Chapter Forty-Five
Polly
New York, New York
Striking black marble columns dominating the airy, twenty-foot-high space.
Intricate plaster reliefs adorning the ceiling.
Rich wood paneling on the walls. Every time I step into the main lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, I am struck by its calming, simple elegance, so different than the overwrought crystal-and-gold decor of every other luxury hotel in New York City.
Although I know better than most that the same sort of shenanigans go on behind all hotels’ closed doors, no matter how they’re decorated.
I cross the lobby and step into Peacock Alley.
This corridor that runs off the main lobby is a place to see and be seen.
Groupings of club chairs and tables are dotted throughout the marbled space, warmly lit by floor lamps.
Several prime seating areas are already taken by what look like society folks and celebrities and dignitaries sipping at tea or cocktails, but I’m not looking for center stage.
A dark corner suits my purposes just fine.
Perfectly, in fact. It feels good to be taking action.
Spotting a single high-backed chair in a corner, I settle into it and reach for the drinks menu on the end table. The waiter materializes almost instantly.
“May I take your order, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’ll have a Gin Fizz, and”—I reach for the sealed envelope in my handbag—“I’d like you to pass this along to Mr. Henry Woelfle, manager of the Towers.”
The waiter’s facial expression doesn’t change; he’s ever the perfectly mannered, eager-to-please server. But a single bushy eyebrow lifts at my request. “As you wish, ma’am.”
Within minutes, a tidy, compact figure enters Peacock Alley, precisely as I expected.
I know the schedule of every supervisor amenable to my line of work at all the luxury hotels in the city, Waldorf-Astoria chief among them, and I’d made sure Mr. Woelfle would be on duty.
While the manager of the Waldorf-Astoria Towers—the section of the hotel where the apartments are located—hasn’t exactly been welcoming to my business, he does tolerate me and my girls at the request of his tenants.
“Miss Adler,” he says as a waiter scoots behind him with a chair. After he sits down, he stares at me with pale blue eyes. “How may I assist you?”
“I’m not here to deliver some of my girls, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
The slightest flush creeps onto his cheeks. “I’m here to serve our guests, Miss Adler, whatever their needs. I do not judge, and I hope you know that.”
“I do, Mr. Woelfle. Your guests and their needs are exactly what I am here to discuss.” I drop my voice. “I understand that you had a Mr. Charles Ross as a tenant in your apartments last year.”
Charles Ross is Lucky’s favorite alias. It is also the one that he consistently used at the Waldorf-Astoria and Barbizon Hotels. I know this because Lucky’s goons instructed my girls to use it when calling up. When Lucky wasn’t entertaining his newest girlfriend, showgirl Gay Orlova, that is.
Mr. Woelfle’s eyes dart around Peacock Alley.
He’s undoubtedly scanning for anyone who might overhear this conversation.
It’s one thing to chat with Polly Adler in Peacock Alley—not ideal, but a necessary evil of his business.
It’s quite another to discuss Lucky Luciano with her.
Especially during the middle of his trial.
“Yes, you are correct, Miss Adler.” His volume matches mine. “Mr. Ross was a tenant in the Towers for over six months last year. From April through October.”
“How was that experience for you, Mr. Woelfle?”
“Privacy and service for our guests are the two cornerstones of the Waldorf-Astoria business, Miss Adler. Qualities that you benefited from as well, if I’m not mistaken. So I’m certain you understand why I’m not at liberty to share with you the details of Mr. Ross’ stay.”
“I’m not here to pry for details. Lord knows I’m privy to too many secrets already. So let me clarify my question. I am asking whether Mr. Ross is a guest you’d like to have stay at the hotel again.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Conflicting emotions flicker across his face, from duty to disdain to reluctance.
“I do not discuss my tenants, Miss Adler, and I typically make it a practice to refuse such exchanges. But in this particular case, I think I might make an exception. It’s fair to say that Mr. Ross presented certain challenges to the hotel staff, his fellow guests, and the building itself, and this makes him a less appealing repeat or long-term guest. Although, if we should host him again, my staff and I would treat him with the same respect, accord, and service for which the Waldorf-Astoria is world-renowned. ”
As I suspected. I heard from my girls that Lucky and his thugs were running roughshod over the hotel staff and wrecking the luxurious apartment as well as the various hotel bars.
Imagine, I think, Lucky striding through this glorious space with mobsters like Vito Genovese, Meyer Lansky, and Frank Costello.
