The Virtuous Woman (3 page)

Glancing down at the paper in front of him, he read the notes he had jotted down as he listened to the couple speak.
Phil Winslow, age fifty-five.
The address told Sullivan these people were pretty well off—unlike the usual sort that sat across from him. His eyes went to the woman:
Cara Winslow, age fifty-eight.
There was a delicate air about the woman, a gentleness one rarely saw these days. She wore no jewelry except for a wedding ring with a small diamond on her left hand, and her clothes were attractive but not ostentatious. “Why don’t you tell me the problem, and we’ll see what we can do,” he said.

Phil shifted in his chair and leaned forward, his light blue eyes intent. “We’ve just discovered that our daughter is alive. We thought she died almost nineteen years ago....”

Sullivan listened carefully, his mind sorting out the details. He filed the irrelevant facts into one corner of his brain and
kept the ones pertinent to an investigation more accessible. When Phil had finished his story, Sullivan sighed and picked up a pencil, absently drawing circles on his writing pad. He abruptly laid the pencil down and clasped his beefy hands together. “I’ve never heard anything quite like this, Mr. Winslow. It’s very unusual.”

“Do you think you can help us, Lieutenant?” Cara asked softly, an intense light in her warm brown eyes, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“We’ll do all we can, of course, Mrs. Winslow. But it’s not going to be easy.”

“You do find missing people, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, we even have a Missing Persons Division that may be able to help you. But I’m afraid it’s going to be quite a chore.”

“But we know that Grace exists.”

“All you have is the confession of a dying woman to a priest. That’s not very much to go on.”

“You could talk to Father Mazzoni.”

“Of course, that would be the first step. But from what you’ve told me, the woman spoke only briefly of what she had done.” Sullivan shook his head slightly. He didn’t want these people to get their hopes up. “Have you considered that she may have made the whole thing up?”

“Made it up! Why would she do that?” Phil demanded.

“She may not have done it intentionally. She was dying; she was in and out of a coma. From what you tell me, the priest said she was in very poor condition. She may have been delirious.”

“If she made up the story, how would you explain that a baby did indeed die that very night in that specific hospital? How could she have known that? It seems reasonable she was telling the truth,” Cara insisted. “Please, can’t you help us some way?”

Sullivan nodded his head, conceding her point. He thought of the unsolved cases his office had stacked up, but nonetheless, he felt he had to try to help. “What you must understand
is that most crimes are either solved pretty quickly or they don’t get solved at all. There are exceptions, of course, but you’d be surprised how many criminals are caught within a few days. The longer it stretches out, the less chance we have of getting them.”

“But I’ve heard of criminals being caught years after the crime.”

“Well, that’s true, of course, Mrs. Winslow, but it’s rather the exception. I don’t want to discourage you unduly. I just want you to understand that this is the way things might work. This crime—if it happened at all—took place almost nineteen years ago. The criminal—the only witness we have—is dead. The only statement we have from her is a few whispered words when she was very far gone. It’s been a very long time.” He picked up his pencil again and started doodling. “Do you have a picture of the girl?”

“The priest said he went through all of the woman’s things, and there were no photographs.”

“A picture would have helped. Were there any letters?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, then, you see our difficulties.”

“But can’t you do something, Lieutenant Sullivan?” Cara pleaded.

“We’ll try, Mrs. Winslow, but I have to tell you that we already have more cases than we can handle.” He laid his hand on a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. “These are all cases I’m working on right now—me and the rest of the department. We’re overworked and understaffed. What our main job consists of, I’m afraid, is putting criminals in jail who are walking the streets right now.”

Phil and Cara listened as Sullivan went on, and both of them saw that he was sympathetic—but also that he had little hope of being able to help them. Finally Cara asked, “Is there anything you can do, Lieutenant? Just be honest with us.”

“I’ll spend some time on this, I promise. But I’m afraid I can’t promise any results.”

“Maybe we should hire a private detective—someone who could devote all of his time to it.”

