Nate Abbott & the Case of the Golden Dragonfly

NATE ABBOTT

AND THE CASE OF

THE GOLDEN DRAGONFLY

Written By D.A. Edwards

CHAPTER ONE

Great columns of vapour rose from the manholes below.

Shafts of steam billowed and churned, emanating ever skywards until mingling with the fog

already hanging heavy in the air. The resulting mist was so thick, the stuttering neon sign of the

Empire hotel, which often lit up the sky at this time of night, could scarcely be seen from my office.

Without its glow to illuminate the room, masks of dark grey chased wisps and tails of steam and

fractured light across the glass of the second storey window.

A small lamp perched on my desk cast long shadows on the scuffed wood of the floor and three

pencils balanced in their stand created the appearance of bars over the only door, obscuring the

name plastered across the misted pane – Nathaniel Abbott.

A jail cell of my own making.

My jacket hung from the straight back swivel-chair behind the desk. Collecting it proved no easy

feat, given the dull ache in the base of my spine. It was my permission to leave.

It’d been a hard day’s work and tedious to boot. I didn’t get into the business of sleuthing to file

tax returns and receipts. Alas, the secretary employed to carry out such meandering tasks had taken

an early leave to attend to family matters. A more inquisitive mind than my own may have been so

inclined to investigate further, but Doris Bowman was entitled to her secrets. Besides, I had to work

with the woman, it would not do to know too much of her personal affairs should it complicate our

relationship and lessen my opinion of her.

Without Doris’ watchful eye to man the desk outside my office, all and sundry was able to come

and go as they pleased. It came as no surprise then that a hand rapped against the door frame,

denying my exit. The fedora hat, grey to match the suit and not to mention the weather outside, was

returned to the hat stand in the corner.

“Come in.” The defeat in my voice was clear to hear and the reluctance of the mystery intruder to

enter led credence to the notion they’d abandoned the pursuit of my services altogether.

No such luck.

The knob turned and a click accompanied the creaking of the opening door. She entered with a

tentative step, sweeping her long coat to one side. Her face was stained with rain drops, giving her

washed out appearance the little character it had.

She gave the room a cursory stare, trying to gain the measure of it and not to mention of the

man contained inside. Her gaze shifted to the typewriter resting on the edge of the desk, pushed to

the brink of falling, and again to the ink blotter in the centre, stained with deep black splotches. She

never lingered too long, not so long you would notice, unless you were looking for it.

“What can I do for you doll?”

Her eyes ceased their wandering and met my own. “My name is Miss Winchester, if you please.

Abigail Winchester.”

Not wishing to be discourteous, I corrected myself. “What can I do for you, Miss Winchester?”

The muscles in her throat tightened and she hesitated in speaking again. To distract from her

delayed response, Miss Winchester closed the door in a flustered fashion. The light from the outer

office was snuffed out, leaving the room in shadow.

I waited with curiosity for her to turn my way. There was nothing else for it and her momentary

delay came to an end. I held my hand out before me, inviting her to sit down. The comfortable oak

arm chair to the left of my desk was enticing enough, and it offered the nervous dame somewhere to

sit and still her knees from trembling. I was not quite so eager to do likewise and remained standing,

resting against the edge of the desk.

“My sister,” Miss Winchester stammered, making no effort to proceed with her answer. Instead

she smoothed the ruffle in her pleated skirt and ensured her exposed knee was covered. Her head

turned up to me, the smooth lines of her face forging into hardened points that met at the tip of her

nose. Her eyes seemed to grow wider, doing her pleading where her words could not. Despite the

naivety in her step and appearance, it was a well-practiced appeal.

“Suppose you tell me her name?”

Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip, unsure whether she should say any more. Under my

unscrupulous gaze she released her lip from beneath her teeth, leaving deep imprints behind in its

fleshy surface, and spoke in a single choked breath, as though divulging a great secret I was

somehow unfit to hear. “Her name is Caroline Carter. We don’t share the same last name. She was

married see.”

“Was?”

“Her husband, Thomas, was in a hurry to be a man and went off chasing war.”

“It soon found him?”

She removed her hat and nodded her head, her damp flame coloured hair falling free. Abigail

hurried to brush it behind her ear, pinning it in place. “She’s older than I, by only two years mind you,

but we’ve always been very close. It’s why I can’t fathom the doing of what she’s done.”

“And what is it she’s done?”

“We’re not from New York.”

“Your sister left home in a hurry I’m to assume, with no word of when she was leaving, or if she’d

be back.”

Miss Winchester, who’d shown such restraint since walking through my door, held back no longer.

“When,” she snapped, “when she comes back.”

“My mistake.” I offered a weary smile and elected to move from the desk, resigned to return to

the swivel chair, unappealing as it may have been, to no longer appear the aging burly detective

looming over her. A half turn later and I met her eye, hoping to hasten her candour.

“My apologies, Mr. Abbott.” The combative tone in which she had answered me with was swept

away with the desk now between us.

“No apologies needed.” The pang in my back already throbbed anew. “Go on.”

“Caroline has always been impulsive. She married Thomas only days after her eighteenth

birthday. Father never liked the man, he thought him beneath our family. We’re not what you’d call

affluent but Father’s always had this silly notion of being a social climber. He married above himself

and took a large portion of mother’s money, investing it where he saw fit. Stocks and shares are

hardly my expertise, but the arguments,” she crowed wistfully, “those I grew all too familiar with. I’m

no detective like yourself Mr. Abbott, but I’m to gather his investments weren’t always profitable.”

She took a breath. “Listen to me, dithering on.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“As I was saying, Caroline knew what she wanted and insisted Father couldn’t stop her. She even

threatened to run away.”

“A pattern,” I replied, beginning to deduce the cause of all this mischief. “What’s his name?”

“You see why she has gone?”

“I do.”

“His name is Travers, at least, that’s the name she claimed he went by. What his Christian name is

I don’t rightly know, but then, I don’t rightly know anything of the man.”

“She kept this romance hidden?”

“Thomas hadn’t long passed. Mother thought it inappropriate for Abigail to hitch herself to

another wagon so soon.”

I rubbed my chin with contemplative attentiveness. “And your father had no notion of this

Travers fellow?”

“Caroline never spoke of him.”

“How did you come to know of their affair?”

“She wasn’t as careful as she ought to have been. I saw them together, being intimate.” Her

cheeks threatened to blaze the same colour as her hair, if her pale complexion would oblige to allow

it, and directed her shy gaze towards her shuffling feet. “She begged I keep their relationship a

secret. If I hadn’t, then perhaps she would still be at home, instead of in this rotten place.”

I waited until she’d dried her eyes with a delicate silk handkerchief she withdrew from the sleeve

of her anorak. “When did you last see your sister?”

“Two months, this coming Thursday. It was the eve of her twenty-fourth birthday, the first

without Thomas. Mother and Father had planned a gala event to celebrate.”

“I take it the Birthday girl did not show.”

Miss Winchester shook her head. “We waited and waited. When she didn’t arrive I feared the

worst. Mother and Father knew nothing, but I was worried what may have come of Caroline. I tried

my damndest, if you’ll pardon my language, but I couldn’t find her. We heard no word –“

Abigail Winchester twisted and contorted the silk cloth around her slender fingertips until they

lost what little colour they had to begin with. I withdrew a brass cigarette case from the drawer of

my desk and passed one to her, in the hope of stilling her nerves. . She released her grasp on the

handkerchief and accepted it without pause.

The scratching of a match against my right thumb nail sprung the room with light. Not even the

warmth of the flame could restore the colour to Miss Winchester’s drab grey pallor. I lit the cigarette

for her and she inhaled deeply. Her hand ceased its trembling for now.

“Mother was afraid of scandal once the truth willed out. She wouldn’t go to the police. Father

washed his hands of the whole mess. I didn’t know what was to be done.”

“What led you to New York?” I asked, seeing a hole in her tale. Abigail Winchester stared at me

with blank eyes. Perhaps knowing the full story, she hadn’t seen it herself.

“Oh,” she said with a start, realizing her mistake.

Miss Winchester reached into the purse she had placed at her feet, a deep shade of red in colour,

to match the curls of her hair and the lipstick caked too heavily across her bowed lips. From within,

she collected a single envelope. The crisp white shade of it had yellowed and crinkled from overuse.

Miss Winchester held the envelope out in front of her, grasping it tightly between thumb and

forefinger, reluctant to give it up.

