by Liz Freeland
“Or an adventurous traveler.” That bespectacled gaze homed in on me. “Are you sure you don’t know Mr. Holmgren?” Clearly, he was beginning to suspect I was some kind of lunatic. An obsessive Swede fancier.
“I told you, I’m just concerned about him. Is there anywhere people of your country would tend to go?”
“There are thousands of Swedish people in New York City, Miss Frobisher. Many own restaurants, bakeries, bars. We are like people of any country. Even in foreign lands, especially in foreign lands, we seek out what is familiar and reminds us of home.”
Bakeries, bars, and restaurants. “Have you ever heard of an establishment called the Silver Swan?”
He shook his head. “I do not recognize the name.”
When I finally stood, he looked relieved. He rose and bowed slightly. “Goodbye, Miss Frobisher. Lycka till. That means ‘Good luck.’ ”
“Thank you.”
“Jag tror att du behöver det.”
I smiled. “And what does that mean?”
“ ‘I think you will need it.’ ”
Back at the station, as the afternoon wore on, I sifted through my options. Maybe Berglund was right and I had set myself an impossible task. Should I start combing the waterfront, hunting for Swedes? Make the rounds of all the Swedish bakeries and restaurants? How much lutefisk was I willing to consume in this quest?
Midafternoon, a new female offender was brought in, someone I already knew well. Light-fingered Lettie had been collared for stealing a bracelet from Gimbels, the second time she’d been caught thieving in that particular establishment.
“Why would you go there again?” I asked her as I ushered her into a cell. “Surely you knew the store detective would spot you.”
“I’d never been there as a redhead, though, had I?”
The last time she’d been in my care, she’d been a dishwater blonde. Now her tresses were an eye-popping, brassy red. “I thought the point of a disguise was to not attract attention.”
“Faulk’s right, dearie,” one of her cellmates chimed. “That hair’s as good as a lighted billboard.”
“That was the idea,” Lettie muttered. “Stupid dick was supposed to look at my hair, not my fingers.”
The woman who’d spoken before suggested helpfully, “Maybe you oughta change up your routine, Lettie. Or try a new city.”
Lettie glowered at her. “This is my city and I don’t need to be told my own business. You think I don’t change up my routine? Sure I do. But sometimes you have to aim for the easy pickings or you just end up getting discouraged. That store used to supply me with a reliable income, till they started bringing in all these damned detectives.”
“Very selfish of them,” I said, earning some appreciative laughs.
Lettie’s words made sense when I applied them to my own situation, though. There was something to be said for aiming for easy pickings. I could wear myself out looking for the Swede just as I was beginning my quest to find the passport owners. Maybe I should try for the easy pickings. After all, the Englishman, Gerald Hughes, would probably be the easiest for me to track down.
As soon as I was done for the day, I hurried across town to the British consulate, which was located in a spacious new building on the East Side. There were more people milling around there than at the Swedish consulate, and initially I worried they would never get to me. But within a half hour, again in my guise as a distraught Miss Frobisher, I was presenting myself to an official. This time I was checking on the whereabouts of my long-lost cousin Gerald, who’d left his passport at my home in Camden.
The clerk I spoke to, a middle-aged English gentleman who looked as if he were composed of equal parts clotted cream and arrogance, heaved a sigh. “And where is he now?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know.”
“You’ve lost touch?”
“We’re only distant cousins, so it was a surprise to see him when he showed up. Said he was just passing through Camden. He only was at the house a few hours, and that was weeks ago. It wasn’t until last night that I found the passport.”
“Let me see the document. Perhaps I can help.”
Though he pronounced that “perhaps” in the most doubtful tone, I opened my satchel and rifled through it. My bag really was a wonderful accessory for traveling about town. At that moment, it contained a folded newspaper, the latest Booth Tarkington, an apple, three pencils, a pad of paper, powder, extra handkerchiefs, and a baby’s rattle I’d picked up at a five-and-dime for Eddie. But of course no passport. After I’d upended the contents on the man’s desk, I let out a distressed gasp. “Golly, I must’ve left it back in Camden.”
