“Book him, murder charges,” Kessler said.
It felt like another blow. Impossible! Before Julia could subdue her treacherous stomach and exclaim again, he said, “No, you listen to me, Miss Kydd. Wallace gave us several addresses to search this morning. One of them was a club on Seventh Avenue. My men just found what looks like Crockett’s hiding place. They also found Pruitt’s jewelry at the bottom of an old bluing tub.”
Kessler held up his index finger to silence her. “For the past three weeks we’ve been looking everywhere for that,” he said, unwrapping Jerome’s gun and lifting it to reveal a small insignia of silver and turquoise inlaid into the base of the handgrip. “It matches exactly the description of Leonard Timson’s missing weapon.”
CHAPTER 33
Julia slid deeper into her bath, driving the sting of heat over her chin and jaw. She’d drained and refilled the tub twice, sponging away blood, grime, bile. Her clothes had already disappeared, the unspeakably torn and filthy garments she’d begun sloughing off as soon as she’d come through the front door. Christophine had helped peel away every last stitch, and then she’d sunk down beside Julia on the bathroom floor until the shaking had stopped.
Still she felt filmed with filth. Still she smelled blood. She curled a shoulder and rolled into the scalding pool. Slowly her body righted itself, and her thoughts began to knit straight.
At eight that evening Julia pushed open the doors to the library. Austen jumped to his feet. He was well scrubbed and shaved, dressed in freshly laundered and pressed clothes. He squeezed her shoulders. “That’s more like it, bean,” he said.
She’d dressed with care to bolster her spirits: her best lingerie, a new Nicole Groult frock of blush-pink crepe, tinted stockings to mask the plasters and bruises on her left leg. Her lower lip bulged where she’d bitten it, but a deeper shade than usual of lipstick disguised it well enough.
Philip stood. “The world’s back on its axis,” he agreed.
She smiled faintly. She needed all possible reinforcements tonight.
A commotion in the hallway meant the other guests had arrived. Julia shot a grateful glance at Philip, who did not see it as he went to greet the men. In the chaotic taxi ride home from Wallace’s apartment, she’d been distraught. For over an hour she’d repeated her account of events to various policemen. By the time they let her leave, she was quaking, teeth chattering and vision blurred by the sights and smells and sounds she couldn’t force from her brain. Philip wrapped her in his coat and held her so tightly only her head could move, swaying and jerking. As they sped home, she begged him, over and over, to do one thing. Make them listen, she insisted. Give me time to think, and I can explain everything. He had shushed her, but he’d exerted his mysterious powers, and now both Kessler and Hannity had come to hear her account of the past month’s events.
Christophine poured several brandies and set the glasses on a tray. Without speaking, she led Julia to the sofa and sat in the chair pulled up beside her. There was no need for discussion. They had traveled every inch of this terrible business together and would now see it through to its end. Julia was certain Christophine cared no more than she did that their guests might wonder at her presence. A moment later Pestilence was circling Fee’s lap as Julia flexed her fingers. The men found both women waiting, somber and composed, when Philip led them into the room.
He did not blink. He introduced Christophine and Austen to Kessler, waited as the men chose seats, and circled with the brandies. He followed with his cigarette case. For Sergeant Hannity he produced a cigar from his breast pocket.
Philip settled into his fireside chair. “Ready and fortified, ma petit soeur. We await your tale.”
Julia set her glass aside. She wasn’t fully ready, and nothing more could fortify her, but she had to do this one last thing. She had failed spectacularly in her effort to save her friend from a violent end. This at least she must see through as best she could.
She plunged in. “You’ve arrested an innocent man, Mr. Kessler. Jerome Crockett hasn’t killed anyone.”
Kessler sighed. “I appreciate your flair for the dramatic, Miss Kydd—it’s apparently a family trait—but that’s wildly premature.”
“Your own man told you. Jerome never fired that gun.”
“Yes, yes. We’ve accepted your account of this morning. But a great deal of evidence implicates him in the murder of Leonard Timson.”
“The evidence points to Jerome because it was meant to,” Julia said. “You were meant to arrest him.”
A spark crossed Philip’s face. Austen clicked his tongue in surprise. Both Hannity and Kessler glowered with doubt. None of it came close to the horror and shame she felt at what she now believed to be the truth.
She paused for a swallow of brandy. “As we all suspected, Timson was murdered for the manuscript of Eva Pruitt’s novel. But only nine people knew it was locked in his safe. Five of us had no reason to steal it. Austen Hurd and I certainly didn’t, and neither did the couple visiting from California. Martin Wallace didn’t even know it existed before that night. Plus we were all elsewhere when Timson was shot.
“Two of the remaining four, Paul Duveen and Arthur Goldsmith, had strong interests in the manuscript but had alibis. And the last two possibilities, Eva Pruitt and Jerome Crockett, made such obvious suspects that the police were content to focus on them.” She nursed her wounded lip. “After all, no prosecutor would allow close scrutiny of wealthy white people, not
