6. A Lady of Rare Character

“. . . when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth.”

— Dr. John H. Watson.

“The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb.”

My dear Watson,

The abundant Italian Marcello family resides in a three-story brick home on Perry Street close upon the conclusion of the Union Street hypotenuse, a comfortable residential area of Poughkeepsie. Large trees surround and fill the plentiful grounds. Soon to bloom cherry, apple, and pear form a small arbour in back near well-tended grape vines. The second and third floors are crowded with bedrooms. The basement holds casks of sweet, fermenting wine. The weight of the structure seems cushioned by its effervescent air.

Oscar’s sculpture studio fills the attic. An adult Marcello is vital to my plans, he may be appropriate to the task. We will meet here. There are five brothers, five sisters, and both parents gone, died young. With the exception of Rita’s predicament, they are doing well.

It is my hope that you can assemble from these basic bricks a shape that resembles your magnificent memoirs. Since this journey abroad necessitated the lack of your inestimable partnership, these humble scribblings will have to suffice. My head is lamentably crammed with words, when it should only have this conundrum before it! Watson, I will never get your limits.

I await our mutual observance of the tread on the stair, our breath quickening in anticipation, reaching for the revolver, as together we face the opening door.

As you know me to be, dear friend,

Very sincerely yours,

S. H.

Next afternoon, I cabbed to the door of her park-like Perry Street home. “This is a lovely house, are your aunt and uncle at home, child?”

“Aunt Marietta is cooking in the kitchen, making antipasti.” She pointed to the ceiling. “And Uncle Oscar is upstairs in his attic studio, making magic. She will love to meet you, and probably stuff you with excellent spaghetti, too. But beware. Uncle Albert’s wine is strong.”

“You and your cohorts did exceptionally well for young ladies on your first assignment.”

“Ladies, boys would have gotten lost and forgotten altogether! And none of the police or hospital nurses wanted to talk to us. They kept looking to you, instead.”

I hid my smile by putting a finger on my lips. “I would speak with your Uncle Oscar about his revealing encounter with—tsk, what is your aunt’s husband’s name?”

“He’s the ‘Rat.” She raced up while I expeditiously followed the central stair to Marcello’s studio, and observed the layout of the house. At the top floor, the child was waiting. “It looks like this little lady beat you.”

I moved past her to Marcello’s aid. He struggled with a massive sculpture which we lifted together. He had attempted to hang it onto a pulley system.

“Yes, that’s it, now we push this beam out the window, and the rest I can do. Sigerson, thank you!”

The child ran to her uncle and hugged him, getting dried plaster all over her school uniform.

I pulled out my cigarette case. “Do you usually attempt that by yourself?” I looked around the studio. “Is there anything flammable here?”

“Not today, go ahead and smoke. I usually wait for my brothers, and thank God, you saved my neck!”

I lit a cigarette and offered my case. “Your niece informed me of the World’s Fair you will soon be a part of. It would be intriguing to hear what goes on backstage at such an undertaking.”

I lit Oscar’s cigarette. “Oh ho, politics abound through competitions and petty dramas among artists jockeying for position. Yet this is the San Francisco World’s Fair, and it’s worth it for the chance at such professional exposure and the friends I’ve made. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Marcello, I imagine a man who can wrestle with sculpture twice his weight, can handle a gun?”

He looked startled. “Yes, I have a Colt .38. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just wondering, do you box?”

“Not professionally, but I can handle myself in a fight. Strange questions, are you studying me for your next article?” He smoked.

“I am assessing your ability to be of help to me in the rescue proposed by your niece.”

“National Geographic said Professor Sigerson is one of the greatest men of our day. And the only one who listened to me!” The child said.

“Your niece is indeed the definition of persistence. I hope you have no objection to this collaboration.”

Marcello patted her head. “How did you land here?”

“I filled in for a seasick violinist on a steamship bound for New York; women are so mercurial. I enjoyed performing with the ensemble, and we disembarked in time to see the Metropolitan Opera’s Faust, reason enough for the trip.”

“Gounod’s Faust is a favourite of mine.” He threw his cigarette into the fire.

The child looked agitated but very serious. “The professor and I, and my new friends Marie and Anne, visited the police station and hospitals looking for Aunt Rita, but no one has seen her. It’s twelve days, Uncle Oscar.”

“Your niece has enlisted me as a facilitator in the location of your sister, Rita.” The cheeriness fell from his face in an instant. The girl took his hand. “Marcello, I’d like you to relate to me exactly what happened the night you observed her husband at Meyer’s Tavern.”

Marcello moved to face her, and took both her hands in his. “I’m worried about her, too, Rachel. So that makes three of us. In any other family that would be enough, but this family is a three-ring circus.” He looked to me. “I’d like to think she’s visiting a friend in Manhattan, but I doubt it. The Rat cut her off from family and friends. Sigerson, if there’s anything you can do to help Rita, the Marcello family, even if that just means me, will cover your costs.”

“Thank you, I will be happy to help you with all my heart.”

