In the Shadow of Gotham (29 page)

We would know more answers soon, I vowed, as our cab raced up Fifth Avenue into the East Nineties, well north of the fashionable East Side areas where the Vanderbilts and Astors had built their opulent mansions. But along the way, I found myself thinking not of Cora Czerne, but of Mamie Durant. I could not shake my suspicion that she would play a role in unraveling this case. But probably not a willing one.

“Mrs. Ralph Noland? Do we have the wrong address?” Isabella’s voice reflected her bewilderment as she read the name listed near the large brass knocker on the door of the rowhouse at number 135 East Ninety-first Street. According to Stella’s letter, we could expect to find Cora Czerne here. The house was a plain brownstone, marked only by the presence of two grimacing gargoyles above the front door. Alistair pretended to examine them with great care, leaving me to explain about Mrs. Noland.

I rapped the knocker. “I expect it is merely an alias she uses, to make everything all right with the neighbors.”

“Oh,” Isabella said, blushing, “of course.”

While not fashionable, the neighborhood in which we stood
was occupied primarily by upper-income families. An unmarried woman would attract attention—and ostracization—should anyone notice an unrelated man making visits. Cora Czerne’s alias allowed her to pretend to be married; she no doubt explained her husband’s absences with complaints about his frequent business travel. The pretense was all that mattered; it was the way in which many a mistress assured herself a respectable existence.

In just a few moments, the door opened, and we were greeted by a young housemaid with carrot-red hair drawn tightly back into a bun. She appeared to be no older than sixteen, and judging from her thick brogue, I guessed she was straight off the boat from Ireland. We presented my card, for overt references to police work often made people reluctant to talk.

We waited in the entry hall a few moments while she presented the card; then the same girl ushered us into a small front parlor. Knowing we would have little other chance of nourishment for lunch today, we accepted her offer of tea and biscuits. As we waited in uncomfortable high-backed blue-patterned chairs, I observed the many small wildflower prints that were framed against blue toile wallpaper. Unlike Mamie Durant’s sitting room of colorful purples and reds, this room was a model of traditional propriety.

The biscuits arrived right away; we had just polished them off when Cora came into the room. She was an attractive woman, with olive skin, dark eyes and hair. She greeted us politely before sitting down, though she regarded us with a wary expression.

“Why are you here, Detective?” she asked. “Frankly, I can’t imagine what business you have with me.” She smoothed her plain blue skirt.

“Actually, our interest is not with you,” I said, after I introduced the others, “but with an acquaintance of yours—a friend, I believe.” I paused a moment before continuing. “We are searching for Stella Gibson. We believe you may be able to help us locate her.”

She stiffened slightly, but asked only, “And what leads you to believe I know anything about this woman? What did you say her name was, again?”

While I was unsurprised that she feigned ignorance, I had little time to waste. I went ahead and played my hand.

“Even before we located this letter,” I said, pulling the letter Stella had written out of my pocket, “Mamie Durant had told us you and Stella were friendly with one another.”

I placed the letter on the small coffee table between us. Cora simply stared—first at me, then at the small bloodstained envelope. After a moment, she picked it up and read it carefully before placing it back on the table. Her fingers slightly recoiled from the dark bloodstains and I realized she was repulsed but otherwise untroubled by the blood. It was a reaction that suggested she knew Stella was safe.

“I see.” Cora breathed in sharply as she stared out the window, absorbed in her own thoughts.

Alistair opened his mouth to say something, but I indicated he should not, with a slight shake of my head. I did not want to rush Cora; it seemed that she required a few minutes to compose herself and determine what to say.

“We need your help to find her,” I urged finally, after some time had passed. “The family for whom Stella has been working is quite worried. We believe she may have witnessed a murder, and if so, that fact places her in great danger.”

