A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  “Exactly. That being the case, and in light of what we know about the drowned girl’s false engagement, I think we have to consider Antonio Fabroni a possible suspect in Miss Casoria’s disappearance.”

  Although it was a logical conclusion, I didn’t think the evidence quite added up. “Mr. Fabroni has a successful, legitimate business,” I pointed out. “He has no need to stoop to crime, let alone such a vile crime. But more importantly, he told his mother all about his engagement. I can’t imagine he would have done so if he was intending to sell Teresa into prostitution.”

  “I must ask you to give him a wide berth, all the same, until we’ve had a chance to question him. I would have talked to him already, but there’s been another dynamite bombing in Harlem that has required my attention.”

  “Who was the target this time?”

  “A fruit merchant on 105th Street, who’d already paid two times. According to the fire commissioner, there were actually two blasts: the first from the dynamite, the second caused by gas from the lighting fixtures. The combined force blew out the front of the man’s home, as well as the windows across the street, and cut a lamppost on the street in two.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Unfortunately, the merchant lost his wife in the blast. His despair made him cooperative, and he showed us the threat letter. It was signed with the mark of Il Ragno.”

  The Spider again. “But you still have no clue as to the Spider’s identity?”

  “We might have a lead on the bomber. A woman across the street says she saw a policeman enter the building shortly before the blast. We think he may have been tipped off ahead of time.”

  I sat up straighter. “Really? You think he knows who the bomber is?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. If a precinct officer has managed to acquire an informant, we certainly want to know. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to identify the officer yet. The patrolman assigned to that beat says he was at the other end of his post at the time. But we’ve put the word out, and we’re hoping whoever it was will contact us soon. Meanwhile, we’re still sifting through the rubble, looking for clues.”

  I thanked the detective for the information, promising to get back to him as soon as I’d spoken to Rosa about the initials on the valise, then hung up the phone and hurried out the door. I had a patient at my Madison Avenue office at eleven, and I wanted to get there early to review my notes from our last appointment. As soon as the session was over, I decided, I’d go up to Harlem to see Rosa.

  To my surprise, when I locked the door to my office behind me at twelve o’clock, Simon was waiting on the sidewalk with a lunch pail. “Roast veal sandwiches and Saratoga chips,” he said, holding up the pail. “Your favorite. I thought we could eat them in the park.”

  Simon was usually tied up in court on Mondays; it couldn’t have been easy for him to clear his schedule to meet me. I wondered if he might be hoping to melt some of the frost that had built up between us over the last few days. “How sweet,” I said, my stomach rumbling at the thought of the sandwiches. “But I was just on my way uptown.” I filled him in on Detective Cassidi’s discoveries.

  “I’ll come with you then,” he said, “and we can eat on the way.”

  “Are you sure you have the time?”

  “I’ll make the time.”

  A few minutes later, we were bouncing uptown in a hansom cab, eating our sandwiches and chips and speculating on Detective Cassidi’s discoveries. “It does seem odd that the policeman seen entering the building before the bombing never reported in,” I mused. “Do you suppose the bomber might have disguised himself as a policeman, to gain easy access to the building?”

  “Police are a pretty close fraternity,” Simon said, offering me a chip. “An imposter wouldn’t last long on the street.”

  I considered this as I nibbled on the chip. With all the betrayal I’d been privy to over the last few days, perhaps my next thought wasn’t all that surprising. “What if the bomber actually was a policeman then?”

  “Now there’s a devious idea,” Simon said, looking at me askance. “But as far as I know, there aren’t any Italian policemen working out of the 104th Street Station.”

  “Maybe he was a non-Italian, just using the Spider name,” I countered.

  “I don’t reckon an Irishman or German would have much luck strong-arming Italians. He’d probably be knifed in his sleep for his trouble.”

  I supposed it was true that someone ignorant of the language and lacking the clout of a criminal organization behind him wouldn’t last very long in the Italian extortion game.

  “Can’t you just see Patrick,” Simon went on with a chuckle, “trying to work out the Italian words for ‘pay or die.’”

  I stiffened beside him on the hansom seat, beset by a memory of Patrick directing a boy to pick up an old Italian man’s satchel. “Oh, Simon…” I gasped.

  He swiveled toward me. “What?”

  “I saw something the other day, something that didn’t make sense at the time…” I thought of the beautiful dress Kitty had been wearing at dinner—a present from Patrick, she’d said—and of his plans to set her up in her own shop…

  “Well, out with it,” he urged.

  Reluctantly, knowing that Patrick was one of his oldest friends, I told him what I’d seen at the cafe. “What if he was forcing that old man to pay him?” I finished. “What if Patrick’s been making extra money by extorting on the side?”

  To my surprise, Simon burst out laughing. “If there’s one person on the police force whose honesty you don’t have to question, it’s Patrick.”

  “Where did he get the money to buy Kitty that dress then?” I asked, a bit miffed by his response.

  “He got a promotion, remember? Patrick’s always been generous with his jack. He’d be happy to spend whatever he could on Kitty.”

  “And what do you suppose was in the old man’s bag?”

