Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  I’m sorry I couldn’t get word to you until now. I’m sure you’ve been worried. Don’t be. Do not come looking for me. I have everything I need now.

  Your loving Rose

  “You’re sure this is her handwriting?” Kristof asked after she’d handed it to him to read.

  “I’m sure.” Sylvie looked up at him through lashes still wet. The relief that had flooded through her began to dry up, leaving only more confusion behind. “Do you think she ran away?”

  He gave back the note. “If she did, she’ll come around.”

  She studied Rose’s message again. “I’m still afraid for her, Kristof,” she admitted. “Even if she did leave of her own accord. And if you tell me to simply have courage, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.”

  “No.” He lifted her chin so she looked him in the eye. “The opposite of fear is not courage. The opposite of fear is faith. You can’t take care of her, but we can still believe that God can, and will, and is doing so right now. Faith, Sylvie.”

  “Faith,” she repeated in a whispered prayer for more.

  He swept a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb, swallowing hard. “Get some rest.” He bade her good night.

  Somehow she managed a suitable reply, watched him go, and locked the door behind him.

  Everything I need. Rose’s words leapt off the page as Sylvie reread it. But that couldn’t possibly be right. She’d left her mother’s shawl behind, her most treasured link to her family.

  Dropping her gloves on a hall table, Sylvie rushed into Rose’s room and turned on the lamp on the bureau.

  The shawl was gone.

  Whoever had delivered the note had been here tonight.

  Was it Rose? Or had Rose lent her key to someone else?

  Pressure mounted in her head. With hands that were suddenly freezing, she threw open the doors of the armoire. Empty. Then the drawers in her bureau, one by one.

  Empty, empty, empty.

  Her clothes, undergarments, and shoes were gone. Her silver-plated brush and hand mirror, her hair combs and ribbons, all gone. All that was left of Rose in this room was her bedding, the vanilla-scented sachets, and an old photograph of her with Sylvie, on the day she’d been baptized, with Meg and Nate, her godparents, standing proudly with them.

  Sylvie sank to the floor.

  Empty.

  Kristof hated that he had no comfort to offer Sylvie other than the hope that Rose would return on her own. Relationships had never been his forte, and he had no insights based on his own upbringing. His father, a frustrated composer, had been more interested in raising a prodigy than a son and had made no secret of his disappointment with every wrong note Kristof played. Gregor was the miracle child, not only for being born nine years after Kristof, but for his innate talent. There had been a time when Kristof had considered running away and joining a Gypsy caravan, but he could never bring himself to part from his brother.

  He didn’t like thinking about that time in his life. Instead of escaping, he had multiplied his devotion to his music studies. There was a logic to music that appealed to him, a mathematical equation in every measure. The notes and rests in each bar added up to a whole, and all his practice added up to progress that approached perfection. Finally. There was an angst inside his young soul that could be calmed by nothing else. It calmed his father, too, when he got it right.

  Kristof carried his violin case and Gregor’s up to their apartment and conducted his thoughts back to the note from Rose. It proved she was still alive, but she could have been forced to write it. He hadn’t wanted to say that, but he could read in Sylvie’s eyes that she’d already drawn the same conclusion. So he’d left her with a feeble good night when what he wanted was to gather her into his arms, to hold her up when she might be breaking down.

  After locking his apartment again, he descended the stairs, exited the building, and inhaled the cool, damp air of early morning. Climbing back into the cab with Gregor, he thought of Sylvie in her empty apartment. The idea of her crying alone wrenched his gut. Someone ought to be with her at a time like this. Perhaps she would take his suggestion to confide in Anna Hoffman, who was no doubt already awake and baking. Or perhaps Sylvie would sleep, at last.

  But Kristof wouldn’t, or at least not yet. He looked out the cab window for the telltale glow of a cigar. He knew their building had been watched ever since their first meeting with the three Irish thugs on the roof of the Manufactures Building. “There’s Quinn,” he muttered to Gregor.

  “Shall we offer him a ride?” Gregor yawned. “Then again, that would mean one of us would have to sit on another’s lap.” He shuddered, then leaned out the window and waved. “Sorry, ol’ chap! You’ll have to meet us there!”

