Chapter 6
Daisy returned exhausted to the Hotel Chelsea, with instructions not to depart from New York.
After leaving Rosencrantz and Guildenstern trying to rouse the somnolent Thorwald to give his evidence, she and Lambert had descended to ground level to find a mob of reporters on the pavement. Sidewalk.
Held off by the friendly doorman and a patrolman, they were baying for blood, or at least for any scrap of information.
They obviously knew, presumably through Pascoli, that one of their own had been foully done to death.
Fortunately the Town Talk editor had apparently not described either Daisy or Lambert.
The newsmen harassed them on general principles—they had actually been inside the building where the murder had taken place! —but did not guess they were witnesses.
The young agent forged ahead through the crowd, forcing a path for Daisy. She kept her mouth shut. If they knew anything about her at all, the sound of her voice would give her away.
As they walked back along Twenty-third Street to the
hotel, Lambert kept trying to apologize, for having been set on to follow her and for having failed to keep her out of trouble. Wearily, she cut him short, drawing his attention to an evening newspaper billboard with a notice about a “special” on the murder.
Someone had nosed out that the victim was staying at the Hotel Chelsea.
A lesser mob of reporters had gathered on the sidewalk, but they were less aggressive than their brethren at the Flatiron Building.
Balfour, the black doorman, was managing single-handedly to keep them out of the lobby, with constant reiterations of “A private hotel, ge’men. Residents and their visitors only.”
Daisy reflected that Alec would long since have sent a constable or two to take charge.
She and Lambert entered without too much difficulty. “It won’t be so easy,” said Lambert gloomily, “once this lot of newshounds puts their heads together with the others and they figure out we’re connected with both the hotel and the Flatiron Building.”
“I expect there’s a back door they’ll let us use,” Daisy consoled him.
“Yeah, sure! I’ll go speak to the manager right away.”
He forged ahead towards the registration desk, while Daisy paused in the lobby. It was teatime, and the Misses Cabot were lying in wait.
Miss Genevieve raised an imperious hand. Daisy considered pretending she had not seen, but she wanted her tea, not to mention information which Miss Genevieve was more likely than anyone else to provide. She went over to the pair.
The younger Miss Cabot’s pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “My dear Mrs. Fletcher, I guess you have heard
that one of our residents has met an untimely end?”
“Otis Carmody,” Daisy confirmed.
“I wondered—Mr. Carmody is reported to have died in the Flatiron Building, and I know the offices of Abroad are located there—did you happen to hear any details of events when you were visiting with your editor?”
“I know a fair bit about it,” admitted Daisy, “and I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m rather tired and grubby. I hope you’ll excuse me while I go up and take off my hat first.”
“Of course! In fact, would you care to come and take tea in our suite rather than down here?”
“So much more comfortable,” twittered Miss Cabot.
“And private,” added Miss Genevieve.
Daisy agreed, and they gave her their suite number, on the third floor. Heading for the lifts, she glanced back to see Miss Genevieve struggling from her seat with the aid of her sister, her stick, and the bellhop.
How painful it must be, Daisy reflected, for a woman who had led the active, independent life of a crime reporter to be so dependent—very likely worse than the actual physical pain of her crippling disease.
Miss Genevieve might well have become a morose hermit.
That she had instead retained her spirit and her lively interest in the world was admirable.
The old lady deserved to have her curiosity satisfied.
Besides, if Daisy told her what had happened at the Flatiron Building, she was bound to reciprocate with all she knew about the late Otis Carmody.
Young Kevin took Daisy up in the lift. He was bubbling with excitement. “Gee, ma‘am, I took Mr. Carmody down in this same very elevator just this mornin’. Jist think o’ that! And now he’s bin croaked. I wish it was my elevator
he broke his neck in,” he said wistfully. “D’ya think the ’tecs’ll want to talk to me anyways?”
“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 girl
apologized. “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.
On the walls, whose white paint somewhat relieved the Victorian gloom, hung watercolours of little girls with kittens and little boys with puppies, alternating with framed newspaper cuttings.
Daisy would have liked to examine the latter, but the Misses Cabot awaited her, and tea was laid out on a small, lace-draped table by a lace-draped window.
“Tea!” she exclaimed. “You cannot imagine how I long for a cup.”
“Oh dear!” clucked Miss Cabot. “You must drink as much as you like, Mrs. Fletcher. I can easily make more.”
“Do tell me what happened at the Flatiron Building,” Miss Genevieve requested eagerly.
In the course of drinking the pot dry, Daisy described the events she had witnessed.
She was careful not to pass on any speculation.
The police would have a right to be unhappy if she revealed their ideas on the identity of the murderer, though they had had no business to discuss it in front of her.