Secret of the White Rose

by Stefanie Pintoff

  “Do you know what he did for a living?” I asked the patrolman.

  “The missus said he’s a teacher at Barnard College.”

  I nodded. It was a reminder that Mrs. Johnson had answers I needed.

  “Stay here until the coroner’s men arrive, and don’t touch anything,” I directed the rookie as I left.

  “You don’t want me to clean anything?” Will asked, obviously wanting something to do other than stand guard over this gunshot victim.

  “Not now,” I said. “You may want to open the other window, though. Sometimes the fresh air helps with the stench.”

  No doubt unhappy to be left alone, he complied—and I propped the door open as I made my way to the front parlor and Mrs. Johnson.

  * * *

  The front parlor was also sparsely furnished, but the sofa and chairs in the room were of a higher quality than the furniture I’d seen in Mr. Hartt’s study. Mrs. Johnson sat in darkness on a paisley sofa by the bay window that overlooked 103rd Street. It was not yet dawn, so the room’s faint illumination was provided by the street lamp just outside the window. At least her grandson was now asleep—stretched out beside her, head in her lap, as she stroked his hair gently.

  I entered the room and sat in the gold-stuffed chair opposite her. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I just can’t understand it,” she said. “Roddy’s birthday is next Thursday. He turns three. And what he wanted for his birthday was for my son-in-law to take him to see Barnum and Bailey’s new elephant.” She stifled a sob. “What kind of father would do this right before his son’s birthday?” Then, a moment later, she whispered, “What kind of man would do this at all?”

  Everyone suffered pain or desperation at times. But I didn’t understand this: not the way he’d done it, not with his family at home upstairs.

  “You mentioned earlier that your daughter has other children, asleep upstairs?” I took out a small notebook. I needed the details correct for my report.

  “Ella, her oldest, is six,” she said. “And Luke is not yet a year.”

  I nodded. “And how long has she been married?”

  “Seven years. He was older than my daughter by a good deal, and thus was very anxious to start a family.”

  “He was a professor—an historian, I understand.”

  She gave me an awkward glance. “You may as well hear it from me; he was her professor. She met him while still a student, though he didn’t begin courting her until her final semester.”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Johnson, but it’s my job to ask difficult questions. Was your daughter happy in her marriage?”

  “Happy enough. And so was he—or so I thought.”

  “Any recent disagreements?”

  “No.” Her voice was firm.

  “Trouble with money?”

  Again, she said, “No.”

  “Had he been upset in recent weeks?”

  At this question, she paused before shaking her head. It was a moment’s hesitation only, but it led me to ask her one follow-up question. “Did you notice him behaving differently in any way?”

  “It was just—” She stopped, biting her lip before continuing. “He was more forgetful and distracted in recent weeks. I’m sure it was nothing, but my daughter didn’t usually have to remind him of things.”

  “Things?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Simple arrangements that are part of our weekly routine, like how I come every Thursday night for dinner or that Ella takes a piano lesson Tuesdays after school.”

  “But you know of no reason for this change?”

  Shivering, she pulled the blanket that covered her grandson to the left, so that a portion of it reached her legs, as well. “I can’t understand it,” she said once again. “He has three small children. What’s to become of them?” Her eyes welled up with tears.

  Wordlessly, I passed her a clean handkerchief from my pocket and sat with her while she cried. I hated these cases, for there was never a good answer to the question “why?” And there were never words to help the family left behind.

  “Your daughter must have household help?” I asked.

  “Just a woman who comes in three days a week to help with the laundry and cleaning,” she replied. “My son-in-law was both frugal and private. He never wanted live-in help—not even after my Elizabeth had their third child.”

  “There was plenty of room,” I began to say.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “So no one except your daughter and grandchildren would have heard the gunshot.” I paused. “I need to ask her about that—as well as the gun itself.”

  She was aghast. “Not tonight, surely? Not after the ordeal she’s been through.”

  I considered for a moment. Was my impatience to process this case affecting my judgment?

  I decided it was not. I would be kind, but I had real questions for the widow that I needed answered. “I promise to be brief.”

  An infant’s cry rose from somewhere upstairs—faint at first but quickly gaining volume.

  “Excuse me,” she said, rising with a start but first grabbing a sofa pillow to cushion her grandson’s head.

  “Of course,” I said, getting up as well.

  She had not been upstairs for five minutes before I heard the rumble of the coroner’s wagon as it turned the corner and stopped in front of the town home. Soon, two burly men were at the door, accompanied by a third man who carried their supplies.

  “You have what you need? We can move him?” A gray-bearded man I’d come to recognize asked permission before entering.

  “Of course,” I said. “He’s right back here.”

  I led them to the back parlor. Mulvaney had been right: this seemed a cut-and-dried case. I needed only a few words with Mrs. Hartt and the doctor’s formal autopsy to classify the death a suicide; then I’d write up my notes and close the case file. Mrs. Hartt had my deepest sympathy, of course. But there was nothing I could do to help here, whereas I was desperately needed in the manhunt downtown.

  The moment Mrs. Johnson returned downstairs, I asked her to come formally identify her son-in-law.

