The medical examiner stood up and motioned for the detective. Elizabeth watched in frustration as the two carried on a discussion, the medical examiner occasionally gesturing toward the body. If only she could get close enough to hear what they were saying.

  She inched a bit closer. No one seemed to have noticed, so she moved again. Suddenly the detective swung around and shook a finger at her. Elizabeth decided she’d better stay put.

  The sun had risen slightly higher in the sky and there was no shade to speak of. Elizabeth pulled off her hat and fanned her face with it. She could feel a trickle of perspiration making its way down her back.

  Suddenly the men surrounding the body parted briefly. Elizabeth quickly focused her camera but then nearly dropped it when she saw the face of the corpse. She recognized him instantly.

  It was Earl Miller.

  Chapter 20

  The door to Kaminsky’s room was closed when Elizabeth arrived at the hospital. She knocked briskly and waited.

  Kaminsky opened the door. He was dressed and obviously ready to leave. Once again the room smelled suspiciously of smoke, and Elizabeth noticed the butt of a cigarette extinguished in the uneaten half of a grapefruit sitting on Kaminsky’s breakfast tray.

  “Are you going somewhere?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yeah. Anywhere but here.”

  “Does the doctor know you’re leaving?”

  Kaminsky’s head shot up. “Of course.”

  “Did you bully him into it?”

  Kaminsky grinned. “Of course.”

  Elizabeth put her hands on her hips and made a stern face. “How much?”

  “How much did I bully him?” Kaminsky shrugged. “Not too much. He made me promise to rest.”

  “So you’re going home?”

  “Who said anything about going home? I’m going to the newsroom.”

  “But that’s not resting,” Elizabeth protested.

  “Sure it is. Can I help it if I find the sound of clacking typewriter keys restful?”

  “But the stress of—”

  “Biz.” Kaminsky shook his head. “I’ve been at this job for so long that it’s like falling off a log. I could do it in my sleep.” He pointed at Elizabeth. “You want to know what is stressful? Hanging around my apartment with nothing to do but listen to Backstage Wife on the radio. That’d drive me right into the loony bin.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “If you promise not to overdo it.”

  Kaminsky put a hand on his heart. “I promise.” He perched on the edge of the bed. “Now tell me what brings you here to the hospital. Other than checking up on me, of course.”

  Elizabeth pulled the chair in the corner closer to the bed and sat down.

  “Well…there’s been another murder at the World’s Fair.”

  Kaminsky sucked in his breath. “You don’t say. What are the details?” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Come on, Biz. Don’t leave me in suspense—I’m a sick man, remember?”

  Elizabeth relented. “The victim is Earl Miller.”

  Kaminsky whistled through his teeth but then stopped when he began to cough.

  “I suppose that rules Miller out as the person who killed Flo. Unless there are two killers. I suppose that’s possible.”

  “He was stabbed in the back with some sort of sharp object. The ME won’t commit to its being a knife. He said it could be a sharp tool of some sort.”

  Kaminsky snorted. “Medical examiners hate making commitments. I’m surprised any of them are even married.” Kaminsky reached for his pack of cigarettes, but Elizabeth shook her head. He put them down reluctantly. “Where was the body found?”

  “Miller was slumped over in one of the cars on the Gimbels Flyer. The medical examiner thinks he was stabbed sometime late last night and then dumped on the ride.”

  “It had to have been after the fair closed or someone would have found the body sooner.”

  “I wonder what Miller was doing at the fair? And so late at night?”

  “He could have been killed earlier and then dumped on the train after everyone had left,” Kaminsky said.

  “That could be.” Elizabeth squeezed the bridge of her nose. “But what would he be doing there in the first place—even if it had been earlier in the day? I can’t imagine that someone who had so recently lost his fiancée would want to spend the afternoon strolling around the exhibits.”

  “People all mourn differently. Maybe he wasn’t the sort to sit at home grieving his long-lost love.”

  Elizabeth shot a glance at Kaminsky. “Long-lost love? Why does that sound so cynical?”

  Kaminsky broke into a grin. “Ah, Biz, you know me too well. I didn’t get the impression that Miller was all that cut up about poor Flo’s death. Quite the contrary.”

  “But wouldn’t he have been working?”

  Kaminsky rubbed his chin and Elizabeth heard the scratchy sound of stubble.

  “True. There’s nothing to say he didn’t take a day off—or leave early. But if he did, there had to be a good reason for it. And by that I mean something more compelling than a desire to see the city of tomorrow and ride the Helicline.”

  “So maybe he was meeting someone there,” Elizabeth said.

  “That would be my guess.” Kaminsky grunted and shifted on the bed.

  “You’re getting tired,” Elizabeth said.

  “Nah.” Kaminsky waved a hand. “Just a touch of lumbago. Stop fussing, for Pete’s sake.”

  Kaminsky hastened to change the subject. “Is there any news about that sailor off the Richelieu who was rubbed out? We need to follow up on that. It could be big.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I’ll nose around and see what I can find out.” Kaminsky looked around him as if searching for something. “As soon as the doctor lets me out of this place.”

