2
Searchlights stroked the evening sky, motorcycle cops kept the traffic moving, and hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of gawking pedestrians lined the sidewalks, the flashbulbs of the press popping, as limousine after limousine drew up on Washington Street near State, where a doorman in green and gold livery helped women draped in diamonds and furs step to the curb, followed by husbands in black tie and bemusement. What might have been a Hollywood premiere was only another attention-attracting attempt by a floundering department store to regain its footing in dark Depression days.
The famous showcase windows of Marshall Field’s remained tasteful tableaus of prosperity, the classic Queen Anne opulence of a few years before replaced by Art Moderne; but the faces reflected in their glass belonged to window shoppers whose dreams of lives of luxury were as abstract as the streamlined geometry on display. Retail sales were down and wholesale was a disaster aided and abetted by the Merchandise Mart, the Field Company’s $30,000,000 white elephant, the world’s biggest (mostly empty) building, that mammoth warehouse conceived on the eve of the Crash.
Marshall Field’s clearly needed help, and the heroine of the hour was finally arriving.
The man in uniform opened the door for her and Amelia Earhart seemed to float from the backseat, an angelic blur of white. Then, as she paused to wave at the cheering crowd—her shyness and self-confidence a peculiar, peculiarly charming mix—she came into focus, tall, slender, tanned, loosely draped in a white topcoat, its large mannish collar and lapels those of a trench coat.
The applause and huzzahs ringing around her seemed to both embarrass and amuse Miss Earhart, her wide set eyes crinkling; with Hollywood-style makeup, the elongated oval of her face would’ve seemed pretty, but her features were barely touched with the stuff, a little lipstick, a little powder. Her hair was a dark honey-blonde tousle, her nose small but strong, her mouth wide and sensuous.
Just inside the bank of doors, two men in tails were scrutinizing engraved invitations and checking off names from a guest list limited to 500 of the Midwest’s well fixed. Waiting with them was a handsome devil, also in tails, about thirty, six strapping feet with reddish-brown hair.
Me.
Stepping outside into the crisp March air, where breath plumed from every mouth, I crossed the red carpet to meet our honored guest, halfway. It was the least I could do.
I introduced myself: “Nathan Heller, ma’am. I’m the chaperone your husband arranged.”
Taking in my tux, she flashed me just a hint of an apple-cheeked, winsome, if gap-toothed grin. “You don’t look much like a bodyguard, Mr. Heller.”
She didn’t bother working to be heard above the noisy crowd; she seemed to know I’d be able to hone in on the low-pitched, Midwestern musicality of her voice.
“You don’t look much like a pilot,” I said, taking her arm.
Her smile froze, then melted into an ever better one. “You don’t impress easily, do you, Mr. Heller?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I selected a door and opened it for her. Inside, no one asked to check our invitation. We moved down the long wide main aisle; though this was after normal business hours, the first floor was open, brilliantly illuminated and fully staffed. Some of the wealthy guests were pausing to pick up this and that at the curving plate-glass counters, bright showcases of fine lace, jewelry, perfume, embroideries, and notions. As Amelia strolled by on my arm, eyes turned our way and oohs and aahs accompanied us.
“How lovely,” Amelia said, looking skyward.
She was taking in the fabled Tiffany dome, a million and a half or so pieces of iridescent glass, blue and gold, shimmering six floors above.
“Hell of a lampshade,” I granted.
She laughed gently, then her eyes widened and brightened. “You’re that detective Slim told G. P. about!”
Slim was Charles Lindbergh.
“I’ve heard of you, too,” I said. “I guess you know your husband’s already upstairs.”
“You’ve met G. P.?”
George Palmer Putnam, formerly of G. P. Putnam’s publishing, part-time consultant to Paramount Pictures, full-time husband and manager of Amelia Earhart.
“Oh yes,” I said. “He’s been choreographing things here all afternoon, the management, the staff, the press, me, you name it.”
“That’s G. P. Obnoxious, isn’t he?”
She had a wicked little smile going; I gave her half a smile, just this side of noncommittal, in return.
“That’s an opinion I wouldn’t care to express, ma’am, at least until my expense account had been approved.”
The smile widened and made her face crinkle in all sorts of interesting ways; wind and sun had left their signatures on the once-fair, now-freckled skin. But to me the beauty of those blue-gray eyes was only emphasized by the fine lines at their corners.
She damn near hugged my arm as I escorted her to the elevators where the middle one was being held for us. Then, except for the good-looking elevator girl (Field’s only hired the prettiest—Dorothy Lamour started in one of these cages), Miss Earhart and I were alone.
“Rent the tux for the occasion?” she asked, looking me over, finally stepping to one side, releasing my arm.
I gestured to myself with both hands. “This is mine.”
An eyebrow arched in amusement. “Really? I didn’t know private detectives owned tuxedos.”
I patted under my left arm, where the nine-millimeter was nestled in its holster. “You got to be well-heeled to guard the well-heeled.”
Childish enthusiasm turned her into the tomboy she’d most likely been, growing up. “There’s a gun under there?”
“Tailor on Maxwell Street gave me a special cut. Wouldn’t want to create an unfashionable bulge. ’Specially not when I’m guarding a big-time dress designer.”
Which she was, in her way: Marshall Field’s was the exclusive outlet for the Earhart line of clothing, outfits for sports, travel, and spectator wear, sold under franchise by one merchandiser in each of thirty metropolitan areas. Macy’s had New York.
She had a wry smirk going. “I’m not exactly Coco Chanel.”
“Coco Chanel never flew the Atlantic, not to mention the Pacific.”
The latter had been Amelia’s latest accomplishment, a Pacific crossing from Honolulu to California, a little two-day jaunt in January.
“You see, it’s a routine now, Mr. Heller.” The low, melodic voice was weary and resigned. “I set a record and then I lecture on it…even though I hate crowds. And I sell books—which I do write myself, mind you—and clothes, which I do design myself—and even, Lord help me, cigarettes.”
“Don’t tell me you roll your own.”
“No. I detest smoking. Filthy habit.”
“Then why endorse Lucky Strikes?”
Her smile was as sad as it was fetching. “Because I love to fly—and it’s an expensive obsession.”
Our cage shuddered to a stop, and the pretty elevator girl opened the gate and we stepped onto the sixth floor, and Amelia took my arm again. A handsome young man in a gold and green uniform, looking like a chorus boy in a Victor Herbert operetta, took Amelia’s topcoat and ushered us into the salon’s lavish oval foyer, with its beige oak walls and matching carpet and Regency furnishings.
“Miss Amelia Earhart,” a butler intoned. He had an English accent that was almost convincing.
She swept into the salon with her distinctive combination of self-confidence and humility. Applause—of the fingertips in the palm variety, but applause nonetheless—echoed in the main rotunda. She waved it off and began to circulate, shaking hands, saying little, listening to effusive compliments with the patience of a priest.
The spacious circular room, broken up by curtained-off alcoves, had plump, comfortable chairs for plump, comfortable customers to plop down in around the central, beige-carpeted area, where wafer-thin models in costly clothing normally would do their preening, whirling routine.