Part Four:
After a morning of interviews, Bud returned to the office to organize his notes, talk to others on the case, throw out some speculations (there were plenty of speculations), and update his captain on developments. Thankfully, he had a commanding officer who was not attempting to take the high profile case from him, and had faith in him and his abilities, even if White knew there was pressure from above to solve this. After all, if a beautiful and successful young woman like Savannah Hunt could be murdered in cold blood in her own home, in one of the safest areas in New York City, then no woman was safe. Bud had no doubt in making an arrest – it was simply getting those little ducks in a row…and what a crazy bunch of ducks he was coming to know!
He was therefore shocked when his desk phone rang right before he started thinking about heading out, and Sidney Lydecker was on the other end! Would it be a violation of policy or a conflict of interest if they dined together? That way, Sid could better tell him, privately, about…things.
It was definitely a first for Bud, and once again, he consulted his captain while Sergeants Grant and Wells listened in, bewildered, and wondering what had led to the invitation. Most suspects wanted to stay as far from the police as possible! None asked the lead detective to dinner, but at 7:30, Bud was at an informal little Italian restaurant filled with couples and small groups of older, unattached ladies, and Lydecker was already there, seated at a table for two near the deck, a glass of red wine in front of him.
As throughout the morning, Sid was attractively attired, only now he wore a more unfussy two-piece suit with a linen shirt. The signature carnation was prominent, the candlelight playing off it and the silver at his temples, making his youthful features even more distinguished. But even perusing the menu was a cause for the trademark expressiveness and pomposity, although the wait staff was delighted to please and appeared to know Lydecker very well.
“Ah Lieutenant…thank you for joining me….Thank you, Santino,” he told the maitre d’, who had escorted White to the table. “I was uncertain if you were officially on-duty or off, so I didn’t place your drink order yet.”
“Beer’s fine, thanks,” he said, unbuttoning his jacket, and the waiter standing nearby, nodded and hurried off to place the order.
Bud had not expected such a casual location. Even Sid was more relaxed than he had ever seen him – outside the bathtub – and before long, over drinks, then antipasto, and deciding on entrees (‘I suggest either the veal scaloppini or the chicken parmesan, but if you have a taste for beef tonight, the Tournedos Rossini is quite good. In fact, it’s better than at some fancier restaurants.’), the conversation finally steered to the topic at hand.
“This is our table…Savannah’s and mine,” the strong voice intoned, while a string quartet in the background – ironically – performed that tune from the victim’s turntable, the piece Kim Barrett had called ‘not exactly classical…but sweet.’
Bud noticed Sid’s use of the present tense; as if still unwilling to admit that the dame was dead. Dame. Might have to reconsider calling her that. He had given that portrait a final look on the way out of the apartment and realized, in those few seconds, that the columnist was correct. A dame had nothing to do with any of this.
Sid continued, gently turning the stem of the wine glass and staring straight ahead. “We spent many quiet evenings here together. I remember we dined here the night before her twenty-second birthday, only a few months ago….Just we two…happy…making plans for her future.
“But this was a far cry from the girl who walked into my life at the Algonquin Hotel five years before.”
And Bud remained quiet, listening, permitting himself to be carried along on Sid’s memories. It was no longer 1941 but 1936, and the setting was not this little restaurant, but the elegant, sophisticated bistro for one of the most famous hotels in the world….
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Sid was so involved with the work on an upcoming article, as well as his appointment book and his lunch (That’s it! I must acquire a full-time secretary or assistant), the small group of gawking young people at a corner table hardly caught his attention. Had he bothered to see them, he would have wondered whether it was now Algonquin policy to permit entrance to ‘just anyone’ curious about the setting for the old Round Table – of which, naturally, he was once a part – and those sorts of persons always bored him. He would have thought these silly children wished themselves as brilliant as George Kaufman, Robert Sherwood, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woollcott, Heywood Broun, and yes, Sidney Lydecker, along with the other legendary names, but they would have been way out of their league on any level, and ended up at the sharp end of the barbed tongues that was the circle.
He would have thought this lot so obviously working class, belonging at the corner diner, and yet here they were, whispering amongst themselves. Until one stood, gathered her belongings, acknowledged when a friend said, ‘Good luck,’ and with all her strengths focused upon this moment, made her way to Sid’s booth, occasionally and politely whispering ‘Pardon me….Excuse me….Excuse me,’ as she slipped between the crowded chairs.