  Gregor’s laughter grated on Kristof’s nerves. “You’re in a good mood.”

  “Why not?” His brother leaned back. “We played, we got paid, and we’re about to pay off our debt.”

  “Your debt,” Kristof corrected him. Although it had become his problem, too, so technically his brother was right. “And you had me worried tonight when you went off the program to pull your Gypsy stunt.”

  “Stunt?”

  “You’re risking our reputation as reliable musicians. Word travels fast. If one patron is dissatisfied, others will know it before we have time to apply for another event.”

  Snoring answered Kristof’s rebuke.

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at O’Donnell’s, a South Side Irish pub on Wabash Avenue, tucked into the ground-floor unit of a narrow, eight-story brick building. Milky moonbeams fell across the warping sidewalk leading up to its front door.

  Kristof roused his brother and paid the driver, including extra to have him wait.

  Gregor knocked. “Here for Johnny Friendly,” he called.

  The door unlocked and opened. A balding man in a bar apron and sleeves rolled to his elbows waved them inside. “Back table. Floor’s wet, by the way.” His lower eyelids drooped like a bloodhound’s.

  Stools sat upside down on the bar, and upended chairs topped the tables, their legs spiking toward a water-stained ceiling. The recently mopped floor sent the sharp smell of ammonia into an atmosphere that reeked of smoke and liquor. Framed photographs hung on paneled walls.

  Kristof and Gregor passed through the forest of bristling tables toward the lone candle burning in the rear. Flickering from inside a red glass hurricane, it cast an eerie glow on the white linen-clad table, and upon the men sitting behind it.

  Johnny Friendly and Tiny O’Bannon watched the Bartoks approach. It was half past five in the morning by now, and Kristof couldn’t tell if they were up very late or very early.

  Gregor took an envelope from his pocket and laid it on the table. It was their evening’s pay, plus the income they’d received since their last meeting. Little had been held back to pay the rent. “It’s all there.” He stood back.

  O’Bannon picked it up and opened it to count the bills. Apparently satisfied, he slid it to Johnny and resumed rolling a small glass jar of red pepper flakes between his massive hands.

  “That’s it, then,” Kristof said. “The debt is paid. You can have Quinn stop following us now. And you can let Rozalia Dabrowski go.” It was only a guess, but he had nothing to lose by trying.

  Gregor stared at him. Johnny and O’Bannon said nothing. A knock on the door drew the bartender to it. Smokes Quinn entered the pub, shuffled to the rear, and sat beside O’Bannon.

  “I’m confused.” Johnny looked to Quinn, then O’Bannon. “You know a Rozalia Dabrowski in connection with these two?” Outside, a block east of the pub, a train roared by, hissing and chugging as it clambered toward the Illinois Central Railroad station.

  “Yeah.” O’Bannon rubbed a meaty hand over his face. “Blond girl, very pretty. Very shapely, very nice, you know what I mean. Pure as the driven snow. Sweet girl.”

  “You followed her,” Kristof guessed.

  He shrugged. “She was much nicer to look at than the tw
o of you.”

  “And you took her?” Gregor’s pitch climbed half an octave. “Your creative insurance policy, in case we didn’t pay.”

  Johnny turned a scowl on O’Bannon. “Did you pick off a girl without my say-so?”

  O’Bannon held up his palms. “No! I don’t have her and I didn’t touch her.”

  “Then what happened to her?” Kristof willed his pulse to a steady tempo. “Monday afternoon she had a violin lesson with me at Music Hall. Did you see her after that?”

  “I might have. What’s it worth to you?”

  Kristof sat across from him. “A seventeen-year-old girl is missing. If you have information that may help us find her, it would be worth a lot to me.”

  Twenty feet away, the bartender wiped tumblers dry and stacked them on a shelf, each knock of glass on wood thumping against Kristof’s nerves.

  Exhaling, Gregor pulled out a chair and sank into it. “You have all our cash. Just tell us what you know.”

  “Something for nothing?” Johnny smiled. “Since when did the world work that way?”

