In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,36

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.

CHAPTER 8

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