The Wharton Plot, page 11
It was, she counted, three blocks to the Belmont. They were busy blocks, close to Grand Central, not a place you would randomly attack a woman. For a moment, she breathed easier. Then remembered David Graham Phillips had been shot in broad daylight on Twenty-First Street in the presence of many witnesses. A crowd was not protection.
Where was she now? Depew Place. Of all the streets to be on.
Turn around, she instructed herself. Turn around and let this fellow know you are not afraid.
Instead, she turned the corner where she didn’t need to. After a few steps, she listened.
He had also turned. He was still with her.
Terror began to take hold. She felt it in the hard pounding of her heart, the shallowness of her breath, the tingling instability of her legs. She was aware of the back of her head, the unprotected expanse of her shoulders. If he did shoot, where would the bullet strike?
What would happen to Choumai if she didn’t return? To all the dogs? White—White would care for them. Or Anna, her secretary, although she was elderly now. She would make a list when she returned to Paris. Things that should be attended to in case …
She knew she was walking quickly now, a mistake; it would alert her pursuer that she knew he was there. But she couldn’t help it. Had David Graham Phillips known? She didn’t think so. Often, you didn’t see the danger until it was upon you. Anyway, the man was so self-absorbed, he wouldn’t have noticed a rhinoceros behind him.
Another corner turned. The hideous, marvelous, never-to-be-detested-again Belmont Hotel came into view. Almost hysterical, she waved in greeting to the doorman in his resplendent purple overcoat. As she hurried toward the doors, she babbled to him as if he were an old friend. Such weather! And the noise from the construction on the new station, just terrible. Poor man, his ears must suffer …
Pushing through the revolving doors, and into the warm bright light of the lobby, the ping of the front desk bell, the purr of the concierge, the rumble of other guests filled her with bone-deep relief. It was comparable to sinking into a hot, scented tub in February; one relaxed so quickly, one almost passed out.
Harried, she made her way to the desk clerk and asked for her messages. Her housekeeper had telephoned from Lenox to say the elevator was stuck between floors. Her butler had sent word from Paris about a leaking pipe. Walter had called. Twice. Was she coming to this opera or no?
“Also a Mr. Brownell,” said the clerk. “He inquired after Miss Spragg and said he hoped she was doing better.”
“So kind of him.”
Her heart had eased; it felt safe to ask, “Was that all?”
Grimacing slightly, he held up an envelope. “This. It was dropped on the desk a few minutes ago. I’m afraid I don’t know who left it. I was attending to a guest and didn’t get a good look at the individual. But it is addressed to you.”
So it was. On the front of the envelope, her name. Written in a fine round hand: Mrs. Edith Wharton. Opening the envelope, she took out the note. Quality paper, undoubtedly Crane’s.
A WOMAN WHO LEAVES HER HOME WALKS THE STREET.
SHE IS NEITHER PURE NOR PROTECTED.
This time, there was no feeling of playfulness. No glee. She felt violated, as if someone had put a hand up her skirt. Who knew? she thought, heart pounding. Who could possibly know?
A woman who leaves her home …
Only three men knew her desires, and none of them would send her such a message.
No, four men. But even he …
Hurrying to the elevator, she asked the operator to take her to the twelfth floor.
* * *
“Oh, that’s dreadful. Pure and protected. Oh, it’s … quite, quite bad.”
Seated opposite Henry in the darkened hotel room, Edith waited for his further thoughts. The fire was burning nicely, but she was still chilled. She knew she looked dreadful. When she had arrived at his rooms, Henry had been in his dressing gown, fully indignant and prepared to tell her to leave. One look at her face and he pushed the door wide open.
Now he asked, “I gather you are the woman in question?”
She showed her hands: I must be.
“The emphasis on purity,” he suggested.
“Well, ‘a woman who leaves her home.’” Distressed, she gestured to the note. “How could they know, Henry? I have only confided in you, Walter, and Mr. Fullerton.”