  Gregor paled in the red-tinged half-light. He pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat and pushed it across the table. Their father’s watch, and his father’s before that. A family heirloom left to Gregor. “That’s gold.” He tapped the casing. “And those are diamonds in the face, at twelve and six.”

  With a snow-white handkerchief, Johnny picked it up and rubbed it clean before touching it with his own skin. As he held it to his ear, Kristof could hear every tick as loudly as if it had been held to his own.

  Eyebrow arching, Johnny glanced at Kristof. “This is genuine?”

  “It is.”

  “Because if I take this to my guy and he comes back and says otherwise, I’ll be more than a little concerned that you two are disrespecting me.”

  “I said it’s genuine.”

  Johnny’s mouth curled in an upside-down smile. “Good. If it isn’t, I’ll find you. I know where you live.” To O’Bannon, he simply nodded.

  O’Bannon popped his knuckles, one by one. “Yeah, I saw her leave Music Hall with her violin. She was walking in the shade of the Peristyle toward the Casino when someone stopped her, and they talked for a good ten minutes.”

  “Who?” Kristof asked. “Who was she talking to?” If only he had walked Rose out, if only he’d served as her chaperone until she was safely home, he could have prevented all of this.

  “Relax. I didn’t get a good look. Whoever it was stood in the shadows. Then they both headed to the Casino Pier and boarded the steamship Arthur Orr for an excursion into the lake. I didn’t bother getting on with them, since I knew they’d be back an hour later. And so they were.”

  O’Bannon wasn’t talking fast enough. “And?” Kristof prodded.

  “She was easy to spot, still swinging that violin case. No one was with her except for the crowd. She walked through the Court of Honor and into the train station. That’s where I lost her.”

  “You lost her?” Gregor leaned forward. “Isn’t that your job, to follow her?”

  “Hey. A minute ago you weren’t so pleased I was following her. Now you’re not so pleased I let her go. Which is it?”

  It was something. She got as far as the train station. It was more information than they’d had all week. “If you can’t think of anything else to share, then our business here is through.” Kristof rose.

  O’Bannon’s grin pushed back his corpulent cheeks. “If I think of something else, you’ll have to make it worth my time to tell you.”

  Shaking his head, Gregor stood. “If I get enough money together, I’m going to buy that timepiece back from you.”

  “Sure,” Johnny crooned. “You get enough money, come see me.”

  Outside the pub, night rolled away from the dawn. Tugboats on the river puffed dense columns of smoke into a sky already layered with low, grey clouds.

  “That’s it,” Kristof muttered to Gregor. “No more dealings with those three.”

  Gregor’s hooded gaze climbed the building from which they’d just emerged. Like all the other structures in this district, its face was stained with soot from coal-burning tugboats and trains. “I agree. As soon as I buy Father’s timepiece back.”

  “With what money?” Kristof pulled his empty pockets inside out. “Forget it, Gregor. We did what we had to do. That heirloom is gone for good. But if the information it bought us gets us one step closer to Rose, it will be a price well paid.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A few minutes after ten on Thursday morning, the bell tinkled over the door of Corner Books & More. Sylvie pasted a smile in place before stepping out from between two bookshelves to greet her customer.

  As soon as she saw Meg and Olive, she allowed her mask of composure to fall. Her face twisted with all the emotions she’d bottled up.

  “Sylvie.” Meg rushed to her, reaching out.

  Sylvie shaped her hands around her sister’s scarred ones. “She wrote to me.”

  “Thank God. Come, sit, and tell me all about it. We’ll jump up the moment a customer comes in.”

  The coffee was nearly done percolating on the refreshments table, and Sylvie poured two mugs, adding cream to both, plus sugar for Meg. “Help yourself.” She lifted the glass dome from the pedestal holding a mound of Anna Hoffman’s Berliners. “We’ll never sell all these in one day, and they won’t be as good tomorrow.”

  “Divine,” said Meg. “Thank you. Olive, dear, why don’t you run upstairs and visit Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman while Aunt Sylvie and I chat?”