What if they wanted to use this luxurious hotel as the base of operations for some clandestine criminal activity?
Would they park in the attached garage, take the private elevator to Lucky’s apartment, then vanish into the crowds of the lobby or the city streets as they headed out to whatever bad business they were up to?
What must the other hotel guests have thought about the rough manners of his gang?
I’m counting on the fact that Mr. Woelfle wouldn’t want Lucky and his goons back.
I nod sympathetically. “I figured as much. It pains me to tell you that Mr. Ross recently announced that—as soon as he cleared his name—his first port of call would be the Waldorf.”
His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows. “He said that?”
“Yes. In fact, he’s rumored to have said, ‘The Towers is the best-class address in New York and I can’t wait to get back to my apartment and celebrate.’ Supposedly he’s hoping Cole Porter will write him a tune.”
The songwriter Cole Porter is one of the long-term guests in Mr. Woelfle’s Towers, where he’s lived for years in a six-bedroom residence.
Mr. Porter adores the Waldorf so much that he referenced it in a song: You’re the top, you’re a Waldorf salad.
The fact that he keeps his precious Steinway in that Waldorf Towers apartment is a testament to his love of the establishment.
“I see.” Mr. Woelfle falls back in his chair. “But why are you telling me this? I can’t conceive how this might matter to you.”
“Did you ever think how Mr. Ross’ interference in my business hurts me and my girls?
And I don’t mean financially. Did you ever consider that it might behoove me to not have him return to the Waldorf?
Or New York City?” Making this confession is a calculated risk, particularly if this man were ever to repeat these sentiments.
But I know it’s necessary to soften him for my next request.
“I confess that I didn’t, Miss Adler,” Mr. Woelfle says in a surprisingly soft tone. “But I can imagine it now, and I’m sorry.”
I’m so little used to sympathy that Mr. Woelfle’s minuscule show of kindness moves me. A moment passes before I can reassemble myself enough to step back unto the breach. “What if I told you that there’s a way to ensure that Mr. Ross won’t return?”
“I would tell you I’m listening.”
“If you’ve been keeping tabs on the trial as I have, you’ve noticed that the prosecution has a credibility problem with its witnesses.”
“I’m familiar with the newspaper reports.”
“Then you know Dewey needs reliable testimony from average citizens to bolster the statements made by the girls and the bookers. I believe there is a treasure trove of those sorts of witnesses here at the Waldorf.”
Mr. Woelfle’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“I know a bit about how hotels operate. I’m guessing that the same staff members serviced Mr. Ross’ apartment day after day—trustworthy staff members. The same maids cleaned his rooms, the same waiters delivered meals, the same busboys delivered packages and luggage, and so on. Am I right?”
“You are largely correct. Depending on the day of the week, of course, and the shift. We do like to provide a certain continuity of service, and arranging for the same staff members to offer it is the best way to do so. And it helped limit information about Mr. Ross and his associates from spreading.”
“As I suspected,” I say. “I am also guessing that, on at least a couple of occasions, your staff observed other people in Mr. Ross’ apartment, maybe when they were serving meals or delivering items. Perhaps they even overheard conversations while setting up the food or clearing dishes.
Those staff members could be invaluable witnesses for the prosecution, because they could verify the crucial testimony offered by the girls and the bookers.
This would help Special Prosecutor Dewey’s credibility problem immeasurably and help with the success of his case. ”
The unblinking blue eyes suddenly start blinking quite rapidly. Mr. Woelfle then reaches for my untouched Gin Fizz and downs it in one go. “You want me to ask my staff to be witnesses in”—here he whispers—“Lucky Luciano’s trial?”
“I guess that’s the long and short of it. They are uniquely situated to help put him behind bars.”
He nods, albeit so very slowly it’s hard to discern at first. His hand then shoots in the air, and a waiter practically runs to our side. Before the fellow can even ask what we’d like, Mr. Woelfle says, “Another Gin Fizz for my guest, and a whiskey for me. Just about to go off duty.”
We don’t speak until fresh drinks are in our hands, and I consider it a victory that Mr. Woelfle hasn’t run off or banished me from the Waldorf forever.
But will he actually agree to encourage his staff to testify at trial?
We both know how the Mob treats snitches, even if they aren’t of the homegrown variety.
When we’ve downed half a drink each, Mr. Woelfle sighs and finally says, “Tell me how this would work.”