In the Shadow of Gotham (15 page)

“Prosit!” Alistair raised his glass after the waiter brought two oversized steins of pale ale to our table.

I reluctantly raised mine to join his, although I was not in the mood for toasting with Fromley on the loose.

“Say,” Alistair said, looking at me reflectively as his fingers traced the green and brown painted coat of arms on his stein. “Ziele is a German name, isn’t it?”

“Originally it was German, I suppose. I’ve been told the spelling has been corrupted over time.” I deliberately sidestepped the intent of his question.

“But you are German? Obviously your family settled in the Lower East Side, which I know to be heavily German.” Alistair’s curiosity was not easily deflected.

“My family was German, and Russian, and even French Canadian. But I am American,” I said emphatically. On no account did I want Alistair delving into my own past; he had already learned more at the Fortune Club than I would have liked.

“You don’t quite trust me, do you, Ziele?” Alistair said with a hint of amusement. “No, no.” He waved off my feeble protests. “You are trying to be polite. I can tell that you don’t. And I’m not offended. I suppose it is natural in a detective—a good detective, anyway—to develop a healthy sense of skepticism.”

I was saved from inventing a response by the arrival of our food. Our waiter placed a steaming plate of Wiener schnitzel in front of Alistair. I had chosen the sauerbraten, which, despite my initial reservations, looked delicious.

I changed the topic some minutes later, after giving Alistair a chance to begin enjoying his meal. “Where do you suggest we go from here, Alistair?” I asked. “We have spoken with Michael Fromley’s family; they have no idea where he is. He’s been seen in the Bowery, but no one there can offer a specific address, either. But someone must know something. The man lives somewhere, he eats someplace, he buys coffee and a morning paper—” I stopped myself as I felt my frustration building.

“I’m at a loss, just like you, Ziele,” he said. “I’m not hiding anything.”

“But he was central to your research,” I said. “I would think
during your time with him, you would have learned
everything
about him: who his friends were; what he ate for breakfast; what time he went to bed.”

“No, Ziele. You’re thinking like a detective, not like a criminologist,” he explained. “My goal was to learn everything about how he
thought
and how he made decisions about his
behavior
.” Alistair emphasized those words, enunciating them too clearly. “He had no friends to speak of, and I could not have cared less about his daily habits.”

Alistair regarded me for a moment as though we were speaking two different languages—and perhaps we were. “But I am trying to think of these things now, in order to help you,” he offered lamely.

“I need you to think harder,” I said. “And to review your files, this time to search for any reference to the minutiae of Fromley’s life. You may have noted something that, at the time, was unimportant to your research but could now prove important as a means of locating him.”

“All right,” Alistair agreed, seeming somewhat surprised. “We can return to the research center after dinner and I will search. But first, old boy, you’ve got to try their apple strudel. It’s exquisite, especially paired with their Rheinlander coffee or perhaps a Brandy Alexander.”

I resigned myself to following this suggestion, for clearly Alistair did not share my own sense of urgency about the case. I could have argued with him, but I had the sense that he would be more helpful in our search if he first satisfied his discriminating palate.

With the day nearly ended and my energy completely sapped, only sheer determination kept me alert as we headed back uptown. We continued to work at Alistair’s offices until near ten o’clock, comparing notes and discussing our options. It had been a strenuous day. I always found interviews to be exhausting—and frustrating—though the initial phase of any investigation was necessarily spent gathering and evaluating information. The best detectives did so with amazing efficiency; they separated solid leads from weak premises and arrived at what appeared to be effortless conclusions.

I had learned a great deal about Sarah Wingate, enough that I could now imagine what she must have been like. And I continued to learn more about her presumed killer, Michael
Fromley. But I had no conclusions to show for it. I had only a manhunt in progress, marked at either end by two missing women: Stella Gibson, who may have witnessed a murder, and Clara Murphy, who was last seen with Michael Fromley.

We were working in the meeting room with the large table, the better to spread out our notes.

“Here’s July 1905,” Horace said, struggling under the weight of seven thick folders as he entered the room.

“Thank you, Horace,” Alistair said.

“Professor, it’s getting late.” Horace leaned heavily against the table. He had been working with us all evening, bringing us file after file from Alistair’s copious case notes.

“Of course. Why don’t you go on home? You’ve been a terrific help, but we’ve everything we need. We won’t be much longer ourselves.” Alistair spoke absentmindedly, for he was already skimming through the first folder Horace had brought.

Horace nodded in relief. “Good night, Professor. Detective.” He shuffled out of the room, and even without the weight of the files, I noticed that he seemed drained of energy. His head injury had swollen in size and now had a particularly nasty appearance.

Once I was certain he was gone, I mentioned it to Alistair. “I don’t recall Horace’s injury looking so severe yesterday.”

“What?” Alistair looked at me in confusion for a moment; then my question registered. “Oh, that. Yes, it happened during his altercation at the polls yesterday, but it’s giving him more trouble today. Horace has been very active in the Hearst campaign for the past month. Rough day for supporters yesterday all around, wasn’t it? Beat up at the polls, literally and figuratively. I hear Hearst is taking charges of voter fraud and intimidation to the courts. It’ll be interesting to see what they do,
although however dirty the vote, I can’t imagine them overturning the reelection of a sitting mayor.” And his focus turned once again to his case notes. His interest in the mayor’s race was only a passing one. I would have found it more interesting myself, were I not consumed by the hunt for Sarah’s killer.

Several minutes later, we were interrupted by a knocking noise downstairs. Alistair went to the door and called out into the hallway. “Horace, are you still here?”

We heard more knocking and shuffling sounds.

