“Say, if your job was just tailing the d … lady, how didja know this stiff had anything to do with Tammany?”
“Mr. Thorwald told me. That is, when Mrs. Fletcher recognized Carmody and told us his name, Thorwald recalled that Pascoli had talked about him and the articles he was writing. Naturally I informed Mr. Hoover.”
“Naturally,” said Rosenblatt gloomily. “Why the heck did this hafta happen the week before the election? Even if it all happened like you said, Sergeant, the Hearst and opposition papers will make hay. O.K., Lambert, let’s hear what you saw out there.”
Daisy was pretty sure Lambert had nothing to add to her evidence, so she only half listened. She pondered the scenario Sergeant Gilligan had built up.
It sounded reasonable, if one assumed Daisy had wrongly identified Carmody’s voice. An expert at ferreting out secrets, he might have turned to blackmail. Though her impression of him was of an unrelenting honesty, it was basedon nothing more than his ferocious forthrightness. She had scarcely exchanged a word with him.
But shehadheard him speak, and she was almost convinced he was the one who made the remark about the “red cent.” Almost.
6
Daisy returned exhausted to the Hotel Chelsea, with instructions not to depart from New York.
After leaving Rosencrantz and Guildenstern trying to rouse the somnolent Thorwald to give his evidence, she and Lambert had descended to ground level to find a mob of reporters on the pavement. Sidewalk.
Held off by the friendly doorman and a patrolman, they were baying for blood, or at least for any scrap of information. They obviously knew, presumably through Pascoli, that one of their own had been foully done to death. Fortunately theTown Talkeditor had apparently not described either Daisy or Lambert. The newsmen harassed them on general principles—they had actually been inside the building where the murder had taken place!—but did not guess they were witnesses.
The young agent forged ahead through the crowd, forcing a path for Daisy. She kept her mouth shut. If they knew anything about her at all, the sound of her voice would give her away.
As they walked back along Twenty-third Street to thehotel, Lambert kept trying to apologize, for having been set on to follow her and for having failed to keep her out of trouble. Wearily, she cut him short, drawing his attention to an evening newspaper billboard with a notice about a “special” on the murder.
Someone had nosed out that the victim was staying at the Hotel Chelsea. A lesser mob of reporters had gathered on the sidewalk, but they were less aggressive than their brethren at the Flatiron Building. Balfour, the black doorman, was managing single-handedly to keep them out of the lobby, with constant reiterations of “Aprivatehotel, ge’men. Residents and their visitors only.”
Daisy reflected that Alec would long since have sent a constable or two to take charge.
She and Lambert entered without too much difficulty. “It won’t be so easy,” said Lambert gloomily, “once this lot of newshounds puts their heads together with the others and they figure out we’re connected with both the hotel and the Flatiron Building.”
“I expect there’s a back door they’ll let us use,” Daisy consoled him.
“Yeah, sure! I’ll go speak to the manager right away.”
He forged ahead towards the registration desk, while Daisy paused in the lobby. It was teatime, and the Misses Cabot were lying in wait.
Miss Genevieve raised an imperious hand. Daisy considered pretending she had not seen, but she wanted her tea, not to mention information which Miss Genevieve was more likely than anyone else to provide. She went over to the pair.
The younger Miss Cabot’s pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, I guess you have heardthat one of our residents has met an untimely end?”
“Otis Carmody,” Daisy confirmed.
“I wondered—Mr. Carmody is reported to have died in the Flatiron Building, and I know the offices ofAbroadare located there—did you happen to hear any details of events when you were visiting with your editor?”
“I know a fair bit about it,” admitted Daisy, “and I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m rather tired and grubby. I hope you’ll excuse me while I go up and take off my hat first.”
“Of course! In fact, would you care to come and take tea in our suite rather than down here?”
“So much more comfortable,” twittered Miss Cabot.
“And private,” added Miss Genevieve.
Daisy agreed, and they gave her their suite number, on the third floor. Heading for the lifts, she glanced back to see Miss Genevieve struggling from her seat with the aid of her sister, her stick, and the bellhop.
How painful it must be, Daisy reflected, for a woman who had led the active, independent life of a crime reporter to be so dependent—very likely worse than the actual physical pain of her crippling disease. Miss Genevieve might well have become a morose hermit. That she had instead retained her spirit and her lively interest in the world was admirable. The old lady deserved to have her curiosity satisfied.
Besides, if Daisy told her what had happened at the Flatiron Building, she was bound to reciprocate with all she knew about the late Otis Carmody.
Young Kevin took Daisy up in the lift. He was bubbling with excitement. “Gee, ma‘am, I took Mr. Carmody down in this same very elevator just this mornin’. Jist think o’ that! And now he’s bin croaked. I wish it was my elevatorhe broke his neck in,” he said wistfully. “D’ya think the ’tecs’ll want to talk to me anyways?”
