“Please sit down, Miss Batternberg,” she said, her voice flatter and rougher than her appearance. “I can give you five minutes. Countess Isabelle said it would ‘behoove me’ to answer your questions about the deaths of the women in Coney Island, though I’m not sure why I should, since they have the murderer in custody.”
“Stefan Chalakoski is an innocent man,” I said, sitting in the upholstered chair facing hers.
“Well, I know he’s innocent of meeting either Beatrice or Katherine under my roof, but whether he came across them elsewhere is anyone’s guess,” she said sharply. “The police have been here four times – it’s a miracle I could stay open. I had to grease a lot of palms! There is no possibility of a Serbian artist being welcome at Mabel Morgan’s. I admit no immigrants, no Russians or Italians, and I definitely wouldn’t want a dirty bomb-throwing Serb in the same room as one of my girls.”
I froze in angry dislike.
“If you think I’m going to give you the names of any of my customers, you’re mistaken,” she continued with a toss of her head. “I’m simply not sure what the point of this is.”
“I have some photographs to show you of men who may have been here,” I said. “One of these men may be the real murderer. You don’t have to say his name. You can nod or point.”
She pursed her lips, skeptically.
“You knew those two girls,” I pressed her. “Don’t you want to make sure the real killer is brought to justice?”
“Not if it’s going to shut me down,” she said. My face must have shown how appalled I was, for she thrust out a hand and said, impatiently, “Show me the photographs.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I took out the photograph of Uncle David with Ben and Paul. I was putting before her images of a wealthy womanizer of many years’ standing, with an older son who enjoyed prostitutes and a younger son given to perversion. Would one of this trio set off a start of recognition? I studied Mabel Morgan’s face as she looked at the photograph and saw… no reaction at all. Either she was a superb actress, or she genuinely had never seen any of them at her establishment. I felt both disappointed and relieved.
“Next,” she said.
I handed her the second photograph.
“What a pretty girl,” said Mabel Morgan. Then her eyes shifted to the other side of the photograph, and I detected the slightest of movements, a tensing of her shoulders and a flicker in her hazel eyes.
“You know him,” I said, surging forward in my chair. “You know Henry Taul.”
“That is Henry Taul? Ah, of course.”
I knew my mistake at once. Henry was a famous name on the Eastern seaboard. She could say that she was merely reacting to a face familiar from newspapers and magazines. Which is what she proceeded to do.
“Mr. Henry Taul has never been here,” she said in conclusion. “I wish he had. I’m certain he’d leave a satisfied client.” She allowed herself the sort of laugh that no seamstress would ever utter, before saying, “And now I’d like to ask you some questions, such as why this is your business and what you have against these men, but out of respect to Countess Isabelle, I will refrain. Good evening.”
She rang a bell on her side table, and the bow-tied man appeared to steer me out of the room. Dimitri awaited me by the front door; he hadn’t found his way into the piano parlor after all.
“No luck?” he asked after we’d been more or less pushed out the front door.
Revolted by Mabel Morgan, I shook my head without speaking. She definitely didn’t know the members of my family as seen in those photographs. If she knew who they were – Batternbergs – then she wouldn’t have been so puzzled as to why I was involved. As for Henry Taul, I sensed something there. But I couldn’t force her to tell me the truth – if that were the truth. It was possible she honestly recognized him only because he was a well-known playboy.
I’d learned nothing in this brothel that would help Stefan. I said, “Now take me to Kschessinska.”
Dimitri winced. “I thought you’d given up on that,” he said.
“Louise never worked a day in this place.” I jerked a thumb at the clapboard house behind us. “If you really want me to find the man who killed her, then I have to get inside Kschessinska.”
The formerly garrulous Dimitri walked me four blocks deeper into Coney Island’s west side in brooding silence.
Once he stopped, the building I found myself staring up at was a three-story brownstone, austere and unwelcoming. No geraniums stirred in any plot out front; no ragtime tune wafted from an open window.
