by S. T. Joshi
“Mr. Scintilla, this is Marge Schaeffer,” Merriwether said. “She works in our department also.”
“Pleased to meetcha,” Marge said somewhat coldly, as if her annoyance with her colleague had transferred itself to its apparent source.
“Marge wrote that piece on the Greenway marriage, didn’t you, Marge?” Merriwether said, in a kind of desperate eagerness.
“Sure I did.” More gum chewing.
“So you’ve met Elena Cavalieri—Mrs. Greenway?” I asked.
“Sure.” This Schaeffer woman seemed to be about the most ill-bred society reporter I’d ever met. “A couple of times.”
“Do you mind answering some questions about her?”
“No, I suppose not.” At this point Merriwether almost pushed Marge into the chair he had been occupying, hovering behind her like a guardian angel.
“So Elena Cavalieri came from Italy?” I asked.
“Well, sure”—as if I were a fool. “God knows she had a pretty heavy Italian accent when I talked to her—that was about a week before the marriage. Said she was a second cousin of Harry Greenway, had come to stay with the family earlier that year—maybe in January—and they’d fallen in love. Her parents had died recently—that was why she’d come over from Italy, and that’s why no family was mentioned in that write-up. You know, we usually mention both the bride’s and the groom’s parents in our notices, but she didn’t want to talk about her parents—she was still pretty cut up about them. And that’s all I know.”
That was quite a bit. A lot to mull over. I had been frantically writing down what Marge had been saying—she made no allowance for my slowness in dictation—and was still writing several moments after she had finished. So she sat chewing her gum and looking blandly at me as I scribbled.
When I finished I said, “That’s a big help, Miss Schaeffer. A big help.”
Finally she cracked a smile. “You don’t say? Well, glad to be of service.” She sprung up from the chair and began to march off, then stopped abruptly and turned around.
“Is there something funny going on with her—with Elena Greenway?”
I looked up at her. “I wish I knew.”
* * * *
There were some things I could check right away. One bit I could find by walking only a couple of blocks from where I had been sitting: Room 328—the Genealogical Reading Room—of the New York Public Library on 42nd Street.
I was comfortable in this library. Don’t get the impression I’m a bookworm: I may have studied philosophy at Johns Hopkins, but I quickly realized that the whole history of philosophy, and perhaps of all human endeavor, was one long comedy of errors. No; that’s not why I haunted this place. There was more information—hard, practical information—here than most people could even begin to fathom; you just had to know where to find it. Between census reports, city directories, telephone books, detailed maps of every corner of the city, and—my current interest—genealogical records, there were all sorts of nuggets that had been instrumental to my work in the past. I hoped it would be today.
Genealogy wasn’t my specialty, so I needed some help from the librarians, which they were only too ready to supply. They told me that there was actually a published genealogy of the Greenway family: it had come out about thirty years ago, and was on the open shelf. I found it without difficulty and examined it.
Harry Greenway came from a family whose primary wealth—and it was considerable—had come from shipping. The family owned a significant proportion of the freighters that brought products into New York from European ports, and it was pretty prominent in the city’s social life as well. Harry Greenway was by no means young—according to the genealogy, he would by now be about fifty-five. The point was: Did he have some relation to the Cavalieri family?
Rather to my astonishment, he did. The genealogy I was consulting was published too early to include Elena, but it definitely listed an Ettore and Sophia Cavalieri as first cousins, making their daughter Elena (if that was who she was) Harry’s second cousin.
Imagine that. If there had been anything in what Arthur Vance had been saying—if it really was the case that Katharine Vance had somehow not died, but had remade herself as Elena Cavalieri—then you would have thought that this whole story of her being a cousin of the Greenways would have been a fiction, and that would have started the whole house of cards tumbling down.
I will confess that this matter jolted me. I had actually come to think that there was something funny going on, and—in spite of my faint but burgeoning suspicions of Arthur Vance himself—that this Elena Cavalieri was not what she seemed. Or maybe I was just hoping for something out of the ordinary.