“That would be your best bet. If you can afford it, Mr. Winslow, I would certainly advise you to do it.”

“Could you recommend a man?” Phil asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I can. There are some pretty sleazy private eyes out there you’d want to avoid, but there’s one man I’ve known for a long time who you can trust. His name is Alex Tyson. He worked for one of the largest and best agencies in town up until a year ago. Then he went on his own. I can tell you this,” Sullivan said firmly, “Alex is honest. If he can’t help you, he won’t keep sending you a bill for doing nothing. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call.”

“Thank you very much, Officer,” Phil said. “We’d appreciate it. Could you call him right now?” He turned to Cara and saw her disappointment. “We won’t give up, sweetheart,” he said as he took her hand. “Not until we’ve tried everything.”

****

“Well, Detective Tyson certainly doesn’t intend to impress anybody with his neighborhood, does he?”

Cara glanced up and down the street on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. It was not as bad as some of the tenement areas, but it was an older section of town, and the buildings were showing their age. Most of them were no more than two or three stories high, built before the invention of the elevator. The other pedestrians they passed were obviously not from the upper class of New York society.

The two had come directly from the police station to search out Alex Tyson. The journey was disturbing, for the crash of 1929 had left its mark on New York—as it had on every city in America. They passed many shabbily dressed men, their faces drawn with hopelessness, trying to warm themselves by fires burning in trash cans. Three men were selling apples, and Phil bought an apple from each of them. “Poor guys!”
he whispered. “All they want is work, and there’s none to be had.”

“There’s our building,” Cara said.

The two stepped inside and found a long corridor with a stairway at both ends. “It’s on the third floor,” Phil said, glancing at the address the lieutenant had jotted down for them. The two climbed the stairs, and by the time they got to the top floor, he was puffing. “Whew! I’m getting out of shape. I’ll have to spend more time walking—and you will too, darling.”

“You’re right,” Cara said breathlessly. She held on to his arm as they walked down the dim corridor until they found a door with Tyson’s Investigations on the glass. Phil opened the door for Cara and followed her into a waiting room with four chairs and a coffee table with several magazines on top—
Collier’s Weekly, Time,
and
National Geographic.
The walls showcased some surprisingly good paintings. Phil moved closer to inspect the artwork and said, “Why, these are originals and not prints!”

The inner office door opened, and a man of medium build with a ruddy face and sharp gray eyes stepped outside. “Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, I presume? I’m Alex Tyson.” He put out his hand, and Phil grasped the steely grip.

“It’s good of you to see us on such short notice, Mr. Tyson.”

“Come on into my office. I let my secretary go. Didn’t really need one.”

Cara stepped inside, and the two men followed her into the comfortably decorated inner office. There were some chairs around a small coffee table on an oriental rug, a single bed in one corner, a filing cabinet, a window overlooking the street, and a large desk and chair in front of the window. As in the waiting room, the walls were lined with paintings.

Studying the artwork, Phil noted again that the paintings were all originals. One of them was by John Sloan, one of Phil’s old friends from the Ashcan School. “I admire your taste in paintings. This is a really good example of Sloan’s work.”

“You might like that one on the wall behind you as well,” Tyson said with a smile.

Phil turned and exclaimed, “Why, that’s mine!”

“I bought it before you became so expensive.”

Memories flooded back over Phil Winslow. He had painted this scene when he had first come to New York City, penniless and living from hand to mouth. The scene featured a dirty little girl with curly black hair on Hester Street in the Jewish quarter of New York. She was fetching a doll and had an engaging smile. Phil had always thought the painting captured the atmosphere of Hester Street. “That brings back old memories. I’m flattered that you put me there alongside some pretty good artists.”

“I once thought I’d be a painter myself,” Tyson said. “I still dabble, but I don’t have what it takes to make it a livelihood.”

“I’d like to see what you’ve done.”

Tyson blinked with surprise. “Well, I’d be happy to show my paintings to you sometime, but first let’s talk about your problem. Please have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be good, but I’d hate to put you to any trouble,” Cara said.

