Secret of the White Rose (36 page)

“And you’ve been helping girls for how long?” I asked.

“Since 1897.”

My hopes fell. If she had been educating classes of girls for almost ten years, then many students had passed through here. Too many.

I tried anyway. “I’m wondering if you remember one girl—a girl who may have turned to the anarchist cause after leaving you. She had taken up with a Swedish man, though of course she may not have known him at the time she was with you.
If,
that is, she was ever with you.” My question sounded desperate even to my own ears.

It was an assumption to associate the “exotic-looking woman” who accompanied the Swede with the White Rose Mission and I knew it. But she was a known anarchist, and who better to fake a donation from the mission? And to make use of a white rose at three different murder scenes?

Mrs. Matthews shook her head. “I don’t permit my girls to have gentlemen callers while they’re with me. It’s a distraction they shouldn’t have until they are better settled. So if the girl of whom you speak was one of mine, she did not take up with this man until later.”

“Then I suppose we’ve no choice: we must focus on your list of students,” I said, exchanging a demoralized glance with Isabella. “We can search the names against our list of known anarchists.”

“Very well. I keep all my records over here.” Mrs. Matthews gestured to four large file cabinets in the back of the room. “I’ll ask my assistant to help me, but nevertheless it will take time to compile a list.”

I knew she was right; the sheer number of files would take a large commitment of time to examine—time we didn’t have, given the commissioner’s rush to judgment.

Mrs. Matthews began pulling files from the cabinet closest to her, carrying them over to her desk. “I should be able to compile a list for you by tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. We’ll return at eight o’clock,” I said, standing.

*   *   *

I had no difficulty hailing a hansom cab heading west on Eighty-sixth Street. Soon Isabella and I were traveling south on Fifth Avenue heading toward the precinct station.

“What’s next?” she asked.

“To be honest, I’m out of ideas,” I said, rubbing my brow. “I suppose we can check whether there’s an anarchist behind bars who has information about the White Rose Mission. The offer of a reduced sentence may entice someone to talk.” I sighed. “But with the commissioner and other top brass believing the case is wrapped up now…”

“You’re unlikely to get their cooperation,” Isabella said, finishing for me.

We rode in silence for several blocks.

“Is it possible they’re right?” she finally asked. “Maybe it was the Swede. Maybe the person we’re looking for died this morning at Mulberry Street headquarters.”

“Perhaps. But if so, I’d like to know for sure.”

The driver reined in his horse, narrowly avoiding a motorcar ahead of us that was swerving back and forth. As we slowed to a stop, passing a row of limestone town houses, I watched as a service door opened and a maid in starched black and white exited the building.

I bolted straight up and turned to Isabella. “Where do you think the White Rose Mission places most girls?”

She made a frown. “The more educated ones may get work in a hospital or school, even as a ladies’ companion.”

“What about in service?”

“Probably. Why?”

I leaned forward and called out to the driver. “Turn around! We’ve got to get back to Eighty-sixth street.”

“What is it, Simon?” Isabella turned. “Why are we going back?”

We were going back because I now knew where Mrs. Matthews should begin her search. Because of the donation list, I’d been preoccupied with finding an anarchist connection—and so I hadn’t asked the right questions.

“I have an idea.…” I said, my excitement building. “What if the White Rose Mission placed a girl in service inside one of our victim’s homes? This may be the break that we’ve been waiting for.”

“Like a maid or a ladies’ companion?” She raised her eyebrows. “But I thought we were looking for a man.”

“I thought so, too. But it would make sense if it were a maid,” I said, continuing. “Who else could have known so much about these men? Someone inside their home would have had unfettered access to everything about them: their current habits, their papers, their telephone conversations, even their personal history.”

“Someone inside the home…” Isabella said, giving me a thoughtful look.

We were back at the mission house on East Eighty-sixth Street within moments, brushing past the young maid who answered the door again, making our way back to Mrs. Matthews’s office.

She sat at her desk, surrounded by files; when she noticed us, she looked up in surprise. “Detective, you forgot something?”

I leaned both hands on her desk “Do many of your girls go into service after leaving you?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“Can you check your files quickly? I have four names, and I’m wondering whether you ever placed a maid at one of their homes.”

“Yes,” she said, taking out a pencil, “if you have specific names, I can check my employer files.”

Isabella cleared her throat. “Try Judge Hugo Jackson first.”

I turned to stare at her. “Why?”

“Just check, quickly. It may be nothing.” Her mouth settled in a tight line.

A chill went down my spine. “What may be nothing?”

“Here’s the file for the Jackson household,” Mrs. Matthews said, returning to us with a small stack of papers. She handed me her top file, saying, “Nettie Harris worked for Judge Jackson from 1897 until 1901, when she married a Samuel Taylor and moved to a farm in Albany.”

“Who else?” Isabella asked, her face turning pale.

“The next one is Sarah Barnes. She has been with them for eight years, I believe, having risen from housemaid duties to cooking.” Mrs. Matthews laid that folder on her desk, as well.

I scanned her file. She was indeed still with Mrs. Jackson and had doubtless been interviewed last week. But the picture in the file showed a chubby girl with plain features. I didn’t want to rule her out entirely, but she didn’t resemble the description of the woman with Lars Halver.

Mrs. Matthews then displayed the next file. “This is Mary Flanders. She joined the Jackson household in 1901.”

She showed us the file, and I recognized the maid I met the night of the judge’s murder. The same woman I had seen again at Beau’s.

“The name is wrong,” I managed to say. “She goes by Marie. And I hadn’t placed her as African, exactly.”

