Centenary Separation, page 15
Page had stood there, waiting right where she’d left from, on one side of Fifth Avenue, and growing more and more irritated with Matt not showing up. Until she’d finally given up on lingering around.
The elevator came to rest with a thump, and the doors slid open. She watched the elevator boy grab the grill from the other side and drag it back with a horrible clacking noise. Normally she wouldn’t take the elevator down from the fourth floor to the lobby, but it had been a long day—so she stepped in and let herself be lowered to the ground floor.
After the boy had repeated the elaborate procedure to allow her to get out, she passed him a quarter and smiled. “Thank you, Willim.”
As she glided out onto the plush carpet, the boy muttered at her back. “It’s Bobby, miss.”
Page had waited for Matt as long as she could—but she’d had urgent business to take care of. Like clothes. In her haste to Travel Matt out of the trouble he’d gotten himself into, Page had left behind all her luggage, leaving her with only the clothes she’d been wearing. Shopping had become an emergency instead of entertainment—which seemed to be a recurring phenomenon since she’d been with Matt.
Passing through the lobby and on into the dining room, Page glanced around at the mostly deserted place. A man with thick black hair and wearing evening dress leaned back sipping his drink by himself, and a middle-aged couple in their Sunday best leaned forward looking at their menus. Page wondered what fare the Ngaio would be offering in this time of austerity.
The lone waiter guided her to a small table and presented her with a menu and asked if she wanted a preprandial drink. She declined and stared at the selection of appetizers while her mind drifted. She had stayed in San Francisco as a guest in Margaret and Nancy’s house for almost three weeks, helping them organize their trip to join the suffrage parade in New York City. She’d enjoyed that, and the train trip across the country. And then the parade itself. It had all been fun up to that one point.
Page remembered the look of alarm she’d seen on Matt’s face, probably more worry for her than for his own situation. And though she’d done what she could to help him, she had lost him again. Now she was eating alone.
She’d felt all on her own since arriving in nineteen eighteen—an afternoon of visiting various and sundry shops to find the right clothes, with a break for tea, and all the while waiting, hoping for Matt to just show up again like he had at the parade, but no. She’d finally ended up at the Ngaio in a wave of nostalgia and taken a room, and a nice long nap. Now she was refreshed, but what for? A meal by herself, in the middle of Manhattan.
The streets and the shops had both been mostly deserted, just like the hotel restaurant. That meant she’d had the saleswomen all to herself as she chose some of the new fashions—which were a definite improvement—the hemlines were a bit higher, and the skirts were less layered and less cumbersome, offering more freedom of movement. However, between the war and the flu, people weren’t feeling especially gay. Even her new violet dress with matching high heels could not lift her spirits up above the somber mood around her.
Luckily she’d had plenty of cash on her in nineteen fifteen when she’d Traveled. So she’d skipped going to the bank and concentrated on getting these new outfits—to go with the dress she wore now, she had picked up a light silk jacket in glossy green with brass buttons. Just the thing to wear out on a nippy night out on the town with Matt. But he wasn’t anywhere around. Yet.
When she wasn’t being upset with Matt for not being there, she was worrying that he’d managed to get himself into some trouble he hadn’t been able to get out of. And without knowing where he was, she couldn’t do anything to help him. She would simply have to hope he would be alright—and this time she would stay put and wait for him to find her, again.
Page looked down at her plate and saw that she had finished off her Chicken Kiev without even realizing she’d ordered. Well, she had woken from her nap hungry. Buying new clothes had been tiring instead of fun, and now she’d eaten mechanically and unconsciously rather then enjoying her food.
It was in the middle of this pensive abstraction that a shadow fell across her. Expecting the return of the waiter, Page glanced up and was surprised to see the tall, dark and handsome gentleman who had been dining all by his lonesome on the other side of the room.
His voice was smooth. “A beautiful young woman such as yourself should not be dining alone. It is unusual. But since we have both finished our meals on our own, perhaps you’ll permit me to buy drinks, and you can tell me all about yourself. Are you perhaps one of these modern adventuresses one reads about?”
“I don’t drink alcohol, if that’s what you mean.” But Page could use the company. “Maybe we could share an after-dinner coffee though?”
He smiled and slid into the seat beside her, signaling to the waiter as he did so. “And you are?”
“Page. And I suppose you would call me an adventuress.”
“And I am Henry Riggleston, the Second. But of course you recognized me?”
“I didn’t. Should I have? And wouldn’t that be ‘Junior’ rather than ‘the Second’?”
His smile faltered for a moment but recovered. “You are a very bold and independent woman, Miss Page, and I appreciate that very much.” The waiter appeared at the table, and Riggleston turned to address him. “Two coffees, please. Make mine Irish.” He deftly slipped the man a bill before turning back to her. “You will permit me something stronger, I’m sure. While I still can.”
“What do you mean, while you can?”
His smile widened. “Of course it’s nice to find a modern woman such as yourself who doesn’t know about politics, but I would’ve thought everyone was aware that they’ve sent Prohibition to be ratified by the states. And I’m afraid it will be.”
