Chapter Forty-Six
Eunice
New York, New York
This is the first time I’ve taken the wheel since our car was vandalized back in March.
Now that Luciano is on trial, I believe it’s safe—Luciano wouldn’t dare threaten or harm us now.
That would be too obvious. But Lisle insisted that we keep our arrangement with Mr. Johnson, and I agreed, if only to avoid stirring the waters between us.
This morning’s meeting, however, is one that I must attend alone.
I rang Mr. Johnson last night and told him I wouldn’t need his services until tomorrow.
Now I can only pray that Mr. Johnson doesn’t mention this to Lisle.
My saving grace is that the court is not in session today.
So I’ll have the car back and be home hours before Lisle walks through the door.
I round the car to the second level, where Polly said she’d be waiting near the elevator. There are a few parked cars, but I don’t see her. And then a plume of cigarette smoke circles in the air, and I spot her, hiding in the concrete shadows of the garage.
I park in a space just feet from where Polly stands, next to a Packard that I assume is hers. When I slide out, I nod; she nods. When she spins around, I follow, past the elevator, around a corner. Then we slip into the hotel through an industrial door.
It all feels so clandestine as Polly moves with the confidence of someone familiar with the hidden warren of the Waldorf.
This entrance, with the unpolished concrete floors that blend into the walls, is a world apart from the marbled elegance and chandelier-lit lobby I’ve seen in Vanity Fair magazine photographs.
I say a prayer as we move quickly. We cannot encounter anyone.
I don’t look like staff, and a colored guest in the Waldorf would be met with lifted brow, even if we’re far from the hotel’s main entrance and the Fifth Avenue set.
I blanched last night when I received Polly’s note to meet here.
But in the end, I couldn’t expect potential witnesses to come to me; I had to take this risk.
Finally, Polly stops before a door and knocks. When the door creaks open, I quickly assess the medium-height, fair-haired man. They exchange a few hushed words before he nods, and Polly turns to me.
“They’re ready for you. I’ll meet you back at the car.”
“Thank you,” I say before stepping inside. The room is simple, utilitarian in size and structure. A plain wooden table, nicked and worn, with eight chairs around it, is set in the center.
The blond man stands flanked by a taller, dark-haired gentleman and a younger woman, both already dressed in fresh uniforms.
“Good morning. Thank you for meeting with me,” I greet them.
He gives a slight bow of his head. “I’m Henry Woelfle, manager of the Towers.” His tone is as stiff as starch, and so is his posture.
The other man mirrors his formality. Only the young woman offers a smile brighter than expected so early in the morning, or for the purpose of this gathering.
Mr. Woelfle gestures to the others. “This is Mr. Joseph Weinman, one of our senior waiters, and Miss Marjorie Brown, a chambermaid in the Towers.”
I nod again, and my gaze lingers on the woman. She’s young—in her early twenties, I would guess—with flame-red hair swept into a roll at the nape of her neck. It’s her freckles and her smile that draw me in. She’s not at all rattled by this meeting, but instead seems curious.
Mr. Woelfle gestures to the table, and I take an empty chair opposite them. He says, “I understand you’re with the prosecutor’s office. One of the attorneys on…the trial,” he says, seeming as if he’s avoiding speaking Luciano’s name.
“Yes, and—”
Mr. Weinman cuts in. “My wife and I have been listening to the broadcasts every night and reading the Times in the morning. But we can’t tell what’s what.
One night, the announcer will say the prosecution had a good day, but then the next morning, the newspapers say the defense ripped the prosecution’s witnesses apart. ”
“The press thrives on this, the spectacle of it all. But we believe the trial is going well.” I tell him the truth. “We have a strong case, but any credible testimony could strengthen our case further. That’s why I’m here.”
Mr. Woelfle clears his throat. “I hope you understand, Mrs. Carter, this is highly irregular. At the Waldorf, we pride ourselves on extending the utmost discretion to our guests. They expect it.”
“I understand. And I would not be here if this were not such an extraordinary circumstance. Your accounts could prove vital.”
The two men trade uneasy glances, but Miss Brown sits up straighter, like she’s ready for anything. “I’m willing to help if I can.”
Her words surprise me. The men seem weighted with caution, but Miss Brown is not. She’s unflinching and unshaken.
When I glance at her curiously, she shrugs. “It’s not every day someone wants to talk to me about a gangster.”
She makes me want to smile. “I have a few questions. Anything you can tell me that would be pertinent to our investigation.”
Miss Brown says, “Okay, what do you want to know?”
Before answering, I take a deep breath. “First, I must be clear—if what you tell me proves crucial, you may be called to testify.”
“In court?” Mr. Weinman recoils.
I nod. “But—”
He pushes himself away from the table. “Absolutely not. I have a wife and a boy at home. I’ll speak with you here, but I’m not putting my family in harm’s way.”
“Nor will I,” Mr. Woelfle adds quickly. “My daughter just turned nine. I’ll speak with you here—in confidence—but I will not risk her safety.”
“I understand your fears,” I say, feeling this opportunity slipping away. “But let me assure you, you will have the support of the special prosecutor’s office.”
“The special prosecutor will not help us once we leave that courtroom,” Mr. Weinman scoffs. “Mr. Dewey won’t be there when someone kicks down my front door at midnight.”
“We can arrange protection, if that’s what you desire. We will keep you and your family safe,” I say, trying to calm the current I feel rising in the room. “We just need your help to put Luciano away.”
Miss Brown meets my gaze. “I don’t have a husband or any children to worry about, Mrs. Carter.
But I do have a memory and a conscience.
And I remember being in Mr. Ross’ suite and hearing things I didn’t want to hear and seeing things I can’t forget.
They treated me like wallpaper, and you know what?
I thank the good Lord for that. Because the way they slapped some of those girls around?
” She shakes her head. “One day, I had to give a girl a towel because she was slapped so hard, her nose bled like she was shot. And then there were the girls who were passed out on his bed. From drinking? From drugs? I don’t know.
All I know is that they weren’t just sleeping.
They weren’t lying there completely naked and exposed to the world by choice.
“That’s what I remember, and my conscience won’t allow me to walk away now that you’re asking. Mr. Ross and some of those other men need to be put away for a long time.”
“That’s what we’re hoping, Miss Brown. If we get a conviction, he’ll be gone for decades.”
“Decades? How many?”
“He could face fifty, even sixty years.”
She nods, resolute. “I say we push for seventy.” Turning to the men, she says, “Look, I’m not saying we have to be heroes, but we have to be decent. I know what I saw, you know what you saw. Somebody has to stand up. Why can’t it be us?”
I want to reach across the table, take her hand, and ask where she finds the courage. How is she so brave when so many are weak?
Mr. Woelfle lowers his eyes. Mr. Weinman shifts in his seat.
She shakes her head. “All right. I understand why Mr. Woelfle and Mr. Weinman won’t speak, but I will.”
Mr. Woelfle glances up. “No, Miss Brown. We all can.” To me, he asks, “What exactly do you need to know?”
I guess what Mama always said is true—nothing moves a man faster than the fear of being shown up by a woman.