“Yes,” said Philippa. “Because he told me he likes me.”
As Madame Mureal watched from the window, she saw Cocchi and her daughter go into his store. She said, “I saw Cocchi and Phil come out of the shop and go down the basement steps from the sidewalk. I thought at first that maybe the motors were kept down there, and he had taken her down there to show them to her. But suddenly I had a sort of presentment of harm, and I ran breathlessly down the six flights of stairs to the street and over to the shop. When I reached the head of the basement steps I heard Phil screaming Mother! Mother! I started down the stairs, calling her name, and it was not until I called with all my might that Cocchi released her and she came flying out, sobbing and shaking with terror. The sleeve of her dress had been ripped loose from the shoulder and on her arm and neck I could see the spots already turning blue from the grip of the man’s fingers.
“I want all mothers to know,” Madame Mureal went on to say, “how easily these things can happen. There was that man, right across the street from us, and yet he dared to commit this deed in broad daylight within a few yards of Phil’s home. I wanted to go at once to the police and am sorry now that I didn’t, but for Philippa’s sake I moved away instead. Phil did not even then understand her danger. ‘He tried to kiss me, mother’ she told me and ‘I became frightened.’”
She continued. “We had been following the Cruger case rather closely because Philippa had been slightly acquainted with Ruth, but it was not until I picked up a paper on Sunday and saw this Cocchi’s picture that the connection dawned upon me. In fact, I had forgotten the name of the motorcycle man on Manhattan Street, until his face stared at me from the paper. I was so unnerved by the discovery that I fairly shook. I recalled that man’s face on the day Philippa had rushed to me from his grasp, his leering eyes, that bestial look.”
As Madame Mureal noted, “There were other girls in the neighborhood who visited that shop. Phil used to tell me what a ‘nice man’ Cocchi was to all the girls. As soon as I found that this Cocchi was the same man who had lured my daughter into his shop I reported the whole matter to Commissioner Woods.”
As Grace took this all in, Kron looked around before dropping his voice to a hush. Kron told Grace that he had strong evidence linking Cocchi with a secret Sicilian organization, though he was not sure how deep it ran. He suspected Black Hand involvement. Kron also found out that, in 1915, Cocchi had been the roommate of a doctor who had committed suicide after being questioned by police in connection with the death of a young girl. The doctor was supposedly part of an abortion ring.
Grace had a damning point of her own to add. When first questioned about the Ruth Cruger disappearance, Cocchi had several deep scratches on his arms and face. This had never shown up in any of the early testimony or news pieces except on an evidence card that Grace had seen. They knew this was possibly very telling. Of course, given what they were finding out about Cocchi’s wife, the marks could just as easily have been made by her. But there was enough to focus their search now. Henry Cruger had never trusted Alfredo Cocchi. Now, neither did Grace.
Kron pulled out the newspaper clipping that included a few photographs of Alfredo Cocchi. He was handsome. In one, his chin was at a slight angle as he regarded the camera, almost defying it. In another, the thickness of the print and of his eyebrows made his eyes look like dark stains. In another photo, he wore a hood, with the slightest of smiles. They were seeing someone new now. Something worse. And he had been under their faces the whole time.
“This man,” Grace said, “should have been behind bars years ago.”
“We’ll make up for that,” said Kron.
As they sat there at the table, these crimes they had spoken of seemed to sift through the air between all the happy, hungry people around them. They—Grace and Kron—had their own secret now. But they needed evidence to catch him. They needed to get into that mysterious cellar. Grace thought for a moment and then asked Kron a very bizarre question.
She asked him if he knew how to fix a motorcycle.
*
That night, Kron took out some ragged clothes and puzzled over a borrowed motorcycle repair manual. He stayed up late, with the aid of coffee and light, trying to figure out how to fix an all-chain drive.
The next morning, Kron knocked on the door at Cocchi’s store. When Maria Cocchi answered, Kron told her that he was here for the job. She looked him over and then asked what experience he had.
“Several years,” replied Kron quickly, looking her directly in the eyes.
“Then get to work,” Mrs. Cocchi said. “Clean out that clogged gasoline on the red one first.”
Kron paused for a second. He had never monkeyed with a motorcycle before. He had a car of his own and could tinker it up all right, but he’d have to experiment with the cycle. And he hated these clothes. But she was standing right there, watching him.
“What are you standin’ there?” she said. Kron heard her emphasis on “there” and looked down at his feet. He was standing on an iron grating that had hot air blowing up from the cellar. It was late spring, so there should be no need for heat, Kron thought. He wondered if there was equipment down there.
“Why I’m looking for a place to hitch my coat,” said Kron, stalling.
Mrs. Cocchi pointed with her thumb to a nail on the wall. As he hung up his coat, Kron asked, “Is there any other helper here, ma’am, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“I do mind you askin’,” Maria answered, mimicking him. “Don’t ask so many damn questions!”
For a week, Julius J. Kron, the Hungarian detective who could not be bribed, fumbled and bluffed his way through motorcycle repairs as Maria Cocchi watched over him like a hawk. Kron would commit the bikes’ maladies to heart, learn how to fix them at night by reading the manuals, and try to put this knowledge into effect the next day. He had surprising success. The more daunting exercise was dealing with Mrs. Cocchi.