“Excuse me.”
Sid sneered up from his plate. Before him was a young girl, lovely, eager hazel-green eyes glowing from a sweet, round face, currently framed by the duplicate of a small hat he swore that Judy Garland once wore to an afternoon tea. Petite of stature, Sid imagined that beneath that unattractive brown coat might be a woman’s body – difficult to tell. She was dressed like thousands of New York working women, living on budgets, desiring to be attractive, but this one….
“Mr. Lydecker, how do you do?”
He did not respond, instead, analyzing the voice. Her speech was self-assured, the accent an odd mixture of the Midwest, the South, perhaps even the North.
“My name is Savannah Hunt, and I’m with Bullitt and Company. You know, the big advertising firm, and I’d like to talk something over with you, if I may.”
Glaring, Sid replied, “You can hardly fail to realize that I am engaged in eating my lunch.” It was a statement, not a question, and with that dismissal, his concentration returned to his notebook.
“Yes, I know, and I’m awfully sorry to interrupt this way…but it’s so hard to get to see you the regular way, and…” with the greatest ease, she removed a large canvas – half the size of a movie poster – from her presentation case, “…this will only take a minute, really.” Carefully making sure that it was not too near Lydecker or his plate and possessions, she positioned it to his visual advantage. “Now this…”
“Young woman…” Sid arrogantly began, wondering why his notorious stare had not sent her scurrying away like some frightened maiden in fear of the Frankenstein monster, “…either you have been raised in some incredibly rustic community…where good manners are unknown…” He took a bite of his meal, allowing her to wait, which was what she deserved. “…Or you suffer from that common feminine delusion…that the mere fact of being a woman exempts you from the rules of civilized conduct.” He savored the broiled salmon and capers, loving how the Chardonnay reduction set it off to perfection. “Or possibly both.”
“Possibly…” she admitted.
My God…she was undeterred, and Sid imagined the tiniest smile on those rosy-hued lips, obviously the foolishness of youth making her so bold.
“…but here’s what I wanted to show you. It’s for the Wallace Flow-Rite pen. I know my company would be glad to pay you $1000.00 if you’ll endorse the ad.”
Sid scoffed, “I don’t use a pen….” He bit into an asparagus spear. “I write with a goose quill dipped in venom.”
“Yes, but this is a very fine pen, Mr. Lydecker…the best on the market. Wouldn’t you at least consider endorsing it?”
Now the fork and knife were placed upon the bone china as Sid glared, ignoring her bearing, her looks, the damn canvas marring his view. “I’ll neither consider, endorse or use the Wallace pen,” he snapped. “I hate pens, and if you knew as much about me as you claim, you would never have approached me with such a bizarre proposition. If your employers wish me to publish that statement in my column…you may tell them that I shall be delighted to oblige.” He was pleased to notice the first sign of panic flashing across her features.
“Oh no. You mustn’t do that. Don’t blame Bullitt and Company, Mr. Lydecker. They…They don’t know anything about this. It was my idea to see you.”
Her confession made him pause. So the firm had not put this silly young innocent on the firing line, as he first believed, but it was difficult imagining that she was this audacious, until he placed the entire conversation into context. No, he should not be surprised. Most modern women were much like her, annoying and pushy, but…. “Indeed?”
“Yes. I know they’d give anything down at the office to get your endorsement…only they think there’s no use asking.”
They were right of course. Sidney Lydecker endorsing some cheap pen to be fawned over by the masses – it was absurd!
“So I had this ad made up all on my own,” this Savannah Hunt explained, “because I thought, well, what’s the harm in trying? There was always a chance that you might, Mr. Lydecker.”
Sid – for the first time – gave the canvas closer inspection. The colors were luminous, vibrant; he realized that she had studied the works of Titian and Leonardo, but was not simply copying them. She chose a suitable style for the ad’s presumptive endorser, and yes, it somehow worked, even down to the use of a fitting quote from one of his articles, as well as an imagined ‘approval’ and the spot for his signature. Nothing was slap dashed. It was carefully designed and thought out, but still….
“Just think what it would mean…” he heard her tell him, but he raised a hand.
“You seem to be completely disregarding something more important than your career.”
She shook her head. “What?” she innocently asked.
“My lunch,” and taking the silver back in his hands, he cleared his throat and returned to enjoying the salmon.
The comment deflated her. “Do you really believe that?”
