Kaminsky still didn’t look too happy, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to give him any more time to protest. She picked up her purse, straightened her hat and stood up.

  “I’ll come by later if I have anything useful to report.”

  “Be careful,” Kaminsky called after her as she headed out the door and down the hall.

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth didn’t take a taxi back to Chemical Bank and Trust. She doubted the Daily Trumpet would reimburse her, so the money would have to come out of her own pocket. Now that she was trying to save money, she realized how frivolously she’d been spending it before. She had thought nothing of paying three dollars for a new hat, a quarter to see a movie, or fifteen cents for the latest issue of Glamour magazine.

  The subway wasn’t crowded but was as stuffy as ever. Elizabeth was beginning to regret her decision to forgo a taxi. Only one window was open and the air blowing into the car was warm and foul smelling. She took a deep breath when she got to the top of the stairs upon exiting the station. The air seemed fresh in comparison, despite the fumes belching from the cars crowding the narrow streets.

  Elizabeth caught a glimpse of herself in a window and stopped to straighten her hat, which had been knocked askew when she’d been jostled coming up the steps from the subway. She swiveled around to check the seams in her stockings and was dismayed to see that she’d gotten a run in one of them. It would cost her at least seventy-five cents to replace them. She hoped the nylon stockings they were demonstrating at the DuPont exhibit would be available soon. They were supposed to last a lot longer than silk.

  She realized there was no guarantee she would find Earl at the bank, but she assumed he worked five days a week like everyone else and had only been on his break when she’d been there earlier.

  She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She’d watched Kaminsky interview people plenty of times and had even done it once or twice herself. The thought that Earl might be the killer did give her pause, but what could he possibly do to her in broad daylight in front of lots of people?

  The bank wasn’t crowded, and only a few of the tellers were busy with customers. Earl wasn’t waiting on anyone and seemed to be busying himself straightening the bills in his drawer.

  He looked up when Elizabeth approached.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m from the Daily Trumpet,” Elizabeth said. “My partner Ralph Kaminsky and I are covering the murder of your fiancée, Flo Grimm. We talked to you the other day.”

  Earl looked startled, and Elizabeth thought he would have backed away from her had it been possible.

  “I can’t talk to you here,” he said in a low voice. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “I can meet you somewhere,” Elizabeth said.

  “There’s a storage room in the back. I sometimes go in there for a smoke. Meet me by the vault.”

  Elizabeth thought he might try to disappear, but when she reached the vault he was waiting for her, a sour expression on his face.

  He led her down a wood-paneled hallway and opened a door on the right. There was a gold plaque on it that read Storage. The room was tidy with a cleanly swept floor and metal shelving along the walls. A rickety table stood in the empty space in the middle of the room. An ashtray sat on top and was filled with crushed-out cigarettes.

  Earl perched a hip on a stack of cardboard boxes. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Elizabeth.

  She stood opposite him, wishing she had something to lean against. He continued to stare at her—clearly trying to intimidate her—and she was going to have to show him it wasn’t working.

  “So what is this all about?” Earl said, a petulant tone to his voice. “I already told you and your partner everything I know.”

  “And we appreciate your help.” Elizabeth decided it might be better to use honey rather than vinegar with Earl. “But I hope you can help us with a few things. I happened to notice that Flo’s boss—Lou Vitale—has an account at this bank. At least he has a safe-deposit box here.” Elizabeth tried to appear composed, but her heart was beating so hard she was afraid Earl would hear it. “Do you know what he’s keeping in that box?” She raised her chin and looked Earl in the eye.

  Earl’s face had gone still, his bravado leaking from him like air from a tire with a nail in it.

  He hastened to shake his head. “Customers go into a private room to use their safe-deposit box. The bank doesn’t know what is kept in them. It’s against the rules for the tellers or the clerks to be in the room when a customer opens their box.”

  “So you don’t know what Vitale is keeping in his?”

