Wally Carver set down his valise as he took his place at the end of the line of fellow train passengers who had left the Santa Fe Chief in Las Vegas, New Mexico and were waiting to register for a room at the Castañeda Hotel. He tipped his straw boater to the back of his head, revealing dishwater-blond hair slicked back with brilliantine, and whistled the chorus of Tip Toe Through the Tulips under his breath as he looked around the lobby. He could see Harvey Girls, in their black dresses and white pinafore aprons, moving through the restaurant dining room covering tables with white cloths and laying place settings in anticipation of the upcoming lunch-time rush.
He shuffled forward as the line crept steadily toward the registration desk. It was warm in the lobby and he removed his sports coat and slung it over his arm, then loosened his tie. At least he’d changed to a clean shirt on the train this morning. He pulled the handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his neck with it, then stuffed it into his pants pocket. He polished the tops of his two-tone oxfords on the backs of his pants legs.
At last, only one dame ahead of him and a society dame at that. She was as straight and rigid as if she had a poker up her backside. She was wearing a fur collar around her neck, even in this August heat. He’d heard that old people felt the cold and she was old. Her gray hair was twisted up on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun and was topped by an equally gray, equally old-fashioned velvet hat with a large ostrich plume curling over the crown. Her outdated hat and dress reminded him of his grandma’s “best” that she kept for weddings and funerals.
“Young woman,” she demanded imperiously, “I am Mrs. Filosmith and I wrote for a reservation.”
The desk clerk, who had bent over to retrieve something from under the desk, straightened up with a bottle of ink in her hand. She set the bottle in the empty ink stand, smiled politely and pulled a sheet of paper out of the registration book. She wrinkled her brow. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I didn’t quite catch your name.”
The woman stood straighter, if possible. “Mrs. Filosmith,” she repeated tersely.
The desk clerk shook her head. Wally admired the way that her shining chestnut hair swung with the motion of her head. She reminded him of Pru. She was about as tall as Pru, and as slender, with bobbed hair and a calm, professional manner. “I apologize again. I don’t see your name here. Perhaps if you could spell it?”
The woman took a deep breath, then spoke slowly and distinctly, as to a not-very-bright child, “Mrs. P H I L. O. S M I T H.”
“Ah,” the desk clerk looked enlightened. “Here it is. We’ve put you in a room next to the bathroom, as requested. If you would just sign here?” She said as she turned the register to face the woman and handed her the pen from the inkstand.
Breathing deeply, the woman ostentatiously removed the grey leather glove from her right hand and took the pen from the desk clerk. She dipped it in the inkwell and wrote with a firm hand, then handed it back and made a show of pulling her glove back on with a series of firm tugs.
“Here is your room key, ma’am.” The desk clerk signaled to the porter, who stepped forward. “José will see you up. If you will just show him which of these bags are yours.” She indicated four bags standing near the staircase.
The woman pursed her lips. “That — and that — and that.” She pointed to three of the bags, then stepped forward and started up the stairs. “Come along!” she said testily without looking back. José picked up two of the bags.
“I will come back for the third bag, señora,” he said as he followed her up the stairs.
“May I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asked. Wally, who had been watching the drama unfold, jumped slightly, then picked up his valise and took a long step forward.
He grinned wryly at the desk clerk. “I wouldn’t bet a plugged nickel that she tips him.”
The desk clerk looked down with a slight smile on her face. “I couldn’t say, sir,” she said, in a strangled voice. “If you would sign the register …”
He took the pen that she handed him, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote his name and place of residence in the book. He finished with a flourish under his signature.
“There you go, Clara,” he said and watched to see her reaction. It was all he could have desired. She stared at him in surprise, then looked down at the register.
“How do you know …” she began, then read aloud, “Walter Carver, Cleveland …”A look of understanding dawned on her face. “Why, you must be Wally! Prudence spoke of you often!”
“Yep,” he said, grinning. “And she wrote us all about you and the other girls here. Let’s see if the old brain box is working. Your beau is John.” Clara nodded. “Martha and Anne are Harvey Girls at the restaurant.” Clara nodded again.