  “But you’re going home to rest.”

  “Like I already told you, Biz. I can rest perfectly fine in the newsroom. Stop worrying about it.”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest again, but right then the doctor walked into the room.

  His white coat was starched to perfection and he had a stethoscope hanging around his neck and a folder under his arm. The doctor raised his eyebrows at Kaminsky. He seemed surprised to see him dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Although Kaminsky protested that she didn’t have to, Elizabeth went out into the hallway while the doctor spoke to Kaminsky.

  The corridor was fairly quiet. A medication cart was parked outside one of the rooms and a janitor with a mop and bucket was slowly making his way down the length of the hallway. The odor of disinfectant washed toward Elizabeth stinging her eyes and nose.

  A young nurse, her face flushed and her pert white hat slightly askew, smiled weakly at Elizabeth as she went past at a trot.

  After several minutes, the doctor emerged from Kaminsky’s room, a grim look on his face.

  “What happened?” Elizabeth said when she walked back inside.

  “I can leave,” Kaminsky said. He got up from the bed. “Let’s go.” He grabbed his hat from the bedside table.

  Elizabeth looked at Kaminsky. He didn’t meet her eye.

  “What?” he said.

  “Are you sure that’s what the doctor said?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Come on. What are we waiting for?”

  Kaminsky strode down the hall like a prisoner making a break for it. Elizabeth strongly suspected that the doctor had been reluctant to discharge him, but she knew Kaminsky well enough to know that he wasn’t going to admit it.

  It had been warm inside the hospital although not unbearably so. The heat hit Elizabeth as soon as they walked through the front door.

  Kaminsky began walking away from the hospital.

  “Where are you going?” Elizabeth said.

  Kaminsky turned around. “To the subway. Are you coming or not?”

  “We’ll take a taxi,” Elizabeth said. “You wait here while I hail one.” She indicated a shady patch of sidewalk under an awning. “You need to be careful not to overdo it.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but the Daily Trumpet isn’t going to spring for a cab.”

  “Then I’ll pay for it.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not right.”

  “Look.” Elizabeth poked Kaminsky in the shoulder with her index finger. “I don’t want you to collapse on me halfway to the newsroom. Okay?”

  “Fine,” Kaminsky said. “But I don’t like it,” he muttered under his breath just loud enough for Elizabeth to hear.

  * * *

  —

  Kaminsky gave an audible sigh when they opened the door to the newsroom. He began to whistle as he slipped into the chair behind his desk. Suddenly he stopped whistling and frowned.

  “What’s wrong?” Elizabeth asked in alarm. She knew she shouldn’t have let him leave the hospital so soon.

  “This isn’t mine,” Kaminsky scowled as he jumped up and bent down to examine the chair. He straightened up and looked around the quiet newsroom. “Someone’s taken my chair.” He turned to Elizabeth. “See? That’s what happens if you don’t show up for a day or two. People start pilfering your stuff and the next thing you know, you’re out on the street.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Perhaps the housekeeper came in to sweep and managed to get the chairs mixed up.” She sighed. “It can’t have gone far. Besides, what do you want with that old thing? It listed to one side and the seat cushion was all deflated.”

  Kaminsky began yanking every empty chair out from under the desks.

  “Aha,” he shouted. “Here it is. Blast that Becker. He thought he could take my chair.” Kaminsky snorted. “What did they think—that I wasn’t coming back? They’ve probably already passed the hat around for flowers for my funeral.”

  Kaminsky wheeled his chair back to his desk, pushing aside the one that had been placed there. He sat down with a satisfied sigh and reached for the chair at the desk nearest his.

  He patted it. “Sit,” he said to Elizabeth. “Let’s get this story hammered out so we can file it by the deadline.”

  Elizabeth was worried about Kaminsky working too hard and having a relapse, but being back in the newsroom had cheered him up as well as put some color back in his complexion.

  She sat down and moved the chair closer to his desk.

  “Give me all the details again,” Kaminsky said, his fingers dancing on the typewriter keys.

  Elizabeth told him everything she knew about Earl Miller’s murder—the position of the body, what the detective had said, a description of the Gimbels Flyer. She told him about Laura Cunningham and how she was pregnant and fainted when she found the body. His fingers flew over the keys as she talked.

  “A pregnant dame, huh? The public is going to eat this up. Did you get pictures?”

  “Of course.”

  Finally Kaminsky leaned back in his chair. It squeaked loudly.

  “While I work this into a story worthy of the front page of the paper, you go get your photographs developed.” He swiveled his chair back and forth. “By the way, did you see any other reporters there at the scene? Markowitz or Munson maybe?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I didn’t see any—or at least not any that I would recognize.”

  “You’d recognize them, all right. They’d be quivering like a live wire and their noses would be twitching. You can’t miss ’em. You can spot ’em a mile away.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I suppose so.” She stood up. “I’m going to develop my pictures now. Knock if you need me.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth finished developing the last photograph and clipped it to the carousel. As soon as the prints were all dry, she collected them and took them to her desk. She’d pick out a handful of good ones and let Kaminsky choose which ones he wanted for his story.

