Detective Sergeant Atkins was not at the station, and when he hadn’t returned her call by ten o’clock the next morning, Phil made a decision. She didn’t want to, but she knew the value of climbing back onto the horse after a fall.
Between being kidnapped one day and barely missing a bombing the next, she was feeling a little desperate to get to the bottom of things.
And to top it off, she had to host the charity ball this evening. So she did what any successful lady of society would do. She announced that she would be staying in bed for the rest of the day in order to look her best at the ball, and sent her servants on an errand to the jewelers on the pretext of having one of the facets of her tiara tightened.
As soon as she was certain they were gone, she got out of bed, dressed in her most nondescript traveling suit, covered it with a coat she’d been about to give to the ladies’ guild, and headed downtown.
She didn’t take a taxi from the Plaza but walked three blocks down to the St. Regis and took a taxi from there.
The front window of Mrs. Toscana’s brownstone had been boarded up, and there was debris piled at the curb: a broken lamp, a pile of books, a cushion, and an upholstered chair, the stuffing spewing out of the jagged rip in its fabric.
Phil looked away.
She was surprised to find the front door open. She knocked, purely for form’s sake, and stepped into the house.
The foyer was cold, but at least the fresh air was beginning to carry away the acrid smell of smoke. Three women were cleaning the stairs; two more scrubbed the soot-covered paisley wallpaper.
They looked up as she entered but returned to their work without speaking.
Phil looked into the office where the package bomb had done the most damage. A new desk chair sat behind the desk. The carpet had been removed, to be beaten clean in the back alley or thrown out completely. Phil rather suspected the latter. The rest of the room had been cleaned out.
What an evil way to harm someone. An innocent person. Opening a Christmas package. It was beyond dastardly.
One of the young women who was on her hands and knees picking up pieces of indistinguishable material looked up at her.
“You again,” she said.
“I came to see how you’re all doing.”
The woman sniffed. “How do you think? Poor Nellie almost got killed. And she ain’t even a whore. It ain’t fair to do that to somebody.”
“No, it isn’t. Do the police have any idea of who did this?”
“That’s a laugh. Mrs. Toscana is in the back parlor, if you’re looking for her. She’s pretty ticked. You better just go on back yourself. Nellie always took care of the—of Mrs. Toscana’s guests.” She sniffed and ran an arm across her face, leaving a smudge of ash on her cheek.
“Thank you,” Phil said, and went down the hall to where the parlor must be.
She knocked on the door, received an “Enter,” and let herself in.
Mrs. Toscana sat in a high-backed chair. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun and covered by a black mantilla. She wore a black, unadorned bombazine dress. The only relief from unrelenting mourning was the white streak of hair that ran from her hairline to her low bun like a bird’s wing.
For Tommy Green? Surely not Nellie. “I came to see how you all are.”
“Nellie’s in hospital. For the rest … as you see.” Mrs. Toscana didn’t invite Phil to sit.
“I only came yesterday to warn you. I was too late. I wondered if there’s anything I can do?”
“We take care of ourselves.”
“I can see that.”
“We’ll be expected to be open tonight.”
“Are you afraid of more attacks?” Phil asked.
“Of course, but this is their home as well as their place of business,” Mrs. Toscana said, unbending a little. “It’s important for me to keep the girls healthy, and it is harder to do when they are not under my wing.”
Her hand tightened on a black-edged handkerchief. “These hyenas will not intimidate me. Please thank your servants for helping Nellie; the doctor says it saved her life. But you might as well leave. I have nothing to tell you.”
“Please, Mrs. Toscana. Do you think this was the work of the Black Hand or someone else?” Not getting an answer, Phil shrugged out of her coat and sat down.
“If you think that getup will protect you,” Mrs. Toscana said, sweeping her hand toward Phil’s dress, “you’re a fool.”
“I may be a fool, but two days ago I was kidnapped by Sergeant Becker and another man, whom I didn’t see. Yesterday I came to warn you, and a bomb exploded. Now I’m here to say that I will help in any way I can.”
“You can’t help. Best you go back uptown where you belong.”
“This wasn’t the work of the Black Hand, was it?”
“I pay the Black Hand to stay away. I pay the other groups—the Camorra, the Mafia—to stay away. I pay the police to stay away. I pay and pay and pay. Now I will make them pay.”
“Who, Mrs. Toscana? Do you know who it was?”
“I know. That is all you need to know.”
Phil deliberated. She was probably wandering into territory she had no business entering. But since she hadn’t been given any instructions and her own investigation into Tommy Green’s murder had led her here independently, she refused to budge.
Mrs. Toscana narrowed her eyes. “Why are you here? Why were you at Tommy’s wake? Are you a newspaper woman, like the Rive girl?”
“No, I’m here because I want to bring Tommy Green’s killer to justice.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what I do, very discreetly, usually, and because Martha Rive and her friend Roz Chandler asked me to.”
