In the Shadow of Gotham (13 page)

“Well, at least Low tried to do something when he was mayor,” she said, laughing in response, “but there’s still lots of room for improvement, wouldn’t you say?” More soberly, she added, “In the end, no real change was accomplished. That’s why I don’t attend the meetings anymore. That, and the fact that Alistair’s projects can demand so much of one’s time.”

“Yet I gather that working with Alistair is your choice,” I hazarded. The question of why she was involved with Alistair’s research was an intriguing one, representing something I did not yet understand.

“I needed something to do after Teddy died,” she replied, and from her tone and the way her face closed down, I knew the reason was both complicated and deeply private.

It was the perfect opportunity to ask her more about the details of Alistair’s work as well as her general opinion of the man. But those questions would have to wait, for as we approached the main entrance to Columbia at 116th Street, we became aware of Alistair’s voice calling out to us from across Broadway.

“Ziele—over here!” I turned to see Alistair getting out of a new Ford Model B motorcar, which had just sputtered to a halt. As he approached the hand crank to restart it, he called out, “Come on, get in—I’ve arranged our meeting downtown.”

I looked toward Isabella, but she smiled and motioned me to go along. “If you’ve no objection, I could go ahead and speak with Sarah’s classmates.” She gestured toward the crumpled list of names that poked out of my left pocket.

“I won’t go alone,” she promised. “I will get Horace to help me.”

I finally agreed, handing her the paper. “You might speak with Dean Arnold, as well, to find out more about Sarah’s work in his office.”

Then, before I knew it, I found myself a passenger in Alistair’s Ford, filling him in on all we had learned.

“The burglary is an odd coincidence, to be sure,” Alistair said in response. “But even putting what we know about Michael Fromley aside, I don’t see a vagrant housebreaker as the sort of murderer who killed Sarah Wingate. I wouldn’t waste precious time on that lead while Fromley is still at large.”

Of course he was right, but I would check into the incident nonetheless. Certainly Michael Fromley was the priority, given what Alistair knew about him. But I couldn’t bring myself to ignore a decent lead, however unpromising it seemed at the moment.

We continued to talk of such matters as we journeyed downtown, passing horse carts and pedestrians at the speed of about seventeen miles per hour. It was testament to how focused my mind was upon the case at hand that I did not take note of the fact, until much later, that this was my first ride ever in an automobile.

The Wallingfords were not industrial magnates like the Schermer-horns and Rhinelanders, and their financial success had been far less spectacular. But still they had amassed significant wealth, as their family home on East Sixty-seventh Street just off Fifth Avenue in the increasingly exclusive Upper East Side neighborhood made clear.

Clyde Wallingford was what one would call a true eccentric. That I determined within five minutes of meeting him in his second-floor library. Though it was well into the afternoon, he still wore a morning dressing gown, and he chomped on a cigar for the duration of our interview. Though not yet forty, he seemed much older than his years: His thinning hair was fully gray, and his pink puffy skin was creased and wrinkled around
his brow. What was most off-putting, however, was his decidedly abrupt manner.

“So what’s this about Michael gone missing?” he demanded of Alistair. “Thought you were going to be responsible for him, and take all necessary measures to ensure we had no more trouble.”

“Ah, yes.” Alistair was caught off guard for a brief moment. But he recovered his composure and managed to summarize the story of Michael’s disappearance—in addition to our suspicions of Michael’s involvement in the murder of Sarah Wingate—before Wallingford’s apoplectic anger interfered. He alternated between pounding his fist on his massive wood and leather desk and berating Alistair for abrogating his duty to Fromley and, more particularly, the Wallingford family. I suspected that Alistair was not normally the type to take such treatment without objection. But since we needed Wallingford’s help, I predicted Alistair would not risk further alienating him. When Wallingford’s tirade was spent, Alistair continued talking politely, as though nothing had happened.

“When was your last contact with Michael?”

Clyde frowned, grinding the cigar into the heavy crystal ashtray. “Must have been about a month ago. He stopped by the house with his usual request for money. Of course he disappeared as soon as I gave it to him.”

“Which was exactly what you wanted,” Alistair said. This reminder prompted Clyde to snort in response.

“How much did you give him?” I asked.

He jerked his head up in annoyance. “Why does it matter? That’s my private business.”

“I am conducting a police inversting into a murder,” I replied
evenly, refusing to be bullied. “That means where any suspect is concerned, there’s no such thing as private business.”

He grew red in the face and glowered at me. I thought at first he would refuse to answer, or reply with another rude retort, but he reconsidered and answered, though his tone was gruff. “I gave him $500. It was a ridiculous amount, of course—but I hoped it would be enough to keep him away for a few months.”

“So you had no indication that anything might be wrong? No signs of any sudden changes in Michael’s mood?”

“Mood?” Clyde scoffed. “When has Michael’s mood ever been anything but surly? You know I was never concerned about his moods. It was his actions that caused trouble. He needed discipline to keep from acting out.”

“It was never as simple as that,” Alistair began wearily, but Clyde cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, spare me your ideas about—what do you call it?—‘distorted thinking.’ Nothing but poppycock. The point is, you need to find Michael, and with as little fanfare as possible. Don’t want to see our family name dragged through the papers.”

“Can you tell us where Michael was living?” Alistair asked. “I checked with the landlady at the last address I had for him; apparently he left there six months ago.”

Clyde merely chortled. “Sounds like you haven’t been keeping on top of the boy as you promised. Last I heard, he had rented a room somewhere in the west Forties. Maybe Lizzie will know. She always had a soft spot for the boy. Though I can’t imagine why.”

