Secret of the White Rose

by Stefanie Pintoff

  I kept an eye out for Mei Lin as I talked with Isabella, explaining my concerns about the case, including the central dilemma I now faced: how best to handle General Bingham’s impossible demand that I investigate Hannah’s brother by bringing pressure to bear on the entire Strupp family.

  “I’d not met the General before this morning,” I explained. “He’s got a reputation for being too blunt and never listening to anybody. But I hadn’t taken those complaints seriously; men in the field all think their superiors know less than they do.” I made a wry face.

  “And now you agree with them: you don’t trust the commissioner.”

  “His approach is completely wrong,” I said, reaching for the teapot to refill both our cups. “The General is a military man who thinks he can bulldoze his way through all problems to a quick conclusion. But people—especially those caught up in an investigation—don’t respond well to orders or brute force. It’s better when you can persuade them to think as you do.”

  Isabella was honest, as usual. “The commissioner’s approach is one thing; your own is another. That leads me to wonder: Is your real objection here to the commissioner?” she asked between slow sips of tea. “Or—are you simply looking for excuses to avoid the Strupp family?”

  “Both,” I admitted. “The General’s methods may tip off our best suspects—and if they go to ground, then our investigation is doomed. But you’re right: I’ve no desire to see any of the Strupps—especially not to discuss Jonathan’s anarchist involvement.” I paused a moment. “Not that there’s any particular reason to avoid them. It’s simply a connection, now closed, that I prefer not to reopen.”

  Isabella waited, silent, until I continued.

  “I don’t believe Jonathan had anything to do with the judge’s death. Whatever position of leadership he now holds, he cannot have been an anarchist for long. It’s been just over two years since I last saw him. And if I’m correct, the person involved in Judge Jackson’s murder has harbored a grudge for a very long time.”

  “Two years can be a long time.” She gave me a pointed glance before she refilled her cup of Long Suey tea. “Long enough for people to change. Were you close with Jonathan before?”

  “No. He was a timid, reserved boy when I knew him, interested in books and science experiments, hoping for a college scholarship like I’d been given. That didn’t materialize, so he went to work for his father.”

  The dishes we had ordered arrived on steaming platters. We were silent as the food was served—and I noticed that Mei Lin was back. She greeted customers, served them drinks, and then managed the cash box for dinner receipts.

  “What about Mr. and Mrs. Strupp?” Isabella asked.

  I struggled with my chopsticks, which seemed ill-suited to my plate of lobster fried rice. “I got along well with them, certainly in the beginning. They approved of me when I was a student at Columbia, aspiring to be a lawyer. But they became concerned after I abandoned my studies and joined the police force.” I made a wry face. “Policemen, you see, earn a steady and reliable income but there’s a potential on-the-job risk to life and limb. And since most of my earnings went to support my mother and sister, they despaired, I think, of my ever being in a position to marry their daughter. I understood and didn’t blame them for it; they were simply looking out for Hannah’s best interests.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

  “It’s been since the weeks following Hannah’s funeral,” I admitted, struggling for words. “It was too difficult … and I only made it harder for them.” And I felt they blamed me for not saving her, I silently added.

  She considered for a moment.

  Finally she spoke. “I think you need to see them, Simon. Because it’s the right thing to do—not just because the commissioner has ordered it.” Her brown eyes looked full into my own. “The commissioner will send someone else to the Strupps, if you do not go. And his next choice is unlikely to be as sensitive to their concerns as you will be.” She took a deep breath. “It will be good for you, too.”

  She was right: it had to be done. But it was a task I’d have given a good deal to avoid.

  The evening had grown late, and now only a handful of diners remained at the Red Lantern. Charlie, our waiter, brought over our bill and a dessert of star fruit.

  “When the young lady is free, could you please ask her to come speak with us?” I handed him the three dollars that would cover our dinner.

  He raised his eyebrows but agreed.

