The Virtuous Woman

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Maybe he has the wrong address.”

  They both waited until the priest approached and said, “Good afternoon. I’m looking for the Winslow residence.”

  “I’m Phil Winslow. This is my wife. Can we help you?”

  “Yes. My name is Father Mazzoni. I would like to have a few minutes of your time, if it’s not inconvenient.”

  Phil assumed the priest was soliciting money, as he could think of no other reason for such a visit. Since he had made a fortune with his painting, he had become accustomed to monetary requests and showed no sign of impatience. “Well, it’s quite cold out here. Why don’t you come in? We can talk inside.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I should have called first, but I wanted to be sure to see you in person.”

  Phil showed Mazzoni inside, where Cara took his black outer cloak and hat and hung them on a coat-tree in the foyer. “Come down this way,” Phil said. “We’ve got a fire going in the drawing room.”

  “That would be wonderful,” the priest said, rubbing his hands to warm them. “One of the coldest Februaries I’ve ever seen in this part of the world.”

  Phil motioned toward a chair in front of the fire that was blazing in the fireplace and Phil and Cara sat in chairs opposite him.

  Mazzoni sat quietly for a moment, continuing to rub his hands. He seemed ill at ease and cleared his throat before speaking. “This may seem very out of place, but may I ask you if you were in City Hospital on April the twenty-first, 1916?”

  Phil and Cara turned startled glances at each other. The date was one they would never forget. “Yes, we were. How did you know that?”

  “What I have to say is going to be difficult for you to hear. It might be best if I told you the whole story. Then I’ll be glad to answer your questions.”

  “Certainly. Go right ahead.”

  The father paused and studied his shoes. Clearly what he had to say was bothering him. He finally looked up and said, “I’m the chaplain at the New York State Women’s Prison. Last Thursday I was called to the bedside of a prisoner named Bertha Zale. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of her?”

  “Why, no. The name isn’t at all familiar,” Phil said.

  “I assumed that would be the case. She was dying when I got there, and I heard her confession. I felt great pity for her. She’d had a very difficult life.” Mazzoni twisted in his seat and ran his hand over his hair for a moment, then shook his head. “Before she finished, she told me something that affects you two.”

  “How could it affect us?” Cara said. “We’ve never even heard of the woman.”

  “I know, but the fact is she also was in City Hospital on April the twenty-first—the same time you were there.”

  “We lost our last baby there,” Phil said. “It’s been a great source of grief to us.”

  Mazzoni ran his finger along his nose and tried to think how to put the matter delicately. Shaking his head, he explained, “Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, the dying woman told me that she had a baby the same day you did, although she didn’t know you. She told me that her baby died in her arms during the night. Instead of calling for a nurse, she got out of bed and took her dead daughter to the nursery. She managed to slip in when no one was looking and took one of the female babies, switched the name tags, and left her dead baby in its place. Then she went back to her bed.”

  A deathly silence hung over the room. Phil looked at Cara and saw that her face was as pale as chalk. He shook his head and said, “And you’re telling us it was our child she took?”

  “I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying. I wanted to be very sure about this, so I went to the hospital. They were reluctant to talk to me at first, but when I explained the circumstances, the general administrator gave me access to the records.” Mazzoni looked up, and his eyes held the two steadily. “Only one child died on April the twenty-second. That child was listed as Grace Winslow.”

  “It’s true!” Cara cried, standing up. Phil jumped to her side and held her, for she was weaving. “It has to be true, Phil. You remember what I told you—that God had promised me.”

  “I’ve never forgotten,” Phil said, his own face pale. He explained, “When my wife was pregnant, we committed the child to God. Later in the pregnancy, God promised Cara our child would be used in His service and she would bring great happiness to us.”

  “And I’ve wondered all these years how I could have missed God’s word to me so badly,” Cara whispered. “Where is she? I want to see her.”

  “Well, that’s the problem, Mrs. Winslow,” Mazzoni said as he slowly paced the large, airy room. “You see, the girl had a rough upbringing. That was part of Miss Zale’s confession. She was a weak woman in many ways, and the child had a very hard life. Miss Zale told me this herself. Of course, I can’t repeat her confession. That’s privileged communication, of course, but what is important I can tell you. The girl she called Ruby ran away three years ago. Her mother went to prison shortly after that.”

  “Ran away! How could that be?” Cara whispered.

  “According to Bertha she ran away with an actor. Bertha didn’t even know the man’s name. The girl left a note that said she was never coming back.”

  “But surely this woman must have had some family. Someone we could ask.”

  “I don’t think she did. I talked to her several times after she first came to prison, and she told me more than once that she had no family at all. She never mentioned the girl she called Ruby—not until she was dying.”

  A silence fell over the room, disturbed only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The bright sunlight that flooded through the tall windows highlighted Cara’s face, and Phil could see the mixture of hope and despair in her expression.

  “I struggled with myself about bringing this news to you,” Mazzoni continued, “especially after I found out that the girl was missing, but I thought it my duty.”

  “You did exactly the right thing, sir,” Cara said warmly.

