Chapter Thirty-Two
“Max Blanck’s attorney,” Pax says, tapping the list. “Matthew Steuer.”
The man who, we hope, knows the combination to Max Blanck’s safe.
Clarice clicks her tongue. “I’ve tried to get a meeting. His law firm is like a fortress. It was easier for me to lift literal stock certificates out of the portfolios of Wall Street brokers than it was to enter those offices.”
“I bet,” I mutter, before I realize I’m talking aloud. Clarice winks at me.
This is your sign, Stella.
Call off this terrible charade.
We do not support your revenge.
“We need him.” William drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Let’s craft a letter to him. Very frank. Anonymous. Send it by courier. And hope he’s compassionate to our cause.”
“And if he ignores us?” I ask, looking from face to face.
Or worse—turns your letter over to the police?
Pax shrugs, chews on the cuticles of his thumbnail. “That’s a chance we have to take. If he simply ignores us, we’ll go with our backup plan.”
“Which is?” Kiyoko asks.
Pax’s teeth grit. “We don’t have a backup plan.”
24 May 1912
Dear Sir:
I’ll be forthright: A loved one of mine died in the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire. I am seeking the combination to Max Blanck’s personal safe. Bring it to his soiree tomorrow evening. Give it to the fortune teller. We are not stealing from him.
Signed,
A broken-hearted fellow New Yorker