Still I took it, tugging it from between her fingertips. The edges of the envelope had the slightest

of tears and opened without resistance. The letter contained inside slipped free and unfolded before

me. I smoothed the page, laying it flat on the desk.

“It wasn’t written in her hand,” Abigail uttered. “Caroline’s penmanship is far more delicate. She’s

very skilled in calligraphy I’ll have you know. When we were children, Father would have her write

out all the addresses for his business dealings.”

“You would make quite the fine detective yourself,” I said, keeping one eye on the letter and the

other on the woman. A self-assured smile played across her lips, pleased with her own deductive

reasoning. She was quite right of course, the penmanship presented before me was anything but

feminine and I would have leapt to the same conclusion without having seen Caroline Carter’s deft

hand at work.

She took a second drag from her cigarette. “It says Caroline and Travers plan to marry. If she’d

taken up with the man, she’d have sent word herself. I knew she hadn’t written that letter and there

was something very peculiar about the whole affair. There was no return address but the postage

meter hailed from New York. I thought this the best place to look.”

I returned the letter to her. “There’s a possibility perhaps you haven’t considered.”

“I know,” she stammered. “You think this Travers may have harmed her, killed her even. It’s too

terrible to think about.” Miss Winchester’s voice strained into a shrill squeak and she shuddered, as if

a sudden chill had taken the room.

“Yes, it is. So don’t go troubling yourself by thinking the worst.”

She composed herself and continued. “I paid a visit to General Delivery in the hope I could track

down the source. They were of little help but as I was leaving, quite by chance, I saw the man I knew

to be Travers. I was too frightened to confront him, but the clerk took a liking to me and was willing

to divulge his address. I wouldn’t resort to such measures if I saw any other option, you

understand?”

“Of course.”

“I wrote it down,” she replied, handing me a scrap of paper. If Caroline Carter’s penmanship was

half as elegant as her sisters, I’d have to consider taking her on as a secretary. The reminder of Doris’

absence and the day I’d endured renewed the dull ache in my back. I wanted very much to send

Abigail Winchester on her way and retire for the evening.

The address belonged to a hotel a stone’s throw from the advertising district. I knew the building

well, having tailed more than the occasional advertising executive to its door. There they would carry

out their illicit liaisons with whatever floozy caught their eye that week. I’d often thought it more

prudent to engage in their extramarital affairs in the privacy of their own offices, away from the

prying eyes of private dicks like myself, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Cutting to the long and short of it, you want me to find your sister and bring her home, without

Travers bound by a ring on her finger?”

Miss Winchester nodded with sheepish intent. “Mother and Father think me foolish for coming

all this way. I know they’ll forgive Caroline if only I could bring her home. Your help would be so

appreciated Mr. Abbott.”

“Think nothing of it Miss Winchester. There are just a few particulars we’ll need to be getting on

with.” I cleared my throat and reached for a pen and paper.

Miss Winchester misread my intent and groped for the purse at her feet once more. I held out

my hand to stop her. A delicate matter like this, it would not do to go prying for money. The coffers

could wait to be opened, at least until I’d agreed to take on the case.

“Why don’t we start with what your sister looks like?”

“Oh yes,” she said, returning to an upright position. “Well let’s see, she’s rather tall. Her hair is

much lighter than my own, more blond than red. She doesn’t wear it long, rather pulled back with

soft curls that frame her face. And the most amazing eyes, like emeralds. To have eyes like hers...”

“I’d recognize her in a crowd?”

“Most men do.” Miss Winchester smoothed out her skirt again, shifted in her seat and cleared

her throat. I summarised Abigail, being the more homespun of the pair, wasn’t used to men’s

affections the way her sister was. “Leastways, Mr. Travers did.”

I stared at the address a second time. Whilst I wasn’t terribly intrigued by Miss Winchester’s

story, it seemed a simple enough case to solve and her polite way appealed to me. “I don’t foresee

this posing too great a problem.”

“You mean you’ll find Caroline?”

“I shall try my best.”

“Oh thank you Mr. Abbott!”

I held up my hand, a brief gesture, telling Miss Winchester her thanks was unnecessary. “That

leaves one last thing.”

She did not mistake my meaning this time. With the cigarette still held between her fingers, she

fumbled at her purse, unfastening the clasp. There was more than a moment’s hesitation in

withdrawing a selection of crumpled bills. She counted them off one after the other, her need to find

her sister outweighing any other desire she might have held. I doubted she’d held so much money at

one time in all her life.

“Will this be sufficient?”

“More than sufficient.” I took her money, folded it into a tight wad and tucked it into the breast

pocket of my vest. With an air of propriety, Miss Winchester leapt to her feet and held out her hand

to me. It seemed the proper way to conclude such a transaction. The gal had manners, for all her lack

of steel. That much I admired.

“Thank you,” she said again. Her grip was firmer than I’d anticipated. She gave me a resounding

nod and we parted.

The cigarette, long forgotten about, had burnt down to the filter. She stubbed it out in the

ashtray balanced on the arm rest of her chair, collected her things and returned the hat to her head.

“You will be careful, promise me you will. I do believe this Travers could be dangerous, and to

think what the man might be capable of. It’s all so frightful.”

“Don’t you worry yourself Miss Winchester. I’ve had a great deal of experience handling

gentleman of his ilk. He won’t be a nuisance to you or your family once I’m through.”

The door pressed open, flooding the room with light. I offered Miss Winchester a reassuring

smile, setting her at ease. “Call on me again in two days, first thing. I’ll have word of your sister,

perhaps the woman herself.” Abigail smiled pleasantly, displaying her glistening white teeth. She

appeared inclined to thank me a third time. I hushed her, pressing my finger to her lips.

Miss Winchester was ushered out of the door and I closed it behind her. The fog had cleared

somewhat and the neon sign of the Empire hotel broke through the gloom, bathing my office in a

dim red hue.

Her assertion in regard to the danger Mr. Travers posed concerned me. Striking up an affair with

a married woman took a certain type of individual at no mistake, brass I myself couldn’t claim to

possess, but dangerous? There was more to this matter than appeared on the surface, and it rattled

Miss Winchester enough for her to seek me out.

Is it any wonder I in turn sought out the comforting steel of the .45 calibre Colt pistol nestled in

the locked drawer of my desk? I stowed it inside my overcoat pocket and felt it press against my

chest as I drew the coat closed.

Tomorrow I intended to meet Mr. Travers.

The remains of Miss Winchester’s cigarette curdled, perishing into a ball of grey ash. I closed the

blinds and shut out the lamp, leaving the office in darkness.

CHAPTER TWO

The pale morning sun poured in through the moth bitten drapes, hanging over the single window

of my one bedroom apartment. I could feel the brisk November air at my back. Still I wanted to

remain abed, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders and keeping my eyes held shut, the

light playing about on the inside of my eyelids.

The telephone bell rattled in the hallway, shaking the thin walls. With my eyes still closed and

verging on the edge of sleep, its impertinent ring sounded all the more urgent. I gave up my pursuit

of dozing off and withdrew the blanket, letting the cold air creeping through the crack in the window

meet me head on. It’s bite against my bare chest and torso was startling and stole the sleep from my

eyes in no time at all.

The bed springs stirred, the mattress bowed. A flutter of wind whistled around the fire escape as

I stretched out my limbs, the ache in my back still ever present. Dragging myself to my feet, I pulled

on the slacks I’d kicked off the night before, forewent fastening the button at the waistline, instead

opting to pull a single suspender over my left shoulder, and headed into the hallway to answer the

still shrieking telephone.

I wiped away the layer of dust covering the black of the telephone box with my forearm,

unhooked the receiver and pressed it to my ear. “Nate Abbott.”

“Of course it is. Who else would I be calling?” Doris, my secretary, replied. She would have taken

care of her personal affairs by now and no doubt spent the better part of the morning filing her nails.

“What time is it?” I asked, scratching a dry patch of skin on my neck and trying to tame the wiry

hair sticking out in every direction.

“Time you showed your face by my reckoning, it’s almost noon. I’ve been typing away all day,

waiting on you, and I’ve seen neither sight nor sound” Doris’ words contrasted against her distant

and distracted tone. She had a habit of saying what was socially required and expected of her,

though her head remained firmly in the clouds. I could just picture her, click clacking away on the

typewriter at the desk beyond my office door, her gaze fixated on the window or the ticking clock

hanging from the wall.

