By his gentle tone of voice, it was obvious he didn’t relish telling her that her father’s story rang false. He had nothing to gain by it, either. In fact, some would cry foul that a black man dared to contradict a white woman’s claim—or the claim of her white father. Realizing that made Lauren appreciate that Mr. Williams explained the truth to her when he easily could have accepted her gratitude and moved on.
“I’m not calling you or him a liar, mind you,” Mr. Williams added. “Perhaps he was confused. Perhaps he’d taken a tumble at the station of his departure, instead, inflicting injuries before he arrived at Grand Central.”
Lauren summoned a smile, attempting to put him at ease. “Perhapshe did. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me. Good evening.”
He tipped his red cap. “If ever I can be of service, you let me know.”
After thanking him once again, she headed for the 42nd Street exit, walking beneath that upside-down night sky painted on the ceiling. Above the teeming travelers, cigarette smoke lifted in a mass of dirty fog, dimming the gold constellations.
A different fog gathered in Lauren’s mind as she tried to make sense of Mr. Williams’s revelation. She ruled out the possibility that her father had been injured at the Newport station. His mind was sharp, and he’d specifically said it was Grand Central, which was much busier than the Newport station. He wouldn’t have confused that.
So if he didn’t fall to the tracks, how had he been injured? And why had he lied about it?
Lauren slowed her pace. With a sickening dread, she thought again of the fear he’d displayed last night inside the Napoleon House. What was he so afraid of? And did it have anything to do with the real cause of his Thanksgiving injuries?
Footsteps echoed in Vanderbilt Hall, and cigarette smoke clogged her throat. A baby’s cry yanked her attention to the left—in time to see a man with a camera aimed at her. She wondered if he was the person on the train who’d wasted a frame already.
He kept the camera in front of his face, obscuring her view of his features, shifted slightly, and took a snapshot, then another. A tourist, she thought. He was trying to capture Vanderbilt Hall, not her, and it would take several adjacent frames to complete a panoramic view.
Doubt niggled, then grew broad and deep. She teetered on its edge. Dad had warned her to come away from the window because he hadn’t wanted her to be seen. Was it possible this man had truly intended to capture her in a photograph? Was it possible that he’d taken a picture of her on the train?
That made no sense. It couldn’t be so.
Mr. Williams passed by her, now carrying suitcases behind a rotund gentleman, presumably out to a cab.
Activity flurried. She was surrounded by other travelers and Red Caps. Nothing could befall her here.
Adrenaline surged anyway. She tried to reason herself into a calmer state as she continued toward the exit. After all, if that man was taking a photo of her and saw that she’d caught him in the act, wouldn’t he try to hide?
But there was nowhere to hide in Vanderbilt Hall, unless one ducked into the information desk in the center of the room. Other than that, there were no benches, no pillars, no columns. It was all one wide-open space, so travelers could crisscross the pink marble floor from any and all directions. If the photographer had wanted to hide, he could only do so behind the camera.
A few yards from the 42nd Street exit, Lauren made a sharp left turn. On the slim chance that her suspicions were founded, the last thing she wanted was to lead this potential voyeur out into the night after her, right to her apartment building.
Was her father’s paranoia contagious? Was this how he’d felt the other night? The hairs lifted on the back of her neck, as though she could feel the man watching her. Capturing her likeness on film. Why? Was this related to the note she’d found on her desk on Christmas Eve?
She looked behind her.
He was still there, the camera still covering his face. Though his steps halted, he was closer than he had been.
And what was her plan? She wasn’t about to lead him in circles around the hall all night. Instead, she went straight to the information desk beneath the four-sided clock. From there, she could see all angles of the room. Better yet, the clerk at the counter had a phone.
“Can I help you, miss?” the young man asked.
She was sure he could. But before she’d decided exactly how, Mr.Williams breezed in from an exit and came directly to her. “Miss? Can I get you a cab?”
“Yes, please.” She scanned the hall, hoping she could slip away with Mr. Williams without being noticed. She saw no camera, but the man behind it could have simply tucked it into a bag. She had no idea what his face looked like, only the black wool coat he wore, and there were plenty of those.
He could be watching even now, and she wouldn’t know it.
Or she could have simply absorbed her father’s fears and made them her own. There might be nothing at all the matter.
“Yes, please,” she said again, venturing away from the information desk toward 42nd Street with one more look over her shoulder. She couldn’t wait to be home.
CHAPTER
27
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1925
