“Black coffee coming up, sir,” I said, rising to get him a cup and wondering what had brought about the dramatic change in Pomeroy’s behavior. Is he sick? I questioned myself. Is he nursing a bad hangover? Has his doctor told him to stay off the sauce? Or does he have some special reason for wanting to stay alert?
I knew he hadn’t renounced his martinis and rushed to the office just because of the art department’s deadline. That wasn’t his style. Pomeroy was strictly a get-soused-now, crack-the-whip-at-the-last-minute kind of guy. Besides, he hadn’t even said hello to Mario or Lenny, much less gone back to their desks to check on their progress.
Something else, I sensed, was afoot. Something unusual, or downright weird, or maybe even sinister. For a moment I wondered if he had skipped his so-called lunch just so he could come in early and force me to skip mine! (That sounds a little paranoid, I know, but I wouldn’t have put it past him.)
“Here you are, sir,” I said, setting the coffee on his desk and lingering there for a second, studying his sullen face for clues. He was well-groomed as always-cheeks and chin clean shaven, mustache perfectly trimmed, brown hair neatly styled and combed-but the dark circles under his eyes were almost as blue as bruises.
“What are you staring at?” Pomeroy asked, shooting me a menacing glare.
“Oh, uh, er-”
“Don’t just stand there,” he barked. “Bring me the new crime clips. Now.”
To avoid any further discord, I stepped over to my desk, picked up the labeled and dated manila folder containing the articles I’d cut from the morning newspapers (including those about the Virginia Pratt murder), and handed the file over to Pomeroy.
“That will be all, Mrs. Turner,” he snorted. “You may take your lunch hour now.”
“Excuse me?” I stammered, struck nearly speechless for the second time that day. In all the three years and nine months I’d worked at Daring Detective, Pomeroy had never once deliberately given me leave to go out for lunch. In fact, if he happened to be in the office at noon-the official beginning of my lunch hour-he generally found a way to delay my departure, thereby shaving a few minutes off my allotted time.
“What did you say, Mr. Pomeroy?” I asked again, thinking my ears must be playing tricks on me.
“I said take your lunch hour now!” he growled, glancing up at the clock and chewing on the tip of his pipe stem.
“Yes, sir,” I said, secretly rejoicing over my prompt dismissal, but still shocked to the core to receive it. I snatched my purse off my desk, plucked my camel’s hair jacket and red wool beret off the coat tree, and hurriedly let myself out into the hall, before he could change his mind.
What the hell is going on? I wondered, making a wobbly, high-heeled dash for the elevator. What on earth is Pomeroy up to? Why does he look so worn-out and worried? And why was he so eager to get rid of me?
I couldn’t answer any of those questions, of course, and by the time the elevator arrived, I’d stopped trying. Pomeroy’s shady schemes and mysterious problems had faded-like a weak radio signal-from my mind. All I cared about now was Virginia Pratt and Sabrina Stanhope; they had taken complete control of my thoughts.
And before my lunch hour was over, they’d be controlling my actions, too.
Chapter 3
AT NOON, THE SIDEWALKS OF MANHATTAN ARE like rows of cages in a zoo-full of hungry animals darting this way and that, scrambling toward their appointed feeding stations, hoping to get a good place at their favorite trough. I exited my building at 43rd and Third and merged with the herd, hurrying past the Automat (one of my favorite troughs), crossing under the recently closed Third Avenue el, and forging my way to the IRT subway station at 42nd and Lex.
Once seated and lurching southward on the downtown local, I slipped my feet halfway out of my shoes (my new red suede pumps were killing me!) and removed my white cotton gloves (I didn’t want to get them dirty). Then I began studying the advertisements on the placards overhead, hoping the goofy pictures and silly slogans would take my mind off murder and have a soothing effect on my rattled nerves.
No such luck. The ad for Blatz beer-featuring Liberace in white tie and tails, wearing a piano keyboard smile, lifting his frosty glass up to the heavens and proclaiming Blatz to be the finest beer in his hometown of Milwaukee -just made me violently thirsty. And the even more absurd ad showing a baby boy in a party hat, with a very happy look on his face, saying (in a cartoon balloon) to his smiling, smoking mother, “Gee, Mommy, you sure enjoy your Marlboro!” just made me desperate for a cigarette (naturally, I was all out). And the ad for the new Decorator Refrigerator by International Harvester, picturing a red plaid refrigerator designed to match a set of red plaid kitchen curtains, just made me groan out loud. (I’ve never had the slightest desire to own a plaid refrigerator, and I can promise you I never will.)
Especially annoying was the message posted by the Pan-American Coffee Bureau, urging subway riders to “Think better! Give yourself a Coffee-break!” The ad showed Edward R. Murrow and several other men from CBS-TV’s See It Now staff, sitting amid the studio spotlights, cameras, and video control boards, enjoying the coffee that had just been served to them by a pretty brunette. Jeezmaneez! I grouched to myself. Is there a man alive who knows how to pour coffee into a cup?
As the train was pulling into the 23rd Street station, I forced my feet back into my shoes and hobbled over to the exit, holding on to a dangling leather strap until the doors snapped open. I was the first one to leave the train, and the first one to climb the steps into the sunlight. Steeling myself for the painful two-block walk to Gramercy Park, I pulled on my gloves, straightened my beret (or, rather, set it at what I hoped was a confident, jaunty angle), and hurried onward.
I soon reached Gramercy Park North and turned left, marching-like a tightly wound tin soldier-toward the Gramercy Park East address Sabrina Stanhope had given me. I was so mobilized and so driven (and so fixated on the hideous murder of Virginia Pratt) that I barely noticed the bright blue sky, or the colorful leaves on the trees and grounds of the private gated park, or the crisp, clean autumn air that was filling my lungs and lending a spring to my step (in spite of my torturous stilettos).
Finally, as I turned the corner onto Gramercy Park East, walked down the block to number 36, and gazed up at Sabrina Stanhope’s building, I became more aware of-and thoroughly surprised by-the physical details of my surroundings.
Where the heck was I? England? France? Italy during the Renaissance? What was this crazy, mixed-up, churchy white stone structure rising twelve stories above me? A palace built for Louis XIV or some medieval Teutonic king? Where did all those finials and shields and cherubs and gargoyles come from? And why, pray tell, were those two helmeted, silver metal knights (statues in shining armor, for god’s sake!) standing guard at the entrance? Were they welcoming me in, or warning me to stay out?
I’d never seen such an edifice in all my life. And I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to again. As I climbed the white stone steps to the wide, ornate entryway, I felt a deep sense of dread. And as the short, skinny uniformed doorman ushered me in, asked me who I had come to see, and then led me across the gleaming veined marble lobby to the elevator, I felt as though I were walking into an elegant but oh-so-deadly trap. My high-heeled footsteps echoed loudly, mimicking the beat of the opening theme of Dragnet…
Dum da dum dum!
The elevator boy was wearing a maroon suit with gold buttons and gold braid. With his round, freckled face and twinkly eyes, he reminded me of Huckleberry Finn (or Mickey Rooney, take your pick).