“If you look in her file,” Mrs. Matthews said, “you’ll see she’s of mixed race. It’s not uncommon, especially in our girls from the South. Slavery left its mark in more ways than one.” She pressed her lips tightly together. “It’s a shame, but girls like her are often easier to place. Like me, they can pass, quite often, for European. Especially southern European. It’s not always to their advantage—”

She was exotic-looking,
the man at Funke’s—and the Greens at the print shop—had said. In my mind’s eye, I’d remembered her only in formal housemaid dress—and I’d not seen it.

“Simon!” Isabella grabbed my arm in a viselike grip. She looked like a ghost, as though she’d taken suddenly ill. “Marie may know Alistair’s whereabouts. You see, I’d told Mrs. Mellown that Alistair was at the Waldorf so she wouldn’t worry. But she was indiscreet: this morning, I overheard her sharing that information with someone from the Jackson residence. Someone who wanted to send Alistair more of the judge’s private papers. She swallowed hard. “I said nothing because I didn’t think any harm had been done…”

“In telling her to send it to Alistair at the Waldorf,” I finished for her.

She nodded, now at a loss for words.

In that instant, I realized we had no time to waste. “We’ve got to go,” I said, choking on the words as I whisked Isabella out the door.

“Thank you for your help,” I called back to Mrs. Matthews, who remained behind—bewildered but aware that something important had just happened.

Just outside, I was able to hail another hansom cab.

“To the Waldorf-Astoria,” I said, “as fast as you can.”

The driver cracked his whip high above the horse’s head. Isabella sat beside me, stiff—her fingers locking together, then unlocking in her lap.

For her sake—as well as Alistair’s own—I prayed that we were not too late.

CHAPTER 30

The Waldorf-Astoria, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street entrance. 3
P.M.

We scrambled out of the cab and into the lobby of the Astoria building, heading straight for the elevator past a number of astonished bellhops, concierges, and hotel guests.

“Sir, really!” one of them protested when we raced past the elegant Palm Court dining room in our haste.

I didn’t bother to apologize but kept moving as quickly as Isabella could manage. I was out of breath by the time we squeezed ourselves into the cramped elevator beside two ladies with voluminous dresses. “Sixteenth floor. It’s an emergency.”

The two ladies openly gawked and the elevator attendant said nothing in response, but he flipped the elevator into gear and sent us to the top of the building first.

I didn’t wait for Isabella the moment the elevator doors opened. I ran down the hallway on thick carpet that muffled the sound of my feet, reached number 1621, and gave a sharp knock at the door.

“Alistair! Open up!”

I pressed my ear to the door and heard muffled sounds.

“Alistair!”

I thought I heard something that resembled a moan. Leaning my shoulder into the door, I gave it a shove.

Nothing. It was bolted.

“Can you break it down?” Isabella asked.

I shoved again.

At the end of the hallway, the service elevator opened, and a heavyset man in a crisp white suit pushed a room-service cart into the hall.

“Can you help us?” I shouted. “It’s an emergency. We need access to this room.”

He hesitated for a moment, then something in Isabella’s expression caused him to reconsider. “I got keys,” he said. “Let me open it.”

He pulled out a large skeleton key, put it in the door, and turned it.

Nothing happened.

“That’s odd,” he said, frowning. “Skeleton keys always work. Maybe they stuck something in the lock.” He leaned over, peering into the lock cavity.

I pulled out my set of picks, chose one, and maneuvered it into the lock recess. Felt for the catch, leaned into it, and—nothing.

“Something’s blocking it,” I said.

“Then we gotta break it down,” the man said. He grabbed his room service cart, lifted the silver platter onto the floor, and wheeled the cart until it was positioned in front of room 1621. “Lean into it with me on the count of three. One, two … three.”

Both of us shoved into the door with every ounce of our strength.

“I felt it give a little,” he said. “Same thing again. One, two … three.”

This time the door cracked open a fraction, and we pushed it the rest of the way down.

I heard Isabella’s scream before I managed to process the sight in front of us.

Alistair sat in a leather chair in the middle of the room, his hands and feet bound by a thick white rope. He was gagged with a long red silk scarf—expertly tied enough that he was able to make only muffled noises, though I could tell by his facial contortions that he was doing his best to shout.

And above him—a pistol trained at his head—stood Marie Flanders, the woman I’d recognized as Mrs. Jackson’s maid. Her face was like steel when she warned us, “If you come one step closer, I shoot him now.”

“Isabella, stay in the hall!” I said—and breathed easier the moment she retreated.

“What the hell are you doin’, lady?” The employee helping us was angry, about to charge into the room toward the woman holding the gun.

I placed my hand on his arm. “I’ve got this. Go get help,” I managed to say. “Take Isabella.”

He looked for a moment as though he’d refuse to back down—then changed his mind when Marie pointed her gun toward him.

“You don’t need to do this,” I said, taking a step closer into the room. I noted the single white rose lying in the middle of the bed. “Untie him. Let him go.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not what’s going to happen, mister.”

“It’s what needs to, if you want this to end well.” I took another step closer.

“This was never going to end well. Don’t take another step or I’ll shoot.”

I motioned to the desk chair to my left. “May I sit?” I wanted to appear relaxed; it was my best chance of keeping her calm.

She nodded. “Put your hands on the desk where I can see them.”

“Very well,” I said.

I regarded her as though seeing her for the first time—which, in truth, I was. She had an attractive, dusky complexion—and I saw how her features, depending upon dress and circumstance, would mark her as either very light-skinned African or dark European. I hadn’t noticed before. Other officers had interviewed her extensively following Judge Jackson’s murder; I’d read their report. But there had been nothing suspicious in her answers, and Mrs. Jackson had vouched for her in the strongest terms.