“Late night,” I replied, having collected my thoughts.

“Is this anything to do with that name I saw written down on your desk?” She rummaged around

her papers, trying to find said slip of paper.

“It just might,” I replied. “I’m gonna take my time following up on this one, so I won’t be coming

into the office. Not today leastways.”

“Would you like me to lock the doors and windows when I leave?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Perhaps I should empty the ashtrays whilst I’m at.”

“Now why would you say a thing like that, I wonder?”

“You tell me, you’re the detective after all,” she replied. I let a moment pass, the casual tip

tapping of her typewriter filling the silence. Doris wouldn’t be able to resist telling me. “Oh imagine

my surprise when I arrive into work this morning to find this Miss Winchester’s name, and fresh

cigarette butts stubbed out in the ashtray. The one by that darling little corner chair. Do you make a

habit of secreting in women once I’ve retired home?”

Her tone was teasing and she’d expect a reply of a similar fashion. “Do I detect the hint of

jealousy my darling Doris?”

“Good gracious no. I just didn’t expect that to be your shade of lipstick Mr. Abbott.”

“It’s Nate, and it wasn’t.”

“Quite so. You’re fortunate we’ve been working side by side for so long. Some of your deductive

reasoning appears to have washed off on me. I found the name, and the cigarette remains and

pieced the puzzle together. This Miss Winchester must be quite the looker to capture so much of

your attention.”

“Not so, but I hear her sister is pretty as a peach.”

“There’s a sister? Well this grows more and more fascinating by the moment. You’ll have to give

me a full report tomorrow. Assuming you make it into the office at all.”

If one were to take my suggestion of the ad men of Madison Avenue carrying out their affairs in

the privacy of their own offices seriously, one might also read between the lines and come to the

conclusion Doris Bowman and I are lovers. Nothing could be further from the truth. She held a

certain sparkle in her eye, one that couldn’t go unnoticed working together in such confined spaces

for so long, and it would be a falsehood to suggest otherwise. I’d never pursued her, less a romantic

entanglement muddy the waters of our working relationship.

I held her in high esteem, but truth be told, I knew very little of her outside the four walls of the

office we shared. In a fleeting and alarming moment, I now feared she knew far more of me than

perhaps fitting for an employee, employer relationship.

“I’ll be in first thing.” I straightened out my voice, the way I would when trying to convey a sense

of professionalism to Doris. More often than not it would go unnoticed and there was nothing to

indicate that would change now. “I may require Miss Winchester’s presence. Yours as well, should

you suggest any further impropriety.”

“How can I contact her?” Doris asked.

“She’ll call on the office again, of that I’m sure. If I’m away attending to matters, hold here there

would you? I told her I would require a couple of days to track down her sister, but I fear the poor girl

has nowhere else to go. She might make a habit of lingering.”

Doris agreed to do as much and we said our goodbyes. I was shivering from the cold by the time I

returned to my paltry one room apartment. The faint stench of urine hovered, the door to the closet

sized bathroom open, the chain un-pulled and the toilet un-flushed. I must have been in some hurry

to fall into bed the previous evening.

It’s my understanding other professionals in my line of business often toss and turn through the

night, running things through their mind, trying to divulge and dig out an answer from some

incomprehensible clue. I have never experienced such a night.

Following Abigail Winchester’s visit to my office, I’d slept with a resolute soundness, sparing no

thought for Caroline Carter or the mysterious, presumed dangerous, Mr. Travers. With half the day

already gone, there was no time left to lose.

I combed my hair to one side, finished dressing and took the tweed coat hanging across the back

of a nearby chair. The weight of the Colt pistol I’d acquired during my military service tugged at my

long overcoat, the fabric holding tense and taut across my shoulder. It filled me with a considerable

relief twenty minutes later as the taxi cab approached the Hotel Astoria, not to be mistaken with the

Astoria across the Triborough Bridge in Queens.

“You some kind of cop?” The cabbie had not been shy with his glances in the rear view mirror,

and it wasn’t the first time I’d been mistaken for police. Something in the way I carried myself I

expect – broad shoulders and a furrowed brow, as if in a perpetual state of deep thought, tussling

with some riddle.

“No.”

“Ah,” the Cabbie replied. “It’ll be some sorta detective then.” I thumbed through a ball of rolled

up bills, held together with an aging brass money clip, ready to pay the man. “You want I should wait,

in case the guy tries to make a getaway?”

I might have been inclined to ask how he’d gotten the impression there was a guy in need of a

getaway, but it would not do. Half the men I’d caught in compromising situations, he’d likely

chauffeured to the scene of the crime. It was an educated guess, no more.

“Are you planning on keeping the meter running?”

“I don’t do this for my health.”

“Maybe, but I have no notion of how long I’ll be and should the man I’m searching for intend on

making a getaway, as you alluded to, I’ll hardly have time to quibble with a cabbie over the

outrageous fare he’s demanding.”

“I’m just trying to make a fair buck. Guy’s gotta earn a living, you know?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to fund it. I’ll hail another, should the need arise.”

“Whatever you say pal,” the cabbie replied. He seemed crestfallen, having lost the prospect of a

high speed chase. I handed over one bill too many to accommodate his feelings. Abigail Winchester

was paying me handsomely and despite my hesitance in retaining his services, I didn’t see the harm

in sharing a small portion of my new found wealth.

Grateful or not, he wasted no time in speeding away from the curb. The splash of his rear wheel

careening through a puddle dampened the leg of my trousers and the toe of my scuffed leather

loafers. I shook them dry and approached the revolving doors of the Astoria.

Above the entrance, a hunter green canopy extended out towards the sidewalk. The name of the

establishment was leafed in gold lettering across its surface. A doorman stood guard and rubbed his

arms to stay warm, despite the thick sheepskin coat draped across his shoulder. He looked for all the

world like he’d rather be inside, seated behind a desk, than having to open doors for the likes of me.

He gave me the once over and shifted his weight onto his heels, standing erect and puffing out

his chest. He had half a mind to impede my progress.

“Nice to see you again Eddie,” I said, extending my hand to him, a five dollar bill tucked into the

crook of my palm.

“Nate Abbott,” Eddie the Doorman replied. He shook my hand, ensuring the bill passed between

us. He may have smiled and greeted me as a friend, but without greasing his wheels, I had no doubt

he’d deny me entrance. He had a job to protect after all. The least I could do was make it worth his

while. “Here to ruffle a few feathers?”

“I always do.”

“I’ll be sure to fly the nest before you rattle the branch,” Eddie replied, his wide set mouth

stretching towards his ears. He clapped me on the shoulder and moved aside, permitting me to pass.

I was made as soon as I stepped foot inside. They knew who and what I was.

There was no hiding from it, as there was no hiding it from the cabbie. The hotel staff smirked,

thinking they’d be in store for a show. Managers shrunk inside their own skin, their nostrils flared

and mouths tightened, fearing they’d be without some repeat custom before the day was through.

Ad men turned their noses up at me and harried their casual acquaintances out the door.

Too bad I didn’t have my camera.

People milled about everywhere, filling the marble floored lobby. On the west side, a grand stair

case climbed a curling arched path to the gallery and upper floors. A wrought iron railing, bronzed, to

reflect the ample lighting scattered from the various chandeliers descending from the ceiling,

climbed along with it.

Above the staircase, a stained glass window gleamed, coloured titles surrounding a mustard

yellow A, naturally for Astoria, emblazoned across the centre. What little sun crept through the

overcast New York sky shone against its looping formation and cast a great crest on the carefully

designed flooring.

The reception desk stretched out on the far end of the room. I hadn’t the time to admire the

craftsmanship or architecture any further and slalomed my way towards it through the horde of

ensuing patrons.

The cold of the winter weather outside was dispelled at once by the heated comfort of the

Astoria. My skin began to prickle, tucked away inside my three piece suit. A bead of sweat escaped

the pores of my forehead, rolling down the hook of my nose. I removed the hat perched on the

crown of my head to dispel the heat, whilst also harbouring the small hope of appearing

inconspicuous, although I doubted it would be of any use, on both counts. I rubbed the brim of it

against my pointed chin and kept my face masked from inquisitive, curious eyes.

I was soon spotted by a small group, lounging in large straight back chairs, upholstered in plush

red fabric, from the east side of the lobby. They warmed themselves by the fireplace and followed

my path with studious intent. Their murmurs were barely distinguishable over the roaring flames but

I heard enough to discern they were not enamoured with my presence.

