by Brad Ricca
La Rue proceeded to tell the story of how she had met a handsome man of Spanish nobility. His full name was the Count de Clemens, but she called him “the count.” Kron noted that she told the story with some hesitation but no embarrassment. And there were certainly plenty of counts in the city these days.
The count was perfectly charming and invited her to tea at the Plaza. They had several dates before he finally invited her to his apartment on West Fifty-eighth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. “I went to meet his uncle,” La Rue said. “He was a most aristocratic-looking gentleman with white hair.”
“What happened next?” asked Kron. Now he was getting interested. The uncle game was well known among detectives. It was a common graft where a man posing as the uncle of the initial suitor would sweep in to request money, kidnap the girl, or worse.
“We had a glass of wine,” La Rue said. Afterward, the count called his chauffeur and offered to drive her home. She agreed, but then things took a terrible turn.
“The wine must have been drugged,” she said. “I woke up in that dreadful cellar.”
Kron looked right into her eyes. He noticed a distinct lack of horror in La Rue’s voice. But he remembered the Mureal girl and listened with an open mind.
“I managed to escape by giving the man who acted as guard all the jewels I was wearing at the time.” She sat motionless before Kron.
“Will you please describe the cellar,” Kron requested.
Her hands clasped together. “I can’t tell you anymore. Those white slavers, señor—they will kill me.”
Kron glanced across the office to see if Grace was with a client. He saw a black sliver of her through the door, seated and alone. Kron excused himself and passed into her office.
“Well, Kronnie, what did I tell you?” Grace asked. “She wouldn’t tell me her address, but I knew you would get it out of her, and find out who this count was.”
“She is either mentally unbalanced or a drug addict,” Kron said.
“That may be so,” Grace agreed. “But I believe that girl has some information we want, and I mean to find out. Try to get her address.”
Kron took down the address and sent La Rue home. The next time they met, at a restaurant, Kron asked her to more fully describe the secret room where she had been held.
“It was beautifully furnished in rich Oriental style,” said La Rue, speaking with an obvious effort. “Divans and little cot beds, deep-piled carpets, softly shaded lamps. There were two very beautiful girls there. I promised to go back for them.…” She paused. “But I didn’t and for that I deserve to be punished.”
Kron studied her. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said. Kron told her that they would take the subway uptown. But they could not talk or act like they knew each other. She nodded.
“We’ll get off the train at 125th near Cocchi’s,” Kron said. “I want you to walk ahead of me. When you are opposite the place you believe to be Cocchi’s cellar, drop your handkerchief.”
“Will you do that?”
She nodded yes.
When they got into the square, steel train, Kron grabbed one of the fat, looped tan handles above. As the train clacked forward, Kron absently read the ads for folding Brownie cameras and refreshing Coca-Cola. La Rue sat on the longitudinal seating as they rattled across the bridge. The trains, though new, had already carved their own necessary space for internal theater. People thought about people and destinations, never the train or ride itself. Many riders thought of the Mineola millionaire August Belmont’s alleged private car, clad in mahogany and silk mulberry drapes, hidden somewhere on the IRT. People wondered if it existed, or if it was a part of their own train, in secret down the rail. Kron thought of La Rue’s sensational story. It sounded like something out of Arabian Nights.
When they got off at West 125th, Kron held back, giving La Rue time for a head start just in case anyone was watching. But not too far. The sidewalks were busy, making it difficult to stay together. As Kron made the turn onto the street, he saw La Rue walking briskly toward Cocchi’s shop. Her walk reflected her stories. There were a few people gathered outside of it, as was the norm these days given all the news in the papers. Kron looked around. He had to make sure he didn’t run into Mrs. Cocchi, so he dipped his hat and let the shadows pull him. He looked ahead for La Rue.
When she reached Cocchi’s shop, La Rue kept walking. Without a glance or a moment’s hesitation, she kept going. Kron picked up his pace. Not taking his eyes off her, he grabbed the arms of Tom Fay, one of his men who was stationed near Cocchi’s place as a watcher. Kron ordered him to follow La Rue all night, no matter what happened next. He pointed her out with his finger. Fay nodded. Kron then sprinted and overtook La Rue, pulling her into a doorway.
