“Oh, of course, Mr. Smith.” She and Frank wait for him to close the back door. “How very curious.”
“Indeed,” says Frank. “He looks familiar, but I just can’t place him. Curious, indeed.”
Chapter 15
P eggy stands outside Green’s Hotel on Chestnut Street. The strap of the handbag she carries is indented from her grip. She and Frank decided that today was the day she’d begin questioning hotel clerks about Oskar.
The street is busy, a symbol of Philadelphia’s transition from yesterday to tomorrow. It’s full of motor cars and wagons. The electric trolleys rattle along. Shoppers dart past, in a hurry to be somewhere. There are women in long skirts, their hair piled under large, brimmed hats. In contrast, other women dash about dressed in mid-calf-length skirts with short, bobbed hair under tight-fitting cloche hats. The energy from this crossroads of time is palpable, and Philadelphia thrives on it.
Green's Hotel fills almost the whole block, the building complete with turrets at its corners. Peggy sizes up the doorman standing in front of the ornate double doors. Now or never. She climbs the steps and allows him to direct her inside.
The lobby is dark, despite the efforts of numerous crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling. Groupings of men in leather armchairs are buried behind the latest editions of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Others sit talking, their heads bent close. Large potted palms and ferns create small islands of privacy. Off to one side is the elegant dining room that Peggy has heard about, but never visited. Muted laughter and the music of the lunchtime orchestra floats through its doorway.
Several gentlemen, glancing at her over the tops of their newspapers, wear the look of disapproval. The only women Peggy can see are wrapped in furs; ornaments dangling on the arms of their gentlemen escorts. Those women appear to be on the move, either heading out the hotel’s front door or into the restaurant.
“Oh my, I don’t think anyone who abducted Oskar would be in a place like this,” she whispers to the Inspector, who stands beside her. “I don’t think I should be in a place like this.”
“You never know, Mrs. Barnes. We have to start somewhere. Go on now, you can do this. Remember what we talked about.”
Peggy smooths the front of her worn, cloth coat before approaching the front desk. The clerk is bent over the register, his posture accentuating the careful part down the middle of his well-oiled hair. He looks up, allowing her a glimpse of a fussy little mustache as he gives Peggy the once-over above his spectacles. He returns to his paperwork. “Yes, madam? How may I help you?”
“Excuse me," Peggy says hesitantly, clutching her handbag in front of her like a shield. "I'm looking for my son? He is seven years old, and is about this high?" she adds, holding her hand waist high, "and he may be traveling with an older gentleman?”
The front desk clerk looks up to take in the ‘this high’. “Have you lost him?” he says, peering around the lobby.
“Yes, but not here. I’m afraid he may have run off. With my brother.” Peggy is frantically creating the story while Frank supplies her with additional details. “My brother has a ranch, in Texas. Oskar, that’s my son, is caught up in the adventure of horses and Indians and riding the range. He wasn’t in his bed this morning, and my brother left last night.”
“If your son had followed your brother, wouldn’t he have returned the boy?” the clerk asks reasonably.
“Um, I’m afraid Oskar may have told his uncle that he had my permission to accompany him back to Texas.” Peggy’s cheeks glow a bright pink.
The clerk's eyebrows climb. “If they are traveling together, couldn't you just wire your brother and ask him to put your son on the train home?” He taps his pencil against the register.
“Ah yes, that is what I should do. Of course. Thank you for your time.” Peggy nods all the way out of the hotel, trying her best not to look like she’s fleeing.
Frank begins his evaluation as soon as they reach the sidewalk. “I think we have a problem, Mrs. Barnes. Something that I’d failed to consider. Without the authority of either gender or a badge, it’s going to be difficult to get the cooperation of your interviewees. Perhaps you shouldn’t engage the clerk in so much conversation; the best lie is a simple one. Rather, you should play up the distraught mother with more effect, don’t you think? Don’t be so mousy. You’re a distressed mother looking for her son. You’re frantic with worry. I think we had better work on a better cover story about young Oskar’s disappearance.”
“Oh, you think?” Peggy whirls around to face him, fists clenched white-knuckled around the strap of her handbag. “That was horrible, Inspector. I have never been a liar. And now I find out that is a good thing, because I’m a terrible liar. That clerk thinks I am just a foolish woman. And to top it off, he also believes I’m a bad mother.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Barnes. Don't overreact. Don't think of it as lying. Think of it as acting. We'll do better next time,” says Frank, his hands patting at the air between them.
“Next time? There won’t be a next time, Inspector.” Peggy shouts.
Passersby stare at the wild woman who is gesturing wildly and talking animatedly into thin air. They give her a wide berth. Peggy glares at her reflection in the shop window, then clamps her jaw shut.
She takes two deep breaths. “This is impossible. I don’t think I can do this, Inspector. You need someone like Constable Kelly for help. Someone who has more authority and experience.”
“But there’s the rub, Missus Barnes. I can’t speak to Constable Kelly. You know he can’t see me. For better or worse, you have been given to me to solve this case, and together we will. Oskar is depending on us.”
