Tap, tap, tap, tap.
The sound a shoe makes on a wooden floor is as important as the way it looks, and here in the empty hallway of the Manhattan Weekly Gazette, the acoustics, and the floor, were perfect. Leather oxfords with a 1-1/2" heel gave just enough lift, were comfortable, and sounded just right. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Authoritative but still feminine. Victoria smiled to herself. She liked these shoes.
Her destination she liked a bit less. This new editor had come back from the war, which was more than many men could say, but he hadn't come back whole. A pilot of some repute even before the war, he'd joined the air service and enjoyed a successful run, cut short when an enemy bullet had torn through his leg. He was lucky to be alive, but he'd returned a cripple, hobbling about on a cane like some ancient geriatric. The paper's owner had taken pity on him, handing over the plush editor position where he could deploy his most tyrannical instincts from the comfort of an office chair. He ruled with a blend of humorless condescension and brutal perfectionism. Worse, he didn't seem interested in Victoria at all.
She entered his office without knocking, finding him in his usual mode, marking up typewritten articles with a red pen. "Hello, Mark," she said. "You wanted to see me?"
He gestured to a chair without looking up.
She frowned, sitting, and crossed her legs, allowing her cream-colored dress to drape above the knee, showing off pristine white silk stockings. The city's hemlines were creeping upward every year, a trend Victoria felt was to her benefit. Keep ahead of the curve, go a little shorter than most, but stay respectable. She walked the city in bright tones, hatless, felt the men's eyes on her. People noticed when she walked into a room.
But Mark just sat there staring at his papers, his pen working. "Miss Chase," he said finally, looking up. "There's something I'd like you to look into."
"Of course."
"Specifically, there's a rumor. I need you to separate truth from fiction."
"My specialty."
He hesitated. "…indeed. This is a little off your usual beat. I'm not talking about finding out which councilmen are crooked or which tycoon is keeping a mistress."
She laughed, high and sweet. "Mark, all the councilmen are crooked, and all the tycoons keep mistresses. The only difference is in the delicious, sordid details. Don't you know that by now?"
He stared at her blankly, unmoved as usual by any attempt at workplace conviviality. She was starting to think she should move to another paper.
"Does the name Conrad von Preiss mean anything to you?" he asked.
"Of course, the infamous Blue Baron, scourge of the skies." She let her eyes wander the ceiling, cooking up a suitably sensational summary of the legend. "Born of nobility, a hero to his people, a terror to his enemies, invincible pilot and revered commander, brought down in the war's final days by the King's greatest pilot. Larger than life in every dimension, the perfect subject. A real pity he's dead and gone."
"The rumor is, he isn't."
She leaned forward, elbows on her knee, staring at him. The pose she used when she really wanted to let you know she was interested. In this case, maybe she was. "Go on," she said.
"And, possibly, he has come here. Has been here for some time."
"In America?"
"In New York."
It seemed a little far-fetched. She sat back in her chair. "Might I ask where you heard this… rumor?"
He shook his head. "A friend. It's plausible but I'm not certain. That's all you need to know."
She frowned. "It isn't much to go on."
"That's why I'm giving it to you, Miss Chase."
She thought about the headline. The Blue Baron, walking around under the noses of millions of Americans. How had he arrived undetected? What had he done since? Maybe he was making sausages over in the meatpacking district. She wrinkled her nose with distaste.
"I wonder if it's worth it," she ventured. "We do not, exactly, need to find the baron in order to find the baron. We have plenty of Germans to choose from."
He scowled. "Miss Chase, I have told you before that this paper is done trading on unproven nonsense."
She lowered her head. "Of course."
"I need to know the facts. It's possible none of this is true. So your first task is, find out if he's really alive."
"Alright."
"And don't write a word of it. Bring what you find to me."
"But—"
"Thank you Miss Chase. Come see me when you have something." He picked up his red pen and went back to marking up the day's articles.
She sighed, walking back to her own office. Her mood improved as she walked. It was at least an interesting project, a change from her usual routine of disgracing politicians and stoking popular anger at the reigning plutocracy, of which her own family was undeniably a part. Not that that bothered her in the slightest. But here was a real needle in a haystack.
If Preiss were really alive, presumably the Germans would have known, and it would have found its way to the papers already. Maybe, with the war over, nobody on this side of the Atlantic cared enough to notice? It was possible. She turned on her heel and headed for the elevator.
Two floors down, down another hall, and she was in the international department, a big newsroom full of ranked desks. A few typewriters clattered, but it was quieter than most. The reporters here didn't report so much as edit and translate, sifting through sheafs of news wires for their respective countries. Here and there an actual newspaper had been brought by ship, no longer current but more complete than anything that came across the wire.
She stopped in front of the German desk. "Hello Otto," she said.
The old man, hunched over his typewriter, started, then looked up at her, peering through spectacles. "Miss Chase!" he said. "What brings you to us? Come to rake the muck of the Continent?"
"Conrad von Preiss."