Dimitri accompanied me up the five steps leading to the front door. I was the one to reach out and tap the large brass knocker. No one answered. I began to wonder if the woman I sought had moved on, as Countess Isabelle said she might after the state’s religious leaders successfully shut down the racetracks.
After a full minute, the door eased open. A tall, thin man wearing the coat and tails of a butler stared at Dimitri and me with brown eyes set deep in his skull.
“I’d very much like to speak to Madame Kschessinska,” I said. “I don’t have an appointment, but I do have a letter of introduction.” I handed him the Countess’s envelope.
The butler did not make us wait on the street but opened the door wide. “If you please,” he said. Dimitri followed me in this time, looking as if he were arriving at a place to have his teeth pulled. Once we were both over the threshold, the butler extended a gloved hand, and I handed him the envelope. We stood in a high-ceilinged foyer, dominated by a wide staircase, the bannister polished to a chestnut sheen.
“A moment,” said the butler, walking up the staircase.
“This is not good – not good,” muttered Dimitri, shifting from one foot to the other, his insolent grace gone.
This fearfulness was the last thing I needed. “Hush up,” I hissed. “Can’t you pretend this is a D.W. Griffith movie and you’re the star?”
He shook his head as if this were the most idiotic thing he’d heard. But at least he didn’t say another word – not until we heard a creak at the top of the stairs. A man stood looking down at us, but it wasn’t the butler this time. This man was young, with a beard and mustache, wearing a tall, round fur hat and an army uniform, belted, his trousers tucked into high leather boots.
“Mary, Mother of Jesus,” said Dimitri, making the sign of the cross as the man – who I concluded was dressed like a Russian Cossack – strode down the stairs. Once he was a few feet away, I realized he had a long pistol shoved in his belt, inches away from a long sword.
“Peggy Batternberg?” the Russian asked at the bottom of the stairs, and when I nodded, he said, “Madame says come now.” He was well over six feet tall.
Dimitri babbled, “Let’s go, forget it, we can’t stay here.”
But the way this man said my name – “Peggy” – reminded me of Stefan’s pronunciation, and although Dimitri obviously thought I was putting myself in harm’s way, I disagreed. This Cossack uniform was meant to intimidate, but my instinct told me it was more costume than soldier’s kit.
“Go if you wish,” I told Dimitri. “I’m staying.”
“You fool—” he began, but the Cossack roared, “You want to go, go, little man! Leave her with Madame.”
Dimitri did exactly that. He turned and bolted out the front door. It hung open behind him, as the sound of his frantic footsteps echoed inside the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I straightened my shoulders, turned and started up the stairs, ready for what awaited me at the top. The house was completely silent – I found it hard to believe there was illicit activity of any sort being transacted here.
The room the Cossack led me to was of startling opulence: gilded mirrors, tapestries on the wall, and plush furniture. Medieval-era Russian icons covered the walls. There were only two images of more modern human beings. One was a portrait of the Russian czar, Nicholas II, a mildly handsome man who wore centuries of Romanov autocracy on his slight shoul
ders. The other was a full-length photograph of a woman in a ballerina costume, her arms lifted gracefully above her head. Her figure was exquisite and her face attractive, though she was not a classic beauty: dark hair, a heart-shaped face, large eyes, a long nose, and full lips.
“Hello, Miss Batternberg,” said the woman sitting in the middle of the room, in accented English. She did bear something of a resemblance to the prima ballerina in the photograph, though she was at least ten years older. She too had a heart-shaped face and full lips. Her black dress, with a low square neckline, revealed her beautiful shoulders and bust.
Countess Isabelle had made no bones about it – this woman was not the ballerina who lived with Nicholas when he was Tsarevitch of All Russia. This room’s décor, her presenting herself in the shadow of the photograph on the wall, the Cossack, it all added up to a determination to present herself as Mathilde Kschessinska. What did Dimitri say? “In Coney Island everything is real and nothing is real.” I must try my best not to offend her, while believing this charade strange and rather pathetic.
