The count was perfectly charming and invited her to tea at the Plaza. They had several dates before he finally invited her to his apartment on West Fifty-eighth Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. “I went to meet his uncle,” La Rue said. “He was a most aristocratic-looking gentleman with white hair.”
“What happened next?” asked Kron. Now he was getting interested. The uncle game was well known among detectives. It was a common graft where a man posing as the uncle of the initial suitor would sweep in to request money, kidnap the girl, or worse.
“We had a glass of wine,” La Rue said. Afterward, the count called his chauffeur and offered to drive her home. She agreed, but then things took a terrible turn.
“The wine must have been drugged,” she said. “I woke up in that dreadful cellar.”
Kron looked right into her eyes. He noticed a distinct lack of horror in La Rue’s voice. But he remembered the Mureal girl and listened with an open mind.
“I managed to escape by giving the man who acted as guard all the jewels I was wearing at the time.” She sat motionless before Kron.
“Will you please describe the cellar,” Kron requested.
Her hands clasped together. “I can’t tell you anymore. Those white slavers, se?or—they will kill me.”
Kron glanced across the office to see if Grace was with a client. He saw a black sliver of her through the door, seated and alone. Kron excused himself and passed into her office.
“Well, Kronnie, what did I tell you?” Grace asked. “She wouldn’t tell me her address, but I knew you would get it out of her, and find out who this count was.”
“She is either mentally unbalanced or a drug addict,” Kron said.
“That may be so,” Grace agreed. “But I believe that girl has some information we want, and I mean to find out. Try to get her address.”
Kron took down the address and sent La Rue home. The next time they met, at a restaurant, Kron asked her to more fully describe the secret room where she had been held.
“It was beautifully furnished in rich Oriental style,” said La Rue, speaking with an obvious effort. “Divans and little cot beds, deep-piled carpets, softly shaded lamps. There were two very beautiful girls there. I promised to go back for them.…” She paused. “But I didn’t and for that I deserve to be punished.”
Kron studied her. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” he said. Kron told her that they would take the subway uptown. But they could not talk or act like they knew each other. She nodded.
“We’ll get off the train at 125th near Cocchi’s,” Kron said. “I want you to walk ahead of me. When you are opposite the place you believe to be Cocchi’s cellar, drop your handkerchief.”
“Will you do that?”
She nodded yes.
When they got into the square, steel train, Kron grabbed one of the fat, looped tan handles above. As the train clacked forward, Kron absently read the ads for folding Brownie cameras and refreshing Coca-Cola. La Rue sat on the longitudinal seating as they rattled across the bridge. The trains, though new, had already carved their own necessary space for internal theater. People thought about people and destinations, never the train or ride itself. Many riders thought of the Mineola millionaire August Belmont’s alleged private car, clad in mahogany and silk mulberry drapes, hidden somewhere on the IRT. People wondered if it existed, or if it was a part of their own train, in secret down the rail. Kron thought of La Rue’s sensational story. It sounded like something out of Arabian Nights.
When they got off at West 125th, Kron held back, giving La Rue time for a head start just in case anyone was watching. But not too far. The sidewalks were busy, making it difficult to stay together. As Kron made the turn onto the street, he saw La Rue walking briskly toward Cocchi’s shop. Her walk reflected her stories. There were a few people gathered outside of it, as was the norm these days given all the news in the papers. Kron looked around. He had to make sure he didn’t run into Mrs. Cocchi, so he dipped his hat and let the shadows pull him. He looked ahead for La Rue.
When she reached Cocchi’s shop, La Rue kept walking. Without a glance or a moment’s hesitation, she kept going. Kron picked up his pace. Not taking his eyes off her, he grabbed the arms of Tom Fay, one of his men who was stationed near Cocchi’s place as a watcher. Kron ordered him to follow La Rue all night, no matter what happened next. He pointed her out with his finger. Fay nodded. Kron then sprinted and overtook La Rue, pulling her into a doorway.
“Why didn’t you drop the handkerchief?” Kron asked.
“Because someone was watching me,” she whispered. “I know my cellar was where all those people were standing.”
Kron knew this was a lie. He had been in that cellar, and there were no pillows or silk for miles. There could be no grand adjoining chambers, either. Next door lived an old Irish lady named Mrs. Donnelly, a churchwoman, and on the other side was a very respectable family with many children.
“You are all unstrung,” Kron said. “Come over to this candy shop,” he said, motioning to the establishment on the corner. “Have a malted milk. That will do you good.”
“Oh, I couldn’t let you do that,” La Rue said, pulling away. “They would kill me.” She looked around in a frightened manner. “I think I had better go now.” She turned to leave.
Kron thought fast. “While you are drinking it,” Kron added. “I will go into one of the telephone booths and report.” Kron could tell that she had been racking her mind for a getaway. She agreed.
Kron showed her into the corner candy store. There were rows of Goo-Goos, Heath Bars, Turtles, and white Life Savers. A young woman with untidy blond hair and a grimy apron waited on them. When she came back with their order, she delicately planted two glasses of malted milk on the marble-topped table. La Rue gave a shudder. This place was clearly not one of her usual haunts. La Rue looked from the drink to Kron. To save her further embarrassment, Kron excused himself and went toward a telephone booth.
After Kron had given a telephone number, he glanced toward the spot where he had left La Rue. She was already gone. As soon as the connection was put through, Kron described the results of his uptown journey to Grace.
“She is another irresponsible person,” Kron said, furiously. “One of those border-line psychopathic cases.” Kron hung up.