Pre-game Session 00 - Carter Sloane

October 10^th, 1934

A pile of bills and creditor memos

The envelope lay, unopened, atop a pile of bills and creditor memos, for the better part of a fortnight. It was on my to-do-list to open, but these days my to-do-list is pretty hectic. You know, eat, sleep, breathe.

Betty couldn’t take it any longer and opened it for me; it was her last day in for the week and she knew she’d find the envelope in the same place come Monday or lost in the jumble. It wasn’t another bill, it was a job opportunity.

The letter was from a, Janet Winston-Rogers, appealing for my professional help in a case she was only willing to discuss further in person. She had gotten my name from Sherman Billingsley, which was totally probable, considering that man’s contacts. Mrs Winston-Rogers was obviously very wealthy, having a 5^th Avenue address, and offering a substantial amount of money for a retainer. It had been a while since a potential client had offered me anything, let alone a retainer. Betty was over the moon, “We need this”, she said. I knew she was right.

Luckily, the meeting was scheduled for three-weeks time, at the Floyd Bennett airfield of all places. This came across as a little odd, but I’ve known rich folk to suggest weirder things. Betty was already getting together something for me to wear from my cupboard in the office. She reckoned they’d need dry-cleaning though.

I was still a little hesitant – this all seemed too good to be true. There were a million big name firms out there, with good reputations and packs of investigators. Why me? I had the time to check up on a few things before the meeting, I just had to tie up a few loose ends on the Dixon case. I wouldn’t bother Billingsley with questions, the man had done enough already, and he was so busy these days, but I needed some information on my potential employer; her name hadn’t rung any immediate bells.

Let’s just say it was going to be a very interesting meeting…

October 23^rd, 1934

Nearly two-weeks passed before I laid the Dixon case to rest. In the end I found Meridith Dixon’s husband, or what was left of him, bound and gagged in a shallow grave behind Cox’s Junkyard in Flushing, two neat .38 holes in his back. I’d bet a Jackson it was those Ferriola brothers, but I had nothing concrete. I handed over everything to Dunn, but I felt I could have - should have, done more.

My thoughts finally turned to the appointment with Mrs Winston-Rogers and I started, as always, down at the civil registry. The skirt was born in 1907, making her the ripe old age of 27; had married in 1928, a Horatio Rogers. Her father’s name was Walter Winston. Not much to go on, but I slipped my usual guy a fiver to keep him happy.

NYC Public Library

My time at the Public Library was a little more productive and I whiled away the afternoon pouring over old newspapers. Turned out Walter Winston, was, the, Walter Winston, of Winston Pharmaceuticals, a company that had made its wealth during the war. Walter seemed the decent sort and spent some of the money on hospitals, especially after 1924. He wasn’t much of a public figure, but did show his face for charity events and such, until around 1926, after which he slowly faded from the public eye, eventually disappearing from print altogether by 1930. The old man had died in July of this year, making Janet the sole heiress to the Winston fortune, her mother having already passed away in 32. Mrs Winston-Rogers was rich, filthy rich.

But it got better. Apparently, Janet was already rich, having inherited the fortunes of her late husband, Horatio Rogers, who'd been killed in an automobile accident in February 1933. Rogers was Old Money turned Industrialist, with his fingers in many pies all over the world. Rogers Consolidated, her husband's company, owned now by Mrs Winston-Rogers, was in the process of absorbing Winston Pharmaceuticals. 

970 Fifth Avenue

I was beginning to think Mrs Winston-Rogers might give the Black Widow a run for her money, what with two deaths within as many years, coincidentally resulting in the amassing of a vast fortune. To make matters worse, from her pictures in the papers, lets just say Janet was easy on the eyes too.

A few days later, Dunn, set my mind at ease, confirming that both deaths seemed legitimate enough and neither bore any evidence of foul play. Rogers had been killed by a truck, while Wilson died of a heart attack. Still, Dunn told me to watch my back.

Like I needed any further convincing, that evening I drove along 5^th Avenue stopping by the address in the letter. Number 970 was as large and opulent a building as ever I had seen, and Mrs Winston-Rogers owned at least an entire floor of it. I hadn’t learnt much about my prospective employer, but I did know one thing. Mrs Winston-Rogers was rich, filthy rich.