3. A Masquerade of Honor

The apartment building on Horatio Street was the kind of place where the wallpaper remembered the Coolidge administration and the radiators clanked out a symphony of discontent at unpredictable intervals. Theodore Ashby’s unit was on the third floor, at the end of a hallway that smelled of boiled cabbage and somebody else’s secrets. The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the gap, and the silence that spilled from it was the heavy, watchful silence of a room that had recently witnessed something it would rather forget.

Inspector Cramer arrived with two detectives from the Twentieth Precinct, a photographer, and a man from the medical examiner’s office who looked like he had been pulled out of bed and was not happy about it. Cramer’s face, already a roadmap of hard years and late nights, tightened when he saw me standing in the hallway.

“Goodwin,” he said, the word landing like a accusation. “Every time I find you at a crime scene, my paperwork triples. What’s your interest here?”

“The tenant, Theodore Ashby, hired Nero Wolfe yesterday evening. He believed someone was following him. He believed that someone had murdered a man named Amos Kray, also known as John Doe, and had erased every official record of the man’s existence. I gave Wolfe my report on the matter this afternoon, and while I was reporting, Mrs. Albright, the neighbor, telephoned to say Ashby’s door was open and there appeared to be blood on the floor. Wolfe sent me here. He is awaiting your call.”

Cramer absorbed this with the expression of a man who has just been handed a live grenade and told it might be a party favor. “Amos Kray. John Doe. Erased records. You’ve been busy.”

“We have also identified four other deceased individuals with connections to the same slum tenement, Corkscrew Alley, all dead under circumstances that might generously be described as suspicious. And we have reason to believe that the man responsible for erasing Amos Kray’s file, and possibly for his death, is a person of considerable wealth and influence.”

Cramer opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, but I held up a hand. “Wolfe will give you the full briefing. He insisted. First, let’s see what’s in the apartment.”

The apartment was a wreck. The furniture, what little there was of it, had been overturned. The contents of a small writing desk were scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Books had been pulled from their shelves and left in disordered piles. And in the center of the living room rug, a dark stain spread outward from a point that I tried not to look at too closely. The photographer’s flashbulb popped, freezing the chaos in bursts of white light.

There was no body. There was no sign of Ashby. But there was also no sign of forced entry. The lock was intact. The windows were closed and latched. Whoever had done this had either been let in by Ashby or had possessed a key.

“Your client,” Cramer said, kneeling by the stain, “appears to have come to harm. The question is whether he’s dead or just hurt, and if he’s dead, where the body is.”

I scanned the room, looking for something that the intruder might have missed. Ashby had said he kept a copy of the intake photograph. I had seen him hand the original to Wolfe. But he might have kept other records, notes, something that would tell us where he had gone or what he had discovered.

In the corner of the room, near the overturned desk, I spotted a small wastebasket that had somehow escaped the general destruction. Inside, crumpled into a ball, was a piece of paper. I smoothed it out and found a handwritten list of names, addresses, and dates. At the top, Ashby had written: “Corkscrew Alley Boys – Other Residences.” Below were five entries. Three of them matched the names Lon Cohen had given me: Riordan, Mullins, O’Shea. But there were two additional names I had not seen before: “Francis ‘Frankie the Fish’ Delvecchio” and “Edmund ‘Eddie the Ear’ Blackwood.” Next to Delvecchio’s name, Ashby had written: “Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1932.” Next to Blackwood’s: “Albany, New York, 1939.”

Cramer looked over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

“Ashby was doing his own investigation. He found two more members of the gang, ones who left the city before they could be killed here. If the pattern holds, they’re dead too.”

I pocketed the list. Cramer saw me do it but said nothing. There were times when our interests aligned, and this was one of them. He knew Wolfe would share whatever we found, eventually. He also knew that Wolfe would share it on his own terms and on his own schedule.

Back at the brownstone, I found Wolfe in the office with a stack of telegrams spread before him on the desk. He had been busy. The telegrams were from various contacts around the world: a retired police inspector in London, a private inquiry agent in Halifax, a newspaper editor in Albany, a clerk in the British Home Office who owed Wolfe a favor dating back to a case involving a stolen Shakespeare folio.

“Sir Reginald Thorne,” Wolfe announced as I settled into my chair, “was born Reginald Thorne in the district of Whitechapel, London, in 1897. His birth certificate lists his father as unknown and his mother as one Margaret Thorne, a laundress who was arrested three times for prostitution and died of consumption in 1910, when the boy was thirteen. There is no record of his attending Oxford. There is no record of his existence in England after 1912. He appears in New York City in 1916, living in a tenement on the Lower East Side, and by 1918 he is photographed in Corkscrew Alley in the company of the five young criminals whose deaths you have been investigating.”

