by Amy Stewart
It was a thrill to do it, but that was all it would be. This night, she realized, represented her last tie to her old job at Ward & McGinnis, and to Alice Martin. After tonight, her role in this little drama would come to an end. It would be seamstressing at Mrs. Doyle’s from now on, until the next thing came along, whatever that might be.
All the more reason to make as much of the moment as she could. The Metropolitan was bright and gleaming and welcoming, and she felt that she belonged there entirely. She nodded at the doorman as she breezed past him, swept through the lobby, and glanced appreciatively up at those glorious chandeliers and down at a red and gold carpet in a French pattern of fleur-de-lis.
At the entrance to the restaurant, she issued a word to the maître d’ and was at once ushered into one of those quiet little rooms tucked in the back, behind a curtain.
There sat her criminal.
Mr. Van Der Meer—or Louis Herman, or whatever else he called himself—looked exactly as Alice had described. He was a nondescript man of medium height, medium coloring, brown eyes, with absolutely no distinguishing marks or features. It seemed a convenient appearance for a swindler. In any crowd, half the men would match his description.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Fleurette said as she handed over her coat and hat. “I was so nervous about our meeting that I thought I might be here an hour early, but somehow the time got away from me and now here I am . . .”
She thought it best to appear flustered, unsure of herself, and unaware of how to behave in a first meeting with a strange man. Mr. Van Der Meer played along perfectly, rising to pull out Fleurette’s chair, giving a nod to the waiter to fill her glass, and assuring her that she was just in time.
“I’m only sorry we had to choose such an unlikely meeting place,” he said. “As I mentioned, my offices are in Philadelphia, not here. But I thought you might prefer to talk things over in person, and I didn’t want you to have to make such a long trip.”
“You’re very kind. I can see why Dora puts her trust in you.”
“I understand it might’ve come as something of a surprise to hear from her,” he said.
“We hardly know each other. She’s been gone so long, and I was quite young when she left. She must only remember me as a child.”
“Nevertheless she wishes to do something for you now. I warned her that I couldn’t be at all certain how a gift like this might be received. She’d heard that you were widowed—I suppose someone in the family must have written to her?”
“Perhaps a cousin, I wouldn’t know,” muttered Fleurette, as if no one in the family meant a thing to her. She saw what he was doing. He was making sure that she wouldn’t confide in a relation who would then mention this unexpected gift to the real Dora. Fleurette was happy to reassure him on that matter.
“Well, she knew you’d been widowed—my condolences, by the way—”
“Thank you,” Fleurette said.
“And she remembered your love of the theater and thought you might like to take on the running of this little playhouse. Naturally, it’s not a decision to make lightly . . .” Here he paused, gauging Fleurette’s response.
“Naturally,” she said. She thought it best to hesitate a bit. He should have to persuade her. “It’s kind of her, but I’m surprised her husband doesn’t want it sold. As a building alone it must have some value.”
“You’re entirely right to wonder,” Mr. Van Der Meer said. “It’s just a terrible time to sell, right after the war. A theater is always a tricky sort of property. It can’t easily be made into a storefront, for instance, or an office building. A buyer would have to be found who specifically wanted a theater in St. Petersburg. And to be honest, enough little playhouses of this sort closed during the war that there are already plenty of them out there, to be had for very little money.”
“St. Petersburg,” said Fleurette. “Isn’t that rather out of the way?”
“Yes, but they enjoy a busy winter season down there. As I understand it, the theater keeps up some rehearsals over the summer, but then closes entirely for the month of August. You’d have your home there, of course, if you chose to live upstairs, but you might want some time away, too. Any number of wealthy patrons of the arts might have summer homes on offer. I expect you’d be invited to the Cape or Long Island if you liked that sort of thing. These wealthy types like to keep an artist around to make their dinner parties interesting.”
Fleurette couldn’t help but smile at that. What a life he offered! She might’ve liked to take him up on it, if only it were real.
“I can’t promise I’ll make a dinner party interesting, but it sounds awfully nice. I wouldn’t mind getting away from these New Jersey winters.”
“Yes, that Florida sunshine! You’ll want to see the pictures, of course.”
The waiter brought a plate of clams in butter sauce just then. Fleurette took one happily. She intended to have a good dinner at Mr. Van Der Meer’s expense. He passed the pictures across to her, and she perused them as one might look at a brochure from a cruise ship. The theater was a lovely little white building in the Spanish style, with a nice marquee and a ticket booth in front, flanked by two gleaming double doors. Another picture showed the lobby, with its sweeping curved staircase up to the balcony, and a third showed the stage itself and a modest orchestra pit, perhaps large enough for a five-piece band. The seats (Fleurette was already taking a proprietary interest) were of the old-fashioned folding wooden variety and would require upholstery.
She told Mr. Van Der Meer as much, just as two plates of thin-sliced veal arrived.
“Naturally, you’ll want to make it your own,” he said, “but you’ll have the capital to do so. While the building’s owner has vanished, the theatrical company has not. They’ve been operating as usual, what with the winter season under way. There’s a director, but you might take that role yourself and the salary along with it. And you’ll have those rooms to let upstairs.”
