The photographer’s eyes go wide at this unexpected attention. “I haven’t developed them all yet.” He motions to a nearby table where dozens of flimsy tintypes lay scattered about.
“Chop-chop, sir. We need to see those photographs.”
The photographer points to a coat closest. “The silver nitrate, the developer—they’re all in there.”
“I’ll assist.” Doyle roughhouses the poor photographer into the closet. The guests wait and drink while we hear shuffling, bottles clinking. I steadily saw through the silk bow tie with Houdini’s knife.
Mrs. Walsh’s dog, Athena, leaps from the rug where she’s been napping.
Athena growls, the hair on her spine erect. She runs to the elevator door, bares her teeth, and barks. The guests follow.
“What are you barking at, girl?”
“Is someone coming?”
“I don’t hear the elevator.”
Athena’s haunches rise. She barks louder still, then drops immediately into a sitting position. Silent.
We all wait with great anticipation for the elevator door to slide open, revealing something sinister.
It remains closed.
Athena whimpers a bit, curls up on the spot, and falls asleep.
Kiyoko would be able to tell us why Athena was alerting. My worry reignites. What will become of Kiyoko? Her fate doesn’t look good.
Mine isn’t looking so hot, either. Why won’t this damn bow tie snap already?!
The closet door bangs open. Doyle emerges, holding a pair of silvery-gray tintype photographs over his head. The images are slick with developing chemicals.
“Look here!” Doyle declares. He tosses two photos onto the dining room table, and they land with a clatter. “The necklace here, see?” He jabs a finger at the earlier photo, in which Evalyn hugs Athena, while the dog wore the Hope Diamond. “The gem is surrounded by a ring of diamonds. But the necklace here?” He shifts his point to the later photo of Evalyn McLean and Max Blanck, with her foot kicked up playfully. “The gem has a plain, platinum setting. That’s not the same necklace!”
The guests crowd and squint at the two photos.
“Ah, it’s true, innit?”
“That setting is famous. Set by Pierre Cartier himself. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“But that second photo. With Blanck. That’s not the Cartier setting.”
“It isn’t the same necklace at all.”
My every muscle tightens. We tried so hard to get every detail correct. Thesetting?! Miss Willamina, the watchmaker next to our Bureau, had worked wonders, recreating that necklace with theelaborate details Pax had given her. Who knew Evalyn McLean had that necklace reset after she bought it? New York City socialites knew, apparently.
The guests shift and murmur, sliding their eyes toward Blanck. They grumble and pant. Wolves.
“He’s the only person here who touched the necklace between those two photos!”
Blanck blinks under the hard, cold gaze of a hundred of New York’s wealthiest and most influential. Hedda Hopper hasn’t stopped taking notes.
“Rubbish!” he shouts, his gin blossom reddening. “You all saw me clasp that necklace around Evalyn’s throat. It has to be that terrible woman in the kimono! You saw her with the candlestick. You all saw poor Evalyn and her head wound. I am not guilty.” He whips toward me, face twisted, voice low and level. “I should’ve never hired you and your friend.Trash.”
The heat inside me churns like foamy disgust. I yank and tug at the ties that bind me, to no avail.
Blanck’s face makes my stomach roil. This man’s soul is rotten. I can’t help myself. “You are unquestionably guilty, you greedy son of a bitch.”
Blanck turns purple, storms to me, and grabs my throat with one hand. “You did it, didn’t you? You dirty thief!”