Dark brows drew into a V as the clerk examined the pile on his desk. “Is there anything left in Camden but the passport? You seem to have brought everything else.”
I clucked at my fictitious forgetfulness. “I’m such a scatterbrain.”
The man heaved himself out of his chair and went to investigate the contents of a cabinet a few steps away. After extracting a folder, he waddled back. “As it happens, Miss Frobisher, you needn’t worry at all. Mr. Hughes was issued a new passport just two weeks ago.”
His words sent an electric current through me. Two weeks! Ruthie must have lifted his passport a few weeks before that. Maybe in October? And now Gerald Hughes had had two weeks to leave New York.
Catching the clerk staring at me, I smiled in feigned relief. “Well, that is a comfort—dear Gerald has his passport. I worried he was trapped.”
The man’s head tilted. “I’m surprised he didn’t contact you before coming here.”
“Oh, he was only at my house for a short time. Probably didn’t realize it was missing till later.” I cleared my throat. “Did Gerald leave the address of where he was staying? I thought I heard him mention a place called the Silver Swan, but I haven’t been able to find it.”
“We’re not a directory, miss.”
“Of course not. I only thought, since the war . . . Well, you understand how worried I am for him. I might never see him again.” I lifted a handkerchief to my eyes.
Whether the man’s face showed pity or impatience to be rid of me I wasn’t quite sure. “Your cousin’s last address was the Hotel McAlpin,” he said.
The McAlpin? That was just a few blocks from the Thirtieth Street station house. Right under my nose.
“That’s where we sent notice that his new travel documents were ready,” the man continued. “He came by for it here.”
It was all I could do not to sprint to the McAlpin hotel. What were the chances Hughes would still be there? Not good, I was afraid. But I wasn’t going to waste a second.
I wasn’t familiar with many hotels in New York City, but the brand-spanking-new McAlpin, the biggest hotel in the world, was hard to miss. At twenty-five stories, with distinctive white brick-and-stone top floors, it dwarfed every other building around it.
The interior was like something out of a palace in Italy—or what I imagined such a palace would be. Entering through the southeast entrance door on Broadway, I found myself in a long hall with a vaulted stone ceiling from which three massive chandeliers hung. Marble pillars held up balconies on each side of the room, and below these, in the manner of a loggia designed for business purposes, the male clerks stood at desks, helping guests. I made my way past islands of velvet-cushioned benches positioned around stone urns to ask one of them about Gerald Hughes.
Unfortunately, the clerk told me Hughes had checked out not long after receiving his passport and hadn’t provided a forwarding address. My lament about his being in England might be true. With a passport, Mr. Hughes was as free as a bird. He could be anywhere by now.
Feeling defeated, I made my way out of the hotel.
“Officer Faulk!”
A girl was standing by a door marked Hotel Staff Entrance. I knew her at once, though I’d almost walked right past her. “Hello, Lena.” The last time I’d seen her, she hadn’t been wearing a black uniform with a starc
hed white pinafore and maid’s cap. “I didn’t know you worked here. What happened to the job at the market?”
Several months ago, Lena had landed in one of my cells, brought in on a solicitation charge. It was her first offense, and the story she gave was a familiar one: a father who’d abandoned the family, younger siblings, a sick mother, an impatient landlady. I’d heard it before, and seen first offenders sink into pitiable lives. Lena was young and bright, and thinking that she still might have a chance, I did the thing I’d been warned by my colleagues never to do. I got personally involved. Just to the tune of a few dollars—well, ten—and a little pressure on a grocer not far from my apartment. I’d once helped him discover the source of the thieving problem at his store, so he agreed to give Lena a job at the register.
“Mr. Otway was all right,” she explained. “But this job pays better, and I can work evenings and take care of Mama during the day. Harry watches her at night.”
Harry was her little brother. “She’s no better?”