“Now, let us not leap to conclusions.” He gave her a stern look to remind her: She had done a lot of leaping of late. “This terribly dangerous book you are reading, is it about a woman who leaves her home?”
Trying to calm herself, she thought. “Yes. And walks the streets…”
“Well, then.”
“But Phillips, to his credit, does not judge her. In fact, he seems to be on her side. Everything she does, she does out of great love. She loves recklessly. Desires to see the world…”
“But if the person writing to you is the same person who shot Mr. Phillips, we can assume he does not approve of such stories. Or such women. Or”—he added gently—“know you to be one.”
She was desperate for reassurance—too desperate to fully believe it. She fingered her neck. The note, with all its apparent knowledge of her deepest secrets, had struck her like a blow to the throat.
“But who could have sent it, Henry?”
His cheeks billowed as he thought. “You went back to Appleton?” She nodded. “To accuse the ugly little writer?”
She nodded again. “But I was wrong. Mr. Jewett showed me one of his manuscripts. Entirely different handwriting.”
“I warned you. Still. We can assume this note does not come from Mr. Okrent. You received the first one before you accused him.”
“And only a handful of people would know I went to read Susan Lenox. Which is dreadful, by the way.”
To cheer herself up, she recalled the awful dialogue—“Go—go!” she begged. “Please go. I’m a bad girl—bad—bad!”
Then she realized.
“Also obsessed with a woman’s virtue. What makes a woman a good woman.” She examined the note. “You could even say the style is similar.”
“The murderer trying to imitate the dead man, perhaps?”
“And, in doing so, take his place?”
“In revenge for Mr. Phillips taking his.”
This she did not understand and shook her head.
“The vampire,” HJ reminded her. “The creature who takes life that does not belong to him.”
“Ah, yes.”
HJ’s theory had the ring of truth to it. But there was something missing: women. Previously, she had thought it a contest between men: Okrent and Phillips. But Phillips wrote obsessively about women, and it seemed his killer also felt he had things to say on the subject. Especially women he felt were bad or impure. Women who left their homes. Or betrayed them …
“There is also the cuckold,” she said. “The loathing one man might have for another who takes his place between the sheets.”
“You said Phillips was unmarried.”
“Unmarried but good-looking.”
“Ah.” HJ raised his eyebrows to acknowledge the danger of such a creature. “And the ladies in his life? Are they pure and protected?”
“I can think of only two, one of whom is his sister, who stays firmly put in the home they shared.”
“And the other?”
The other, thought Edith, was also safely at home. But her husband, judging from that little melodrama on the street, might not be. She remembered Walling’s face, wan and pale as he watched his wife charm another man, something she felt sure he had witnessed many times before.
“It would be interesting,” she said, “to look at the other notes sent to David Graham Phillips. See if the theme is similar. I wonder if his sister has given them to the police yet.”
“No doubt she has and no doubt you have better things to do.”
Stung, she indicated the note.
“Throw it away,” said Henry irritably. “Burn it. Put it out of your mind.”
Matching his irritation, she answered, “We cannot all burn or destroy what we share, Henry.”
They had stumbled onto matters more thorny. For a moment, each considered retreating. Then Henry said, “On the subject of better things to do—does Mr. Fullerton still have your letters?”
She sighed to indicate that he did.
“You must get them back. Before you do anything.”
She knew anything referred to Teddy. If she asked for a divorce, the letters could be used against her with disastrous consequences. Seeking innocent reasons Fullerton had not returned them, she said, “Perhaps he is distracted over his sister’s wedding.”
“Such a tragic girl,” mused Henry. “Beautiful. Gifted, but almost destined for unhappiness.” He paused. “You do know she is his half cousin? Not his sister?”
Edith understood her old friend. In return for his solace and advice, Henry sometimes took a tiny morsel of pain. It was his right, she supposed. Thinking—wishing—the conversation over, she rose and went to the door.
Behind her, she heard, “He is not kind, our Mr. Fullerton.”
“I am aware,” she told him.