"Flying ace."
"Alive or dead?"
"Dead."
"You're sure?"
Otto hesitated. "Shot down in the mountains…"
"They have a body?"
His brow knit. "Hmm. Follow me."
He led her to one of the rows of huge file cabinets which lined the room. Newspapers; the recent history of the world, all in one room. The old man scanned the labels, running his hands along the drawers, until he found the one he wanted. He yanked it open and quickly riffled through to a specific date.
"Here," he said. "I remember when it happened." He fingered through the files, finally pulling up a handful of folded copies of Berliner Tageblatt. Victoria watched over his shoulder, but she couldn't understand a word of it. He flipped through them impatiently, muttering in German. "Aha!" he proclaimed, then began to translate as he read.
"Conrad von Preiss, the army's greatest pilot… shot down… west of the front… possibly captured… of course they do not know." He shook his head. "I am not thinking straight. We need the French account."
Another trip down another row of files, and Otto was reading a French newspaper. The man was fluent in five languages. "Conrad von Preiss… shot down in the hills… difficult terrain… fate is unknown. Interesting." He looked up at her. "It appears the facts are not entirely clear. I do not recall seeing anything further about the man, one way or another."
"I need to know if he ever turned up."
The man scratched his chin, thinking. "Well, we may ask, I suppose. They do keep excellent records. I will send a wire to my contact in Berlin. Let us see what he is able to discover."
She gave him her best winning smile. "Thank you, Otto."
"I do hope," he said, putting the paper back in its file, "that we will find out for sure, and that you will remember to mention my help to your friend the editor."
"Of course." Doubtful.
"It will take at least a day. I will let you know."
So she was back to her usual routine, at least for a while. She returned to her office, put on her coat — muted yellow wool with a white mink collar — and left the old newspaper building for the early evening chill. She stepped to the curb and languidly raised a hand. Not too high. It was possible to hail a cab and maintain your dignity, if you knew what you were doing.
Prohibition, Victoria had concluded, was a tremendous boon. Everyday corner saloons selling beer were gone, replaced by windowless, crowded speakeasies and potent smuggled liquor. Everybody had a connection, a favorite underground watering hole, and when they drank, they drank hard. The sauce loosened tongues and clouded judgement. Powerful men rubbed elbows with beautiful women. And a share of the profits always managed to turn up in the accounts of certain policemen and politicians.
Everybody wanted to believe they were a little more honest than the next guy. And Victoria was adept at helping them believe it. Gossip, rumor, innuendo, scandal. When Victoria Chase came into your club, sat at your table, said hello to your friends, you knew exactly what she wanted. And you gave it to her. You gave it to her so that when next week's column appeared, it wasn't about you.
Did she have friends? She might have friends. She knew everybody. She knew how to stay on good terms with bouncers and bartenders. She knew how not to annoy the mob, or not too much anyway. Because people knew her, people wanted to know her.
Victoria boarded the black and yellow automobile which pulled up to the curb. She told the driver to take her to the Landmark Tavern at 11th and 46th. She could get a decent dinner there, spend the evening catching up with the Tammany Hall set. If she was lucky she might run into the mayor, or failing that, the men who'd installed him. So far, the Landmark had never been raided. A coincidence, they said.
It was a short ride to the Landmark and soon she was on foot again. Autumn was setting in, and the temperature was dropping, but the trees still had their leaves. As she approached the discreet door which would take her up to the third-floor speakeasy, she heard a loud, unpleasant drone start up in the distance. She turned in time to see the Caulfield & Price airplane take off over the Hudson, then bank east, over Manhattan. It would have been unmistakable even if they hadn't painted it bright white, with CAULFIELD on the bottom of one wing, PRICE on the other.
Victoria remembered when they'd started up the previous year. It had been the talk of the town for weeks, initial fascination followed by a considerable outcry over the pilot's complete disregard for any concept of basic safety. And, if you hung around west midtown, the noise. Editor's desks were flooded with letters calling for some sort of regulation. But those same editors loved their aerial photographs, and so they had failed to publish the complaints. It was a fundamental truth of life in the city: if the newspapers liked you, you could do no wrong.
Victoria shook her head, turning back to the door and nodding to Charlie the bouncer. He touched his cap in reply, holding open the door.
Everything interesting happened at night, so that's when she worked. Better, she knew, for the complexion, especially in summer. It wasn't until late afternoon that she returned to her office, sitting down to go through the prior evening's notes. Soon after she arrived, Otto burst into her office clutching a telegram. "Miss Chase! I have an answer for you." He began to translate excitedly. "'Captain Conrad von Preiss was discharged from service in Stuttgart, 29th of December, 1918.' The baron is alive!"
Victoria tilted her head. "How is it that this was never reported? Does it say when or where they found him?"
Otto shook his head. "It does not, and the army made it quite clear that no further information will be provided. It seems they have decided to keep the whole matter quiet."
Victoria twirled her blue fountain pen between her fingers, thinking. "I wonder why."
