“Please go call Dr. Fields,” I whispered to Miss Wingate, who stood helplessly next to us. “Immediately!” I called after her, when she left the room rather too slowly. “We’ve absolutely no time to waste.”
CHAPTER 12
By early afternoon, Joe was resting at home, and I was suddenly on my own in this investigation. “Apoplexy” had been Dr. Fields’s diagnosis. “He’s had a bad stroke,” the doctor had said. “I think his vision may return; I’m less hopeful about the movement he has lost in his left leg. But rest can work wonders for one’s health, so let’s wait and see.” While Joe recuperated under the care of his industrious wife Anna—who had vowed to make all the preparations she thought appropriate for an invalid in the house, including vast quantities of soup—I stopped by the office to check for messages.
No good news awaited me. Mayor Fuller was unhappy about our apparent lack of progress. And there was no word from Alistair—odd, given that he had promised me an update. Fortunately, the information I had requested from my former partner Mulvaney had arrived. I had asked him to locate the police records for the housebreaker who had previously victimized Sarah Wingate. His name was Otto Schmidt, and his arrest record described him as a recent immigrant with no visible means of support and a long history of arrests on charges of vagrancy and disturbing the peace. But the incident involving Sarah Wingate was his first arrest for theft. It was likely, of course, that he had stolen before and simply never been caught.
It took only a few moments to scan through the relevant facts. On September 15, 1904, at nine o’clock at night, he had been arrested for breaking into Mrs. Gardiner’s boarding house for young ladies on Riverside Drive. Several items belonging to Miss Sarah Wingate had been taken. After Schmidt was convicted on that charge, he served six months in jail before disappearing during the confusion that followed a jail house fire. He had not been located since, and it was questionable whether anyone had even attempted to find him. Many offenders considered far more dangerous had escaped during the same fire, and Otto Schmidt was, by comparison, not worth the effort.
As always, Mulvaney anticipated my next request; his note indicated he would determine whether Otto Schmidt could be located, in hopes of ascertaining whether he was even in the New York area at the time of Sarah’s murder. To be honest, I did not believe Otto Schmidt bore any relation to the murder; despite his long criminal record, the man’s history was that of a petty thief, not a violent murderer. But his prior criminal connection with Sarah Wingate placed him under suspicion—a suspicion I would need to clear, particularly if only circumstantial evidence continued to connect Fromley to the case.
Reassured that Mulvaney would handle that angle of the investigation for me, I headed back into the city for the day. I planned to follow up on Stella’s disappearance by visiting Mamie Durant’s place of business. The Wingates were anxious about her, and I believed it was possible—probable, in fact—that Stella had witnessed something that would help break open this investigation. I stopped by Columbia first in the hope I would find Alistair there, but he was not. Undeterred, I decided to take the subway downtown alone. It was still early enough in the day that I should find Mrs. Durant unoccupied and her place relatively quiet.
I had just reached the 116th Street station, about to descend underground, when I heard Isabella’s voice calling to me. I was so pleased to see her that, before I quite realized it, she had determined to accompany me on this particular interview. I immediately regretted the situation, but it was too late: She was already seated beside me on the subway, talking excitedly about what she had managed to discover from some of Sarah’s classmates. Together with Alistair, she had interviewed Lonny Moore briefly; he was the student who had lodged the complaint that Sarah’s work was not her own. “But he has an alibi for the time of Sarah’s murder,” Isabella explained, “at least to the extent we can trust the word of his friend John Nelson.”
“How good of a friend?” I asked.
“Apparently a close, longtime friend,” she said, her voice flat.
I would find that fact more worrisome if Lonny Moore were our likeliest suspect. But it seemed a far more dangerous killer was still at large—a killer I hoped Mamie Durant could help us locate.
After we exited the subway, I saw a solution to my dilemma with Isabella in the form of the Rismont Tea Room. Isabella might wait there during my visit to Mamie Durant. While unaccompanied women could not dine alone in restaurants—in fact, they were routinely asked to leave should they enter—they were welcomed at the city’s many tearooms, which catered to women out shopping. Yet when I proposed this idea to Isabella, she would have none of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous—of course I’m coming with you. You didn’t object before,” she reminded me, her brown eyes flashing.
“Yes, but I’ve thought it over, and it isn’t quite proper for me to take you,” I said. “It’s not the sort of place a lady should visit—especially accompanied by a man with whom you have just become acquainted.” My voice was stiff and forced, betraying my awkwardness.
She merely laughed. “I am not going to sit in some tea house while you do this, Simon,” she said.
It was the first time she had used my given name—and she had done so without thinking. It was an odd sensation, for it had been months since anyone else had done so. Not since first Hannah, then my mother had died.
With some effort, I refocused my attention on Isabella, who was continuing with her argument.
“I’m no longer an eighteen-year-old debutante worried what others may think, and I have every intention of accompanying you on what may well be your most interesting interview to date. Remember,” she added more gently, “I am exposed to far worse through Alistair’s research than the woman we will be meeting today.”