Frank stands behind her, but Peggy cannot see his reflection. “Remember Mrs. Barnes, ‘in the time of revolution, with perseverance and courage, a soldier should think nothing is impossible’. It’s just a matter of trying again and not giving up.”
“Of course, you and General Bonaparte are right, Inspector. You always are, it seems. I will try harder.” Peggy turns to face Frank. “You said you had some ideas about our cover story?”
As Peggy and Frank walk to the next hotel, he makes suggestions, and Peggy builds on them. By the time they reach their destination, she has regained her confidence.
The hotel clerk looks around the lobby worriedly as Peggy sobs loudly into her handkerchief. “There was a man, a stranger near our house. And now my son is gone,” she wails. “Oh please help me, I’ve been searching and searching for my dear little Oskar. No one has been able to help me. Has a man with a boy checked into the hotel, probably two Wednesdays ago?” Peggy peeks out anxiously from under the brim of her hat at the embarrassed clerk.
“Wednesday?” he says, consulting the register, anxious to have the noisy, emotional woman out of his lobby.
As they leave the hotel and step outside, Frank is encouraging. “Much more successful, although I think you should ask Oskar’s mother for a photograph. It would be helpful to be able to show them a picture of him,” Frank says. Peggy glows from the praise. I may not be a good liar, but I’m not a bad actress. Maybe I can do this.
The rest of Peggy’s day is spent interrogating desk clerks about her missing son, Oskar. She adds chambermaids to the list of interviewees; women may be more helpful to a worried mother. While almost everyone is sympathetic, she and the Inspector cannot find anyone remembering a boy and a man traveling together.
In the lobby of the last hotel, Peggy sits to give her tired feet a rest. People are going to think that I’m a working girl. What did Joe call them? Pro skirts. I’d better get home and get dinner started. I hope Tommy found the note and ate his sandwich I left for his lunch. Now, that is something my mother would never have done. Mother was home for my lunch every single day.
Peggy pulls herself onto the next trolley and finds two empty seats. She collapses wearily into one and Frank takes the other. She stares out the window as she half-listens to Frank discuss the case.
I hope th
e inquiries wrap up quickly for dear little Oskar’s sake. Plus, I can't be leaving Tommy alone every day. What will the neighbors think?
“You see, your young Constable Kelly and the police never considered a kidnapping. If they were still pursuing Oskar’s disappearance, his theory would be focused on gangsters and bootleggers. Now, what would a gangster want with a small boy? No, I don’t think there’s evidence to support that. We’re better off to be focusing our efforts on abduction. We’ll do train stations next. Maybe Oskar and his abductor are no longer in Philadelphia. You’ll get that photo I asked for, Mrs. Barnes? Mrs. Barnes?”
With the trolley window as her headrest, a closed-eyed Peggy mumbles enough of a response to keep Frank going.
“We'll need a photograph to show around the ticket windows, and maybe we should chat with some of the train crews. Find out who would have been working the night that Oskar disappeared. Maybe the next day’s shift as well. I say, Mrs. Barnes, isn't this your stop?”
“Goodness, I must have nodded off.” She leaps from her seat and rushes down the trolley steps. “Inspector, are you coming?” she asks over her shoulder. She turns. Frank is gone.
I’ll stop in for a quick visit with Alicja on her way home and ask her for a photograph of Oskar. I’ll say it’s for Tommy.
Chapter 16
Peggy understands, from Frank’s criminal psychology lessons, that crises in communities follow similar patterns. Oskar’s disappearance is no exception. First had been the delay, while everyone denied that something could be wrong. ‘Oskar will be home in the morning.’
Next, there was the building flurry of activity, sometimes organized and sometimes frantic. Often a bit of both. Searching for Oskar. Newspaper reporters hanging around looking for tears or drama. People talking about it in the coffee shops, and around their own kitchen tables. Everyone wanting the latest updates, or to propose theories. Some volunteer to help, wanting to be directly involved with the spectacle.
Eventually, and sadly, interest wanes and people slowly disengage and move on to follow another story. That has to be the toughest part for the families. With the spotlight gone, they're left alone with a bit of clothing or a beloved toy. In Oskar's case, a school shirt to clutch close to his mother’s heart on laundry day.
Three weeks. The story is no longer front page news. It doesn’t even merit the back page anymore. Friends and family helps out when they can, but most folks have moved on with their lives.
Peggy hasn’t given up. She drops by to visit with Alicja every few days. She sits in Alicja’s kitchen, patting her hand, telling her that ‘a policeman’ is still looking for her son, and not to give up hope. It’s easy to see that hope is the last thing that Alicja will give up. A mother is always sure that her child is out there somewhere, wanting to get home.
Peggy juggles her household duties with her newfound responsibilities as an investigator. Sometimes a few balls are dropped, but her passion for the pursuit drives her forward. The lodgers are too new to know that it's not Peggy's usual routine to be out and about every day. Ever business-minded, she’s added laundry to her landlady services and is bringing in a little more money from that. The lodgers have clean laundry every week and a good supper on the table every night. Peggy is learning that there are many advantages to being taken for granted; it almost makes one invisible.