Mrs. Toscana’s fingers grasped each other where they lay in her lap. “You would do best to leave this alone. You don’t know what you are getting into.”
“Then tell me.”
Mrs. Toscana’s eyes didn’t move from Phil’s face, but they seemed to be looking through her rather than at her. All the while her fingers worked as if saying her rosary on imaginary prayer beads.
What could Phil say to convince this woman to help her? “I was supposed to meet with Tommy the day he was killed.”
Mrs. Toscana’s gaze returned to Phil’s. “Why? Why would a countess want to meet Tommy? I don’t believe you.”
“He was supposed to have information for me.”
Mrs. Toscana’s fingers became completely still. Only her eyes flicked with some inner fire. And Phil got the distinct impression that she was sizing Phil up.
“What information could a beat reporter have that would be of interest to you?”
What could Phil say? That she had no idea? That she’d gone to meet him because she was following orders? “He didn’t say. I thought it was about the Black Hand. He was supposed to be investigating them.” Though Phil had to admit it was looking less and less likely.
“And what would you know of the Hand?”
Phil deliberated quickly. Could she trust this woman? Should she trust this woman? “Only what I’ve read, but since I began looking for Tommy’s murderer, I’ve been threatened, followed, and kidnapped. I want to know who is behind this.”
“Furfante.”
“To be sure, a villain,” Phil agreed. “Perhaps more than one. But right now, I’m only interested in who killed Tommy Green and why. Can you help me?”
“And did you meet him? Did you get your information?”
“I met him, after a fashion. We were to meet at the Theatre Unique. I went, he was there, but he was already dead.”
Mrs. Toscana sucked in a searing breath and crossed herself. “He was found at the docks.”
“His body was moved by the police, by Sergeant Becker himself.”
Mrs. Toscana made a hacking noise as if to spit. “That devil.”
“I can only surmise he had Tommy’s body dumped at the docks because for some reason he didn’t want him found at the theater. Do you know that reason, Mrs. Toscana?”
“Why should I? Why are you asking me? I know nothing. I don’t—” She looked up suddenly, as if she had heard something. But there was nothing. Then her face crumpled. She moaned, a soft, ungodly sound that chilled Phil’s bones.
“I knew it would get him killed. I told him so many times, but you couldn’t get Tommy to change. Reporting was in his blood, and now he is dead.”
Her eyes were black pools of grief.
It was obvious that Tommy Green was more than one of her customers. Was she his informer? friend? confidant? lover? Beneath her severe mourning, Mrs. Toscana was not an old woman.
“How did they kill him?”
Phil didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to remember. “His throat was slit.”
“Assassino,” Mrs. Toscana hissed, and broke down completely. Phil could do nothing but watch. There was more here than Phil had first conjectured.
“Let me help,” Phil said. “Let me help find his killer.”
But Mrs. Toscana, her head lowered, seemed to have forgotten Phil was there. Phil took the moment to look around the room. Saw three framed photographs arranged on a round mahogany table at her elbow. She turned on the table lamp—Tiffany, she noticed—to examine them more closely.
They were all old and sepia-toned. One of a young man in knickers and short jacket. A family portrait of the same young man and a mother, father, several other children, and … a young girl with dark hair and pale complexion. Surely this was Mrs. Toscana as a child.
“That was when we first came to Queens,” Mrs. Toscana said out of the silence.
“You have a very large family.” Phil smiled. “You must have lovely Christmases.”
“Yes, two large tables, the dinner of the twelve fishes. Everyone comes, everyone feasts.”
“And this one. What a lovely photograph.”
A young woman in her late teens, wearing a simple white gown. For a debutante dance, perhaps. Surely the same little girl.
It looked just as she imagined Mrs. Toscana would have looked at that age. And yet so familiar in the present. Phil thought of her own Lily, pale with dark hair, but not the round face and pointed chin of the girl in the photo. Familiar, but not Lily.
“I was sixteen and that was my coming-out dress, such that it was.”
“And this is you, also?” Phil asked, picking up the third photograph of the same young woman and three young men taken out of doors. “Your brothers?”
“The one standing on the right. Giuseppe. That one sitting on my left is Tommy.”
Tommy Green. Phil wasn’t even sure of what he looked like except in death. And even then, every time she’d tried to conjure his face, it blinked in and out like the circling carousel of light and dark in the theater.
But this young Tommy Green broke her heart. The serious expression necessary in those days to get a proper photograph. Stretched out on a lawn with Mrs. Toscana—Sally—sitting upright with her skirts spread out around her in the grass.
“You were childhood friends,” Phil said.
“We were still friends.”
“And who is this?” Phil pointed to the third young man: a little older, stocky, and big, with a square, determined jaw.
“That one…” Mrs. Toscana said. “That one was Giuseppe’s friend, Samuel Trout.”