  “Of course not. Besides, I spend my day behind my window helping customers. The clerks are the ones who deal with the safe-deposit boxes and the vault.”

  “When I was here earlier, I saw Vitale come into the bank with a carpetbag that looked quite full. When he left, however, it was obviously emptier. Do you have any idea what he put in his box?”

  “I told you,” Earl hissed at her. “We’re not allowed in the room with them when they open the box. I have no idea what Vitale was doing, and frankly, I don’t care.”

  Elizabeth didn’t believe him for a minute. He knew something—she was positive.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth left the bank with a feeling of excitement. She was convinced Vitale was up to something, and she was equally convinced that Earl knew about it. Was he in on whatever it was as well?

  She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t look where she was going and walked straight into a gentleman coming in the opposite direction. He was very staid looking in his dark suit, starched white shirt, and striped tie.

  He glared at Elizabeth before tipping his hat and walking around her.

  There was a phone booth on the corner and she decided to call Kaminsky. She knew he must be dreadfully bored being confined to bed in the hospital. Maybe knowing what was going on would cheer him up.

  The telephone booth was stuffy and smelled unpleasantly. Elizabeth pulled the door shut behind her, leaving it open a slight crack in order to get some air. She put her nickel in the slot and waited for the operator to come on.

  She could tell by Kaminsky’s voice, when she finally got through to him, that he was glad to hear from her. She told him about her chat with Earl and how she wondered if there was some connection between Earl and Vitale.

  Kaminsky urged her to be careful. Elizabeth promised him that she would be. She was about to say goodbye when she had a thought.

  “Perhaps I should visit Viola Fowler again and see if she can remember where her husband was the night her daughter was killed.”

  “From what Ida Fitzgerald told us, it’s unlikely Mrs. Fowler knows. But go ahead and see if you can jog her memory,” Kaminsky said. “I’d also like to know where he was that night, if it means we can eliminate him.”

  Kaminsky once again told Elizabeth to be careful. She promised she would be and hung up.

  The day had turned cloudy. Elizabeth glanced at the sky—the heavy clouds that had rolled in looked bloated with rain. She hoped she would make it to the Fowlers’ apartment before it started to pour.

  She caught the Eighth Avenue express train at the Fulton Street station, which took her as far as Forty-second Street and Broadway. She glanced at the sky again as she emerged from the subway station. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the clouds still looked threatening.

  Walking the streets of Hell’s Kitchen alone was different than being there with Kaminsky. Elizabeth felt prickles of unease as she headed across Thirty-ninth Street. A man was lounging against the wall outside the door to a sliver of a tobacco shop. He was smoking a cigarette and was wearing stained work pants and a dingy white undershirt.

  Elizabeth felt his eyes on her and she hurried past him as quickly as she could, hoping he wouldn’t sense the frisson of fear that crept down her spine.

  “Hey, doll,” he called after her, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t even dare turn around.

  The sudden shout from some boys kicking a can down the street made her jump. Elizabeth quickened her pace and breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the Fowlers’ apartment building.

  The air in the small foyer reeked of rotting garbage, and loud music came from behind one of the closed doors on the second floor. Elizabeth finally reached the fourth floor and knocked on the Fowlers’ door.

  She suddenly realized that Clyde Fowler might be home. She’d assumed he would be working and that Viola would be alone. She’d better think up an excuse she could give for showing up on their doorstep again.

  Viola answered the door. She was wearing a shapeless cotton dress and backless slippers with dingy white marabou trim.

  Elizabeth looked around quickly and was relieved to see that Fowler wasn’t in the apartment. A pot was on the stove in the kitchen, and judging by the smell, cabbage was cooking. A bottle of gin was on the counter, and there was a glass with clear liquid and the remains of an ice cube on the coffee table in the living room. The radio was on and Elizabeth recognized The Goldbergs, a program her mother also enjoyed.

