In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,41

the money.”

“Have you seen her since?”

“Naw, she ain’t come in since.”

“And no news about Fromley?”

He just shook his head.

“Do you happen to know where Clara lives?”

“Think Clara’s got a place up on West Twenty-eighth Street. It’s a building where a lot of singers and actresses live, a block over from Tin Pan Alley proper. You might check there.”

It was more substantive information than we’d gotten from our last couple of interviews, and with only a few more inquiries, we found the specific address of her flat. I thanked Nicky for helping us out. “Anytime,” he had said, and his gravel-toned voice managed to sound soft as he added, “Your mother was a fine woman, Ziele. A damn fine woman.” And with another clap on my shoulder, he returned to his game.

Alistair was some moments ahead of me leaving the Fortune Club. When I caught up with him, he was strangely preoccupied, staring at a nondescript building across the street.

“Everything okay?” I asked, wondering if anything had happened to the Ford, since he was not cranking his engine as expected.

“Just fine.” He smiled reassuringly and walked toward the front engine crank. “I thought I saw—” But he stopped himself. “Never mind. I’m sure I’m mistaken.”

But as the engine revved to a start, I looked over to that nondescript building. I caught a glimpse of a tall man who glanced around furtively before entering. Maybe it was detective’s intuition—or mere idle curiosity—but I kept watching as an array of gambling toughs cycled in and out of the building.

Alistair climbed up into the driver’s seat, and I called him on it.

“It’s not a gambling den itself,” I said, pointing. “But it’s related to the business. It may be a place where owners keep and manage their money. Or where a bookie or a loan shark operates. But it’s not a legitimate business. Are you sure”—I eyed him carefully—“that you didn’t see Fromley entering?”

“I’m sure,” he said, though a troubled look crossed his face.

I waited, making clear I expected him to say more.

“I was mistaken,” he said. “A man I saw going in resembled Horace enough to make me look twice.”

“Your research assistant?” My tone was skeptical. I believed I had just seen the same man as Alistair, and he in no way resembled Horace.

Alistair nodded. “A trick of the mind inspired by our visit to the Fortune Club, I’m sure—and because Horace developed a slight gambling problem this past year. I’ve had to loan him money on occasion. But Horace’s weakness is for low-stakes card games at houses farther uptown that cater to students.” He was firm as he added, “Not a place like this.”

I accepted him at his word and knew he was right. If a man like Horace were to gamble, it was unlikely to be here. And if he needed money to pay some debts, obviously Alistair was willing to provide. But I resolved to speak with Alistair about it later, because he was wrong on one count: There is no such thing as a slight gambling problem. That lesson was one my own father had taught me well. Time and again I had seen him break down in tears, promising my mother he would never gamble another cent. But he never kept his promises. And he never won a single game. It had been a blessing when he finally left.

We made our way back uptown to Clara Murphy’s building. We had no trouble locating Clara’s on the fourth floor of a building that obviously catered to musical and theatrical types—not surprising, for its location on Twenty-eighth Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues was by the heart of the music-publishing district known as Tin Pan Alley. When we knocked on her door, however, there was no answer. We asked several people in the lobby, and they not only recognized Michael Fromley’s ley’s picture, but they had also seen Clara often in his company. What was troubling, however, was that no one could recall seeing Clara herself within the past week or two.

We were stalemated once again.

Some fifteen minutes later, after Alistair whisked us twelve blocks south, we found ourselves at Luchow’s, overlooking Fourteenth Street from a small table by the window. I had objected, but Alistair insisted. “You’ve got to eat something, old boy,” he had said.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

I glanced toward the bar, where the beer selection was sketched out on a long chalkboard hung underneath an impressive collection of beer steins. The choices were overwhelming. “Whatever