Melting the Snow on Hester Street Read online

  He gazed at the paper strip coiling, forever coiling, onto the growing heap on the carpet below, and felt the usual prickle of angst. He could hear the thing now, tick-tacking incessantly. It used to stop in the mid-afternoon, Wall Street being three hours ahead, but recently trading had been so frenetic that the ticker tape never caught up, never seemed to stop – ticker-tacker-ticker-tacker … All day long. It had been a bad day at the stock exchange, Friday. A bad morning on Saturday. And now it was Monday, and the newspapers were predicting the worst. He would sell up – if only he could. But he couldn’t afford it. Already his losses were such he had no choice but to cling on and pray that the market would improve again. As of course it would. As it always had before …

  The machine was another absurd extravagance of his late father’s, who in his last few years could think of almost nothing but the vagaries of Wall Street. He used to take his bourbon and drag his leather armchair, and sit in the foyer, reading that goddamn tape; watching his fortunes ebb and flow. Matthew Gregory longed to disconnect the thing. But it was part-owned by the law company opposite. Besides, there were stocks whose symbols he recognized and whose prices he needed to follow. With the information so close to hand, it was impossible not to get sucked in.

  He felt a little sick. Slurped on the lukewarm bottle of Coke which, this morning, because of his nerves, was all he could manage for breakfast, and he waited.

  Miss Kappelman was on her way. She would be here any minute, no doubt bursting with questions. Looking down at his later father’s pathetic collection of notes yet again, notes Matthew had tried his best to pad out during the weekend, he was reminded, once again, what a fool he had been to write to her in the first place.

  Matthew Gregory had always been kept at arm’s length from the Gregory Investigative Specializations Bureau, which he knew he would one day inherit, and now that he had finally inherited it, he could understand why. His father’s once-thriving concern – the Biggest Little Bureau in Reno – had in the last ten years been run into the ground.

  Matthew had always suspected things were bad, but while his father still lived, and he earned his (reasonably) honest crust, as a junior detective with the Reno Police, he could do nothing. So he watched his father slip-sliding ever deeper into alcoholism, frittering the family fortunes on liquor and ticker-tape machines, and dreamed grandiose dreams of the day he could take over the reins.

  Now he discovered that the reins were hardly worth taking over. Gregory Senior had sucked the business dry. Matthew Gregory considered selling up. And he might have done, despite the grandiose dreams, except after so long spent waiting, it seemed (his wife explained to him) a little feeble not at least to give the thing a go.

  ‘This town is desperate for a decent detective agency,’ she decreed, on what grounds no one could say. Except she’d always felt there might be a glamour attached to a husband with his own detective agency. She’d been looking forward to being the wife of that husband for years. ‘Give the place a try!’ she said. ‘If it doesn’t work they’ll always take you back at the police department. And with all the added experience and connections you’ll have made, I’ll just bet they’ll promote you. Right away.’ So it was. The decision was made.

  With his slicked-back sandy hair, his little hamster cheeks, his portly belly, buttoned tight into what he hoped was his trademark: the brightly chequered waistcoat, Gregory Junior was not a stylish man. He was thirty-three, deaf in one ear, and slightly lame since his return from France in 1918. He was weak-willed, feeble-minded, vain and idle. He loved his wife and he loved his daughter. He loved America. In short he was a run-of-the-mill man – easily bullied, easily fooled, a coward and a buffoon, but moved from time to time by great kindness and insight. His wife and daughter loved him. And, on the whole, America loved him, too.

  And he still dreamed. Vaguely. He dreamed of one day returning the Gregory Investigative Specializations Bureau to the bureau of its former glory; a bureau which lived up to the company motto: ‘In Us you can trUst’.

  Among the paltry collection of cases-ongoing that he found on his late father’s desk, Miss Kappelman’s seemed to wink at him with its mystery and promise. Why, for example, after so many years, and with so little to show for it, did the inscrutable Miss Kappelman never question the vast bills that had been sent her? And why, given the cost and duration of the investigation, were there still so few facts to work with? And why, when the mystery began in New York, and probably ended there, and since money was clearly no object, why had Miss Kappelman not engaged an agency in Manhattan?