  Mazzoni pulled a card from his pocket. “I’ve written my name and telephone number on this card. If I can do anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I’ll call you a cab,” Phil said.

  While he was dialing the number, Cara said, “You must have a hard task facing so many wrecked lives.”

  “I’m able to reach some of them,” Mazzoni said gently. “You’ll be in my prayers.”

  When Mazzoni left, Cara said to her husband, “All these years I’ve thought about the promise I got from God. It was so clear, Phil. I know He told me that our daughter would serve Him in a great way.”

  “I remember,” he said quietly.

  “You know, there have been times when I’ve felt angry with God for letting Grace die. I was angry and confused because I was so certain He had spoken to me about her life. Now His promise can be made real after all. We can do something.”

  “We won’t know this girl now—or young woman, I should say. She didn’t grow up in a Christian home. You heard what the priest said. She’s had a hard life. I have a feeling it was even harder than he could say. He was probably trying to spare us.”

  “You’re not saying we shouldn’t try to find her, are you, Phil?”

  “No, I’m not saying that at all, but we mustn’t get our hopes up that we’ll be able to.”

  “Why would God let all this happen, then? If Bertha hadn’t told Father Mazzoni, we’d never even know Grace was alive. I believe God’s hand is in this situation.”

  “That’s very possible, and that’s what I hope. But remember she’s a woman now. Eighteen years old, and she’s had a hard life.”

  Cara put her hand on Phil’s chest. “We’ve got to find her, Phil. I believe God still has a plan for her—that no matter what she’s done or what she’s like, God is going to use her greatly.”

  “All right, sweetheart. We’ll do all we can to find her. I’ll get on it first thing Monday morning, but right now we’d better see if Paige is read
y to go, even if she doesn’t approve of my taste in suits.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Trail Is Too Old

  Lieutenant Al Sullivan was almost a caricature of a New York City police officer. If his speech had not betrayed his Irish origin, no doubt his red hair, blue eyes, and ruddy face would have. Sullivan had worked his way up from the beat through hard work and determination to become a lieutenant. Now as he sat in his small office, he felt compassion for the couple across from him. During his years behind this desk, he had lost track of how many people he had seen in those seats. Most of them wanted help he was unable to give, and many of them wanted mercy that was not his to grant.

  Glancing down at the paper in front of him, he read the notes he had jotted down as he listened to the couple speak. Phil Winslow, age fifty-five. The address told Sullivan these people were pretty well off—unlike the usual sort that sat across from him. His eyes went to the woman: Cara Winslow, age fifty-eight. There was a delicate air about the woman, a gentleness one rarely saw these days. She wore no jewelry except for a wedding ring with a small diamond on her left hand, and her clothes were attractive but not ostentatious. “Why don’t you tell me the problem, and we’ll see what we can do,” he said.

  Phil shifted in his chair and leaned forward, his light blue eyes intent. “We’ve just discovered that our daughter is alive. We thought she died almost nineteen years ago....”

  Sullivan listened carefully, his mind sorting out the details. He filed the irrelevant facts into one corner of his brain and kept the ones pertinent to an investigation more accessible. When Phil had finished his story, Sullivan sighed and picked up a pencil, absently drawing circles on his writing pad. He abruptly laid the pencil down and clasped his beefy hands together. “I’ve never heard anything quite like this, Mr. Winslow. It’s very unusual.”

  “Do you think you can help us, Lieutenant?” Cara asked softly, an intense light in her warm brown eyes, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  “We’ll do all we can, of course, Mrs. Winslow. But it’s not going to be easy.”

  “You do find missing people, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, we even have a Missing Persons Division that may be able to help you. But I’m afraid it’s going to be quite a chore.”

  “But we know that Grace exists.”

  “All you have is the confession of a dying woman to a priest. That’s not very much to go on.”

  “You could talk to Father Mazzoni.”

  “Of course, that would be the first step. But from what you’ve told me, the woman spoke only briefly of what she had done.” Sullivan shook his head slightly. He didn’t want these people to get their hopes up. “Have you considered that she may have made the whole thing up?”

  “Made it up! Why would she do that?” Phil demanded.

  “She may not have done it intentionally. She was dying; she was in and out of a coma. From what you tell me, the priest said she was in very poor condition. She may have been delirious.”

  “If she made up the story, how would you explain that a baby did indeed die that very night in that specific hospital? How could she have known that? It seems reasonable she was telling the truth,” Cara insisted. “Please, can’t you help us some way?”

  Sullivan nodded his head, conceding her point. He thought of the unsolved cases his office had stacked up, but nonetheless, he felt he had to try to help. “What you must understand is that most crimes are either solved pretty quickly or they don’t get solved at all. There are exceptions, of course, but you’d be surprised how many criminals are caught within a few days. The longer it stretches out, the less chance we have of getting them.”

  “But I’ve heard of criminals being caught years after the crime.”

  “Well, that’s true, of course, Mrs. Winslow, but it’s rather the exception. I don’t want to discourage you unduly. I just want you to understand that this is the way things might work. This crime—if it happened at all—took place almost nineteen years ago. The criminal—the only witness we have—is dead. The only statement we have from her is a few whispered words when she was very far gone. It’s been a very long time.” He picked up his pencil again and started doodling. “Do you have a picture of the girl?”