Madame Kschessinska rose to shake my hand and then offered to take my wrap. Uncertainly, I handed it to her, but instead of finding a place for it, she stood a few inches away, the wrap flung over her arm, her gaze traveling up and down my face and dress. This was more than just an interest in fashion. She studied my face as if she were searching for something lost.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met Countess Isabelle in person, but I’m sure she’s a commendable person,” said Madame Kschessinska. “Please tell me why you are here, and I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
I took a chair and then gave my hostess an explanation for my presence similar to what I’d offered up at Mabel Morgan: The man arrested for a series of murders, most recently Louise Turner’s, was innocent. I believed the real killer might have met Louise here, under this roof – I dared not use the word brothel – and I wanted to show her photographs.
“You know this man, this Stefan Chalakoski?” she asked. “You champion him?”
How swiftly she came to the correct conclusion. I nodded.
She took out a long brown cigarette, put it in a handler, and struck a match with a ferocious blue puff. After lighting it and inhaling deeply, she said, “Why?”
Although she was a madame in a brothel, someone who profited from crime, Madame Kschessinska had shown me nothing but hospitality and courtesy. I decided to tell her the truth.
“I’m in love with Stefan,” I said. “My family is staying at the Oriental Hotel this summer and I met him in Coney Island. Stefan would never hurt anyone – this arrest is a mistake. I don’t know who the actual murderer is, but I have some suspicions. I have no intention of sitting back and letting them put him on trial, throw him in prison, or … worse. My family doesn’t want me to do anything to help Stefan. Obviously, if they knew I was here, it would go very badly for me.”
Her reaction was completely unexpected. She broke into a delighted smile. “Ah, you are like him,” she said softly.
“Like who?” I said, confused.
Madame Kschessinska took another puff of her cigarette. “I appreciate frankness, and while I wish to repay you the favor, there are considerations. I’ve enjoyed your company so far, and I would like to think you have enjoyed mine. This may change after you hear what I have to tell you.”
“I assure you, I am ready for anything,” I insisted.
She tilted her head, a gesture faintly reminiscent of Stefan, and said, “When I first opened this house, it was at considerable risk, financially and in other ways too. I was a woman attempting something alone – I’d never permit a man to control my business. There were certain people in the first year whose support and affection meant a great deal to me and helped me make this a success. There was one man in particular, who died too young but whose memory I cherish to this day.” She met my gaze directly. “I’m speaking of your father.”
For a few seconds it seemed as if time had stopped, as if I were no longer in this room but elsewhere – on the sand, under the waves, in the stars, anywhere. This was such a shock, coming years after the last time I thought my father could shock me.
Finding my voice, I said, “Now I understand why you were willing to see me. You recognized my name.”
She said, “I knew the names of Jonathan’s children.”
With that sentence, I was plunged unwillingly into the truth of their intimacy. She was not just a plaything, intriguing him with her theatrical idea for a brothel. He talked to her, confided in her. She was important to him. For all I knew, when I shattered our father-daughter relationship, asking him if he was going to see his mistress, he might have been coming here.
I said, “My father was in this house? In this room?”
“That’s correct.”
I felt the old jealousy for the rivals for my father’s attention, the surge of confused loyalty for my mother. But the brunt of the shock passed. I gathered myself and said, “You will help me?”
“Yes, I will help you and this man you love. Though I would do anything, within reason, to see justice done to the murderer of Louise Turner as well. She was not an easy woman to employ, but I liked her. I’m sorry she came to a terrible end.”
The sound of a woman laughing penetrated the wall of the parlor. So there was business being done elsewhere in the house. It made me feel uneasy, but not so much that I’d decline to continue. I handed her the photograph of Uncle David, Ben, and Paul. She looked the men over carefully and said, “None of these gentlemen have ever been my guests.”