Arriving at the front desk, I rang the call bell with unrelenting perpetuity, despite the close

proximity of the concierge. He looked up from the guestbook and waited for me to cease my infernal

ringing. The more he looked, the more I rang.

“Sir,” he said at last, laying his pen flat against the open pages of the book. He marked his

position with the bound bookmark and snapped it shut before gliding across the desk to greet me.

He studied me with the same eyes as the hotel management.

“I’m looking for a gal.”

“May I suggest another sort of establishment?”

I smirked at him. He didn’t like that. “Maybe you should take a second look at the type of people

you’ve got moseying on in through the door.”

“Perhaps you should walk on out of it.”

“Listen pal, it’s not what you think. I’m a detective.”

“Of course you are. I had you pegged the second I laid eyes on you. Now if you wouldn’t mind –”

He shooed me away with his hand like he were commanding some common house pet. It’s not

something I was prepared to stand for and pressed on. “She’d be with a man –“

“Yes. I know exactly what it is you intend to do,” the concierge retorted. A reputation preceded

me. One I could have done without at the present moment. “And I hasten to remind you Mr. –”

“Abbott. Nate Abbott.”

“It is neither the business of the Astoria, nor yours Mr. Abbott, what our hotel guests choose to

do in the privacy of their rooms. Once they pay their fee, its there’s to do with as they will, and with

whomever they may choose.”

I slammed my hand down on the counter and heard the gasps of passers-by. They’d caught wind

of my outburst and the disturbance. Of course that was my intention, to press-gang the concierge

into telling me all I wanted to know, if only to see the back of me. He took an exception to my tone,

but I intended to make him listen. “Like I was saying before, this girl, she’d be tall, reddish sort of hair.

Eyes you’d remember. Old enough she should know better, young enough you’d forgive her for not

knowing better. She’d be with an older gentleman, name of Travers.”

“I don’t know Mr. Travers.”

“Not by sight I’d wager. Classy joint like this, must be in high demand.” This seemed to appeal to

the man-behind-the-desk. He stood a little straighter and adjusted his bow tie. “How are you to tell

one gentleman from the other?”

“Some manage to distinguish themselves.” His words were pointed, sharp and undoubtedly

directed towards me.

I wasn’t willing to partake in his verbal barbs and attempted to recapture his attention. “Travers

and this dame, it’d be a recent dalliance, one I’d suspect you’ve still got a record of in that book your

nose was stuck in when I entered.”

“Perhaps,” he said in a crooked sort of manner.

“Well, do you mind letting me take a gander?”

The slits of his eyes narrowed and his lip curled in consideration. “Is there a reason I should?”

“None that I can think of. I’m not Police.”

That should have been an end to it, but the concierge’s interest had been peaked. His eyes slid

from me to the guest book, knowing he should return to his work, but unable to pull himself away

from the most intriguing conversation he’d have all day. His finger tapped against the desk once,

twice, his lips parting, ready to ask the question on his mind. “What are you hoping to find?”

“Mr. Travers of course.”

“You wish to inconvenience one of our guests. I’m not sure I can allow it.”

“I won’t inconvenience him, if he don’t inconvenience me. Like I said, I’m looking for the gal. He’s

my way to finding her.” I withdrew the cigarette case tucked inside my jacket pocket, struck a match,

lit the cigarette and regarded the concierge through a cloud of smoke. “The girls from Indiana see.

She’s gone and gotten herself entangled with a city slicker and worried her sister half to death. She’s

the doe eyed impressionable sort from what I hear.”

“A likely story,” the concierge replied. His stance softened. “The girl sounds familiar. As you said –

eyes you wouldn’t forget.” He seemed to drift into thought and his lips loosened. “Stems like hers

make a fast impression and they’re slow to escape one’s memory.”

“I’m sure.” I lowered my cigarette.

“Is the girl in danger?”

“The sister thinks so,” I replied, “got it in her head this Travers is crooked. Who am I to say

otherwise? I’m just the poor sap she employed to ask all the dirty questions. But I’ll tell you this, if

Travers is crooked, I don’t think either of us want to see the girl with the stems that linger a while,

get bent. All I want is to send her home before this Travers leaves a bad memory of our fair city.”

I leant on the counter, propped up by my left elbow, and craned my neck towards him. With the

thought forced upon him, the concierge’s face crumpled into a tight little ball. He moistened his lips.

“I wouldn’t want her to come to harm.”

He slid the register across the counter until it rested in front of me. “You mustn’t take this to

mean you can drop in as and when you please, taking glances at our records. I know your sort and

you’ve caused us quite a bit of trouble over the years.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

He glanced from left to right, the cautious type. He didn’t wish to be seen by hotel management.

I can’t say I blamed him. They can be rather frightful when their hackles are raised.

“For your troubles.” I laid a five dollar bill down on the counter beside the register. Having

greased his wheels too, his ceased his squeaking.

The record was open to me, but I remained unsure of what I was looking for. If Mr. Travers was

smart enough to strike up a relationship with Caroline Carter and spirit her away from her family, on

the eve of her birthday no less, he’d be smart enough not to sign his right name. Although in truth, I

knew nothing of the man outside of Miss Winchester’s tale. Travers may not have been his right

name to begin with. More than likely, he’d sign the name of some film star, such as Gene Kelly, Clark

Gable or Cary Grant. I’d caught more than my fair share of Kelly’s, Gable’s and Grant’s.

I trawled through the pages of the records, one name right after the other, until I saw it.

Mr. V. Travers – 09/11/1948

“Find what you were looking for?” the concierge asked.

“Here.” I pressed my finger to the page. He withdrew a pair of spectacles from his breast pocket,

slipped them over his ears and stooped to read. “See the name, Mr. V. Travers?”

“Oh yes,” he replied. “Now pressed into giving the query some thought, I recall the fellow.”

“What do you suppose the V stands for? “

“I don’t remember or he didn’t say.” The concierge pushed the spectacles from the tip of his nose

and set his eyes upon me. “And yes, he did have the young lady you inquired about alongside him.

Although I’d hardly call the relationship they shared to be, how do you put it, a dalliance?”

“How would you put it?”

“They appeared quite at odds.”

“Is that so?” Perhaps Abigail Winchester was correct to worry. If Travers had forced Caroline

Carter to accompany him to New York, it would certainly explain why she hadn’t written the letter. At

least, by all accounts, she appeared to be unharmed. That would perhaps quell Miss Winchester’s

uncertainty for now.

“Would you object if I check the dates, see how far back they’ve been taking up residency here?”

“If you don’t dally,” the concierge said.

I didn’t intend to. I flipped through the pages of the book. On each page, Travers name leapt out

at me, one after the other, dating back nearly two months, when Miss Winchester said Caroline had

disappeared.

“Which room?”

The concierge’s narrow eyes grew wider and the iris became as specks against the whites. He

seemed quite taken aback by my request. “You don’t mean to –”

“I mean to find her, as I said. It ain’t no concern of yours how I do it.”

“You’ll create a scandal.”

“The gal’s a widow. Far as I know, she’s taken up with another man before her first husband’s

even cold. That’s quite scandal enough. Now you tell me, how did you put it, she’s at odds with

Travers?” He did not appreciate me turning the phrase against him but there was no fire left behind

his eyes to argue. “I’m charged with tracking her down. Now you can tell me which room I’ll find the

pair of them, or I can find a seat right here in the lobby, giving all those working men and their

working gal’s pause for thought, waiting for Mr. Travers to arrive. It’s your choice.”

The muscles in his throat quivered until he choked out the number. “Room 342.”

“Much obliged.”

I slapped the flat of my hand against the counter, placed the cigarette in the corner of my mouth

and parted from the concierge.

Room 342 awaited.

CHAPTER THREE

The elevator dinged, announcing my arrival to the third floor.

I needn’t have been cautious, but a certain amount of caution is often necessary with my

occupation. Despite my attempts to go unnoticed, my thigh clipped an inconsiderately placed side

table as I stepped out into the hallway, rattling the vase held atop it.

I paused, allowing for my presence to be noted. Thankfully, the hallway was empty, and if my

faux pas caused any disturbance, it posed no immediate threat. I stilled the vase, settling it back in its

place and pressed onward.

The long corridor was lined with thick wood panelling, leaving the doors to each room almost

indistinguishable to the walls themselves. It seemed to stretch on further than my eye would allow.