“Mike is Anne’s intended,” he continued, then turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. José was just descending to pick up Mrs. Smith’s third bag.
“Just a tic,” he said to Clara and stepped over to where the two bags stood. “Here,” he said to José. “Why don’t you take my bag up at the same time? I’m in room …” he turned to look at Clara.
“Room six,” Clara called.
“Room six. Just set it outside the door,” Wally said, as he dug into his pocket. “And here’s for your trouble,” as he handed José a large coin. José took the coin and looked at it.
“Oh, no, señor,” he said, holding out the coin. “This is a dollar. That is too much for just one bag.”
“Is it?” Wally said in mock surprise. He dug around in his pocket again, then pulled out another dollar. “Looks like all I have are dollars. Guess you’ll have to keep it.” He shrugged.
“Thank you, señor,” José said gratefully. He put the coin in his pocket, picked up the two suitcases and started back up the stairs. Wally returned to the desk and leaned on it familiarly.
“Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Pru. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you? I got a couple of weeks off in honor of my promotion to staff accountant, and I thought I’d surprise her.”
Clara shook her head. “I’m sorry. She left with a Detour this morning.”
“Detour?” Wally wrinkled his forehead. “Oh, right, that’s what they call those auto tours she leads. Any idea when she’ll be back?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The Detour lasts for three days and ends in Albuquerque. From there she’ll probably go back to Santa Fe for her next assignment. Even if she’s assigned to another Detour from here, she won’t be back for at least five days or possibly six. The most I can suggest is that you write to her at the Alvarado in Albuquerque.”
Wally nodded. “Sounds like the best bet. Don’t suppose I could rent a self-driving crate, or even a jalopy, and follow her?” Clara shook her head, but before she could speak, Wally continued, “Nah. She’s on a job. Don’t want to get her in a jam with the bosses.” He straightened up. “Well, then, put me down for a week’s stay. What’s there to do in this burg, anyway?”
Before Clara could answer, the door to the lobby opened and a woman staggered in. She was dressed for a night on the town, in a wrinkled sleeveless dress of artificial silk, if he was any judge of fabric (and he was, with two younger sisters), with a ragged feather boa draped around her neck. Her hair was mussed and her headband tipped over one eye. He watched skeptically as she tottered forward on her spiked heels and grabbed the banister. She pulled herself up one step at a time. She was none too steady on her pins and he was surprised when she made it to the top without falling.
He turned back to Clara. “Looks like the local gin mill is still in business.” He laughed. “Bit early for me to be dipping the bill, though.”
“I rather think that was the morning after the night before,” Clara said dryly. “If you’re interested, John and Anne and Mike and Martha and I are all going out for a bit this evening and then to the pictures. You’re welcome to join us.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “That would be jake! By my count, you’re short one fella. I’d be happy to escort Martha, if you think she’d be willing.”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Clara said and called across the lobby, “Martha! May I speak with you a moment?”
The Harvey Girl crossing the doorway turned and headed for the reception desk, her hands full of dinnerware. Wally saw a small, trim young woman with dark hair pulled neatly back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, with thick dark lashes, what they called “put in with a smutty finger.” She smiled tentatively at him, then looked at Clara.
“Martha, this is Wally.”
“Oh!” She looked at him again. “Prudence’s Wally?” He grinned and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said politely and held up the dinnerware in excuse for not offering her hand. “She didn’t mention that she was expecting you.”
“She wasn’t. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I’m the one who got the shockeroo.” He noticed that the top of her head only came up to the middle of his bicep.
“Since Prudence isn’t here, Wally’s at loose ends,” Clara interjected. “So I’ve invited him to join us tonight.”
Wally bowed from the waist toward Martha. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you this evening, madam?” He winked and grinned as he straightened up.
Martha laughed in response. “Oh, the honor would be all mine.” She curtsied as best she could, then looked toward the dining room. “I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you this evening.” She smiled again as she left. He watched her walk away. He could really go for her, if he weren’t practically engaged to Pru. That was his real reason for visiting, to convince her to finally accept his proposal. She was bound to have got this tour guide stuff out of her system by now. So what if she had turned him down more times than he could remember in the past five years? She wasn’t getting any younger.