I was not as crushed as I’d been at Mabel Morgan’s, for I was certain that it was the next photograph that would yield answers if any were to be found. My throat dry, I presented the former mistress of my father with the second purloined photograph.
She didn’t comment on Lydia, and I wanted to, if at all possible, avoid telling her that the beautiful young woman was my sister. She pointed at Henry’s smiling face and said, “He has never been to this house.”
I felt my body sag in the embroidered chair.
“However,” she said, moving her finger a couple of inches to the face of Henry’s flat-nosed young driver, “this man has come three times in the last month.”
“You mean Jim?” I asked, stunned.
“Jim? He told me his name was Andrew O’Connell, and he worked at a bank, although from your face, I assume this is not true.”
“His name is Jim and he works for this other person . He is his driver,” I said.
“I see,” she said. “How odd.” She thought for a moment. “I do think that he spent time with Louise when he was here.”
Did this mean Jim was the murderer of women? I knew little of the man except that he was Henry’s devoted employee, at his beck and call. He was a uniformed driver and he was a spy but yes, he was even more than that. Lydia had said, “Where would Henry be without his procurers?”
At that moment, sitting in the upstairs parlor of a brothel, my mind curled around a possibility, a dark and terrifying possibility. Henry Taul, with his face in the newspapers and his actions the subject of gossip columns, did not dare set foot in brothels with his fiancée close by. But with the money he gave Jim, his trusted servant, that man could cross such thresholds, and, after sampling the charms of the women, doubtless make arrangements that brought them to Henry, wherever he awaited them. With the huge sums offered, the women might be willing to go anywhere.
If Henry Taul was the murderer, he must be brought to justice, I felt no hesitation. But before I summoned the police, I had to prepare Lydia, and soon. Tonight. I’d need to wake her and start this terrible conversation.
Seeing me in a sea of distress, Madame Kschessinska said, “I must ask you how you are planning to return to the Oriental Hotel and rejoin your family party at past two in the morning, unless your plan is to stay out another four hours or so and return discreetly after dawn.”
I explained to her how I’d managed it last
night. She shook her head. “You are lucky that such a foolhardy tactic worked last night, but it’s unlikely to again. And after two, I have reason to believe the Pinkertons are in full control of the hotel lobbies on the east end, and no doubt they’ve locked that staircase. I think it best you stay here until six in the morning, and then I’ll have you taken to the hotel. I believe some people are up quite early there, to see the gardens and observe the birds. You could mingle among them before going upstairs.”
I had to admit that her plan was superior to mine. I told her about the buggy driver who awaited me – and my earring – on Surf Avenue, and after thinking it over, Madame Kschessinska said she would send an emissary to the driver with my payment and direction to cease waiting. At the sight of the earring, her eyes widened. “But this is valuable,” she said and then smiled, shaking her head, allowing herself some private comparison.
She offered me a room with a bed to sleep in, but I recoiled at that; I couldn’t help it, though such a gesture was rude payment for her thoughtfulness. She did not seem offended. Ever the solver of problems, she offered me the couch in this room, her parlor, while she saw to business elsewhere. That offer I did accept, and shortly after I was provided with a tall glass of water, a blanket, and a couch to lie down on. She then tactfully withdrew.
I threw the blanket across my lap but did not lie down. As my mind raced to explain various possibilities now presented by this evening’s discovery, I kept coming back to Lydia. I was poised to ruin her life with this revelation. She’d taken up this challenge like one of her sporting games, with courage and determination, seemingly on the point of breaking the engagement. But when Henry was arrested and his name no longer shielded in blind items but trumpeted, how could she cope?
There was a deeper torment. Of the first woman killed, I knew nothing. But the second, Katherine O’Malley, to murder her in the spot where I sat with Stefan? And the third, Louise Turner, to leave her body in Hell Gate – and to select Stefan’s former lover – it must mean that Henry in some bizarre fashion sought to punish me. How would Lydia react to all of this?
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