“Why didn’t you drop the handkerchief?” Kron asked.
“Because someone was watching me,” she whispered. “I know my cellar was where all those people were standing.”
Kron knew this was a lie. He had been in that cellar, and there were no pillows or silk for miles. There could be no grand adjoining chambers, either. Next door lived an old Irish lady named Mrs. Donnelly, a churchwoman, and on the other side was a very respectable family with many children.
“You are all unstrung,” Kron said. “Come over to this candy shop,” he said, motioning to the establishment on the corner. “Have a malted milk. That will do you good.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” La Rue said, pulling away. “They would kill me.” She looked around in a frightened manner. “I think I had better go now.” She turned to leave.
Kron thought fast. “While you are drinking it,” Kron added. “I will go into one of the telephone booths and report.” Kron could tell that she had been racking her mind for a getaway. She agreed.
Kron showed her into the corner candy store. There were rows of Goo-Goos, Heath Bars, Turtles, and white Life Savers. A young woman with untidy blond hair and a grimy apron waited on them. When she came back with their order, she delicately planted two glasses of malted milk on the marble-topped table. La Rue gave a shudder. This place was clearly not one of her usual haunts. La Rue looked from the drink to Kron. To save her further embarrassment, Kron excused himself and went toward a telephone booth.
After Kron had given a telephone number, he glanced toward the spot where he had left La Rue. She was already gone. As soon as the connection was put through, Kron described the results of his uptown journey to Grace.
“She is another irresponsible person,” Kron said, furiously. “One of those border-line psychopathic cases.” Kron hung up.
That evening, Kron’s man called to tell him that he was successful in tailing La Rue after she had left the candy shop. She was living in a shabby tenement house on West Fifty-eighth Street. Tom reported that she had lived there several months and was regarded as something of a mystery by her less eccentric neighbors. Kron was surprised. He wondered why a woman of her apparent breeding—and he was convinced of that—was living in a slum. What was she hiding? Kron checked his watch. It was never too late for detective work.
Kron rang the janitor’s bell at La Rue’s building. The door was answered by a shaggy-haired giant of a man. He had blond hair and light-colored eyes. Posing as a credit investigator, Kron asked him questions about La Rue but received only silence. Kron handed the man a good-size greenback and explained whom he was looking for.
“She is of medium height, slender, a Spanish type, and dresses very well,” Kron said. “She has rung up bills at the largest stores and has given as her references the names of prominent Spanish counts and barons. Now, that money is yours if you know her.”
Kron could tell that the janitor had eyes for La Rue.
“Miss La Rue knows a great many barons and counts,” the janitor said. Kron heard a distinctive Slovakian accent in his words. “They used to come very often right here to this house,” continued the janitor, “driving up in their rich limousines. Without doubt she is the lady you seek
. If she used another name—that is her affair.” Kron handed the janitor the money and suggested there was more, but only if he had more to say.
The janitor obliged. He said that many fancy-looking men, most of them exotic in nature, had visited La Rue. Many of the other residents were convinced that she was a princess in disguise. More than once the sound of violent quarreling was heard. Or something like it. La Rue had few women friends, but once or twice young girls had been her guests for short periods. The large janitor didn’t recall that she had been recently missing. Kron walked away from the tenement house and made a call to Grace from the corner. He had no more desire to talk to Consuelo La Rue. Her life was an act, and she was a distraction. They needed to get into Cocchi’s basement.
The next day, Kron went to see Deputy Police Commissioner Guy Scull about getting into the cellar. Scull was a step below Woods, but he still had power in the department. A Harvard man, Scull had been a Rough Rider with Roosevelt, a treasure hunter in the Caribbean, and followed Buffalo Jones deep into Africa. When Scull was married in 1914, he told Woods he would be back to work that same day. “If you are,” said Woods, “I’ll fire you.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see what I can do for you, Mr. Kron,” Scull said. “The building was searched through by this Department and nothing at all was discovered. I am perfectly willing to do anything I can to help you out, but the only thing I can suggest is that you get some corroborative evidence, and apply to the Magistrate of Washington Heights for a search warrant. If you want men to aid you in the search, you may call on the Captain of the Fourth Branch and tell him you talked this over with me.”