  The Kappelman client was living under a different name. (That, at least, he had discovered for himself. There were no E. Kappelmans listed anywhere in Hollywood). But whoever she really was, she was obviously rich, which meant she probably had rich friends. And if he could impress her sufficiently – heck, maybe even actually solve the case – she might recommend him to them. He might get a foothold among the rich set in Hollywood. And if he could do that, who knew what exciting commissions might lie ahead?

  In the meantime, while the ticker tape ticker-tacked in the foyer, and the stock market insisted on acting the giddy goat, and with the agency leveraged to five times its worth, it was vital that Miss Kappelman was protected from realizing quite what little progress had been made in the case to date. Or she would be a fool not to take her mysterious business elsewhere.

  And now she was due to arrive. At any minute.

  Ticker-tacker-ticker-tacker …

  Another slurp of Coke. Didn’t help much.

  His secretary had arranged a vase of flowers beside the ticker-tape machine, and a second vase above the filing cabinet behind his desk. It was a warm day, but not unpleasantly so. He had the windows pulled open to dissipate the smell of his father’s cigar smoke, forever embedded in the walls. There was coffee brewing. And there were cookies! His secretary had brought some home-baked cookies in this morning, especially for the honoured guest …

  He heard the car drawing up outside and, simultaneously (it was how he remembered it later, although of course it wasn’t really possible), smelled her expensive perfume wafting through the air.

  Like the movie star she was, and ever was, when out in public, no matter how she felt inside, Eleanor Beecham swept through the foyer, past the ticker machine, sparing it barely a glance. He watched her hesitate, uncertain whether to turn left or right. And then his secretary, who had gone to open the front door for her, came scurrying up behind, half bowing (it struck him as excessive) and directing her onwards, to the glass double doors that led directly into Matthew Gregory’s father’s office, to Matthew Gregory sitting at his father’s desk.

  Knock-out.

  Those were the only words that came to mind. Knock-out. He hoped he hadn’t uttered them – but he couldn’t be sure …

  A fox-fur wrap, draped over slim shoulders … and a dress, kind of blue, shimmering over those slim hips, and a little blue hat, pulled down over the eyes … and bright red lips … and sunglasses covering half of her face … and the intoxicating smell of an expensive, beautiful woman … She walked towards him, dainty, gloved arm outstretched. It was quite a distance – a good-sized office, with three large windows between them: distance enough for Matthew Gregory to notice her walk, her smell, her clothes, her little white teeth behind the wide mouth smile – and for his jaw to fall open.

  He’d seen this woman before! A hundred times! She was a big star. One of the biggest. She was … who in the hell was she? It wasn’t Gloria Swanson – no. This broad wasn’t as big as Gloria. It was the other one! Not Norma Shearer. Oh, good God! Who was it? Louise Brookes? Clara Bow – no! She was a big star – but not one of the big stars. Oh, this was going to kill him! He knew this woman—

  ‘Mr Gregory,’ Eleanor said, in her soft voice, with her small teeth and her soft smile. He collected himself just enough to stand up from behind his desk and to take the hand that was offered to him.

  ‘Mr Gregory,’ Eleanor
said again, wanting to put him at his ease; wanting to get this awkward moment over with. ‘You know me by my maiden name, but—’

  ‘Why!’ he cried, too excited to hold back. ‘But I know you better as—’

  ‘Eleanor Beecham?’

  ‘ELEANOR BEECHAM! That’s it! I swear, I’m your greatest fan! I’ve watched all your movies. Every single one. That is to say, I have watched all your movies, and ha-ha! So has my lovely wife!’

  ‘Oh … well. Thank you, Mr Gregory. That’s always so good to hear.’

  ‘My wife adores you!’ he said, still pumping her hand, forgetting to let it go.

  ‘She does? That is so kind of her!’

  ‘We both – oh absolutely. Miss Kappelman. Mrs Beecham. May I call you Mrs Beecham?’

  ‘You know – in these particular circumstances I think I would prefer—’

  ‘Mrs Beecham, my wife is just going to go crazy if she doesn’t get to meet you. She would never forgive me. Would you allow me to invite you … would you allow us? Why, if I’d known it was you … If I’d known it was you, I would have … I might have …’ In his confusion, he fell silent, briefly.

