Elizabeth got up from the sofa and walked over to where Vere was sitting, the sketch pad on the table in front of him.

  “Do you mind if I watch?”

  “Not at all.”

  He seemed perfectly relaxed as he drew sharp lines then turned the charcoal sideways to shade different areas. His movements were deliberate and confident.

  Elizabeth was amazed as a face slowly emerged from the blank sheet of paper. It was fairly young with a straight, thin nose, a full mouth, and deep-set eyes.

  Kaminsky joined them and peered over Vere’s shoulder.

  “How confident are you that the fellow looked liked that?” he said.

  Vere glanced over his shoulder at Kaminsky. “Quite confident. As I said, he’d be recognizable even if this isn’t an exact representation of his face.”

  “That should be good enough,” Kaminsky said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and paced back and forth as Vere put the finishing touches on the drawing.

  Vere ripped the sheet of paper from the sketch pad and handed it to Kaminsky.

  “I do hope this helps.”

  “I’m sure it will.”

  Chapter 15

  The breeze blew the briny scent of the Hudson River inland, and Elizabeth could smell it even before they reached the waterfront.

  A string of piers, like long fingers, reached out into the swiftly moving waters of the Hudson and a large crane cast a shadow over the scene. Seagulls squawked raucously as they circled piles of rotting garbage and men shouted as they unloaded cargo.

  “The Richelieu should be here somewhere,” Kaminsky said as they walked along the docks where the cargo ships were berthed.

  They passed a ship where the crew, stripped to the waist and sweating in the sun, was unloading bananas and one where crates stamped BAMBOO FURNITURE were already piled high on the dock.

  “Excuse me.” Kaminsky stopped a young man. “Can you tell me where we’ll find the Richelieu?”

  The young man looked slightly confused. He shook his head.

  “The SS Richelieu,” Kaminsky said again, louder this time.

  “Look.” Elizabeth pointed to a ship in the distance. SS Richelieu was lettered in black on its side. “There it is.”

  “Let’s go,” Kaminsky said. He looked at the young man. “Thank you.”

  They were nearing the ship when a group of sailors came down the gangplank. They were laughing and shoving each other and there was an air of holiday freedom about them like children let out of school early.

  “Fellows,” Kaminsky said, stepping in their path.

  They looked startled and their laughing slowly stopped. They stared at Kaminsky warily.

  Kaminsky gave them a broad smile. He pulled his pack of Camels from his pocket and passed them around. The sailors’ shoulders relaxed and the smiles returned to their faces.

  “Do any of you speak English?”

  One fellow tentatively raised his hand.

  “I can speak a little of the English,” he said. He smiled at Elizabeth.

  He was quite cheeky, she thought. He wasn’t tall, but his shoulders were broad and the muscles in his arms stretched the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt. His legs were thin and slightly bowed.

  “What’s your name?” Kaminsky said.

  “Guy.”

  Kaminsky handed Guy the sketch Vere had done of the murdered sailor.

  “Do you know who this is?”

  Guy brushed a lock of raven hair out of his eyes and studied the sketch. He handed it back to Kaminsky.

  “That is Pierre Dubois. Your police have been to the Richelieu to ask about him.”

  “You know he’s dead?” Kaminsky dropped his cigarette on the ground and toed it out.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him?”

  Guy shrugged. “Not so very well, no.” He flicked his cigarette away and watched as it sailed off the pier. “He spent much time by himself. We asked him to come with us that day—the day he was killed—but he said no.”

  “Pity,” Kaminsky said. “But I wonder why?”

  “I think he was meeting someone. He seemed nerveux—nervous.”

  “Do you know who he was meeting?”

  “Non. It seemed to me he wanted to keep it a—you know—secret.”

  One of the other sailors poked Guy with an elbow and made a gesture with his fingers, rubbing them together.

  “Ah, oui,” Guy said, nodding at the other sailor. “Pierre always seemed to have a lot of money. More than us.” He looked around at the others and laughed.

  “Do you know where he got it from?”

  Guy gave that Gaelic shrug of the shoulders again.

  “Non.” He laughed and pointed to the ship. “But not from this job, I can tell you that. The last time we were in New York I saw he had a large bundle of cash in his pocket. It is curious, non?”

  “Very curious,” Kaminsky said.

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

  “Non. As I said, no one knew him very well.”

  Guy pointed at Elizabeth’s camera. “You want to take our picture, oui?”

  He gathered the group together to pose for a photograph. Elizabeth obligingly removed her camera from the case and framed the shot.

  Guy winked at her just as the shutter went off.

  * * *

  —

  “So our sailor has a name,” Kaminsky said as they walked away from the pier. “Pierre Dubois.” He rolled the words around in his mouth.

  “And a lot of money,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, I thought that was curious.” Kaminsky stopped to light another cigarette. He glanced at the sky. The sun was getting lower and the shadows were lengthening.

  “If I’m not mistaken, I think it’s about time for a spot of Schenley’s.” He looked at his watch. “Yes. It’s almost five o’clock.” He turned to Elizabeth. “What do you say we find a nearby watering hole?”

