In the Shadow of Gotham (17 page)

“I wouldn’t know about that, Detective. Like I told the other policeman who came, I don’t go in for small talk. Stella was a nice enough girl. But I can’t say more than that.”

“And you, Mrs. Wingate?” I asked, cradling my cup of warm tea in my hands. There was enough chill in the air that its warmth felt comforting.

After Maud returned to the house, Mrs. Wingate was quiet for some time. Then she said, “You might check Stella’s whereabouts with a woman named Mamie Durant on West Thirty-eighth Street.”

“Mamie Durant.” I repeated the name, almost to myself, as I tried to place where I had heard the name before. “Isn’t she—”
I articulated the question a split second before the thought fully crystallized in my mind.

“Yes,” Virginia Wingate interrupted, seeming to intuit what I was thinking. Her watery blue eyes did not falter as they met my own. “She owns and manages a high-class gentleman’s club, catering to wealthy clients.”

I could only stare at her, dumbfounded. The club run by Mamie Durant was not the sort of place a well-bred lady like Mrs. Wingate would ordinarily know about, much less mention in polite conversation.
Gentleman’s club
was a fine euphemism, but what went on there was prostitution—plain and simple. And Mrs. Wingate had broached the subject as matter-of-factly as though she were talking about a popular ladies’ tearoom.

“How do you know Mamie Durant? Or rather, how does Stella—?” In my attempts to be discreet with Mrs. Wingate, I could not pose the question. The right words simply did not exist.

She cut me off calmly, amused by my embarrassment. “Mamie Durant was Stella’s previous employer. She provided an excellent reference to the organization that found Stella for me. You see, she fully supported Stella in making a fresh start.”

I was shocked to find her so unemotional about the subject—one which ladies of her social class did not discuss and usually pretended did not exist. I stammered lamely, “Does Miss Abigail know about Stella’s background?”

“Of course she does not,” Mrs. Wingate said, sitting up straighter. “No one here does.” She took a sip of her tea before continuing. “Stella became quite ill during her last months at Mamie Durant’s, and when she recovered, she began to do the laundry and light house keeping there. Mamie herself apparently told her if she was happy enough with that sort of work,
she should find respectable quarters to do it in. Housemaids in private homes often find husbands and marry; those in gentlemen’s clubs do not.”

“You said an organization placed her with you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she confirmed with a nod, “it was one of those ladies’ home committees in the city. A friend involved with their work sent Stella to me for an interview, knowing my views were liberal enough to take her.” She smiled slightly. “Plus, I have no husband or sons in my household to worry about.” After another moment, she shrugged. “It was really quite simple. She wanted a fresh start; I decided to give it to her.”

I knew many people who would have given her a dozen reasons why it was a bad idea, but clearly Mrs. Wingate had considered such concerns unimportant.

“Thank you,” I said, “you have been very helpful. If you think of anything else that may be important, will you let me know?”

“Of course,” she said, rising to say good-bye. “I know where to find you. And do”—her voice caught—“
do
try your best to find her. I should like so much to have things back, just as they were.”

As she stood before me in her wrap on the porch, I looked at her with pity and thought that she suddenly looked very old and frail. “Of course,” I said gently, and bid her good-bye, thinking that no matter what tricks of mind Virginia Wingate might employ, not even the best of imaginations could ever make things just as they once were.

“Joe?” I called out from the foot of the stairs. “Are you ready to go?”

There was no answer.

“Joe?” I called again, more loudly this time.

Miss Abigail’s pale face appeared suddenly at the top of the stair railing. “Come up now,” she said, her voice filled with worry. “He’s behaving strangely. Something is wrong, but I don’t know what.”

I bounded up the staircase, taking three steps at a time, and Miss Wingate quickly ushered me into a small bedroom where Joe awkwardly hugged the back of a rocking chair.

“Ziele.” He uttered my name and took a step toward me, but his left leg buckled the moment he put weight on it. His large frame collapsed onto the floor and he looked up at me with un-seeing eyes. “So dizzy,” he murmured.

“Help me get him onto the bed,” I said to Miss Wingate.

Once he lay flat, he continued to complain that he could not see, nor could he feel anything in his left leg. I cradled his head against the pillow and felt his pulse. “Don’t worry. Just be still for now.”

“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.”

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.