Decorum (9 page)

 

Francesca’s account of her first interview with Tracey on the marriage contract disturbed Jerry, though it did not surprise him. Francesca’s early exposure to the grimmer side of her fiancé’s personality was not a bad thing. This information, together with the unanswered questions left by Jurgen Lund’s papers, concerned Jerry enough, however, that he hunted down Mr. Joshua Shillingford, private detective, to see what he could learn.

Jerry mounted the steps to a second-floor office on Bleecker Street, situated above a tobacconist’s shop. He expected a ramshackle establishment of peeling paint and draperied in dust. Instead the tidy reception room was bathed in whitewash and stocked with a plain, serviceable suite of oak furniture.

A bespectacled, no-nonsense young woman in a shirtwaist verified Jerry’s appointment in her engagement diary, took his hat and coat, and begged him to have a seat. Mr. Shillingford was in conference with another client. Indeed, he could hear muffled conversation within over the staccato of the typewriter. Five minutes before his appointment time, all conversation ceased. At ten o’clock precisely the door was opened by a short, slight, middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes, wearing a slim-fitting dark gray suit, a very white, stiff collar, and a conservative dark-blue necktie.

As the receptionist rose and said, “This is Mr. Jerome, your ten o’clock appointment, Mr. Shillingford,” the man stepped forward and with a crisp “How do you do,” gave Jerry’s hand a strong though not overbearing handshake. Shillingford ushered Jerry into a larger office bathed in light from two half-shuttered windows. Shillingford’s previous client had disappeared, apparently through a discreet side door.

Shillingford looked more like an accountant than a detective, Jerry thought as he sat before a massive oak desk. The desk was nearly naked except for a small metal lamp, a blotting pad, one folder, writing implements, and a thin sheaf of writing paper. The two oak cabinets bore cryptic alphabetical markings on small white cards labeling each drawer. The man sat, took a sheet of paper, placed it on the blotter, and fixed Jerry in a steady gaze.

“Now, Mr. Jerome,” said Shillingford in a somewhat reedy voice, “you said in your communication that you wished to inquire about an investigation I was undertaking several years ago for Mr. Jurgen Lund of this city. You mention briefly your relationship to Mr. Lund, sir. Would you please elaborate on your interest in that investigation?”

“Certainly. Mr. Lund and I were not only business associates, but our families were close friends, so close that when the Lunds died tragically nearly five years ago their daughter, Miss Francesca Lund, who was then twenty-three years of age, came under the care of my wife and me. She officially came into her money at twenty-five and has since moved back into the family home. In the course of going through her father’s papers recently, she came across a file that he had apparently been collecting on Mr. Edmund Tracey, mainly as a result of an investigation. His papers indicate that you are the man he had engaged for the purpose.” Jerry unbuckled the leather briefcase he had set on the floor, pulled the file from it, and laid the briefcase on his lap and the file on top of it.

“The nature of my clients’ business is, you will understand, strictly confidential,” began Mr. Shillingford. “However, since Mr. Lund is no longer with us and a considerable interval has passed, I feel I am at liberty to answer at least some questions.”

“I understand and I’m grateful.”

“Mr. Lund never told me the reason for his interest in Mr. Tracey’s background. His instructions were merely to conduct as thorough an investigation as I could. He also asked that I conduct it personally, rather than assign it to one of my operatives. I knew of the deaths of Mr. Lund and his wife and son, of course, as it was reported widely in the newspapers. But when he died, and not knowing to whom I should apply for further instructions, there seemed no occasion to pursue it further, so I let the matter drop.”

“As I would have done in your position, Mr. Shillingford. If Mr. Lund placed his confidence in you, I see no reason to gainsay his confidence.” Jerry perceived a slight relaxation in the man’s shoulders, though he continued his businesslike demeanor. “I have reason to believe that a resumption of the investigation is more necessary, I might even say, more urgent than it was five years ago.” Shillingford nodded, took a pen from the stand in front of him, dipped it in the ink, and began taking notes. “At the time Mr. Tracey had begun to court Miss Lund, the Lunds were concerned that they could get little information regarding Mr. Tracey’s background, his connections, or his finances. I believe Mr. Lund engaged you to fill the holes, so to speak, in the event that Mr. Tracey should ask to marry Miss Lund. Naturally, if your investigation unearthed unfavorable evidence, he would have refused his daughter’s hand.” Shillingford’s pen scratched across the surface of the paper.