Page looked him up and down. Not only was he suave and impeccably dressed, but the man was the very image of the twentieth century Romeo she had envisioned. “Do you dance?”
Riggleston nodded. “You are not only beautiful but a mind reader. I was going to suggest that after we enjoy our coffee, you accompany me to this fabulous club I know. They have a large ballroom and a very modern big band that plays the tango. Do you tango, Page?”
“I’d like to, but I’ve never learned how.”
“Then I will teach you, and I promise you it will be a very pleasurable experience. I am a very experienced man. A man of the world, you know.”
Page was tempted. It all sounded very romantic of course. And if Matt isn’t going to show up to take me dancing, why shouldn’t I? She wouldn’t do herself any favors by sitting in her room, brooding.
She opened her mouth to accept the invitation. “Perhaps tomorrow night? I only arrived today and I’m tired.” Then if Matt still hadn’t appeared by tomorrow night, she could go out on the town and enjoy herself.
“The coffee will revive you, I’m sure, and it’s far too early to call it a night. The evening has only begun. But you are right that we should save a public debut until I’ve taught you the tango, so you will not mind dancing with everyone’s eyes on you.”
While the waiter came and set their cups of coffee down in front of them, Page considered mastering the tango before meeting Matt again. “The ballroom here at the Ngaio is probably empty.”
Riggleston shook his head. “Undoubtedly. Because they have no band except on the weekends. I will take you up to my suite, where there is plenty of space, and show you how to dance.”
“I don’t know...” She didn’t like that idea. Taking a sip of coffee, she almost choked. “I believe the waiter gave me your cup by mistake.” They’d added a hefty slug of spirits to make it Irish.
“You don’t like it?” He shook his head and took his cup and saucer, placing it in front of her and taking hers in turn. “Since you don’t drink, maybe you were just unprepared for the taste.”
Page took a sip of her black, unadulterated coffee with a sigh. “That’s better.”
“If you say so. At least it will help you stay alert —we have a long night ahead of us.”
“I told you I’m tired. I really don’t think I’m up to dancing lessons tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Of course. I will escort you to your room—then you will get the rest you need. For tomorrow will be quite memorable, I assure you.” He downed his coffee in a few big swigs.
Page took several more sips hoping to perk up a bit. She was going to need to be on her toes to deal with Mr. Riggleston—at least she was learning a lot about twentieth century Romeos.
Setting her cup back on the saucer she smiled a bit. “I think I’ll cut the evening short, then. Thanks for the offer of an escort, but I don’t need the assistance.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Nonsense. I insist, my dear. It would be unchivalrous of me not to see you safely to your bed.”
Page definitely didn’t like him addressing her in that familiar manner, or talking in that sly manner, but she didn’t want to make an issue of it right here and now. But she felt sure he wasn’t going to simply say goodbye and leave her at her door.
Feeling a little wobbly on her feet, she rose with as much grace as possible and strode out of the dining room and across the lobby with Riggleston hurrying after her. If she’d been alone, she’d probably have taken the stairs. Instead she went straight for the elevator. That would keep her from being alone with Riggleston—and give her an opportunity.
She nodded to the boy as she stepped in. “Good evening, Bobby.” Riggleston had followed her into the car, and she turned to talk to him in a firm tone. “My room is on the third floor, but you really don’t need to escort me there. I’m sure this hotel is safe.”
“But you must permit me the pleasure of seeing you to your room and giving you a proper adieu.”
Shaking her head at this, Page felt a bit woozy. She swayed as the elevator climbed, and stumbled—Riggleston reached out to take her elbow and steadied her.
“I think because you do not drink, that one sip has gone to your head. The proper cure would be to have another drink, and my penthouse suite has an excellent bar.”
“No, thank you. I think resting in my room will be all the cure I need.”
The elevator shuddered to a halt and Bobby announced, “Third floor, miss,” in a loud voice before opening the grill for them.
Page turned back as Riggleston exited the car—she opened her reticule to find a dollar bill to tip the boy. She leaned in and pressed it into his hand and waited until the doors had closed before turning to Riggleston with wide eyes. “I must be a little drunk —I forgot to get my room key from the front desk.”
She turned back and affected surprise at seeing the elevator was already on its way down. “I’ll have to take the stairs.” So saying, she was already walking down the corridor several steps and opening the door to the stairwell.
She heard Riggleston crying “Wait!” behind her as she let the door swing shut and slipped her heels off and padded up the stairs with speed and stealth. She heard the door opening below her and clomping as Riggleston stamped his way down to the lobby, as she alighted on the fourth floor landing. She steadied herself on the railing and let out a silent sigh. It was too soon to relax her guard, though.
Emerging into the corridor, she scurried to her room, unlocked the door and swooped inside. She turned both locks and slid the chain across. After a moment’s thought, she dragged a heavy armchair in from the sitting room and shoved it against the door —she wasn’t taking any chances.
With a bit of a warning, she could always Travel away from him of course. But she didn’t like to run away, and she ought to be clever enough to not have to. Besides, Traveling would only make it more difficult for Matt to find her—and he was taking a long time as it was.
