Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  Sylvie’s mouth felt lined with flannel. She sat, and Meg did the same.

  “You didn’t notice it until tonight?” Meg asked.

  Kristof’s lips pressed into a thin line as he reached deeper between the case and the fabric. “No. This is the first time I’ve taken the violin out since bringing it home from the pawnshop.”

  At last he pulled something free—a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Sylvie, whose breath caught and flipped like something hooked.

  Her fingers trembled as she accepted it, hope warring against caution. It was a letter, dated August 25.

  “‘Dear Mimi,’” she read aloud, and her voice collapsed. Squeezing back a rush of tears, she tried again, Meg’s hand on her back in solidarity. “‘Dear Mimi, I guess I don’t blame you for being mad at me, but I didn’t think your anger would last this long. I wanted to at least let you know we’ve moved in case you decide to write or visit. Now we’re—’”

  There it ended.

  Bewildered, Sylvie turned the paper over and back again, finding no other words. “That’s all,” she rasped. Suddenly feeling the paper was too heavy to hold, she lowered it to the table. What could the unfinished note mean? What had Rose tried to say, and what on earth had she meant about Sylvie being mad at her?

  What, what, what?

  “She was interrupted,” Meg said. “She was trying to send word of her new address and something—someone—stopped her before she could finish.”

  “I’m not mad at her,” Sylvie gasped. “She says ‘in case’ I decide to write or visit—as though I could have all this time and chose not to! She doesn’t know how we’ve been searching.” The idea lanced her.

  “But she was trying to reach you. She’ll try again,” Meg crooned.

  “There’s some kind of watermark on it from the stationery company.” Kristof slanted the paper toward the light, then pointed to the image, his eyes alight. “That’s no stationer’s brand. That’s the logo of the Auditorium Hotel.”

  “She’s there.” Sylvie’s heartbeat slammed. “That’s where she is. Don’t you think?”

  Kristof ran a hand over his jaw. “She was, when she wrote that note. It’s the best lead we have, even though we have no idea which room she was in or if she’s still there.”

  Meg turned to Sylvie. “Remind me when Jozefa checked out of the Palmer.”

  “Friday, August 25. The same day Rose wrote this note. And when did you go to the pawn shop?” she asked Kristof.

  “The next day,” he answered. “The proprietor said it had been dropped off that morning.”

  “So we know that before the violin came to the pawnshop, it was with Rose, and she parted with it after they checked out of the Palmer,” Meg said. “They needed a place to go Friday night. It’s not difficult to believe that place was the Auditorium.”

  “I don’t know how Jozefa got a room without a reservation booked months in advance, but there’s no arguing with that paper.” Kristof held it up again.

  Sylvie stood, every nerve awake. “There’s one way to find out. It’s time to bring Rose home.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  While Meg and Nate returned home to their children, Kristof escorted Sylvie straight to the police station for help locating Jozefa inside the Auditorium Hotel. It was the only logical move, and Sylvie still needed to be convinced of it. Her plan had been no plan at all. Just go to the Auditorium and start knocking on doors? If Jozefa caught wind of such a thing, she and Rose would pack up and disappear, possibly forever.

  No, Kristof insisted on doing things according to the rules. The law was on the side of the innocent, after all.

  At least, it ought to be.

  Officer Thornhill wasn’t cooperating the way Kristof had hoped he would. Sylvie seemed to be barely keeping a lid on her emotions. Not that he could blame her.

  “An unfinished note with no address. It isn’t even signed.” Officer Thornhill pinched it between two fingers. “This is your justification for searching every room at the Auditorium? Do you have any idea how many rooms they have?”

  “Of course we do,” Kristof said. “Which is why we have no intention of doing such a thing ourselves. But you could demand the front desk staff tell you exactly which room Jozefa Zielinski is staying in, and go search the room yourself.”

  The paper fluttered to the top of the officer’s cluttered desk. Sylvie snatched it up and tucked it into her reticule. The amused bounce of Thornhill’s wiry grey eyebrows seemed to ignite her ire even more.