My fingers found the wood panelling, settling into the intermittent grooves lining the wooden finish.

They drummed against each one in my passing of Room 327, 328 and 329.

The scent of lavender and fresh tulips clung to the air, sweet and sickening. It made the confines

of this long casket of corridors all the tighter, the walls pushing in around me. The aroma they let off

was supposed to be warm and inviting, yet I found myself longing for the faint whiff of freshly caught

fish, wafting in through the open window of my office from the fish market down the block.

My feet pressed into the heavy carpeted floor beneath my feet. The thick threads threatened to

absorb my loafers like sand on a beach. I was grateful for it, keeping my padded footsteps unheard.

The end of the corridor appeared faster than I’d anticipated and I reached for the breast pocket

of my jacket. I didn’t anticipate any surprises, but it paid to be careful.

A solitary figure appeared in front of me – A chambermaid pushing her cart.

I relaxed my stance and strode towards Room 342, making sure to pat myself down in search of a

non-existent key, a show for an audience of one.

“Darn it,” I said.

“Have you lost your key sir?” the maid asked on cue. How gracious of her to have her lines

memorized.

“It would seem that way,” I replied. “I’m certain I must have left it inside.”

“They may have a spare downstairs.”

“Yes, I suppose I could run down,” I said. The maid knew what I was after but she was prepared

to make me work for it. “Although, I’d prefer not to if it could be helped, what with them being so

busy. I am rather in a hurry.”

The maid looked up from her cart, eyeing me as the doorman had done. I was hardly dressed like

the hotel’s usual cliental. Despite her suspicions, she replied: “You want me to unlock the door?”

“If it wouldn’t put you out.”

“Of course not” she said, flashing a knowing smile before stepping past me with a metal rung full

of keys. She flicked through them until she came to the corresponding one, jammed it into the lock

and pushed open the door to Room 342.

It opened, scraping across the bristled threads of the thick carpet inside. I stepped over the

threshold, fingering the cool steel of the gun contained in my pocket. I didn’t expect to find anyone,

and my expectations were met. The room was empty and immaculate.

“Have you already given the place the once over, or what?” I asked the maid. She gave me a

queer sort of look in reply. If she was seeking conformation the room didn’t belong to me, I had just

provided it for her. Nevertheless, she turned on her heel and struggled to push her cart away, its

wheels catching on the shaggy carpeted hallway. I closed the door behind me, letting the latch click

into place. It wouldn’t do to have the room’s right occupant walk in on me snooping about the place.

The cleaning lady had yet to step foot inside, by her own admission, but you wouldn’t have

known it to see the place. The bed was made, the curtains tied back, letting light flood into the room.

My eyes took a moment to adjust from the soft glow of the bulbs outside in the corridor, to the

brightness of the sun shining in through the high rise window.

My first impression of the room held true as my eyes flickered back into focus. Someone had

gone to great lengths to straighten up and the room was kept so neat, I felt a dire need to kick my

shoes off as to not muddy up the carpet. If there was a welcome mat to be found, I’d have made

certain to wipe my feet. I pressed on with my purpose. There wasn’t time to stand on ceremony and

admire Mr. Travers’ cleanliness. It would however make my task all the more difficult.

A single pair of shoes peaked out from beneath the bed, size thirteen, leather. Other than the

somewhat worn laces and the over polished toe, there was nothing special to note about them. A

few less scuffs here and there than my own perhaps, but not the type you’d glance twice at. If I had

to hazard a guess as to the type of man who’d wear shoes like these, I’d say he wasn’t particularly

prideful or vain. Of course, it’s dangerous to make such assumptions.

I searched for the suit that went with the shoes. The dresser beneath the window was empty,

likewise the drawers beside the cabinet. There was no shirt, tie or cufflink to be found. Nestled in the

top drawer sat a copy of the King James Bible. If Miss Winchester’s tale was to be believed, her sister

had more than a few Hail Mary’s to say and a handful of sins to atone for

The drawer closed with a struggle and I turned my attention to the closet. I anticipated suit

jackets hanging in their dry cleaning bags, but I’d missed the mark quite considerably. Instead, I

found scores of women’s dresses.

If the shoes were nothing to write home about, this was a different story entirely.

There they hung in a neat row, one next to the other, each more colourful than the last. I will

admit to being less than an expert on the subject of women’s dresses but it doesn’t take an expert to

see these were made by skilled hands with delicate care and attention. Perhaps the man with the

shoes possessed a certain amount of vanity after all. He cared not one jot for his own appearance,

but he wanted the woman on his arm at her formal best.

The dresses fit the bill. It’d take an elegant woman to wear them at no mistake.

“Caroline,” I said to nobody in particular. The sound of her name seemed to fit the garments

hanging before me. I didn’t doubt she’d been here. The air seemed fresher now, overpowering the

nauseating stench of week old flowers, wilting in the corridor. No, this was something else – A sweet

fragrance. Perfume perhaps.

The vanity dresser in the corner. It hadn’t been emptied. A fragrance bottle perched on the

smooth wooden surface, drawing my eye. The smell brimming in abundance around the rim of said

bottle matched that of the room. Lavender? There was no way to be sure, what with the stench of

the corridor still lingering unpleasantly inside my nostrils.

The bottle held no label to speak of. Why? Was it simply an old bottle, re-filled with a brand new

perfume that took Caroline Carter’s fancy? Perhaps she preferred to brew her own concoction. The

label-less bottle caused me little concern but the anonymity of every possession filling the room at

the Astoria caused a great deal of consternation.

It wasn’t part of a pattern or in keeping with all I’d heard of Mr. Travers. He offered up his name

to Caroline Carter freely and without hesitation. She’d taken no issue in revealing it to her sister

Abigail Winchester. He’d made himself visible when visiting General Delivery where he must have

known Miss Winchester could track him down. And then there were the tellers, who knew Travers by

name and face, well enough to divulge his apparent location. If Travers proved his true name, he’d no

compunction in signing it downstairs in the hotel register when checking in. So why take such care to

conceal oneself here, behind closed doors?

I chewed my lower lip, mulling the question over in my mind. Maybe it’s not his name or identity

he’s trying to conceal, which begs the question, what is he hiding?

With more questions than answers, I prepared to leave. That’s when I saw it. I hadn’t noticed it

when I’d first entered, tucked out of sight, inside the leg of the dresser – A wicker waste-basket.

I dragged it out from underneath the desk and hoisted it up onto the edge of the bed. The waste-

basket was filled to the brim and against my better judgement I rifled through the garbage, looking

for some sign or clue that’d lead me to Miss Winchester’s sister. If I struck it lucky, I might just

stumble upon the missing perfume label or luckier still, a receipt for one of the many dressers

hanging in the closet across the room.

I found no such thing.

No receipt, no label, just the odd banana peel and curiously, a matchbook. It was empty, the

burnt down matches filling the waste-basket along with curdled balls of wax. The matchbook tossed

and turned in my hand, scratching away sticky wax flecks covering the name printed across the lid.

The coloured name chipped away along with it, but still it remained legible enough to decipher.

“Marlowe’s Garage” I read aloud. With my thumb I flipped open the soft card packet and saw the

message written inside. I half hoped to see Caroline Carter’s neat cursive pointing me in the right

direction. Unsurprisingly, I was not granted such a fortuitous and unbefitting break. The handwriting

belonged to anyone other than Caroline Carter, lacking the fine structure and feminine touch her

sister Abigail had drawn my attention to upon our initial meeting.

Indeed, upon further inspection, the handwriting before me neither resembled Caroline’s nor

that I supposed belonged to Mr. Travers. It lacked the looping G’s and slight slant to the lettering. This

was written by unskilled and uneducated hands, in slashing strokes and little consideration for

legibility. Fortunately, I was able to deduce the name written before me. “Joe Ferguson.”

I tucked the matchbook inside my jacket pocket, where it joined the Colt pistol I’d brought along

from my office. There was no need of it now. Returning the waste-basket where it belonged, I

hurriedly smoothed out the ruffled bed sheets and crossed to the exit. A quick glance from the

doorway saw my path clear and I left behind Mr. V. Travers room at the Astoria.

I gave one last wave to the condescending concierge on my way to the revolving door. A few men

in neat suits and expensive shoes caught one look at me leaving and thought better of entering.

“You find who you were looking for?” Eddie the doorman asked.

“Not who,” was my reply. I allowed myself a satisfied smile and reached for the matchbook

nestled in my pocket. “Say Eddie, you ever hear of a Marlowe’s garage?”