  “I don’t know. Fabric samples for Kitty? Or maybe the man was just turning over lost property.” He frowned at me. “Why don’t you ask Patrick, if you’re so concerned?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, seeing that I’d offended him. “I suppose I was letting my imagination run away with me.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said with a strained smile. “Although I wish you’d have a little more faith in my friends.”

  We rode in silence the remainder of the way.

  Fortunately, Simon was familiar with the location of the Church of Our Lady of Mount Carmel on 115th Street, which turned out to be on the north side of the street near the corner of Pleasant Avenue. He asked the driver to drop us off in front, then had me wait while he went inside, having cleverly thought to ask the priest if he knew the Velloca family’s whereabouts.

  “Two buildings down on the north side,” he said when he reemerged, saving us the necessity of canvassing the block. Continuing to the building in question, we located the Vellocas’ name on the letter box and climbed the steps to the third floor.

  The old woman who’d been with Rosa in the park answered my knock. “Sí?” she said, regarding us with a frown. A table was set for lunch in the kitchen behind her. A pot simmered on the stove, and the smell of baking bread filled the air.

  “Good afternoon,” I said, not sure if she remembered me.

  Three young boys of varying ages raced across the kitchen area behind her, the last and smallest brandishing a wooden sword.

  “Calmati!” the woman cried after them, throwing her hands in the air. She turned back to us, shaking her head.

  “I met you and Rosa in Jefferson Park a few days ago,” I reminded her. “I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced at the time. My name is Genevieve Summerford, and this is Simon Shaw.”

  She heard me out with a frown, then turned and called over her shoulder. Peering around her, I s
aw Rosa on a sofa in the front room with a book in her lap. “Hello, Rosa!” I hailed.

  The girl’s face lit up. Tossing her book aside, she jumped off the sofa and bounded toward me. “Have you found her?” she asked breathlessly, coming to a stop two feet away. “Have you found Teresa?”

  “Not yet, but the police are working on it.”

  The boys raced back through the kitchen, the oldest one now in possession of the sword. The old woman made a grab for him, but he slipped out of her hands and disappeared into one of the bedrooms off the hallway. She turned wearily back to us. “Entri, entri,” she muttered, waving us inside.

  “Please, will you join us for lunch?” Rosa asked prettily, gesturing toward the table.

  “Thank you, but no,” I answered. “We’ve only come to tell you what we’ve learned about Teresa.”

  “Then come, let us sit,” she said and led us back into the front room.

  This was filled with an abundance of mismatched furniture, much of it showing considerable wear, presumably inflicted by the flat’s young male inhabitants. Doilies covered nearly every horizontal surface, while paintings of lush country vistas adorned the walls. Rosa jumped back onto the sagging sofa, tucking her legs beneath her, while Simon and I perched on two rickety chairs.

  “I knew you would help,” she said, hugging herself. “I’ve been praying every night, asking God to guide your way.”

  “I wish we had more to tell you,” I said. “We have confirmed that Teresa arrived in New York as scheduled and that she had left the pier by the time her fiancé came to collect her. Mr. Fabroni told me that he hasn’t seen her since and that she hasn’t been in touch with her relatives back home.”

  “So she is still missing?” Rosa asked, her face falling.

  “Yes, but the good news is that the police are looking for her. And not just the regular police: the Italian Legion.”

  She nodded somberly, taking this in. “Where do they think she might be?” she asked, looking from me to Simon.

  “It’s really too early to say,” I hedged, “but they have found a clue: a valise they think might belong to her. It’s monogrammed with the initials TMCF.”

  “Yes, that must be hers!” Counting off on her fingers, she recited, “Teresa Maria Casoria Fabroni!” Her face clouded over. “But…how could she have lost her valise? Do you think someone stole it from her?”

  “That’s what the police are trying to find out. We know the valise contained a wedding dress and other items of women’s clothing, as well as a small paint and brush set.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “She told me she was bringing me a birthday present! She knows how much I love to paint.”

  I glanced at Simon. It seemed we had all the confirmation we needed.

  The front door opened and closed, followed by the sound of voices in the kitchen. A moment later, a middle-aged, clean-shaven man with a sizable paunch entered the room and took in the gathering with a frown. “I’m Rosa’s father, Tommaso Velloca,” he said. “Is my daughter in some sort of trouble?”

  Simon stood. “Not at all, Mr. Velloca.” He extended his hand. “I’m Simon Shaw, and this is Dr. Summerford. Your daughter asked us to look into the disappearance of a friend of hers. We’re just here to bring her up to date.”

  “Ah, of course,” he said, comprehension erasing the tension from his face. He shook each of our hands in turn. “Rosa has been quite distraught. I understand that she and this girl were friends at school, in Italy. I hope you have brought her good news?”

  “The police are on her trail,” I answered, “but we have nothing solid to report yet.”

  “They found her valise, Papa,” Rosa told him.

  “I see.” His brow furrowed as he considered this piece of news. “Rosa, would you tell your brothers it’s time for lunch and help Nonna at the table?” The girl got up to do as she was told.

  When she was gone, he said in a low voice, “I think this cannot be good, if they have found the girl’s valise. What do the police suspect has happened to her?”

