Alongside the telegrams were three photographs, each perhaps two inches long. Each was a portrait of a man in uniform, from the neck upward, looking carefully toward the camera. They were going-to-war portraits, the same kind tens of thousands of men had had taken all over the country before leaving their families. I put them on the table and rearranged them.
One face was youthful, the hair possibly a light brown; this was Tommy, whom Octavia said was the youngest. Next to him I put a face so outrageously handsome it could only be Harry, whom Octavia had described as gorgeous, like a movie star. He had thick black hair and eyes of inky soulfulness, as well as a strong, soft mouth and a beautiful jaw. Movie star, indeed. Finally, at the end I placed the third photograph, this one of a man slightly older than the other two, his dark hair slicked down like Valentino’s, his gaze serious. This was likely Colin, described as the future politician. What struck me about him was that, aside from the fact that he was obviously a man, his resemblance to Gloria was much closer than that of the other two. He had her straight nose, the dark, intelligent slashes of her brows. It was disturbingly like looking at two portraits somehow overlapped.
One more sheet of paper had been folded into the silk bag, this one crisp and much newer than the telegrams. I read from the top:
4: 1500 44 2100 214
5: 1700 107
I stared at Gloria’s cramped handwriting. As codes went, it was hardly the most difficult to figure out: This was Gloria’s daily schedule, tucked into her flask bag so she could handily remind herself. The first number was the date, followed by a time on the twenty-four-hour clock. The next number referred to a client. Number Thirty-One wants to see you at seven, Davies had said on that first day. The numbers 44, 214, 107 . . . those were all codes for clients. This, then, was Gloria’s professional schedule for the last week before she died.
I scanned down the page, pausing to uncap the flask. I swallowed a bolt of gin—of course it was gin—and felt it burn from my stomach to the top of my head, turning to cinders the thought that Gloria’s killer could well be listed on the page I held in my hands.
The schedule continued:
7: [NUMBER BLACKED OUT] #321B!!!
8: 277 KENT COLLECT UP FRONT
I rubbed my forehead. On Sunday, the day before Gloria was killed, she’d blacked out her appointment and written in something else—a number in a different format, followed by exclamation points. Monday, the day she died, she had written in the Dubbses’ code number—277—followed by a note to herself to collect up front. Everyone always pays up front, I thought, but usually Davies handled those details. Gloria was reminding herself, because this time she’d bypassed Davies entirely.
My gaze traveled back to the line, this past Sunday, where Gloria had changed her own schedule and written something else in. Only one person could help me figure this out, of course. Davies would know what all of the code numbers meant. She would know about the schedule change the day before Gloria died. Davies, who, according to Fitzroy Todd, Gloria had not trusted, and neither should I.
And what about the police? They must have asked Davies for Gloria’s schedule in her last days. Had Davies given it to them already? If I handed these sheets to the mysterious Inspector Merriken, would he know what they meant?
I tossed the page down and took another slug of gin.
That first night Gloria and I had gone out on the town, at about two o’clock in the morning my exhausted brain remembered that my mother was at home, waiting. I had never in my life been out so late—had never gone anywhere without her knowledge and approval. I was suddenly crushed with guilt that I’d disobeyed all of my mother’s rules. She would be frantic.
“I have to leave,” I’d said to Gloria as I worriedly patted my coat pockets, looking for my pocketbook. “I have to go home.”
“Do you?” Gloria drawled. We were in a small, strange, drafty bar, lit only with dim wall sconces, featuring heavy velvet drapes across the walls. The place didn’t seem to have a name. Two couples we had somehow picked up were dancing drowsily to the exhausted four-piece band, the girls leaning heavily on the men and smearing makeup on their jackets, while Gloria and I watched from an uncomfortable booth in the corner. Gloria was slouched against the wall with a cigarette in her fingers, her dark hair tousled in a sensual mess, wearing a fur coat that wasn’t hers. I had no idea what had happened to the coat with the fur collar.
“My mother!” I said.
Gloria took a drag, unimpressed. “Yes, of course.”
My mind spun. I’d had a valise with me on the train—what had I done with it? I remembered carrying it up the stairs to Gloria’s flat, but that was it. I’d always been so obedient, so conscientious; it was as if Gloria Sutter had put a spell on me, or slipped me some kind of drug. I fought down the panic in my chest and glared at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I said. “Keeping The Fantastique up at night worrying.”
She arched an eyebrow and I knew I was right, but I also knew there was something more to it that I couldn’t see. “If you’re asking whether I enjoy getting my hands on her progeny, yes, I do. I like to watch the chick toddling out of the nest.”
It stung. She thought me stupid, naive, a child—or so she’d have me believe. Already I was learning never to quite trust that Gloria was telling the truth. “She worries about me,” I said. “And I— We have clients coming tomorrow.”