He turned back to the desk to find Clara holding out his room key. “We’re meeting across the street at the restaurant in the Meadows hotel at six o’clock. We’ll go on to the Coronado Theater from there.”
“Shouldn’t I pick up Martha?” he asked as he took the key. Clara shook her head.
“We’re all going home from work to change and then meeting at the restaurant.” She smiled as she added, “The speakeasy is entered from the alley in back, if you want to get there a little early.”
“Right-o!” Wally said, saluting. “See you all then! Don’t take any wooden nickels.” He bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
***
Wally looked at the two couples walking ahead of them to the theater. John and Mike were wearing clean blue jeans, plaid shirts, and cowboy hats and boots. He felt like a real mug in his white “Oxford bags.” The wide-legged trousers might be the latest thing back east, but they pretty obviously hadn’t made it this far west. His blue and white striped jacket, two-tone oxford shoes, and straw boater all made him stick out like a sore thumb. He looked down at Martha walking next to him. “Sure hope I don’t embarrass you, dressed like some kind of dandy.”
“Oh, no,” she said, looking up at him with her bright eyes. “I think you look just swell!” She smiled and took his right arm. He smiled back and patted her hand. Martha was a real doll.
“That steak I had for dinner was pretty swell, too,” he said. “It was so fresh, it was still mooing!”
Martha laughed. Before she could reply, the four people ahead of them crossed the street and stopped in front of the building on the corner. They turned around and waited while Wally and Martha caught up with them.
Wally looked at the ornate two-story building and whistled. “If that isn’t the cat’s pajamas! It might be small, but it’s the equal of any picture palace in Cleveland,” he exclaimed. He gazed at the elevated statue of a herald, holding a horn to its lips, directly above him. It was standing between two columns to the right of the two-story semi-circular carved arch that framed the entry way. “Hey, there’s another one of these birds on the other side,” he said, pointing to the left of the arch as they approached the entry way.
“We’re rather proud of it,” Clara said. “It’s even been converted to sound, so they can show talkies here. And it’s not so small. It has more than 700 seats.”
Wally nodded. “Not too shabby. So, what’s playing?” he asked, as he looked around at the posters in the entry way, then answered his own question. “Show Boat. And it’s got songs and singers from Ziegfeld’s Broadway play. I call that first-rate! Closest I’m likely to come to Broadway, anyhoo.”
The men pulled their wallets out of their back pockets, then walked up to the ticket booth and purchased two tickets each, while the women waited to one side. The men escorted their dates into the theater, where they were able to find six seats all together in the center section. Within a few minutes, the house lights went down and the curtains over the movie screen were pulled back.
***
Wally did a little two-step at the bottom of the stairs on his way to the hotel dining room. He felt even more cheerful than usual this morning. Last night had been a real pip! Dinner and a movie, then walking Martha home. She’d agreed to go out to dinner with him again tonight. And he’d be seeing her at breakfast.
He entered the dining room and stopped. Martha was there all right, but her lips were trembling and tears were starting in her eyes. She was standing at the table where that Mrs. Smith was sitting with a plate with the remnants of her breakfast in front of her and a meal ticket on the table next to it. A man in a dark business suit was standing on the other side of the table, wringing his hands.
“I tell you that it was in my pocketbook when I came down this morning, but it is not there now,” Mrs Smith said to the man. She turned and pointed a finger at Martha. “That young woman must have taken it when I went to the powder room. I thought that Fred Harvey only hired the best, but I see that I was wrong.”
The tears spilled out of Martha’s eyes and down her cheeks as she shook her head. “I did not touch your purse,” she said. She looked toward the man, “You know that I would never steal from a customer.”
Wally stepped forward and put his arm around Martha’s shoulders. “Hey! What gives?”
“Who are you, young man?” Mrs. Smith demanded at the same time that Martha explained, “Mrs. Smith’s gold fountain pen is missing from her purse and she claims that I stole it. But I didn’t!” Martha turned her face into Wally’s chest.