“To cut a long story short,” Jerry continued, “after a period of absence from New York after the Lunds passed away, Mr. Tracey returned and renewed his attentions to Miss Lund and recently prevailed upon her to marry him. Now that she has claim to all her money, and now that she is in a relatively unprotected situation it is even more urgent that we find out whether Mr. Tracey is the fortune hunter Mr. Lund feared him to be. Mr. Tracey has been approached about a marriage contract, to which he reacted badly. Miss Lund brought her father’s papers to me and would be much relieved to have her belief in her fiancé’s character vindicated. For her peace of mind, I’m asking you to resume the investigation under the same terms as before, with an additional consideration for the time that has passed, of course.

“What concerns me most is your last letter to Mr. Lund, dated June of 1886, from New Orleans. In it you indicated that you had come upon a line of inquiry that you felt it essential to pursue and you asked Mr. Lund for further instructions. Mr. Lund was meticulous in his record-keeping and I see no copy of any letter from him to you, nor a copy of a wire or a receipt for one. Did you receive any communication from him on the subject of pursuing that line of inquiry?”

Shillingford laid his own file open and transferred a few papers from one side to the other until the essential elements in the case fell in line before him. “I have reviewed my notes and correspondence with Mr. Lund at the time and I see no record of correspondence from him, so as I have said, I considered any official business to have been concluded upon his death. I do, however, remember much of the case and am reminded of further details from my notes. I had not pursued a case in Louisiana before, and consequently took particular care, not being altogether sure how that part of the country manages its affairs, and with War sensitivities still running high, even after twenty years.

“I will not take up your time with the early part of the investigation, since you have Mr. Lund’s papers, but I had reason to believe that Mr. Tracey had been married before.”

Shillingford waited as Jerry sat in stunned silence for several moments. “Married?” he said finally. “Whatever happened to Mrs. Edmund Tracey?”

“That, Mr. Jerome, is what we shall endeavor to discover.”

C
HAPTER
12

“Don’t pout. It doesn’t suit you. If she’s half as soppy as you say, she won’t want her poor hubby to have to come to her every time he wants money. She’d probably settle a lump sum on you rather than give you an allowance.” Nell’s voice bit on the last word.

Tracey leaned on the drawing-room mantelshelf, flexing his hands on the edge as if to hurl it through the wall. His right hand was inches from a whiskey glass, his third that afternoon. He examined his visage in the mirror that hung above the fireplace. Did his face convey rage or could he satisfactorily conceal it? This was generally followed by grabbing the glass, downing the contents, and stumbling to the table to pour himself more.

Nell was stretched out on the divan, hugging her kimono around her. She crushed out the stub of the cigarette in the ashtray, then casually lit another.

“This isn’t getting you anywhere.” She took a glass of whiskey from among the bric-a-brac on the side table and sipped it. “I don’t see what you’re complaining about. It still means you’ll get money. Isn’t that the point?”

Tracey straightened himself. He walked to the window, tugged sharply at the curtains, looked outside, then jerked them back into place, and walked back to the mantel.

“I don’t know what you were expecting,” Nell resumed. “A contract is quite typical. That doesn’t mean all is lost. If the Chickadee will negotiate, you should get a tidy sum.”

“That’s not what I wanted. The soppy ones can keep a man on the shortest leash.”

“True. But if she’s madly in love with you, you still have a good chance of controlling a substantial percentage. So what are you worried about?” He made no reply, and without looking at her took the decanter from the table and poured himself another drink.

“Oh, so that’s it. Don’t tell me she’s fallen out of love with you already.” Tracey downed the whiskey. “Goodness me. You’re losing your touch, Edmund dear. I hope you haven’t gone and done anything foolish.”

“If I were worried about doing anything foolish I wouldn’t be here, would I?” he snapped.

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted. “But when you get your back up, you can be quite nasty. You haven’t frightened her or anything? No fits of anger?”

“I have behaved myself admirably.” He had, he thought. He felt and behaved the way any self-respecting man should feel and behave. Why shouldn’t he show his indignation when that indignation was just?

“So you say. Women tend to take a very different view of things. Does she know you are ‘displeased’?”

“Yes,” he said sheepishly.

“Was she displeased with you?”

“No. I don’t think so. She was quite understanding of my situation.”

“Without even knowing what your ‘situation’ is? My, my. She is generous. If she wasn’t angry with you—or even if she was—you’re probably all right. You have such a way with you.” She was taunting him. He rolled his eyes and sighed again. “Still, it would be prudent to be as attentive as you can manage, especially through the negotiations.”

“Then you think I should agree to this.”

