“Do you know anything which might be of interest to them?”
“Do I! D’ya know what our Bridey told me?”
“No, but I can tell you that the police will want to hear it from your sister, not from you.”As do I,Daisy added silently.
“Leastways,” Kevin sighed, “I can tell ‘em she’s got sumpin to tell ’em. Seventh floor, ma’am. Going up!” he called to the empty passage. “Going down! Going anywheres you wanna go.”
Daisy laughed. “I’ll be going down again in a few minutes, so if no one rings for you, you might as well wait.”
“O.K., ma’am.”
“Is Bridey—Bridget—still on duty?”
“Yes’m, till eight.”
“Kevin, the detectives may not want to talk to you, but the Press will, and they’ll hound Bridget unmercifully if you mention that she knows something.”
“Mercy!” cried the boy, sounding very Irish. “I’ll spin ‘em a yarn’ll keep ’em happy without never breathing a word about our Bridey.”
“Do that,” said Daisy, “and better not tell anyone else, either. Thank you, Kevin.”
Going to her room, she tossed her gloves on the dressing table, took off her hat and coat, then rang the bell to summon the chambermaid. She had washed the grime of New York from her face and hands and was tidying her honey brown shingled hair when the tap came at the door.
“Come in.”
“‘Tis sorry I am to’ve kept you waiting, ma’am,” the girlapologized. “I was ironing an evening gown for another lady. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing just now, thank you, Bridget. I just wanted to warn you. Your brother told me you know something about Mr. Carmody that may interest the police. Until you have spoken to them, you would do well not to talk to the Press, nor to mention the matter to anyone else. If the murderer were to find out …”
“Oh, ma‘am, ’tis not a soul I’ll be telling!” gasped the maid. Her freckles stood out like a rash in her white face, Daisy saw in the looking-glass—she was now wielding a powder puff in the perpetual effort to conceal her own few freckles. “Oh, ma’am, d’ye think he’ll come after me wi’ a gun?”
“Not if you’re sensible and keep quiet. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Have you already told anyone?”
“Oh no, ma‘am, savin’ me brother. You’re the only guest has been friendly at all, at all, and I wouldn’t gossip about the guests wi’ the other maids. Father Macnamara says gossiping is a sin,” she added virtuously.
“Very true,” said Daisy, hoping the stricture did not apply to reporting on one guest to another, particularly a friendly other. “I must go now, but I shall see you later, Bridget.”
“Yes, ma‘am. Thank you, ma’am. Will I press a frock for you for dinner?”
“Yes, would you, please? I expect you’re less busy now than you will be later.” Daisy went to the wardrobe and took out the black georgette she had bought for the transatlantic voyage. “I’ll wear this one.”
Suitable for mourning, she thought as she returned to the lifts. Not that she exactly felt like mourning Otis Carmody,but all the same, she would dress up the plain frock with one of her more subdued scarves this evening.
Kevin was awaiting her, kneeling on the passage floor, playing at dibs with an astonishing agility. He grinned at Daisy, tossed all five jacks and caught them on the back of his hand. A last toss and catch, and he shoved them into his pocket. Standing up, he brushed off the knees of his livery trousers.
“Gotta do sumpin to keep from going nuts,” he observed. “Third floor?”
“Yes, please. How did you guess?”
“I keeps me eyes and ears open,” said Kevin with a knowing look.
“You went back down to pick up the Misses Cabot,” Daisy accused him, “and heard them talking on the way up.”
“I keeps me eyes and ears open,” Kevin repeated with his infectious grin. “Going down!”
The Misses Cabot’s residence comprised a small foyer, a large sitting room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small kitchen at the rear of the hotel. The sitting room had a splendid fireplace, faced with green tile and topped with a carved rosewood mantelpiece, where a small, cheery fire glowed, adding its mite to the already oppressive heat.
There were built-in rosewood bookcases, but most of the furniture was the Cabots’ own, heavy mahogany upholstered in faded crimson plush. Whatnots crammed with bibelots and photographs in silver frames were surely the elder Miss Cabot’s. One corner of the room was dedicated to Miss Genevieve’s business, with a spartan kneehole desk, a cabinet for files and reference books, and a typewriter which matched the one in Daisy’s room.