  “Ever heard of a search warrant?” Thornhill scratched behind his ear, then took a swig of coffee that smelled as if it had been scraped from the bottom of the pot. “I can’t get one based on a scrap of paper in a pawned violin case.”

  Sylvie threw up her hands. “Then what do you need from us?”

  “The Fourth Amendment says I need probable cause. And, ma’am, this sure ain’t it.”

  “Coming here was a mistake,” Sylvie muttered and walked away.

  Kristof set his jaw, folded his arms. “Send a patrol, then. At least ask the hotel staff if they’ve heard sounds of anyone being kept against their will. Any banging on doors or walls, shouting, screaming, that sort of thing. Will you do that much, at least?”

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Sylvie bend over. Sergeant Whiskers, the resident brown tabby, had ambled over to greet her, and she scooped him up in her arms, swaying slightly as she held him. She was made to love, even now, when she was livid and afraid. Perhaps especially now.

  Thornhill rose, crossing his arms over his rounded middle. “Do you have any idea how thinly stretched our resources are? Crime is up, and I’m not just talking about pickpockets at the Fair. And here you two keep coming back, asking me to send my men on a wild goose chase.”

  “We’ve done no such thing.” What did wild geese have to do with it?

  “There are thieves to catch, actual murders to investigate—with real bodies, mind you—and immigrant communist rioters to lock up before we have another Haymarket on our hands. So, yeah, I’ll send an officer to the Auditorium and have him ask the staff if there is anything fishy.”

  Kristof had hoped for more than that. He started to say so, but Thornhill cut him off with an outstretched palm.

  “And you know what else I’m going to do?” His jowls wobbled as he spoke.

  A gust of foul-smelling air swirled into the station as more homeless men came seeking a place to sleep for the night. Thornhill waved them through to the men’s wing, where the warden admitted them through the iron gate, then clanged it shut again.

  “I’ll have the staff notified about the two of you and your interest in searching their guest rooms. If they see you on the property, they’ll have permission to detain you until an officer can come make an official arrest for trespassing.”

  Kristof hardly believed anyone would recognize them based on physical description alone, but he wasn’t about to point that out. “I work there, Officer Thornhill. In the theatre side with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Surely you’ve no intention of arresting a man for rehearsing Mozart.”

  Before the officer could respond, Sylvie came marching back, and Sergeant Whiskers darted toward the men who’d just arrived. “Your policemen should be searching for Jozefa Zielinksi and Rozalia Dabrowski. Not the two of us.” She slipped her hand into the crook of Kristof’s elbow, closing ranks with him, warming a cold spot inside him. “They’re in there right now but could leave at any time.”

  Tapping the badge on his uniform, the officer sneered. “I don’t take orders from you or any citizen, least of all a woman. Now, as your business here is done, it’s time you both take your leave.”

  Kristof made no move to go. “First tell me when you’ll send an officer to the hotel.”

  Thornhill expelled a long-suffering sigh. “By half past eleven. Let me get my night shift officers up to speed, and I’ll send someone over.”

  “See that you do,” Kristof said. “I’ll be
watching from across the street, waiting. If I don’t see any police patrols enter the building by then, I’m coming right back here to haunt you. Good night. At least, for now.”

  Sylvie squeezed his arm as they left the station. “Were you serious about waiting outside the Auditorium to be sure he keeps his word?”

  “I’m not a man given to empty threats.”

  The crease between her brows began to ease. “I didn’t think so. I’m coming with you.”

  He looked down at her and smiled. “I expected nothing less.”

  Sylvie paced the sidewalk on Michigan Avenue across from the Auditorium Hotel, unable to contain the energy coursing through her. Kristof leaned against the lamppost at the streetcar stop, watching the hotel doors, the street, and the sidewalks. It was ten o’clock, or something like it, and the broad avenue separating her from Rose rumbled with traffic, most of it from theatergoers on their way to late dinners or cocktails.

