by Brad Ricca
“Alfredo Cocchi was the man we wanted,” Grace said, matter-of-factly. Some believed her, though a great many seemed to believe Cocchi’s explanation of things in the paper.
“Come now, Mrs. Humiston,” Woods said. “You have nothing on Cocchi and you know it. Would you expect a Grand Jury to indict him with only your evidence against him?”
Of course, Grace knew that the commissioner was right. In truth, there was still no physical evidence to connect Cocchi to anything. And the reports from Italy were threadbare at best—just that Cocchi had been found, living in plain sight, and the Italians refused to arrest him without a formal charge. All that meant even less when Woods phoned Grace the next morning.
“Well, we’ve found Ruth Cruger,” he said.
Grace stared into space, holding the black receiver in her hand. She was utterly shocked. She had been working for nearly a month under the secret premise that Ruth was long dead. She hadn’t told the family that, of course, not in so many words. They were still hopeful, but Grace had to be more practical. Could Ruth truly be alive? She felt surprised and happy at the same time.
“We found her, all right,” Woods said. “She’s alive and well in Mount Vernon, living with some man. She even admits who she is.”
Hearing Grace’s silence, Woods filled it with his own authority.
“Why don’t you and Mr. Cruger go up there to see her yourself this afternoon? I’ll send an officer with you.”
As they drove up to Mount Vernon together, Grace noticed how overjoyed Henry Cruger was. She had not met this version of him before, only perhaps imagined him as an inverse of the sad Henry she had seen every day. She couldn’t help feeling sheepish about demanding Cocchi’s arrest and for denying that Ruth had eloped. But she was quite happy to be wrong. The answer was always the simplest one, not a great conspiracy. Once they reached the rooming house at the address Woods had given them, Henry jumped out of the car and ran up the stairs to the apartment.
As Grace and the police officer walked the steps, they could hear the landlady talking with Henry.
“She’s gone,” the lady said. “She went to a hotel this morning.”
The woman gave them the number of Ruth’s new location. Grace wondered if she was running from her father or had just needed a new place. As Henry started down the stairs back to the car, Grace turned to the landlady and asked a question. Henry stopped to listen.
“Are you sure the girl is Ruth Cruger?”
“Positive,” the landlady replied.
“Did she admit it?”
“She didn’t exactly admit it. But I asked her, and she laughed.”
Henry didn’t say anything as he walked slowly to the car and stepped in. At the hotel, they found her almost immediately. Grace could see a slight resemblance, but it was only very faint around the eyes and mouth. It was not her. As they drove home in silence, Grace watched as the green trees of the mainland gave way to an island of boxes and blocks, almost toylike, though the closer they got, it became all too sharp and familiar.
Later that afternoon, Grace walked in the office and slowly sat in her chair. Her secretary told her that Kron had phoned.
“It must be something important,” she said. “He said for you to call him as soon as you got in.”
Grace sat down and called her detective. They connected easily.
“Mrs. Humiston,” Kron said. “I’ve got something on Cocchi.”
An hour later, Kron sat across from Grace at their customary hotel meeting place. Kron told her that he had uncovered new information that might be relevant. For one, Cocchi was no stranger to girls. Kron found that girls would often visit the motorcycle store and drink wine with Cocchi late into the night while he would sing Italian songs. “A Lothario,” Kron told Grace. “No pretty girl could pass by that store without him noticing and saying something in an attempt to get her to come inside.” There were also rumors that his shop had been a meeting place for all sorts of gamblers, racketeers, and loafers. But there was more.
“A former landlord reported that Cocchi,” Kron said, almost whispering, “under the name of Lou Marinaro, used to sneak girls into his repair shop for trysts with customers.” Kron discovered more assaults, but no one pressed charges because they feared a public scandal for their daughters.
Kron looked over his shoulder and dropped his voice even lower. He told Grace about someone he talked to who used to live on Cocchi’s street. Her name was Madame Mureal and she was a French actress who lived at 111 Manhattan Avenue with her sixteen-year-old daughter, Philippa. Their house was across the street from Cocchi’s motorcycle shop.
