Secret of the White Rose

by Stefanie Pintoff

  I continued to look for signs of blackmail. Alistair had said the requests usually came in five-hundred-dollar increments, sometimes as much as two thousand. I saw nothing so large, but a series of entries—each for one hundred dollars—made my breath catch in my throat.

  They were donated at regular intervals, and the most recent was from last week. The donor listed: the White Rose Mission.

  “I counted. It’s all there.” China Rose still regarded me suspiciously. “I guess you tell the truth. Take the book—but please don’t come down here again.” For the first time I noticed the look of fear on her face.

  She watched as I scrambled up the ladder and joined the crowds on the sidewalk, the ledger once again jammed under my coat sleeve.

  Who—and what—is the White Rose Mission?

  I hurried toward Canal Street, where I knew I’d find a public telephone pay station. I’d get the attendant to check the directory and find out where this organization was. Then I would telephone Isabella.

  I had almost reached Canal Street when I caught a glimpse of a tall but slight man with dark blond hair, wearing a black eye patch.

  Paul Hlad.

  I’d been right not to risk waiting till dark: Paul was planning to run, and he wanted his money.

  Would he come after me and his missing ledger?

  It didn’t matter now. I ducked into an alleyway behind a row of garbage containers, waiting until he passed by.

  I counted to thirty, slowly. Then I ran back onto the street and continued, refusing to stop until I’d reached the Canal Street telephone station. There, I flashed my badge and cut the line, giving my instructions to the surprised matron in charge.

  “Please connect me to the White Rose Mission. Immediately.”

  CHAPTER 29

  White Rose Mission, 217 East Eighty-sixth Street. 1 P.M.

  A cold, cutting rain had begun to fall by the time I reached the White Rose Mission on East Eighty-sixth Street and read the brass plate on the black-painted door.

  MRS. VICTORIA EARLE MATTHEWS. FOUNDER.

  I had just rapped the knocker when a hansom cab pulled in front of the building. A figure emerged under a large black umbrella, paid the driver, and then dashed up the stairs to join me. Isabella. I had called her the moment I’d finished speaking with the lady from the White Rose Mission.

  “I can’t believe you got here first, coming all the way from Canal Street,” Isabella said in a rush. “I only had to cross Central Park, but it was impossible finding a cab in the rain.”

  “Mrs. Matthews is expecting you,” said the young woman who swung open the door. “She’s in her office; I’ll show you the way.”

  “Thank you,” I said, passing her our coats and umbrellas.

  After she put them away, she led us down a bare but clean hallway covered by a solid green rug. The walls were lined with hooks upon which hung girls’ coats, and we passed by a library where at least a dozen young African ladies sat reading in front of a roaring fireplace. Over the telephone, Mrs. Matthews—the founder and superintendent of the mission—had described it as a cross between a home and a school. Now I could better see why: it was more comfortable than an institution, and yet obviously a large number of young women called it home.

  We were led into a large office at the back of the hall, where daylight streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows and multiple bookcases were filled with leather-bound volumes. A handsome woman, tastefully dressed in a cream and peach silk dress, looked up from her mahogany desk when we entered.

  “Detective Ziele. Mrs. Sinclair.” Mrs. Victoria Earle Matthews rose to greet us. “You made it here quickly. Do sit.” She indicated the two leather-cushioned chairs across from her desk. Her face, lined with worry, was kind as she regarded us.

  “You wished to see me because you have concerns about our finances?” She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses back into place from where they had fallen down her nose.

  “We do. As I mentioned earlier, your organization appears repeatedly among the list of donors to a major anarchist group in the city. In fact, you’re recently listed as having given hundreds of dollars. But you say you know nothing of this?”

  She met my gaze with a forthright expression. “Absolutely not. I personally oversee the finances of the White Rose Mission. And I assure you, not a penny of our funds has gone to anarchist organizations.”

  “Then perhaps you can help us figure out why someone listed you as having made these donations,” Isabella said. “Perhaps one of your employees made donations in the mission’s name?”

  Mrs. Matthews rested her chin on her hand, thinking. “It’s possible,” she finally said, adding, “How much do you know about the work we do here?”

  “Very little,” I said. “I’d never heard of your organization until its name appeared on the donation list I just mentioned.”

  Mrs. Matthews nodded. “I thought not. There are a number of homes like mine for new immigrant girls, Detective Ziele. I’m sure you’re familiar with some of them.”

  “Some, yes.” There were a number of charitable organizations devoted to helping young women new to the city—some geared to the Irish, others to the German—not to mention those connected with churches of every denomination. Their goal was simple: to help these women obtain gainful employment and protect them from unscrupulous men who would take advantage of them and ensnare them in disreputable employment.

  “I took them as my model—but my primary concern has always been for those girls of my race who are already here. Many are born into poverty and come to this great city seeking a better life. Should they have no protection? No education? No guidance or training to help them learn to support themselves in respectable positions? I decided they should—and that’s what I offer.”

  “The girls live here—or just train here?” Isabella asked.