“Hooray, now Aunt Rita will come home!” The child said.

Marcello nodded his agreement. “Rachel, I think Marietta would like to know you’re home. And she can probably use your help.”

“All right I don’t like it, but I love you.” She quickly hugged him. “Thank you, professor.” And she ran downstairs.

I waved him over. “Pray, reveal what you observed that night.”

“Now that the coast is clear—” He sat on a stool and motioned for me to do so. I closed my eyes, my hands in my lap, in meditation pose.

“I was showing my friend Paul, another sculptor, around and took him to Meyer’s for a drink. Always stocks ice cold beer. Best oysters in Poughkeepsie! We watched the sunset over the Hudson, colours purple, pink, and orange in a deepening blue sky with a big cadmium red sun melting—”

“Less art, Marcello, facts are what I need!”

“By sunset we were through. Luckily I saw the Rat before he saw me. He was sitting at a table on the other side with a young woman who I knew wasn’t his wife. She was sitting on his lap. He was so well-seasoned I thought he’d fall off the chair. He was celebrating, and bought a round for the nearby tables, unusual for him. He got up, grabbed the table to stop his fall, took his girl by the hand and lurched out. They hailed a cab, probably to my sister’s home. Good thing I didn’t have my gun with me, because I could have killed him ruining my life, too.”

“No, no, no.” I whispered. “Do not infer; only evidence will do. What day was this, did he know you were there?”

“It was Friday. I doubt he knew anything but the girl on his lap. Paul and I waited out-of-sight for the unfolding scene.”

“What is Miss Rita’s husband’s full name, and where does he presently live?” I pulled out a pencil and wrote his answers on my shirt cuff.

“We don’t say his name in our home.” He spat out: “Mario Pinto. I don’t know the girl. I’m not a good source for local information. The house is on Clinton Street by the reservoir, a few lonely houses. Are you planning on seeing him? That could be fatal for you or Rita. He is good with a knife, used to batting his wife and children around. When he dropped off their daughters, they had bruises on their backs and arms. I hope to meet him in a darkened alley!”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Something we might do together. Is Pinto a common name in Poughkeepsie?

“I know of only one.”

“I am accustomed to dangerous negotiations. This type of man exists in many cultures, they do not let go easily, some will even track down a wife and kill her.”

Marcello gasped.

“What is his career? And can you delineate the house, doors, and windows, is it locked?”

“Pinto drives a cab, does odd jobs.” Marcello described his sister’s home. “It’s a blue house, grey tiled roof, chimneys on the sides. Stairs go to the front porch. Here, I’ll draw it out for you.” He quickly sketched the house. “There are three doors to front, back, and side. Try the back door. Clinton is deserted, houses far apart, and you can park a carriage in the backyard.”

“Has Pinto shown any criminal activity, money lost to gambling or extortion, connection to criminal groups? Do you think your sister may have been kidnapped? Has your family received a ransom letter?”

Marcello sadly shook his head. “He’s a petty crook, but has caused very few problems, except the terrorizing of my sister.”

“He has started a protection business among the town merchants, a floating gambling concession and his house is for sale.” Marcello had a question in his eyes. I smiled. “The news I gathered sitting in Harold’s barber chair. Does Pinto own a gun?”

“A gun? He’s notorious for that knife he carries.”

“Does he work regular hours?”

“That’s a question for my sister, Marietta.” He laughed. “She will enjoy meeting you.”

“Thank you, Marcello. Presuming she is alive, your sister Rita will reap the benefits of the advocacy we have begun today. The officials were alerted yesterday. It may be beneficial for me to call upon you and your pistol during this search. Are you agreeable to this?”

Marcello stared at me in horror. “Of course! I pray it is not too late. And Rachel is too young for that kind of adventure. You should know that she’s an orphan.” We had begun our decent to the first floor and I put out my arm to stop him.

“She lost both parents at once?”

He nodded.

“How long ago did this happen?”

“She was very young when they dropped her off here and never returned.”

“Was there a search? Did her parents say where they were going? What were their interests? Were they members of a church, or group of some kind? What time of year did this happen? What were their hobbies? Did they say when they would return? Did they travel and by what conveyance? How old were they and what year was this?”

“Whoa, Sigerson, I have no answers for you. We were all a lot younger, and she was a handful, inconsolable. We had just lost our father, making all of us orphans and were trying to discover how to continue on as a family. Luckily, Papa had thought ahead. When Rachel showed up we just opened our arms and welcomed her in.”

“That seems to be the Marcello’s way.” This mystery will be docketed for now. “Your niece has advanced ahead in school has she not?”

“Yes, I am so proud of her. She skipped out of second, sixth, eighth and tenth grades.”

“Was it difficult for her to do so?”

“Not at all, except for the bullies.”

“Are they children, teachers, school or church related?”

“School boys, Giuseppe and I have never been able to catch them. Children are so secretive, but wounds show.”

I nodded. “Your niece is an unusually spirited young girl.”