“But you may feel uncomfortable,” I added feebly, thinking mainly of my own discomfort, “and you should consider your reputation.”
“Simon, I will be perfectly comfortable and my reputation will survive.” She touched my arm lightly. “I do not count those who would hold such things against me among my friends.”
And so it was settled, much against my own better judgment.
The door to the limestone town house on West Thirty-eighth Street looked like any other on the street: heavy wood with a burnished brass knocker. It was answered only moments after we knocked by a girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen, wearing a black dress and white apron. It was probably standard policy that visitors should not be made to stand for very long on the stoop outside where they might be recognized. But immediately on the other side of the wooden door was a large entry hall leading to another door, this next one made of imposing steel. It had no exterior handle, but three heavy-duty locks lined the door’s edge. Unwanted visitors would clearly have a difficult time gaining admittance.
At the center of the door was an opening that resembled a mail slot. The maid explained we should submit a note explaining the purpose of our visit. I paused, pencil in hand. “Police Investigation” seemed unlikely to gain us admittance. I settled on: “We represent concerned friends of Stella Gibson.”
After the housemaid passed it through the slot, we waited in silence. The girl stared at Isabella in a way that made her flush, despite her earlier protestations. In response, I offered Isabella a jelly candy from the small tin in my pocket so as to make clear she was with me. Isabella accepted, and the girl looked away.
After what seemed an eternity, but was probably five minutes, the metal door creaked open and we were ushered into a private parlor where, on the table, I noticed a stack of calling cards. MAMIE DURANT, FACILITATOR OF SOCIAL INTRODUCTIONS. It was a tasteful way to describe the services she offered, I had to admit. From an investigation some years ago, I was familiar with her general background. I knew she had done well for herself; she owned the town house outright, and today I could see that its interior was opulently furnished. The furniture was upholstered in a thick red velvet material that complemented the
gold draperies, and each side table featured a marble top with gold leaf scrolling. A gleaming black grand piano dominated the left side of the room.
I recognized her as she entered the room, for I had seen her picture in the newspapers as well as our police files, but she was even more striking in person. She was a tall, solid woman with full red lips that were almost—but not quite—the same brilliant red as the hair piled in high curls atop her head. I was certain the color was henna, since I had never seen a woman’s hair naturally achieve such a vivid red-orange hue. She wore a rich purple and gold dressing gown, and I suspected, despite the afternoon hour, that she had only recently awakened for the day. Her husky voice drawled in the honeyed tones of her native South, albeit in an exaggerated fashion that I suspected was cultivated to complement the persona she had created for herself.
“Good morning,” she said. “So sorry to keep y’all waiting for me. I understand you came here to see me today because you’re concerned about Stella Gibson?”
In answering, I made the necessary introductions and explained the situation, admitting that we were searching for Stella as part of a police investigation. I made clear that she and her business were in no way implicated. Rather, it was our hope that Stella might have contacted her or one of the girls in recent days.
Mamie did not appear surprised in the least. I supposed that, through the years, she had often heard this kind of request—through private inquiries, if not formal police investigations. And I suspected that, in framing her answer, she regularly asked herself whether the missing girl in question wanted to be found. Accordingly, I stressed the fact that Stella could be in real danger.
Her reply came after a moment’s reflection, but it seemed candid.
“Oh, yes, Stella Gibson. Now she was a real nice girl; everyone here always said the sweetest things about her,” she said. “But no, can’t say as I’ve seen her around—not since she left us last August.”
“She left on good terms?” I asked.
“She did,” she said. “She was sweet and pretty, though a tad bit too shy to suit most gentlemen, so she didn’t get on as well as she might have. Reminded them too much of the gals back home, if you ask me.” She paused a moment as the door opened, and a different maid brought in a teapot with three cups. “I’m having a cup,” she said, “so you may as well have one, too.” She busied herself serving it until the woman was gone, and then resumed talking. “I thought it was good for her to move on, so when she wanted to, I pointed her in the right direction. I sent her to one of those do-good Christian reform places run by spinster ladies with too much time on their hands. I heard they set her up in a situation north of the city, probably with a self-righteous old lady who got to feel good for having rescued Stella from a sinful life.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Knowing what I did about Virginia Wingate, I stifled a smile at hearing these imagined traits. Mrs. Wingate was a spinster, to be sure, but I felt she would have more than shared Mamie’s sentiments about self-righteous do-gooders.
“Was Stella particularly friendly with any of the girls here?” Isabella asked. If she was in any way uncomfortable, she did not show it.
“Well,” Mamie said, and paused a moment. “I’d say she got on best with Cora Czerne; seemed like they were always good friends.”
“Is Cora here now? Could we talk with her?” Isabella was momentarily excited.
“No,” Mamie said, “she’s already moved on, the way the more successful gals do. Found herself an even richer fellow than the last and moved to a new apartment far uptown. I can give you the address, if you want to try her there.”
Of course we agreed.
If the rumors I’d heard were true, Mamie might have been speaking about her own history as easily as Cora’s. I knew Mamie had been the mistress of a handful of men, each more successful than the last, whose lucrative gifts had generated the savings from which she started her current business venture.
