I could not make out who it was, for all I saw was the black of his coat. “Yes,” I hollered loudly to confirm. My voice sounded unusually hoarse, as smoke caught in my throat.
“Mulvaney said you’d be by. Come this way.” He motioned to an area past a row of train tracks and we followed slowly, watching our step. Alistair assisted Isabella as she lifted her heavy skirts high above muddy ground and slippery rails.
“This is Will Porter,” the man in black said, “the janitor who found the items you wanted to see. I’ve gotta take the evidence back to the precinct, but you can have a few minutes to look it over. If you got any more questions, I’ll be over by track nine.”
He turned and was gone. I had not caught his name, or even got a good look at his face.
Will Porter was a wizened man with leathery skin, a slight build, and a hunched back. He eyed us suspiciously, and seemed to raise an eyebrow when he noted Isabella’s presence, but he made no comment.
“You got questions for me?” he said, impatiently shifting his feet. “I gotta get back to work.”
I was no more anxious for a lengthy interview than he was. “Can you tell me how you found these items?” Given the dust, soot, and grime that surrounded us here, I could not fathom how the man had managed to notice anything particularly unusual about them.
“Well,” he said, shifting his weight as he answered me. “It was when I got back to the incinerator room that I saw what was there. I was putting garbage in the fire when I saw a carpetbag stuffed full of things. I opened it and right on top was a woman’s handbag. So I got curious to see what was in it.”
He looked at us, clearly wondering if we were going to question him further about this admission. I understood immediately and made a calculated decision to let it pass. The man had no doubt hoped to find money in the handbag; that was why he had examined it more closely. I did not ask whether he had found anything; I’d rather he responded to more important questions.
“Go on,” I said.
“I noticed the handbag had a peculiar stain.” He paused, then continued, “And that made me look to see what else was with it. I saw the lead pipe, inside the hat, wadded up in some woman’s petticoat with dried blood all over it. That was then I realized the stain was also blood. That got me spooked, so I called the police.”
“And the rest of the clothes?”
He shook his head. “You can take a look. It’s all in there. I didn’t touch nothing else. After I saw all that blood on the lady’s petticoat, I got scared maybe there was a dead body here somewhere. So I called the police, and they sorted through the rest of the stuff.”
“Everything is this way?” Alistair asked.
“Yeah, in the incinerator room.” Will gestured toward the stairs behind him to our left.
I motioned to Alistair to wait. “And do you recall exactly where you found the carpetbag?” I scanned the length of the train yard. It was massive.
“See those six cans lined up against the eastern side wall over there? It came from one of them,” Will said. “I’ve still gotta do those others”—he pointed to the opposite side of the yard—“once you guys finish with me.”
I nodded. “Did you happen to notice anyone in this area behaving strangely, in the last few days?”
Will looked at me blankly. “Whaddya mean, behaving strangely?”
I tried to be more specific. “Did you see anyone who looked like he didn’t belong? Perhaps in an area where strangers don’t normally venture?”
He cackled, showing us a mouth riddled with missing teeth. “There’s strange people here every day, mister. Men with suits inspecting this or that rail, talking about building plans. And the men working construction get paid by the day. Sometimes they’re here, sometimes not—depends how much they need the money that day. It’s backbreaking work, it is. Lucky it’s not my job.”
“Any other janitors with you out here?” I asked.
“Nah, just me.” He grinned. “There are others inside the terminal, but out here, it’s all just a big trash heap anyways. I only gotta take care of what trash makes its way into those cans. The rest takes care of itself.”
We thanked him, and before he returned to his work, he again pointed us in the direction of the incinerator room. It was a relatively small room, and it seemed even smaller because of the large trash bags that lined each wall from floor to ceiling. The incinerator itself was merely a small opening in a brick wall, covered at the moment by an iron door. There was a rusted metal table to the back where the suspicious clothing lay, guarded loosely by a policeman with instructions to return the materials to his precinct captain once we had taken a look.
“Sir, you’re the detective Mulvaney sent?” After I nodded, he ushered us into the room. “Please disregard my own things over there,” he said, pointing to a coat, hat, and scarf at the far end of the table. “Had to take them off. It’s beastly hot down here.” Beads of perspiration dripped down his face, even though now he wore only his shirt.
“True enough,” I said, as we all removed our own coats. “Let’s make this quick.” Alistair and Isabella offered no objection.
The carpetbag itself was on the far left end. A leaf pattern of reds and oranges must have once been visible, but it was now worn and covered with soot. I examined it and noticed nothing unusual.
Isabella approached the table, as well, and we watched as she gently fingered each item of clothing. She picked up the handbag that had attracted Porter’s attention. “Could this have have been Sarah’s?” She gingerly lifted it. It was flat and black, obviously well-worn; the thick black straps showed signs of previous repair. Her fingers grasped the small gold fastener to open it.
“Ma’am, we put the contents from inside it over here,” the young officer said.
She put the bag down, and we all moved over to the pile indicated. I first noticed a small handkerchief, a black leather notebook, and a silver hand mirror.
“S.W.,” Isabella whispered. The initials on the handkerchief, presumably, stood for Sarah Wingate. It was our first obvious link between the items and her murder.