  I glanced again at the remaining diners. Though under normal circumstances I would seek greater privacy for my conversation with Mei Lin, it appeared they did not speak English well enough to eavesdrop.

  Some moments later, Mei Lin joined us at our table, her brown eyes pools of suspicion.

  “Your dinner was fine?” She forced a smile.

  “It was. Xie xie. Mh goi. Thank you,” I said, mixing dialects again. I wanted to be polite, and I was unsure what Mei Lin preferred. “I’m hoping you may be able to help us with a different matter. I believe you are Guo Mei Lin—sometimes known as China Rose.”

  Her eyes widened, but she neither confirmed nor denied it.

  I went on to introduce Isabella and myself, explaining that we were investigating the murder of Judge Jackson.

  She responded with a blank stare. Had I not conversed easily with her just minutes before, I would have been concerned about our language difference.

  “We are searching for his killer, and we need your help,” I repeated, not unkindly.

  “You have wrong lady, Detective,” she finally said, her voice defiant. “I work here.” She gestured around the tired red-wallpapered room. “Long days, like my parents. I know nothing about dead judge.”

  “Maybe,” I replied carefully, “but you found time to attend the trial he most recently presided over—that of Alexander Drayson.”

  She scowled and was silent again.

  “How did you meet Al Drayson?”

  “I do no wrong. I don’t have to talk to you.” She shoved her chair back and stood; it seemed she was challenging me to stop her.

  I reached into my satchel and slowly drew out my copies of the letters she had written to Drayson and had attempted to hand-deliver at his trial. “The police know all about the letters you tried to send Al Drayson,” I said, keeping my tone friendly. “They’ve sent me to talk with you—but if you refuse, they will send others. They’re also likely to station a team of officers outside your restaurant to watch your every move—which no doubt is not ideal for business.”

  She blanched, gripping the back of the chair. “My parents know nothing about Drayson.”

  “I believe that’s true. Our interest is in you—and your connection to him.”

  She was silent, deep in thought.

  Isabella broke in with a charming smile. “We just need you to answer a few simple questions.”

  Mei Lin stared at Isabella for a full moment. She finally sat, but at the very edge of her chair.

  “When did you meet Al Drayson?” Isabella asked.

  “Last year,” Mei Lin answered reluctantly. “He eat in our restaurant. Invite me to meeting.”

  “There aren’t many anarchist meetings in Chinatown,” I observed mildly.

  Her voice was flat as she agreed. “My people too busy. Everyone here,” she said, gesturing to the restaurant and beyond, “we all work hard, long days in restaurants and laundries. And for what? Even other immigrants hate us. They say we all make nothing because the Chinese work for nothing. But we have no choice. We need work to survive.” She was speaking rapidly now, with bitterness.

  She pulled out her cigarette case. “Got a lucifer?”

  I shook my head, but Charlie—who had been observing our conversation from the other side of the room—came forward with a box of matches. He immediately retreated, but his point was made: he was watching over Mei Lin.

  She took a long draw, savored it, then spoke again. “Your government
give us permit we have to carry. They pass laws to keep us out—mainly women. Only Chinese men, no women here. Because of Exclusion Act. It’s no wonder the men look elsewhere. My own brother has Irish wife and red-haired son.”

  She grinned, showing her heavily stained teeth yet again.

  “Is that why you joined the anarchists?” Isabella asked. “To make things better for the Chinese people?”

  Mei Lin nodded vigorously. “Yes. Just like Italians and Russians and Germans. They work hard to make things better for their people, too.”

  “Then your relationship with Al Drayson became more personal. He trusted you,” Isabella said gently. “We’re told you tried to pass him notes during the trial. Love letters, I believe.”

  At this, she laughed—with more volume than I would have expected from a woman of her diminutive size. “That’s what you supposed to think. Drayson would be proud.”

  “What else should we think?” I demanded.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t write those messages. Only deliver them.”

  Now she had my full attention.

  “Who gave them to you?” Isabella asked.