As she entered the elevator, her own words floated into memory: I won’t believe it’s the end, no, I am going to fight for my life—I know it now! So felt at the time, and felt still. But scalding when she thought of the man who held those words in his hand and how they would seem to others. The thought of her letters becoming public made her ill. It was not only the fear of scandal. Or blackmail. That a self she no longer recognized—passionate, slavish, delighted and deluded—was somewhere in the world, beyond her control, terrified her.
The elevator stopped. As she said good night to the operator and started down the hall, she wondered: How did one not think about something? She felt the need to take hold of her own brain and wrench it sharply in a fresh direction.
She heard a clock chime eight.
Good. It was not too late to call Carolyn Frevert.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Returning to the suite, she carefully opened the door. If Teddy was sleeping, she did not wish to wake him. If he was still sitting on the floor facing the wall …
Truthfully, she did not wish to know.
Entering her room, she called to Choumai. Had he been lonely? She was so sorry, poor creature all alone, but still, he had been spared reading a dreadful book. Was he hungry? She was sure he was. Would he wait a few minutes while she made a telephone call? Just one small call to a lady named Mrs. Frevert.
As she waited, Edith peered at the note, the accusation that she was neither pure nor protected, and wondered who Carolyn Frevert might have told that Edith Wharton had promised to read her brother’s last book. Who might have taken exception …
Then she heard Mrs. Frevert’s voice, high and excited, “Mrs. Wharton—have you finished?”
“I have begun.”
“You see its quality. What an achievement it is.”
“Oh, yes.” Achievement was broad enough—writing so much without one’s hand snapping at the wrist was an achievement.
“But also how it will anger certain people.” Mrs. Frevert spoke in a low voice as if those very people were at her door.
“Yes, on that subject, may I ask—who knows that I am reading Susan Lenox?”
“No one. Aside from myself and Mrs. Walling.”
“Then presumably Mr. Walling also knows.”
The slightest delay in answering. Was this a sensitivity with regard to difficulties in the Walling marriage or something else?
“I don’t know. But you needn’t be concerned. William Walling is a man of fine character and a fervent believer in Graham’s work.”
A fervent believer who seemed to be living apart from his wife. A thought came to her. After the funeral, in that jumble of jostling bodies and heightened emotion, had she noted any frisson between Mr. Walling and Carolyn Frevert?
She had not. Of course that did not mean there had not been a frisson. Only that she had not noticed it—entirely possible in the crush.
She said, “His editor, Mr. Jewett, told me that your brother received several notes from the murderer prior to the shooting. Do you still have those notes?”
There was a pause.
“No. I burned them.”
Edith was stunned. “Why would you do that?”
Mrs. Frevert’s voice became shrill and unsteady. “Why would I keep such awful things?”
“But you should have given them to the police.”
Over the line, a weary sigh. Smarting under the condescension—These wealthy women who put their faith in police—Edith grew sharp. “Mrs. Frevert, don’t you want to see your brother’s murderer brought to justice?”
“The murderer will never be brought to justice, at least not by the police. Of that, I am certain.”
Certain or hopeful? Edith bit her tongue on the question, reminding herself that whatever else, Mrs. Frevert was devoted to her brother.
But it was also true that she had been strangely apathetic about the arrest of his killer when she and Edith spoke in his study. At the time, Edith had thought her overwhelmed by grief. But she was not such a fragile creature, this Mrs. Frevert.
“I don’t think you should give up hope. Your brother was a beloved public figure…”
Mrs. Frevert interrupted her. “My one, my only hope is to see my brother’s last novel published as he wished it to be. That is how we will thwart the person responsible for his death. If you wish to help in that endeavor, Mrs. Wharton, I welcome your assistance. If not, I bid you good night.”
She hung up. Smiling in bemusement, Edith held the receiver to her collarbone. Fine words. Dignity and depth of feeling nicely balanced. Who could possibly question the sincerity of Carolyn Frevert?