“Not to mention my widow’s pension,” Fleurette said.
Mr. Van Der Meer sounded a bit eager when he said, “Yes, I understand you have your own resources. You’ll be very well situated.”
“I will now,” Fleurette said. “I’ll write to Dora at once and thank her. Is there anything left to do, besides packing a trunk for Florida?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Van Der Meer, and continued on smoothly, as if the rest was only an afterthought. “I’ll put the papers together for the transfer of ownership. Florida real estate law’s a bit tricky, but I know a fellow down there who will take care of it all for you. I don’t expect his fee to go over three hundred dollars, plus whatever transfer fees the county might charge, and of course I don’t charge a dime for my own services. Your sister’s seen to that.”
“Isn’t she generous,” said Fleurette, just as smoothly, “only I don’t have quite that much on hand at the moment. Rent was due, and I’m afraid I splurged on a few spring dresses. We all went without during the war, you know.”
“I do,” said Mr. Van Der Meer, sympathetically.
“Then perhaps your man in Florida can wait a month. The building’s not going anywhere.”
“I wish that were the case,” he said, “but in fact, the notice must be filed by Monday for the new owner to take possession. I won’t bother you with the legalities, but in Florida we have only ninety days to transfer ownership in a case of loan default such as this one, and it took most of those ninety days to find you.”
“Oh goodness!” said Fleurette, in mock surprise, but also in genuine surprise, over the flimsiness of his excuse. Did other women actually fall for this sort of thing?
“Isn’t there someone who might loan you the money, until the end of the month?”
Now was the moment for Fleurette to show a bit of worry. She teared up beautifully: she always could cry on command. “There isn’t a soul I could ask,” she whispered. “That’s the trouble with this town. I don’t know anyone, not even my neighbors. We onl
y just moved here before my dear husband shipped off to France. Everyone I met seemed to have their own friends and their own lives. As much as I tried, I just never got to know the people here. That’s why I thought it might be all right for me to go somewhere else and try again. There’s just no one keeping me here.”
It was quite a speech, but Fleurette thought it best if she went on a bit and seemed rattled. Mr. Van Der Meer listened sympathetically. She looked up at him again, her eyes still wet with tears.
“Isn’t there anything you could do?” she implored.
What sorrow and regret passed across his face! It occurred to Fleurette that he was quite a good actor, and that if she really was to take ownership of a little playhouse down in Florida, she would certainly put him on the stage.
“I would advance the funds myself if I could, but lawyers are not allowed to do anything of the sort. It has to do with the commingling of funds and conflicts of financial interest. I’m so sorry, but it’s strictly forbidden.”
“But what about the man down in Florida? He’s not my lawyer, is he? Couldn’t he file the paperwork on my behalf and pay the fees, and I’d get the cheque down to him the very minute I could?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Van Der Meer said. “But this is only one small hurdle. We mustn’t let it get in our way. I wouldn’t like to go back to your sister and her husband and tell them that we lost our chance. No, I wouldn’t like to tell them that at all.”
“It puts you in an awkward position, too,” said Fleurette sympathetically.
He made an expression of relief. “I’m glad you understand. It would look like I bungled the whole business. I shouldn’t have taken so long to find you. I left the job to my secretary, and I’m afraid she’s let any number of important matters slip lately.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want your secretary to be blamed,” said Fleurette. “There must be something we can do.”
Mr. Van Der Meer looked down at the table for a minute. He was sliding a spoon back and forth across the tablecloth, like a pendulum swinging.
At last he took a deep breath and said, “I suppose . . .”
“Yes?” said Fleurette eagerly.
He seemed to reconsider. “You would have to promise me that no one would know.”
Fleurette gave a little laugh and said, “Whom would I tell?”
He smiled at that. “Of course. You wouldn’t want to put this at risk any more than I would. What I propose is this: If you have something of value that could be held until the end of the month, I could take it to a man I know who lends money privately. That way, you see, it isn’t my money I’m putting in, but someone else’s. Only I would arrange it and put my good name behind it. Is there anything you’d consider parting with? It’s only for a short time.”
Fleurette’s hand went to her throat, but she pretended to be quite unaware of the gesture. Around her neck hung Mr. Packard’s perfectly convincing glass emerald.
36
THAT LAST BIT of business conducted, Fleurette walked out of the hotel and waited across the street for Mr. Van Der Meer to leave. She intended to follow him home, where she was sure the evidence of his wrongdoing could be found.
Once she’d pinned down his lodgings definitively, she would summon the police and tell all. From the fraud he’d perpetrated against her, there would be evidence enough to arrest him. She very much hoped that he was still in possession of Alice Martin’s jewelry or any trinkets of value from his other victims. The guest book at Madame Zella’s would be of interest, too. Put together like that, she would have enough evidence for the police to launch a proper investigation.
Mr. Van Der Meer had told her that he was staying at the Metropolitan, but she knew better: no crook lives where he commits his crimes and, besides, she had telephoned earlier in the day and asked for him under both his new name and his previous name, Louis Herman. No such man was registered.