“No trouble. I’m a tea drinker myself.”

“Fine. I’ll have tea also,” Phil said, and he walked around examining the paintings while Tyson made tea and poured it into delicate china cups.

“I don’t think tea really tastes good unless you have fine china,” he said. “It’s one of my few luxuries.”

Tyson served the two and joined them in a chair by the small coffee table. Phil continued to study the paintings as he drank his tea.

“You’ve done very well with your art,” Tyson commented. “I understand you nearly starved when you first came to New York.”

“How did you know that?” Phil asked.

“I know some artists. I attend most of their shows.”

The three spoke about some of their mutual acquaintances in the art world, and finally Tyson turned to the business at hand. “Lieutenant Sullivan told me a little about your problem, but I’d like to hear the story from your point of view. Please don’t leave anything out.”

Phil told the story very slowly, being careful to give every detail, but in truth there was not all that much to tell. When he had finished, he spread his hands wide and said, “That’s about all we have. We want desperately to find our daughter, Mr. Tyson. Can you help us?”

“I don’t know,” Tyson answered. “I can try.”

“Oh, if you could only find her,” Cara whispered, and tears came to her eyes. She shook her head and blinked them away. “I’m sorry. I’m a little emotional.”

“Very understandable, I’m sure. You have other children?”

She told him the names and ages of their other children.

“You understand, of course,” he said gently, “that your daughter won’t be the young woman she would have been if she had lived with you since she was an infant.”

“We’re ready for that, sir,” Cara said earnestly. “Just please try your best to find her.”

“It won’t take me long to see what I can do. I’ll either find some leads quickly, or I’ll find out just as quickly that I can’t do anything at all.”

“How will you go about it?” Phil asked curiously. “I have no idea how detectives work.”

Tyson leaned back. “Well, the first thing is to go to Father Mazzoni. Then I’ll talk to every inmate and any prison guard that will give me a moment of their time. It all depends on how much leeway the prison officials will give me. In any case, that’s where I’ll begin.”

The Winslows asked a couple more questions, and when they rose to leave, Phil took the detective’s hand. “You understand that I’m not one of the Astors, but God has blessed us financially. Please don’t worry about the expense. As a matter
of fact,” he said with a smile, “find our daughter, and I’ll give you an original painting with my blessing.”

“That’s quite a bonus, but as much as I admire your work, I’d try just as hard without it. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

****

The next few days passed slowly for Phil and Cara, their nerves on edge as they waited for Alex Tyson to call. They had decided not to say anything to the children until they knew something more definite, but in private the two talked considerably about the strange situation that had turned their lives around. They spent much time in prayer, both together and alone, and the two also fasted. While Phil spent much time in his studio, Cara spent an equal amount of time in their bedroom on her knees. God seemed very real to her during that time, and she knew there must be some reason God had allowed this to happen.

Tyson called on March 7 at eight in the morning and said he had some information for them. Less than an hour after the call, Tyson was at the Winlows’ front door.

“Come into the drawing room,” Phil invited. “We’ll have some tea and something to eat if you like.”

“Just tea, thanks.”

As the three sat down to tea, Cara’s eyes were fixed on the detective. “I don’t have good news,” he said. “I’ve been at this every waking moment since our conversation in my office, but the truth is that Bertha Zale was a loner. She apparently had made no friends at all in the prison. A real recluse. She had a cell mate for a time named Mary St. Clair. Mary said she was the worst possible cell mate. Wouldn’t speak a word. Just lay on her back staring at the ceiling or sitting in a chair. It sounds like she might have had serious mental problems. She had a sexually transmitted disease that may have affected her mind.”

“Did you talk to the guards?”

“I talked to everybody,” he said. “But nobody knew anything.”

“She never mentioned to anyone that she had a daughter?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Tyson put his cup down. “I wish I had better news, but honestly I don’t think I can help you.”

“I know you did your best,” Phil said heavily. “Just send me a bill.”