She walked over to a drop-front secretary desk and unlocked its cover with a key that hung around her neck. Nothing in this house, apparently, was left unsecured. After consulting a small book, she wrote something on a piece of paper.
“What about family—do you know if Stella has any in the area?” I asked after she had rejoined us. Mrs. Wingate had led us to believe Stella had no family, but I was curious whether Mamie knew anything more.
But Mamie was of the same opinion. “Oh, no family living, I’m sure of it. Her father brought her here to New York, but they had no sooner moved here than he died. Heart failure,” she said, sighing deeply. “I’m sure Stella would have gone back home then, if there were any family to take her in. Instead, she came here in desperation, and I took care of her.”
I felt a flash of empathy for Stella, for I had seen many girls in my old neighborhood face similar, difficult choices. When some change in life circumstances forced them to support themselves, and they lacked training or skills, there were few good options. Some might secure a job as a seamstress or factory worker—but the long hours would not generate enough income to pay for food and a modest rent. Some found the easy money made as a prostitute on the streets to be initially more lucrative. But only the hardiest survived that life for long; they fell victim to illness and violence the longer they stayed on the street. Somehow, Stella Gibson had found her way here and established herself under Mamie’s protection. I could not help but wonder how. But that question probably had no simple answer, and I only hoped Whatever ingenuity Stella had used then would continue to serve her now.
I was about to thank Mamie and say good-bye when I had one final thought. “Mrs. Durant, I know you must be discreet regarding your clients, but we are investigating a murder. Bearing that in mind, we would like to ask you about one particular suspect.”
Mamie chuckled with a deep-throated sound as she shifted her position on the sofa. “Now, you all wouldn’t be so naïve as to think the gentlemen who come here actually use their real names?” She laughed again. “You’d have to describe him to me awful well, or show me a picture.”
I obliged, taking out my wallet and thumbing to where I had placed Michael Fromley’s picture.
We were fortunate that Mamie had not outright refused even to look. That she was highly successful was largely the result of her habit of being exceptionally discreet. By all accounts, she was a savvy businesswoman who operated by exercising the utmost discretion.
But after she had taken the photograph and looked at it—first casually, then more intently—I noted the change in her face: Her features froze despite her best intentions.
Silence followed.
“His name is Michael Fromley,” I added.
I could hear her sharp intake of breath. I leaned forward, saying no more but willing her to speak.
When she spoke at last, her voice was like steel.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Detective.” She did not look at me. She was already up, heading toward the door.
“But Mrs. Durant,” I said, quickly moving to block her path. “We suspect this man has committed a murder—a particularly vicious killing involving a young woman who knew Stella Gibson. If you are familiar with him, we need to know.”
We were checkmated: I did not budge, and neither did she.
“Mrs. Durant,” I said, “I gave you my word when we first arrived that you would not be implicated by my investigation. But I was presuming your cooperation. You recognize I have the power to bring you in for official questioning.”
Nothing but silence.
“If I take you in for questions, you may end up in the Tombs. And in the Tombs, one never knows what may happen. It’s very unpleasant, I hear—especially if one stays for an extended period of time.”
She was unmoved. “Do what you will. I have no more to say to you.”
She raised her dark green eyes to mine, and there was no mistaking their determined look. And then she was gone, leaving us to see ourselves out.
Outside, I see
thed with frustration, pacing angrily back and forth. “She knows something—something substantive that she refuses to tell us,” I said. I had threatened her with everything I could, and she still defied me. The reasonable explanation—the only possible explanation—was that she feared Fromley more than me. And I resolved to find out why.
Isabella tried to be optimistic. “Perhaps it was just the shock of it,” she said. “She may come around. She will know how to contact you.”
But Mamie Durant would not contact me. Of that I was certain, from the way her face had hardened with some bitter, private resolve upon seeing Michael Fromley’s picture. I could punish her by bringing her to the local police station for questioning. But to do so would accomplish just that and no more; it would not yield me the information I sorely needed.
Suddenly the door to Mamie’s home opened and a skittish girl hurried outside. “Mamie said to give you this, sir”—she pressed a piece of paper in my hand—“but not to bother her no more. She don’t want your questions.”
As I glanced back at Mamie’s town house, I thought I saw a curtain move behind the third-floor window. I looked down at the paper. Scrawled in blue ink was an address on West Forty-first Street near Eighth Avenue and a number for a landlady named Mrs. Addison. Fromley’s address.
It was the address I had wanted, had been searching for so diligently the past two days. But I felt a surge of anger that I was expected to take this scrap of information and be thankful, when she obviously knew so much more.
That was apparent from the fact that she was in possession of Michael Fromley’s current address—when even Alistair and his aunt Lizzie were not.
It would be several days before we finally learned the reason Mamie refused to talk about Fromley.
And the truth, when we learned it, would be even worse than I imagined.
Friday, November 10, 1905
CHAPTER 13
In the Shadow of Gotham Page 13
