by Amy Stewart
Fleurette could already hear her sister saying it. And perhaps she was right.
* * *
AT LAST THOSE familiar footsteps sounded down the corridor. Fleurette would know the particular strike of Constance’s boots anywhere. She always took long strides, but now the pace was even quicker, the strides even longer, the ringing of her boots on the floor even louder, fueled by some mixture of worry and rage, the exact proportions of which Fleurette could not yet divine. The steps alongside her were almost certainly Officer Heath’s, and mingled in between them was the now-familiar footfall of the guard who had been pacing back and forth.
Then came the rattling of keys, and all at once a burst of light from the corridor, and three figures silhouetted against it.
Fleurette raised her hand against the glare and thought of how disheveled she must look.
“We don’t hear from you for weeks and now I’m called out of my bed in the middle of the night to visit you in jail,” said Constance.
Between worry and rage, Fleurette saw that rage had the upper hand. “I didn’t ask for you,” she said, churlish and defensive again. “I asked for Officer Heath.”
“But you knew he wouldn’t come without me. Go ahead and tell us whatever it is that couldn’t wait until morning.”
Fleurette felt herself suddenly very tired: what time was it, exactly? She peered up at Officer Heath with a pleading look in her eyes, although what she was pleading for, exactly, she could not say. Forgiveness? Sympathy? Leniency?
“I wonder if we might borrow another chair,” said Officer Heath to the guard, who lingered nearby.
“It ain’t supposed to be a sitting-room,” the guard mumbled, but then came a whisper from Officer Heath, and he took a step back, then returned in a few minutes with another wooden chair of the sort Fleurette perched upon.
Constance took a seat and waited, her arms crossed. “Go ahead. They wouldn’t tell us anything.”
“That’s because they don’t know anything,” said Fleurette. “They won’t take a statement without a lady officer present, only there’s a man they’re keeping upstairs and I need to tell them what happened before they release him. They think this is all about a fight on a train platform. But that isn’t it at all.”
Constance sighed. “I’m sure we could’ve sorted all this out in the morning before they let him go, but you might as well tell us.”
Officer Heath was standing off to himself, in the corner, leaning against the wall with a judicial air about him. It was Heath she needed to convince. Constance had no authority here.
“I believe he’s been swindling women all over Paterson,” Fleurette said. “I caught up with him at the train station and tried to stop him. That’s when the police came.”
Constance was interested now: she leaned forward in her chair and said, “What do you mean, you caught up with him? How on earth did you get involved with a man like that?”
“He cheated a woman I know,” Fleurette said. “Alice Martin. She was one of . . . well, one of John Ward’s clients. One of his divorce cases.”
There was no way to leave John Ward out of it, although any mention of the man would only provoke Constance. It didn’t matter. She wanted only to tell all, and to turn the mess over to the two of them.
Officer Heath seemed to have the same idea. From his spot in the corner, he said, “Miss Kopp, would you be able to tell us everything, from the beginning, starting the day you met Alice Martin?”
Fleurette did. She recounted every moment of it, from Alice’s first appearance at Mr. Ward’s office, to Fleurette’s attempt to capture Mr. Martin in the arms of another woman (Constance flinched at this, and Fleurette was quick to remind her of the hundred dollars she was paid, and how she spent it to rectify Francis’s unpaid debts all over town), to the realization that Mr. Martin had not, by all appearances, violated his marriage vows at all, followed by Alice Martin’s suspicious behavior when confronted with this obvious fact.
She was struck by how adventurous it sounded in the retelling: how she eavesdropped on Alice’s heated conversation with Louis Herman (or Mr. Van Der Meer, or whatever name he’d given the police), how she’d tracked down the occupant of the office he was using, the discovery of the match-book from the Black Cat, the trip to the fortune-teller, the dinner at the Metropolitan . . . It all made for quite a riveting tale, one she could easily imagine setting to music and putting on the stage. The Black Cat itself would have to assume a larger role, with the diners transformed into a large chorus who could sing about what they’d seen on the nights when the swindler and the fortune-teller met to talk over their latest victim. It really was a delicious premise, far more exciting than she’d realized.
By the end, Constance was not so much sitting as sprawling back in her chair, glancing over occasionally to Officer Heath, with whom she exchanged inscrutable expressions.
“I believe,” Fleurette said grandly, finishing her tale, “that Mr. Van Der Meer was carrying some of those valuables with him tonight. He might still have Alice Martin’s jewelry, or some other woman’s. You should certainly find my emerald among his possessions, although as I’ve said it’s only glass.”
“You never told me how you came by the glass emerald,” said Constance.
“From a friend,” said Fleurette, hoping to imply a female friend. “It was just a little trinket.”
“And you did all this on your own?” Constance said. “You never thought to come to me?”
Fleurette only looked at her, silently. How could she ask a question like that?
From his corner, Officer Heath said, “It was a matter for the police.”
“It was,” said Fleurette, “but Alice wouldn’t go to the police. I couldn’t force her. And remember, I intended to run straight to the police as soon as I had his address. I didn’t expect him to leave the Metropolitan and go to the train station.”
