by Amy Stewart
“May I first say,” Constance told him, “that whatever has happened, it wasn’t sheriff’s business. You and I have met but once, and I wasn’t on duty and hadn’t come in any official capacity. I don’t like to see the sheriff’s time taken up with a personal matter.”
“Nonsense!” Freeman Bernstein shouted. He threw his gloves down but picked them up straight away, most likely so that he would be able to throw them down again. “Kopp is always a cop, no matter where she goes and what she does. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
Sheriff Heath nodded glumly and tried again to put in a word. “What we expect from our deputies, whether on duty or off —”
Once again, Mr. Bernstein wouldn’t let him finish. “Yes, yes, just as I said. And your lady deputy thought it best to use her powers to conduct an unwarranted investigation of my wife, and to follow her personally into Pennsylvania, and to employ a veritable army of matrons in every city on Mrs. Ward’s theatrical tour, who trailed my wife and her company from hotel to theater to restaurant and back again and managed to scare the wits out of her at every turn. Do you know how high-strung these actresses can be, Sheriff? Do you?”
Sheriff Heath made to answer, but Mr. Bernstein went on without pause. “And don’t go lecturing me again about evidence and testimonia ponderanda and that nonsense. My wife described Miss Kopp perfectly, which was not difficult, as all she had to say was that a very large woman was squeezed into a very small telephone booth and was regarding her suspiciously from under the brim of an unfashionable hat. Anyone who has ever seen Miss Kopp would recognize her from that description.”
Constance resisted the urge to defend her hat and instead said, “Mrs. Ward is a famous actress. It’s natural that people would want to watch her and to follow her from place to place. There’s no law against it.”
“That’s enough of your legal gibberish!” Mr. Bernstein bellowed. “My wife is under the misapprehension that I am the one having her followed. She’s so angry about it that she’s fired me as a manager, and refuses to come home at the end of her tour. She says she’s going to take a flat in Manhattan and hire new representation. I want something done about it immediately.”
He slapped his gloves on the back of the chair again, but with less ferocity this time. Then he dropped into the chair, panting. Sheriff Heath saw his opportunity.
“Mr. Bernstein, I appreciate the difficulty you find yourself in. But you must understand that I have a jail full of actual criminals. I simply can’t expend the resources of this office on the resolution of marital complaints. If you’re not able to convince your wife that she isn’t being followed, might you like to consult a doctor about it, or a lawyer? I’m acquainted with an attorney in Paterson who knows his way around a marital dispute, and I’d be happy to send you to him.”
“A lawyer?” Freeman Bernstein was on his feet again, reinvigorated by outrage. “The only lawyer I need is the one who’s going to represent me at the courthouse when I make a complaint of kidnapping.”
“But who’s been kidnapped?” Constance called as Mr. Bernstein flung open the door and made ready to take his dramatic exit.
“My wife, of course. If you say that she wasn’t being followed and that everything she’s told me is false, then I can only assume that she is being prevented from coming home because she’s being held at gunpoint and forced to write these vicious letters. She must be in the hands of white slavers, or worse. I’ll go to the courthouse right now and make my report. That fellow in the prosecutor’s office is always going on about white slavers. He’ll want to hear about this one.”
“Mr. Bernstein, do not forget that it’s a crime to file a false report,” Constance said. “I don’t see how this could benefit you.”
She’d never seen anyone as animated as Freeman Bernstein was at that moment. His cheeks were red, his eyes were bright, and every line in his face was contorted into any expression of outrage. He might have even grown a few inches taller, or perhaps he was standing on his toes.
“It will force you to go and fetch her!” He jabbed a finger in Constance’s direction. “They’ll send the lady deputy, won’t they? Of course they will. She’s your responsibility now, Deputy Kopp. You’ll have to go and get her, and to talk some sense into her. Isn’t that what you matrons do?”
She didn’t like being poked by this man. “What about you? You lure girls away with the promise of putting them on stage, and give them nothing but drudgery instead.”