Kron went back to Grace. Together, they got to Magistrate Green’s office just after noon. He was about to go out for lunch. Green invited them in and listened, his stomach rumbling, as they told him about the cellar, the boy Herbert, and everything else.
“The police have been all through there,” Green explained, sighing. “I’m afraid I can’t give you one unless you have new evidence.”
But that was the whole problem. Grace was positive in her mind that there was something there that might provide a clue to where Ruth was, but she was also mindful that there was always a chance that they wouldn’t find anything. They could be sued by Mrs. Cocchi for several hundred thousand dollars in damages. They would be made fools.
“Talk about the cup of Tantalus,” Kron sighed.
“I wish I could do something,” Green said. “But the only suggestion I can make—and it isn’t an official one—is that you ask Captain Alonzo Cooper of the Fourth Branch Detective and see if you can bluff an entrance.”
When they visited Cooper, the next desk in line of the men who were in power, Grace implored the captain. “I’ve simply got to go over each inch myself in order to satisfy myself that I am overlooking nothing,” she said, somewhat uncharacteristically. “Just give me two men to help me search the place.” They were desperate. Cooper surprised them with his answer.
“I’ll go with you myself.”
For the first time in days, Grace felt like she might be able to get her investigator into that basement. Mrs. Cocchi wouldn’t dare try any of her tantrums on the captain. He was a tall, majestic chap, six foot five, exceedingly handsome with a military bearing.
Maria Cocchi met them on the street. Her eyes focused on Kron.
“You back again. You won’t get in here.” Then she turned to Grace.
“You, Mrs. Humiston?” she asked.
“Yes,” Grace replied.
“You snooping around long time.”
Grace and Kron dropped back as Cooper doffed his hat, opened his arms a bit, and smiled as he talked nicely to Mrs. Cocchi. After their conversation, he returned, shaking his head.
“It is useless,” Cooper said. “She has evidently seen a lawyer and knows her rights.”
They all stood in silence, looking at the building.
“What is the place next door?” Kron asked, pointing to the left.
“That’s an old gin-mill,” Cooper said. “The place beneath was a gambling dive; it used to be raided every week or so. If you want to scout around there, I’ll give you a couple of men.”
Grace thought his voice sounded almost too kind. But the history of the building was interesting and possibly a lead. Cooper replaced his hat and told Kron to hang around. He promised to send Detective McGee to help him. As Cooper left, Grace walked down the street. Things had changed. Kron had had his cover blown and other leads had turned up cold. Grace saw the busy candy store on the corner near Cocchi’s store, the one where Kron took La Rue.
Grace thought about Kron’s comparing this all to the cup of Tantalus. He was always a surprise. In mythology, Tantalus was invited to Zeus’s table, where he overindulged and stole the food of the gods, sharing it with mortal people. In an attempt to make amends, Tantalus killed his own son, chopped him up in a pot, and served him to the gods as a sacrifice. The gods were most displeased. As punishment, Tantalus had to stand in a pool of water in the underworld beneath a tree filled with luscious, dangling fruit. Every time Tantalus reached up for a bite, or scooped a hand below to slake his thirst, the fruit or water eluded him. It was a myth, or more like a lesson, about needs versus wants. The cup of Tantalus was an actual drinking vessel that embodied the same lesson. If overfilled, the cup would cause the liquid to disappear completely from the cup. Grace was as frustrated by the clues she was getting in this case as she would be drinking from such a container. Everything led back to that store—every story, every clue, and every imagined footprint—and Grace was frustrated that she couldn’t get in to search it herself. The overflow of clues notwithstanding, the trail had run dry.