“So you ran your own investigation.” It was still dim within the room, even with the door open, but Fleurette thought she detected a smile from Officer Heath.
“I wanted to,” Fleurette admitted. “After a while I was caught up in it. The thought of going to the fortune-teller and pretending to be a widow in distress . . .”
“It was play-acting to you,” said Constance. She still spoke sharply, as if she hadn’t yet taken a position on the matter.
“No, it was an investigation, just like Officer Heath said. I wanted it done right. I wanted to know for myself what he was up to. And I intended to see it through. I was the one who uncovered the crime. I wasn’t about to hand it off until I’d wrapped it up to my satisfaction.”
At this Constance softened a little. “I’ve felt the same way.”
The guard was coming back down the corridor. Officer Heath turned at the sound of his footsteps. “We can’t take you home tonight. Even I can’t walk out of the Paterson jail with an inmate. But you’ll be let go first thing in the morning. I’ll see to it. Constance will be here to take you home.”
Fleurette bristled at that. “I can get back on my own. I have to feed Laura. She’s been without me all night.”
“Won’t you come back to Hawthorne and let Bessie look after you?” said Constance.
“I don’t need looking after,” said Fleurette. “What I need is for Mr. Van Der Meer to be investigated. And someone should go around to Madame Zella’s and have a look at that guest book, and of course she should be interrogated, too. From that you might have a whole list of victims to go around and question. There’s only one thing I’d like you to do for me.”
“You’re not in any position to give orders,” said Constance, prickly again, “but go ahead.”
“The police will want to talk to Alice Martin. I don’t want anyone going over to the Martins and blurting all this out in front of Mr. Martin. It’ll be just awful for Alice. At least let me go and tell her first, so that she can find the right way to tell him. This all started because she was planning to divorce him. I don’t believe she i
ntends to anymore. But I also don’t think they’re entirely happy together. It’s a delicate situation, that’s all.”
“I can’t make any promises,” said Officer Heath, “but I also can’t stop you from going over on your own, if you decide to. I believe our time is at an end”—here he glanced over at the guard and nodded—“but you’ll be out in a few hours. Will you be all right until then?”
Fleurette said yes, but all at once she thought she might cry. She would rather bicker with Constance all night than sit in that dark cell for another minute. Constance must’ve guessed at that, because she bent down and kissed her.
“You’ll be fine on your own,” she whispered. “You always are.”
39
FLEURETTE WASN’T RELEASED first thing in the morning. It was nearly noon before they let her go. There were endless procedural matters, including recording her arrest properly and making a picture of her for their records, of which Fleurette was deeply ashamed. Having no mirror, she could only imagine how horrible she looked, but even worse was the idea of the Kopp name in an inmate’s record book at the Paterson jail. The only possible greater affront would’ve been to get booked into the Hackensack jail, where Constance had once worked: this would’ve proven once and for all that the Kopps had fallen and could fall no further.
She had been allowed to give her statement, with Officer Heath standing in the corner, just as he had done only hours previously in her wretched little room. He nodded encouragingly at her and spoke a few quiet words to the detectives from time to time, and went to great pains to remind them that in her so-called investigative work she was not, in fact, employed by Ward & McGinnis nor acting under the direction of anyone associated with the firm. (Fleurette remembered dimly that Officer Heath and John Ward were friends, unlikely as it seemed, and thought that Heath might’ve wanted to keep him out of trouble.) He pointed out several times that Fleurette had, in fact, been acting only out of friendship to Alice Martin.
The detectives took her story seriously, or they at least pretended to in Officer Heath’s presence, perhaps as a professional courtesy. They assured her that Mr. Van Der Meer would not be released until a thorough inquiry could be made.
Beyond that, she was told nothing, because she had no standing. She wasn’t a victim in this case (save for the glass emerald, which she did want returned and went to great pains to remind the detectives of that), nor was she, in any official capacity, an investigator.
The best way to describe her, in the eyes of the detectives now closing their note-books and walking away, was as a bystander, a spectator, even. She was of no use to them anymore.
Fleurette walked out of the interview exhausted, having slept not at all. Her last meal had been those clams the evening before at the Metropolitan. Had it really only been yesterday when she and Mr. Van Der Meer had dined together in that fine restaurant, she playing her part so perfectly, just as he played his?
At any rate, she’d been given nothing but weak coffee and a stale dinner roll for breakfast. Now she couldn’t decide which she’d rather do: collapse face-down on her own bed, in a clean nightgown, with good crisp sheets against her skin, or raid Mrs. Doyle’s kitchen and eat absolutely everything in sight.
But she could do none of that until she’d seen to Alice Martin.
While she completed a few more formalities and had her belongings returned to her, Officer Heath waited nearby, chatting with the guards and deputies. He walked outside with her.
“I shouldn’t say too much about what we’ve learned this morning, but I trust you won’t tell anyone, particularly the Martin woman,” he said.
