An Orphan of Hell's Kitchen

by Liz Freeland

  “But the paper’s in German. That’s not correcting the record—it’s just stirring up the Germans who live here.”

  “It’s got you stirred up, all right.”

  I tried to shrug it off, but as I sat on one of the long benches in Penn Station’s main waiting room, in the light of its massive semicircular windows, I couldn’t savor my lunch as I usually did. The idea of another continent’s troubles spilling over onto mine made me uncomfortable. We had problems of our own. Which reminded me . . .

  “I need your help, Otto.”

  He’d been chewing happily, but now his gaze grew wary and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “This is the kind of help that brings trouble, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” I hoped. “I just need someone to accompany me to a few waterfront saloons to look for that Swede whose passport Ruthie swiped. Tomorrow, if possible. I have the day off before my shift changes again. I’d go myself, but a woman alone in a bar isn’t going to get much more than come-ons, and a policewoman is likely to get the cold shoulder. Anyway, I don’t want anyone to know I’m with the police. What I’m doing can’t get back to the station.”

  He chewed, thinking it over.

  “It’s for a good cause,” I told him. “A woman and her baby might have been killed, remember? This Swede, Lars Holmgren, could be the key to finding a murderer.”

  “Or he might be a murderer.”

  I wiped my greasy hands with my handkerchief. “I doubt it. If so, why wouldn’t he have made Ruthie give him back his passport?”

  “Maybe he tried, and when she wouldn’t, he killed her.”

  That didn’t seem likely. “From what I’ve heard of Ruthie, she loved those babies more than she would have cared about a pilfered passport. If someone had threatened her sons, she would have handed over the passports in a second. But there has to be some reason she sewed them into that cape.”

  “Maybe she was crazy. The police said she committed suicide,” Otto reminded me, “not to mention infanticide.”

  Infanticide was what really bothered me. Accusing someone of suicide was one thing, but saying Ruthie killed her baby boy if she was in fact innocent felt like calumny. “They’re wrong. I feel it in my bones.”

  His worried, doubtful gaze studied my face. “Nice opinion you have of your colleagues.”

  “Not all of them. But no one is taking Ruthie and Johnny’s deaths seriously, just because she was a prostitute. As if their lives didn’t matter.”

  “Okay—step down off the soapbox. I’ll go with you.”

  “Thanks, Otto.”

  “You knew I would.”

  He had been involved with me on other cases. He’d been accused of murder himself, had been tossed out of a nightclub with me, and had spent late nights trying to piece together clues with me.

  “I knew you would,” I agreed, “but I was hoping it wouldn’t take the entire lunch to convince you.”

  * * *

  With a deft hand, Walter worked his magic on Otto, transforming him from a sport about town to the kind of down-on-his-heels youth who might escort his young lady to a waterfront tavern. Gone was Otto’s tailored gray broadcloth suit, traded for striped pants and a brown wool jacket that had seen better days. His carefully center-parted, pomaded hair was mussed to a less fussy coiffure and topped with a workingman’s cap.

  I looked in the mirror, wondering how I could complement Otto. “I should be a shopgirl. What can I do to transform myself?”

  Walter peered critically at my blue crepe de chine blouse, which I wore over a newish wool skirt in navy, with a tunic overskirt in a navy and gray vertical stripe. I worried I looked too chic.

  “You’re fine,” he said.

  I drew back. “This skirt cost me $10.95.”

  “There’s a saying about fools and their money that I won’t mention,” he said. “Just frowzle your fringe a bit. You’ll be perfect.”

  I grumbled but did as told. Minutes later, Otto and I hit the streets.

  As we approached the first watering hole, which didn’t even have a name—just the word TAVERN painted on cloudy plate glass—Otto had second thoughts. He turned an anxious face to me. “What precisely are we going to say?”

  “Just follow my lead.” I added quickly, “But act as if you’re the one who thought of it.”

  “Thought of what?”

  “Of whatever I come up with.”