  “Both,” Mrs. Matthews said with pride. “We are a school, essentially. We offer classes in sewing and dressmaking, cooking and nutrition, hygiene and other skills. I also make sure the girls learn to read—and read good material. There is no better education than from books. And I personally teach a class in race literature because I want them to be proud of who they are.”

  In later years, I would hear Mrs. Matthews described as “a great reader and thinker, one of the best-read women in the country,” and I would remember this very conversation. But even now, she impressed me as a woman of great energy and intellect. And I believed her when she insisted she had not made donations to the anarchists in the mission’s name.

  “How many girls are here at any given time?” I asked.

  “As many as fifty. We moved here from our original, smaller building on Ninety-seventh Street so we could help even more girls.”

  I wanted to understand more. “So they live here and take classes; then what?”

  “We help them find suitable employment—but only after their education is complete. There is no greater advantage I can give them. What they learn here can never be taken from them.”

  “But none of them have shown anarchist leanings, to your knowledge?”

  Mrs. Matthews’s reply was firm. “No. Why would they? As I understand it, anarchy is born of discontent. But my girls here are comfortable and happy.”

  Of course, I was curious about the origins of the name of the mission. The fact that a single white rose had been left next to the three murder victims I was investigating could not be a coincidence. But Isabella beat me to the punch.

  “Why did you decide to name your mission after the white rose?” Isabella asked.

  Mrs. Matthews explained. “The white rose is a symbol of purity and innocence. The goal of the mission is to preserve these characteristics in my girls for as long as possible. The young ladies that come through the White Rose Mission are lucky. They are spared the real world for a period of time. Yet it is inevitable that they will eventually face the vices and dangers of being a young African woman in this city.”

  “And you’ve be
en helping girls for how long?” I asked.

  “Since 1897.”

  My hopes fell. If she had been educating classes of girls for almost ten years, then many students had passed through here. Too many.

  I tried anyway. “I’m wondering if you remember one girl—a girl who may have turned to the anarchist cause after leaving you. She had taken up with a Swedish man, though of course she may not have known him at the time she was with you. If, that is, she was ever with you.” My question sounded desperate even to my own ears.

  It was an assumption to associate the “exotic-looking woman” who accompanied the Swede with the White Rose Mission and I knew it. But she was a known anarchist, and who better to fake a donation from the mission? And to make use of a white rose at three different murder scenes?

  Mrs. Matthews shook her head. “I don’t permit my girls to have gentlemen callers while they’re with me. It’s a distraction they shouldn’t have until they are better settled. So if the girl of whom you speak was one of mine, she did not take up with this man until later.”

  “Then I suppose we’ve no choice: we must focus on your list of students,” I said, exchanging a demoralized glance with Isabella. “We can search the names against our list of known anarchists.”

  “Very well. I keep all my records over here.” Mrs. Matthews gestured to four large file cabinets in the back of the room. “I’ll ask my assistant to help me, but nevertheless it will take time to compile a list.”

  I knew she was right; the sheer number of files would take a large commitment of time to examine—time we didn’t have, given the commissioner’s rush to judgment.

  Mrs. Matthews began pulling files from the cabinet closest to her, carrying them over to her desk. “I should be able to compile a list for you by tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. We’ll return at eight o’clock,” I said, standing.

  * * *

  I had no difficulty hailing a hansom cab heading west on Eighty-sixth Street. Soon Isabella and I were traveling south on Fifth Avenue heading toward the precinct station.

  “What’s next?” she asked.

  “To be honest, I’m out of ideas,” I said, rubbing my brow. “I suppose we can check whether there’s an anarchist behind bars who has information about the White Rose Mission. The offer of a reduced sentence may entice someone to talk.” I sighed. “But with the commissioner and other top brass believing the case is wrapped up now…”

  “You’re unlikely to get their cooperation,” Isabella said, finishing for me.

  We rode in silence for several blocks.

  “Is it possible they’re right?” she finally asked. “Maybe it was the Swede. Maybe the person we’re looking for died this morning at Mulberry Street headquarters.”

  “Perhaps. But if so, I’d like to know for sure.”

  The driver reined in his horse, narrowly avoiding a motorcar ahead of us that was swerving back and forth. As we slowed to a stop, passing a row of limestone town houses, I watched as a service door opened and a maid in starched black and white exited the building.

  I bolted straight up and turned to Isabella. “Where do you think the White Rose Mission places most girls?”

  She made a frown. “The more educated ones may get work in a hospital or school, even as a ladies’ companion.”

  “What about in service?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  I leaned forward and called out to the driver. “Turn around! We’ve got to get back to Eighty-sixth street.”

  “What is it, Simon?” Isabella turned. “Why are we going back?”

  We were going back because I now knew where Mrs. Matthews should begin her search. Because of the donation list, I’d been preoccupied with finding an anarchist connection—and so I hadn’t asked the right questions.

  “I have an idea.…” I said, my excitement building. “What if the White Rose Mission placed a girl in service inside one of our victim’s homes? This may be the break that we’ve been waiting for.”