He stared at Constance, his mouth open, and then burst into laughter. “Lure them away? When have I ever had to lure a girl onto the stage? They follow me around day and night! They beg me!”
He wiped his eyes and gave the sheriff a knowing smile, hoping for some commiseration. Sheriff Heath just stared blankly.
“But . . . Fleurette auditioned to be a Dresden Doll, and you never put her on stage.”
Mr. Bernstein put his hands on his hips and cocked his head at her. “Fleurette. Do we have a Fleurette?”
Constance was almost yelling by now. “You said you did! That’s why we came and asked you. And yes—I saw her. I mean —”
“Aha!” he said. “You did follow her! I knew it. Well, you saw her. How did your sister do on the stage?”
“She isn’t on the stage. She’s your seamstress.”
Now he seemed to understand. He paced around, a finger on his chin. “Oh, yes. Florabelle. Little girl. The one we saw in Paterson.”
“Yes!” she said. “You filled her head with ideas about how talented she was and promised her a place with the troupe.”
“I never did!” He turned to the sheriff and raised a hand as if to take a vow. “Honest, Sheriff. I never did. I thought the girls had a nice little act, but they’re amateurs. We wouldn’t put somebody like that in our show. She’s not vaudeville material. I told her so. She chased after me and asked for a seamstressing job, but I said I couldn’t carry one more girl. She offered to work for free, if only I’d put her on as company seamstress. Said she’d share a room and promised not to eat much. She only wanted to show us what she could do. I felt sorry for her and decided to give the little darling a chance, but I never said I’d put her on stage. I suppose she’s done a fine-enough job. I haven’t heard a thing about her.”
Sheriff Heath saw the expression on Constance’s face and stayed quiet.
“Are you saying that you never told her that she could perform with May Ward?” she asked.
“Of course I didn’t!” Mr. Bernstein said. “Listen, Miss Lady Deputy, your sister’s a sweet little thing, but she’s unschooled. How long has she been at that academy—a year?”
“A little over six months,” Constance admitted. “But all her life, she’s always danced, and she sings at home, and —”
He sighed. “Do you know how many girls I meet every year who like to sing and dance at home in front of their adoring mothers and sisters? What we do takes training, ma’am. Years of it. Your girl likes to prance in front of a mirror, but that’s not enough. I’m sure she’s a fine seamstress. Tell her to stay with that.”
“You don’t know a thing about her!”
Sheriff Heath stood up and said, “Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Bernstein. I hope you’re able to work out matters with your wife peacefully.”
But the sheriff was rewarded with another look of contempt. “Peacefully? You don’t know my wife, sir.”
“But by your own admission, there’s no evidence of a kidnapping.”
He was worked up into a fury again.
“Really? We’ll see what the prosecutor has to say about that!”
He tossed a scarf around his neck in the very picture of theatricality and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Constance opened the door just a crack to make sure a guard had hold of him and was ushering him out. Once she was reassured on that point, she dropped into a chair across from Sheriff Heath.
“Miss Norma certainly knows how to make an enemy,” the sheriff said. “I don’t be
lieve I’ve ever met anyone with such an imagination. He told me that Norma riffled through his office to find May Ward’s tour schedule. I said that sounded outrageous even for a Kopp sister.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to say she did riffle through his office,” Constance confessed. “But it’s not impossible to learn an actress’s tour schedule. It doesn’t prove anything.”
Sheriff Heath sat back in his chair, looking a little downcast at the realization that Norma stood guilty as charged. “I thought the worst offense was you watching May Ward in a hotel lobby, and that hardly sounded like a capital crime, especially since she seems to see ladies following her everywhere lately. She’s obviously imagining things.”
“Oh, I’m afraid she’s not.” Constance told him that Norma had gone on her own to speak to Belle Headison and set her army of matrons on the march. “I tried to put a stop to it, but I suspect that Mrs. Headison didn’t listen to me.”
He groaned. “Then you really did send someone to spy on her in every city?”
“I didn’t. Norma did.”