Well, I wasn’t going to let the matter rest. One might as well be thorough—that’s what Vance was paying me for, anyway. There was one more expedition I had to take.
Taking the Seventh Avenue subway to South Ferry, I boarded the ferry to go to Ellis Island.
The sea was choppy that day, and I am not comfortable when not on solid ground, so the trip, although lasting only twenty minutes, was not pleasant. But as soon as I found myself on the E-shaped island I made my way quickly to the immigration office. I had a pal—well, let’s say a distant acquaintance—named Ambrose Wheeling; he had helped me a bit in the past, and hoped he might be able to do so now.
He could. With a careless wave of his hand he let me poke through the records of incoming immigrants for 1932. If Marge Schaeffer had been right in saying that Elena had come over in January of that year, her record should be easy to find. If that part of the story was false, then again I might have something to work on—the thread that would untie the skein of deceit (if that’s what it was) that Arthur Vance had been convinced had been weaved around his wife.
I was out of luck. Within half an hour I found the immigration record for Elena Cavalieri—she had arrived on the Rè di Ponto on January 19, 1932, from Cattolica, Italy. Had come alone, with proper passport and visa. There was even a photograph attached. It was exactly the one in the Herald-Tribune clipping about her marriage to Greenway.
By God, this was frustrating! I was now getting to the point of believing that both Vance and I were barking up the wrong tree. There was nothing here: nothing out of place, nothing irregular, nothing false or deceitful about Elena Cavalieri, or Mrs. Harry Greenway. Everything checked out.
At this stage I could only think of one thing to do. I would—if I could manage it—talk to Elena face to face.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marge Schaeffer was not pleased. Evidently the mild interest she had expressed in my investigations had rapidly waned when I had left the Herald-Tribune office, and dwindled to the vanishing-point when she realized that she would have to do some extra-curricular work of her own.
“You want me to do what?” she shot back at me in outrage, with Gene Merriwether looking on apprehensively, wringing his hands.
“Miss Schaeffer,” I said as calmly as possible, “I would be very grateful for your help in this matter. All I’m asking is that you set up an interview with Mrs. Elena Greenway and discuss certain things with her—mostly about her background.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Under what pretext? Do you know what blue-bloods these Greenways are? I can’t just barge in and...”
“I’m sure we can think of something,” I replied. “Maybe say that you’re working on an article on Italian immigrants and their place in the upper tier of New York social life....”
Almost before I could finish she retorted: “We don’t do that kind of article here!”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “I think it very unlikely that Mrs. Greenway knows that, don’t you think?”
For once this gum-chewing dame was held silent.
Gene broke in: “Marge, it’s for a good cause.” He made it sound like a charity ball. “My friend Arthur Vance is really in a bad way, and—”
She wheeled on him. “Look, Gene, I don’t have the time to help every Tom, Dick, or Harry that gets into trouble! Do you kno
w how much work is piled up on my desk right now?” She turned back to me. “Look, Mr. Scintilla, give it to me straight: Has Mrs. Greenway done anything wrong?”
“Not that I know of.”
“She’s not in trouble with the police?”
“If she was, presumably the police would be handling it.” Maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to say under the circumstances: it made Marge seem foolish. But she didn’t seem to notice.
“So then what exactly are you trying to accomplish?”—accusingly.
“I’m just pursuing a line of investigation. Perhaps there’s something to it; probably there isn’t. But I have to exhaust some possibilities.”
“And now you’re demanding that I help you, out of the kindness of my heart?”
“I’m not demanding anything,” I said, maintaining a calmness I was far from feeling. Frankly, all I wanted to do with this broad was to take that big wad of gum out of her mouth and... But I merely went on: “I’m asking you. As a favor. To me, to my friend Arthur Vance, and to your friend Gene Merriwether.”