  She took a step back. “There can’t be any doubt.”

  “It’s a formality,” I said, “but one that either you or your daughter must go through. I’d rather spare her the ordeal.”

  With that, she agreed. For their part, the coroner’s men made the process brief; they had already removed the bloodstained pillowcase and covered Mr. Hartt with a thick white sheet. When Mrs. Johnson approached on unsteady legs, the older assistant took her arm.

  “This will be quick,” he said to reassure her.

  And it was. The other two men lifted a corner of the sheet to expose the victim’s face—lowering it the moment Mrs. Johnson nodded.

  “It’s him,” she managed to say.

  The moment she confirmed it, they escorted her out of the room—and swept Mr. Hartt’s body onto their waiting gurney, re-covering him with a clean, white sheet. Within moments, they had him outside the house in their wagon.

  The rookie’s eagerness to leave mirrored my own. “We’re done now, right?” he asked the moment we heard the wagon depart.

  “Almost,” I said. Passing my notebook to Will, I added, “While I speak with Mrs. Hartt, would you write up a simple statement of your part in tonight’s events?”

  He gave me a blank stare.

  “Just a few sentences about what happened, as you experienced it,” I said in exasperation.

  Then I turned once more to Mrs. Johnson. “Would you like help getting your grandson upstairs?” I offered, gesturing toward the boy who still slept in the front parlor.

  She hesitated a moment as though she weren’t quite sure, but then finally declined. She picked up the boy, supporting his head as she cradled him.

  “And I’m almost finished here, if you’d please ask your daughter to come down.”

  But another voice answered, husky with grief. “There’s no need to
ask me.”

  Elizabeth Hartt, a petite blonde in her late twenties, entered the front parlor. “I just wanted to check on Roddy,” she said, reaching out her hand to stroke his head.

  “I’ll put him to bed, dear,” her mother said, before leaving us with a final, worried glance.

  “Please sit, Mrs. Hartt.” I gestured to the sofa.

  She took a seat wordlessly, grabbing the wool blanket that had covered her son and pulling it around her.

  “I’m very sorry,” I began—but then fell silent as her lip trembled and she struggled to retain control.

  “It makes no sense,” she said after a few minutes.

  “Of course not,” I said to reassure her. “I just have a few questions for you tonight.”

  I led her easily through a few, basic factual questions before asking what I most needed to know. “When you heard the gunshot,” I asked, “do you recall what time it was?”

  She gave me a blank stare before she shook her head. “I never heard anything. It must have happened when the baby was crying. That has to be why I missed it.” She thought for a moment. “It was only after I put him down and looked for my husband that…” She stopped, choking on the words.

  “I understand.” I let her compose herself again. “Just one more question; the rest can wait. I need to know if you found and moved your husband’s gun?”

  She gave me a puzzled stare. “What gun?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hartt. I mean the gun your husband used to end his life.”

  She flinched upon hearing the words, and I berated myself for not being more sensitive.

  “I’d—I’d … I’d never touch any gun,” she stammered, “much less the gun that killed my husband.”

  “Never mind. I made a wrong assumption.” I stood. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hartt. I’ll come back at a better time if I have further questions.”

  She appeared very small, sitting on the sofa.

  I left her with a brief nod and returned to the rear parlor.

  The rookie had simply missed seeing the gun; of that I was now sure. I should have searched the floor myself and not left the task to him. If I had, we’d be finished by now.

  No matter—I’d find the gun now. The only other important evidence I’d need to close the file would come from Dr. Jennings’s autopsy.

  * * *

  Back in Allan Hartt’s office, Will was ready to leave.

  “Just one last thing,” I muttered, crossing the room to the chair. I first knelt down, then submitted to necessity and dropped to all fours. I crawled left, then right—lifting the edges of the carpet.

  I frowned. There was no gun in sight.

  “Did you move anything?” I asked Will, looking around the room.

  “Nothing important,” he responded with a shrug.

  “What did you move?” I asked, immediately suspicious.

  “I was waiting here a long time, so I neatened some books. But don’t worry, they weren’t near his body. And I threw out the flower, ’cause it was all stained with blood. I didn’t think Mrs. Hartt would want it anymore.”

  No gun in sight. He’d thrown out a flower covered in blood.

  I didn’t like the prickling sensation that started at the nape of my neck, then continued down the length of my spine. “What sort of flower?”

  “I dunno,” he replied, flustered. “Like I said, it was covered in blood.”

  “Where is it?” I got up. My eyes darted left and right, looking for the wastebasket.

  “There,” he said, pointing. “Over by the desk.”

  I ran to the small waste can that was tucked under the table. Forcing a deep breath, I pulled it out—and shivered.

  At the bottom of the can was a single flower: a solitary, bloodstained white rose.

  I held it up with my left hand.

  My voice shook when I asked him, “The books you straightened. Was one of them a black Bible?”

  He nodded, now too scared to talk.

  “Show me where.”

  Again, he said nothing but crossed over to the bookcase and pulled out a leather-bound Bible. Just like the others.

  I stared at both the rose and the Bible for what felt like a long time but was probably just seconds.