“Have the police been to see her yet?”
“Not until you and I speak to her. She’ll have to give a statement to the detectives, but I told them they’d have an easier time of it if we went first.”
“But what are we to tell her? Have they found her things?”
“There was a considerable amount of jewelry and small valuables hidden away in those bags,” Officer Heath said. “We believe we’ve also connected Mr. Van Der Meer to an address in New York. We’ll have that place searched today. And then there’s the matter of Madame Zella’s guest book. The police have already seized it and arrested her.”
They were nearly outside now. He paused before the great metal doors.
“Yes?” Fleurette asked, a little breathless. She was revived now, bolstered by the momentum of the case, even as it was being taken away from her.
“At least four of the women in that book had gone to the police with some kind of story about a lawyer and a windfall. Nothing was ever done about it. I expect we’ll find more in that guest book.”
“I knew it!” said Fleurette triumphantly. “I mean—it’s terrible, of course, but if we’ve caught the man and put a stop to it, that’s . . .”
Fleurette had run out of superlatives, but Officer Heath supplied one.
“That’s fine detective work, that’s what it is.”
* * *
CONSTANCE WAS WAITING outside. Fleurette’s heart sank a little: they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and a day without another argument with Constance sounded particularly welcome at that moment. But Constance and Officer Heath had obviously made some arrangement to accompany Fleurette out of the jail together. That was their plan, and she felt she had little choice but to surrender to it.
“I’ve already been to see Mrs. Doyle about feeding your parrot,” Constance said briskly, as they walked away from the jail. “She’s relieved to know you’re safe. I didn’t tell her that you’d been in jail.”
“Thank you,” Fleurette said meekly.
“And I’m sure you’d like to go and speak to Mrs. Martin alone, but it isn’t your affair anymore, it’s a matter for the police. You’re lucky that Officer Heath will allow us to go along. After we finish with that business, I’m under orders to take you straight to Bessie. She’s been cooking since she got up this morning.”
If there was one way to entice Fleurette back to her family’s bosom, it was through Bessie’s cooking. “I wouldn’t want to offend her,” Fleurette said weakly.
“I thought not.”
40
ALICE MARTIN WAS at home, as was her husband. Fleurette could hear him out in his study behind the house, running a student through her scales. From the shock in Alice’s expression, Fleurette realized that it must have looked as though Officer Heath had arrested her, or was coming to arrest Alice.
“He’s a friend,” Fleurette said quickly, knowing that there was no time to waste. “And this is my sister, the one I told you about.”
“I guessed that,” said Alice. “She’s just how you described.”
Constance frowned at that. Before she could say anything, Fleurette hurried along with her explanations. “We caught Mr. Van Der Meer—Louis Herman, whatever his name might be—last night. He was trying to board a train, but I stopped him. The police found quite a bit of jewelry in his bags, but we don’t yet know if he has yours. Either way, the police will want a statement. You’ll have to tell Arthur something.”
“Tell me what?” he called from the back of the house. Alice jumped. The student was still singing, but Mr. Martin had obviously left her there with the metronome ticking and come inside.
He strolled in, hands in his pockets, his spectacles perched on top of his head. “Alice, won’t you invite these ladies in?” Then, seeing Officer Heath, he added, “Good afternoon, officer. I hope we aren’t in any sort of trouble. Or are you collecting for the maimed and wounded fund? Always happy to make a donation.”
Officer Heath started to answer, but Fleurette stepped in. Wasn’t this her case?
“Mr. Martin, you might not remember me. We met one night at the theater.”
He dropped his spectacles down on his nose and looked at her again. “The understudy, isn’t that right? You were having some sort of trouble with your voice. Do I recall that you’d been ill?”
Constance looked down at her, p
uzzled. “There’s nothing wrong with your voice.”
“Oh, but there is,” said Alice. “She can’t find the notes anymore.”
Mr. Martin crossed his arms and looked at her with the air of a physician puzzling out a diagnosis. “How long has it been since your illness?”
Fleurette said, “We haven’t come to talk about my voice. We do need to speak to you both regarding a matter—”
“Oh yes, I can hear it now,” said Mr. Martin. “A constriction. Try a little of ‘You Made Me Love You.’ Just come over to the piano.”
At least they’d been invited inside. Alice and Fleurette exchanged a worried glance, but Alice nodded toward the piano. Perhaps she wanted a minute to think about how she was going to explain the situation to her husband.
It was ridiculous to burst into song at a moment like this, but Fleurette hardly felt she could refuse.
“At full volume, please. Let them hear you in the mezzanine.” Arthur played the first few notes. Fleurette gathered her breath and did what she could.
You made me love you
I didn’t want to do it
I didn’t want to do it
You made me want you,
And all the time you knew it
I guess you always knew it.
She sounded terrible. If anything, her voice was worse than before. It cracked, it scratched, it couldn’t sustain the most comfortable notes. She was, of course, exhausted and parched at that particular moment, having spent the night in that cold and musty cell, but there was no hiding it. She couldn’t sing.