“Look. This address book has had all its pages ripped out,” Isabella said, thumbing through a derelict paper booklet with a worn black leather cover.
“What else is there?” I asked Isabella, who was going through the rest of the items.
Isabella frowned. “A small change purse, empty.”
I thought of Will Porter and could not help but wonder if the change purse had been empty before he found it. But I pushed the thought out of my head; the money did not matter to our investigation, and Sarah no longer needed it.
“That’s all?” I was incredulous. Apart from what money may have been there, it seemed hardly enough to have warranted carrying a handbag at all, much less stealing it. “Why did he bother even taking these things from her?” I asked in frustration. “It makes no sense.”
“Fromley liked souvenirs to fuel his fantasies. Maybe the real killer decided to take some random items to make it look more like Fromley,” Alistair said. “This handbag could have been lying about in Sarah’s room. If so, it would have been easy to take.”
“But then why discard everything?” Isabella asked.
“Why risk keeping everything?” I countered.
Alistair shook his head and held up the fur hat. “And how could he have worn this for any part of his journey from Dobson to Grand Central without attracting someone’s attention?”
I shrugged. “Plenty of people in this city dress strangely but attract no attention. And the hat would partially disguise his head and facial features.”
We each regarded the fur hat. On closer examination, despite its dark brown color, we could identify sticky markings of blood. It was likely the man had discarded it as soon as he no longer needed it, putting it in the bag where it had rubbed against the bloodstained clothing.
“The woman’s petticoat looks as though it were used to wipe something clean. Maybe even this lead pipe,�
�� I said.
“The weapon responsible for her head injuries?” Alistair asked.
“Very likely. Dr. Fields believed they were made by some kind of metal object.”
“What about any other clothing?” Isabella asked. “If his shirtwaist and trousers”—she held up two garments mottled with blood—“are so stained, then presumably everything else he wore would be bloodstained, as well. What about his coat? His boots?”
“He may have removed his coat,” Alistair said.
“And also,” I said, “I suspect this carpetbag only attracted Will Porter’s attention because it was stuffed to capacity, and he hoped to find something of value in it. If the murderer split up the items he wished to dispose of, then other items may have gone unnoticed.” I turned to the young officer. “Will you ask that all other garbage bags that may have been deposited here in the last week be examined before they are incinerated?”
As the man agreed, Alistair began combing through each pocket, using a pair of white cotton gloves we had brought for the purpose. He wordlessly handed another pair to Isabella, and she quickly pitched in to help.
Meanwhile I examined the return ticket stub already found in one of the pockets. Under the name New York Central and Hudson River Railroad, it was stamped November 7. On the back, the conductor had punched a hole next to Dobson to indicate fare paid. While we could question the conductors and ticket takers who had worked Tuesday afternoon, it was doubtful any would remember, given the thousands of passengers who passed through the terminal each day—and this had now been four days ago. Assuming this clothing proved to belong to Sarah’s murderer, I was struck by the oddity—really, the brazenness—of his choice to travel by train, immediately following the murder, to the most crowded train station in the country, counting on no one noticing anything amiss with his clothes, his hair, or even his behavior. There was anonymity in numbers, people said. I supposed that was true.
“And what do we make of this? Is there a particular place that sells them?” Alistair picked up the fur hat and looked at it quizzically.
I shrugged. “Not that it would be of help to us. He could have bought it at any of a dozen places here in the city. Any neighborhood with a large Russian immigrant population.” That meant the Lower East Side or Williamsburg in Brooklyn, where the largest groups had settled.
Isabella was worrying with the handbag again.
“Are you ready?” I asked. “We have other leads to pursue.”
“Just a minute,” she replied, “I want to check something.”
As we watched in amazement, she turned the handbag inside out, revealing a small zippered compartment almost hidden in the side of the bag. “There’s something inside,” Isabella said, feeling the contours of the pocket. “Paper, I think.”
Flipping it another turn, she was able to unzip the hidden pocket and draw out a paper envelope, mottled with bloodstains. “A letter,” Isabella said, “sealed shut, and not yet postmarked,” and she opened the envelope and scanned its contents.
I waited a few seconds but soon grew impatient. “Who is it from?”
She handed it to me before she had entirely finished reading it.
“We’ve made a wrong assumption—this isn’t Sarah Wingate’s bag at all! Or perhaps it is, and she planned to mail something for Mrs. Wingate’s housemaid.” She looked up at us, eyes wide with astonishment. “This letter was written by Stella Gibson on November 6. It was never posted. And look at the addressee. Based on this,” she said, “if Stella is still alive, we may have a good lead as to her whereabouts.”
Stella Gibson. The Wingates’ missing housemaid, who had disappeared in the hours just after the murder.
“My dearest Cora,” the letter began. “It was so good to hear the news of your last letter, for I have been deeply concerned. . . . ”
My eyes scanned the letter’s contents, taking in its larger subject matter rather than its small details. Stella’s confidences were immaterial; what mattered was that she and Cora were obviously on close terms. After allowing Alistair to take a look, I shoved the letter into my coat pocket and we quickly made our way out of the incinerator room and back to the main terminal entrance.
