Secret of the White Rose (35 page)

With a sigh, he walked away. Crossing to the opposite side of his cell, he banged his fist into the wall, hard.

I simply waited.

The words, when they came, were wrenched out of him as though against his will. “China Rose,” he said. “She keeps the books—and the cash—at her parents’ restaurant. But she won’t help you; you’ll have to break in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Do you want the books or not?” he said with a growl. “Now, in the cellar, you’ll see a wall filled with bags of rice. One bag will look deflated compared to the others; that one contains our records as well as the money. And there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If what you told me about Paul Hlad is true, then you’d better hurry. Because he is certain to run the moment he’s out, no matter what they promised him. And those books—not to mention the money we have on hand—will be among the first things he’ll go for upon his release.”

“All right.” I gave him a final look before I left. The sadness I felt was almost unbearable; I’d have done a lot to spare him the ordeal that lay ahead of him.

“You’ll help?” he asked in a whisper, suddenly drained of all bravado.

“I promised I would.”

“Because of what I just told you?” His voice caught in his throat.

I shook my head. “No. For your daughter.”

And although I didn’t say it out loud …
for Hannah
.

*   *   *

It would have been better to wait for nightfall, but I didn’t dare. I couldn’t risk Paul Hlad getting to the information I wanted before me.

It was now almost noon. It was a good window of opportunity; lunch service would demand everyone’s attention upstairs—or so I hoped.

The streets were as crowded as ever. I shadowed a man carrying a giant basket of fish on top of his head, on the theory that it would somewhat disguise my presence. When he rounded the corner of Mott Street, I ducked into the alleyway behind. Slinking past garbage containers and wooden crates, I found a second back alley leading to the rear of most buildings on Mott.

I counted carefully, five buildings from the corner.

But no rear entrance to the cellar. How was I to pass unnoticed if the only entry was from the cellar door in the front sidewalk?

I crossed back through the alley to the sidewalk and decided: there was no help for it. I’d enter through the front. So long as I looked like I knew what I was doing, chances were no one would question me.

Head held high, I walked to the cellar door, flung it open, and descended the staircase into the dank space below the Red Lantern. No one shouted at me or followed me; there, I was lucky.

I found the shelf of rice bags exactly as Jonathan had described. With my left palm, I punched each in turn until I came to one that deflated the moment I touched it.

I reached to grab it—then froze, for somebody had shouted.

The voice was male—guttural and Chinese. I tucked into the shadows so that I was hidden from the view of anyone peering down from above. Of course, if anyone descended the stairs, then I had no hope of avoiding discovery.

Another shout from above—female this time.

Then the metal doors clanged shut and all went dark. So long as they didn’t lock them …

I made my way to the burlap sacks containing rice as my eyes readjusted to almost total darkness. I felt rather than saw the deflated sack—and reached in. I first came across a stack of bills but left them for now. I’d tell Mulvaney to send a pair of officers to retrieve the anarchist funds later. My focus now was on the records ledger, which was at the bottom of the sack.

Grabbing it, I shoved the ledger inside my coat flap, replaced the sack on the shelf, and felt my way back to the ladder that would take me to street level once again.

I reached my hand up, prepared to lift open the door, when it was flung open wide.

Blinded by the sudden light, I could barely make out Mei Lin—her face livid with anger. “What are you doing here?”

“Must have taken a wrong turn,” I said without a hint of humor on my face.

Her eyes narrowed. “The others will find out. You will not be safe.”

“Are you threatening a police detective?” I replied.

“I’m responsible for what’s down there. You cannot take. They will blame me and my family.” She crossed her arms, blocking my way.

“I only want the ledger,” I said in my calmest voice. “The money is still there. You can check.”

In answer, she began to clamber down the ladder herself, forcing me to retreat into the small basement space.

She immediately went to the rice sack, opened it, and began counting the bills and coins. I stayed near the afternoon sunlight and opened the ledger, scanning their list of donations. Most amounts were small, given by members themselves: a nickel here, a penny there. Larger donations in dollars were given by organizations, including the UAW. Given their close association, I wondered if a portion of union dues was regularly diverted to the anarchist coffers.

I continued to look for signs of blackmail. Alistair had said the requests usually came in five-hundred-dollar increments, sometimes as much as two thousand. I saw nothing so large, but a series of entries—each for one hundred dollars—made my breath catch in my throat.

They were donated at regular intervals, and the most recent was from last week. The donor listed:
the White Rose Mission.

“I counted. It’s all there.” China Rose still regarded me suspiciously. “I guess you tell the truth. Take the book—but please don’t come down here again.” For the first time I noticed the look of fear on her face.

She watched as I scrambled up the ladder and joined the crowds on the sidewalk, the ledger once again jammed under my coat sleeve.

Who—and what—is the White Rose Mission?

I hurried toward Canal Street, where I knew I’d find a public telephone pay station. I’d get the attendant to check the directory and find out where this organization was. Then I would telephone Isabella.

I had almost reached Canal Street when I caught a glimpse of a tall but slight man with dark blond hair, wearing a black eye patch.

Paul Hlad.

I’d been right not to risk waiting till dark: Paul was planning to run, and he wanted his money.

Would he come after me and his missing ledger?

It didn’t matter now. I ducked into an alleyway behind a row of garbage containers, waiting until he passed by.