“I’m Martha’s friend,” Wally answered Mrs. Smith. “What’s your beef? And who’s this bird?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the man in the suit.
“I am the manager of the restaurant,” the man answered. “I am certain that some mistake has been made. Our Harvey Girls are of the finest character.” He looked at Mrs. Smith. “Is madam certain that the pen is not in her pocketbook? Sometimes these little items can fall to the bottom and be missed. I know that my wife has often …”
“Of course I am certain,” Mrs. Smith cut him off. “Since you doubt my word, let me prove it.” She opened her old-fashioned drawstring tapestry bag and dumped the contents onto the table. “You see? My handkerchief, my coin purse,” she poked at the items on the table, separating them, “a theater ticket stub, but no fountain pen.” She glared at the manager as she returned the items to the bag.
“Is it possible that madam left the pen in her room?” the manager asked politely.
Mrs. Smith jumped to her feet, pushing her chair back. “Are you suggesting that I am losing my mind? I never took that pen out of my bag! I am leaving now, and when I come back at noon, I expect you to return my pen to me or compensate me for its loss. It was a gold Waterman with a gold nib worth sixty dollars. And,” she turned to Martha, “I expect to hear that this young woman,” she said the word in a sneering tone, “has been turned over to the proper authorities as the thief she is!”
The three people watched her stalk out. The manager turned to Martha, “Miss Morgan, my apologies. I know that you would never steal from a customer — or anyone else. I will investigate this matter thoroughly. Do you think you can continue with your duties?”
She nodded and sniffed. Wally handed her the handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Dry your tears, now,” he said. “And don’t worry! I’m on the case. I’ll find that pen or die trying! Now, show me to a table. I’m hungry after all this hullabaloo.”
Martha dried her eyes and handed back his handkerchief. “Right this way,” she said, smiling bravely. Wally followed her to a small table laid for two and took a seat. Martha handed him a menu.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked. He nodded.
“No need to rush off,” he said, “I know what I want. Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, white toast, and fried potatoes. Same thing I’ve had for breakfast since I was in high school.” He grinned at her as he handed the menu back. She smiled in return, more brightly this time.
“I’ll put this order in and be right back with your coffee.” He watched her as she walked off. If only he weren’t practically engaged to Pru …
***
After he finished his breakfast, Wally sauntered nonchalantly up to the registration desk and leaned back against it, his hat again on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He stared forward and, without looking at her, asked Clara, “Any idea where the Filosmith is?”
Clara pursed her lips in a wry smile and, continuing to stack brochures, said quietly, “I don’t know where she went, but I saw her leave about twenty minutes ago.”
Wally nodded, straightened up, and, slapping the desk, said, “What I was hoping.” He strolled across the lobby to where José was sweeping under the staircase.
“Say, José,” Wally said out of the corner of his mouth. “How’d you like to make another dollar?” He slid a coin up in his hand so that just the edge showed.
“For doing what, señor?” José asked, politely but guardedly.
“You hear about what the Filosmith accused Martha of?”
“Yes, señor. And I know that it is a terrible lie. Miss Morgan is a very honest young lady. And always very polite, very simpatica.”
“Simpatica?” Wally asked.
“Kind, caring, a very nice young lady,” José explained.
Wally nodded and smiled dreamily. “Yeah, she’s a real peach. Told me at dinner last night she’s studying to be kindergarten teacher. I think that’s jake.”
“Did she also tell you that her brother was murdered just a few months ago?”
“What? Murdered? No! The poor thing. She’s really behind the eight ball.” Wally shook his head. “Well, you could help me prove that Filosmith is lying — or at least, mistaken.”
“How could I do that, señor?”
“You could just happen to leave your master key on that little table over there for ten minutes or so.”
José shook his head. “No, señor, I could not do that.” He paused a moment, then continued slowly. “But, if señor were to have locked himself out of his room, perhaps I could accompany him to his room, to unlock the door for him with my master key, and perhaps we might mistake the door to his room …”
Wally dug in his pants pockets, then patted his jacket pockets. “What do you know? I must have lost my key!”
