The Unknown Beloved(10)

Molly had kept a few of his things from the years with Capone. Two silk suits, a white fedora, and a pair of glossy white-and-black spectators that he’d loved but that were too flashy for a man who constantly needed to blend in. He’d lived out of a suitcase for so long, buying what he needed when he arrived, and a year in the Bahamas had left him lacking for cold weather wear. He decided he would figure it out when he got to Cleveland. If he was going to be mingling with the shantytown crowd, he wouldn’t want new. He packed the suits and the assorted items anyway. He might need them. A good silk suit opened certain doors, and he had no idea which doors he would be knocking on.

He thought he might enjoy the drive from Chicago to Cleveland. He liked to drive, but he hit snow and holed up for a long night in a roadside inn on Highway 20 that might as well have been Timbuktu for all the warmth and comfort it offered. He was so cold, he slept in the ill-fitting wool suit and the overcoat he’d bought for the funeral, wrapped in a ratty bedspread. He left as soon as the roads were clear, but not soon enough.

When he finally arrived in Cleveland, a day later than he’d intended, he was exhausted, angry, and in no mood for nightfall, which was rapidly approaching, though it was barely four o’clock. Euclid Avenue was still lit up for the holidays, but the city seemed tired, and the few folks he saw out and about moved quickly, faces down, hands shoved in their pockets.

Everything was dreary.

He turned south onto East Fifty-Fifth, following the map to the address he’d plotted out when he’d last stopped. It wasn’t the most direct route, but it gave him a feel for the area, and looking around, he didn’t feel so good. Broadway crossed East Fifty-Fifth on an angle, and he turned right again, studying the neighborhood, making a mental note. Bank, theater, library. He went a few blocks. The address should be on the south side of the street. He passed it once and flipped around at the intersection so he could approach on the right side.

The houses were handsome, as Eliot had promised, but the streetcar line trundled past directly in front of them, ruining the effect and making the three-story Victorian ladies look more like funhouses at a carnival instead of the grand residences they once were.

St. Alexis Hospital, topped with crosses and sectioned with three identical Dutch gables, took up the entire block on the opposite side of the street, and a small café butted up into the first residence, furthering the impression that the neighborhood was crowding the old girls out and leaving them behind, though each seemed open for business.

Of the three on the block, one was a medical office, one was a funeral home, and one simply said Kos. The driveway on that one was large and empty, but he didn’t pull in. He stayed on the street, his car idling in front of the house, and frowned at the sign. Where had he heard that name before?

He checked his map and Eliot’s notes again.

This was it: 5054 Broadway. A tailor, Eliot had claimed. The name sounded more like a law firm. Wills and probate made more sense next to the funeral home.

He straightened his tie and checked his reflection, noting that the shadows below his eyes had become gullies, and his fresh shave was not nearly so fresh. He caught movement out the passenger-side window and watched as a woman made her way up the walk to the front porch. She moved quickly, which made him think she was young, though it was hard to tell the shape of her beneath the too-large overcoat that was rolled at the cuffs, a bulky brown scarf, and a crocheted cloche hat that hugged her cheeks and gave him only a glimpse of light brown curls beneath the flattened brim.

The bells on St. Alexis began to toll, and she looked back, pausing as though she appreciated the sound, showing him a slice of cheek and the red tip of her small nose. Then she turned back toward the house and entered the front door, which jangled merrily, suggesting the entrance was indeed open to the public.

He considered waiting for the woman to leave again. He didn’t want to inquire about the room with people nosing about the shop. But perhaps she lived there. Or worked there. He grabbed the sheet of paper with the details about the deposit, stuffed it in his breast pocket, and strode up the walk, leaving his things in the car.

Inside, it smelled of leather and starch, and dress forms, mirrors, and racks of clothes were neatly arranged to give the impression of space and abundance, when in actuality there was little of either. Rows of hats, both men’s and women’s, ran along one side, and glass cabinets of buttons, spools of ribbon, and bolts of fabric occupied the other. A privacy screen and a tailor’s stool were not in use, but he could hear rustling from behind a display case that also served as a counter. The bell had rung when he entered, and the woman he’d seen go into the shop before him bobbed up as if she’d been stowing her things, though she still wore her layers.

“Excuse me, sir, I’ll be right with you,” she said, placing a pair of round, yellow-lensed glasses on her nose. They only accentuated his impression of a small feathered owl, hunched against the cold. She ducked down again, and he thought he heard her tug a boot from her foot.

“I’m here about the room,” he said, removing his overcoat and throwing it over his arm. He took the hat from his head as well. It felt ill-mannered to leave it on inside the shop, though the woman’s next words made him think he’d been too hasty.

“Oh. Oh, I see. I’m so sorry, sir, but I’ve already rented it out.”

“Daniela?” An old woman walked from the back of the shop, a cane clutched in her hand. Her dress looked like something from the previous century, and her hair was knotted at the back of her head, as if she was attempting to lift her papery skin back into place. But her eyes were bright, her cheekbones high, and her back straight.