“Implicitly.” Sid looked over the tasks remaining on today’s calendar. So much to do….
“I never heard of anything so selfish.” The hurt was carefully hidden beneath her disappointment.
“In my case, self-absorption is completely justified,” he answered. He had lived long enough to have become jaded and egotistical – it was what he was, what made him famous, and the opinion of some chit of a girl could hardly matter. “I have never discovered any other subject quite so worthy of my attention.”
Savannah was still astonished. “But…But you write about people…with such real understanding and sentiment. That’s what makes your column so good; what sets it apart from so many others.”
“Sentiment comes easily…at fifty cents a word.”
Now the disappointment was replaced with disillusionment. “Well…if that’s the way you really feel…you must be very lonely.”
Lydecker sighed, rolling his eyes. “Will you kindly continue this character analysis elsewhere? You begin to bore me,” and he looked away again.
“You’re a poor man,” she said, quickly packing her things. “I’m very sorry for you and I’m very sorry to have disturbed you at your lunch. Excuse me,” and before he could hurl another sting in her direction, she was gone.
But although he returned to his meal, it no longer tasted as he remembered a few moments before.
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Naturally, I was annoyed by the incident…but she had something about her, that girl….I had to speak to her again. I had to see her….
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Disregarding the remaining tasks and making a phone call to cancel and reschedule an appointment, his chauffeur drove him from the famous 59 West 44th Street address in Manhattan to the Bullitt and Company Advertising Agency not far away. The firm occupied one full floor of a skyscraper, and as Sidney stepped off the elevator, he looked for directions – not to the executive offices – but the Stenographic and Art Departments. He would begin there. The Hunt girl would not yet be in the front offices : she was a beginner…a talented beginner…an exceptional beginner, and like most – gifted or not – she would be languishing here, among so many similar others.
He was nearly knocked aside by the rush of people, all going about their duties and errands. One phone after another was ringing, and the voices attempted to make sense over the din. He imagined it was worse than Times Square at New Year’s.
Strolling up to the receptionist desk, he waited to be acknowleged, but when the woman continued at her busy duties he said, “Miss…would you mind if I…”
“Just a moment, please,” she politely said, returning to the phone call. “I’ll tell Mr. Bullitt right away. He’s on the telephone. Thank you.”
Putting the call on hold, she became busy with the intercom system, leaving Sid to stand there, wondering why he was not recognized and especially wondering why he was not being properly feted. Oh well, belly of the beast and all that. He would simply take matters into his own hands, and ignoring the receptionist, he moved further into the department, past desks occupied by loud males and females, and finally, near the center of this world, his gloved hand pushed open the single swinging door, giving him entrance to a quieter area with fewer tables and desks. A half-dozen boys and girls were all at work, and there he caught sight of her, sitting upon a stool, concentrating on the poster board before her, completely unaware….
That profile…stunning, classic.
A messenger was about to squeeze past him, but Sid used his walking stick to bar his passage. “Boy – Sidney Lydecker to see Miss Savannah Hunt! Announce me!”
Although the area had not been as noisy, everything came to a complete halt…except for Savannah, who continued with what she was doing.
Without her looking up, Sid heard the voice answer with “Johnny, please tell the gentleman I’m busy.”
Johnny Ryan stood more erect, as if he was a bodyguard. “Miss Hunt says…”
But Sid eased him aside and walked over to Savannah’s desk. “Miss Hunt…I have something to say to you.”
Savannah still did not pay him heed, but carefully pasted a figure onto the canvas. “You’ve already said it, Mr. Lydecker.”
“I wish to point out that you caught me at my most difficult moment….Ordinarily…Ordinarily, I am not without a heart.”
“Really?” She sounded doubtful.
“Shall I produce X-ray pictures to prove it?” How in the world had this child put him in such a position? “I wish to apologize.”
She gave a half-smile and briefly looked at him. “Your apology is accepted.” Her eyes refocused on her duties. “Good-bye, Mr. Lydecker.”
Sid was not deterred. Now that he saw her in these surroundings, he was struck by how lovely she was, how even more beautiful she might be, in the right hands. A glimpse of her current work again revealed so much; how she had such a clear grasp of what the world of advertising was like, but still hoping to bring it a class of which most of these fools had no conception. And finally, he could better see her form: the coat was gone, and a plain white blouse and brown skirt hung simply off her figure. Hmm…not at all flattering. He might imagine her instead in…
“If you come a little bit closer, my boy…” Sid said without turning around to look at Johnny Ryan, who had crept so near, he was nearly breathing down the noted man’s neck. “…I can just crack your skull with my stick.” In fact, everyone in the room had moved nearer, shocked that the great columnist and critic was actually there, and not to see the executives but their friend, Savannah.