  I pushed through the heavy door. The patrons inside, all men, swiveled toward us as one, and their gazes locked on me. Conversation ceased momentarily, and an awkward frisson disturbed the smoky air. The barkeep, a heavy man with an elaborate mustache whose twisted ends curled up like a smile, narrowed his eyes at me. When Otto took my arm and steered me toward a barstool, the barman leaned toward us. “What’ll it be?”

  This was unfamiliar ground. “Beer?” I said.

  Otto elbowed past me, more authoritative than I was prepared for. “Sarsaparilla for the lady, a horse’s neck for me.”

  I frowned at him. “Wait just a moment—”

  “We can’t have you drinking this afternoon,” Otto said, cutting me off. Rather cleverly, I realized. The bartender, who hadn’t seemed comfortable with a woman coming into this masculine redoubt, seemed more contented now that the woman had been put in her place.

  He served us, and I nudged Otto. “Aren’t you going to ask him?” I nodded to the barkeep.

  Otto gaped at me, eyes both clueless and frantic.

  “About Cousin Lars,” I prompted.

  “Oh!” He cleared his throat and turned to the man. “You wouldn’t happen to know of a Swede named Lars Holmgren, would you?”

  The bartender didn’t respond. Neither did any of the other men not-so-subtly eavesdropping on us.

  “He’s my cousin,” I explained. “We haven’t heard from him in over a month.”

  “Why do you think he’d be here?” the barkeep asked.

  “He mentioned this place,” Otto said.

  “Or an establishment much like it,” I said. “He’s a young fellow, about twenty-three. Might’ve been dressed like a seaman. Blond hair, blue eyes. His name’s Lars Holmgren.”

  “This ain’t the Waldorf, lady. I don’t make the customers sign in.” Chuckles from his listeners encouraged the barman. “And there’s lots of Swedes, sailors, and what have you comin’ in and out all the time. Maybe he was here, maybe he wasn’t.”

  I hadn’t really expected success on the first try. I swallowed a sip of my drink, and so did Otto. He choked, coughed, and turned to me in shock. “This has whiskey in it!”

  I tried not to laugh. “What did you expect?”

  “Ginger ale and lemon juice. That’s how they always made them at Arnie’s Tavern back in Altoona.”

  “That’s how they made them for you.”

  We moved on to try our luck at another tavern. Unfortunately, we didn’t have any more success on our second try, or our third, or our sixth. By that time, I felt nauseous from so many sips of sarsaparilla, the quality of which seemed to deteriorate the farther south on the waterfront we went. Otto, who stuck with horse’s necks, grew glassy-eyed, even a little loud. “I told you nobody’d have seen him,” he said to me when we struck out yet again. He downed his drink and pushed the empty tumbler away on the waxy bar. “Lars is probably halfway to China by now. And good riddance.”

  The proprietor of the latest establishment, listening in on us as he wiped a glass with his filthy apron, frowned. “If it’s a Swede you’re looking for, you oughta try the Swedish Lutheran Immigrant Home.”

  I froze in astonishment. “There’s a Swedish Immigrant Home?” This was the first I’d heard of such a place. The man at the consulate hadn’t mentioned it. Naturally. That would have been helpful.

  “Over on Water Street, I think. Somewheres near there, leastwise. Run by Lutherans.”

  I stood and tugged Otto’s coat sleeve. He slid bonelessly off his stool. “Thanks,” I told the man. “That’s the first he
lpful tip I’ve had all day.”

  He shrugged. “Still a long shot you’ll find your cousin there. Chances are your friend’s right. The guy’s probably at sea by now. But the home might could tell you if he came through there.”

  We hotfooted it to Water Street. Thankfully our afternoon of wandering downtown had landed us not too far from the Battery, and a few inquiries led us right to the Swedish Lutheran Immigrant Home, which looked nothing like a home on the exterior. The charity was housed in a faded white-stone five-story office building on a corner. It appeared about as homey as a savings and loan.

  Somewhere in the building, though, a hot meal was being served. The smell of salt cod and cabbage almost knocked me off my pins when I stepped inside.