She looked at me, and her tone was scornful. “And I suppose
you
can protect her? Who are you, exactly? A small town detective working with the Wingate family, I presume? Your primary concern is with the Wingate girl’s murder, which means you cannot fully appreciate how your interference may itself endanger Stella.”

We had not mentioned the Wingate name or that a young woman was the murder victim. But it had not mattered; Cora already knew.

My voice held steady. “I am a detective with several years’ experience in the city, though now I am with the police in Dobson, New York. The Sinclairs are private citizens assisting me.” I showed her my identification as proof, then continued, “I believe Stella may have information that will help us catch Sarah Wingate’s murderer. Only when he is caught will everyone—including Stella—be safe.”

“I can protect her,” she responded with stubborn defensiveness. “
You
are the ones with little understanding of what she faces. You haven’t got the faintest idea of what my life, or Stella’s, is like.” She paused, eyeing Isabella, who sat gracefully, her composure unruffled. Then Cora continued. “I know how this city works and how to make my way in it. No one will look out for Stella better than I can.”

“Miss Czerne, you are a young woman of what—twenty-three? Twenty-four?” I hazarded a guess. “I take it you are helping Stella to hide somewhere in this city. You’ve been doing so for exactly four days. Do you really think you’re prepared to keep it up when four days stretch into ten, then thirty or forty? Stella is not earning money if she is in hiding, and her costs—and yours—will only grow. It’s no way to live for either of you.” I leaned in closer to her chair and my eyes locked on her own.

Cora smiled condescendingly. “I think you misunderstand
both my position and wealth. It is true that men like Mr. Noland don’t marry girls like me. But he will not marry elsewhere any time soon; he simply can’t work himself up to it. He meets suitable girls who are pretty and whose company he enjoys. Yet he’s never quite certain they’re pretty enough or amiable enough to be his wife. So while he wallows in indecision, he spends time”—she paused—“and money”—she emphasized—“on me.” Her eyes narrowed sharply. “And I know how to save what money I get.”

Had I ever doubted it, I now recognized Cora as a protégée of Mamie Durant’s. Cora had just articulated her mentor’s model for achieving financial independence—and perhaps also her habit of looking out for those who aroused her sympathy. I thought of the murder victim Moira Shea, whose body Mamie Durant had claimed and buried for still-unknown reasons.

I tried a different approach, hoping to make her see reason. “You are aware you place yourself at risk by helping Stella. Did Stella tell you anything about how Sarah was killed? It was a brutal murder—one that no other young woman should suffer.”

She shrugged. “As I just said, I take care of myself all right,” she said. “And I look out for Stella because she needs it. She’s the kind of girl you think can’t possibly make it here. She’s too frail, in both body and spirit, especially since the attack. But she has nowhere else to go, so while she’s here, I’ll look out for her.”

“Which attack?” Alistair asked abruptly. “Are you referring to Sarah Wingate’s murder this Tuesday, or to a different incident?”

“Well, the first attack, of course.” Cora looked at us incredulously. “But I suppose when you confront the same attacker again, it doesn’t make much difference, does it?”

She seemed positively annoyed that we were so dense.

For our part, we were thoroughly confused. But Cora had
used the words
same attacker.
While it was possible she had misunderstood Stella, it certainly implied Stella might be able to identify Sarah Wingate’s killer.

“Our apologies, Miss Czerne,” Alistair said, “but we had not heard that Stella was victimized by an earlier attack, much less by the same man she may have seen on the day of the Wingate murder.”

She regarded us with a look of amazement. “How is that possible?” she said. “I thought you said you had spoken with Mamie Durant. Surely Mamie told you about the attack on Stella?”

Seeing only our blank faces, she sighed deeply. “Well, I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted to cast herself in a bad light. Not for the attack itself, mind you—but in the aftermath, the coverup . . . she certainly might have handled things better than she did. A lot of us thought as much.”

