Her cold resolve made Hannity’s threats seem like the spleen of a petulant altar boy. Julia forced herself to match her sangfroid, inspecting the glowing tip of her cigarette as she searched for the right indifferent words, hoping to earn the woman’s confidence. “I know her a bit. I doubt it was a scam. I saw the manuscript last weekend. You might yet get it when everything is sorted out.”
“You sound like Pablo.” Coral sighed in disgust. “If it exists, if it’s found, if we can get hold of it—it may still be worthless nonsense. What the hell was Arthur thinking?”
“I can’t imagine he was happy about that little scene after the show.” Julia smoothed her skirt, careful to keep their dance moving but not lead too forcefully.
Coral surprised her with another low, melodic laugh. “He was furious. Stormed about like a guilty schoolboy—to beat me to the punch, of course. We’d been to a party at my sister’s that night, but Arthur just had to slip off to see the creature’s show with Pablo. I was getting ready to leave when he returned with the news that that madman wouldn’t give us the manuscript. There was a terrible scene, naturally, and Arthur skulked out of the house—sensible alternative to sharing a taxi home with me, I’ll grant you—and crept off to who knows where.”
Julia mustered a laugh to disguise her spike of interest. This was not what the Goldsmiths had told the police. Kessler believed Goldsmith had been home by two thirty. This woman had confirmed it and assured police he’d stayed in for the remainder of the night.
Why would he lie? Why would she? More importantly, where had Goldsmith gone—at the very hours in which Timson had been shot?
“Poor man,” Julia said. “Was he out long, and in all that rain?”
Coral released a tendril of smoke. “Oh, my dear, I have no idea. His bedroom and mine are miles apart. I didn’t see him until the next afternoon, when neither of us was in a mood to speak of it, especially with policemen demanding details. But he was perfectly dry and rested. Believe me, Arthur is not one for troubled breast-beating through deserted city streets. I expect he hopped straight into a taxi and sneaked up to sleep at the office. Yes, that’s about right for Arthur.”
She laughed again, the rumbling of a patient volcano, and covered Julia’s hand with her own. It was cool and strong. “But don’t pay much heed to my jaded opinions, Miss Kydd. I rather hope he does set his cap for you. A tangle with a clever beauty might do him some good, restore a bit of the old boy’s flair. Just don’t turn his business head.”
Her crush of Julia’s hand was brief but sufficient. Their meeting was concluded.
CHAPTER 17
Two nights later Julia stepped into the magnificent Twilight Lounge of the Hotel Astor. Wallace brushed a bill into the maître d’s palm, and they followed a pair of slim white-jacketed shoulders into the plush room. The hour was late, but it was filled with other partiers in formal attire. The Twilight was a favorite meeting place for those who held regular boxes at the opera, and those regulars gathered now in convivial groups of six or eight at clustered tables and drawn-up armchairs. Most were men, but intermittent blooms of colors, glowing like candles in the lush decor, revealed women too.
Despite the dozens of people in the room, nothing so vulgar as a commotion escaped it. Several large oriental rugs covered the floor, cushioning footsteps and sliding chairs. Burgundy velvet draperies softened the paneled walls, and white damask puddled from every table. The long mahogany bar was inset with padded leather, muffling the clink of glass and china. Even the small orchestra in the far corner of the room discreetly muted its labors.
A fire flickered under a wide mahogany mantel in the center of one long wall. It faced the bar, from which white-jacketed men delivered endless rounds of beverages in delicately painted bone china teacups. The china disguise was a droll touch, since the Astor faced no danger of surveillance from Prohibition agents. The lieutenant governor himself sprawled in one of the fattest armchairs, a cigar in one hand and a brimming teacup in the other. No doubt half the men surrounding him were civic luminaries.
“You’ve been a marvelous sport,” Wallace said into Julia’s ear. “Now we get better acquainted.” His hand rode her hip as he guided her forward.
She longed for the intimate hour ahead. Despite her best efforts to subtly raise the subject of Timson’s murder, she and Wallace hadn’t spoken of it beyond a few guarded clichés of shock and horror. When she’d tried to spark a conversation, hoping he’d confide his role in protecting Eva, he’d merely said he hoped she was safe, wherever she was. In the next breath he’d waved over a friend he’d introduced as the city’s next mayor, and the subject of Eva had disappeared.
It was frustrating. If he’d confided in her, she could have asked directly why she’d had such trouble reaching Eva. After four futile days, an unidentified woman had finally answered the mysterious telephone, on Julia’s
