“Oh yes.”
She looked up. “You do?”
“And unfortunately, I believe you do as well. Walter Müller.”
She hesitated only slightly, but it was enough. She knew that name and that man very well. “Walter Müller,” she repeated, the pace of her words slowing. Her eyes went back to her notes. “How did you find that name?”
“He gave it to me himself while he blackmailed me to my face.”
More scribbles on the pad. “No notes or telephone calls or anonymous contacts?”
“It was very ‘nonymous.’ Apologies. Bad joke. Trying to find the humor in this has been trying.”
“It’s understandable. What were the terms of his blackmail?”
“He didn’t ask for money, which is what I thought he’d do.”
This surprised her. “Oh? Interesting. What did he ask for in return then?”
Dash swallowed. This would either go well or go very badly very quickly. “He asked me to find you.”
She stopped writing. Her head remained down, her eyes on the paper. “I’m sorry?”
“To find you. And a female impersonator.” Dash started speaking hastily. “Before you panic, he doesn’t know I’m here and I won’t tell him I’ve found you. But, Miss Meyers, he is most keen on the subject and if I don’t give him some kind of answer, he will turn me and my friends over to the police for degeneracy and serving illegal liquor.”
She frowned, looking up again. “You broke the Volstead laws?”
“I own a speak.”
A curious intelligence peeked out of her lavender eyes. “No,” she breathed. “It can’t be. The bruise. Of course. You’re the speak owner Walter punched. What’s it called again? The speak, I mean. It had something to do with suits.”
“Pinstripes. You remember what happened that night?”
“A bit hard to forget. Walter made quite an entrance. I thought the entire club would come to your defense.”
“They would have, too.”
“I don’t condone violence, but thank goodness that little boy in the green suit incapacitated him. I’d hate to think what Walter would’ve done otherwise.”
“As I’ve recently learned,” Dash said, “he’ll do most anything.”
She put down her pen and folded her hands in front of her again. “This is a most distressing situation.”
“Indeed. What makes it all the worse is Karl dying and I—”
“Excuse me. What did you say?” Her face showed confusion mixed with panic.
She doesn’t know.
Dash took another deep breath. “Karl. He’s been killed.”
Incomprehension still crowded around her frown lines. “Killed?”
“Murdered.”
Dash then sketched out for her what details he knew and added in Karl’s time in Harlem, including the telephone call he made.
“Next thing I know, Walter is back at my club—drunk, I might add—telling me it’s my fault Karl is dead and to atone for my sins, as it were, I’m to find a man who dresses in drag. Along the way, I discovered your name.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“It’s all like a bad dream.” He focused on Pru, who seemed to be half-listening to him. “If I may ask, how did you know Karl, Miss Meyers?”
She raised a hand. “Excuse me. I need a moment to absorb this information.”
She focused on breathing in and breathing out. Her complexion somewhat paled.
“You’re telling me Karl Müller has been murdered?”
Dash nodded.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“I do not.”
“It wasn’t Walter?”
“Believe me, the thought has crossed my mind, but I can’t say for certain of his guilt or innocence, Miss Meyers.”
“Please, call me Pru. I think it’s appropriate, given the circumstances.” She paused. “Karl is dead.” No longer a question, but a statement.
Dash asked again, “How did you know him?”
“Through a friend of a friend.”
“Which friend? The man who dresses in drag?”
She ignored the question. “And Walter wanted you to find a female impersonator? Did he give a name for her?”
“He did not, but I think her name is Miss Avery.”
“How did you come across that name?”
“Karl. He said it was Miss Avery’s idea to come to my club that night.”
“What else did he tell you?”
Dash adjusted his posture in the chair. “His brother works for the Committee of Fourteen handling their finances. Karl said he is . . .was . . . Walter’s assistant, but I suspect he was lying about that. I also learned he was handing out rent party cards for Harlem’s ‘Baroness of Business,’ a very determined and dangerous woman named Zora Mae. I’m supposed to meet her tonight. Have you met her?”
She replied carefully, “I know of her and have seen her once or twice from across a crowded room. But if you’re asking if we’re friends or acquaintances, the answer is no.”
Her answers were so meticulously worded, Dash could feel she was tiptoeing around the truth. Not lying, per se, but not being completely honest.
“I see,” he replied. “It seems Karl spent some time in Harlem outside of the watchful gaze of his brother, who apparently is uncomfortable around such non-white company. Before Karl disappeared from his hiding place—”
“Where was that?”
Dash paused. He didn’t see the harm in telling her. “The Oyster House. It was there he mentioned you, that you were an attorney, and that you had a plan that failed. He was later overheard on the telephone trying desperately to reach someone. I found out yesterday he’d left several messages for Tyler Smith—as did you, I might add. Messages which Tyler Smith never collected. After unsuccessfully reaching for Mr. Smith, poof! Karl is gone.”
Dash exhaled slowly. All of his cards were on the table. Now he would see if his gamble on the truth paid out.
“That’s helpful, thank you.”
Pru composed herself, a drawbridge going up to seal off the emotions that threatened to escape. She was all business now.
“How did you find me?”
“I visited the Bar Association, who referred me to the National Association of Women Lawyers.”
“I’m surprised they did that, considering what they think of us. You’re quite resourceful, Mr. Parker.”
She freed her hands from each other and began to adjust items on her desk. The notepad. The pens. The stack of files.
“You wouldn’t happen to be a detective, would you?”
Dash shook his head.