The boy sprinted away and the females giggled, stepping back as well. No need taking chances.
But Sid again softened as he spoke to Savannah once more. “And now…for reasons which are too embarrassing to mention…I’d like to endorse that pen.”
Savannah nearly fell off the stool as she swiveled about. “Mr. Lydecker!” She sprang up and rushed to where the prepared advertisement was carefully propped in a corner, turned slightly askew as though she could not bear to look at it.
He followed the short distance, his blue eyes taking in her movement, her excitement….How old was she? He doubted she was older than twenty, but there were those his own age – and he was hardly that old – that did not possess her confidence.
“Thank you,” she gently said, giving him a pen so he might sign the board, the first step in what would become his contract with the firm. “And I apologize for how I behaved. I shouldn’t have interrupted your lunch, and I know I must…”
Lydecker shook his head. “All is forgotten and forgiven, Miss Hunt.” Funny, he had perhaps not said that to anyone in his entire life. He usually neither forgot or forgave, however, for her…
“You’re a very strange man.”
He stopped writing, startled, and turned to her. “What?”
“You’re really sorry for the way you acted, aren’t you?”
Sid playfully grimaced. “Let’s not be psychiatric, Miss Hunt…but in a word…yes.”
Savannah proudly watched as he signed the mockup advertisement. “It’s very kind of you, you know.”
“I’m not kind. I’m vicious. It’s the secret of my charm.” But he was smiling…and so was she. “But if you choose to think me kind…I’ll call for you at six o’clock.” The room filled with gasps, the most prominent of which came from Savannah, stunned that the last minutes had taken such a turn, when a short time before, all she wanted to do was hide away in shame. For Sidney Lydecker though, only her reaction mattered. “All right?”
“All right,” she beamed as he returned the pen to her, their immediate transaction at an end.
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Her career began with my endorsement of the pen. I secured other endorsements for her…introduced her to important clients. I gave her her start…but it was her own talent and imagination that enabled her to rise to the top of her profession…and stay there.
Sid quickly listed many of the people in his circle that he felt would suit the rising career of his protégé; his amazement at how she delighted them, honestly charmed them, had such incredible ideas, despite – at the time – being only seventeen. The board of Bullitt and Company finally noticed it too, and less than a month after presenting them and their client with the Wallace Flow-Rite/Lydecker collaboration, Savannah Hunt moved from the Stenographic and Art Departments to her own desk near the upper echelon of the firm. Within a year, she had her own office, bringing along those that worked best for both her and the organization, and it soon became obvious that she was a true force, using both her intelligence and her femininity to push her to the forefront, particularly in a field that some men could not handle.
She had an eager mind always. She was always quick to seize upon anything that would improve her mind…or her appearance.
Sid paused, sipping his wine. Bud White – just from his expression – was engrossed, only now and then eating the delicious chicken parmesan on his plate.
But she deferred to my judgment and taste. I selected a more attractive hair dress for her. I taught her what clothes were more becoming to her.
He recalled the first of their shopping trips, not long after she began her ascent. No longer for her the plain ready-to-wear outfits or simply shampooing her hair at home. Now her life was not only filled with work, but visits to the finest haute couture houses in the city, and expatriate French designers and Americans with houses in the now occupied Paris (and forced to return home) were not only happy to serve, but to design for and fit a young woman like Savannah Hunt. It was delightful to find their names attached to someone so beautiful – and connected to Sidney Lydecker – and soon, she and their clothing, jewelry and accessories were appearing on the social pages of the newspapers, and within the covers of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue. Many proclaimed that Chanel’s ‘little black dress’ had never looked better. Sid found the best salon for her, and she became a regular: for her hair, for her manicures, pedicures and cosmetics.
And always, overseeing it all – until she became quite proficient – was Sid.
Through me, she met everyone: the famous and the infamous. Her youth and beauty, her poise and charm of manner captivated them all. She had warmth, vitality. She had authentic magnetism. Wherever we went, she stood out.
Men admired her. Women envied her. She became as well known as Sidney Lydecker’s walking stick…and his white carnation.
