by Jeanne Dams
“But what does he know that he hasn’t told?”
“It’s just something he found. It may not mean anything.” And Erik refused to say any more until Andy returned.
Meanwhile Hilda had taken time to organize her thoughts, and the first question she asked when Andy stepped into the room was the one she had started before he left. “Andy, what was the message you tried to deliver to—what was the name he gave?”
“Perkins. Mr. Harold Perkins. And I dunno what it was. The desk clerk gave it to me, sealed in an envelope, said to take it up to room four-seventeen. And when he wasn’t there, I took it back to the desk.”
“Does the desk clerk still have it?”
“I think he gave it to the manager, on account of it might have told who Mr. Perkins really was, or where he was from, or some way to get him to pay his bill.”
“Then I must talk to the manager. Now, Andy, Erik says you found something that might be important. Why have you not taken it to the police?”
Andy’s expression changed from affable to defiant. “Don’t want nothin’ to do with the police.”
“Yes, but—oh, never mind. Will you show it to me?”
He reached into the pocket of his tight-fitting trousers. A handkerchief, a piece of string, some lint, several coins, and a dirty, ragged scrap of paper appeared. He handed Hilda the paper and stuffed the rest back into the pocket.
She looked at it with distaste, holding it with thumb and one finger. “What is it?”
“It’s a piece of a train ticket. I found it on the floor of his room. I reckon maybe it’d stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and that’s how it got so dirty. That’s another reason I didn’t say anything about it, see. It might not have anything to do with him, just somethin’ he happened to step on.”
Hilda looked more closely at the repellent object, with Erik peering over her shoulder. Under close scrutiny she could make out parts of a few words: ary 1904 it read at the top end, ia RR in the middle, and apolis at the bottom.
“This month’s ticket,” said Erik.
“And the Vandalia Railroad,” said Hilda. “But what’s apolis?”
“Indianapolis, of course,” Erik replied with scorn. He had recently learned to spell the name of the state capital.
“But the Vandalia Railroad doesn’t go there.”
“It does now,” said Andy. “I heard some men talking about it at the hotel. I didn’t understand it all, but the Pennsylvania line bought up a lot of little railroads, only in Indiana they call it the Vandalia, and it goes to a lot of places it didn’t use to. Now you can go straight to Indianapolis from here.”
“Then this man is from Indianapolis!” said Hilda triumphantly.
“If the ticket belonged to him,” said Andy.
“How many people live in Indianapolis?” asked Erik.
“A lot,” Hilda answered. She was deflating rapidly. “I don’t know, but many, many more than in South Bend. A hundred thousand, maybe?”
The three looked at each other. Hilda sighed. “We will have to find him some other way. Did you find anything else in the room, Andy?”
He shook his head. “It was clean. He’d even made the bed.”
“Or never slept in it, maybe. Did you talk to the maid?”
“Mr. James did. He’s the manager. I guess she didn’t see anything unusual. Or anything with his real name on it.”
“What is her name?”
“Nellie. I dunno her last name. She’s Polish.” Andy was German. There was a hint of condescension in his voice.
“Is she working today?”
“Dunno. The maids work six days a week, but they’ve got different days off, see, ’cause somebody’s got to be on duty all the time.”
“Yes, well, I will have to find her. That will be my job. A maid can talk to a maid. You, Andy, and you, Erik, you will try to find out where the man who called himself Mr. Perkins went while he was in South Bend. He came to the hotel when, Andy—at what time on the Monday, I mean?”
“Near supper time, like I said. Six, maybe? Somewhere around then. I remember ’cause I was just about to go off duty.”
“From six last Monday evening, then, until he left town—well, I suppose on the first train to Indianapolis on Wednesday. I can ask at the Vandalia station.”
“We’ll do that, miss,” said Andy. “And I’ll ask all the boys who work at the hotel what they seen. And Erik can try to follow the trail.”
“Yes, that is good,” said Hilda with a sharp little nod. “But remember. Report what you find to me. Do not try to catch the man yourself, somehow. He is probably a murderer. Do you understand?”
They nodded solemnly, but there was a strong current of excitement in the room. With deep misgivings, Hilda stood to leave, just as two boys rushed into the room, wearing the same uniform as Andy.
“We had to unpack a trunk for a rich old lady,” one of them said. “It took a long time and she was really particular and she only gave us a dime each!”
“Never mind,” said Andy grandly. “There’s something much more important for you to do now.”
Hilda shook her head and left the room.
She had no trouble finding the manager, nor did she find him uncooperative, once she had told him who she was and what she was trying to find out. “Believe me, miss,” he said, gesturing her to a seat in his office, “I want to find that man as much as the police do. I don’t know if he’s a killer, but he’s for sure a thief, and I want him caught. But I’ve told the police all I know.”
“I wondered if you still have the message that was left for him.”
“Some message!” He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it across the desk to Hilda. The envelope had the hotel’s name and address in the upper left-hand corner. It had been slit open; she pulled out the contents, three sheets of stiff, expensive hotel stationery.
“But—I do not understand. There is no message here, only stationery with nothing written on it.”