  “I never knew. They come inside boxes of mooncakes, deliver here, to the restaurant. What I receive at night, I take to court next morning—or try to.”

  “Who gave you instructions?” I asked. Obviously if Mei Lin was telling the truth, then she was merely a delivery girl; the real person of interest was the anarchist instructing her.

  “Mr. Strupp,” she said simply.

  Jonathan. Hannah’s brother.

  “And what did he tell you?”

  She shrugged. “Only what I tell you. That when letter arrives with mooncakes, to deliver to court next day.”

  So was Jonathan the person of interest I sought? Or merely another player in a larger conspiracy? Either way, I now had no choice in the matter: I would need to visit the Strupps tonight.

  Isabella had been temporarily distracted, reading the notes. Now she turned to me with a frown. “Did you look at them yet, Simon?”

  “Not closely,” I admitted.

  “All these hyphens,” she said. “The words make sense—sort of—but it’s odd how the words are put together. See.”

  She passed me the letter and I read:

  “Alas my great-love unless-we-meet-soon and rekindle-passion’s-flame die close-to-you I guess-my-fate.”

  “Did you understand what you delivered?” I asked Mei Lin.

  “I understand what I need to,” she replied with an enigmatic smile.

  It was an answer that conveyed nothing. I continued to prod her, reminding her that only her full cooperation would satisfy me. “Otherwise, they’ll send someone else.”

  Her nostrils flared with anger, but she finally answered. “It’s a code. That’s all I know.”

  Isabella’s brow furrowed. “Let me see that again. I’ve always been good with word puzzles.” She took the paper from me and began working, pencil in hand.

  “Do you know what any of them said?” I asked Mei Lin.

  She shook her head—but almost immediately, Isabella looked up with a satisfied smile.

  “I’ve got it. It’s the most basic of ciphers. Do you have a new sheet of paper?”

  I obliged her, pulling my notebook from the back pocket of my leather satchel.

  “It’s known as a null cipher,” she said, “because the coded letters aren’t obvious—they’re disguised by the hyphens. But look: they’re just trying to tell Drayson they’ve smuggled him cigarettes.”

  I stared again at the text. “So what’s the code?”

  “The first letter of each word,” Isabella replied. “Then the message changes from a half-literate’s love ramblings to something else. See?”

  We looked again, and my mind’s eye transformed the lettering:

  “Alas my greatlove, unless-we-meet-soon and rekindle-passion’s-flame die close-to-you I guess-my-fate.”

  Isabella wrote it down, then turned her paper around toward us with a satisfied smile.

  A.M. Guard Cig.

  “You tried to alert him that the next morning’s guard would offer a gift,” she said.

  Mei Lin nodded.

  “But why was that even necessary? He would have gotten the cigarettes, anyhow,” Isabella said, curious.

  A droll smile crossed Mei Lin’s face. “The messages were good preparation for the day we had an important message to send him. If the authorities saw these love letters as nothing special, you see…” She broke off, but we could finish her thought. The less important messages were paving the way for a real message to get through.

  Remembering my own altercation with Drayson, I added, “Also, I can’t imagine Al Drayson was a cooperative prisoner, especially if a guard approached for no good reason. The message would have smoothed their interaction.”

  Another thought nagged at me. “Why you, though?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Mei Lin said, her face deadpan. “I am just stupid Chinese girl who cannot write well. What can you expect, right?”

  Now I understood. “People would assume you were not educated. They wouldn’t question the hyphens. Still, Drayson never received your messages,” I said.

  She shrugged. “He was unlucky man.”

  “Yet you sympathize with him … approve of what he did?” I asked cautiously.

  A flash of anger crossed her face as she ground the remains of her cigarette into an empty saucer. “I don’t like violence. No one does.” She cocked her head back. “But people don’t listen. If they fear us, maybe they pay attention to us.”

  “Were you aware of a plot to kill Judge Jackson?” I asked.

  Her eyes were serious when they met my own. “I know no one planning to kill a judge. Why would they?”

