something more I can do, other than keep dialing that number.”
“You could try to find out what or whom she’s afraid of.” Philip paused. “Other than Timson.”
“Jerome.” Each mention of his name deepened Julia’s suspicion. Like a gun, he was cold and hard, taut with suppressed inner violence. Besotted with his literary prowess, Eva saw only the poet beneath the pride. But if he’d cracked and killed Timson, she might suspect or even know as much and now be hiding from him as much as from the police.
“Or Wallace,” Philip suggested.
Julia threw up her hands. He was right. At this point all she had was speculation. “Or Goldsmith, or some complete stranger. At least I can start at Pablo’s salon on Thursday. I’m sure it’ll be humming with talk of Eva. Someone there might know something.”
Philip sent another lazy smoke ring drifting into the air. “What do you know about this Wallace fellow?”
Julia recalled the fair-haired man with the gleaming cuffs, French scent, and steady nerves. “Very little. He calmed the situation when Timson drew his gun. But if he’s a friend to Eva, I like him too.”
Philip’s voice grew serious. “I realize you prefer to fling mud in the eye of prudence, my dear, but be careful there. He’s not what he seems. He courts half the city’s debutantes each year, and their mothers no less openly. He relishes nothing better than a fresh conquest. Watch out for that chap.”
Christophine entered with a tall vase of apricot roses. Precisely the shade of the frock she’d worn to Carlotta’s, Julia thought as she glanced down to read the card.
Her laugh startled the day’s grim mood. It was ten years too late for brotherly advice in that or any other department. “Oh, I shall, Philip. I’ll keep a very close eye on him.” She laughed again. “He’s invited me to dine on Saturday.”
CHAPTER 16
Billie Fischer’s voice sailed as Julia accepted a martini and moved into Duveen’s dining room. “They say Arthur’s blown a fuse—all that folderol, and all he got was a Harlem hangover.” Surrounded by rapt listeners, Billie sucked on her cigarette. “I’ll bet she never even had a manuscript. Not one pretty page.” She flung back her head and expelled the smoke through scarlet lips. “What a fraud.”
“She wasn’t a splash for long,” someone agreed. “Pablo’s sure lost his gloat.”
Julia stepped between two admirers to join the circle. Billie was the last person on earth Julia wished to see again, after the appalling scene she’d made at Liveright’s party. But now she’d gladly stomach the vitriol if it led to helpful news about Eva. Her