“I don’t see how you can do otherwise. The more cooperative you can be, the better. If you’re too obstinate, Jerome will step in and protect her, and then you will be on a short leash. And breach of promise is such a bore. It’s too bad you don’t have anything to bargain with—except your sweet self.” She gave him a seductive smile.

“You really do go too far, Nell.”

“Do I?” She changed her tone. “I’m sorry. It really must be dreadful for you.” She rose from the divan and walked up behind him, set her cigarette on the mantel, the ash end hanging off the edge, and began to rub his shoulders and arms. “Think what it will mean,” she said softly. “You could be set for life, especially if you learn a bit more self-restraint.”

“Could I?” He took a drink. “And how shall I restrain myself when I’m used to spending money?”

“Other people’s. Not your own,” she said. He looked at her grimly over his shoulder. “I know, I know. Perhaps it’s better this way,” she said with a shrug. “At least the bulk of the money would be reserved for a ‘rainy day.’ That doesn’t mean you could never get your hands on it. All sorts of things could happen, you know. Accidents. Incompetence.” She took up her cigarette and drew on it. “Insanity. Lots of things.”

He turned and faced her. “That’s not so neatly done.”

“Oh, it can be tiresome, I agree. Still, the main thing is get her to the altar as expediently as possible. And for God’s sake, don’t do anything to alarm the Magpie. She’s your main ally. Just remember, we all have our little crosses to bear.”

 

Shillingford had secured carte blanche to pursue the investigation in any way that would promise results. Knowing the hostilities toward Northerners that still persisted in the South, and that his own previous foray into Louisiana might be remembered, he recruited a fresh face and engaged another former Pinkerton colleague to assist him—a native Georgian named McNee. Shillingford would undertake the investigation in Baton Rouge and New Orleans and leave McNee to penetrate the outer parishes. Operatives in New York would keep tabs on Tracey there.

Shillingford assumed a persona of a clerk in the employ of an Atlanta law firm whose practice settled old estate claims. McNee was to be a civil engineer, for which he had trained before joining Pinkerton’s, employed by the same firm to plat the land and investigate associated documentation. Their story for why the efficient little Yankee should be employed by an Atlanta firm was that to include a Northerner among its employees might squelch any questions if a claim had Northern connections. A good clerk was the next best thing to a lawyer, and Shillingford was to have been reputed to be the best.

Their mission was simple. Find out as much as possible about Tracey and his wife—whether she be fiction or fact, and if fact, alive or dead. Their separate tasks were straightforward. Shillingford would search for the records. McNee would search for the grave.

 

Connor had begun joining the gentlemen of his business circle on Thursdays for a long though not always leisurely business lunch at the Union League Club, to which he hoped to gain membership. Their lunches began at one o’clock and sometimes barely wound up in time to dress for dinner. At first Blanche had complained mildly, then she had thought better of it. After they were married, this might be a nice little homely pattern for him. In the meantime, she could certainly find ways to amuse herself. So one Thursday when she was sure that he would be well entrenched at the Club, she pulled the calling card from its hiding place among her lingerie and decided to visit Nell Ryder.

Connor had enough bloodhound in him to enable him to quickly sniff out the fact that the Ryders’ marriage was founded on mutual appreciation, respect, and trust—they appreciated that they both were incapable of fidelity, respected each other’s privacy, and trusted each other not to noise it about. Hardly the makings of an acceptable acquaintance. Outside the Fifth Avenue Hotel, she hailed a cab for Gramercy Park.

Blanche stood for a moment in front of the house as the cab clattered away behind her. It stood in a row of imposing stone edifices on a street that had been one of the city’s finest, though it had begun to suffer erosion of moneyed families to newer and grander premises. At first glance the flat facade was nothing remarkable with its plain rectangular windows and long, well-scrubbed staircase. Then she noticed the unusual modern renditions of natural plant life that were carved in the stonework around the front door. A handsome carved stone planter sat just inside the gate. It almost didn’t matter what kind of reception lay behind the polished oak door. To stand in that familiar front hallway, to take off one’s coat and hat and sink onto a familiar chair was too good to pass up. She mounted the stairs and rang the bell.

The maid who answered was very young, small, and neat.

“Good afternoon. I’m here to see Mrs. Ryder,” said Blanche, producing her visiting card and depositing it on the small silver salver the maid offered her.

“Won’t you step in for a moment, madam, and I’ll see if Mrs. Ryder is at home.” The slight, straight figure mounted the stairs.