If he was clever about it, he would’ve rented a room privately, perhaps from someone who posted a notice in a market or put a sign in the window. He would’ve paid his rent early, kept respectable hours, assumed a featureless name like Brown or Smith, and pretended to work at a dull and forgettable trade: stationery sales or life insurance.
That way, if he had to flee town quickly, he could merely tell his landlady that his assignment in Paterson had concluded, or that he’d taken a more permanent sort of lodging across town. She would think nothing of it. Even if the police began a search for Mr. Van Der Meer, they probably wouldn’t stop at a place like hers. They would go around to the hotels and the better-known boarding-houses, but they wouldn’t have any way of tracking down every rented room in the city.
Fleurette, lurking undetected in the doorway of a closed shop, waited for Mr. Van Der Meer to exit the hotel and prove her correct.
By the illuminated clock in the little tower above the bank, twenty minutes passed before he appeared. She almost missed him when he walked out because he was far more encumbered by luggage than she’d expected him to be and, in his coat and hat, under cover of darkness, even more closely resembled every other man walking in and out.
He carried a briefcase in one hand, an enormous leather bag over that shoulder, and in the other hand lugged a large, cheap suitcase. Efforts by the doorman to call a porter for him were rebuffed: Mr. Van Der Meer shuffled off as if the load he carried were nothing at all.
From her vantage point, Fleurette watched him walk down the block. He wasn’t in a hurry—to run with so much luggage would attract attention—but he moved along purposefully.
Where was he going? Had he left his little rented room that afternoon (already she could picture the kind of place it was, not entirely different from Mrs. Doyle’s, owned by a widow who liked to have a man on the premises) and moved to a quiet hotel? But why wouldn’t he have deposited the luggage there before meeting Fleurette at the Metropolitan? And if he was in fact carrying all of his possessions, did that mean that whatever evidence he possessed was in his hands at that moment?
She followed him through the lamplit streets of Paterson, past the shuttered shops and darkened office buildings, staying always half a block behind, with her hat pulled down low. She, too, had to walk with purpose, as any decent man watching a slender young woman pass by unaccompanied was bound to offer his assistance or summon a taxicab. Just as Mr. Van Der Meer had waved away the porter, so Fleurette had to wave away her eager protectors.
They passed one promising hotel after another without stopping. Where was he going? Small apartment buildings, sitting discreetly down the side streets, went unnoticed. He paused near a street-car stop and Fleurette feared he might jump aboard the next car, but he was only pausing to hitch his bag over his shoulder again.
By the time they’d passed the courthouse and City Hall, Fleurette was forced to reckon with the possibility that Mr. Van Der Meer was walking to the train station, and that she might have very little opportunity to summon a police officer and make her explanations.
Her quarry turned the corner and the train station came into sight. He was by now moving at a swifter pace, presumably to catch his train, and Fleurette had to hurry to keep up. Now she was looking back and forth, frantically, for a police officer. The police were always standing around train stations, idling with their coffee and rolls, looking officious but only taking advantage of the shelter and the hot refreshments. An officer could almost always be seen with the station agent, the two of them preening in their uniforms and observing the ordinary comings and goings around them.
But tonight there was no such officer at the station. She didn’t like to admit such thoughts into her head, but the words What would Constance do? might’ve flitted briefly past. Constance would tackle the man, of course. She’d bring him down in a great rib-cracking commotion, and shout for the police, and put forth her accusations in a booming voice imbued with absolute certainty, and she would refuse to release the man until he was in custody.
A crowd would gather—amused, horr
ified—and she would take no notice of them. She wouldn’t even remember them later. She would have her man hauled off to jail in an absolute triumph of brute force and indomitable will. Later, at home, Fleurette would bring her an ice-pack (she always bruised something in these tussles), and Norma would speculate, tartly, on what the papers would say about it the next day.
But could Fleurette possibly do all of that? He had the advantage in size and strength: he could easily shrug her off and board the train.
She watched as Mr. Van Der Meer purchased his ticket and went to the platform to wait. The train to New York was only five minutes away. Already the platform was crowded.
What choice did she have but to confront him, in such a manner that a crowd would gather, and in the commotion prevent him from boarding the train?
She couldn’t imagine doing it. She wasn’t prepared to do it. She’d only expected to take down his address and to deliver it to the police. What did she know about apprehending a criminal in a public place like this one?
Then she realized that she did know one thing: she knew how to play to a crowd. This was a performance. She had only to gather an audience and to hold their attention. The crowd would do the rest.
With only three minutes before the train’s arrival, and already the whistle sounding in the distance, Fleurette backed out of the station, so as to give herself a good head of steam, and ran back in, shouting, “Thief! He’s a thief! Don’t let him on the train!”
This naturally brought every eye in the station to her. Mr. Van Der Meer, ever the professional, looked lazily to one side and then another as if some distant commotion were taking place that had nothing to do with him.
But Fleurette had her sights on him. She was flying toward him, pointing as she ran. “That man stole my jewelry, and now he’s leaving town! Stop him!”
Mr. Van Der Meer only shifted slightly and picked up the suitcase that he’d left standing alongside him. He looked around as if amused but untroubled by the scene being played out on the platform.