Eddie gave my question a moment of thought, no more. “As a matter of fact, I have. I overheard a

conversation or two, a guest having car trouble.”

“You happen to know where it is exactly?”

“I don’t have an address for ya but I think it’s over in Brooklyn.” Eddie paused for a beat, trying to

recall whether he was correct or not. “22nd Avenue – Bay Parkway to be specific. Hop on the West

End Line and the subway will take you right down there.”

“I might just do that Eddie,” I replied. “By chance, did this guest happen to be a woman?”

“You’re asking a few more questions than usual there Nate.”

“Some cases bring out the worst in me, what can I say?”

Eddie chortled until a recollection brightened his eyes. “Now you mention it though, it was a

woman, a pretty young thing at that. It ain’t too often you meet a lady who knows a thing or two

about engines. I wouldn’t mind takin’ a look under her hood if you know what I mean.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the gist. She happen to mention a mechanic over there who might

be amenable to throwing a customer a discount off her recommendation?”

“She just might have done,” Eddie replied. He scratched his chin, his fingertips bristling against

his stubble “Ferguson, I think it was.”

It was enough for me.

If Caroline Carter had made the acquaintance of one Joe Ferguson, it stood to reason he might

know where to find her. The only questioned that now remained, was whether I’d find Joe Ferguson

at Marlowe’s Garage.

“Thanks a lot Eddie.”

“Don’t make a habit of it, eh.” Eddie clapped my shoulder fraternally. “I got a wife and two kids at

home. If management catch wind that I throw the odd soft ball your way, I might lose my job.”

“They don’t hear it from you, they won’t hear it from me.”

I pulled my overcoat around me and headed towards my next destination – Marlowe’s Garage.

CHAPTER FOUR

Having already spent more than my fair share of Miss Abigail Winchester’s generous allowance to

see this case through to its end, I followed Eddie the doorman’s advice and hopped on the BMT West

End Line, riding it to Bay Parkway.

The rocking and click clacking of the train atop its tracks spurred my mind into thought. It

reminded me of the ticking of a clock, and having set the self-imposed deadline of two days to

discover Miss Winchester’s sister, I now wondered whether time was running out for both myself

and Mrs Carter.

The breaks locked and the train squeaked to a halt. The doors slid open and I skipped down the

steps from the overhead station platform. From the elevated vantage point I spied Marlowe’s Garage

and hurried off in its direction.

Running this little errand for Miss Winchester had taken longer than I’d expected. The little

warmth the noon sun provided through the overcast skies had long vanished and the sun itself long

set. Emerging from the subway platform, the chilly night air caught up to me.

I was as out of place here in Brooklyn as I was at the Astoria. Whilst management at the hotel

looked down on my profession, taking particular grievance with my plucked overcoat, scuffed shoes

and nose for infidelity, here, fancy leather shoes, no matter how scuffed worn and beaten would be

considered snobbish. Grease and oil would be favoured over the jet black ink caking the undersides

of my fingernails.

The sign above Marlowe’s Garage was worn and weather damaged. The blue paint had become

sparse in places, chipping away. The white beneath it was weatherworn and stained from the damp.

The smell of mould and gas was unmistakable, and yet I found myself favouring it over that of the

floral aroma I’d been subjected to at my previous point of call.

Puddles of half dried motor oil stained the floor and I was forced to take care not to further

dampen my trouser leg. The garage was empty, save for one individual with his head buried in a

beaten up automobile that hardly seemed worth fixing.

All the same, I intruded upon him. “You got a minute there pal?”

“Who’s asking?” His dim and hollow reply echoed around the hood of the car.

“The name’s Nate Abbott and I’ve got a few questions for a Joe Ferguson.” A sharp intake of

breath bounced around the steel shell where the vehicle’s engine had been.

He straightened up, his face stained with grease, beads of sweat dripping from his brow. He

cleaned himself off with the forearm of his overalls and cleared his throat. “I’m Joe Ferguson.”

He was younger than I’d expected, not a day over twenty if I had to take a guess, with eyes deep

set beneath his protruding brow, a strong nose that appeared to climb down his face like the bow of

a ship, hair cut too short at the side that hung too low in the front, flopping to and fro in front of his

eyes. His lower lip jutted out too far and the calluses covering his hands were more pronounced and

throbbed brighter than the neon glow of the Empire Hotel opposite my office.

His fist tightened around the wrench held in his hand. “You mind putting down the wrench Joe?”

Now I’d drawn attention to it, his grip loosened. His arm, and by association the wrench, hung at

his side. He spoke in a choked, gruff voice with an accent from the Old Country. “Depends, you on

the job, police?”

“No. I’m not.”

“You sure look like police.”

“I get that quite a bit. I guess I just got me one of those curious sorts of faces. You know the ones,

with lines around the eyes and a couple extra creases in the forehead.”

“It’s the shoes,” Joe replied. He didn’t break eye contact, keeping a watchful eye on me and my

careful approach. “Too much polish. Makes it look so you’re wearing a uniform.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Joe shuffled out from behind the car and tossed the wrench to one side. It clattered on a nearby

workbench. Unarmed, he perched on a stool, the only one I was quick to notice, leaving me standing

with the wind at my back.

To set his mind at ease, I tried to be more amenable and appeal to his sensibilities. I reached my

hand out to touch the vehicle. The cold from outside had crept into its bones. “She’s a beauty ain’t

she? Can’t say I’ve see one like this in the city. What model is it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Chevy, 1941 Fleetline. I know my cars sir.”

“Say, how much do you think this would have set you back, to drive it right off the lot?”

“More than I got if that’s what you’re getting at,” Joe replied curtly. His patience was already

wearing thin. “What’s it you want from me exactly? I ain’t done nothing worth knowing about.”

There was no reason to play coy any longer. I stepped away from the car and rounded on Joe

Ferguson. “I’m trying to track down a girl, name of Caroline Carter.”

“Never heard of her.”

“This matchbook says you have.” I rifled through my pocket, taking care not to expose the Colt

pistol still nestled there. He was already a touch squirrelly – there was no need to frighten him off. I

handed the empty matchbook to him and he studied it with curiosity. He wasn’t half as careful in

concealing his expression as Abigail Winchester had been in my office. “Your handwriting?”

“It might be. I don’t remember.” He snapped it shut and pocketed it. He was too quick to reply

and I knew he was lying at once. “We must give ‘em out by the dozen.”

“I see that. It must get busy around here.”

“Is that some kind of crack?” His voice rose and so did he; kicking the stool to one side. Joe’s

temper was quick to flare, something worth remembering.

“Not at all. You were hard at work when I walked in the joint. I don’t doubt you keep moving ‘em

on through here. Probably the best garage around. Why I heard a friend of mine talking about this

place. Told me if I was ever having car trouble, this was the place to come. Came highly

recommended from that dame I mentioned. If he’s coming all the way down here from Manhattan

just to get his car serviced, this must be a hell of a place.”

“I didn’t know people had cars in Manhattan, I thought they just took cabs or the subway.”

I laughed to set him at ease. My reaction to his attempted humour pleased him, the corners of

his mouth twitching upwardly. “Well my friend Eddie does.”

Again, Joe gave no thought to the name I’d dropped and replied no sooner than I’d finished the

final syllable of my previous sentence. “Well I ain’t heard of him neither.”

“Are you quite sure? It’s my understanding Caroline Carter recommended this particular garage,

and you, personally.”

“Maybe you got it wrong mister.”

“Maybe I did. This is Marlowe’s is it not?”

“If it is says so above the door.” Joe shifted his feet and eyed the wrench on the workbench

several paces away, assessing whether he could reach it before I leapt into action. He thought better

of it and wetted his lips. “I ‘spose I could have forgotten. I don’t have the best of memories, sucking

in these fumes all day.”

“I’ll bet. How long you been working here.”

“Since I was fourteen. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“I don't suppose it is,” I said. “You mind if I describe the gal, to see if it brings her to mind?”

“Ain’t no harm in it I ‘spose.” Again he eyed the wrench.

I whisked my coat to one side, the Colt pistol held inside my overcoat pocket thumped against my

ribcage. I took a breath, disguised as a moment’s hesitation, and strolled towards the bench to

prevent him from making a mistake he’d soon come to regret.

“Let’s see now. Her sister mentioned she was tall, reddish hair, green sort of eyes, and stems that

go on for weeks, or so I’m told. You come across someone like that?”