José stood the broom up against the wall. “Do not concern yourself, señor. I have a master key. Allow me to accompany you to your room and unlock the door for you.”
When the two men reached the first floor, José asked, “Which room did you say was yours, señor?”
“The room next to the bathroom,” Wally said, heading for the room on the near side of the bathroom.
José shook his head. “No, señor, your room is here.” He unlocked the door on the far side of the bathroom, at the end of the hall.
“How silly of me!” Wally exclaimed. “Of course this is my room.” He pushed the door open just enough to slide into the room, handed José the coin and said, “Come back in about ten minutes.” José nodded and turned toward the staircase as Wally closed the door as silently as possible.
He stood for a moment and looked around the room. A pair of stockings hung drying on the towel rack over the wash basin. A pair of slippers stood on the throw rug next to the bed and a dressing gown was draped across footboard. He stepped over and lifted the pillow. As he expected, a nightdress was folded tidily beneath it.
There weren’t many places that the pen could be. From where he stood, he could see that it wasn’t on the floor under the writing desk or the bureau or the nightstand or the armchair. He got down on his knees and looked under the bed. It wasn’t there either. Next, he opened the drawers in the writing desk, but they held nothing except the hotel writing paper and envelopes. The only pen on the desk was the dip pen provided by the hotel, along with its bottle of ink in the ink stand.
He opened the wardrobe and was surprised to find only a single dress hanging from the rod. It looked like the one the woman had been wearing yesterday. The gray velvet hat of the day before stood on the shelf above it, with what looked like a knitted shawl folded next to it, but there were no shoes standing on the floor of the closet. He felt along the shelf. No pen. It only took a moment to look through the few pairs of darned stockings and the intimate items in the top drawer of the bureau and determine that there was no pen. A pair of mended cotton gloves, but no pen. The remaining two drawers were empty. He paused, with his hands on his hips. Something wasn’t right. The woman had arrived with three suitcases of clothing. They were standing right next to the wardrobe.
He picked up a suitcase. It felt heavy, as if it were still full of clothing. He laid it on the bed and opened it. It was half full of folded newspapers. The second was the same. The third was empty. That must be the one that had held the clothing that was now in the wardrobe and the bureau. He shook his head. Something wasn’t right.
There was a soft knock on the door. He quickly closed and latched the suitcase and returned it to its position next to the other two, then smoothed the bed. He opened the door a couple of inches and peered out to see José standing in the hall. He squeezed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him and stepping out of the way so that José could lock it.
José looked at him questioningly. Wally shook his head. “No pen, but … something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on it, but something isn’t right. Maybe a walk will help clear my head.”
The two men walked down the stairs together. José returned to sweeping the lobby while Wally headed for the door to the street. He walked aimlessly along the sidewalk into the center of the city, thinking back to the first time he had seen Mrs. Phil O. Smith. She certainly gave the appearance of having money, but the contents of her room suggested otherwise. How would a woman with only two dresses and one pair of shoes afford a gold pen worth a month’s wages? He pondered the question. It might have been a gift. Or maybe she had fallen on hard times and this was her one keepsake from better days? Or … he stopped and stood still as the thought came to him … or maybe she didn’t have any such pen. Maybe she was a scam artist! He snapped his fingers. That would explain everything — the empty suitcases, the mended stockings, the refusal to allow anyone to search her room for the pen. But how could he prove it? He had learned in college that it is impossible to prove a negative. He shook his head. There had to be a way to at least cast doubt on her claim.
He heard the church bells ringing the hour. It was already eleven o’clock and Filosmith had said she’d be back at noon. He turned and retraced his steps to the hotel, his mind running over and over the incidents of the previous day. There was something, if he could just remember what it was.
As he entered the hotel, Clara was replacing the empty ink bottle in the inkstand, just as she had done the day before. Wally stood stock still. That was it! He finally remembered. He grinned broadly and headed for the dining room. Martha was just finishing laying a large round table. She smiled brightly at him as he entered the room. He grabbed her by the waist and swung her around, saying, “Chin up, kitten! Everything is copacetic! Your white knight has come to the rescue!”