He rolled his eyes in the general direction of the ceiling and thought about it. “I warned you not to go. I made it very clear that I didn’t want any sort of family trouble interfering with your duties. I don’t believe he’ll make any progress with the prosecutor’s office next door, so we don’t have to worry about false charges being filed. If I know temperamental wives, Mrs. Ward will be back home within the week. Go on upstairs, and don’t let me hear another word about Freeman Bernstein.”
Constance would’ve liked nothing better, and told him so. Upstairs, she made her rounds of the female section, feeling just as downtrodden and dispirited as every inmate serving penance behind bars, and called lights-out early.
THE NEXT MORNING, as Constance went down to supervise the laundry chores, Sheriff Heath came marching down the corridor toward her. “It’s your lucky day, Deputy. Freeman Bernstein is a man of his word. I never would’ve believed it, but he’s filed the charges. As you seem to have brought this on yourself, I’m sending you to New York. You’re to rescue May Ward from the white slavers who are alleged to have captured her.”
58
FREEMAN BERNSTEIN WAS ALL TOO HAPPY to furnish the address where his wife might be found, and the names of her captors. He told the prosecutor that she had given the information to him during a telephone call made under duress. Constance was to go to the office of her attorney, Arthur Basch, and if she wasn’t found there, Mr. Bernstein was quite confident that she could be picked up at the Gaiety Theatre, where her new manager, Siegfried Wallace, kept an office. Constance had warrants for both men. Sheriff Heath had arranged for a Detective Cook from the New York Police Department to meet her and help in serving the warrants, as she would be operating under New York’s jurisdiction.
“You and I both know this is nonsense,” Sheriff Heath told Constance, “and I don’t like to waste a detective’s time. But in the unlikely event that you find them up to some sort of criminal mischief, I want everyone in sight arrested.”
Detective Cook was waiting for her in front of the Equitable Building on Broadway. He’d brought another officer, Campbell, along with him. In their uniforms, the two men were almost indistinguishable—both square of jaw, broad of shoulder, quick to grin, and eager to offer a pinch of tobacco to Constance, and then to laugh and elbow each other in the ribs when she refused.
Having two officers along put Constance in a tricky spot. It seemed to her that the only way out of this mess was to tell the truth: to confess to Mrs. Ward that she was Fleurette’s sister, that Fleurette had run off without telling her, and that Constance had acted out of a maternal sort of fear over what might happen to a girl traveling with a vaudeville troupe. She would assure Mrs. Ward that it was only Fleurette she’d been spying on, and hoped to convince her to keep the truth from Fleurette in the name of family harmony.
Constance had no idea how she might do any of that, especially with two officers tagging along who weren’t supposed to know that she was the cause of all the trouble. She found herself hoping that Mrs. Ward had, in fact, been kidnapped, although she knew there to be hardly any chance of that.
The detectives showed little interest in the case and only glanced at the warrants.
“She’s upstairs with her lawyer?” said Detective Cook when he looked it over. “That’s all they have up there. Lawyers and bankers and insurance agents.” He waved his hand at the elaborate stone building towering over them. “Used to be a nice little place down here. It burned down—they put up this eyesore. Throws a shadow over Broadway like you ain’t never seen. It’s freezing down here now. You never do see the sun, and you know why? You know what’s up there, on the top floor? Bankers’ club. Costs a hundred and fifty dollars just to join, and that’s before you order your rib-eye.”
“What’s the rib-eye cost?” Campbell asked.
“They don’t even put it on the menu. I went up there once, just to see. Told ’em it was an inspection, but I was only there to have a look at that menu. No prices, just steak and peas and something they call potato croquettes, because they’re too fancy to admit to frying a potato.”
The men had a good laugh at that. Constance tried to join in, but every time she said a word, they dropped their grins and stared solemnly at her. At last she gave up on the pleasantries and said, “I believe I’m to go in first, gentlemen, in the hopes of surprising them and taking Mrs. Ward into my confidence.”