  A telephone rang, and the clatter of Kaminsky’s typewriter keys stopped abruptly. Elizabeth heard him grunt several times then drop the receiver back in its cradle.

  “Biz,” he called from his desk. “We have a possible lead on the sailor story. Some dame claims to have some information.”

  “What did she say?”

  Kaminsky shook his head. “Not much. Just that she wants to talk to us in person.”

  “Do you think she’s for real?”

  “Could be. She works at the fair. Some exhibit called the Tomb of Ice. Have you heard of it?”

  “No, but in this heat a tomb of ice doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  “Where?”

  “To the fair. To interview this lady. I sure hope it doesn’t turn out to be a wild goose chase.”

  “But you were just in the hospital….”

  “Phooey. A mere bump in the road.” He glared at Elizabeth. “Are you coming?”

  Elizabeth grabbed her hat from the hook on the wall, plopped it on her head, and followed Kaminsky out to the elevator. At least she would be able to keep an eye on him.

  The subway, when they reached it, was hot and stuffy. Elizabeth kept glancing at Kaminsky, whose face was flushed from the heat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead with it. The train swayed from side to side as they negotiated a sharp curve, and Elizabeth grabbed for the pole.

  They arrived at the World’s Fair station with a screech of metal wheels against the iron rails. The crowd filed off the train. There was a feeling of impatience about them—as if they couldn’t wait to get their first taste of the fair. A young boy with a thatch of straight blond hair stepped on the heel of the man in front of him in his eagerness to get to the exit. The man turned around and raised his fist at the boy who darted around him and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky followed at a brisk pace, Elizabeth repeatedly glancing at Kaminsky to be sure his breathing hadn’t become too labored.

  “Where is this exhibit?” Elizabeth said after they’d been walking for several minutes.

  Kaminsky stopped and unfolded the map he’d purchased the first day they’d arrived at the fair. The creases were getting increasingly worn and in several places there were small tears.

  “Here,” he stabbed the map with a finger gnarled by arthritis. “Not much farther.”

  Normally Elizabeth would have been the one dragging behind, her disabled leg getting weaker and weaker, but this time it was Kaminsky who had to stop occasionally and rest, his chest heaving with the effort to take in air.

  The air was thick and humid, and Elizabeth could tell it was making it harder for him to breathe. She was afraid it had been a mistake for him to leave the hospital, let alone come along with her.

  Elizabeth moderated her pace, for once using her affected leg as an excuse to walk more slowly. She suspected that Kaminsky wasn’t taken in by her ruse, but she knew it was imperative for him to maintain his dignity as much as possible.

  Ahead of them now was a huge sign that read FROZEN ALIVE in enormous capital letters. People were already jostling for a place to see the spectacle of a scantily clad girl being sealed in a tomb of ice for up to twenty minutes.

  A barker was calling to the crowd. “Come see this death-defying feat. Will she survive the experience of being sealed in ice?” He waved his arm toward a woman in a pink robe hovering nearby, an uncertain smile on her face.

  An ambulance was parked outside the exhibit and a nurse in a white uniform leaning against it added to the intoxicating feeling of danger.

  “Looks like this is it,” Kaminsky said. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until the show is over.”

  Excitement rippled through the crowd as they jostled each other on their way into the exhibit.

  “I hope nothing goes wrong,” a middle-aged woman in a flowered dress whispered behind her hand to her husband.

  Kaminsky raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth. “That’s what everyone is hoping for,” he said. “That something dramatic will happen. And then when it’s in all the papers, they can say they were here and saw it with their own eyes.”

  A man in a tuxedo stood on the stage. He had the air of the ringmaster about him as he introduced Faye Duval, the young woman in the pink robe. She was examining her nails as she awaited her fate.

  Finally the moment arrived and Faye slipped off her robe, eliciting a gasp from the audience as her bra and G-string were briefly revealed. Within seconds she was whisked into the block of ice and the top was put firmly in place.

  The crowd began to chatter as they waited for the twenty minutes to pass.

  “Is she breathing?” an older woman with a hearing aide said rather too loudly.

  “Look at her arms,” a young man pointed out. “They’re turning red from the cold.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t help it—she felt slightly sorry for poor Miss Duval being made such a spectacle of. If nothing else, being sealed in a tomb of ice must be hideously uncomfortable. The poor woman had to be desperate for whatever pittance she was paid to agree to do it.

  The announcer stepped briskly onto the stage again and everyone held their breath as the lid was lifted off the block of ice. The nurse who had been leaning against the ambulance outside was waiting in the wings at the side of the stage.

  Faye was helped from the tomb of ice, wrapped in the pink robe, and stood bowing before the audience, slightly pale but seemingly none the worse for wear. The crowd cheered loudly and then began to make their way toward the exit.

  Kaminsky and Elizabeth moved to the front of the room as the nurse rather officiously took Faye’s temperature.

  “Excuse me,” Kaminsky said when the nurse had removed the thermometer from Faye’s mouth. “We’re from the Daily Trumpet. You said you had something to tell us.”