But the cup wasn’t really magic. It was invented by the ancients as a practical joke—or perhaps as a way of keeping their servants from stealing their wine. There was a hidden space inside the base where the liquid was held. The cup cheated. Grace knew someone was cheating here, too.
They needed to do the same.
11
A Door to the Underworld
Julius Kron and Detective McGee, who told Kron to call him Frank, searched and dug through the old building next to Metropolitan Motorcycles for a week, but all they found was garbage and dirt. Everything stuck to everything else, and the dust clouded the air. When Kron and McGee would come back out onto the street, it looked as if the building itself was swaying in the heat. Nothing seemed completely certain here.
As they came up empty-handed, day after day, Kron chomped his cigars, and McGee’s massive body was drenched in sweat. The neighborhood hawks would poke their heads out of their windows and jeer at the unlikely pair. Many of them were friends of the Cocchis.
“Don’t mind them, Kron,” McGee said, tucking his tie into his shirt. “We’ll have the laugh on them all yet.” But that laugh seemed a long way off.
Meanwhile, Grace had opened up a temporary headquarters in the back of the candy store on the corner. She knew they had to be as close as possible to Cocchi’s store in case an opening presented itself. Grace told Kron to hire some local day laborers to be at the ready in the candy store. They sat there with picks and shovels leaned against the wall, eating Squirrel Nut Zippers and popping Necco wafers. Mrs. Cocchi was still barring any entry to the motorcycle shop so they drank Jersey Creme sodas, biding their time.
After a week of digging, Kron stood with McGee outside Cocchi’s place, both of them sore and weary. Kron was at least glad he could wear his wool pants again. As he looked down, he noticed the lid of a coal chute, large and heavy. He followed its invisible trail under the sidewalk and stopped.
“Frank,” Kron said, stooping down to lift the lid.
McGee saw the same invisible trajectory in his mind. This chute emptied into the vault under Cocchi’s sidewalk to deliver the coal. Right next to the cellar. McGee helped Kron open the iron circle to see a dark entranceway. Kron lit a match and saw some coal lining a tunnel of darkness. As guessed, it looked as if it ran
down under the sidewalk at a slow angle. He ran his fingers through the coal. It was mixed with dirt. Kron lit another match and saw flecks of something in the black, flaky substance. Chloride? Lime? Kron started to move his hand in when the shadow of Mrs. Cocchi appeared over him.
“Steady there, Mrs. Cocchi,” said Frank in a soft voice.
“This is a public highway,” Kron shouted, scrambling to his short, full height. He had finally had enough. “I am at perfect liberty to go down there—and I’m going. Frank, arrest her if she makes any more monkey-shines. Right now give me a lift down this chute.”
Mrs. Cocchi narrowed her eyes but retired to the door of her shop. She knew that Kron was right—he was technically on public property. She watched them from the doorway.
Kron shifted himself down the narrow chute as McGee stood up top. Inside, Kron saw more of the white specks on the walls, though just little flecks here and there. The floor was lost in what looked like several feet of newly dug earth. Kron tried to clear the floor with his feet, then more hurriedly with his hands and arms. He turned black as night. As Kron lit his last match, he felt something hard under the floor. As the match sputtered out, Kron’s eyes widened.
“What have you found down there?” asked McGee.
Kron was covered with black coal, and he was worn and hollow-eyed, but his smudged face wore a look of satisfaction. “What we’ve been looking for,” he said. Kron instructed McGee to get everyone down here at once. And to bring a searchlight. McGee left, leaving the lid open, letting in a beam of hot sun.
A few moments later, the lid clanged closed and Kron was again shut in darkness.
He heard a laugh and realized that Mrs. Cocchi had sneaked over and replaced the lid on the street. It was dark and quiet and there was a door beneath his feet, and he had no idea where it went. He listened to the scampering of something and hoped that Frank would come back soon.
* * *
“Hey, are you there, Kron? What the devil happened?” It was McGee, pulling open the lid. Some time had passed, though McGee had only gone up the street to the candy store.