  A dour-looking woman took one look at us and stopped us at the entrance. We couldn’t pass ourselves off as either Swedes or immigrants, so I trotted out the distant cousin story, which now fell so easily off my tongue I half believed it myself. The woman frowned sympathetically at my tale of familial estrangement, but she didn’t seem inclined to give me hope, or give me access to look around the building. “We serve immigrants here,” she said, with a slight accent. “Most of whom lack family.”

  The reception room was filled with furniture—wooden chairs for people waiting, desks, file cabinets, bookshelves, and everywhere papers stacked high. On the walls were a few brightly painted pieces, a calendar, and the ubiquitous portrait of long-faced President Wilson. In one corner a man with white-blond hair sat on one of the uncomfortable chairs reading a Swedish newspaper. Maybe he’d decided to skip dinner. From the stench of that cabbage, I couldn’t blame him.

  “Lars is only a distant cousin,” I explained. “He dropped round our flat to say hello, but we haven’t seen him since. I don’t know where else he could have gone.”

  The woman shook her head as she perused what looked like an overlarge ledger. “I don’t believe your cousin came here. If he’s a sailor, perhaps he found a ship.”

  “He lost his passport,” I said. “I have it, but there’s no way to let him know that.”

  “He could have gone to the consulate and applied for another.”

  “I’ve been there. They hadn’t seen him.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. He might have been taken on as a ship’s hand without papers—some captains will look the other way, although with the war the documentation requirement is getting more stringent.”

  “She can’t help us, Louise.” Otto pawed at my sleeve. “Let’s go.”

  I realized belatedly that he smelled of whiskey and looked unsteady. Perhaps this was the reason the woman wouldn’t let us in any farther. I needed to get him home, but frustration built up inside me, especially when I peered through plate glass into an adjoining room and saw people eating. Blond heads. So many Swedes in one place. There was a chance someone in there had come across Lars Holmgren, and this might be my only opportunity to talk to them.

  “If I could just speak to some of the people here,” I said.

  “These are immigrants,” the woman replied. “Many don’t speak English, and if I’m not mistaken, you don’t speak Swedish.”

  “I don’t,” I confessed, “but I’m sure I could get my questions across somehow. Especially if someone would help me . . .” I sent her a pleading look.

  For all her determination not to let me pester people in her care with questions, the woman didn’t strike me as unkind. “Give me your name and how I can reach you. If I hear of your cousin, I will try to get word to you.”

  It seemed the best I could hope for at the moment. I jotted down my name and address, and silently cursed my landlady, Mrs. Grimes, for not putting in telephone service yet.

  I handed the scrap of paper to the woman and thanked her. “Come on, Otto.” I steered him toward the door.

  One good thing about leaving the Swedish Immigrant Home was that we could go back out into the air that smelled of smoke, burned chestnuts, and refuse—the pungent winter air of Manhattan—and away from fish and cooked cabbage. I sucked in a few gulps of damp air and tried to decide where to go next. I needed to get Otto back to his place, which was an apartment just off Union Square. Perhaps we should take a cab.

  As I contemplated which direction to turn, someone tugged on my sleeve. A face I recognized—ruddy complexion, white-blond hair—looked up at me. The man who’d been reading the newspaper in the lobby of the immigrant home.

  “Pardon me, miss,” he said, in a rasping shallow voice that sounded like consumption. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

  My heartbeat sped. Yes, the man appeared a little disreputable, but I wouldn’t hold that against him if he could help me.

  “I think this man—this Lars Holmgren—might not be your cousin, no?” His lips curled up in a toothless smile.

  That wasn’t what I’d expected him to say. “What’s it to you if he is or isn’t?”

  He lifted his shoulders in exaggerated innocence. “Nothing, nothing. The question should be, what is it worth to you to find him?” When I didn’t answer right away, he tilted his head. “Or perhaps you don’t want to find him. Maybe you just want to make sure he’s gone.”

  Otto stepped forward. “What’s your game, mister?”

  I put my hand on Otto’s arm. “It’s all right.” I turned back to the man. “I do want to locate him.”

  “Ah. Well . . .” He shrugged again. “Then that’s a shame. Mr. Holmgren might be worth more to you if you didn’t find him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You say you have the Swede’s passport,” the man pointed out. “In certain quarters, that’s as good as cash.”

