Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. If this is your first visit, you may wish to start with Episode 1.
Episode 6
She led through the crowd, students, and others flooding the district. I eyed her sideways. No society flapper, she was in an old-fashioned dress, hair to her waist, not a modern bob. Still, what I could see under the dress...
I couldn't stare too much; at best I'd walk into a lamp post, at worst I'd give away my reason for being up here.
Of course, the next second, it didn't matter, anyhow.
"Miss Brazelton, could I ask you a few questions?"
Her eyes flared. "'A few…' wait, are you some kind of reporter? If you're here about my father, I've told you people we hardly speak. I can't tell you anything about him, and I can't tell you anything for him."
I was taken aback. "Does… does that happen often?"
"All. The. Time."
"Actually, Miss, I'm working for him. But I need to ask about him, I'm afraid. He didn't give me much."
Her face lost some of its hostility, but gained in wariness. "Working for him? How?"
"I'm an investigator. You might call me a detect—"
"You're not police, even he probably couldn't hire a police detective. You mean you're a private detective? A private eye, like in the dime novels?"
"Actually, yes. Though it isn't usually exciting as Black Mask."
"What are you looking into? Here we are." She turned into what must've been a bar before Volstead. Now a tea and sandwich shop, it retained all the old trimmings, the big mirror behind the long oaken bar, the brass rail, and the like. She headed straight for a table in the corner.
"Usual, Claire?" a fast moving little woman, white hair in a bun, golden pince nez on a black ribbon asked.
"High tea for two, please, Mrs Suffolk."
"I don't need anything fancy," I hedged.
"Barbarian. High means the height of the table. Low tea is tea and 'biscuits,' at a low table, like a coffee table. High tea is sandwiches and the rest, at a dinner table."
"I never knew that…"
"At least this hasn't been a completely wasted trip, then. You've learned one thing. But what is it you came up here to learn?"
"When did you last see your father, Miss Brazelton?"
"Several months, at least."
"How'd he look?"
"His usual self, why?"
"Do you know anyone who dislikes him? Would wish him ill?" I liked that. Sounded like what a mook as belonged here, drinking high tea would say.
"Mr. Slade, if you know my father at all, you know he's an Organization man. There are lots of toes he could step on."
The Organization? The Republican party machine, but more. Some said a lot more. You didn't cross the Organization if you wanted to live a carefree life.
"That does not make my life easier," I said. Of course, it could be a blind, point me at the big, ominous Organization, to keep me from poking into her life and motives.
"You didn't know? What did my father tell you?"
"He didn't tell me much, just that he had reason to be concerned." There, nice and vague.
"And do you usually work this kind of thing? Finding threats, or whatever it is you're doing?"
"Actually, no. Mostly I track down the guy who makes off with a company cashbox, or see if the bank can trust their new hire. Sometimes follow a stray husband or wife. This is a first."
"Well, following that wife of his around would probably get you farther than talking to me."
"I started with her. Well, I started with his secretary, actually."
"Oh, Bianca and my step-mother? You must have had an enjoyable day." Her mouth tightened, words almost spat. "Those two are much of the reason I've not seen him."
"They did seem formidable. But is there a reason for either to want to harm him? I was hoping you could shed some light on that…"
"You mean because I inherit, not them? Mr. Slade, could you—what's the phrase—call a spade a spade? You think I'm involved, you mean?"
"It is. And are you?"
"No, Mr. Slade." She glared. She took a sip of tea.
I watched her face, her eyes. The eyes of a murderess? What did I know? Had I ever seen a murderess?
I'd seen killers, in France, and back home. Most killed when they had to. A few, though, liked it. I didn't think she was one of them. Not a woman who'd kill her own father, not for money.
A movement on the table caught my eye. Glancing down, I saw her fingertip pushing a bright, new copper coin across the white table cloth.
"Penny for you thoughts, Mr. Slade?"
I took the little coin, and rolled it around in my hand for a moment, then answered. "I don't think you killed your father."
She started up. "Killed? All these coy questions and you didn't tell me he's dead?"
"He hired me to find who killed him. Says he's a dead man walking. Dying, but not dead yet."
She settled back, and raised her tea to her lips. "And… what did you think of that? Is he just looking for attention, or is there really something wrong?"
"He looked the part, all right. Older than my file said, weak… like death warmed over."
Then she broke and giggled. "Now, just to really set the cat among the pigeons, you should ask me what my work is, here at Temple."
"What—" she didn't let finish.
"Biological chemistry. Specifically poisonous substances."