“I said, is anyone there?” Alistair asked, much louder this time.

The answer came from a man on the stairs. “Your message said you would be working here late tonight. So I came.” His voice—a rich low voice with a thick Scottish burr—grew louder as he came closer. “Though, until I saw your lights burning strong, I had my doubts I would still find you here.”

Alistair stepped back to admit a burly man with thick gray hair and beard, and large, mournful eyes. He was an older man, but his voice and mannerisms were energetic. I sensed that his normal personality was lively, even jocular, though his mood tonight was somber. And I recognized him immediately from his picture. Standing before us was Professor Angus MacDonald.

After we took his gray and brown tweed coat and invited him to sit, he explained that he had not received my message until well after dinnertime, but had determined to take the train into the city immediately on the chance we would be here as promised. He had learned of Sarah’s death almost immediately from a mathematics colleague, but my telephone message had been a surprise. Apparently he had—overoptimistically in my view—believed his relationship with Sarah to be entirely secret.
But then again, I knew better than most how quickly secrets vanished once a murder investigation began.

I first asked the professor to confirm for us the details of his relationship with Sarah: how he had met her, and how long he had known her.

“Aye, a bright lass she was,” he said, “I’d never met the like of her, nor will I again. A man at my age is not often so lucky.”

“At what point did your relationship evolve into something more than a professional association?” I asked, and I felt as though I were prying, even though it was my job to do so.

He shook his head sadly. “She was young enough to be my daughter, and don’t I know it full well. But what a mind! The lass was brilliant, and the conversations we had utterly changed the way I approached my work. She was always coming up with new problems and methods for solving them. My last article—why, I couldn’t have written it without her.” He looked at us mournfully. “I know it sounds as though I’m talking of my work, but what I’m really saying to you is—that she became necessary to me. To be with her was as simple and natural as breathing. Our habits of mind were so at home with one another, it was as though our age difference were nothing.”

“But the academic world wouldn’t have seen it that way,” I gently reminded him. “Is that why you were so secretive?”

“Bunch of benighted hypocrites,” he said, his blue eyes glistening with restrained tears. “We kept our relationship secret at my insistence. If she wanted to make a reputation in her own right, she needed to do so before we married. The lass had enough problems being taken seriously; people would have said I’d given her my research and ideas. Absolutely preposterous. It was just a matter of time before she’d have outshone me.”

“And this did not bother you?” I asked. Now that I’d met
him, I truly could not envision the Scottish professor having killed Sarah Wingate. But the question of motivation had to be asked.

“Bah,” he said. “I’m fifty-five and will turn fifty-six come January.” Drawing himself up proudly, he continued. “I am a professor emeritus at what is arguably the preeminent department of mathematics in the world. I’ve published more books and articles than I can keep count of.” He leaned forward. “What I’m saying to you is that my competitive days of needing to be the best and the brightest, the youngest man ever put up for tenure, are over. What I want . . .” He paused a moment and rephrased himself. “What I
wanted
was to be happy. Sarah made me happy. And seeing her do well made me proud.” His last comment was emphatic.

“What about the other rivalries that must have confronted Sarah?” I asked. “Was there anyone—within the mathematics field or otherwise—who struck you as having particular jealousy or animosity toward her?”

But his answer was similar to what we had heard before. There were many who resented her success and challenged her at every turn. But in his view, he recalled no resentment so remarkable as to lend a suspicion of murder.

I was asking all the conventional questions, but given that the vicious circumstances of her murder pointed to Michael Fromley, my mind kept returning to whether Sarah had ever crossed paths with him. Impulsively, I pulled the photograph out of my wallet and handed it to Angus. “Have you ever seen this man?”

He shook his head. “Never. Why? Did he know Sarah?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” I said, and promptly changed the subject. “How often did you see Sarah?”

“Usually twice a month,” he replied. “She came to me; it was easier, as there was nothing to explain to her family, and my mother, who lives with me, served as a chaperone.” His Scottish burr was evident with each
r
he pronounced.

“Why didn’t she tell her family?” Alistair asked. “We understand why you would keep it from your colleagues, but obviously your own family knew. Why not Sarah’s?”

“Further disapproval would be my guess,” he said. “In their view, it was bad enough she pursued graduate work at all. It would have been even worse to learn that while doing so, she became involved with me. You see, I’m an old man with no social standing. And they wanted her to marry a young man from a well-connected family. They had money, to be sure. But they didn’t have enough of the right friends or connections, as they saw it. Of course,” he added, “Sarah was interested in none of that.”

“Is there anything else we should discuss?” Alistair asked, and while the question ostensibly was for Angus, I suspected Alistair had implicitly directed it toward me. After Angus replied no, I answered as well.

“I keep trying to think of why and how Michael Fromley came to target Sarah. I simply cannot see it as a random whim. The murder was well planned and smoothly executed using knowledge of the Wingate family’s habits and routines, and it occurred far from her home here in the city. I am convinced Fromley must have had some connection with her, however tangential.”

“What did you say?” Angus asked, the moment he registered what I had said.

We merely looked at him in surprise, so he reiterated his question. “What was that name you just mentioned? Michael Fro . . . what?”

“Michael Fromley,” Alistair replied, puzzled. “Do you know the name?”

“I’ve heard it,” Angus said, and he seemed newly distressed. “I think . . . I can’t be positive, mind you . . . but I believe it’s a name she mentioned during my last conversation with her.”

“In what context?” I asked, my mind racing.

“His name surfaced in conversation about a problem the lass was having, relevant to her work at the dean’s office.” His thick brow furrowed. “I can’t quite recall—but she mentioned the name. I’m sure of it.”