  The night was warm but cooling quickly, and Sylvie could not blame her fine sheen of perspiration on the humidity. She searched for a policeman who might have come early, or for Jozefa, or even Rose herself. Guests coming from the Auditorium Theatre filled the spacious balcony above the hotel’s main entrance. They were silhouetted against glowing windows, but Sylvie could still see their sparkling opera attire and glinting champagne flutes as they laughed and talked. She doubted Rose would be among them. Not if Jozefa was keeping her locked up. It would be too easy for her to shout for help or whisper in someone’s ear.

  Frustration boiled inside Sylvie. She marched back toward Kristof. “See anything?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “This is madness,” she replied. “Thornhill said no police officer could be spared until after the eleven o’clock shift begins. That’s another hour at least to wait. Meanwhile, Rose is inside, wondering if anyone got her message, if anyone can rescue her. I could go in right now. She thinks I’m staying away on purpose.” She still couldn’t stomach the thought.

  “Sylvie.” Disapproval laced his tone. “Even if we set aside the fact that we said we wouldn’t do that, what would you do once inside?”

  “I—I would do what I did at the Palmer. Act like any other guest. There’s no way the staff can remember all their faces and names. I would find a maid to talk to, at any rate.”

  “A maid. One maid.”

  “It worked at the Palmer.”

  “Because you knew which room you wanted. Here, you’d be walking in blind. Even worse than not finding Jozefa at all would be coming close enough for her to hear or see you, giving her reason to whisk Rose away without a trace. Is it worth that risk to you?”

  She watched the hotel windows, hoping and praying one of them would open and Rose’s blue shawl would be hung out of it. “I know how you feel about risk, Kristof. But sometimes one must take a chance.”

  “These stakes are too high. And the odds are not in your favor.”

  “I—” But she had no rebuttal. He was right, and she hated that he was right. “She’s right there.” She pointed across the street. “She’s just a girl, and she must feel so alone. I have to do something, Kristof. Anything would be better than this agonizing wait and see. If we don’t help her, who will?”

  Kristof brushed off the bench beside the lamppost, then sat and patted the space next to him. “Come here.”

  She did. Wind teased a strand of hair from beneath her hat, and it swayed beside her cheek.

  He covered her hands and lowered them to his knee, where he broke their clasp and laced his fingers through hers. The faint smells of chocolate and coffee and balsam cologne wafted between them. “Sometimes we do all we can, and still it is not enough.”

  She blinked in surprise. “And here I thought you might attempt to console me.”

  His mouth tilted. “I still might.” The lamplight above him called out every line framing his eyes, his brow, and his mouth. Some men wore masks of charm and flattery, but Kristof’s face, Sylvie could tell, was a map of his own sincerity, every ridge and groove born from care. “Just because you can’t control everything doesn’t mean it isn’t being handled. Trust the One who is far better at orchestrating every detail than we could ever be.”

  A spark of irritation fanned to flame. “Are you saying I don’t have enough faith? Or that I should just pray and hope for the best?”

  “What I’m saying is that we are, all of us, far less independent than you may want to admit. Life is not a solo performance.” His strong, lean hands tightened on hers, as if anticipating his words would make her want to take flight.

  She broke from his gaze instead, scanning the Auditorium Hotel again. “I didn’t come here so you could scold me like a child.”

  “You are accustomed to solving your own problems. You’re an excellent manager of your time, money, and the people you love.”

  She snapped her attention back to him. “I don’t manage the people I love.”

  He hesitated. “You prompted Meg to paint at the Fair to take her mind off her grief. You gave Lottie a job to keep her out of the Levee. You bailed Beth out of jail, and Rose—well, until a month ago, you held a pretty tight rein on her.”

  “And look what happened when I let go!” Sylvie cried. “You see? What you call managing, I call caring.”

  “From here, it looks like fear.” His voice held no judgment or condemnation. Only compassion, which might have been worse.

