“No, let me finish. He told her to run and hide.”
“Nonsense. It was Crockett who had Timson’s gun and the missing jewelry,” Kessler said. “Fact, not speculation. Everything points to the pair of them, not Wallace.”
“Wallace urged you to abandon the investigation,” Julia said. “When you didn’t, he had to have a better suspect than Eva for you to find. That was to be Jerome. He told Eva that Jerome had the manuscript because he’d murdered Timson. No wonder she was shocked and wary to see us this morning. While I can’t—”
“Enough,” Kessler said, uncrossing his legs. “This whole account is nothing but fanciful theory, Miss Kydd. If that’s all you have to offer, I’m afraid you’re wasting our time.”
“Manners, old man,” warned Philip. “Let her finish.”
Kessler hesitated, but Julia could see Philip’s admonishments wouldn’t hold him in the room much longer. He wanted tangible proof. She had no choice but to plunge directly into her last huge gambit.
“You accept that Timson was likely murdered for the manuscript,” Julia said. “Would finding it convince you of the killer’s identity?”
“It would be real evidence, which is more useful than the tale you’ve spun so far.”
Julia turned to Hannity. “Is someone stationed at Wallace’s apartment, Sergeant?”
“We got a man at the entrance. Why?”
“If you’ll ask him to go upstairs, I can direct him to where I believe Wallace hid the stolen manuscript.”
Hannity looked for permission to Kessler, who raised both palms in surrender.
“Have him ask Mrs. Hoskins to unlock the doors to the library. Along the bottom bookshelves are leather-bound boxes of papers and records. Tell him to look in the boxes where the dust on the shelf has been disturbed.” It was a guess, a calculated hunch. If she was wrong, nothing would persuade Kessler to drop the murder charge against Jerome. Julia gulped another swallow of brandy to brace herself against yet another great failure.
Hannity wrapped his mouth around the cigar and disappeared into the hallway.
“If you’ll bear with me in the meantime,” Julia continued over Hannity’s too-loud conversation, “that brings us to the fateful encounter this morning. When Jerome swore to Eva that he never had the manuscript, I could see she believed him. She began to see Wallace’s treachery.
“The gun convinced her. She probably recognized it right away as Timson’s special gun, which is why she was so alarmed. At first it suggested Wallace was right, that Jerome was the killer. But when Jerome said Wallace gave the gun to him, she understood two things in one awful moment. Wallace was the real killer. And he’d set up Jerome to take the blame. I saw her face, Mr. Kessler. I’ve never seen such despair and grief.
“That’s when your men came storming in. The black man holding a gun was the only criminal they would ever see in that room. It was hopeless. Eva did the one thing she could to save him.”
Julia realized there were no eyes she cared to meet. She swallowed more brandy. For a few moments no one spoke, as each listener fit the last fatal piece into the puzzle.
“Why take such drastic measures?” Kessler asked. “Why not just divert Wallace’s shot?”
“He was going to kill Jerome. He’d already reminded us that Austen and I were witnesses who could testify Jerome threatened him and he responded in self-defense.”
The telephone bell rang. In the hall, Hannity’s voice boomed.
“But why kill him?” Kessler persisted. “Especially at the cost of her own life?”
“Wallace could truthfully say he’d found her with Timson’s body. Her life and her future depended on his good graces. At any moment he could turn on her as he had on Jerome, exposing her to certain conviction. I think she wanted to save the man she loved from the same fate.” Her husband, Julia thought. It was too painful to breathe aloud.
In that moment an elusive piece of the puzzle slid into place for Julia too. This explained why Eva had slipped her marked page into the envelope. It was her only way to hint at the truth, if things went badly and Wallace turned against her. Julia could only imagine Eva’s confusion when she’d discovered he had the manuscript; no doubt he’d told her Jerome had returned it, as she’d begged him to.
Kessler released a lungful of smoke and pinched his forehead. “Let me add this up. You’re telling us Wallace shot Timson. Then Pruitt killed Wallace and herself.” He sighed. “Your story’s thorough, I’ll say that much.”
“Two murders, one suicide. All villains dispatched. Not much left for you to do, old man,” Philip said. “Dashed considerate of her.”
Hannity reentered the room, scratching the bristly ridge of his head. “You must be clairvoyant or something, Miss Kydd. Our boy did like you said, and quick as a flash he pulls out a box full of typed pages. Something called Harlem Angel. That what we’re looking for?”
A knot ballooned in Julia’s throat. Just a month ago she’d heard that title for the first time, amid joyous celebration. Kessler coughed in surprise, and Philip shot him a triumphant smirk.
“All right. I’ve heard enough.” Kessler ground out his cigarette and stood. “If that is the missing manuscript, you’ve given me a great deal to consider, Miss Kydd. I’ll have to run over all of this again tomorrow more carefully. Don’t go anywhere. I may need to talk with you.” To Hannity he added, “In the meantime, Crockett stays in custody.”
Julia remained seated as Kessler and Hannity exchanged brisk new instructions. Philip joined the discussion as the men moved absently toward the door. Kessler thanked her—grudgingly, she thought—but she didn’t reply. She felt only exhaustion, relief washed away by yet more horror at the day’s tally of betrayals and loss.
Austen crouched in front of her and sandwiched her limp hand between his. In a husky voice he asked if she wanted him to stay. He was so young and so charming, his face so kind and fresh. He was good to the world