  “Sir,” he finally said, “I’m sorry I put those things away. Is something wrong?”

  Everything was wrong. The white rose. The Bible. And this dead man who, at least on the surface, appeared to have no connection whatsoever to the murdered judges, the anarchists, or the Drayson case.

  Just when I was convinced that someone within the anarchist organization was responsible for the murders of Judges Jackson and Porter, the white rose and Bible—here at a history professor’s brownstone—confused everything. How was Allan Hartt connected to the turbulent events that unsettled this city?

  It seemed impossible that he was—and yet the bloodstained rose that I held in my fingers suggested otherwise.

  I gave the rookie a sober look. “Will, I need you to return to your station house and get an urgent message to Captain Declan Mulvaney. I need two additional men here immediately with camera and fingerprinting equipment.”

  He stared at me, bewildered, but didn’t move.

  “This wasn’t suicide,” I said in exasperation. “Which means this room is a crime scene that requires a thorough investigation. Captain Mulvaney needs to get that message, now!”

  Will’s eyes widened, but he turned and scampered out the door.

  And I was left alone with the rose and the Bible, the blood of Allan Hartt, and a case that made less sense than ever.

  PART

  THREE

  Friday,

  October 26, 1906

  CHAPTER 21

  Barnard College, 116th Street and Broadway. 8 A.M.

  Later that morning, I searched Professor Hartt’s Barnard office under the watchful gaze of Dean Laura Drake Gill. A determined woman with a round youthful face, she looked much younger than her forty-something years.

  “You realize this is highly unprecedented,” she said with a stern frown. “We don’t normally permit searches of our professors’ offices.”

  Isabella, who had accompanied me, immediately addressed her concern. “And we’re fortunate that you understand the urgency of the situation, in light of Professor Hartt’s murder.”

  It had been a stroke of genius to invite Isabella to meet me here this morning. Not only had she smoothed things over with Dean Gill—even deflecting questions about the colorful bruises on my face—but she had been able to elicit the basic facts of Hartt’s tenure at the women’s college. Mulvaney had given me only until noon to produce some evidence linking Allan Hartt’s murder to that of Hugo Jackson, Angus Porter, or both.

  “I can’t spare you, Ziele,” Mulvaney had said with a sigh. “Besides, no one’s going to believe that the Hartt murder is related, since there’s no anarchist connection. Not after the attack on you outside the workers’ union meeting the other night. Not after the bombing at the Tombs. And especially not with Drayson himself on the loose. No one wants to hear about roses and Bibles.”

  But my arguments had eventually prevailed over Mulvaney’s concerns. “If you can find solid evidence for the commissioner—more than a flower, mind you—it wouldn’t be a bad thing for either of our careers,” he had grudgingly said. “Especially if it points to an even larger conspiracy.”

  The commissioner would certainly relish being the person responsible for taking down a large-scale anarchist conspiracy—if that was what this truly was. I had my doubts. Isabella and I had interviewed a number of Professor Hartt’s colleagues. And nothing they said about the mild-mannered professor would indicate that he had any connection to the Drayson trial or to Judges Jackson and Porter. But I couldn’t ignore the fact that the rose and the Bible indicated a link among these three men.

  My thoughts turning to Jonathan, I wondered: Were most anarchists able to separate their personal lives from their political goals? For Jonat
han, there was no separation. I had grave concerns that given the opportunity, he would murder the men directly responsible for the Slocum disaster—either Captain Van Schaick or one of the Knickerbocker Company owners—mingling his personal anger with political resolve.

  Perhaps that was the sort of person we were searching for. I thought of the Swede, whom we had met in the elevator at the Breslin—as well as the other suspects who may have played a role. Strupp, Hlad, China Rose, the mystery woman at the gun shop, or Drayson himself—any one of them might harbor a personal motive, as yet unknown, that was hiding beneath the political fervor of their anarchist ideals. In fact, the more I thought of this angle, the more confident I became that I was on to something. The official focus on Drayson and his anarchist cronies was the perfect cover for a deep-seated personal motive. A personal motive that involved someone named Leroy Sanders.

  I turned my attention back to Allan Hartt’s office, which was almost as austere as his home. There were no pictures on the walls or the bookshelves; no personal letters or notes on the desk, not even a carpet on the wooden floor. Other than some academic treatises, only a stack of student essays could be found on the bookshelves. And Dean Gill had already assured us that Professor Hartt was a well-respected member of the faculty, with no complaints against him.

  I sat down at the desk and opened the top drawer.

  “When did Professor Hartt join your faculty?” I asked Dean Gill.

  Her eyebrows knitted together as she calculated the years. “He joined us in 1885, when he was a newly minted Ph.D. from Columbia.”

  “I assume his specialty was European history,” I said, having noted the contents of the bookshelves.

  She nodded. “Must you really examine the contents of every drawer?”

  I made a polite answer, but in reality I was grasping at straws. And while I didn’t expect any answers from the spare contents of the professor’s desk—amounting to pencils, paper, clips, and other small items—I couldn’t cut corners.

  “He must have kept a calendar,” I finally said, pushing back the chair in frustration.