  Viola motioned to the sofa and Elizabeth sat down. Viola’s eyes were bloodshot, and her hand shook slightly as she reached for the glass of gin on the coffee table.

  “Am I going to be in the paper?” Viola said. Her hand went to her hair and she gave a throaty laugh. “I hope you aren’t going to take my picture. I never did get my hair up in pin curls last night. I fell asleep in the chair out here and when I woke up, I went straight to bed. It was after midnight.”

  “No, no. I wanted to ask you a few questions,” Elizabeth said.

  Viola leaned back and folded her hands in her lap.

  “When I was here with my colleague, you told us that Mr. Fowler was home with you the night your daughter was killed.”

  Viola’s eyes became wary. She began to pick at a loose thread on the arm of the chair.

  “We spoke with your friend Ida—Ida Fitzgerald—and she told us that you were…” Elizabeth hesitated, looking for a delicate way to put things. “You were fast asleep when she came by that evening.”

  Elizabeth’s throat was dry and she would have loved a glass of water, but she didn’t want to ask Viola and give her the time to think up a story.

  “If you were fast asleep, then you can’t have known whether Mr. Fowler left the apartment or not.”

  Viola rubbed her forehead with both hands. “I have a headache.” She fanned herself with her hand. “It’s so hot.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the windows. They were only open a crack.

  “Do you want me to open the windows a bit wider?”

  Viola shook her head. “It won’t help.”

  “If you think back to the night Flo was killed, perhaps you’ll remember where Mr. Fowler went,” Elizabeth said.

  Viola rubbed her forehead again. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember. He might have been here….” She waved a hand around the apartment.

  “Wouldn’t he have answered the door when Mrs. Fitzgerald knocked?”

  “I suppose so.” Viola yawned.

  “Does Mr. Fowler normally go out in the evenings?”

  Viola began plucking at the loose thread on the arm of her chair again.

  “He never takes me anywhere. I asked him to take me to the Roseland Ballroom, but he said we didn’t have the money. He said I’d probably want a new dress and then shoes to go with it. What’s so bad about that?” She looked at Elizabeth. “I don’t buy hardly anything for myself. But it’s okay for him to go out for a beer every night. Waste of money, if you ask me, when he could buy a six-pack at the corner store for much less.”

  Elizabeth’s ears perked up. So Fowler went out for a beer every night. Had he gone out the night Flo was killed? Maybe he had an alibi after all.

  “Did he go out with a friend?” Elizabeth said.

  Viola nodded and scratched her thigh idly. “He and Mike go out together. At least it gives Ida and me a chance to listen to our programs in peace.”

  “Mike is Ida’s husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So he would be able to confirm that Mr. Fowler was with him the night Flo was killed?”

  “I suppose so.” Viola suddenly became more alert. “But why do you need to know? Clyde wouldn’t hurt a hair on my Flo’s head. He adored that girl.”

  “Of course not,” Elizabeth said soothingly. She got up from the sofa. “I don’t want to bother you any further. I can let myself out.”

  Viola’s head was leaning against the back of the chair and she was struggling to keep her eyes open.

  She didn’t move as Elizabeth headed toward the door.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth stood in the hallway for a moment trying to organize her thoughts. Had Fowler been out with Mike Fitzgerald the night Flo was killed? It would be a simple matter to ask Fitzgerald. She would have to judge for herself whether he was telling the truth or not.

  But would he even be home in the middle of the day? Ida had said he worked at the World’s Fair driving one of the trolleys. Well, she wouldn’t know unless she tried, she thought as she headed toward the stairs.

  She could hear the radio behind the Fitzgeralds’ closed door, then a woman’s voice followed by a man’s. Perhaps Fitzgerald was home after all.

  Elizabeth knocked on the door. Ida opened it and looked momentarily startled to see her.

  “I don’t know if you remember me,” Elizabeth said quickly. “I’m with the Daily Trumpet.”

