And people. Perhaps ten people. Large, small. Men, women. As I surveyed them, I spotted several familiar faces. Marta and her brother Wiktor sat side by side on a bench to the left. I smiled at Marta, but she did not smile or indicate that she’d ever spoken to me, much less helped arrange this. The very tall man who had walked with the countess and greeted Stefan that day sat on a large box. I gave a start when I recognized Ruth, the woman who came with Louise to help Stefan and was, he told me, her lover. Grief obliterated her beauty. Her face was chalky white. It was otherwise with the blonde woman sitting next to her: She wore heavy dark-beige makeup and bright rouge on her cheeks; her hair braided as if she were a milkmaid. On the other side of Ruth sat a floridly handsome young man with wavy black hair whose face was darkened with cosmetics, something I’d never seen before on a male face. He wore a crimson shirt and black trousers. Sitting in chairs to the side of them were two less dramatic-looking people: a black man who looked to be my age and a humbly dressed woman perhaps ten years older.
“Good evening, Miss Batternberg.”
Countess Isabelle approached me with a smile, spreading her hands in welcome, as gracious as any hostess at a grand social occasion. I’d not heard her voice until now. She spoke in a sweet southern drawl and was dressed in a bustled silk gown like a New Orleans belle.
“Good evening, Countess,” I said politely.
“As the murder of Louise Turner and the false arrest of Stefan Chalakoski is a serious matter, I’ve asked those who are most affected to join me in order to hear what you have to say,” she said.
“So I gather.”
The woman with the blonde braids said, “She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.”
“Guts? Are you kidding?” The handsome man in the red shirt leaped to his feet with panther-like grace. “Of course, she’s cool as can be. She’s a Batternberg! She’s a member of the ruling class, I bet she’s used to having her way at all times. It’s rare to get one of them alone, and we should take advantage of it.”
“How?” asked Countess Isabelle. Far from being my friend, she seemed interested in hearing his idea.
The man treated me to a slow, taunting smile. He said, “Let’s hold her hostage and tell the police we won’t release her until they free Stefan. That should make a few people start to take notice.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
This man, smirking, looking at the others for support for his criminal plan, may have thought he frightened me, but he had no idea what sort of dinner tables of “the ruling class” I’d grown up at.
“If I thought your plan had a chance of working, I’d be only too happy to oblige,” I told him. “But they’d certainly never release Stefan in exchange.”
“Oh, they wouldn’t?” he challenged. “How the hell do you know?”
“Their priority would be organizing a manhunt, tearing Coney Island apart, using the entire city’s police force plus an army of Pinkertons.”
“She’s right,” said Countess Isabelle. “We don’t want to draw that sort of attention. Sit down, Dimitri.”
Her opinion carried the most weight, and any idiotic idea of my being kidnapped and held in a ransom exchange dissolved into the air.
Wiktor spoke up. “Stefan won’t want anything bad to happen to Peggy.” He said it with obvious reluctance.
“You saw him?” I asked. “They let you see Stefan today? Is he all right?’
“For two minutes,” answered Wiktor. “He is all right.”
I was equal parts relieved and tormented at the thought of Stefan in a cell.
“Stefan loves you, and you love Stefan,” said Countess Isabelle gently. “I saw it in your faces when you walked through Dreamland.”
“How romantic,” spat Dimitri. “But what about Louise? How do we get justice for her?”
The countess gave him a stern look. “That is why we are here.” She turned back to me. “You must forgive Dimitri. He was partnered with Louise in the Henderson shows, and he was fond of her.”
“Fond? How could anyone be fond of her? She was a nasty, selfish cow who wouldn’t learn the damn steps until dress rehearsal.” His voice broke on the word until and tears gleamed in his eyes. I saw Ruth, in his shadow, bow her head, and the blonde with braids put her arms around her in comfort. The three stage performers drew together in a tight ball of misery.
“I want to find out who murdered Louise,” I said, trying to speak to everyone. “That person must be punished. And it’s the only way to convince them that Stefan is innocent.”