“And that’s all there was when I opened it. Now, who would go to the trouble of leaving an envelope full of blank paper for a man who was already gone?”
The sheriff believes that the finding
of this man will go a long way
toward solving the mystery.
—South Bend Tribune
February 5, 1904
14
HILDA SHOOK HER HEAD. “I do not know. It is foolish. And it gives us no clue to who the man is, or where he lives. Unless—maybe he knows one of the people who work for the hotel? Because of the paper.” She gave the envelope back.
The manager shook his head. “Anyone could get that stationery. It’s available in all the bedrooms and in the writing desks in the lounges. Anyone could come in off the street and pull a stunt like this.” He threw the envelope onto his desk.
“Oh.” Hilda sat back, discouraged. “Well, do not throw it away. I may think of something. Also, I need to talk to the maid who served Mr. Perkins while he was here. Andy says her name is Nellie.”
“And that’s another thing!” said Mr. James, throwing up his hands in disgust. “Seems like there’s no limit to what can go wrong in a hotel. Nellie hasn’t come in today, so the other maids are having to do extra duty. Fortunately the hotel isn’t full, so we’ll manage, but she’ll find herself without a job when she does show up. If she’s sick she should’ve sent a note.”
“Perhaps she cannot write English,” suggested Hilda, ever sympathetic to immigrants.
“Possible, I suppose. But she could’ve sent someone to tell us.”
“If you will give me her address, sir, I will talk to her and find out what is the matter. Has she been a good worker until now?”
“One of the best, my housekeeper tells me. Reliable, works hard, never complains. Of course, her English isn’t so good, but that doesn’t matter much. She hardly ever has to talk to a hotel guest.”
“Then please give her another chance. It is not so easy to get a
good job, and I do not think she would risk hers without a good reason. I will find her and then tell you what has happened.”
“And how’s that going to help me get my money back?” he demanded.
“That is why I want to talk to her.” Hilda held onto her patience. “She may know something she has not told. If she cannot speak English well, it would be hard for her, maybe. Or maybe she has remembered something since you talked to her.”
“And I suppose you speak Polish?”
“No, but I have friends who do.” She stood. She was growing tired of this man. “May I have the address, please?”
Mr. James grinned. “Might as well, I suppose. You’re a determined young woman, aren’t you?”
Hilda lifted her chin. “Yes, sir. That is why I am good at what I do.”
“Hmm. And pretty, too. You ever want to change jobs, you come to me. I could use a bright go-getter like you.”
Hilda simply nodded. She couldn’t afford to offend the man, but her temper was rising.
The manager took her to the front desk, told the clerk to direct her to the housekeeper’s office, and finally went back to his own work. Hilda breathed a sigh of relief and found the housekeeper, who gave her Nellie’s address. “And I hope she’s all right, I’m sure,” said the woman. “It’s not like her to miss work, and it’s been several days, now.”
“Several days! Mr. James only said today.”
The housekeeper sighed. “It’s been since the middle of last week. She worked the late shift on Tuesday. That’d let her off at close to midnight. I worry about girls like her walkin’ home that late at night, but the trolley goes close to her house. Then her day off was Wednesday, but she never came in on Thursday and I haven’t seen her since. I let it go till today. She has troubles at home—her mother has the rheumatics somethin’ fierce and gets sick a lot. I hated to tell Mr. James, but when it went into a new week, I had to. It’s over my dead body he’ll fire her, though. She’ll have a good reason for bein’ away. She’s a good worker, and they’re not so easy to get nowadays.”
Neither Andy nor Erik was in sight when Hilda left the hotel. She hesitated for a moment and then decided they were both old enough to look after themselves. Mama might baby Erik, but Hilda didn’t intend to. She had work to do.
The sun was high in the sky. Hilda walked through increasingly thick mud toward the Polish part of town. Most of the Poles lived in a section of the west side not far in distance from Tippecanoe Place. In character it might have been a different world. The streets were unpaved, the houses tiny and close together. The snow here was left to be trodden into ice or slush. Most of the residents made heroic efforts to keep their curtains and their children clean, but they had no money to paint the houses, and the landlords didn’t bother. Some people had given up the struggle. Gray rags hung at the windows, and in summer one could see filthy, half-starved children playing in the streets.
Hilda was struck, as always when she came here, with a mixture of pity and fury. How could employers pay their workers so little? And why did these women go on having baby after baby, ruining their health and stretching family finances to the breaking point and beyond?
Hilda thought of her conversation with Norah. The memory bought a hot flush to her cheeks. Perhaps these women did not know that there were ways to avoid huge families. Someone should tell them.
But they were all Catholic. And the Church forbade such practices. And when she married Patrick…well, she and Patrick would have to talk seriously one day.
She found the house number she was seeking, negotiated the muddy path, and knocked firmly on the door.
A woman opened it. Her gray hair was tied back with a cotton scarf, once printed in gay colors, now faded and patched, but clean. She wore a black dress with many petticoats and a white apron—darned, its lace missing, but again, spotless. Her figure was stooped and bent, and she moved with difficulty.