When Philippa’s bicycle broke one summer, her mother sent her to get it fixed by Cocchi. He was always smiling and seemed like a kind man, sometimes waving at them from across the dusty street. When Philippa came back, her bike not only fixed but wiped clean, the girl opened her hand to show her mother the rose that Cocchi had given her. On another occasion, he had given her a red box of candy. Philippa’s mother became worried and took to watching her daughter through the windows.
One day, Philippa came home more excited than usual. She told her mother that Cocchi had offered to take her riding in the sidecar of his shiny motorcycle. She asked her mother’s permission.
“I refused,” Madame Mureal said. “How thankful I am that I did.”
Another time, Philippa went over to see if Cocchi could attach a small motor to her bicycle. Cocchi wiped his hands on his rag, looked at her bike, and said he’d do it cheap. Just for her.
“Oh, really?” said Madame Mureal, when her daughter told her.
“Yes,” said Philippa. “Because he told me he likes me.”
As Madame Mureal watched from the window, she saw Cocchi and her daughter go into his store. She said, “I saw Cocchi and Phil come out of the shop and go down the basement steps from the sidewalk. I thought at first that maybe the motors were kept down there, and he had taken her down there to show them to her. But suddenly I had a sort of presentment of harm, and I ran breathlessly down the six flights of stairs to the street and over to the shop. When I reached the head of the basement steps I heard Phil screaming Mother! Mother! I started down the stairs, calling her name, and it was not until I called with all my might that Cocchi released her and she came flying out, sobbing and shaking with terror. The sleeve of her dress had been ripped loose from the shoulder and on her arm and neck I could see the spots already turning blue from the grip of the man’s fingers.
“I want all mothers to know,” Madame Mureal went on to say, “how easily these things can happen. There was that man, right across the street from us, and yet he dared to commit this deed in broad daylight within a few yards of Phil’s home. I wanted to go at once to the police and am sorry now that I didn’t, but for Philippa’s sake I moved away instead. Phil did not even then understand her danger. ‘He tried to kiss me, mother’ she told me and ‘I became frightened.’”
She continued. “We had been following the Cruger case rather closely because Philippa had been slightly acquainted with Ruth, but it was not until I picked up a paper on Sunday and saw this Cocchi’s picture that the connection dawned upon me. In fact, I had forgotten the name of the motorcycle man on Manhattan Street, until his face stared at me from the paper. I was so unnerved by the discovery that I fairly shook. I recalled that man’s face on the day Philippa had rushed to me from his grasp, his leering eyes, that bestial look.”
As Madame Mureal noted, “There were other girls in the neighborhood who visited that shop. Phil used to tell me what a ‘nice man’ Cocchi was to all the girls. As soon as I found that this Cocchi was the same man who had lured my daughter into his shop I reported the whole matter to Commissioner Woods.”
As Grace took this all in, Kron looked around before dropping his voice to a hush. Kron told Grace that he had strong evidence linking Cocchi with a secret Sicilian organization, though he was not sure how deep it ran. He suspected Black Hand involvement. Kron also found out
that, in 1915, Cocchi had been the roommate of a doctor who had committed suicide after being questioned by police in connection with the death of a young girl. The doctor was supposedly part of an abortion ring.
Grace had a damning point of her own to add. When first questioned about the Ruth Cruger disappearance, Cocchi had several deep scratches on his arms and face. This had never shown up in any of the early testimony or news pieces except on an evidence card that Grace had seen. They knew this was possibly very telling. Of course, given what they were finding out about Cocchi’s wife, the marks could just as easily have been made by her. But there was enough to focus their search now. Henry Cruger had never trusted Alfredo Cocchi. Now, neither did Grace.
Kron pulled out the newspaper clipping that included a few photographs of Alfredo Cocchi. He was handsome. In one, his chin was at a slight angle as he regarded the camera, almost defying it. In another, the thickness of the print and of his eyebrows made his eyes look like dark stains. In another photo, he wore a hood, with the slightest of smiles. They were seeing someone new now. Something worse. And he had been under their faces the whole time.