For the first time, the black man spoke. “Why can’t your people help him?” he asked. “They must have plenty of lawyers.”
Countess Isabelle introduced me to the man and older woman sitting with them. Their names were Wallace and Berenice. Stefan had been giving them art lessons – free of charge. My heart swelled to hear this. It was so like Stefan. But I was ashamed to have to tell his students the truth.
“My family hates my being involved with Stefan – more than any of you do. I’ve asked for their help, and they won’t give it. I’ve tried to tell the police they’re wrong, and they won’t listen either.” I looked directly at Ruth, the person feeling the most pain in the room. “I’m sorry.”
Countess Isabelle said, “So you propose to find this murderer all alone.”
Dimitri snorted his skepticism.
“Not alone,” I said. “With your help. I know there is a Bowery connection with the victims. Louise danced at Henderson’s. But the first two women, there must be something else. I don’t want to cast aspersions on Katherine O’Malley or Beatrice Stompers, but I believe they might have worked at Mabel Morgan’s and—”
Countess Isabelle said, “They did. They came and went; not regular girls, but on any given night there’s a chance one of them would have been there.”
“What fools,” said the blonde with pigtails.
“If they had regular, normal jobs, why would they step inside a brothel?” I wondered aloud, and with that I felt the glare of ten people upon me.
“For the money,” snarled Dimitri. “Why else?”
Countess Isabelle said, “A girl with an ordinary job stands to earn ten dollars a week for full time hours of hard labor, while a prostitute can easily earn seventy-five dollars a week.”
I could feel everyone in the room silently condemn me for my ignorance of such realities.
It was Dimitri who moved the conversation along. “You think some client of Mabel Morgan’s scooped them up at the brothel and talked them into a walk along the water, strangled them. But who? You can’t think Mabel keeps nice, neat lists, and even if she did and she gave them to you, which she wouldn’t, we’re talking about hundreds of men!”
This was something else I hadn’t anticipated, and I really should have. How to explain why I thought I could succeed at finding the killer without sharing too much.
“You have an idea who the man might be,” said Countess Isabelle, the most perceptive person in the room.
“It’s possible,” I admitted. “But I can’t tell you who. I can’t share my suspicions with you at this stage. If it means you won’t vouch for me, then I understand. But I hope you will.”
Countess Isabelle inclined her head. “I’ll give you a letter of introduction. It will mean Mabel Morgan will speak to you, and no harm will come to you. But I can’t promise she’ll be of help. That’s her decision.”
“Louise was never at Mabel Morgan’s.”
It was the first time Ruth spoke, and she was vehement.
The pig-tailed blonde quietly reassured her that no one was saying otherwise, but that didn’t calm her. “She didn’t meet this man at any damn whorehouse,” she said loudly. “I don’t know where Louise met him, how this bastard got to her. Maybe she didn’t meet him – he came up behind her and grabbed her.”
A painful silence settled over the group. But it was broken by Dimitri. “Ruth,’ he said. “This does no good.”
“No,” she said.
/>
‘Say the word.”
“No,” she said, nearly shouting.
“Then I’ll say it,” said Dimitri. But he didn’t, not for a minute. He seemed afraid to say it, making me wonder – an arrogant, impetuous, possibly reckless man such as this one, what would make him hesitate?
“Kschessinska,” he said, his brash Brooklyn voice suddenly sounding very subdued – and very Russian.
A spasm of regret passed across Countess Isabelle’s serene face.
“I told her not to go there anymore,” said Ruth, wiping tears from her face. “We didn’t need the money, no matter how much they would pay her.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“You mean who is it,” said Countess Isabelle, with a deep sigh. “Mathilde Kschessinska is a prima ballerina of the Imperial Ballet in St Petersburg. She was the mistress of Nicholas, Czar of all the Russias, until he married. Then she moved on to having affairs with the grand dukes in the House of Romanov.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re saying this woman has come to Coney Island?”