  Sylvie yanked her hands from his and covered her face. If she could trust her legs to hold her, she would walk away. Away from Kristof, away from the truth. But she could not leave fear behind her.

  His hand settled on her back. “Forgive me. I’m bungling this. All I mean to say is that sometimes we can fool ourselves into believing we don’t need God’s help. But we do. We always do, but in a crisis it’s more obvious. God can solve this puzzle, Sylvie.”

  “I know He can. But will He? And when? Being locked away affects a person. My father was changed unalterably by it. I know Rose isn’t in a Civil War prison camp or an asylum, but she’s trapped and can’t see the way out. It’s a trauma layered on top of the trauma of losing her parents, of wanting to connect with her biological family and not being able to find them. By the time God orchestrates her rescue, as you put it, what invisible wounds will she have suffered?” She shook her head. “I don’t doubt God’s ability. But sometimes I struggle to trust His timing.”

  As she leaned back against the bench, Kristof slipped his arm around her shoulders. His warmth radiated into her as they sat side by side, her skirt brushing his trousers.

  “Waiting is such hard work,” he said. “But remember, just because we are still doesn’t mean that God is. We can rely on Him.”

  Be still, and know that I am God. The verse scrolled through Sylvie’s mind.

  Kristof’s fingers cupped her shoulder, pressing her more firmly into his side. Quiet surrounded them, punctuated by the occasional passing carriage. Dew thickened in the night air, chilling her skin, and she rubbed her arms. Her eyelids and limbs grew weighted with fatigue of body, mind, and spirit.

  “Rest your eyes,” Kristof urged. “I’ll keep watch.” Before she realized he’d taken off his jacket, he draped it around her, enveloping her with his warmth, his scent.

  What a strange and welcome sensation, to be cared for.

  Drowsiness filled every inch of her. A sigh brushing past her lips, she took off her hat so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “Do you mind?” she murmured. “My leaning on you, I mean.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.” He kissed her temple, his arm gathering her close.

  The last thing she remembered was the rumble of his voice as he prayed, beseeching the Almighty for help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 1893

  Whiskers tickled Sylvie’s nose and cheek, stirring her to wakefulness. Tiny Tim pushed his head beneath her hand, meowing insistently.

  “All right.” Wincing at her corset’s pi
nch, she pushed herself up on the bed and oriented herself, trying to remember why she’d slept in her clothes last night. Her hairpins were placed neatly on the table, between the photograph of her father and her mother’s copy of Little Women. She expected to see her boots splayed on the rug by the bed, but instead they stood upright against the wall beside her bureau. She was still wearing Kristof’s jacket.

  Ah. No wonder she’d dreamed she was in his arms. She’d fallen asleep nestled into his side. The police had come later, as promised, had checked inside and outside the hotel, and reported nothing unusual, which was discouraging but not surprising. She’d fallen asleep again during the cab ride home. Kristof had roused her enough for her to climb the stairs, unlock the apartment door, and make it to her room before collapsing into bed.

  She considered the pins on the table, the boots against the wall. Even her hat was on the bureau. He’d been here, in her bedroom. He’d pulled the shoes from her feet, and the pins from her hair. A flush of heat climbed up her throat at the thought of such intimate acts, his fingers searching through her hair, pulling out each pin so it wouldn’t bother her while she slept. And performing the task so gently that she couldn’t recall it now.

  She almost wished she could.

  “Balderdash.” She banished the sentiment, removed his jacket, and fed the cat, who was now noisily protesting her delay.

  She’d slept too long and too deeply. And felt more rested than she had in quite some time, despite sore ribs from sleeping in her corset. She needed to be in the bookstore in half an hour.

  Twenty minutes sufficed for her to wash, dress, and repair her hair before breaking her fast on a thick slice of bread slathered with butter and strawberry preserves. Sun poured through the parlor window, bringing with it the sounds of a city in motion. A train whistled in the distance, sending alarm through Sylvie.