  “Sounds good to me.” Elizabeth was hot, and an ice-cold Coca-Cola would certainly hit the spot.

  “We should be able to find something on Tenth Avenue,” Kaminsky said, leading Elizabeth in that direction.

  “Geez, it’s hot,” Kaminsky said as they approached the corner and the intersection.

  Sweat beaded his forehead. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face and around the back of his neck. Elizabeth thought his breathing sounded labored. She was becoming concerned.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes,” Kaminsky said in an irritated tone. “I need a drink, and then I’ll be right as rain. Stop your fussing.”

  Kaminsky’s statement did nothing to allay Elizabeth’s concerns, but she didn’t say any more.

  By now Kaminsky was walking so slowly that Elizabeth had to shorten her own stride so as not to get ahead of him. Suddenly he began to cough.

  At first he continued walking, but finally the coughing spell became so intense he had to stop. Once again, the force of the attack bent him double, only this time when it finally stopped, it left him gasping for air.

  “Have you seen a doctor about this cough?” Elizabeth said.

  Kaminsky waved a hand at her impatiently. “I don’t need to see a doctor. Bunch of quacks, all of them.”

  “But you see one occasionally, don’t you? Who do you go to? We need to call him.” Elizabeth said in disbelief. Once a year they all—herself, her mother and father, James and Rose—went to Dr. Krause’s office for a checkup.

  “Like I said.” Kaminsky began to wheeze. “They’re all a bunch of quacks. You go into their exam room feeling perfectly fine and you come out with a death sentence.”

  “That isn’t—” Elizabeth realized there was no point in arguing with him. She spied a park bench up ahead. “Why don’t we sit down for a minute.”

  Kaminsky growled. “I’ll be fine as soon as I get my Schenley’s and a cold beer.”

  But he didn’t argue with Elizabeth as she led him toward the bench and urged him to sit.

  He leaned over, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

  It was nearing rush hour and traffic had picked up. Cars and taxis sped up the avenue, belching exhaust into the already thick and humid air. It was noisy with the sounds of horns blaring and tires screeching.

  A bit of soot flew into Elizabeth’s eye and it began to tear. She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her cheeks.

  Kaminsky’s breathing had become more labored and he was continuing to wheeze.

  “I’m going to take you to the doctor,” she said. “And I don’t want any arguments from you.”

  “What? You have some kind of in that you can get an appointment just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  “No, I don’t. But I can take you to the emergency room at the hospital without an appointment.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital.” Kaminsky scowled. “Let me sit for a few minutes, and then I’ll be all right. Besides, I need to get back to the newsroom. No other paper in town is going to have the name of that sailor or the fact that he was loaded with cash.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She waited, tapping her foot impatiently. She looked at Kaminsky. His skin had taken on an alarming bluish tint and his eyes looked feverish.

  “That’s it,” she said. “You’ve had your few minutes. Now I’m hailing a taxi.”

  She became even more alarmed when this time Kaminsky didn’t argue with her.

  A yellow Checker cab pulled up to the curb just beyond the bench where Kaminsky was sitting. The door opened and the passenger, a portly gentleman, got out. He smoothed his jacket, ran a finger over his bushy white mustache, and began walking toward the intersection.

  Elizabeth waved her arms frantically as the taxi began to move away from the curb. Fortunately the driver saw her then stopped and waited while Elizabeth helped Kaminsky up from the bench and over toward the waiting cab.

  Elizabeth opened the door and pulled down the jump seat. “You lie down in the back,” she said.

  “I wish you’d stop fussing,” Kaminsky grumbled, but he stretched out on the seat with a sigh.

  He’d taken off his jacket and hat and had loosened his tie. He was no longer sweating but was pale and clammy.

  The taxi eased into the traffic that was flowing in a steady stream up Tenth Avenue. The driver swiveled around in his seat. “Where to, miss?”

  “New York Hospital, please.”

  Traffic moved swiftly, and soon the driver was heading east on Central Park South past the stately apartment buildings with their striped awnings and uniformed doormen. They were nearing the Plaza and the intersection at Fifth Avenue when the taxi came to a sudden halt.

  “What’s the matter?” Elizabeth said. She could see that the traffic light up ahead was green.

  “Look,” the driver said.

  Elizabeth poked her head out the open window. The air smelled of car exhaust mingled with the earthy smell of manure. A hansom cab was stopped in front of them, the driver, red-faced, standing in the middle of the street, his horse pawing the ground impatiently.

  A taxi was stopped in front of the carriage. The driver had gotten out and was also standing in the middle of the street, his fists clenched and raised like a boxer ready for a match.

  “Looks like the taxi cut the carriage off.” The driver chuckled.

  “Can you go around them?” Elizabeth said.

  “Sorry, miss. There’s no room.”

  The two men shook their fists at each other, oblivious to the frantic blaring of horns from the cars waiting to pass.

  Sun beat down on the roof of the taxi, and the air was stifling. Elizabeth glanced at Kaminsky. His breathing was still labored and sweat stained the front of his shirt.

  She was beginning to panic when she heard sirens in the distance. Moments later, a patrol car slewed to a stop behind them and two uniformed officers got out.