He picked up another telegram. “From Halifax: Francis Delvecchio, formerly of New York City, died in 1932. The official cause was drowning. He was pulled from the harbor. The investigation was cursory, and no suspects were identified. From Albany: Edmund Blackwood died in 1939. He was found dead in a boarding house, apparently from a fall down a flight of stairs. The police report noted that his neck was broken, which is an unusual injury for a fall of that nature, but the coroner ruled it accidental.”

Wolfe set the telegrams aside and regarded me with the expression of a man who has just completed a complex mathematical equation and found the answer displeasing. “Seven men, Archie. All of them from Corkscrew Alley. All of them dead. The first died in 1935, the last a few weeks ago. The killer has been patient, methodical, and thorough. He waited years between killings, allowed the trail to grow cold, and ensured that each death appeared accidental or natural. The only mistake, if it can be called a mistake, was the filing of a disability claim by Amos Kray under the John Doe designation, which created a paper trail that led a conscientious clerk to ask questions that should not have been asked.”

“And now Ashby is missing, and there’s blood on his floor.”

“Yes.” Wolfe’s tone was grim. “Sir Reginald Thorne has become aware of our investigation. He knows that we know about Corkscrew Alley. He knows that we have connected him to the dead men. And he has taken steps to silence the clerk who started the inquiry. The question is what he will do next.”

I told him about the man in the dark overcoat who had followed me from the Varick Street Annex to the Gazette building. “He’s still out there. I didn’t see him on the way back from Ashby’s apartment, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. Thorne is watching us.”

Wolfe nodded. “Then we must watch him in return. I have obtained an invitation to a charitable gala being held at the Thorne estate on Long Island this Saturday evening. The invitation is in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Harold Thompson of Chicago, who are, I am reliably informed, currently traveling in Europe and will not be attending. You will go in their place.”

“Me? At a society gala? I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

“On the contrary. You will be accompanied by Miss Lily Rowan, who has graciously agreed to act as your escort and to provide you with the necessary social cover. Miss Rowan is known in society circles and will ensure that your presence is unremarkable. Your task is to observe Sir Reginald Thorne, to study his household, and to look for any connection between the man and the disappearances we have been investigating. You will also attempt to locate any records, photographs, or documents that might link Thorne to his former identity.”

I did not bother to hide my skepticism. “And what will you be doing while I’m playing dress-up?”

“I will be speaking with Administrative Judge Harold Finch, who has agreed to meet with me tomorrow morning. I believe Judge Finch knows more about the missing files than he has disclosed, and I intend to extract that information. I will also be arranging for the protection of any other individuals who might be at risk, including the former colleagues of Amos Kray who may still be alive and unaware of the danger they face.”

The Thorne estate was situated on the North Shore of Long Island, a sprawling Georgian manor surrounded by manicured lawns that swept down to the waters of the Sound. The house itself was a monument to old money and careful taste, its red brick facade illuminated by hundreds of electric lights that gave the whole scene the appearance of a stage set waiting for the actors to arrive. Lily Rowan, resplendent in a gown of midnight blue silk that had probably cost more than my monthly salary, took my arm as we climbed the wide stone steps.

“Remember,” she murmured, “you’re Harold Thompson, textile heir. Your family made its fortune in wool. You have no opinions on politics, you find modern art confusing, and you are very, very impressed by everything you see.”

“I’m a detective, not an actor.”

“Tonight, you’re both.”

The interior of the house was a cathedral to wealth. Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Marble floors reflected the shimmer of gowns and the black-and-white precision of evening dress. A string quartet played Mozart in a corner of the ballroom, and long tables laden with food and drink lined the walls. The guests numbered in the hundreds: senators, industrialists, foreign dignitaries, and the kind of New York society matrons whose names appeared in the columns that chronicled the doings of the rich and the idle.

And there, at the center of it all, was Sir Reginald Thorne.

He was taller than I had expected, with the lean, upright carriage of a man who had trained his body as carefully as he had trained his public persona. His silver hair was swept back from a high forehead, and his eyes were a pale, piercing blue that seemed to take in everything at once. He moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who owned not just the room but everyone in it, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, dispensing charm in measured doses. He was, I had to admit, impressive. If I had not known about Corkscrew Alley, about the seven dead men, about the missing files and the blood on Theodore Ashby’s floor, I might have believed in the image he projected.

Lily and I circulated, accepting glasses of champagne that we did not drink and making small talk with people whose names I forgot as soon as I heard them. I kept Thorne in my peripheral vision, noting the way he interacted with his guests, the subtle hierarchy of attention he bestowed, the brief, private moments when the public mask slipped just slightly and revealed something colder underneath.

After an hour, Thorne ascended a small dais at the front of the ballroom and called for silence. The string quartet stopped playing. The guests turned to face him, their faces expectant.