  “The current thinking is that she may have been abducted,” Simon told him bluntly.

  Mr. Velloca stiffened. “So now the Black Hand is preying on young women? Have they no honor at all?”

  “We’re not sure yet that it was a kidnapping for ransom,” I said.

  “Oh, you can be sure of it, signorina,” he retorted, his voice vibrating with emotion. “There is nothing these men would not stoop to! They are nothing but cowardly brigands, and a disgrace to all decent, law-abiding Italians. I can tell you this with some authority, for I myself have been a target of their operations! Here—let me show you.” Storming to a desk in the corner, he pulled out a piece of paper from the lower drawer and waved it in the air. “They dared to demand that I pay them two thousand dollars for the privilege of conducting my business! The business that my partner and I built from nothing, out of our own sweat and blood! We had to move to Harlem to escape them. And now they have spread up here like a disease, bombing and killing more innocent people.” He thrust the letter into Simon’s hand.

  Peering over Simon’s shoulder, I saw several scrawled lines of handwriting followed by a crudely drawn black hand.

  “Find out who is behind these letters,” Mr. Velloca urged, “and perhaps you will find Rosa’s missing friend!”

  Rosa rushed back into the room. “What is it, Papa?”

  Her father calmed himself, laying a hand on her shoulder. “It’s nothing, Rosa. I’m only concerned for your friend. But now the police are looking for her, eh? So perhaps they will find her soon.”

  I heard Rosa’s grandmother in the kitchen, imploring the boys to eat their lunch.

  “It’s too salty!” One of the boys whined.

  “Gennaro!” shouted Mr. Velloca. “Do as Nonna says!” He sighed, meeting our eyes over Rosa’s head. “It has been hard for my children, since my wife died. Rosa especially. If there is anything I can do to help in your search, I trust you will let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Velloca,” I said. “We’re hopeful that with the Italian Legion working on her case, she’ll be located soon.”

  “You hear that, Rosa?” he said, ruffling his daughter’s hair. He glanced at the wall clock. “And now, I must get back to work.” He gestured to me and Simon. “May I walk you out?”

  We started for the door.

  “But Papa, your lunch!” Rosa protested, following us into the kitchen.

  He nodded at her grandmother. “Add it to my supper pail,” he told her. To Rosa, he said, “Now be a good girl, Rosina, and help Nonna with your brothers.”

  Simon and I bid Rosa good-bye, promising to let her know if there was any more news, and then Mr. Velloca walked us down to the sidewalk, where he shook our hands before heading off toward Pleasant Avenue.

  “I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him we think white slavers took Teresa,” I said, watching him trudge around the corner with an old lard pail at his side.

  “Well, we don’t really know what’s happened to her,” Simon reminded me. “Might as well let him believe she was kidnapped for ransom, for now.”

  “I’m going to have to tell Antonio though,” I said with a sigh, “now that we know the valise belonged to Teresa. I suppose this is as good a time as any.”

  “What if he’s in on her disappearance, like Cassidi suggested?”

  “I have to say, I’m having trouble believing that he could be. He seemed so distraught when I spoke with him…although, of course, I realize he could have been pretending. I can use the news about the valise as an excuse to ask him more questions and gauge his response. Why was he late meeting Teresa’s boat, for example? That’s something that’s always bothered me. You’d think he’d make a point of being there when she arrived. His reaction to the news they’ve found her valise could also be revealing.”

/>   “All right then,” he said, turning toward First Avenue. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I smiled up at him. “You mean you’re coming with me?”

  “Only because it’s easier than trying to talk you out of it.”

  “You’re a very wise man, Mr. Shaw,” I said, taking his arm in mine.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An adolescent boy was seated behind the desk at the Fabroni Painting company office, entering numbers into a ledger. He informed us that Antonio and his crew were on a job in Jefferson Park, painting a shrine that had been erected for the upcoming festa of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. We retraced our steps uptown, arriving hot and sticky fifteen minutes later at the 114th Street entrance to the park, where the project in question was in clear view.

  Approached through an ornate arch, the shrine rose at least forty feet into the air, supported by columns of elaborately carved wood topped with fanciful, multitiered spires. Two angels with doll-like faces looked down from its apex, smiling at our approach. Some of the columns had already been loosely wrapped in gold cloth, while others still waited to be dressed. Two men on ladders were painting the decorative top of the arch, while three more worked on the shrine’s unfinished columns. Antonio stood on the rearmost ladder, his shirtsleeves rolled up and a red bandana tied around his forehead.

  We followed a raised walkway under the arch and came to a stop at the bottom of his ladder. I squinted up at him, watching him fill one fluted section of the column’s capital with a few quick, efficient strokes before moving on to another. Antonio Fabroni might be selling women on the side, I mused, but his proficiency as a painter was indisputable.

  “Mr. Fabroni?” I called up to him.

  He looked down, holding his brush in midair. I wasn’t sure at first if he recognized me.

  “Miss…Summerford?” he asked after a moment.

  “Yes, and this is my friend, Simon Shaw. I was wondering if we might have a word with you.”

  He glanced at his loaded brush. “Now?”