“But no worse, thank the Lord.” She frowned at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a guest at the hotel, named Gerald Hughes. He checked out, according to the clerk I spoke with.”
Her face brightened. “Mr. Hughes? With the limp?”
I had no idea. “He’s British.”
“Sure, that’s him. He’s gone, but I bet he’ll be back. He’s a salesman—at least that’s what I guess he is, from all the cases in his room.”
My mood ramped up from gloomy defeatism to full-steam hope. “You remember this man?”
“Of course. A real gentleman. Gave me a fifty-cent tip once for bringing him a tea when he was feeling poorly. I don’t care if he has got a wooden leg. Fifty cents on a cup of tea that costs fifteen? If that’s not handsome, I don’t know what is.”
“A wooden leg?”
She nodded. “Doreen, another girl who works here, said she walked into his room and saw it propped up against the chair—a leg and a foot with the shoe on it, just leaning there. ’Bout scared her to death.”
You’d think Eileen, Ruthie’s neighbor, would’ve noticed a one-legged man with a limp if he’d visited repeatedly, but she hadn’t mentioned him. Yet I knew Gerald Hughes had visited Ruthie at least once, because she’d stolen his passport. Unless she’d stolen it from him somewhere besides her flat. A distinct possibility.
“You think Mr. Hughes will be back?” I asked. “The clerk didn’t think so.”
Lena’s lips twisted in a dismissive sneer. “Them clerks don’t know half so much, for all their airs. Mr. Hughes’ll be back, wait and see.”
I didn’t have the leisure to wait and see forever. “Any idea when?”
“I saw something about the Great Lakes on his chair one day. Bet he’s up there for a spell. Michigan, maybe? Or Chicago. He won’t want to stay there in the winter.”
Probably not, but New York City in December wasn’t exactly the Riviera, either. “Let me know if you see him again, won’t you?”
“I hope he’s not in any trouble.”
“No . . .” I didn’t want to scare Lena away from helping me. “Just need to talk to him.”
She nodded. “I’ll send word if I ever see him around here.”
I thanked her. At least I had some eyes working for me. But the man might have relocated to Chicago permanently, or he might be on his way even farther west.
Though it was full dark now and my feet were starting to ache from crisscrossing the city, I couldn’t forget Eddie. Maybe it was silly to worry about a baby who certainly didn’t know me from any of the nuns around him. His needs were being seen to. Yet my heart twisted at the idea of letting the day go by without checking up on him. He was all alone in the world now, with no prospects, not even a person to lend him a little special attention. Except me. The rattle in my satchel hurried my steps toward the foundling hospital.
A sister named Mary Grace greeted me with a bemused smile when she heard whom I was there to visit. “The most popular baby in the ward. He’s asleep now, though, worn out after his busy day. He had the doctors in to see him.”
“What did they say?”
“That he’s fit as a flea.” Her lips tightened. “Except for being mute, poor thing.”
I tried to hide the stab of disappointment. Against Sister Eleanor’s warning, I had begun to hope that the doctors would discover his muteness was all a mistake. “Is he too tired out for me to see him?”
She considered. “Well, there’s no harm in a peek, I suppose. You being his rescuer and all.”
“I didn’t do anything special.”
She walked ahead of me at a rapid gait. “False modesty is as bad as a boast. From what I’ve heard, you plucked the babe from the jaws of hell.”
“Hell’s Kitchen. Any police officer would’ve done the same.” Still, her description of my supposed heroics made me walk taller in my boots.
After entering a long room set up with a fleet of cribs spaced at regular intervals down both sides, the sister tiptoed me over to one in the middle. I was used to thinking that babies all looked alike, but Eddie had made an impression on me. I let out a sigh upon seeing him there, his eyes gently closed, his small chest moving almost imperceptibly in sleep. I stared at him for a long minute, taking in the yellow footed sleeper he wore. I didn’t recognize it from the things I’d grabbed out of Ruthie’s chest of drawers the night we found him.
I wrote away for news of your family, Eddie.
Would the photographer send a response? I could only wait, and hope.