“My dear friends,” Thorne began, his voice warm and cultivated, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room, “tonight is a celebration not of my accomplishments, but of the spirit of generosity that defines this great nation. The Thorne Foundation, which I am proud to announce will receive an initial endowment of five million dollars, will dedicate itself to the betterment of the lives of the less fortunate. It will fund hospitals, schools, and housing for the poor. It will provide opportunities for those who, through no fault of their own, find themselves without the means to improve their circumstances.”

Applause rippled through the room. Thorne smiled, a practiced, beneficent smile, and continued. “I know something of poverty. I was not always the man you see before you. I came to this country with nothing, and I was given the opportunity to build something of value. It is my fervent hope that the Thorne Foundation will provide that same opportunity to others, so that they, too, may rise above their circumstances and contribute to the greatness of America.”

It was a masterful performance. The self-deprecating reference to humble origins, the appeal to the national mythology of self-made success, the pledge of millions to charitable causes. It was also, I knew, a lie so complete and so carefully constructed that it had become indistinguishable from the truth to everyone in the room except me.

After the speech, the guests dispersed into smaller groups, and Thorne moved among them, accepting congratulations. I watched as a young woman approached him, a notebook in her hand. She was a reporter, I guessed, from one of the society pages. Thorne spoke to her for several minutes, his expression attentive, his gestures open and welcoming. When she left, she was smiling.

I drifted toward the edge of the room, where a hallway led to what I guessed were the private quarters. A velvet rope hung across the entrance, and a uniformed security guard stood beside it. But the guard was distracted by a commotion near the buffet table, and for a moment the way was unguarded.

I slipped past the rope and into the hallway.

The corridor was quiet, the sounds of the party fading behind me. Doors lined both sides, most of them closed. I tried the first one I came to and found a library, its shelves filled with leather-bound books that looked as though they had been purchased by the yard rather than by the volume. A massive portrait of Thorne hung over the fireplace, depicting him in the robes of some honorary degree. The artist had been kind, smoothing away the harder edges of the man’s face and leaving only the benevolent patriarch.

The second door opened onto a study. This was more promising. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface cluttered with papers, correspondence, and a leather-bound appointment book. I moved quickly, scanning the documents without disturbing their arrangement. Most were routine: letters from business associates, invitations to social events, drafts of speeches. But tucked beneath a stack of financial reports, I found a file folder that did not belong with the others.

It was a personnel file from the Federal Welfare Board. The name on the tab was “Huxley, Clarence.” The same Clarence Huxley who had been the regional director, who had investigated the missing files, and who had subsequently vanished.

Inside the folder were several documents. The first was a memorandum from Huxley to someone identified only as “R.T.,” dated six months earlier. It read: “The matter you inquired about has been resolved. The files in question have been removed from the records room and the microfilm altered. The judge whose name was used has been monitored and has not raised any further concerns. I trust this concludes our arrangement.”

The second document was a bank statement from an account in the Cayman Islands, showing a deposit of fifty thousand dollars made to an account held in Huxley’s name, six months earlier.

The third was a death certificate for Clarence Huxley, dated two weeks ago. The cause of death was listed as heart failure. The place of death was a private clinic in Switzerland.

I did not have time to process this before I heard footsteps in the hallway. I slid the folder back into its place and moved to the door, pressing myself against the wall. The footsteps passed. I waited a full minute before slipping back into the corridor and returning to the ballroom, where Lily was holding a glass of champagne and looking bored.

“Find anything?” she asked under her breath.

“Enough to hang him,” I said. “But not enough to prove it in court.”

Later that night, back at the brownstone, I gave Wolfe a full account of what I had found. He listened without interruption, his eyes half-closed, his fingers interlaced across his abdomen.

“The memorandum from Huxley to ‘R.T.’ confirms that Thorne was behind the erasure of the files,” Wolfe said when I had finished. “The bank statement confirms that Huxley was paid for his cooperation. And the death certificate confirms that Huxley has been eliminated, like the others, to prevent him from ever testifying. But none of this is admissible in a court of law. It is all circumstantial. We need a witness, or a confession, or evidence that cannot be explained away.”

“Ashby might have been a witness,” I said. “If he’s still alive.”

“If he is still alive, he is in hiding, and finding him will require resources we do not possess. We must assume, for the moment, that he is dead, and proceed accordingly.”

The telephone rang. I picked it up.

It was Lon Cohen. His voice was tight with urgency. “Archie, I’ve got something you need to see. Something that changes everything. Can you come to the Gazette office?”

“What is it?”

“Not over the phone. Just get here. And tell Wolfe that the story is bigger than we thought. A lot bigger.”

I hung up and relayed the message to Wolfe, who regarded me with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and irritation.

“It is two o’clock in the morning,” he said. “Mr. Cohen’s sense of timing is as inconvenient as his sense of discretion is unreliable. Nevertheless, if he says the matter is urgent, we must assume he is correct. Go. And bring back whatever he has found.”

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door, the list of names and the photograph of the Corkscrew Alley Boys heavy in my pocket. The night was cold, the streets empty, and the city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for whatever came next.