He cleared his throat and got up, ambling toward the door.
“Well, I believe our business is done, and I trust you’ll take care of this situation quickly and discreetly. I summoned Lizzie over here after you telephoned because I thought, given her relationship with Michael, she would have more information to give you than I do. I’ll send her in.”

And without a word more, he shuffled out of the room and we did not see him again, although we almost immediately heard him berating someone with respect to a household task left undone. Apparently it was the man’s nature to be disagreeable toward everyone he encountered. As Alistair later explained, Clyde Wallingford was an egalitarian in one respect: He was rude to everyone alike.

Clyde’s aunt, Lizzie Dunn, was exactly as Alistair had described her earlier this morning: plain and mousy in both appearance and demeanor. It was easy to see why Clyde had prevailed upon her to take charge of a troublesome young boy; she was so excessively amiable she appeared unable to refuse any request.

“Miss Dunn?” Alistair stood politely and made the introductions as she came across the length of the room toward us; we had moved from the area near Clyde’s desk to a sitting area by the fireplace. As I took her hand to greet her, I noticed it was icy cold, despite the general warmth that pervaded the house. She took the seat nearest the fire, sitting on its very edge.

“Please, can you tell me what’s happened with Michael?” she asked nervously. “I know something awful has happened, or Clyde would never have asked me to come here. But he’s told me nothing.”

I watched her face blanch as Alistair explained what we
knew about Fromley’s disappearance and suspected role in a murder. It seemed the news would overwhelm the woman, and I prepared to summon help in the event she fainted. She recovered, but as I observed their exchange, I decided Alistair’s initial assessment had been remarkably precise: Lizzie Dunn meant well, but if Michael Fromley had anything of his half brother Clyde’s domineering personality, she could never have stood up to it.

“No,” she was saying, “the last time I saw Michael was in early October for his birthday. I’d put together a little birthday dinner for him, and he humored me by coming by to eat it.” She smiled wanly. “You know, he doesn’t come around the way he used to when he was a young boy. I suppose that’s natural now he’s grown-up.”

It was incongruous to hear this woman talk about Michael Fromley as a favored nephew—and yet, I had seen this phenomenon before, where a mother or grandmother described men I knew to be depraved criminals in the most endearing of terms. I supposed it was because they clung to loving memories of what the child had been—even when the man became something far different. And, as Alistair explained later, Fromley was capable of presenting a charming demeanor when it suited his purposes. Apparently he was always pleasant with his aunt Lizzie, for it led her to indulge him with money and gifts. It was also, as I would soon learn, the manner he initially employed with the women he terrorized.

To Lizzie Dunn, Alistair merely said, “We both know Michael has had his share of problems. Was he in any particular trouble when you saw him last?”

“Well,” she admitted, “he owed people money. I gave him
what I could, but it didn’t cover even half his debts, so he probably went to Clyde for the rest.”

“I see.” Alistair retained an easy, nonjudgmental tone. “Did you talk about anything else?”

“He mentioned his new job at the docks, which he appeared to enjoy, though he wished it paid better. We also talked about a trip he was hoping to take to New Orleans in February for Mardis Gras.”

I looked at Alistair with raised eyebrows.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly in reply. He later reminded me that Fromley had merely applied for the job on Fulton Street; he hadn’t actually been hired. So Fromley had lied to his aunt, perhaps wanting her to think well of him.

I asked, “Is there anything you can tell us about his routines? The friends he socialized with? The places he frequented?”

Her response was automatic. “He loved all kinds of entertainment. You might check some of the dance halls down in the Bowery. I don’t know the names, but I know that’s where he went most weekends. But I can’t help you with regard to his friends; he never brought them to the house, or even mentioned anyone in particular.”

“So I take it you never saw this person?” I showed her the picture of Sarah Wingate.

“No,” she replied, after taking a dutiful look at the photograph. “As I said, he never brought any friends around.”

“When did he move out of your home?”

“After the incident,” she said, and from her gesture toward Alistair, I knew she was being euphemistic about the assault on Catherine Smedley that had first brought Michael Fromley to Alistair. “I wanted him to stay,” she added sadly, “but Clyde insisted.
Said he was too dangerous. After he stopped staying full-time at your research center, I still let him stay the occasional night, whenever he asked, but by and large I think he moved from one rooming house to another. He probably stayed at nicer ones or cheaper ones depending upon how much he’d won or lost at gambling that week.”

“Do you have the address where he is living now?” I asked.

Lizzie shook her head sadly. “No. Michael never stayed in one place for very long before he wore out his welcome, usually by not paying the rent. I helped him when I could, but . . .” She looked at us helplessly.

It lasted only a moment, but in that look, I saw a flash of fear. And I recognized the truth: Despite all outward appearances of a doting aunt, she was afraid of him.

After we finished our conversation with Miss Dunn, Alistair and I lingered on the sidewalk just outside.

“I suggest we visit your former precinct on the Lower East Side,” Alistair said. “Michael’s taste ran consistently to dance halls and gambling houses. Maybe someone there has seen him recently. Do you know the most likely ones to visit?”

I was familiar with them. To be honest, I knew them all too well. My own father had been a habitual gambler, for as long as I could remember. It had kept our family in debt my entire childhood—in fact, until one night when I was nineteen years old, a sophomore at Columbia, and he finally succeeded in gambling away our life’s savings and running off with another woman. His failings had devastated my mother and sister and radically altered my own future. With my family looking to me for financial support, my college days had ended.

I did not share any of this with Alistair at the time—although
I soon learned he knew it already. I was the man with whom he was prepared to entrust his larger secret, if it came to that. And so he had learned everything he could about my life history, even before he had shown up in my office this very morning.