Campbell nudged Cook in the ribs. “Send the girl in first. That’s how they do it now,” he said. “Doesn’t bother us, miss. There’s only one way out of those offices. You go on in, and we’ll be right there to catch ’em if they run out. I’d loan you my revolver, but I might need it myself.”
“I carry my own.” She got a whistle from the detectives for that.
“We don’t let our ladies go around with guns, do we?” Detective Cook said to Campbell.
Campbell shrugged. “She’s from New Jersey. You gotta have a gun out there.”
Constance felt stodgy doing it, but she told the men to spit out their tobacco and go to work. They followed her through the massive doors and into a grand marble lobby, where they called for an elevator and soon found themselves in the tiled corridor outside Mr. Basch’s office. Every door held a pane of full-length frosted glass with the occupant’s name in gold leaf. The men lined up along either side of the door.
“Mrs. Ward will want to speak privately,” she told them in a low voice, although, of course, it was she who wanted to speak privately to Mrs. Ward. “I’ll send the others out here to you. Don’t make too much of a fuss until we sort it out.”
“Yes, Chief,” Detective Campbell whispered for the benefit of Detective Cook, who chortled at the joke.
Constance ignored him and went in without knocking. Mr. Basch’s office was filled with cigarette smoke and the sound of ice clinking in glasses. It was a fine room, with painted linen on the wall and good deep carpet. Mrs. Ward was draped over a leather chair in as extravagant an evening dress as Constance had ever seen off the stage, with a dropped waist and a low neck and some sort of gold lace that shimmered like metal. She wondered if she was looking at Fleurette’s handiwork.
Behind the desk was the man Constance took to be Mr. Basch. He wore a good pinstriped suit and had a perfectly square, cleft chin that made him rather painfully handsome. Another man sat across from him. He jumped up when she walked in and extended his hand.
“I suppose this is our lady cop. We were told to expect you.” He was a thin man, almost entirely bald, with a showy mustache and a red bow tie. “Siegfried Wallace. I’m Mrs. Ward’s new theatrical manager.”
At that May Ward glanced lazily up at Constance, took a sip from her glass, then turned again and startled. “She’s not a cop! She’s the detective my husband hired. What’s the idea?”
Now everyone was staring at Constance. She could only assume that the officers in the hall were listening with great interest as we
ll.
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Mrs. Ward,” Constance said, with loud and clear authority. “I’ve never been hired by your husband. I’m here on sheriff’s business and I’d like a word with you alone.”
“I’m her attorney,” said Mr. Basch. “Send Siegfried out, but I’m staying here.”
“If I’m to manage her, I ought to know what I’m in for,” said Mr. Wallace. “I’ll stay as well.” Both men leaned against the wall, apparently enjoying themselves, leaving May Ward and Constance staring at each other.
Mrs. Ward was defiant. She put her fists on her hips and pursed her lips. “I don’t know who you are, but I know that my husband threatened to send the police after me under a charge of kidnapping if I wouldn’t come home. That’s nonsense. I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve been all over the world on my own. I’m no more likely to be kidnapped than you are. Go on back and tell him that I have every right to hire a manager and see him anytime I like in the course of conducting my business.”
“I thought she was twenty-nine,” Mr. Wallace said, in the manner of a vaudeville stage whisper. Mr. Basch laughed. Constance couldn’t have been more grateful for the grave error they committed, for it gave her an opportunity.
“Go on out of here, both of you!” May cried. “I won’t have you making jokes about my age or anything else. Remember who pays you. Now, go on up and have a drink at that club of yours. I’ll take care of myself. I don’t know why I bother with either one of you.”
May Ward stood her ground. The men skulked out of the room. Constance slammed the door before Mrs. Ward could hear them register their surprise upon stumbling into the arms of the awaiting officers. She heard only the faintest scuffle and assumed that the men did a fine job of taking their captives down the hall in quiet dignity.
Mrs. Ward dropped into her chair again and lit another cigarette. “I don’t intend to say a word to you,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand the sight of either one of them. They’re useless, managers. Worse than husbands.”
