The Yale Club was located at 50 Vanderbilt Avenue, a handsome neoclassical building from the early nineteen hundreds, directly opposite Grand Central and sited-as Yale legend had it-on the very street corner on which their famous alum, Nathan Hale, was hanged by the Brits for espionage during the Revolution.
“How did it go missing?” I asked.
“Nobody at the clubhouse had an explanation,” Mercer said, motioning for me to follow him into the adjacent room. “The guest insisted on having it outside on the sidewalk while he waited for a car service that was taking him to the airport. He went inside to use the men’s room and ten minutes later, the trunk was gone.”
“Hardly a surprise.”
“He thought the club’s doorman had an eye on it, but the entrance got busy, so nobody was watching.”
“And the porter?”
“Works in the building across the street,” Mercer said, tapping before he opened the door. “Alex Cooper, I’d like you to meet Mr. Johnson White.”
The slim gentleman, African American with skin as dark as Mercer’s, braced himself on the desk beside him and stood up briefly to shake my hand. He appeared to be in his late sixties, with close-cropped gray hair and beard. He was wearing a navy-blue jumpsuit over a white T-shirt.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Good to meet you as well,” I said.
“How much longer will you have me here, Mr. Wallace?”
“Don’t you worry, sir. Your supervisor is fine with this.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” the man said with a smile. “It’s my lunchtime.”
“We’ll try to be quick,” Mercer said. Then to me he explained, “Officers canvassing the area around the Yale Club found Mr. White. They think he can put some pieces together for us. I had just started talking with him when you arrived.”
“I don’t have many pieces, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Let me be the judge of that. Why don’t you tell us about yourself?”
Johnson White was relaxed and talked easily. “I was born sixty-eight years ago. Right here, in Harlem. Finished high school. Served in Vietnam. Married the first girl I saw when I got home,” he said. “Have two daughters, three grandchildren. And I got one job I’ve had since 1974. Short story, Mr. Wallace.”
“Short and sweet, sounds like to me. You’re a porter, they tell me.”
“That’s a polite way of saying it. A custodian. A porter. I’m a janitor, Mr. Wallace.”
“You work in an office building?”
“Yes, ma’am. Right there on Vanderbilt Avenue, 43rd to 44th Streets. Bank of America building.”
“Since 1974?” I asked.
“I guess you’re too young to know, but it wasn’t a bank when I went to work there. It was the grandest hotel in New York.”
“Grander than the Waldorf?” I couldn’t help but make the comparison because of the dead girl whose murder was driving our investigation.
“Oh, I would have to say yes to that. It was called the Biltmore.”
“I’ve heard of it, of course, although I don’t remember it.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald had glorified the Biltmore in his stories, associating it with Jazz Age luxury and style. He and Zelda had honeymooned there-briefly-until they were ejected for their rowdiness. In countless movie romances, couples reunited under the famous Biltmore lobby clock.
“My father worked there long before me. Got me the job when I came home from ’Nam. In those days it was still connected to Grand Central. In fact, I used to meet passengers registered at the hotel on our own private arrival platform in the train station. It was called the Kissing Room,” he said, winking at me. “Brought them back to the Biltmore underground-never had to deal with foul weather or the riffraff who used to hang around the station. Got them right up to the hotel lobby in a private elevator.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Bet you didn’t know we had a roof garden in between the two wings of the hotel, either, and in the winter we turned it into a skating rink. Now is that grander than the Waldorf or not?”
“Sounds like it was.”
“All that’s left of the Biltmore today is the old clock and the baby grand piano that sat in the lobby. You can come see them inside the bank building.”
“Mr. White and I had just started talking about how he used to carry luggage for railroad passengers,” Mercer said. “That’s why he’s got such a good eye for expensive bags and trunks.”
I knew there was a point that Mercer was making with the narrative.
“The police came around early this morning with a copy of a photograph of that big leather suitcase. I recognized it right away.”
“Because-?” Mercer asked.
“I’d never seen that kind before, if that’s what you mean. But I knew it was fine.”
“Fine?”
“Not from my days hauling garbage and shredding documents in the bank, but from the time my daddy and I were helping fancy people from the train station into their hotel suites. This was a fine piece of leather luggage, a big trunk back when people traveled in style if they were rich. Not with all the wheely bags and backpacks and aluminum stuff that they jam into the airplane overheads today. Not that kind.”
“Where did you see it?” I asked.
“I was standing out in back of my building, on the loading dock area, on a break. Hot as hell the day was. And the brass fittings on the case? The sun was hitting on them, making them shiny like they were new, looking good against the dark leather of the trunk. Caught my eye is all.”
“Was there anyone with the trunk?”
“Not when I first saw it,” Johnson White said. “Strange for people in this city to leave so much as a soda bottle on the street for fear it’ll get snatched. A big, fat old suitcase? Really careless.”
“Did you say anything?”
“To who?”
“Well, did you see the people who put it out on the sidewalk?”
“Don’t know when that happened. Didn’t see anyone close to it at first. It was just standing there in that slice of sunlight, all by itself.”
Johnson White stopped talking and leaned his head down, taking out a handkerchief to wipe his neck. “You got some kind of sweatbox going on in here, Mr. Wallace?”
“Can’t help it, I’m afraid. We’re making do.”
“You’re not thinking I had anything to do with that trunk, are you?” White was stern-looking now, as he lifted his head to ask Mercer. “I’ve seen movies where police do this to people.”
“You’re helping us, Mr. White. The heat is just what it is down here.”
“How long were you watching the trunk?” I asked.
“I wasn’t watching it at all. Don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
“Sorry.”
“It caught my eye, is all. Then some guy walked across the street-you know, from the exit of the train station-walked right up to it all boldlike, and just wheeled it away. It was as though he was supposed to be doing it.”
“One guy?”
“All I saw was him.”
“Did he talk to anyone at the Yale Club?”
“I didn’t see him say a word to nobody, and wasn’t nobody paying attention to say a word to him.”
“What did you do?” Mercer asked.
“I kept on doing exactly what I’d been doing. Resting up.”
“Did it seem unusual to you, the guy taking the trunk?” I asked.
“For all I knew, young lady, he was the very guy who left it there. Didn’t you listen to me? I don’t know who put it out on the sidewalk in the first place.”
“So you didn’t alert anyone at the club, or look for a patrolman?” Mercer asked.
The porter wiped his brow with the handkerchief. “Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr. Wallace. I’m not looking for any trouble, anytime.”
“What did the man look like?”