  Berliner in hand, Olive scampered to the rear of the store. Meg and Sylvie took their pastries and drinks to one of the bistro tables opposite the empty fireplace. Ferns spread their arms over the hearth, claiming it as their summer home.

  Sylvie took Rose’s note from her skirt pocket and slid it across the table for Meg to read.

  Her sister’s brow crimped as she scanned the lines. She flipped the page, then read it again. “Was there a return address?”

  “No. It wasn’t even stamped. Whoever delivered it also cleared out Rose’s things. Her clothes and toiletries, her mother’s shawl, all gone.”

  “What?”

  “That’s not all.” Unable to eat, Sylvie sipped her coffee, willing the caffeine to clear the cobwebs from her sleep-deprived mind. “Tiny Tim is gone, too. Or else he’s hiding better and longer than he ever has before. I haven’t seen him since before the ball. He hasn’t even come out to eat.” She missed him more than she’d admit, for he’d been a special comfort to her. Now that, too, was taken away.

  “Do you suppose he escaped when whoever it was came in?”

  A muscle cramped in Sylvie’s neck. She rubbed at it. “It’s possible. But far more likely than running away is that he would have stayed and demanded attention from the visitor. I think—” A lump swelled in her throat. “I wonder if he’s with Rose.” She tapped the note. “She says she has everything she needs, and she loved that cat. She doesn’t have anything to come back for now.”

  Meg swallowed a bite and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “But she calls you Mimi. She signs her name Rose. Yet the last thing she said to you, if I recall correctly, was that she wanted to start using the names Sylvie and Rozalia. Surely this means something.”

  Sylvie had noticed that, too. “But taken together with everything else—the cleaned-out bureau and armoire, the missing cat—it seems more like a concession. A way to take the sting out of what she’s decided to do.”

  After refolding her napkin in her lap, Meg propped her chin in one hand. “If you take this note to the police, it will no longer be a missing person case. Just the case of a young woman who has willingly left home.”

  Sylvie sat back in her chair and looked out the window. Blousy petunias in flower boxes rippled in the breeze. Beyond them, ladies strolled the sidewalk with shopping bags on their arms and gentlemen at their sides. A few maids darted by on their errands.

  “Maybe that’s all this is,
Meg. I pushed Rose so far that she’s afraid to tell me where she is for fear I’ll come after her. She says she’s fine but orders me to leave her be.”

  Meg took a drink of coffee. “It doesn’t add up. Has she kept such secrets from you before?”

  “If she had, would I know it?” Her voice was serrated with exhaustion, her eyelids like sandpaper. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in Rose’s room last night, but only for an hour or so.

  The front door jingled open, and Sylvie winced at the thought of playacting like nothing was wrong.

  “I’ve got this,” Meg said, rising. “I might not be on your payroll, but I still know my way around this store.” With a wink, she swept away to help the customers.

  Assured they were in good hands, Sylvie rested her eyes. Visions of Rose on Mr. Ferris’s wheel revolved through her mind. It was only three days ago. It felt like a hundred.

  “Aunt Sylvie? Are you sleeping?” Olive’s whisper was loud enough for the stage.

  Sylvie opened one eye and smiled in reply.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman say you are invited to dinner with them at six o’clock tonight.”

  Sweet Anna and Karl. What would Sylvie do without them?

  “Did you know my birthday is coming up?” Olive went on. “I’m going to be eight years old. I don’t think Mama will like that much.” She arranged her auburn braids over her shoulders, then retied the yellow ribbons around the ends.

  Sylvie frowned. “Why not?”

  Olive kicked her toe against the chair leg. “That’s how old my sister Louise was when she died. I don’t think I will have a party this year. Mama seems too sad about it.”

  Pushing her chair back from the table, Sylvie opened both arms wide, and her niece flung herself into them. “Losing Louise was very, very sad,” she said. “But you, my dear, are worth celebrating every single year. You are God’s gift to your family, the one who brought smiles to all of us at a time when we had too many tears.”

  Olive wiggled out of the embrace and nodded solemnly. “I’m the replacement. That’s why Louise is my middle name.”