But Tuesday and Friday nights we stayed home…dining alone, listening to my records. I read my articles to her....The way she listened was more eloquent than speech. These were the best nights.
But now, Sid’s face went blank.
Then one Tuesday, she phoned and said she couldn’t come. It didn’t matter, really. But when it happened again the following Friday, I was disturbed. I couldn’t understand it. I felt betrayed…and yet I knew Savannah would never betray anyone.
He shuddered, recalling that cold January evening, when the wind and blowing snow nearly tossed him aside. I walked a long time. Then I found myself before her apartment building. The lights were on. It pleased me to know she was home…’til I saw she was not alone. But I waited. I wanted to see who it was….It was Maximus Meridias, the Spanish artist who had recently painted her portrait. I never liked the man, although I had recommended him. He was so obviously conscious of looking more like an athlete than an artist.
I sat up the rest of the night writing a column about him. I demolished his affectations…exposed his camouflaged imitations of better painters…ridiculed his theories. I did it for her, knowing Meridias was unworthy of her. It was a masterpiece because it was a labor of love.
Almost nothing had given him more pleasure than to sit in her bedroom, while Bessie Roles served her breakfast in bed, and he watched her read the article…then laugh in agreement at his words.
Naturally, she could never regard him seriously again. There were others, of course…but her own discrimination ruled them out…before it became necessary for me to intercede…until…one night at a party at Chloe Treadwell’s….
It was one of her usual roundups of bizarre and nondescript characters corralled from every stratum of society.
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Sid would have preferred root canal surgery to this, and was equating the party to a new Ring in Dante’s vision of Hell when the butler opened the door to permit him and Savannah admission. The couple entered the hallway, then the drawing room, and was immediately beset upon by a number of guests, a male saying, “This is Mr. and Mrs. Preston. They’ve been waiting to meet you.”
Neither Sid nor Savannah noticed the dapper young man standing off to the side, but he saw them the moment they walked in the room, had actually been awaiting them, so it was time to make his move, he considered, putting his liquor glass on the nearest tray. Nothing – not even the pretty blonde approaching him – would make him stop.
“Hello Kim,” the girl said, grinning into his face, but he placed a hand on either shoulder and unceremoniously scooted her aside. That one could wait. There were thousands like her…but only one Savannah Hunt.
“Excuse me, honey,” he drawled, his eyes focused like a beam upon the beauty in front of him. He did not stop moving until he was at her side, but she never saw him. Right now, her attention was focused in the mirror of her compact as she touched at the flowing light brown tresses neatly falling about her bare golden shoulders. The white mink was gone, revealing a body-clinging white gown of Greco-Roman design, making her even more stunning in person than in the black and white newspaper photos, so had he not been interested in her before, he would be now.
“You're Savannah Hunt,” he greeted, grinning a Cheshire-like smile.
She turned, her features indicating that she had no clue as to who he was. “Yes?” she politely asked.
“Hello, I'm Kim Carpenter Barrett. Want to dance?” the incredibly forward request was asked.
Savannah courteously smiled and with her head, indicated Sid’s presence. “I'm not alone.”
“Oh, him? I'll bet he's still doing the polka,” Kim derided, smirking, but instead of finding humor in his comment, Savannah looked displeased and was about to respond when….
“Excuse me, please,” Sid told the Prestons on hearing the insult, for it was time for him to make his own move against this silly upstart he had noticed out of the corner of his eye. “Yes,” he announced, staring the boy down, “Betsy Ross taught it to me.”
Now Savannah and the others around her erupted into laughter, and Kim – to cover his discomfiture – laughed with them.
Chloe, behaving as the most perfect hostess within the crowded penthouse, finally reached them, and taking her niece by the hand said, “Hello Sidney. Darling, how are you?” she asked Savannah as the two women exchanged kisses.
“Hello darling.”
Chloe glowed with excitement. “I see you’ve met Kim.”
“Unavoidably,” Sid mumbled, not hiding his annoyance.
“He was awfully nice to me in Louisville at the Derby. His family’s from Kentucky, you see.”
“Sharecroppers, no doubt,” Sid fairly yawned while those within earshot chuckled, and linking one arm within his protégé’s he said, “except for the loveliest creature to ever emerge from that state.” He gently smiled down at Savannah so that she would know that the ‘sharecropper’ remark was intended for a lowlife such as Barrett. And as always, she understood.