“I’d say we owe Cora Czerne an overdue visit.” I felt a pang of guilt as I said it. I had hoped to interview her Thursday, right after Mamie had given us her address. But investigating Fromley’s own quarters had taken priority, and what we discovered there had spawned other, more pressing concerns.
We would know more answers soon, I vowed, as our cab raced up Fifth Avenue into the East Nineties, well north of the fashionable East Side areas where the Vanderbilts and Astors had built their opulent mansions. But along the way, I found myself thinking not of Cora Czerne, but of Mamie Durant. I could not shake my suspicion that she would play a role in unraveling this case. But probably not a willing one.
CHAPTER 23
“Mrs. Ralph Noland? Do we have the wrong address?” Isabella’s voice reflected her bewilderment as she read the name listed near the large brass knocker on the door of the rowhouse at number 135 East Ninety-first Street. According to Stella’s letter, we could expect to find Cora Czerne here. The house was a plain brownstone, marked only by the presence of two grimacing gargoyles above the front door. Alistair pretended to examine them with great care, leaving me to explain about Mrs. Noland.
I rapped the knocker. “I expect it is merely an alias she uses, to make everything all right with the neighbors.”
“Oh,” Isabella said, blushing, “of course.”
While not fashionable, the neighborhood in which we stood was occupied primarily by upper-income families. An unmarried woman would attract attention—and ostracization—should anyone notice an unrelated man making visits. Cora Czerne’s alias allowed her to pretend to be married; she no doubt explained her husband’s absences with complaints about his frequent business travel. The pretense was all that mattered; it was the way in which many a mistress assured herself a respectable existence.
In just a few moments, the door opened, and we were greeted by a young housemaid with carrot-red hair drawn tightly back into a bun. She appeared to be no older than sixteen, and judging from her thick brogue, I guessed she was straight off the boat from Ireland. We presented my card, for overt references to police work often made people reluctant to talk.
We waited in the entry hall a few moments while she presented the card; then the same girl ushered us into a small front parlor. Knowing we would have little other chance of nourishment for lunch today, we accepted her offer of tea and biscuits. As we waited in uncomfortable high-backed blue-patterned chairs, I observed the many small wildflower prints that were framed against blue toile wallpaper. Unlike Mamie Durant’s sitting room of colorful purples and reds, this room was a model of traditional propriety.
The biscuits arrived right away; we had just polished them off when Cora came into the room. She was an attractive woman, with olive skin, dark eyes and hair. She greeted us politely before sitting down, though she regarded us with a wary expression.
“Why are you here, Detective?” she asked. “Frankly, I can’t imagine what business you have with me.” She smoothed her plain blue skirt.
“Actually, our interest is not with you,” I said, after I introduced the others, “but with an acquaintance of yours—a friend, I believe.” I paused a moment before continuing. “We are searching for Stella Gibson. We believe you may be able to help us locate her.”
She stiffened slightly, but asked only, “And what leads you to believe I know anything about this woman? What did you say her name was, again?”
While I was unsurprised that she feigned ignorance, I had little time to waste. I went ahead and played my hand.
“Even before we located this letter,” I said, pulling the letter Stella had written out of my pocket, “Mamie Durant had told us you and Stella were friendly with one another.”
I placed the letter on the small coffee table between us. Cora simply stared—
first at me, then at the small bloodstained envelope. After a moment, she picked it up and read it carefully before placing it back on the table. Her fingers slightly recoiled from the dark bloodstains and I realized she was repulsed but otherwise untroubled by the blood. It was a reaction that suggested she knew Stella was safe.
“I see.” Cora breathed in sharply as she stared out the window, absorbed in her own thoughts.
Alistair opened his mouth to say something, but I indicated he should not, with a slight shake of my head. I did not want to rush Cora; it seemed that she required a few minutes to compose herself and determine what to say.
“We need your help to find her,” I urged finally, after some time had passed. “The family for whom Stella has been working is quite worried. We believe she may have witnessed a murder, and if so, that fact places her in great danger.”
She looked at me, and her tone was scornful. “And I suppose you can protect her? Who are you, exactly? A small town detective working with the Wingate family, I presume? Your primary concern is with the Wingate girl’s murder, which means you cannot fully appreciate how your interference may itself endanger Stella.”
We had not mentioned the Wingate name or that a young woman was the murder victim. But it had not mattered; Cora already knew.
My voice held steady. “I am a detective with several years’ experience in the city, though now I am with the police in Dobson, New York. The Sinclairs are private citizens assisting me.” I showed her my identification as proof, then continued, “I believe Stella may have information that will help us catch Sarah Wingate’s murderer. Only when he is caught will everyone—including Stella—be safe.”
“I can protect her,” she responded with stubborn defensiveness. “You are the ones with little understanding of what she faces. You haven’t got the faintest idea of what my life, or Stella’s, is like.” She paused, eyeing Isabella, who sat gracefully, her composure unruffled. Then Cora continued. “I know how this city works and how to make my way in it. No one will look out for Stella better than I can.”
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