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.
Tonight, however, the joint was standing room only. Wealthy women, from younger dolls in slinky sparkly gowns to older gals who seemed to be wearing the dining room drapes, took center stage, their tuxedoed husbands at their sides like personal butlers.
In her casual white sheath with its distinctive black-and-white sash, Amelia would have seemed out of place, had she not been the focal point of wide-eyed admiration. Waiters served champagne from silver trays, waitresses ferried hors d’oeuvres, and a pianist in tails tickled the keys with Cole Porter. I didn’t tag after my charge, but kept her in sight. With a crowd this select, this controlled, it wasn’t like my experience with the pick-pocket detail was likely to come in handy; still, the ice hanging off these dames made Jack Frost look like a piker.
The most suspicious character in the crowd was probably Mr. Amelia Earhart, that is, G. P. Putnam. There was something wrong with the guy; something that just didn’t fit, though he certainly wore his tuxedo well. He had the tall, broad-shouldered build of an adventurer; but his big square head with its close-cropped dark hair was taken over by the mild features of a college professor, particularly the cold dark beady eyes behind rimless glasses.
And yet, as I’d seen this afternoon as he manipulated everybody at Field’s from the top brass down to the salesgirls, orchestrating the evening like Florenz Ziegfeld putting on a new Follies, he was one glib son of a bitch, whose fast-talking charm was a thin layer over his general disdain for the human race.