  I frowned at him. “You mean I could sell it? To whom?”

  “To me.” He smiled. “If I could just see it?”

  “I’m not carrying it with me,” I said.

  “Perhaps I could get your address from the woman at the immigrants’ home, then.”

  Lord, I hoped not. I didn’t mind her contacting me, but I certainly didn’t want every Tom, Dick, and Sven to know where I lived.

  Otto stepped forward again, striking an uncharacteristically pugnacious stance. “Don’t think you’re going to follow Louise to her house and try to steal the passport,” he warned.

  I tugged at his coat. “It’s all right, Otto.”

  “No, it’s not—this man’s got a dirty venture going, or knows someone who does.” He planted his hands on his hips and sneered at the man. “You’ve made a big mistake, buddy. You think you’re talking to some lady you can just bully or steal from?”

  “Otto, never mind, I—”

  “It just so happens you’re speaking to a cop!”

  The man’s eyes bulged as he gazed up at me. “A lady cop?”

  “Wait—”

  But it was already too late. The moment it dawned on him that I really could be a policewoman, and that he’d just implicated his participation in an illegal scheme, the man backed away, turned, and then legged it as fast as he could.

  “Stop!” I sprinted after him up Water Street before the man dissolved into a crowd at Hanover Square. A gust of frustration huffed out of me just as Otto trotted up behind me, out of breath.

  “What did you think you were doing, chasing that man?” he asked. “He’s obviously some kind of criminal!”

  I rounded on him. “That was the idea—to find out what kind of activity he was involved in.”

  Otto began to speak, then understanding dawned in his eyes. He sagged slightly. “Oh.”

  “What did you think you were doing, telling the man I am a policewoman when the whole point of this outing was to try to find out Holmgren’s whereabouts without letting on that this has anything to do with a woman’s murder.”

  “Possible murder. It’s only you who thinks so.”

  I scowled into the distance where my passport swindler had disappeared. “I’m more convinced now than I was before.” Illegal activity. . .
a woman with no reason to kill herself, much less her baby. Murder seemed more likely than suicide.

  Otto sighed. “I’m sorry, Louise. I saw him menacing you and just blurted out that you were a cop. I wasn’t thinking.” His eyes focused for a moment. “Do you know, I suspect I drank one too many horse’s necks.”

  I bit back a sarcastic retort. Whose fault was it that he was in this condition? I should have been paying closer attention to him.

  He took out his watch and stared at it, disbelieving. “Is it really after five o’clock? I’m supposed to meet Jimmy at seven to work on Double Daisy.”

  “You’ll make it. We should get you home and back into your regular clothes, though. I’ll take those back to Walter the next time I visit Aunt Irene.”

  At Otto’s flat, I brewed strong coffee while he changed clothes. He was still living in rather primitive rooms, although he had snapped them up with a fresh coat of creamy white paint, blue curtains, and several good pieces of furniture he’d bought new to replace the items he’d found on the street when he’d first rented the flat. The grand piano that had been the previous tenant’s still dominated the main room, which was only fitting. Otto spent most of his days hovered over those ivories.

  I set a cup of coffee in front of him as he shaved before the washstand and mirror he’d set up in the short hall leading to his Pullman car–sized bedroom. There was a shared bathroom for tenants down the corridor, but Otto liked the convenience of having his washstand. He claimed to do a lot of thinking while he shaved. That might explain the carved-up look his chin had sometimes.

  He stopped now to take a sip of the coffee, pooching out his lips like a fish to avoid getting shaving lather on the mug. He already looked much better. “Sorry about today, Louise. I hope I didn’t ruin your investigation.”

  I leaned back against the wall. “You didn’t. I learned some useful information today—more than I expected, to be honest.”

  “Like what?”

  The first thing I’d learned was that it was sometimes better to be on my own, although I couldn’t tell Otto that. He’d spent a day tagging along with me, when I’m sure he’d rather have been working on his music. And I would’ve had to deal with a lot more harassment if he hadn’t been with me.