That shut her up for a bit.
Finally, she rolled her eyes and gave us both a put-upon grimace. “All right, you guys. Just because I’m so sweet.”
Even Gene could tell that she was mocking him.
“Exactly how are you going to fit into this little scheme, Scintilla?” she went on.
“Well, if it’s all right with you”—I included both Marge and Gene in my gaze—“I’d like to pose as a photographer. I won’t say much—maybe nothing—but I’ll just be there to take in everything that’s said. How’s that?”
“Sure!” Gene said before Marge could utter the protest she was no doubt preparing. “I’ll check with Dan O’Connell—I’m sure he has a professional-looking camera he can lend you.” He had all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy about to play a prank on the principal. Too bad some of that wasn’t rubbing off on Marge.
But I guess she was a good girl in spite of her tough exterior. She called the Greenways and made an appointment for the next day.
The brownstone at 25 West 10th Street was an exquisite five-story brick structure just off Fifth Avenue—still soaked in the atmosphere of the Henry James–Edith Wharton milieu that, only a generation or so later, seemed as archaic and out of place in this Depression as the thatched hut of an African bushman. Before I had even met any of the Greenways I could tell that they belonged to that ever-dwindling class of old New Yorkers who were proud of never having lived north of 14th Street. I was not surprised when our summons was answered by a butler dressed in his penguin suit, who led us into a surprisingly ample foyer illuminated by a chandelier that still used candles. I almost expected to hear a Mozart string quartet playing in the background.
We were led into the drawing room, where a woman was seated on a Louis XV sofa with her back to us. She must have heard us come in, for she rose with alacrity, walked around the sofa, and faced us. I had my first look at Mrs. Elena Greenway.
She was tall, willowy, and with the deepest, richest black hair I had ever seen—far different from the corn-silk blonde of Katharine Vance. Her face was exceptionally fine—high cheekbones, delicate nose, lips just full enough to be sensuous without being vulgar, gentle but penetrating green eyes. She looked much younger than her age, which must have been approaching thirty; and yet her bearing was that of a mature woman entirely at home with herself and her circumstances. My heart skipped a beat when I saw her.
If Katharine Vance was anything like this, then I was no longer surprised that Arthur was desperate to get her back, even from the grave.
With a soft smile she greeted us as if we were old friends. “How do you do, Miss Schaeffer! So good to see you again.” And, turning to me: “And you, Mr. O’Connell?” I had adopted the pseudonym of the camera’s owner, with his permission. “What a heavy camera you have! I’m so pleased at your interest in me.”
Her speech had a distinct trace of an Italian accent, although perhaps a little less than I had been led to expect.
Marge Schaeffer took control at once. In spite of the gruff boorishness she seemed to enjoy displaying at her office, she was in total command of the situation. She had not brought her chewing gum this time.
“Mrs. Greenway, it’s so good of you to see us. Please pay no attention to Mr. O’Connell—just let him do his work and we’ll do ours.”
I ambled about, trying to look professional. I actually intended to take some pictures with this cumbersome device; they might come in handy. Meanwhile I made sure to keep my eyes and ears open.
Marge, her notepad on her lap, began: “Now let’s just review some facts. You had come here in January of 1932 from Italy?”
“Yes, from Cattolica. Do you know it? A charming little beach resort on the Adriatic. A lovely town! I have such wonderful memories of it...although, of course, you know about my parents....”
“Well, honestly, I don’t, Mrs. Greenway,” Marge said.
I was looking at Elena through the camera lens. Her face would have had great difficulty being anything but beautiful, but it was now furrowed with pain.
“My parents...oh, they were such wonderful people! They died suddenly. Their boat capsized.... But, please, I don’t wish to talk of them! It has been very hard for me....”
“Of course, Mrs. Greenway,” Marge said with just the right amount of sympathetic concern. “I don’t wish to upset you. But I wonder if you could tell us something of your youth and upbringing?”
