In a town this small, Grace knew that people tended to know each other’s business. So even if the murderer knew everyone in town or was a complete stranger, someone must have seen something. In the following days, Grace followed up on rumors all over Shelby and greater Orleans County. In Newton’s Corners, where Phelps had hired Stielow, people in coveralls with dogs gave her strange looks. Most people liked Charlie Stielow, but they disliked outsiders even more. Grace learned that Phelps was said to be a rich but miserly man, in possession of a secret fortune somewhere close around his person. He hired tramp labor for nothing. Grace looked into a few of his previous employees, but didn’t find anything. She did hear a few people tell of a rag picker named Erwin King who had been seen around the Phelps house earlier on the day of the murder. And there seemed to be evidence—a strange third place setting at the table that morning—that suggested Phelps had a houseguest that night. There was also an unknown man at the funeral who had acted strangely aloof. These were the ghosts that Grace was chasing.
Back at the Iroquois, Grace checked in on the telephone with Kohn and Loeb. Parts of the story were starting to spill into the papers, which they all agreed was good. But they had to try something else if they wanted a reprieve for Charlie. The clock was ticking. Luckily, Grace had a new theory on where to start.
Detective George Newton was the head of Byrne’s Detective Agency and took any job presented to him. The famous Pinkerton agency did, too, but they had a higher standard of work, at least according to their advertisements. But Byrne’s rates were cheaper. And Newton got results, though clients knew better than to ask how. While Grace was picking around Shelby looking for clues, Newton was in New York City tailing some man who was supposedly cheating on his fiancée. It was a “hotel job,” as they said in the detective game. To tell the truth, Newton hadn’t even seen the man; he just took the job and was biding time until his client, some old rich lady, called again. Her daughter was the fiancée. Poor gal.
Newton finally got the call that afternoon. Mrs. Wintergreen, the mother, asked if Newton might give his report to her lawyer in the city, a man named Mr. Welch, who had an office over at 80 Maiden Lane. Newton agreed; he put on a tie and headed over. He knew how paranoid these rich society types were about their secrets. They needed everything to be official.
Newton sat down with Mr. Welch—a typical lawyer—and made up a bunch of stuff about the man cheating on the fiancée. He made it sound good, but not too sensational. Just enough to shock Mrs. Wintergreen when she heard the report. Newton said he needed more time and resources to know for sure, which of course meant more money. Welch was sympathetic; he knew the game and was just here to placate his client, who had money to burn. As they were finishing up, Welch asked Newton about the Stielow case he had been reading about in the papers. Newton’s name had been printed as the star detective who got the giant murderer to confess.
“Well, you see, that was part of my method,” replied Newton, proudly leaning back in his chair. “I wanted to get him all excited and worked up, letting him think we had the real murderers. I told him a whole lot of things about this and that, made a lot of motions, got him excited, had my two men there with me and at the psychological moment, I rushed at him, grabbed him, shook him and threw him against the wall and said: ‘Charlie, who murdered old man Phelps?’”
Welch soaked in the words. He then asked Newton if he had hit Charlie.
“Well,” paused Newton. “Not very hard. Charlie said ‘I don’t know.’ I rushed at him again, grabbed him by the throat and said ‘You _, who killed Phelps?’ ‘I don’t know, I don’t know’ he said. I grabbed him again and said ‘Come along with me.’”
Newton continued. “We brought him over to the hotel and held him there all night … I finally told him that if he would tell me that Nelson shot Phelps, I would let him go to his wife. We got Nelson, who used Stielow’s confession against Nelson and worked the two of them against one another. Nelson said that he held old man Phelps while Charlie shot him.”
“My God” said Welch, clearly impressed. “That was a clever piece of work. Your rushing at the man like you did at the psychological moment practically scared the confession out of him. How do you account for this?”
Newton smiled. “That was the master mind over the weaker victim.”
Welch smiled himself at that last line. As he did, he stood still for a moment. Welch called to the adjoining room, and a stenographer came out with a transcript from a Dictaphone. Newton’s shoulders fell into a slump. The whole conversation had been recorded.
“My name is Stuart Kohn,” said Welch.
Newton locked eyes with the man speaking in front of him. Newton knew that Stuart Kohn was part of Stielow’s defense team. But they had never met. A moment passed. Until now, Newton realized. “Mrs. Wintergreen” was probably Grace Humiston herself, he thought. Newton slumped in his chair, defeated, as the rest fell into place.
Once the group went over Newton’s confession, Grace told Sophie to write the piece she had been preparing for. On July 18, readers of the New York Evening World read the full story of Charlie Stielow and his struggle for justice. In her article titled “Man Facing Death,” Sophie assured her loyal readers that “[t]he most vivid imagination of Sherlock Holmes could not evolve more dramatic elements than those which surround the case of Charles Frederick Stielow.” She went on to relate the entire story of the Dictaphone sting that had been thought up by Grace. Sophie repeated some of the leads they had made in the investigation into Charlie’s innocence. She also made the point that even the officials at Sing Sing thought Stielow was innocent and deserved to be free. And, after her article, countless readers agreed.
On the Friday before the execution, Sophie was supposed to make the final plea for clemency to Governor Whitman. But earlier that week, her own health failed her. Sophie’s doctor diagnosed her with nervous exhaustion and told her that it would be suicide for her to go to Albany. The doctor said that she should obliterate the Stielow matter entirely from her mind or face protracted illness and possible death, an impossible request for Sophie Loeb. By Tuesday night, she had a new project in mind.
Meanwhile, Inez Milholland was going from Albany to Albion, drumming up support for Charlie’s release in the form of a petition to the governor. The only sleep she was getting lately was on trains. When Inez finally arrived at her home near Westchester, she too collapsed into bed. Sophie Loeb phoned her just before dawn. Even confined to bed, Sophie was serving as the group’s de facto organizer. Sophie excitedly told Inez about her newest idea: she wanted to hold a public rally in Medina to garner more signatures for Charlie before their last trip to see the governor. Inez, though exhausted herself, agreed immediately. She hopped on a train that day and convinced Misha Appelbaum and Stuart Kohn to help. Inez then went to Medina to secure the theater and start advertising. She sent out riders on horseback onto the roads and trails stuffed with handbills announcing the event. Sophie called Grace, who was still tracking down the story of a mysterious rag picker. Grace agreed that the event was a good idea and set off in a car.