  “It might create a mistrial that would free Drayson—or, at the least, prolong his life by delaying his date with the executioner.”

  “But he no longer matters. His work is done.”

  Now I was genuinely puzzled. “You think even if he lives, he can do no more? Isn’t he one of you—of use to your cause?”

  She shrugged. “No more than anyone else. Others take his place. He not so special.”

  “Perhaps others think differently,” I said, watching her reaction closely.

  But she was noncommittal. “They might. But why waste effort on just one man?”

  Someone shouted in Chinese from the kitchen.

  Mei Lin sighed. “I need go. Have I answered your questions, Detective?”

  “For now, yes,” I said, and thanked her for her time. “If you think of anything—or hear anything—please let me know.” I passed her my card with the Nineteenth Precinct telephone number, knowing she would never call.

  * * *

  “Do you believe her?” Isabella asked the moment we were out of earshot, even before the restaurant door closed behind us.

  “It’s hard to say.” I shepherded her through crowded sidewalks toward Canal Street, where we would have better success finding a hansom cab. “What she told us makes perfect sense—and yet I believe she is fully capable of spinning a good tale. To her credit, precisely because she seems smart, I believe she would not have told us about her cipher messages to Drayson had she truly been involved in the judge’s murder. And had she known about the musical cipher at the murder scene, she’d never have acknowledged writing any sort of cipher.”

  “Yet it’s a coincidence that may point to someone within the anarchist organization.”

  “Exactly. It’s a solid link between the anarchists and the judge: someone is behind this who is a code writer.”

  We continued north on Mott Street, stepping around garbage that had simply been dumped on the sidewalk. It felt more deserted than usual; with tonight’s damp chill in the air, the outdoor vending stands that typically lined the street were empty.

  “Would you mind if I took the cab with you only partway?” I asked.

  “You’d like to get your conversation with the St
rupps over with,” she said. “It’s fine, Simon. I understand.” She placed her leather-gloved hand on top of my arm for the briefest of moments.

  We hailed a passing cab, I helped her in, and she arranged her voluminous skirt onto the seat, making room for me beside her.

  “There’s a workers’ demonstration backing up traffic in the Bowery ahead,” the cab driver called back to us. “May take an extra few minutes.”

  After I assured him it was fine, he swung his horses to the east, toward the river, before cutting north on First Avenue. The neighborhood deteriorated over the next few blocks as the saloons and gambling dens of the Bowery gave way to block after block of abandoned buildings and street beggars—many of them mere boys of no more than eight or nine. The cab drew near Third Street and we were in what had been Little Germany—a place at once strange and oddly familiar.

  Isabella had been gazing out the window intently. Now, she turned to me and spoke as though she knew my thoughts. “This was your neighborhood, wasn’t it, Simon?”

  “It was,” I said stiffly. A lifetime ago.

  The neighborhood was a ghost town now, for most survivors had done as I had and left. Most had gone to the Upper East Side; others went to Astoria or the Bronx. The schools and shops I had known were now closed—and though new children and merchants had slowly arrived to take their places, the neighborhood neither looked nor felt the same.

  Every block was marked in my memory. We passed the building where Andrew Stiel had lived with his wife and four children; he took his own life after his family was killed aboard the Slocum. Fifth Street was where the Felzkes and the Hartungs had lived; the Slocum had wiped out those families, as well.

  Then I saw it: number 120 First Avenue. One of the more rundown tenements on the street, it was where I’d grown up—and a reminder of the vast divide that separated me from Isabella, a chasm of class and upbringing that seemed insurmountable. Her eyes seemed to widen as she took in the sight.

  My onetime home was a brown box of a building, the most basic of brick structures unmarked by any detail of note. This evening it was nearly obscured by the vast array of laundry that seemed to connect each window. Those inside had needed to do their wash, and all manner of shirts, trousers, and bedclothes remained strung on the wire lines, despite the damp.