Phil stared at the images, caught in time. “You all grew up together?”
“No, Tommy and I grew up together. Samuel was Giuseppe’s friend.” Mrs. Toscana’s head snapped toward Phil, as if her mind had been drawn into the past. “How did you find me? Why did you come here? Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” Phil said, taken aback. “I found this in Tommy’s pocket, and another in his lodgings.” She reached in her purse and brought out the matchbox. The Rose. She placed it on the coffee table in front of Mrs. Toscana.
Mrs. Toscana took the box from the table, held it in her open palm, then closed her fingers gently around it.
Not the gesture of some paid occasional congress. She had cared for Tommy Green deeply.
“And this,” Phil continued. She reached into her inside pocket and brought out the key she’d found in the shaving-cream jar. “Do you know what this opens?”
Mrs. Toscana reached for it, but Phil’s fingers closed over it.
Mrs. Toscana gave Phil an appraising half-smile. “Open your fingers so I can see. I will not attempt to take it from you.”
Slowly, Phil opened her fingers.
Mrs. Toscana scrutinized the key. Shook her head. “He left a few things here … but nothing that locked.”
A simple sentence fraught with meaning.
“You’re certain?”
“I am, but please don’t ask me to show you.”
“I understand. There’s just one other thing, and then I’ll stop bothering you; I know you must have many things to do. I noticed yesterday that after the explosion, all the girls came downstairs, but there were no men. Are you closed on Sundays?”
Mrs. Toscana laughed. “As the moralists wish? No. They can close the movie houses, but not Mrs. Toscana’s. I told you, I pay. And I pay handsomely. Besides, men’s desires know no schedule.”
“So there were men here yesterday morning.”
“Of course, but they rarely use the front entrance.” She murmured a laugh. “Like you, they use the underground tunnel, only whereas you were fully clothed, they sometimes flee wearing nothing but their drawers and carrying their shoes in their hands.”
“I saw Jarvis Chandler and Samuel Trout leave by the back door of the club. Did they come here?”
Mrs. Toscana raised her peremptory hand. “I do not give any information about my clients. I am known for my total discretion. That is how I stay in business. I hear you are also completely discreet. That is the only reason I am talking to you now.”
Phil nodded her understanding. Mrs. Toscana must have been doing her own bit of investigation since yesterday.
“I assumed there was a back room at the club where men either conducted business or gambled.”
“So convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
Phil nodded. “Because they can also enter your establishment the same way.”
“Consider. They make deals in the club’s back room and celebrate by coming here to use my girls. And consequently tell them anything they want to know.”
Phil smiled at that. “A man talks after he’s been satisfied.”
“Exactly so.”
“And the girls tell you, you engage in a spot of blackmail. Then I imagine you give the girls a cut, and pay the rest back to the men for their protection.”
“You are very astute, Lady Dunbridge.”
“But it is a very dangerous game.”
“No one has ever accused me of such a deed.”
“But someone might have found out. Could they have killed Tommy to punish you?”
Mrs. Toscana shrugged that off. “Everyone knows Tommy comes here; they think he is here to see one of my girls.”
“But he isn’t,” Phil said. “Are you Mrs. Green as well as Mrs. Toscana, by any chance?”
“No, and you should stop asking questions. He is gone, and I will make whoever did it pay. You do not have to worry about justice. I will see to it.”
“But I must,” Phil said. And here she did something that she was certain broke every crime-investigation rule ever made. “I’m after bigger game.”
For a moment, Mrs. Toscana just looked at her, then said, matter-of-factly, “I hope we’re not going to be competitors.”
To Phil, it sounded more like a threat than a hope. “Absolutely not. I’m not after money or power or dictating people’s morals.”
“What are you after?”
“Justice.”
“That’s a good thing to reach for. I wish you luck.”
Phil rose to leave and retrieved one of her calling cards. “I imagine you might have lost the one I gave you yesterday. Please contact me if you learn anything that would help my investigation. And please don’t exact your vengeance until I exact mine.”
Mrs. Toscana took the card. “Are you sure you want to leave this with me?”
“As evidence of my visit? Mrs. Toscana, my reputation has been in shreds more than once, but I, like the phoenix, always rise from my ashes. Do your worst.”
Mrs. Toscana placed it on the table next to the matchbox. She didn’t even look at it. Phil turned to leave, then an idea struck her.
She turned back to Mrs. Toscana. “Does Sydney Lord visit your house?”
“Sydney? He’s too tightfisted. And I don’t give my girls for free.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
Phil left to the quiet sobbing of Manhattan’s most exclusive madam.
So, Sydney Lord didn’t frequent The Rose, Phil thought as she went back to the corner in search of a taxi. But he had a box of their matches. And he had followed Jarvis and Trout out the back door of the club. So, not to enjoy a night of wanton lust, but to stop at the club’s back room and do business?