Her expression, eager when she opened the door, faded at once. “Tak?” she said.
Hilda remembered, too late, about the language problem. Did “tak” mean yes?
“Do you speak English?” she asked, without much hope.
The woman shook her head and unleashed a torrent of Polish, of which Hilda understood not a word except the repeated “Nelka.”
Nelka. Nellie? “Nellie. Is she here?” Hilda gestured, hoping she was understood.
More Polish, accompanied by tears and gesticulations. The woman shook her head vigorously from time to time and lifted her arms and shoulders in the universal “I don’t know” gesture.
“Nellie not here?” said Hilda, using gestures of her own to try to convey her meaning.
It became apparent that Nellie was not at home, and that the woman, her mother presumably, was upset.
“I come back,” said Hilda, pointing to herself, then away from the house, then back to the house.
The woman looked confused.
“Do not worry. I will be back.” On impulse Hilda put a hand in her pocket. It was difficult, wearing mittens, but she pulled out a few coins and gave them to the woman. “For you. I will be back.”
She fled as fast as she could before she could see if the woman took offense.
Something was seriously wrong. That was apparent. Hilda needed to find one of her bilingual Polish friends and come back as soon as she could. But lunch was becoming an urgent matter, and home was nearer than any of the other places she needed to go, so she slipped and slid back to the neighborhood where there were paved streets and sidewalks that were always kept clear. She scraped her boots carefully at the back door. Mrs. Sullivan would not take kindly to mud on the floor.
The midday meal for servants and family had been served and cleared away, and the house lay in the lethargy of early afternoon. Some of the dailies were at work, but the live-in servants were taking their well-earned rest. Hilda found some bread and butter and cold ham in the larder and made herself a sandwich.
She ate it in the servants’ room, sitting at the table with its spotlessly clean cloth. The fire in the grate burned with a cheerful warmth. The clock on the mantel ticked. The only other sounds were the snores of Mr. Williams’s bulldog, asleep on the hearth, and the gentle creaks and groans of a great house at peace.
Hilda sighed, tidied up after her quick meal, and then tiptoed up to her room to change her clothes.
Elsa was asleep on Hilda’s bed, but she woke when Hilda came in.
“Oh! I didn’t expect you until supper time!”
“Shh!” said Hilda. “Speak quietly. I do not want to wake the household. How did your work go this morning, my sister?”
“We-ell—I don’t like that Janecska. She got mad at me when I couldn’t say her name right, and then she tried to make fun of me to the other girls. But they didn’t like that any more than I did, so she stopped. The work isn’t hard. Easier than the shirt factory, only I don’t know how to do everything.”
“You will learn. It is hard when there are big parties, but not too bad most of the time. How is Mr. Williams, did anyone say?”
“No better. But no worse, I guess. Everyone is worried about him. That’s funny, Hilda. You always say what a mean man he is.”
“He can be. But he can be kind, sometimes. And we have all known him for a long time. We will not say bad things about him while he is ill.”
Elsa was glad to change the subject. “So what did you do this morning? Was it exciting?”
“Not very. I will tell you all about it tonight. Rest now, little sister. I will be back before nightfall.”
She had better be, she thought. It was not safe out there after dark.
Hilda’s best Polish friend was a young policeman, Sergeant Lefkowicz. She had met him on a dreadful occasion when she had discovered a dead body in the shrubbery, and he had been kind and pleasant to her, unlike his boss, who had bullied her. She hurried now to the police station to see if he was on duty.
She hated visiting the station. The men there were o
ften rude to her, and today was no exception, but she had learned to ignore their innuendos and persist in getting what she wanted. Persistence was one of her specialties.
She was out of luck today. Sergeant Lefkowicz was not working. And just what did Hilda want with him anyway? Hadn’t they heard she was engaged to that Irishman? Paddy wouldn’t take kindly to her going around with a Polack.
And so on. Hilda waited it out and then asked if they knew where the sergeant was, which caused more hilarity. She gritted her teeth and said nothing, but stalked out of the station with the information that she’d probably find him at home.
She had been to the sergeant’s house once before, and knew more or less where it was, not far from Nellie’s house. Hilda could have saved herself many steps if she had known earlier that Mr. Lefkowicz was at home. She hadn’t known, and that was that.
The sergeant wasn’t yet married, so he lived at home with his mother. When Hilda walked up, he was busy clearing the front path of snow and mud.
“Why, Miss Johansson! How nice to see you. I’m sorry, my mother is at work right now.”
He meant, Hilda understood, that he could not invite her into the house. It would be most improper for them to be alone together, unchaperoned.
“It is all right. I came to ask for your help, if you can come with me. There is a Polish lady I need to speak to, and she speaks no English.”
He put aside his broom and wooden shovel and bowed. “I am at your service.”
Nellie’s house was in the next block. Hilda explained the situation as they went, and why she needed to talk to Nellie. “Something is wrong, but I could not understand what. I think perhaps Nellie is very ill, in the hospital maybe, but I do not know. The woman we will see is probably her mother. Maybe her grandmother. She looks very old.”