“This man,” Grace said, “should have been behind bars years ago.”
“We’ll make up for that,” said Kron.
As they sat there at the table, these crimes they had spoken of seemed to sift through the air between all the happy, hungry people around them. They—Grace and Kron—had their own secret now. But they needed evidence to catch him. They needed to get into that mysterious cellar. Grace thought for a moment and then asked Kron a very bizarre question.
She asked him if he knew how to fix a motorcycle.
* * *
That night, Kron took out some ragged clothes and puzzled over a borrowed motorcycle repair manual. He stayed up late, with the aid of coffee and light, trying to figure out how to fix an all-chain drive.
The next morning, Kron knocked on the door at Cocchi’s store. When Maria Cocchi answered, Kron told her that he was here for the job. She looked him over and then asked what experience he had.
“Several years,” replied Kron quickly, looking her directly in the eyes.
“Then get to work,” Mrs. Cocchi said. “Clean out that clogged gasoline on the red one first.”
Kron paused for a second. He had never monkeyed with a motorcycle before. He had a car of his own and could tinker it up all right, but he’d have to experiment with the cycle. And he hated these clothes. But she was standing right there, watching him.
“What are you standin’ there?” she said. Kron heard her emphasis on “there” and looked down at his feet. He was standing on an iron grating that had hot air blowing up from the cellar. It was late spring, so there should be no need for heat, Kron thought. He wondered if there was equipment down there.
“Why I’m looking for a place to hitch my coat,” said Kron, stalling.
Mrs. Cocchi pointed with her thumb to a nail on the wall. As he hung up his coat, Kron asked, “Is there any other helper here, ma’am, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“I do mind you askin’,” Maria answered, mimicking him. “Don’t ask so many damn questions!”
For a week, Julius J. Kron, the Hungarian detective who could not be bribed, fumbled and bluffed his way through motorcycle repairs as Maria Cocchi watched over him like a hawk. Kron would commit the bikes’ maladies to heart, learn how to fix them at night by reading the manuals, and try to put this knowledge into effect the next day. He had surprising success. The more daunting exercise was dealing with Mrs. Cocchi.
All the while, Kron reported back to Grace everything he was learning about the shop. They would meet at her office or in hotels, and he would pass on the information. The one-story building itself was largely taken over by motorcycles, most of their repairs now far overdue. There was a workshop in the cellar, but it was only accessible through the outside stairs in the front. Mrs. Cocchi never let him go near there, Kron told Grace. Whenever he needed tools, Mrs. Cocchi would bring them up herself. Kron didn’t think she trusted him, or anyone, for that matter.
Grace had also hired a young female detective named Marie Vanello to gain Mrs. Cocchi’s confidence. Grace had her rent a room from Mrs. Cocchi, who was obviously in dire need of cash. Kron would see Marie sometimes, in passing, but would not acknowledge her. Grace’s plan looked very promising. Her people had already closed in around Mrs. Cocchi, who suspected nothing.
On the fifth day of Kron’s new job as a mechanic, a customer brought in a motorcycle that needed three of the front wheel spokes replaced. All Kron needed to do was to solder it—but the equipment was in the basement. Without pause, Kron began to put on his hat and coat. Mrs. Cocchi stopped him.
“Where you going now?” she asked.
“The smithy. To get these spokes soldered.”
“You don’t need to go to no smithy,” Mrs. Cocchi said. “I’ll take you down-stairs and you can use the heater there.”
Kron put his hat and coat back on the tack. He made sure to control his breathing and his eyes. Mrs. Cocchi wiped her hands, and he followed her outside the shop. At the front sidewalk there were four steps that led down to the cellar. As Mrs. Cocchi remained standing on top to watch the store, Kron jumped down. Mrs. Cocchi kept an eye on Kron as he went inside.