Now, that would open up a whole new avenue of investigation. A politician, a real-estate mogul, and a newspaper editor. What business could they have together? One idea leaped to mind.
It was time to enlist Martha Rive’s help.
The Plaza was abuzz with activity when Phil returned. The entrance that led to the ballroom was open, and trolleys and men carrying boxes passed each other on the stairs as they prepared for the evening’s charity ball.
The main lobby had added a new layer of sparkle during the night. And rumor abounded about the number of trees that would appear on Christmas Eve for the Plaza residents. But for tonight, swags of pine and holly adorned the walls, and baskets of Christmas greenery stood on the registry desk and every reading table.
Even Egbert had a sprig of holly in his buttonhole and hummed a well-known carol under his breath all the way to the fifth floor.
And Phil could think of nothing but how to find Tommy Green’s killer.
Her own apartments had gone through another transformation. An arrangement of Christmas flowers had arrived from the chairwoman of the charity-ball committee, another from The New York Times.
The scent of oranges, cloves, cinnamon, and pine suffused every room. Every surface had something that celebrated the holiday. It was certainly festive, and had to be Lily’s work. Phil didn’t begrudge her enthusiasm in the least; she was, however, rather amazed that Preswick had countenanced it.
Preswick came out, putting on his jacket. He’d obviously been doing something unusual: there was a sprinkling of glitter across his nose.
“My lady. We didn’t hear you.” He took her coat. “You shouldn’t run off like that. We were worried.”
“I’m sorry, Preswick. But needs must. What have you been doing?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of moving all of our investigatory tools into the small study, as you will no doubt want to invite guests in for the holidays.”
Actually, that was the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.
“Excellent idea, Preswick. We might even have a few people in to dine, though perhaps we should take advantage of the excellent private restaurant downstairs.”
Though his expression didn’t change, she could tell immediately that dining out would not pass muster. She had rarely eaten in their own dining room, since she preferred to take her breakfast in the small kitchen with Preswick and Lily, her other meals at the round table at the parlor window, or even sharing sandwiches with her servants around their study table as they discussed murder and mayhem over egg salad and watercress.
“How many do you think our dining table will fit comfortably?”
“A small party, my lady. Ten or twelve at the most. Not ideal, I realize…”
“More than enough. For we must think of our new lives. We can’t have our investigative materials glanced at by curious eyes, or have wine spilled on our texts and notes. Ten seems more than enough for me. Perhaps after the new year, when this investigation hopefully will be resolved, we’ll start entertaining.
“But that’s not what I meant. Why do you have glitter on your nose?”
Her well-trained butler didn’t flinch. “I’m afraid we were making Moravian stars. To pass the time. Lily was concerned, and I thought it would take her mind off your absence.
“Shall I order some luncheon, or shall I send Lily to you? It may be a minute or two. I don’t remember the making of the stars as quite so … untidy.”
“Perhaps I’ll join you,” Phil said brightly. “I’d like to see these Moravian stars. If you have an extra apron, I may try my hand at making them, too. And there are a few things I want to consult you on.”
So while Phil folded and plaited the strips of white paper under Preswick’s guiding fingers, she told them about her morning with Mrs. Toscana. “She’s very reticent. If I were in her business I would be, too.” Which raised an eyebrow from Preswick.
“I showed her the key we found. I didn’t have much choice. But she didn’t recognize it. So…” Phil paused to get a particularly obstinate edge of paper to slide beneath the others.
Finally achieving success, she started on the next. “I’m thinking that the next step is to ask Martha Rive for her help. What is your opinion?”
“She is a journalist, my lady.”
“Exactly, Preswick. Can we trust her not to divulge what she learns before we’re ready?”
“She could ruin the whole investigation,” said Lily. “Those muckrakers will do anything for a story.”
“Lily, your vocabulary never ceases to amaze me.”
“And it is quite inappropriate to a lady’s maid,” Preswick agreed. “Nevertheless, I agree. Can she be trusted not to—I hesitate to say it—blow our cover prematurely?”
This earned a smothered grin from Lily.
“I don’t see any other way. Marty knew Tommy better than anyone.” Other than perhaps Sally Toscana. “And yet I hesitate…”
“Make her sign in blood,” Lily suggested.
“Perhaps we could conceive of a less gruesome way of ensuring her silence.”
“An exclusive, my lady.”
Phil stopped stirring. “You mean promise to let her be the one to break the story, before any other paper knows about it—on the condition that she remains silent until our investigation is completed, the whole story is known, and the appropriate actions are taken.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I think we must,” Phil said. “In fact, I think I will invite her over for a pre–charity ball cocktail.”
“What if she won’t come?” Lily asked.
“I will make it clear that it is something to her benefit, but that I can only tell her here.” Phil smiled. “How can she possibly say no?”