  “The priest said he went through all of the woman’s things, and there were no photographs.”

  “A picture would have helped. Were there any letters?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, then, you see our difficulties.”

  “But can’t you do something, Lieutenant Sullivan?” Cara pleaded.

  “We’ll try, Mrs. Winslow, but I have to tell you that we already have more cases than we can handle.” He laid his hand on a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “These are all cases I’m working on right now—me and the rest of the department. We’re overworked and understaffed. What our main job consists of, I’m afraid, is putting criminals in jail who are walking the streets right now.”

  Phil and Cara listened as Sullivan went on, and both of them saw that he was sympathetic—but also that he had little hope of being able to help them. Finally Cara asked, “Is there anything you can do, Lieutenant? Just be honest with us.”

  “I’ll spend some time on this, I promise. But I’m afraid I can’t promise any results.”

  “Maybe we should hire a private detective—someone who could devote all of his time to it.”

  “That would be your best bet. If you can afford it, Mr. Winslow, I would certainly advise you to do it.”

  “Could you recommend a man?” Phil asked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I can. There are some pretty sleazy private eyes out there you’d want to avoid, but there’s one man I’ve known for a long time who you can trust. His name is Alex Tyson. He worked for one of the largest and best agencies in town up until a year ago. Then he went on his own. I can tell you this,” Sullivan said firmly, “Alex is honest. If he can’t help you, he won’t keep sending you a bill for doing nothing. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call.”

  “Thank you very much, Officer,” Phil said. “We’d appreciate it. Could you call him right now?” He turned to Cara and saw her disappointment. “We won’t give up, sweetheart,” he said as he took her hand. “Not until we’ve tried everything.”

  ****

  “Well, Detective Tyson certainly doesn’t intend to impress anybody with his neighborhood, does he?”

  Cara glanced up and down the street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. It was not as bad as some of the tenement areas, but it was an older section of town, and the buildings were showing their age. Most of them were no more than two or three stories high, built before the invention of the elevator. The other pedestrians they passed were obviously not from the upper class of New York society.

  The two had come directly from the police station to search out Alex Tyson. The journey was disturbing, for the crash of 1929 had left its mark on New York—as it had on every city in America. They passed many shabbily dressed men, their faces drawn with hopelessness, trying to warm themselves by fires burning in trash cans. Three men were selling apples, and Phil bought an apple from each of them. “Poor guys!” he whispered. “All they want is work, and there’s none to be had.”

  “There’s our building,” Cara said.

  The two stepped inside and found a long corridor with a stairway at both ends. “It’s on the third floor,” Phil said, glancing at the address the lieutenant had jotted down for them. The two climbed the stairs, and by the time they got to the top floor, he was puffing. “Whew! I’m getting out of shape. I’ll have to spend more time walking—and you will too, darling.”

  “You’re right,” Cara said breathlessly. She held on to his arm as they walked down the dim corridor until they found a door with Tyson’s Investigations on the glass. Phil opened the door for Cara and followed her into a waiting room with four chairs and a coffee table with several magazines on top—Collier’s Weekly, Time, and National Geog
raphic. The walls showcased some surprisingly good paintings. Phil moved closer to inspect the artwork and said, “Why, these are originals and not prints!”

  The inner office door opened, and a man of medium build with a ruddy face and sharp gray eyes stepped outside. “Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, I presume? I’m Alex Tyson.” He put out his hand, and Phil grasped the steely grip.

  “It’s good of you to see us on such short notice, Mr. Tyson.”

  “Come on into my office. I let my secretary go. Didn’t really need one.”

  Cara stepped inside, and the two men followed her into the comfortably decorated inner office. There were some chairs around a small coffee table on an oriental rug, a single bed in one corner, a filing cabinet, a window overlooking the street, and a large desk and chair in front of the window. As in the waiting room, the walls were lined with paintings.

  Studying the artwork, Phil noted again that the paintings were all originals. One of them was by John Sloan, one of Phil’s old friends from the Ashcan School. “I admire your taste in paintings. This is a really good example of Sloan’s work.”

  “You might like that one on the wall behind you as well,” Tyson said with a smile.

  Phil turned and exclaimed, “Why, that’s mine!”

  “I bought it before you became so expensive.”

  Memories flooded back over Phil Winslow. He had painted this scene when he had first come to New York City, penniless and living from hand to mouth. The scene featured a dirty little girl with curly black hair on Hester Street in the Jewish quarter of New York. She was fetching a doll and had an engaging smile. Phil had always thought the painting captured the atmosphere of Hester Street. “That brings back old memories. I’m flattered that you put me there alongside some pretty good artists.”

  “I once thought I’d be a painter myself,” Tyson said. “I still dabble, but I don’t have what it takes to make it a livelihood.”

  “I’d like to see what you’ve done.”

  Tyson blinked with surprise. “Well, I’d be happy to show my paintings to you sometime, but first let’s talk about your problem. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”