  “Of course,” Ida said. She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”

  She showed Elizabeth into a parlor whose furniture was as old and worn as the Fowlers’ but was spotlessly clean. The wood side tables had been polished to a high shine, the cushions on the sofa were plumped, and the air smelled of lemon-scented furniture polish.

  “I suppose you want to talk about poor Flo Grimm’s murder,” Ida said. “Such a nice girl. She took good care of her mother, which was a good thing since that husband of hers wouldn’t lift a finger to help his wife.” Ida shuddered. “I didn’t like the looks of that boyfriend of Flo’s though, and I told her so. But young people,” she threw her arms in the air, “they never listen.”

  “Do you mean Earl Miller?”

  “Yes. That’s what she said his name was.” She pursed her lips. “Viola thought the world of him. He had ambition, I’ll say that for him.”

  “But you still didn’t like him?”

  Ida took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “More than once he made the poor girl cry. I heard them on the stair landing one time when I was about to take out the garbage.” She rolled her eyes. “It sounded like he was trying to get her to do something she didn’t want to do.” Ida gasped and put a hand over her mouth. “Not that. I mean something a bit shady. Something not quite right.” She leaned closer to Elizabeth. “He sounded…well, he sounded downright threatening, if you ask me.” She kneaded the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “Maybe I should have said something to Viola about it. Do you think I should have? Maybe she would have spoken to Flo and convinced her that that Earl was no good. And maybe Flo would still be alive. She was a nice girl. She deserved better.”

  Elizabeth had a sudden vision of Viola Fowler—her hair uncombed and her breath reeking of alcohol.

  “I really don’t think it would have made any difference,” Elizabeth said. “And you don’t know what it was they were arguing about?”

  “No. I didn’t want them to think I was eavesdropping.” Ida smoothed out the skirt of her housedress. “Are you going to print that? Will I be in the paper?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “It’s possible.” She cleared her throat. “I wonder if there’s any chance I can talk to Mr. Fitzgerald? Is he home?”

  “Mike,” Ida yelled, so suddenly and so loudly that Elizabeth jumped. “He’s getting ready for work. He’s got the late shift today.”

  The door to the bedroom opened and a man came out. He was tall and his stomach strained against the front of his shirt. He had faded red hair that was thinning on top and very pale skin. He was wearing a blue uniform with the World’s Fair Perisphere embroidered above the shirt pocket.

  Elizabeth found him intimidating but forced herself to stand up, smile, and introduce herself.

  Ida jerked a thumb in Elizabeth’s direction. “She wants to ask you about Clyde. It has to do with that poor girl’s murder.”

  Fitzgerald jerked around. “I don’t know nothing about it.”

  “Mrs. Fowler told me that Clyde was with you the night Flo was killed—that the two of you had gone to a bar together for a beer.”

  Fitzgerald ran a hand through his thinning hair. “That’s right. Clyde and I went out most evenings for a shot or two or a couple of bottles of Schlitz. We deserved a break from our old ladies and all their chatter and nonsense.” He threw his head back and laughed. His teeth were yellow and uneven.

  Ida smiled at him indulgently.

  “Do you remember if you went out on that specific evening?”

  “Sure. Yeah, we did.”

  The expression on Fitzgerald’s face changed slightly, and he didn’t meet Elizabeth’s eyes. She suspected he was lying.

  “Did you pack my supper?” Fitzgerald turned toward his wife.

  Ida scurried into the kitchen and came out carrying a metal lunch pail. She handed it to her husband.

  Elizabeth thanked them both and headed toward the door. Someone had turned the radio on, and the faint strains of “Cheek to Cheek” with Guy Lombardo drifted down the hall.

  Elizabeth hurried down the stairs and out the door. She hadn’t believed Fitzgerald. Maybe Fowler had been with him on many occasions, but it didn’t ring true about the night Flo was killed. Fitzgerald was hiding something. Did he know that Fowler would need an alibi for that evening?