“No, of course not,” said the countess. “The real prima ballerina is in St Petersburg and has, I believe, married. But a Russian woman opened a private establishment here seven years ago, who has taken her name and identity, and you’d be best not to give her any indication that you don’t accept that she is Kschessinska.”
“So this is another brothel?” I asked.
“That’s a word that could never be said in her presence, Miss Batternberg. Neither can you say ‘prostitute’ or ‘madame.’ Gentlemen are invited to be members of her club, where she serves as hostess, in order to have private conversations with women, the most beautiful in New York City. Such conversations could last an hour, two hours, maybe more.”
“I see,” I said, glancing at Ruth, wracked with grief and fury.
“She opened her club in Coney Island because the racetracks and athletic clubs brought the richest men of the East Coast out here. Now that the racetracks are closed, some of us thought that she might be moving on. But she hasn’t, not yet. And the rich men still find their way to her door.”
Rich men seeking the most beautiful women in the whole city. That made a knot of dread form deep inside me. Aloud, I said, “I wonder why Lieutenant Pellegrino didn’t mention this place, only Mabel Morgan’s.”
Dimitri said, “Word on the street is she pays off the police in a big way. Politicians come to ‘visit,’ even senators, you know. No one in uniform ever gives Kschessinska a bad time. If she has to use any muscle with ordinary guys, rich drunks, or just plain jerks, she always has her Cossacks.”
“Don’t tell me the Cossacks are real,” I said.
Dimitri shrugged. “Everything is real on Coney Island – and nothing is real.”
Countess Isabelle said that tomorrow she would send over to the Oriental Hotel a letter of introduction vouching for me to Mabel Morgan. She’d also write a letter for me to present to Madame Kschessinska, although she said it might not make too much difference. The Russian woman held herself aloof from people of the amusement park, although she’d made her living just blocks away from them for years.
“If she doesn’t care for your letter, is she going to call for the Cossacks?” I asked. The countess shook her head at my bad joke. “I doubt she would behave in such a crude fashion, Miss Batternberg, but you would be wise to treat her with caution. When are you going to be paying your calls?”
“Tomorrow night, same time, I suppose,” I said.
For the first time, the giant spoke. “I will escort Peggy,” he said solemnly.
Countess Isabelle said, “Ah, my dearest friend, your nobility is your greatest gift to us all. But I wonder if your presence would draw more attention than is wise to her mission.”
Dimitri said, “Hell, I’ll do it. I’ll see her to the door of Mabel Morgan’s and wait outside.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself on my behalf,” I said coldly, not wishing to spend additional time with the man who suggested holding me hostage.
But my response made him retort, “This isn’t for you, Your Ladyship. I’m doing it to help Stefan and to find Louise’s killer.”
I bade farewell to the group of people who cared most about Stefan and Louise. Regretting that I hadn’t gotten to know Stefan’s students, I lingered by their side. I knew nothing about them except that they had jobs on Coney Island and wanted to create art. Now it was rather late to ask questions, but I hoped I might gain some inkling. The woman, Berenice, who had not spoken, who looked uncomfortable and sad the entire time, still avoided looking me in the eye. I thought it best not to force her away from her shyness, so I merely extended my hand to shake hers.
Her hand stayed by her side. Instead she looked at me and said, “The Batternbergs own mines all over the Americas, don’t they?”
Startled, I nodded, and she said, “Have you ever gone underground and talked to one of the miners?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Don’t you think that you should?” she asked.
I had no idea what to say. Countess Isabelle tactfully drew me away. She shook my hand before advising me to wear “something of the latest fashion” the following night. “Madame Kschessinska in particular will appreciate that.”
Marta and her brother Wiktor walked me out of Lilliput and Dreamland, and all the way to my buggy driver on Surf Avenue, who had not budged, his palms itching for my other emerald earring. “Good luck tomorrow,” Marta said, while Wiktor nodded stiffly. I’d not gained an inch from him. With all of them, even Marta and the Countess, I sensed a lingering suspicion. To varying degrees, they all disapproved of me, resented me.