I counted to thirty, slowly. Then I ran back onto the street and continued, refusing to stop until I’d reached the Canal Street telephone station. There, I flashed my badge and cut the line, giving my instructions to the surprised matron in charge.

“Please connect me to the White Rose Mission. Immediately.”

CHAPTER 29

White Rose Mission, 217 East Eighty-sixth Street. 1
P.M.

A cold, cutting rain had begun to fall by the time I reached the White Rose Mission on East Eighty-sixth Street and read the brass plate on the black-painted door.

MRS. VICTORIA EARLE MATTHEWS. FOUNDER
.

I had just rapped the knocker when a hansom cab pulled in front of the building. A figure emerged under a large black umbrella, paid the driver, and then dashed up the stairs to join me.
Isabella
. I had called her the moment I’d finished speaking with the lady from the White Rose Mission.

“I can’t believe you got here first, coming all the way from Canal Street,” Isabella said in a rush. “I only had to cross Central Park, but it was impossible finding a cab in the rain.”

“Mrs. Matthews is expecting you,” said the young woman who swung open the door. “She’s in her office; I’ll show you the way.”

“Thank you,” I said, passing her our coats and umbrellas.

After she put them away, she led us down a bare but clean hallway covered by a solid green rug. The walls were lined with hooks upon which hung girls’ coats, and we passed by a library where at least a dozen young African ladies sat reading in front of a roaring fireplace. Over the telephone, Mrs. Matthews—the founder and superintendent of the mission—had described it as a cross between a home and a school. Now I could better see why: it was more comfortable than an institution, and yet obviously a large number of young women called it home.

We were led into a large office at the back of the hall, where daylight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows and multiple bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes. A handsome woman, tastefully dressed in a cream and peach silk dress, looked up from her mahogany desk when we entered.

“Detective Ziele. Mrs. Sinclair.” Mrs. Victoria Earle Matthews rose to greet us. “You made it here quickly. Do sit.” She indicated the two leather-cushioned chairs across from her desk. Her face, lined with worry, was kind as she regarded us.

“You wished to see me because you have concerns about our finances?” She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses back into place from where they had fallen down her nose.

“We do. As I mentioned earlier, your organization appears repeatedly among the list of donors to a major anarchist group in the city. In fact, you’re recently listed as having given hundreds of dollars. But you say you know nothing of this?”

She met my gaze with a forthright expression. “Absolutely not. I personally oversee the finances of the White Rose Mission. And I assure you, not a penny of our funds has gone to anarchist organizations.”

“Then perhaps you can help us figure out why someone listed you as having made these donations,” Isabella said. “Perhaps one of your employees made donations in the mission’s name?”

Mrs. Matthews rested her chin on her hand, thinking. “It’s possible,” she finally said, adding, “How much do you know about the work we do here?”

“Very little,” I said. “I’d never heard of your organization until its name appeared on the donation list I just mentioned.”

Mrs. Matthews nodded. “I thought not. There are a number of homes like mine for new immigrant girls, Detective Ziele. I’m sure you’re familiar with some of them.”

“Some, yes.” There were a number of charitable organizations devoted to helping young women new to the city—some geared to the Irish, others to the German—not to mention those connected with churches of every denomination. Their goal was simple: to help these women obtain gainful employment and protect them from unscrupulous men who would take advantage of them and ensnare them in disreputable employment.

“I took them as my model—but my primary concern has always been for those girls of my race who are already here. Many are born into poverty and come to this great city seeking a better life. Should they have no protection? No education? No guidance or training to help them learn to support themselves in respectable positions? I decided they should—and that’s what I offer.”

“The girls live here—or just train here?” Isabella asked.

“Both,” Mrs. Matthews said with pride. “We are a school, essentially. We offer classes in sewing and dressmaking, cooking and nutrition, hygiene and other skills. I also make sure the girls learn to read—and read good material. There is no better education than from books. And I personally teach a class in race literature because I want them to be proud of who they are.”

In later years, I would hear Mrs. Matthews described as “a great reader and thinker, one of the best-read women in the country,” and I would remember this very conversation. But even now, she impressed me as a woman of great energy and intellect. And I believed her when she insisted she had not made donations to the anarchists in the mission’s name.

“How many girls are here at any given time?” I asked.

“As many as fifty. We moved here from our original, smaller building on Ninety-seventh Street so we could help even more girls.”

I wanted to understand more. “So they live here and take classes; then what?”

“We help them find suitable employment—but only after their education is complete. There is no greater advantage I can give them. What they learn here can never be taken from them.”

“But none of them have shown anarchist leanings, to your knowledge?”

Mrs. Matthews’s reply was firm. “No. Why would they? As I understand it, anarchy is born of discontent. But my girls here are comfortable and happy.”

Of course, I was curious about the origins of the name of the mission. The fact that a single white rose had been left next to the three murder victims I was investigating could not be a coincidence. But Isabella beat me to the punch.

“Why did you decide to name your mission after the white rose?” Isabella asked.

Mrs. Matthews explained. “The white rose is a symbol of purity and innocence. The goal of the mission is to preserve these characteristics in my girls for as long as possible. The young ladies that come through the White Rose Mission are lucky. They are spared the real world for a period of time. Yet it is inevitable that they will eventually face the vices and dangers of being a young African woman in this city.”