“Sounds familiar,” Joe said in a strained sort of fashion. He could conceal it no longer. The

muscles in his throat tried not to swallow. He knew Caroline Carter, well enough to leave his name in

a matchbook I’d found in her room, and well enough for her to send business his way.

“You knew her, you met her,” I replied. The intimation was clear and measured.

“So what of it?” Joe Ferguson stepped away, moving around the bumper of the car. I’d done

likewise, retreating to a position of safety to comfort Abigail Winchester in my office. Joe did so out

of fear. He tried to disguise it, gliding on over to the stool he’d discarded, returning it to an upright

position. “I must have forgotten is all, like I said.”

“This gal, she’d have been with a man, name of Travers. Now that matchbook you’re clinging

onto, I believe you gave it to Caroline Carter and I’d like to know where.”

Joe’s cheeks reddened and his nose shrivelled. He’d been caught in his lie and now seemed to

shrink under its weight. “You’re right. I seen her, talked to her too. Only she wasn’t calling herself

Carter then. Said her name was Lauren Brandt, and I didn’t know no better until you tossed me that

matchbook I gave her.”

“Why do you suppose she’d use a false name?”

“Beats me. It’s not my job to find out neither.”

“No, it’s mine,” I replied. “Her sister has tasked me with that thankless pursuit and I intend to see

it through. You said you gave her the matchbook. Was that here?”

“No. Classy broad like that wouldn’t step foot in a place like this. Wouldn’t want to mess up one

of her dresses with the kind of stuff we’ve got lyin’ about.”

“Dresses?” My mind bent to the dresses I’d seen not an hour earlier, hanging from the closet of

Mr. Travers room at the Astoria.

“She looks real good in a dress.” He slurped and laughed, his lower lip quivering.

My face must have crumpled into one of those severe expressions that blacken my eyes and take

the kindness from them, because Joe Ferguson almost leapt from his skin and ceased his blithering at

once. “Where Joe?”

“There’s a lounge. They play jazz music and the like. She’s a singer there.”

“A singer?”

“That’s what I said.” His nerve was fast returning. “You need me to tell ya twice?”

“That’s how you met her, singing show tunes at some jazz lounge?”

“Yeah, as it happens. We got to talkin’ a couple of nights a week. I gave her the matchbook all

right and told her about this place. Offered to fix her car if she was ever havin’ trouble with it.”

“How’d that go down?” I asked.

“Not so well. She didn’t have no car and some fine upstandin’ gentleman like yourself didn’t take

to kindly to our friendship.”

“Which gentleman would that be?”

“Travers,” Joe replied. My ears pricked up and at once he knew he had the better of me. His

shoulders straightened and the smile returned to his face. He was no longer looking at the wrench or

the workbench. Perhaps I should have been more careful in keeping my own cards close to my chest.

“He was keen on Miss Brandt and sure as you're standing there, he was smarting at the idea of her

takin’ up with a fella like me.”

“Mrs Carter.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Mrs Carter. The dame we’ve been conversing about, she’s married.”

“She didn’t look married,” Joe spat back. He seemed to take offense to the implication.

“I’m sure many a man before, and no doubt after you, has felt much the same way.”

“I ain’t talking about what you’re talking about fella. I might work in the gutter but my mind ain’t

in it. I’m saying she don’t wear no wedding band on her finger there.” To demonstrate his point, Joe

held up the fourth finger on his left hand and formed a ring around it with the index finger and

thumb of his right hand. I knew full well what he meant by wedding band, I’m not sure there’s a soul

alive who wouldn’t, but it didn’t seem wise to challenge him on the point.

“What did this gentleman do?” I said, hoping almost with hope to get the answer I came

searching for.

“What gentleman?”

“Mr. Travers, the fine upstanding one who took objection to your kind offer?”

“Oh.” His cheeks flushed “I smoothed things over didn’t I? Did some work for him as a matter of

fact. He told me to invoice him at the lounge. I did the work, got paid, and sent him the bill. Not

much to tell really.”

“You hold onto the address?”

“Address? I don’t need no stinkin’ address. I know where the lounge is. Been there every night

I’ve had to myself.”

“Mrs Carter must been one hell of a singer.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Joe Ferguson replied. The leering look in his eyes was dripping in

the inflection of his voice.

“She sing there often?”

“Find out for yourself,” Joe said. He approached the work bench. I fingered the lining on the

inside of my coat, searching for the pocket opening. To my relief, Joe bypassed the wrench he’d

tossed there and opened the draw. He rifled through it and a moment later, withdrew a second

matchbook. “Here, seeing as you like matchbooks so much.”

I let the matchbook bounce off my chest and caught it with my free hand as it fell towards the

ground. Without drawing attention to it, I slipped the other from beneath my coat, away from the

Colt pistol. Joe was none the wiser.

“You’ll find the address on the back,” he said.

I turned the matchbook over in my hand and read the address for myself. “Looks like I have a

train to catch.”

“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t go chasing this Mrs Carter. Stay well away.”

“Oh yeah, why would that be?”

“A girl who looks the way she does and sings the way she does, it’ll cause nothing but trouble.”

The hint of a smile crept into the corners of his lips. I produced a cigarette and match, struck it off

my thumb and took a deep drag to fill my lungs. The warmth flooded inside me, blocking out the

bitter cold, if only for a moment.

“I’m afraid it already has.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The subway train ushered me through to Harlem, my intended destination.

I pressed the matchbook time and time again into the flat palm of my hand – an almost

unconscious sort of tick I’d developed. I say almost, as by now I was acutely aware of the red

markings the dented corner edge of said matchbook had imbedded in my flesh.

The lounge was not difficult to find. Evening had passed well into night, but even in the relative

darkness outside, I could tell what type of a joint this was.

A flickering light sent me on my way down a staircase, directing my attention from the playhouse

above to the basement below. The steps were slick and wet with rain and I counted myself fortunate

to have missed the brief shower whilst making my way towards the establishment. Even so, mist

from the concrete slabs descending down sprayed and splattered the trouser leg of my suit, a

recurring theme for the day. By the time I reached the bottom, even my thick black wool socks were

sticking to my legs.

My search for Caroline Carter had proved routine enough, yet the state of Travers hotel room and

the nature of Mrs Carter’s relationship with Travers himself, as told to me by both the concierge and

Joe Ferguson, weighed heavy on my mind. The question of why she’d take up an assumed name

gnawed away there also.

She’d gone to great lengths to conceal her own identity, and even greater care had been taken to

conceal any evidence of her relationship with Travers. All I had to go on was the say so of her sister

and a name and initial in the Astoria hotel register.

I may have taken Miss Winchester lightly the night she’d propositioned me in my office but there

was far deeper puzzle to be solved than that of a young rebellious woman with eyes for eloping. I

found myself traipsing across the five boroughs of New York City, my head abuzz with possibilities

and questions. Questions I now needed to answer to satiate my own curiosity.

I’d left it late in the day, but perhaps I might make a professional sleuth yet.

The door to the lounge was heavy and required the full weight of my shoulder pressing into the

metallic frame to spring it open and swing it free on its hinges. It scrapped and sparked against the

concrete stone beneath my feet.

A long hallway led to the main lounge and colours burst from the dark gloom, filling the room

with life. Musk clung to the air like humid heat and the reek of cigar and cigarette smoke dulled all

other senses. Velvet curtains hung behind the small stage. Its colour was almost indistinguishable

through the smoke, trawling across the room at eye level like an everlasting fog. Glimmers of light

penetrated through as though bursting through a dense canopy of trees, revealing the deep red hues

of the hanging blood-red curtain. Musicians set up in front of it, plucking strings and blowing horns.

Their shirts and cuffs were unbuttoned and their vests stuck to them with sweat from the vigour of

their enthusiastic playing.

People dressed in eveningwear nestled in the cosier corners, puffing away on their imported

cigars and sipping aged malt whisky from short shot glasses whilst lower class workhorses chugged

their bottled beer and downed their tankards of ale, bringing pink clouds to their blackened oil

stained cheeks.

One guess which crowd Joe Ferguson belonged to. I expected Mr. Travers would find himself

more welcome amongst the other.

I avoided making myself known to either and took a seat on the nearest bar stool. The bartender,

a young man with watchful eyes and cracking lips, wiped down the counter and moved my way. He

spoke like he was on stage himself, projecting his voice to be heard over the constant fluttering

melody of music. “Can I get you something?”