Martha laughed. “Oh, stop, Wally. You’re making me dizzy.” She stood for a moment holding onto his arms. “What have you found out?”
He shook his head. “Not until we confront the Filosmith. In the meantime, I’d better let you get back to work. Wouldn’t want to get you into hot water with the boss.”
“All right, Wally. I trust you,” Martha said, beaming up at him.
“Speaking of the boss, I want to have a word with him. Where is he?”
“In his office over there.” She pointed toward a door with the word “Manager” stenciled on it.
“And what’s this bird’s name? I can’t keep calling him “Manager,” Wally laughed.
“Mr. Martin,” Martha replied.
“Right-oh. See you at twelve o’clock.” Wally patted her on the shoulder and headed for the door. He knocked, then turned and gave her a thumbs up sign.
As Wally entered the office, Mr. Martin looked up and asked, “What can I do for you?”
Wally sauntered up to the desk and sat in a chair facing it. He pushed his hat back on his head and leaned forward. “My name’s Carver. Wally Carver. You may remember that I was around this morning when the Filosmith,” he paused as Mr. Martin furrowed his brow in confusion. “I mean, Mrs. Phil O. Smith, accused Martha of stealing her fountain pen.” Mr. Martin nodded. “You and I, we know that Martha is innocent.” Mr. Martin nodded again. “Well, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think that I can prove it.” No point in confessing to an illegal search. It would just muddy the waters.
“Indeed? That would be a relief!” Mr. Martin responded. “But how?”
Wally shook his head. “I don’t want to spill the beans. You just bring Martha in when the Filosmith gets here and let me handle it from there.” He looked at his wristwatch. “She’s due any minute now.”
Just as he finished speaking, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Martin opened it to find Mrs. Smith standing with pursed lips and a determined look on her face.
“Well?” she asked before he could say anything. “Will you be returning my pen or do you have the sixty dollars?”
He stepped back and waved her into the office. “Please have a seat. I’ll get Martha.” He walked out, closing the door behind him. Mrs. Smith glared at Wally, then took the chair next to his and stared ahead of her, clasping her purse in both hands on her lap. Wally leaned back and examined her, grinning.
The door opened and Martha walked in nervously, followed by Mr. Martin. He pulled a third chair up to his desk for Martha, then walked around and sat in his chair. Martha sat on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands in her lap.
“Well?” Mrs. Smith asked again.
“Mr. Carver has indicated that he would like to ask you a few questions.”
Mrs. Smith humphed. “I don’t know why I should answer questions from this person.”
“Nevertheless, I have given him permission to conduct this inquiry. He may be able to resolve this mystery.”
Mrs. Smith raised her eyebrows at the word “inquiry,” but said nothing.
“Just a couple of questions and we can put the matter to rest to everyone’s satisfaction." Wally leaned forward toward Mrs. Smith. “Tell us, when did you discover that your pen was missing?”
“This morning after breakfast when I wanted it to sign the check for the meal.”
Wally nodded and leaned back. “I was hoping you’d say that. Tell us, do you always carry this pen with you?”
“Always.” She nodded firmly.
“And do you always use it to sign such items as checks, order forms, registers?” Wally asked cunningly.
“Always.” She nodded firmly again.
“Then why,” Wally asked, pointing an accusing finger, “didn’t you use it yesterday morning when signing the hotel register? I was standing behind you in line and I remember distinctly that you took the dip pen that Clara handed you and used that to sign the register. You then handed it back to her.” He paused for effect, then continued triumphantly, “I submit that this is all banana oil. That you do not own any such pen. That you are simply trying to scam the Harvey Hotel of sixty dollars!”
Mrs. Smith stared at him, wide-eyed. She stiffened in her chair and opened and closed her mouth several times without saying anything. She turned to face Mr. Martin. “I … I have never … this is an insult! I shall be writing to the Fred Harvey Company. Accusing me … of … of … dishonesty.”