Mrs. Frevert mourned her brother—of that she felt sure. But if that were the case, why burn the only evidence that might implicate his murderer? Her tone when challenged suggested the mere presence of the death threats in her home was intolerable. But she might have disposed of them by giving them to law enforcement. Or, if she distrusted the police that much, she could have released the death threats to the newspapers, appealed to public outrage. New Yorkers delighted in outrage. With those notes, she might have had the whole city demanding to know who killed David Graham Phillips. Why had she destroyed them?
Unless she wished the person who sent them to remain unknown.
Pacing about the room, she asked Choumai who in a woman’s life might retain her loyalty, even if he killed the person dearest to her?
Rapidly, she went through all the men who had been at the funeral. There was the other brother, Harrison. But Anna Walling said he had arrived after the killing. William Walling intrigued her. But would Carolyn Frevert call him “a man of fine character”—not to mention “a fervent believer in Graham’s work”—if she believed him guilty of killing her brother?
Possibly, if she did not want people to suspect him. But when Edith speculated as to why Carolyn Frevert would protect William Walling, she could only come up with a romance, and here, her imagination failed. To be brutal, Carolyn Frevert was twenty years older than William Walling. She had a certain faded prettiness, but her manner was plain and earnest. Moreover, if Mr. Walling were, however improbably, in love with Mrs. Frevert, his wife would be the obstacle, not Mr. Phillips.
As she tried to recall the faces of the men who had been in that cramped, inadequate apartment, her thoughts leapt to another man whose face was unknown to her. Yet in his absence, he had been strikingly present. Carolyn Frevert’s estranged husband. Anna Walling said he was still in New York—why had he not attended the funeral? Had he disliked his brother-in-law? Or had Carolyn Frevert forbidden him to come?
Carolyn Frevert was both married and unmarried, a state Edith would have thought the province of a more audacious personality. That suggested that Mr. Frevert was so odious—perhaps even dangerous—that his wife thought it worth any price to escape. The fact that she had retained the good opinion of her friends and family was another indication that Mr. Frevert’s behavior was beyond the pale. And of course she had been able to leave him because she had her brother’s support. Maybe even … encouragement?
How angry would a man be if he had been thrown out of his marriage by his arrogant brother-in-law? What might such a man do?
A woman who leaves her home walks the street …
But why would Carolyn Frevert protect such a man? Why not enlist the police, Edith wondered, for one’s own safety? The answer was disturbing: Carolyn Frevert would not be the first woman to be terrified into silence by an abusive husband. She might well believe that the best she could manage was to ensure her brother’s posterity, rather than avenge his murder. No wonder she had become almost hysterical when asked about the death threats.
She was about to call Carolyn Frevert back—she would apologize, explain that she too had received a threatening note, ask if perhaps they faced a common enemy?
When she saw it. Right there on the bed.
A white envelope laid against the pillow.
Beside it, a sprig of witch hazel.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was perfectly safe, she told herself. A piece of paper and some words. Where was the danger in that?
Also, she realized, her breath easing, it was not from the murderer. Unless the murderer knew things about her only one person in the world knew.
Taking up the envelope, she held it to the light and saw a shadow, a card or piece of paper that did not match. Briskly, as if the letter were nothing more than a bill from a bad seamstress she did not wish to pay, she opened the envelope and tugged into view a folded piece of blue paper, which she registered at once as a “petit bleu.” They did not have them in America. Only in Paris.
His little words.
Once they had come several times a day, traveling from Fullerton’s home or office to hers at Rue de Varenne. Sometimes they arrived scarcely after he left her, as if his need was so urgent, he must reach out minutes after parting. He would scribble them in cafés, at his office, or on the tram, dropping them in boxes all over the city, where they were picked up and winged to her breakfast tray or desk. Petits bleus were safer than telephones, where one might be overheard. Sometimes they contained plans; he would come to her at such and such a time. Other times, pleas. He had not heard from her. Did she still love him? She sent reassurances; she had just now written him a long letter; he would have it within the hour. Did he doubt her? Could he? It was that time when they could not bear separation. They must keep speaking. And so hundreds of petits bleus flying all over Paris. In the time before the broken talk. Before the silence.