When Kron entered the basement, he tried to take it all in as quickly as possible. There was no lavish furnished space or medieval dungeon; there was only a workbench, a massive tool chest, some rags in a corner, and the slick smell of motor oil. There were two windows facing the front small alley. Kron scanned the wooden boards on the floor for new damage or shiny bright nails. But even the dust was uniform. Kron knew that the police had already searched this room twice. It certainly looked like it.
“Don’t you see the heater there in front of you?” Mrs. Cocchi shouted from the stairs. There was a pause. Cocchi looked around again for a footprint or a scuff—anything. He started searching the back wall when he realized he had taken too long. “Never mind, come on up,” Mrs. Cocchi said, quickly. “Take the spokes to the smithy.” At that moment, Mrs. Cocchi’s high-pitched voice convinced Kron of two things. One, there must be some kind of tiny clue in that basement, and, two, that the jig was up.
Kron grabbed the spokes and scrambled up the stairs. He could hear a customer in the shop upstairs. Maybe she just didn’t want him in the cellar unattended. Maybe there was nothing down there after all. The tools were valuable, but not as valuable as what he was looking for. There was no secret cell or hiding place. Or at least he had not seen one. It was just an ordinary cellar. Maybe Mrs. Cocchi hadn’t noticed the length of his absence. But when he came up the stairs, he saw her eyes locked on him. He instantly knew that his time down there had been too obvious.
“I know you now!” she shouted. “You’re another one of those detectives that chased poor Al away—you’re no mechanic! You’re hounding after him still even after—.” She broke down, crying. “Get out! Get out!”
As Kron was pushed out into the street, he now understood what Grace had been telling him this whole time. There had to be some clue in the cellar. The plan had worked beautifully until he got in that basement and blown his cover. He had failed her. Kron slouched and sighed and walked away from the store, back toward square one.
That week, a half-Indian prisoner in the Tombs banged his cup against the bars and said he had something to tell the police. His name was Stephen Smith and he said that Cocchi had hired him a few months ago to haul away a huge pile of dirt he had dug out of his cellar. Smith, who had been in jail since April, said that Cocchi also asked him a very strange question.
“Don’t you want to go to Mexico?” Cocchi had said, according to Smith. “Dozen of pretty American girls have been taken down there.” Grace was interested in the lead, until Smith tried to commit suicide and refused to speak anymore.
This was hardly the first time someone had brought up white slavery with regard to Ruth Cruger. But now Grace was beginning
to think it might be more than just a rumor. In fact, she’d been following a thread of this on her own. She called Kron into her office. He was still disappointed over his performance at the store, but Grace didn’t have time for spilled milk. She wanted to get him back in the game. Grace told Kron she had another lead for him, a person of interest who might have actually seen Ruth Cruger.
“She says that she was lured last winter by the leader of a gang of South American white slavers,” Grace said. “She says she may have been in Cocchi’s cellar. I want you to talk with her.”
Grace sensed Kron’s hesitation. Not only had his pride been wounded by being exposed by Mrs. Cocchi, but, Grace knew, he hated white slavery cases. Half the time they weren’t real, Kron always said; when they were, they were impossible to prosecute.
“Listen to her story before you jump to any conclusion,” Grace pleaded.
The detective still wavered. Kron looked like he wanted to jump on a boat to Italy and just shoot Cocchi for putting them through this.
“Don’t be hard-boiled, Kronnie. Have a little patience with her. She has been through some horrible experiences.”
Kron finally agreed. Grace called the witness and arranged for her to come into the office later that day. When she did, Kron sat her facing the light. He studied her. She was brunette and pretty.
“I don’t know just were to begin,” said Consuelo La Rue, who was dark in complexion and had a Spanish accent prowling on the edges of her words. Kron remembered that Cocchi once lived in the Spanish section. There might be something here after all. Kron studied her more carefully. She had rouge on her lips. He could tell she was one of the new generation of girls who shopped and traveled without an escort and was of the age and disposition to attend dances on the roof of the Astor Hotel, which lasted through the evening and well into the next morning.
“Well, begin at the beginning,” Kron said. “Where did you meet the man who lured you to Cocchi’s cellar?”
“At my dressmaker’s, on West Fifty-eighth Street.”