I had coached Marge to make inquiries regarding Elena’s background.
Mrs. Greenway responded promptly: “Oh, I had a lovely childhood! There is so much to tell...so much! My little girlfriends—and boyfriends, too, a little later!”—a girlish giggle—“all under that warm Italian sun! Oh, you have nothing like it here...except maybe in Florida or California.”
Marge was sharp, and remembered my instructions. “Oh, have you been to California?”
“No, no,” Mrs. Greenway said quickly—too quickly? “I just assume that your California and Florida might be like my Italy in that way....”
Very suave.
Marge continued: “So tell us, please, a bit more about your growing up in Italy. What schools did you go to?”
“Oh, there were several—you know they do not exactly correspond with your...how do you say, ‘elementary’ and ‘high school’? Our schools were quite small, but we had wonderful teachers—wonderful! For a while I went to a school run by nuns—do you know I wished to be a nun once?” She laughed musically. “Oh, I knew so little of the world! But that dream passed quickly...very quickly!” Another laugh.
“Did you go to college?” Marge asked.
“Oh, yes—the università at Padua. I did not wish to go to Rome—Rome such a big city, you know. I was so scared! Ah, but Padua is a lovely little place—just right for me!” She beamed at us.
“And so you came here early in 1932?” Marge said.
“Yes...on that big boat, Rè di Ponto. It was the biggest journey I had ever taken, and I was so afraid—all by myself! But Mr. Greenway was very kind, taking me in like that. Ah, he has the Italian sense of famiglia! A wonderful man.... And so we fell in love, and—how do you say?—we live happily ever after!”
There was much more of this kind of thing, but that is all I can endure to write down. I don’t wish to suggest that Mrs. Greenway was quite as brainless and schoolgirlish as the above might sound; in fact, I distinctly got the impression that she was “talking down” to us—we were mere newspaper reporters, after all—and giving us what she thought we and our readers wanted. Behind her inane words I could sense something peculiar—as if she were laughing at us. No, not that exactly: perhaps more as if she was simplifying a far more complex story that she didn’t think we could understand.
Anyway, I quickly reached one conclusion: Either the former Miss Elena Cavalieri was the real thing—really was Elena Cavalieri, now Mrs. Harry Greenway—or had been exceptionally well coached. She had everythi
ng down pat. No hesitation, no confusion, no fumbling for words.
Was it too pat? Was it all a prepared speech? How could she know in advance what we had wanted to ask? Perhaps she had given interviews of this kind before—although Marge didn’t know of any.
We stayed no longer than forty minutes; there didn’t seem much point. On the cab ride back to the Herald-Tribune office, Marge asked:
“So, Scintilla, did you find what you were looking for?”
“Well, Miss Schaeffer, I’m not sure exactly what it is that I am looking for. But this was of some help. I think I remember most of what Mrs. Greenway said, but perhaps I could trouble you to get me a copy of your notes.”
“I’ll get them to you right away. And I wonder”—a bit wistfully—“whether you could keep me posted on your progress.”
She seemed a lot more friendly and cooperative now. Too bad the gum had returned to its customary place in her mouth.
She looked a lot better without it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I had been an idiot.
I’ve said that a good many of my successes in detection have resulted from identifying where and how my suspects have committed some act of stupidity, folly, or irrationality that betrayed them, leaving some vital clue that diligent research can follow up. I hadn’t yet found that clue in the Removal Company case, but I was confident that it would come.
But there have also been some occasions—more, perhaps, than I care to admit—when I myself have ventured into incompetence or mere carelessness. This was one of those times.
Arthur Vance had long ago given me his wife’s notebook or diary; but an initial glance at it had not impressed me. It seemed like the usual array of schoolgirlish confessions—the desperately cherished repository of the unremarkable secrets of a small and insignificant life. To a great degree it was just that; maybe it had some value as a “human document,” but that was none of my concern.