  They had their shoulders thrown back and their hands on their revolvers as they walked up to the two men who were still threatening each other in the middle of the street. Elizabeth couldn’t hear what they were saying, but soon the taxi driver got back in his car and the hansom driver returned to his carriage and picked up the reins.

  At last they were moving again and a slight breeze was coming in the window. Kaminsky was dozing by the time they pulled into the drive in front of New York Hospital.

  Elizabeth held the door while he inched his way across the backseat and swung his legs out of the cab. He swayed slightly when he stood up and put a hand on the hood of the taxi to steady himself.

  The emergency room was bustling and the waiting room was full. It was noisy with babies crying and a squeaky fan rotating overhead.

  The nurse at the reception desk had the telephone receiver wedged between her ear and her shoulder as she listened to a woman standing in front of her with her hand wrapped in a kitchen towel. A stray lock of hair fell onto the nurse’s forehead, and she blew it away impatiently.

  Finally Kaminsky was checked in and they found two seats. It wasn’t long before a nurse came over to them. She had a clipboard under her arm and a stethoscope around her neck.

  “Sir, would you like to come with me, please?”

  “No, I wouldn’t like to,” Kaminsky mumbled under his breath. Fortunately the nurse had already turned around and was headed toward the examination rooms and didn’t hear him.

  Elizabeth searched through the stack of magazines on one of the tables, but they were all dog-eared and at least three years old. She tried to settle down and it seemed as if an eternity had gone by, but when she looked at the clock she was dismayed to see it had only been five minutes.

  She realized she was thirsty. Perhaps she would go in search of a drinking fountain. At least it would give her something to do.

  She headed down a corridor off the waiting room. Carts stacked with boxes of supplies were parked against one wall. She found a drinking fountain on the other wall, but the stream was weak and the water tepid.

  After wandering to the end of the hall and pacing for a bit, Elizabeth returned to her seat. What was taking so long? Surely the doctor had had the chance to examine Kaminsky by now and figure out what was wrong with him.

  In desperation, she picked up one of the magazines off the pile on the table. It was the June 1935 issue of Life magazine. The cover featured a stylized drawing of a bride having her cigarette lit by the tuxedoed men in her wedding party. Elizabeth threw the magazine down in disgust. The last things she wanted to think about right now were weddings and cigarettes.

  Of course, the doctors said that smoking cigarettes wasn’t harmful—Dr. Krause himself kept a pack of Chesterfields on his desk—but they didn’t seem to be doing Kaminsky any good. She suddenly had a horrible thought. What if they found he had tuberculosis?

  Her aunt Dorothy had contracted the disease and had had to spend six months in a sanatorium in upstate New York. Elizabeth remembered taking the train with her mother to visit her aunt.

  What would happen to her if Kaminsky couldn’t come back to work? Would any of the other reporters agree to work with her? She and Kaminsky made a formidable team, but there were still a lot of men who would refuse to work with a woman.

  Elizabeth realized she was thinking only about herself and her career and suddenly felt guilty. The important thing was that Kaminsky get well again. She’d grown rather fond of the guy, she realized.

  The waiting room was nearly as hot as the outdoors, and Elizabeth fanned herself with the magazine, but the resultant breeze did little more than blow tendrils of hair around her face.

  She was about to get up again for another drink of water when she noticed a nurse winding her way between the seats. Elizabeth sat up straight and held her breath.

  “Miss Adams?” the nurse said when she’d reached her.

  “Yes.” Elizabeth’s breath came out in a rush.

  The nurse was pink-cheeked with blond hair smoothed under her starched white cap. Her name tag read MISS VANDENBERG.

  “Mr. Kaminsky has been moved to his room. Would you like to follow me?”

  Elizabeth jumped up and followed the nurse.

  The nurse smiled at Elizabeth as she led her to a bank of elevators outside the waiting room. They watched the indicator arrow as the elevator made its way down from the fifth floor and finally stopped on the main level.

  A woman got into the car after them, smiled weakly, and said, “Second floor, please.”

  She was wearing a bias-cut flowered silk dress and was wringing an embroidered white handkerchief between her fingers.

  “I just hate hospitals, don’t you?” She burst out as the elevator reached the second floor and the doors whooshed open.

  The nurse raised her eyebrows at Elizabeth as the doors closed again and the elevator began its journey to the third floor.

  The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and Elizabeth stepped into the corridor. A wave of panic swept over her. The smell of antiseptic, the drab beige walls, the incessant hum of machinery took her back to her weeks in the hospital when she had polio. She remembered strange doctors and nurses clustered around her bed murmuring to each other and her parents in the background clutching each other, her mother crying softly.

  The nurse took her by the elbow and led her down the corridor to Kaminsky’s room. He was sitting up in bed, his pillow comfortably plumped, the sheet pulled up to his chin. His cigarettes were on the table next to his bedside. There was a scowl on his face.

  He glared at Elizabeth. “Look what you’ve gotten me into.” He tugged on the bedsheet and moved his legs restlessly. “This place is worse than prison. They won’t even let me have a cigarette. At least in the clink you can have a smoke now and then.”