  Eleanor smiled at him sympathetically, masking the weariness, the loneliness such effusiveness always brought on. She raised one of her studio-tended eyebrows and waited nicely for him to finish the sentence. When it was clear he didn’t know quite how, she prompted him, gently. ‘What might you have done differently, Mr Gregory?’ she asked, still smiling. ‘Nothing, I hope! Nothing at all!’

  ‘Why, no! Ha ha. How right you are. Nothing differently … Nothing at all … Would you do us the honour – My wife and I – would you dine with us tonight? Or tomorrow night? Or at least – I don’t know how long you may be staying – gracing us here in Reno with your presence?’

  ‘How kind of you. And what a very lovely idea,’ she said vaguely. ‘May I sit down here, Mr Gregory?’ Eleanor, having taken off her sunglasses (much good they did her) and shaken off her fox fur, was gesturing to a small leather armchair in front of his desk.

  ‘My goodness, of course. Please sit down. Would you like coffee? Where are my manners? Or perhaps – I know it’s early. But would you prefer something stronger? I think I would. In the circumstances.’

  ‘A cup of coffee would be perfect,’ she said.

  ‘Coffee!’ he said. ‘At once! What an excellent idea. Where is my secretary?’ But she was standing right before him, a yard or so behind Eleanor’s chair, rubbing her hands together nervously.

  ‘Right over here, Mr Gregory,’ she trilled. ‘Welcome to the Gregory Investigative Specializations Bureau, Mrs Beecham. The best detective agency in Reno. And may I say it’s an honour—’

  ‘Could you perhaps fetch her some coffee?’ interrupted Gregory Jnr. ‘The poor lady has come all the way from Los Angeles … And some cake! Didn’t you say you had cake, Mrs Davison?’

  ‘No cake for me, thank you,’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Not cake. Cookies! I baked them especially when I discovered you were coming. Though little did I know …’

  ‘Oh – gosh. Cookies! You are kind. But no. Just some coffee would be perfect. Thank you.’

  ‘Just coffee, then?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And for me too, please,’ Gregory shouted after her.

  ‘Oh, Mr Gregory, forgive me! I forgot all about you!’

  He chuckled happily, rocking on his little heels. ‘Not to worry,’ he said, and winked at her.

  The secretary left the room and Matthew Gregory began at last to collect himself. He sat down in his chair, opposite Eleanor, adjusted the button on his waistcoat and nodded self-consciously at her. His father’s oak desk stretched out between them – vast, it seemed to him suddenly – and on top of the desk nothing but his father’s silver pen, and a single thin cardboard file labelled in thick black print:

  KAPPELMAN CHILD

  Eleanor glanced at it. The words alone – stark as they were – stopped her short: hit her so she could feel the tears stinging.

  ‘Mrs Davison makes truly excellent cookies,’ Gregory was saying. ‘I recommend them, Mrs Beecham. If I may, I would encourage you to taste one, only because—’

  ‘Mr Gregory,’ she said, her voice deep and heavy.

  He stopped.

  ‘Enough of this. Please. I am here now.’

  Silence. The weight of it sent a small tremor through him. He dropped his gaze, wiped an imagined dribble of sweat from his forehead. ‘Yes. Indeed,’ he muttered. ‘Indeed you are.’

  She indicated the thin file on the desktop between them. ‘And that is my file?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Picking it up, tapping it. Placing it back on the desk again. Dear God, what had persuaded him to invite this woman to visit him? He had asked her to travel all the way to Reno, and she had come. And he had nothing to show for himself. ‘Indeed it is. The file.’

  ‘It is rather thin,’ she said softly.

  ‘It is – slim …’ he said, tapping it one more time, not opening it yet. ‘But I have recently been through it, thrown out bits and bobs of extraneous … information. I can assure you it represents a great deal of concentrated work. A great deal,’ he repeated, as if to make it more believable.

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘… So?’ she said.

  He leaned forward. Felt the pinch of his waistcoat as he did so. ‘Mrs Beecham. If I may. If you will permit me … Before we begin, I must be brutally honest with you—’

  ‘NO!’

  The word burst from her chest before she could stop it. ‘NO!’ It took them both by surprise.

  22

  And there it rested on the large, empty desk between them. NO! The expression on Mr Gregory’s face turned slowly from astonishment to relief, without the hint of a glimmer of comprehension in between. He did not understand her. But for the moment, he didn’t much care. Ticker-tacker-ticker-tacker-tick-tack-tack. The market was diving. But it would stabilize. It always did. Everything would all right.