  “Like a maid or a ladies’ companion?” She raised her eyebrows. “But I thought we were looking for a man.”

  “I thought so, too. But it would make sense if it were a maid,” I said, continuing. “Who else could have known so much about these men? Someone inside their home would have had unfettered access to everything about them: their current habits, their papers, their telephone conversations, even their personal history.”

  “Someone inside the home…” Isabella said, giving me a thoughtful look.

  We were back at the mission house on East Eighty-sixth Street within moments, brushing past the young maid who answered the door again, making our way back to Mrs. Matthews’s office.

  She sat at her desk, surrounded by files; when she noticed us, she looked up in surprise. “Detective, you forgot something?”

  I leaned both hands on her desk “Do many of your girls go into service after leaving you?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Can you check your files quickly? I have four names, and I’m wondering whether you ever placed a maid at one of their homes.”

  “Yes,” she said, taking out a pencil, “if you have specific names, I can check my employer files.”

  Isabella cleared her throat. “Try Judge Hugo Jackson first.”

  I turned to stare at her. “Why?”

  “Just check, quickly. It may be nothing.” Her mouth settled in a tight line.

  A chill went down my spine. “What may be nothing?”

  “Here’s the file for the Jackson household,” Mrs. Matthews said, returning to us with a small stack of papers. She handed me her top file, saying, “Nettie Harris worked for Judge Jackson from 1897 until 1901, when she married a Samuel Taylor and moved to a farm in Albany.”

  “Who else?” Isabella asked, her face turning pale.

  “The next one is Sarah Barnes. She has been with them for eight years, I believe, having risen from housemaid duties to cooking.” Mrs. Matthews laid that folder on her desk, as well.

  I scanned her file. She was indeed still with Mrs. Jackson and had doubtless been interviewed last week. But the picture in the file showed a chubby girl with plain features. I didn’t want to rule her out entirely, but she didn’t resemble the description of the woman with Lars Halver.

  Mrs. Matthews then displayed the next file. “This is Mary Flanders. She joined the Jackson household in 1901.”

  She showed us the file, and I recognized the maid I met the night of the judge’s murder. The same woman I had seen again at Beau’s.

  “The name is wrong,” I managed to say. “She goes by Marie. And I hadn’t placed her as African, exactly.”

  “If you look in her file,” Mrs. Matthews said, “you’ll see she’s of mixed race. It’s not uncommon, especially in our girls from the South. Slavery left its mark in more ways than one.” She pressed her lips tightly together. “It’s a shame, but girls like her are often easier to place. Like me, they can pass, quite often, for European. Especially southern European. It’s not always to their advantage—”

  She was exotic-looking, the man at Funke’s—and the Greens at the print shop—had said. In my mind’s eye, I’d remembered her only in formal housemaid dress—and I’d not seen it.

  “Simon!” Isabella grabbed my arm in a viselike grip. She looked like a ghost, as though she’d taken suddenly ill. “Marie may know Alistair’s whereabouts. You see, I’d told Mrs. Mellown that Alistair was at the Waldorf so she wouldn’t worry. But she was indiscreet: this morning, I overheard her sharing that information with someone from the Jackson residence. Someone who wanted to send Alistair more of the judge’s private papers. She swallowed hard. “I said nothing because I didn’t think any harm had been done…”

  “In telling her to send it to Alistair at the Waldorf,” I finished for her.

  She nodded, now at a loss for words.

  In that instant, I realized we had no time to waste. “We’ve got to go,” I said, choking on the words a
s I whisked Isabella out the door.

  “Thank you for your help,” I called back to Mrs. Matthews, who remained behind—bewildered but aware that something important had just happened.

  Just outside, I was able to hail another hansom cab.

  “To the Waldorf-Astoria,” I said, “as fast as you can.”

  The driver cracked his whip high above the horse’s head. Isabella sat beside me, stiff—her fingers locking together, then unlocking in her lap.

  For her sake—as well as Alistair’s own—I prayed that we were not too late.

  CHAPTER 30

  The Waldorf-Astoria, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fifth Street entrance. 3 P.M.

  We scrambled out of the cab and into the lobby of the Astoria building, heading straight for the elevator past a number of astonished bellhops, concierges, and hotel guests.

  “Sir, really!” one of them protested when we raced past the elegant Palm Court dining room in our haste.

  I didn’t bother to apologize but kept moving as quickly as Isabella could manage. I was out of breath by the time we squeezed ourselves into the cramped elevator beside two ladies with voluminous dresses. “Sixteenth floor. It’s an emergency.”

  The two ladies openly gawked and the elevator attendant said nothing in response, but he flipped the elevator into gear and sent us to the top of the building first.

  I didn’t wait for Isabella the moment the elevator doors opened. I ran down the hallway on thick carpet that muffled the sound of my feet, reached number 1621, and gave a sharp knock at the door.

  “Alistair! Open up!”

  I pressed my ear to the door and heard muffled sounds.

  “Alistair!”

  I thought I heard something that resembled a moan. Leaning my shoulder into the door, I gave it a shove.