“Whisky, neat,” I replied.

“The cheap stuff?”

“How’d you guess? Don’t tell me, the shoes?”

He glanced over the bar towards my feet, shook his head and laughed. “The hat.”

My attention was directed towards those drinking the expensive stuff and saw their hats tilted at

rakish sorts of angles, juxtaposed against their smart three piece suits and styled hair, not a one out

of place. I didn’t see much difference myself, but this bartender clearly had a keener, better trained

eye than my own.

I pitched my fedora on the bar as the young bartender returned. He set a glass down and poured

a finger of whisky. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”

“You haven’t. I’ve been trying to track somebody down.”

“I hope it’s not me.”

“This particular somebody is of the female persuasion.”

“There’s no shortage of them to choose from.”

“I’ve been hearing that all day. Time and time again, I’ve been told to go out and find another

sort of establishment for that sort of thing. Now I’m here, more and more, I’m starting to feel as

though I’m in the right place.”

“There’s no place better,” he said. I took his tone to be sarcastic but there was no way of being

entirely sure. “This gal, she have a name?”

I took a chance and replied with the name Joe Ferguson had given me.

“Lauren?” The bartender asked. His eyes darted towards the floor and he busied himself, taking

his dish rag and cleaning the slight spillages of whisky around my glass. “Sure, half the people in here

came to see Lauren.”

“She’s that good, huh? I’ve heard she’s got a set of pipes on her.” The bartender nodded his head

in reply. Still he wouldn’t meet my eye, and now seem preoccupied, mulling something over in his

own mind. “Funny, a girl on stage with that much talent, and yet I’ve never heard of this joint. Till

today that is.”

“She hasn’t been here long.”

“I see. How long would you say?”

The bartender turned his head up to me. Still his eyes drifted, rolling back and forth in their

sockets, trying to mentally calculate some sum. “Not long, a couple of months, maybe less.”

It matched Abigail Winchester’s story of when Caroline left her home in Indiana. I gave the

matter no more thought and tossed back the shot of whisky the bartender had poured. First the

cigarette and now the whisky, all thoughts of the cold outside were quickly forgotten.

“Can I get you another?”

“Maybe a little later.” I rose up off the stool, returning to my feet. “Say though, you have a pay

phone anywhere around here, so I might make a call?”

“In the back there, you can’t miss it.”

“Thank you...” I trailed off, allowing him to fill in the empty space with his name.

“Stephen,” he replied, obliging me without hesitation. “Stephen Gosch.”

“You’ve helped me a great deal,” I said, collecting my hat. “For the drink...” I left several coins,

more accumulatively than the cost of the whisky. Stephen Gosch proved most cooperative without

questioning my motives, a first for the day, it did no harm to tip him for the confirmation he’d given

me. I’m sure Abigail Winchester would have done the same, whether the money came from my

pockets or her own.

I snapped shut the door to the phone booth, the music still blaring out and rattling the glass

separating me from the rest of the club. I dialled the number to my office, hoping to catch Doris

before she left for the day. The telephone rang three times before she answered.

“Nate?” she said airily. I couldn’t help but picture her strewn out on the grass of Central Park,

staring up at the clouds instead of cramped behind a desk in my outer office, filing receipts and

invoices, waiting for a client to walk on in through the door.

“Doris, I thought you may have left.”

“One foot was out the door when I heard the telephone. Have you found your mystery woman

yet?” she asked.

“I just may have,” I replied. “Time will tell.”

“Where are you? I want to know what to tell the sister should she show her face before you do.”

“A jazz lounge in Harlem.”

“Harlem?” Her voice took a serious edge. “Do be careful.”

“I took precautions,” I said, and she understood my meaning. I could hear her shoes shuffling on

the floor, creaking open my office door, trying to stretch the cord of the telephone to reach the desk

drawer where my Colt pistol was usually held.

“Call me, the instant you get home. I don’t care if you think it impolite. I want to know my

employer is safe and that I still have a job to wake up to tomorrow.”

“Your concern is touching Miss Bowman.”

“As touching as my concern is, do promise me you’ll look after yourself. I can’t be going around

the city interviewing for a new position, not at my time of life. I don’t have the temperament.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll be fine. I will see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

Concluding my business with Miss Bowman, I allowed my five cents to expire and replaced the

receiver where I’d found it. The booth opened with considerably more ease than the main door to

the joint and I was immediately bombarded with the final crescendo of the band’s latest piece. They

ceased their playing to wild applause, but no sooner than the band settled, did Stephen Gosch skip

out from behind the bar, rag resting across his shoulder, and announce the latest act.

A palpable hushed filled the room and the smoke appeared to clear. Glasses and tankards rattled

as they were returned to the table and the lights dimmed to a soft glow, cigarettes burning and

matches sparking in the now darkened corners.

My gut already knew who was to walk out onto the stage.

Her heeled shoes drummed a beat on the wood of the stage, announcing her arrival. Aside from

an errant cough and the ripple of excitement coursing through the gathered assembly, it’s all that

could be heard.

She was twenty five by my reckoning, in keeping with the information Abigail had told me, and

was not as delicate as Miss Winchester, an evident hardness to her eyes and durability to her

posture. Her hands didn’t appear quite so unsure, clinging to the rounded steel of the microphone,

and her reddish blond ringlet hair curled in points around her high cheek bones, framing her face and

highlighting the piercing emerald coloured eyes I'd heard tell about.

Her arms were covered with matching gloves, extending above her elbow. She exuded the type

of elegance only seen on the silver screen, and so rarely on the stage. Why If I had my way, she’d

have been performing on 52nd Street, the centre of Jazz in Manhattan, or Broadway. Not here. She

didn’t belong here, performing in front of this sort of audience. They were ill befitting her beauty.

The dress she wore on the other hand would not have been quite so out of place, hanging

alongside those in the closet of Room 342 of the Astoria Hotel. And those pins she strode in on – I

suddenly felt a kinship with the concierge I’d traded words with earlier in the day, the memory of

those legs now walking through both our minds.

Fastened around her neck was a silver chain, almost indistinguishable if not for the paleness of

her skin contrasting against it. Extending from the chain itself, hanging between her ample bosoms,

not to put too crude a point on it, was a golden pendant, depicting some form of animal. It was

almost impossible to tell from my vantage point what animal it may have been, but if I had to hazard

a guess, I would have stumped up on a butterfly. No, on second thoughts, make that a dragonfly.

The singer drew in a breath. Seats inched forward, an overwhelming eagerness to their

anticipation. The room watched her with rapt attention. The strings of the musician’s instruments

stirred and sprang to life once more.

Seductive was hardly the word for the smile she gave her audience.

I found myself drawn to her. The woman Joe Ferguson had known as Lauren Brandt was every bit

as enchanting as I’d been led to believe.

Her voice rattled through the microphone cupped in her slender gloved fingers and reverberated

throughout the room. Her voice was husky, actually husky, like the ones you read about but never

somehow hear. It found every inch of me, filling my ears and resonating in the back of my throat,

rendering me unable to speak, to utter a word.

Looking around the lounge at the other patrons, it was clear I was not alone.

My knees weakened beneath me, threatening to buckle. I made my way towards the bar stool I’d

vacated moments beforehand. Stephen Gosch had returned also and he did not break stride to place

a second shot of whisky in front of me.

We both felt it. The attention she demanded, and received in abundance. The bartender seemed

similarly stricken, unable to speak until the last refrains of Sarah Vaughan’s Lover Man sounded and

the woman who went by the name Lauren Brandt sang her final note.

Her sultry voice seemed to echo on, still tumbling through our minds like a Siren’s song, never

wishing for it to end. She caressed the microphone and slowly withdrew her fingers, one at a time,

from its steel shell.

Applause broke out, Stephen Gosch perhaps loudest of all, his hands thundering together over

the cavalcade of claps and high pitched whistles of adoration.

I turned to the bar, cupping the glass in the crook of my hand. Lauren Brandt’s spell was broken

for now and the bartender resumed his duties, wiping down the bar. He seemed to notice the look

that was no doubt in my eye, quite taken with what I’d seen. “Is she the girl you were searching for?”

I cleared my throat and found my voice once again. “I do believe she is.”

“She’s something, huh?”

I took the shot glass threw back the drink he’d poured for me. “That she is.”

There was no doubt in my mind. I’d found Caroline Carter.