“See you at this spot tomorrow night,” Dimitri sang out from the sidewalk as the driver helped me in. I hadn’t realized he followed too. I raised a hand in reluctant acknowledgement.
I was swiftly returned to the Oriental Hotel, where I dropped the second earring into the driver’s palm and proposed hiring him to perform the same task at the same time the following night for more earrings. He agreed at once.
Now came my greatest challenge: a young woman, unescorted, walking into the hotel well after midnight. It must have been one o’clock in the morning. Thank God there were still people around. Men and women drifted across the lawn and sat on the veranda. After all, none of them had to report to a factory floor early the next morning. But would every one of them shrug off seeing me now? Even if they did, a Pinkerton guard or hotel staff member could notice me. As I lingered near the horse and buggy, undecided, a motor car rumbled to a space close by. I watched two young couples step out of the vehicle, laughing and moving unsteadily, for they had clearly all been drinking. As they made their way toward the walkway, I fell in behind them, so that I just might be mistaken for one of their group. I followed the quartet into the lobby, reaching the door leading to the stairwell and edging toward it. The door was not locked. After trudging up the stairs, I made it to the corridor of the Batternbergs, and I knocked on Lydia’s door three times, as we agreed, along the way to my room.
It was a relief to have made it through the night without things going awry. But I knew that the next night could be a far greater ordeal.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The next day, a messenger arrived by noon with a large envelope for me and, within it, three smaller sealed notecards. They were all sealed with wax. The smaller one for me contained the two addresses and the Countess’s best wishes. The second envelope was addressed to “Mrs. Morgan” and the third to “Madame Kschessinska.” I had no idea what Countess Isabelle wrote in her letters to the brothel keepers. I could only hope that she was persuasive.
Lydia frowned at the sight of these envelopes. “This all seems real to me now,” she said somberly. I’d already told her everything that was said last night. Like me, she flinched at the question over whether I had ever talked to a miner working for the Batternbergs. We’d been protected from such questions all our lives. Last nig
ht I stepped outside of the protection. I had a feeling that before this all was done, I stood a good chance of stepping farther outside of it.
Lydia said, “It does seem possible that at least one of the men in our family visited these brothels since we came to Coney Island.”
“Well, I know Ben has in the past,” I said. “He had a little book listing the best ones in New York City called The Gentleman’s Directory. He used a special name when he visited – Mr. Franklin. Of course that was a few years ago and—”
“Oh, Peggy!” Lydia grabbed my arm, dismayed. A second later, I realized why. The men probably hadn’t used their real names! My visits to the brothels, which I’d gone to such trouble to arrange, could be a waste of time. But how else could I begin to find the true murderer, and in the three days left to me?
“You couldn’t describe them, they look too much like a lot of other people. Even Henry is hard to describe in a way that expresses how different he is than other men,” Lydia said. “Only photographs would convey it. And even if we persuaded them to be photographed, those photographs wouldn’t be ready by tonight.”
Elated, I said, “Photographs exist! They’re in Ben’s room. Paul took them.” This presented our next problem to solve. My visiting Ben in his room and somehow absconding with the pictures was unrealistic. Not with the present state of our relationship: mutual wariness.
Lydia said, “I’m sure I could talk a hotel maid into letting me into his room.”
“Yes, but Ben might be in his room at this very moment,” I pointed out. “We have no idea what he’s up to this afternoon, just that we’re all meeting for dinner at seven. He’s brought some work with him on this holiday, believe it or not. Family business.”
After a few minutes Lydia said, “We know he will be out of the room at dinner time. Why don’t we eat at the Manhattan Beach Hotel tonight? I’ll excuse myself to seek out the powder room, and that’s when I’ll go upstairs, talk my way into Ben’s room, and get those photographs.”
“That sounds risky to me,” I said.
Dreamland Page 30