I unbuckled the clasp on my satchel and pulled out the bright red rattle. “I hope it’s all right to give him this?”
The nun inspected it with only a trace of a smile. “Oh yes. Except we don’t want to wake him now, do we? Him, or any of the others. I’ll just put it with his other treasures.”
Treasures? That’s not how I would have described the bare necessities I’d salvaged from Ruthie’s. I followed Sister Mary Grace to the chest of drawers against the wall. When she opened the one that had Eddie’s name on it, I gaped. Inside were several adorable little suits either in fine linen or soft knit wool, complete with matching bonnets and booties. For the first time, I also noticed the teddy bear on top of the dresser, which was the only large toy of any kind displayed in the room. Next to the bear was another rattle, larger than mine and elaborately carved and painted with a smiling sun at one end and a man on the moon at the other.
“Where did all this come from?” The items certainly weren’t the kind the orphan asylum issued its tiny inmates.
Two cribs away, a baby fussed.
Sister Mary Grace put her finger to her lips, then gestured toward the hallway. I gave Eddie a last look as she tucked my rattle in the drawer and closed it.
Once we were out of the nursery, she explained, “Some Good Samaritans came by today.”
“Who?”
“They wish to remain anonymous.”
My mind sifted through all of the possibilities. Fellow officers sometimes took up collections for particularly unfortunate widows or orphans. But as far as I knew, no one had passed a hat around the station recently. Anyway, I couldn’t imagine the men of my precinct buying the beautiful baby items I’d seen in Eddie’s drawer.
“Were they policemen?” I asked.
“You understand what anonymous means, I trust,” Mary Grace said. “Their anonymity makes the gift all the sweeter, don’t you think?”
It certainly made the puzzle more frustrating. “Was one a woman?” I couldn’t imagine a man picking out those clothes.
For a moment she weighed how much to tell me. She relented only enough to confess, “It was a man and a woman who came—and that’s all I’ll say to you about it.”
A couple? Now I really was intrigued. I’d told no couple about the baby . . . had I? There was Ruthie’s downstairs neighbor . . . but she and her husband didn’t have money to throw at extravagant clothes for someone else’s child.
>
I left the asylum with my curiosity unquenched, and with a new mystery: Who besides me was looking after Eddie?
CHAPTER 6
The streetcar home traveled down a glistening Fifth Avenue. The first Christmas displays of the season were drawing crowds in front of store windows. At Lord & Taylor, a lighted Christmas carousel had people spilling into the street to watch the reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh. Those children who couldn’t muscle their way to the glass to gawp at the moving tableau sat on their fathers’ shoulders for a better look.
On my streetcar, so many people lurched to the side with the best view that it felt for a moment as if the vehicle might topple over. Having maneuvered to secure a seat, I remained where I was, deflated over how little I’d accomplished that day. I was not much closer to finding any of the three men than I’d been when I’d opened my eyes this morning. Early days, I told myself, trying to buck up.
I stepped off the streetcar and trudged my way across Greenwich Village toward 391 Bleecker Street. More than anything, I longed first for a soak in the tub, where I could think over what I’d learned since Ruthie’s death and ponder what to do next. After my soak I pictured falling into bed for a long sleep. Bliss.
My landlady’s son, an unappealing troll of a young man named Wally Grimes, met me as soon as I walked through the front door. “You gals ain’t renting out a room, are you?”
“What room?” Callie and I only had two bedrooms, and there were two of us. “We don’t have a spare.”
His head tilted in suspicion. “You two could double up and rent out one of the bedrooms. Ma says two unmarried girls in an apartment is enough. She doesn’t want the place to become a hen house. Too many in one apartment . . . you know.”
Was it worth pointing out that just below Callie and me lived a rotating group of five male musicians? “By the Beautiful Sea,” being rehearsed at that moment, was an audible reminder of their presence in the house. None of them were married, either, though of course that was different. They were men. Mrs. Grimes had never complained about the Bleecker Blowers, to my knowledge.