Cora went on to give us the details of the January night almost two years ago when Stella had left Mamie’s establishment on a quick errand. A man had followed her, overpowered her on a deserted street, and then forced her into the basement of an unlocked brownstone. Stella had recognized the man by face though not by name; he had visited Mamie’s establishment some months prior. At the time, she had thought him spoiled and overbearing, but not dangerous. She had been wrong. As Stella later described it, she was lucky; her screams brought help fairly quickly, and her life was saved. But she spent months recovering from a brutal assault, afraid to venture outside.

At first, Mamie Durant would not even admit the young man’s attorney to the house. She helped Stella through the process of pressing charges; anything less was, at least initially, unacceptable. But pressure was brought to bear from the man’s
family and their influential contacts; money exchanged hands; and in short, Mamie prevailed upon Stella to drop all charges. It had seemed a godsend when the Wingate job materialized away from the city and its terrible memories. Mamie had been anxious to be rid of Stella, probably because of a guilty conscience more than anything else.

“Personally,” Cora said, “I don’t think Mamie would have done it just for the money. But the man’s family was well connected. They could bribe the right people better than she. Their contacts threatened to shut her down entirely. I’d like to think,” she added, more soberly, “that she felt ashamed of herself afterward. She took an interest in placing Stella with the Wingates that was uncharacteristic for her. I think she simply couldn’t face Stella any longer after what she’d done. Or rather, what she’d failed to do.”

None of us knew quite what to say when Cora had finished talking. Alistair, in particular, seemed to be struggling with what to make of this new information.

“But you have no recollection of the man’s name?” he pressed.

“No,” she said, “Stella never told me.”

“And you never heard the name Michael Fromley mentioned?” he clarified.

She seemed annoyed. “If I have, I certainly don’t remember.”

But Stella would know. And Mrs. Durant, too. And somehow this was all connected to Mamie Durant’s dismissal of us the moment she saw Michael Fromley’s picture. Even if Michael Fromley had not been Stella’s attacker—and he could not have been if Cora were right about “the same person” murdering Sarah—then he was still involved somehow. I was sure of it.

“You mentioned that Stella recognized the attacker as the
same, in both incidents,” I said to Cora. “You understand it makes our need to talk with her that much more urgent.”

“No,” she said decisively. “She is someplace safe. I will not jeopardize her safety. And I also won’t force her to talk about those things that she is better forgetting.”

“I doubt Stella can forget, no matter how she avoids the subject.” Isabella spoke gently, in her most persuasive tone. “But she could ensure that no other young woman suffers by the hand of this man.”

Alistair echoed Isabella’s entreaty. “Where is she, Cora? If you don’t tell us, then you must see how many people you put at risk. You disapprove of Mamie Durant’s handling of the first incident. Just think how different things might be today had she encouraged Stella to press charges. Stella would not be in hiding today. Sarah Wingate would still be alive. And the man who did this to both of them would be safely behind bars, incapable of harming another soul.”

Cora was stubborn and silent.

“Take us to her,” I said. “Or—arrange a meeting, if you prefer. Whatever you like. But we need to see her.”

It seemed as though a long time passed before she finally looked at us, without any trace of emotion. “Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. A brief meeting. No more than, say, fifteen or twenty minutes.” Her lips compressed into tight lines of determination. “And at a public place—Bethesda Fountain at Central Park should be good.”

It was not the most convenient arrangement I could think of, but I was in no mood to argue. “Why not earlier?” I asked. “Surely you could arrange getting Stella to Central Park later this afternoon?”

“No.” She shook her head, then looked at her watch. “I
have an appointment this afternoon. One that I will not reschedule.”

She had done all she was willing to do, and would not hear of another plan, so we found ourselves back on East Ninety-first Street walking toward Fifth Avenue and Central Park.

“In the interest of saving time, I suggest we split up,” I said. “It’s near three o’clock. I’ll go downtown to interview Otto Schmidt, who has no doubt sobered up by now. Why don’t the two of you return to Columbia and speak with some people there?”