So running would be a last resort, right after the option of stabbing Riggleston in self-defense. That thought brought a smile to her face. But she would do better to avoid any confrontation at all with him —though that might be difficult.
Certainly Riggleston would learn where to find her—a small tip to the clerk would give the man her room number. She’d just have to outsmart him. An easy enough proposition, she thought. He wouldn’t be a morning person, so if she needed to go out, she could go early. She had enough funds to wait a few days before going to the bank, and she could call the store she’d ordered new clothes from and make sure they delivered as early as possible. But those would be only temporary measures while she came up with something better, more permanent.
Surely there was another solution besides stabbing a man. Page could not think clearly right then, but a good night’s sleep would help with that, and if she took a while to decide what to do, it didn’t matter. She had no reason to rush.
Chapter 17
Nye in the Soup
July 15th, 2003 Midtown Manhattan
NYE kept her eye on ‘George’—or at least her glasses did—as she ladled plenty of the delicious cabbage soup into a bowl for the next person in line. George had let some stubble grow and taken to rubbing dirt on his face, but it was too late. He’d already attracted her attention. Even had she not previously identified him, it was not a disguise that would’ve fooled her facial recognition software. He must have been worried she’d recall his face anyway, and know him for who he was, since he kept turning that face away from her. But what’s he doing here?
He sat sipping delicately at his cabbage soup at one of the tables near the entrance, and nibbling on his bread in between great gulps of coffee. And Nye reviewed her video of him and looked for clues.
Shortly after she had volunteered to help out at this soup kitchen, Nye had realized that all this free food was intended for the poor—which didn’t mean her, or George either. But she considered that since she was working here, she could share their meals—but just to be safe, she’d anonymously donated several thousand dollars. She supposed George had to be working too, even if she didn’t know on what. It would be nice to think his employers were also contributing to the needy—she’d have to ask them if she got the chance.
She had to eat lunch, and she loved the cabbage soup here. If she took an extra long lunch break, so she could serve meals and clean up too, it also gave her the opportunity to study more of these twenty-first century denizens of New York City. Such as the woman who ran this place.
As good as the food they served was, it could be improved. But when Nye had suggested adding raw eggs and vinegar to the soup, that most sensible recommendation had not been well-received. Nye was still trying to analyze the woman’s facial expressions as she’d listened to it. She doesn’t know what she’s missing.
Jeannie, one of the regulars, had yet to show up, and Nye hoped she hadn’t been taken to the mental hospital again—their food wasn’t nearly as good. If she asked, Bernie might know. Nye could try when she took her break to enjoy her own bowl of cabbage soup.
She dipped the ladle deep in the pot as the next man shuffled forward. Then her glasses were lighting up with facial recognition reports and microexpression analysis and bookmarks of previous video. She filled a bowl for him with a blank face and went on to serve the next person in line.
After Nye’s first visit to this place and identifying ‘George’—whose real name she still didn’t know —she had taken the precaution of preprogramming certain subroutines into her glasses. Now that was paying off. She had found another person she’d encountered during her brief interaction with the FBI. She let her glasses keep a watch on both of them as she continued to serve the people in line, wondering what two federal agents were doing there disguised as the needy.
She waited until she’d served the last customer to ladle out a bowl of soup for herself. Grabbing the tray and a cup of coffee, she ran a more complicated analysis on the two men’s behavior since they’d entered the building. By the time she’d sat down next to Bernie her glasses were displaying the results.
The two agents had been glancing at each other in a furtive fashion, which the report described as a mutual recognition with suspicion and gave a confidence rating of eighty-five percent. And it assigned a seventy-two percent likelihood to their being unaware of each other’s reason for being there. A lower rating was given for the possibilities that they’d perceived each other as imposters but without recognition, or that there was some personal reason for the apparent discomfort with each other’s presence.
Bernie turned and smiled at her. “Hi, Nye.”
She smiled back. “Good afternoon, Bernie.” Instead of asking about Jeannie, though, she became absorbed in slurping down her soup, and kept looking straight ahead.
The two federal agents sat a couple tables ahead of her, one to either side. Her glasses kept both men in view and displayed the video of each in the center of her lenses. The new one was trying to watch her out of the corner of his eye—but George was paying more attention to the new arrival. Considering her options as she drank her coffee, Nye came to a conclusion. She needed to confront them if she wanted to sort out what was going on.
She stood and marched down the center aisle to position herself between the two men and swiveled her head back and forth to glare at them both. “You two clearly aren’t here for the same reason. I don’t understand what possible interest you could have in this place. Or is it me you want?”
Both men sat with mouths gaping and eyes boggling as they stared at her, but ‘George’ was the first to recover. “What are you talking about? I’m here for the food. What else?”
Nye shook her head at him. “I recognize both of you.” She pulled the relevant data up to make sure of her facts. “I saw you two months ago, on the fifteenth of May in the Javits building, walking down a corridor on a certain floor. But I wasn’t able to see your ID.” She turned to face the other one. “And on that same day, you were the one who’d followed me to Times Square. You were even—”