  Gently, because her distress combined with his own relief moved him greatly in that brief instant, he said: ‘Mrs Beecham. You don’t want me to be honest?’

  ‘What?’ She laughed and recovered herself with the swiftness only an actress of her calibre could. ‘Well, of course I want you to be honest, Mr Gregory. I am so sorry. I do apologize. I thought you said something else entirely. I would hardly have come all the way to Reno …’

  ‘No, of course,’ he said. ‘It would make no sense at all.’ And he let it rest.

  ‘So tell me,’ she said, smiling, leaning forward, treating him to a small breeze of her deliciousness, ‘what have you learned? Tell me everything you have uncovered!’

  He slid the file across the desk without another word. She took it. He watched her pulling it open, with difficulty because her hands were shaking so. And he wondered, vaguely, when she cared so much that it made her hands shake, why had it taken her so long to come? Why had she left it so long?

  A photograph of Isha gazed back at her. It was a copy of the same photograph which rested on her dressing table at home; so familiar to her, and yet – devoid of that precious, heavy gold frame, the very same she had wrested from that crazy waitress’s paws only a few nights ago – the image seemed so much fresher; more real. Looking at it now, Eleanor could remember the smell of Isha’s skin, the warmth of her little body, the hope-filled softness of her childish voice.

  It was the only photograph of Isha that Eleanor possessed. She was four years old, and smiling. Eleanor couldn’t see the smile without hearing the laughter – so easy, so warm, so infectious. She looked into Isha’s almond-shaped eyes – you couldn’t see the colour, not from the picture, of course, but Eleanor knew the shade of green: turquoise green, they were; greener than her mother’s. Witch’s eyes. Almond, laughing, witch’s eyes. The most beautiful eyes in America. Isha was sitting on her bubbeh’s knee in the old apartment on Allen Street; beside her, on bubb
eh’s lap, the toddler Tzivia, Isha’s cousin. Eleanor’s mother had sent the photograph to her shortly before the letters stopped.

  Eleanor set the photograph aside. Someone, presumably Gregory Snr, had put a small cross by Isha’s figure, as if to differentiate her from her cousin, the baby. As Eleanor placed it back on the table, her eyes lingered. She knew the picture so well, and yet she hated to look away.

  ‘The sheet you see there,’ said Matthew Gregory, clearing his throat, breaking the silence, ‘contains a précis of the facts, as given to my father at the time you engaged him … As you can see, they were – thin. Real thin.’

  MISSING PERSON: ISHA KAPPELMAN

  BORN: October 17th, 1907

  LAST SEEN: September 15th, 1913, at Allen Street, New York City

  PARENTS: DECEASED March 25th, 1911

  LAST KNOWN CONTACT: The client, Miss E. B. Kappelman of Hollywood, California (MISSING PERSON’s aunt and only known, surviving relative) regularly received drawings and letters purporting to come from MISSING PERSON until November 2nd, 1914. Nothing has been received, either from the MISSING PERSON, nor from her grandmother/guardian, Mrs B. Kappelman (DECEASED December 12th, 1914) since that date.

  Eleanor glanced at Mr Gregory. ‘It wasn’t much to go on,’ she said. ‘Was it? I didn’t give him very much.’

  Gregory nodded, leaned across the desk and took the sheet from her hands. ‘As you can see, between us, my father and later myself, have added considerably to that information …’

  She turned her attention to the small bundle of sheets still tucked into the file.

  There were photographs and press cuttings about the fire. But they didn’t help. In any case, she couldn’t look at them.

  ‘As you can see,’ he said again, disconcerted by the speed with which she flipped the sheets aside, ‘we have been busy collecting background information—’

  ‘Yes. But I know about the fire. Isha wasn’t in the fire. I have seen her since the fire.’

  ‘But these details help. You need to understand. They help to paint that all-important “picture”. They “set a scene”, you know? In my business you soon learn that you can’t ever be sure when a clue is going to throw itself up, Mrs Beecham. And we have uncovered a whole lot of interesting possibilities, I think you will agree. Just from getting a better fix on the background … So we can begin to understand …’