We continued our walk down to the kitchen where Miss Marietta and the child were cooking dinner.

Marcello sniffed the air like a connoisseur. “Oh, my lord, this air is ambrosia; it reminds me of heavenly Venetian repasts. My goddess sister has created magic with her pots. Marietta, dear, I would like you to meet Professor Keevan Sigerson, from Vassar College.”

“Oscar, I’m blushing.” She playfully punched her brother.

I took her hand, bowed my head in an ingratiating way. “I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Marietta and find the Marcello family to be brimming with considerable grace and artistry.”

“Welcome to our home, Professor Sigerson. I’ve read of your explorations in the National Geographic?” I nodded. “That’s the way to travel, to learn and explore the culture around you. Not just lounging everywhere, giving Americans a bad name.” She stirred the pot as she spoke. “Will you stay to dinner? My family is expected soon.”

“Thank you, but I have a class. Even though the Persian culture differs greatly from ours, the people love their children as we do, create art, music, and cuisine as we do.” Marietta nodded, and smiled in agreement. “The world’s cultures are exquisitely unique, yet I find there are always places where they can connect. Even the cannibalistic pygmies off the coast of Africa cherish their children.”

Marcello coughed, almost choked. “Rachel met Sigerson yesterday at Vassar and talked his ear off about Rita.” He was seized by another fit of coughing. “Excuse me.” He ran out to the yard.

“Do you require assistance?”

From outside we heard, “I’m okay, thanks.” He coughed again.

“It’s a shame he hasn’t read your articles, Professor Sigerson. But Oscar’s been so busy.” Marietta checked her pots, stirred the tomato sauce. Bent down to open the stove, as the child handed her a large wooden paddle and she moved the pans around. The heat and heavy iron stove brought sweat to her brow. The girl handed her a towel, as attentive as a surgical nurse. The way Miss Marietta manoeuvres this enormous oven approximates Vulcan at his forge, “With a face red and fiery.”

The child finished Marcello’s sentence. “Aunt Marietta, yesterday we went around to hospitals and the police to ask them to be on the lookout for her.”

“What?” She straightened up, wiped her forehead and neck with the towel. “Why did you go to a hospital? Are you okay? What happened? Is anyone sick? Come here and let me see!” She put a hand on the child’s forehead.

She wriggled away from her aunt, ran to where I stood. “No one is sick. We filled out reports, giving them Aunt Rita’s name, what she looked like, so they could find her. Professor Sigerson is helping us; he’s good at it.”

I was enjoying this interchange. “Of course, I will advise you of any reports that come my way. I have already spoken with your brother about Miss Rita’s husband.” The child picked up the wooden spoon and stirred the sauce. Miss Marietta patted her shoulder and moved away from the stove to face me as I adopted the friendly tone I reserved for ladies. “There are two points I would like clarification upon. Can you give an account of his regular work hours? Does he get along with his neighbours?”

Miss Marietta gave a quick nod, walked up to me. A whisper of Lily of the Valley in the air between us caught my imagination. “Yes, he works as a cab driver and jack-of-all-trades, and he is out of the house at eight o’clock, returns at six. I think he’s working for some doctor, now. So his hours may extend into the evening.” I wrote on my cuff. “Does that come out in the wash?”

“What? Oh, you mean—?” I held up the pencil and shrugged. “It must, they return unblemished.”

“Who does your laundry Professor Sigerson?”

“Mrs. Hu—” I stopped abruptly.

“Your wife?”

“No—my housekeeper.”

“Is she Chinese?”

This lovely woman was unmasking me in four questions. Maybe I should find out if she can handle a gun? “Miss Marcello may we get back to the point? Do you happen to know your sister’s perfume?”

“Rose. Why is that important?”

“If she is there her scent will tell me. Do you have any more information about Mr. Pinto for me?”

“The Rat’s dependent on his boss for hours. Rita was friendly with their neighbours.” Her voice caught as she referred to her sister in the past tense. Immediately tears formed in her remarkable eyes, she turned away and used the towel to dab them. “Oh, do you think there’s a chance of finding her? I couldn’t bear what her life had become, but this is horrible.”

The child took her hand, and comforted her aunt. I adopted a soothing tone. “Trust me, I will do my best. Thank you for your valuable assistance in this.” I swept my hand to include the three of us and Marcello. “On Tuesday I invite you, your brother and your niece to meet me for afternoon tea at Vassar for further deliberations. Your niece has the details. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Marcello.” I tipped my hat. “Good night.”

The child ran after me. “3:30p.m. Tuesday at Vassar’s Faculty Parlour, ground floor, in the back. Good night.”

“I’ll be there with bells on, professor. But wait, there’s something—”

I waved the child away as I cabbed up the street. Ah, Lily of the Valley, subtle, sweet, and evocative, yet, if consumed, deadly poisonous. Marietta was flirting with me in her kitchen and I wasn’t averse to it. Gaslights were being lit around town, and as the warm day cooled to evening, a wisp of Hudson fog played around the horse’s hooves as we ascended Main Street.