way to work, though, and she’d have to hurry not to risk being late again.
An hour later, Grace neared the British consulate, a bustling office building on Third Avenue uncomfortably close to the hotel she’d found herself in with Mark two nights earlier. At the corner, a boy in worn trousers and a cap was selling newspapers. He reminded Grace of Sammy, who she hoped was managing all right at his cousin’s. She took a copy of The Post and paid the boy. The headline read, “Truman Warns of Soviet Menace in the East.” Not a year ago, everyone still feared Hitler. But now Stalin was spreading communism in countries still too weak from the war to resist and dividing Europe in a whole new way.
Grace flipped through the paper. On page nine, a picture of Eleanor Trigg, the same one that had been on the news the previous evening, was displayed on the bottom half. There was a second photo, a grainy, nondescript image of the street, not the grisly scene itself, thankfully. Grace scanned the article but it contained nothing more than she already knew.
It was not, Grace reminded herself, her problem. She smoothed her skirt and then marched into the consulate, eager to be rid of the photos and on her way to work.
The lobby of the British consulate was unremarkable, with just a few hard-backed chairs and a low table holding a plant that had died weeks ago. A lone man in a suit and derby hat sat in one of the chairs, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. The receptionist, an older woman with her gray hair swept up in a knot and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, clacked at a Remington.
“Yes?” the woman asked. She did not look up from the typewriter as Grace approached.
Grace saw how it must look—an unknown woman, arriving unannounced. She was nobody here.
But Grace had learned much from her months of working with Frankie to help the immigrants about wheedling her way through government bureaucracy, getting what she wanted from tired civil servants. Steeling herself, she held up the envelope. “I found these photos and I believe they belong to a British citizen.” Belonged, she corrected herself silently.
“And you want us to do what with them, exactly?” The woman, her English accent cold and clipped, did not wait for an answer or bother to mask her impatience. “Thousands of British citizens come to New York every day. Very few of them ever check in with the consulate.”
“Well, this one won’t be checking in with the consulate at all,” Grace replied, more snappishly than she intended. She held up the newspaper. “The photographs were owned by Eleanor Trigg, the woman who was hit by a car outside Grand Central yesterday. She was British. I was thinking if there was a family member or next of kin, they might want these photographs.”
“I can’t comment on the personal matters of British citizens,” the receptionist said officiously. “If you would like to leave them here, we can hold them and see if someone claims them.” The receptionist held out her hand impatiently.
Grace hesitated. This was her moment and she could just leave the photos and be done with them. But she felt a connection to the photos now, a sense of ownership. She couldn’t just abandon them to someone who so clearly couldn’t care less. She pulled back her hand. “I’d rather speak with someone. Perhaps the consul.”
“Sir Meacham isn’t here.” And wouldn’t see you even if he was, the receptionist’s tone seemed to say.
“Then can I make an appointment?” Even before Grace finished, she knew she would be turned away.
“The consul is a very busy man. He doesn’t get involved in these types of matters. If you would prefer not to leave the photos, you can leave your contact information in case anyone inquires about them.” Grace took the pencil the receptionist offered and jotted down the address and phone number of the boardinghouse. She could practically hear the paper falling into the wastebasket as she reached the exit.
Well, that hadn’t worked out, Grace thought as she started out the door of the consulate. She lifted the envelope of photographs to study it for further clues. Then she glanced up at the clock on the building across the street. Nine thirty. She was late for work again. Maybe if she told Frankie what had happened, he might have some idea what she should do next.