Wally laughed. “Go ahead. I’ll write to them as well and I’ll get Clara to add her statement.”
Mr. Martin held out his hands, palms down, and made a quieting motion. “Now, now, let’s all calm down here.” He looked at Wally. “Your testimony certainly suggests that Mrs. Smith did not have the pen with her when she arrived at the hotel.” He looked at Mrs. Smith. “Is it possible that you lost the pen on the train? Perhaps when you signed for one of your meals during the journey?” He looked at her hopefully.
She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yes … yes … that is entirely possible.” She seemed relieved. “Yes, that must be what happened.” She tightened her jaw. “I shall contact the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway immediately. And hope that one of their employess has not stolen it.”
Mr. Martin nodded. “And, of course, you withdraw your accusation against Miss Morgan, with an apology.”
“Yes,” she replied curtly. “Of course.” She stood and strode out without another word, pulling the door forcefully behind her.
“Oh, Wally,” Martha said, tears in her eyes, as she leapt up and grasped his hands.
“Told ya’ I’d rescue you,” Wally replied, staring into her eyes.
Mr. Martin coughed. “Now, Martha, no one is more pleased than I to see your innocence established, but it is the noon hour.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you later, Wally.” She hurried from the room.
Mr. Martin walked around his desk and held out his right hand to Wally. Wally grabbed it and shook it vigorously. “Thanks for letting me handle the Filosmith. It’s not often I get to be the hero!”
“It is I who should be thanking you! You saved the reputation of both Miss Morgan and the Castañeda hotel.” He paused. “I suppose I should warn the other hotel managers along the line. I imagine this is not the first time she’s pulled this scam, and it won’t be the last.”
Wally shook his head in agreement. “She seems like she’s got it down pat.” He stopped, remembering her scanty wardrobe. “I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She seems to have come down in the world. Likely she did own a pen like that once.”
Mr. Martin nodded. “If she hadn’t accused Miss Morgan of stealing it, I’d probably have paid her the sixty dollars just to keep her happy.”
“Welp,” Wally said, “Glad to be of service! And now, I’m off to see my favorite Harvey Girl and get a famous Harvey House lunch!”
***
Wally entered the lobby of the hotel with a dreamy look on his face. He paused inside the doorway, reliving the last hour or so, when he had walked Martha home from dinner for the third night in a row. He remembered how her hair shone in the moonlight as they stood outside the gate to her parents’ home, and how soft her hands were in his.
“Martha, I think you’re the bee knees. What say we make this official and permanent?”
She gazed up at him. “You mean, get married?” He nodded, hopefully. “I think you’re pretty swell, too, Wally, but” she looked down at the ground, then back up at him. “I still have a year to go before I graduate, and I do so want to be a kindergarten teacher, Wally, at least,” she blushed in the moonlight, “at least, until I have children of my own.”
He squeezed her hands. “I could wait. It would give me time to get the dough together to buy us a little cottage for two,” he grinned, “or three.”
“Could you?” She asked hopefully. “There’s another reason. My brother, Tom, was murdered just a few months ago and ...” She broke off, crying softly.
“Oh, you darling!” He enfolded her in his arms. “How tragic for you and your family.”
She nodded against his chest and said, in a tearful voice, “I don’t want to leave Mother alone right now.”
“Of course you don’t! A girl should think of her mother!” Just another way that she was different from — better than — Pru, leaving her mother alone to go gallivanting after Indians.
“Hello, Wally.” He was suddenly jerked back into the present. For a moment, he thought he was imagining things. He’d just been thinking of Pru and there she was, standing in front of the registration desk, smiling at him.
“Hello, Pru!” Hoo boy. Was he in a jam! The girl he was practically engaged to was … he stopped. Who was he fooling besides himself? The last time she’d turned him down was just three months ago and in no uncertain terms.
“Clara tells me that you’ve been seeing a lot of Martha.” She smiled again. “I think that’s wonderful!”
Wally drew himself up. “Yeah, well … wait until you two hear the latest!”
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