The handsome foyer had undergone a change. A new paper of warm browns and beiges in lilies and leaves accented by gilt and royal blue adorned the walls. A lush brown carpet ran from the edge of the black-and-white tiled floor of the entrance. On a low marble-topped cabinet stood a white-marble card receiver carved as a stylized calla lily. Blanche rifled through the ten or so cards and noted only one or two names that she could place.

The maid was gone an unusually long time. If the verdict had been dismissal, she would have been down forthwith. Blanche heard voices at the top of the stairs, but out of sight. The maid, unhurried, descended.

“You may come into the drawing room, madam. Mrs. Ryder will be with you in a moment.”

The girl slid open the double doors and ushered Blanche into a rich and chilly room, dull in the fading light of an autumn afternoon. It smelled at once of patchouli and cigarette smoke. The maid quickly stirred a few dying embers to life in the grate and put on more coal. She then pulled the switch on an electric table lamp whose only value lay in its modern design, not in illumination. She left the room and pulled the doors to behind her.

The lamp cast a garish yellow light on a steely gray velvet divan that sat at an angle across the corner of the room near the front window. The brown and royal blue of the entrance bled into the drawing room, but in peacock blues and greens. A piano stood near the divan, the keys toward the window. Against the opposite wall was an enormous Rococo-style cabinet, ornate and gilded and very gaudy. On the other walls hung paintings of the modern type, with bold interpretations of ordinary life. In spite of the room’s style it lacked warmth. The place reflected perfectly the colorful and dark personalities that inhabited it.

Blanche had known Nell Ryder from a lifetime ago. Among the more risqué element of artistic society that Blanche’s mother entertained ran Nell’s parents, who commissioned Roberto Wilson to compose the incidental music for many performances, which first brought the Wilson girls and Nell Montagne together. Not until the girls were grown did friendship with Nell become more central to Blanche’s life. Such innocence as either girl possessed was lost among the properties and costumes. When Europe beckoned the Wilsons, Nell predicted Blanche would be painted in Paris. Confronted with the question on her return Blanche replied coolly that Nell had been mistaken—she had been painted in Florence. The girls laughed. Finally marriage sent them in opposite directions in geography and fortune—Blanche with Alvarado to South America and ruin, Nell with Anton Ryder to Europe and prosperity. In the separation of their destinies, correspondence faded. Since returning to New York, Blanche had heard a guarded remark that she “simply must meet Mrs. Anton Ryder. Her husband is an impresario, you know. Brilliant man. They’re rich as Croesus, but do you think they are accepted? Hardly.” Great was Blanche’s surprise when it turned out to be her girlhood friend.

Presently Blanche heard the creak of stairs and she felt her pulse rise. Then came the footfall on the carpet, and then the tile, and then a hesitation outside the door. Blanche rose, and in that moment the door slid open.

Nell stood with her hand on the door handle, the other hand holding closed the neck of a loose-fitting dress, her russet hair carelessly pulled up and knotted on top of her head. In the harsh glow of the electric light her powdered face had a ghostly aspect seared through by sealing-wax red lips that curled into a knowing smile.

Her look lasted an eternity. Blanche was transfixed. When Nell spoke, anticipation was broken and speech took its place as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Darling,” exclaimed Nell, pulling the door shut behind her back, “let me look at you.” She stood for a moment more, surveying Blanche. “My God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She came forward and grasped Blanche’s hand and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “You can’t imagine my surprise when I saw you at the Iris.”

“Yes, I can. I was just as surprised to see you.”

Nell stepped back to look at Blanche again. “You look well. Very well indeed.”

Blanche did look well and knew it. It pleased her that she had worn better than Nell. In the room’s harsh light, Nell’s hennaed hair only made her look sallow and the little creases that were beginning to show around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes were more pronounced.

“So do you,” Blanche said politely.

“Nonsense. I look like hell.”

Blanche ignored the remark.

“I may have caught you at an inconvenient time.”

“No more than usual,” she said with the same knowing smile. She crossed to an overstuffed chair and sat, drawing up her slippered feet beside her. She took a cigarette from a silver box and placed it in a holder and lit it. She held the open box by its lid and extended it toward Blanche, who declined.

“I can come back another time.”

“Not at all.” Nell relaxed a bit as she drew on the cigarette. “I’d rather have you here at an inconvenient time than not have you here at all. You haven’t had any tea, I expect. Would you like some? Or would you prefer something stronger?” Without waiting for an answer, she rose and rang for the maid. As she returned to her chair, she said, “Good heavens, darling, do make yourself comfortable. You are welcome, you know. Truly.”