Tommy notices her change in routine, yet between school, his friends, and being preoccupied with thoughts of Oskar, he doesn’t dwell on it. There is one thing that does puzzle him. In an effort to solve it, he crouches beside the living room doorway. He tucks himself behind the coats hanging in the front hall—he’s only partially hidden.
One of the finely-honed instincts of a policeman is to be curious, even when he’s off duty and heading to the kitchen for coffee.
“What are you doing, Tommy?” Joe asks, quietly.
Startled, Tommy retreats into the coats.
“Nuthin. I’m not doing nuthin.”
“Sure you are,” Joe says in a low voice. “Is that your mother in the living room? Who’s she talking to?” Joe crouches beside Tommy, hands on his knees. “You know it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations?”
Tommy shakes his head. “But she’s not talking to anybody. She’s sitting in there alone. She’s been doing that a lot. I just want to hear what she’s talking about.”
Joe and Tommy crouch in silence.
Peggy speaks. “Once I got used to it, it wasn’t as hard as I’d thought… I think I made good headway today, even if we didn’t find any evidence.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. The seconds hand on the mantle clock audible.
“What did you think of that clerk at the Seventh Ward Hotel? Something’s going on there… I think he’s hiding something. He didn’t even check the register.”
And the ticking of the clock.
“What was going on in the back room?”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I missed that,” says Peggy. “Interesting.”
Tommy and Joe share a look and a shrug.
“No way. You think they were bootleggers?” she says. “I hope that we don’t run into any trouble… We’re not having much luck with the hotels or train stations.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Maybe we should turn our attention away from them and meet with real estate agents about rental properties? Didn’t you say that was a fruitful line of inquiry in your last case?”
Joe whispers to Tommy, “Hey, didn't Mr. Smith suggest she start reading mysteries? It sounds like a plot for a book. Maybe she’s writing one? I'm glad your mother has found something to keep her busy. Let’s not disturb her or do anymore eavesdropping.” Joe stands.
“A book? Like she’s going to be a writer or something?” Tommy asks, also standing.
“Gotta be. Maybe she’s got a character in her head and he’s speaking when she takes those breaks in her sentences. Let’s leave her to her thoughts. Let’s go eat the last of that cake from dinner.”
Joe leads the way. “Besides, it’s a stressful time for your mother; tough on all the ladies, what with Oskar missing.”
Tommy drags his feet. His shoulders are hunched and he slumps into a chair. Joe puts two plates of cake on the table and pours two glasses of milk. Tommy just stares at the cake.
“Mmmm, this is good. Eat up, Tommy, or I’ll eat it for you.” Joe attempts to stab Tommy’s cake with his fork. Tommy shields it with his arm and starts eating. “I was thinking, it can’t be easy with a bunch of lodgers in your house.”
“Right,” says Tommy.
“You had promised to tell me all about the neighborhood, Tommy. Is this a dangerous place to live, do you think? I hear that some of your pals from around here like to hang out at the warehouses by the train tracks. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?” Joe asks.
Tommy pushes the cake around the plate with his fork, shaking his head. He doesn't look at Joe. “Yes, sir. I mean no sir. I don't know anything about that.”
“Look Tommy, man to man here. I know about the other night at the warehouse. Police on the scene report seeing three boys there. One of those boys sounds a lot like you. Was it you? Were you there?”
Tommy puts down his fork and slumps in his chair. He crosses his arms and refuses to meet Joe’s eyes. “Come on Tommy, talk to me. Was Oskar there too? Did you see anything?”
“I wasn’t in any warehouse. I don’t know what happened, Constable Kelly. It must have been somebody else. I don’t know anything about it.” Tommy kicks at the table leg.
“I’m trying to help Oskar, Tommy. If you know anything, you should tell me. To help Oskar.”
Tommy sits straighter. Joe waits while Tommy looks at his plate and then at Joe. “I heard that there were some boys at the warehouse. But it wasn’t me or my pals who were there,” Tommy says, narrowing his eyes, daring Joe to call him a liar.
Joe looks hard at Tommy, weighing what the young boy has said. “Well, it’s a good thing
it wasn’t you that night. And I hope that you know better than to be hanging around bootleggers. Those are dangerous fellas.”
Joe pats Tommy’s shoulder. “Look, Tommy, we may have to accept that Oskar has run off and left home. It wouldn't be the first time a boy did that. I don’t think he’s hurt. We checked the hospitals when Oskar first went missing and nothing turned up.”
“You don’t think he’s hurt. You checked the hospitals. So that’s good, right? He’s coming home, right?”
“I sure hope so. Well, kiddo, I bet you have homework to do. Better get to it, eh? I’ll wash these plates. And, Tommy, don’t go adding to your mother’s worries, lad. Warehouses are not good places for young boys to be.”
Peggy’s murmuring continues against the backdrop of the music on the radio. Joe’s curiosity raised, he takes a cup of coffee into the living room.
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