In the Shadow of Gotham (18 page)

“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 seethed 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

It was difficult to shake the frustration Isabella and I both felt as we left Mamie Durant’s home; we judged indefensible the fact that Mamie obviously had information that she refused to tell us. I was grateful for Fromley’s address, assuming she had given me his most recent one. With luck, it would lead us to the man himself. But her reasons for not sharing all she knew mattered little to me; Whatever they were, they paled in comparison to the importance of solving Sarah Wingate’s murder.

The landlady, Mrs. Addison, was at home when we arrived at Michael Fromley’s rented rooms on West Forty-first Street. She confirmed the identity of her boarder when we showed her his picture, but she was adamant that he had not been around since mid-October. Her description of his habits was sketchy,
but at least she willingly granted us access to his room. Her young housemaid escorted us up to the third floor.

“This is as far as I go,” she announced when we approached the top landing. “He gives me the shivers, that one does,” was her brief explanation—and when we pressed her for details, she merely retorted she had brains enough “to stay far away from the likes of him.” She was gone before we could ask anything more.

Isabella reached for the brass doorknob of Fromley’s room, but I placed my hand over hers before she opened the door. “What if he’s inside?” I whispered.

“Oh,” she said and backed up, her eyes suddenly large as she noticed my left hand clenched around a Colt revolver.

Isabella retreated several feet down the hall, and I proceeded to turn the doorknob. The door swung open with a loud creak. I gingerly stepped into the room and ascertained the space was empty. That much was a relief, so I poked my head back into the hallway and indicated Isabella could enter.

“What a horrid place,” she said, recoiling from the room’s musty smell as much as its dingy appearance. Orange floral wallpaper was tempered by stained green curtains, which were drawn shut. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, even after we opened the curtains. When I could see again, I immediately located a wash table near the bed with a small mirror above it. After putting on my lint-free cotton gloves, I placed the shaving bowl and brush into a clean bag; these items were certain to have a number of Michael Fromley’s fingerprints on them. I would turn them over to the police laboratory in Yonkers before the end of the day in anticipation of a match with the fingerprints I had taken earlier from the Wingate home.

This task accomplished, I took a closer look at our surroundings.
There were no photographs or personal items on display, not even a book or magazine. Did he really spend much time here? I could not help but wonder, as I reflected how the room appeared peculiarly empty and neglected. Yet the wardrobe was filled with clothing, of differing sizes and condition. Fromley was apparently a pack rat, reluctant to part with any article of clothing that was outgrown. Isabella began searching the wardrobe, as I checked the drawers in the nightstand and the suitcase hidden under the bed.

Just as I was about to suggest we leave, Isabella spoke, and her voice was agitated. “Simon, you need to take a look at these. They were hidden underneath a pile of shirts.”

She handed me a stuffed folder, and looked away as I took it, pacing nervously near the window. But Fromley’s room faced an air shaft that provided little light or air. Turning, she crossed the room and threw open the door. And after another moment, still unable to bear the stifling atmosphere of his room, she retreated into the hallway.

I sat on a hard wooden chair and placed the folder in front of me. What Isabella had discovered was a file overflowing with photographs—disturbing photographs in light of what we knew about Michael Fromley’s obsessions. Each one pictured a woman, invariably young and attractive. Some appeared to be taken at random, of women standing or sitting on the subway, the trolley, or the ferry. Had they known he was photographing them? If so, had he posed as a photographer? Even if he had one of the new folding Kodak cameras I had seen advertised, they were bulky enough to be noticed.

Alistair had said something about how those women Fromley encountered on the streets or on public transport seemed particularly to arouse his interest. It had sounded like theory
and nonsense at the time, but as I began to count . . . twenty, thirty, forty . . . there were photographs of well over fifty such women collected here. Had Alistair known about Fromley’s photography habit? And how had Fromley gained the cooperation of so many women?