She told him about the pages she’d discovered in Duveen’s library, wondering what to make of them.
“It rather dashes any theory that the missing manuscript was only incidental to the murder,” Philip said. “If Timson were shot for some other reason, why keep the manuscript?”
“You mean if he was killed for the jewelry or something else in the safe? A smart thief would assume anything locked away like that was valuable. It wouldn’t take much to learn about Goldsmith’s big stake in it. Maybe he’s testing the market, seeing if they’ll pay to get it back.”
“It’s conceivable,” Philip said, “but why in dribbled batches?”
“To whet the publisher’s appetite? Tease him with what he’s lost but could recover—for a price?”
“Without any mention of said price? No, a blackmailer would get straight to business. And remember, the fellow’s also a murderer. Unless that book’s worth a minor fortune, blackmail isn’t worth the risk.” He lifted his cup. “Regardless, whoever has that manuscript is still likely to be Timson’s killer. Kessler will certainly think so.”
As Julia feared. “Pablo assumes it’s Eva. He doesn’t care much, so long as there’s a book to publish, no doubt with more fanfare than ever.”
“I’m afraid Miss Pruitt is the odds-on favorite. It doesn’t look good for your friend.”
“What if Timson simply gave Eva her manuscript? That was her plan, to sweet-talk him into returning it. What if she succeeded, and someone else came along later and shot him, by sheer, awful coincidence?”
It was a stretch, but wasn’t it possible?
“Why hide then?” he said. “Her disappearance is the strongest strike against her.”
Bernice. The betrayed nanny. Julia nearly said it aloud: Innocence was a white person’s luxury. No Negro in Eva’s circumstances could dare trust such a claim to protect her.
Philip reconsidered in the wake of Julia’s silence. “Perhaps she knows who killed him. Perhaps she witnessed the murder.”
“And is hiding from the murderer.” Julia’s voice rose. “But who?”
She’d exhausted every possibility, over and over. She’d even wondered if Austen could have crept away early that morning. Her current favorite candidate was Bobby Hobart, Carlotta’s manager, perhaps because she’d never met the man. He’d surely known of the secret passage connecting his office with Timson’s apartment. Maybe he’d wanted more power or chafed under Timson’s authority. But Kessler had scrutinized Hobart’s alibi and found it solid. He and all of the armed staff at Carlotta’s were accounted for that night and morning. Kessler insisted none of them had had the opportunity to murder their boss.
She reconsidered Wallace. Much as she was attracted to the man, he carried a gun. He was ambitious. For a bookkeeper’s son, he’d acquired remarkable wealth and power. Was there a ruthlessness beneath the steady nerve and clear head? Not that she’d seen, but he too had had no opportunity to kill Timson. Kessler believed his account of that night—and so did Julia. She could imagine him killing a man, but not in stealth or without extreme, just cause.
She ticked off her reasoning to Philip. Not Austen, not Hobart, not Wallace.
“Duveen?” Philip mused. “He could have typed and mailed those pages himself to throw further suspicion onto Eva.”
Duveen and the Clarks had been drinking heavily when they’d left Carlotta’s. In the blur of more cocktails, crowds, and eye-popping distractions, he might have slipped away from them. “Yes,” she said, warming to the idea. “He’s eccentric but also much sharper than he seems.”
“Would he know about that secret stair? Unless he could levitate or otherwise slip unnoticed by the guards, it seems the only way in and out of that room.”
“Maybe. He frequents the place regularly. He’d been in Timson’s rooms before. Or Eva might have mentioned the passage. Or Jerome Crockett. Anyone who worked backstage might know about it and have told him. Pablo chats up everyone—and he’s gathering material for a Harlem novel of his own.”
Philip met this with a skeptical scowl. “He’s also rather bulky. Most secret stairs are tight squeezes. Kessler said his man could barely fit. Duveen’s hardly built for skulking.”
“He could have telephoned to Goldsmith, who’s quite slim and lied about his alibi. He’s a proud, calculating man, Philip, and he told police he was at home when his wife told me he stormed out of the house again at three.” Separately or together, both men had motive to reclaim property they considered stolen. Julia tried to picture Goldsmith demanding the manuscript’s return. His righteous anger had been real enough. But would either he or Duveen be able to wrestle Timson’s gun from him and pull the trigger? It was hard to imagine, physically or psychologically.
That left Jerome Crockett, who, like Eva, was a fugitive without an alibi. Julia pictured him in his sweltering cave in the bowels of the Half-Shell, writing poems across discarded newspapers. Her heart balked, but she had to face it: Jerome was the likeliest suspect, after Eva.
Julia and Philip finished their tea in that dreary stalemate. Neither spoke until the taxicab pulled to the curb in front of Philip’s home. Lucky man, Julia thought. His flat suited him perfectly, and he seemed prepared to live out his days there. As they mounted the steps, she said as much.
“I was fortunate. It belongs to my friend Mrs. Macready. She owns most of the block.” He stopped, halfway up the broad stone steps. “And I’m a dolt. A mile thick today. I forgot until this moment that she mentioned a vacancy last week.”
“Nearby?” Julia scanned the block but saw no sign of anyone moving in or out.
“Around the corner. It fronts onto Lexington. Should we inquire?”
Ten minutes later they were waiting on the steps of a beautiful
