Gambarelli’s was just on the far side of MacDougal Street. As I went into the dark interior of the store, the familiar smell of spices and pickles and garlic sausages rose to greet me. I handed Mr. Gambarelli my list and paid the bill. “My boy is just out on an errand, but I will send him straight to you when he returns,” he said. “It is good to see you back in the neighborhood, Mrs. Sullivan.”
I realized then that everyone must have heard about the fire that destroyed our house.
“Thank you,” I replied and found myself blinking back tears.
As I headed back toward the square I had to negotiate gaggles of university students, loitering on the street corner or coming out of the bookshop. Their attire ranged from smart blazers and boater hats to the sort of European student costume I had seen in Paris—the baggy pants and a worn jacket with patched elbows, and on the head a cloth cap. They talked earnestly in small groups and I imagined they were discussing philosophy or literature. This was one of the occasions when I truly envied Sid and Gus their experiences at Vassar.
Then I heard one of them say, “She’s a corker, all right. Best little barmaid in Greenwich Village,” which dispelled my illusion immediately.
Then, of course, I realized with a jolt that on the other side of the street was Fritz’s café, where Simon Grossman had drunk a cyanide-laced cup of coffee. I crossed the street toward the café and stood outside, looking and thinking. This was one of those places that had been started by an Austrian to mimic the elegant café scene of his native Vienna. But alas, the location was not right for an elegant clientele, being surrounded by students and immigrants and more recently by starving artists and writers. So it had become a place that served soups and sandwiches as well as little cakes, at prices students and starving artists could afford. I had been in there myself a couple of times since I moved to Patchin Place and had always found it lively and inviting.
It was crowded now, with students clustered around its marble-topped tables, drinking big cups of milky coffee or dunking rolls into it. I realized I hadn’t been told what time of day Simon Grossman had died, but he had been drinking coffee, so it had probably been in the morning, just like this. I stood in the doorway looking around. The owner, presumably Fritz, sporting an impressive mustache that curled up at the sides, saw me, recognized I wasn’t one of his usual customers, and came out from behind the marble-faced counter to me. “You wish coffee, madam?” he asked.
Why not? I thought. It would give me an excuse to stay and observe.
“Thank you,” I said. “It seems rather crowded.”
“It is always crowded in here. These young layabouts, they would rather sit here and drink my coffee than go to their classes. Wait, I find a table for you.” And before I could stop him, he ejected two boys who were sitting in a corner.
“Oh, no really,” I protested.
He shook his head. “They have been here over an hour, nursing one cup of coffee. Not good for business.” He raised his voice to them. “Go on. Off with you. Your papa expects you to be studying, not wasting time here.”
“But we were discussing a philosophy paper, Fritz. Working hard, I swear,” one of them said, although I could tell from his grin that this hadn’t been the case. I decided that their corner table would be an ideal site to observe, and I took a seat at it as they gathered up their books. As Fritz departed to get my coffee, I gave them a friendly smile.
“Tell me,” I said. “Do you come here every day?”
“When we can afford it,” one of them said.
“I don’t wish to sound morbid,” I said, “but were you by any chance here when that student was killed?”
“You mean the duel last year?” one of them said, his face lighting up. “Wasn’t that something?”
“Ye Gods. I half expected to have my head slashed off,” the other agreed. “Those guys were insane.”
“No, I meant Simon Grossman, the young man who drank the poisoned coffee,” I interrupted before they got carried away by their description.
Their eyes opened wider then. “So it was poisoned!” one of them said. “We often wondered, didn’t we, old sport?”
The other nodded. “They never said anything. Let us think that he’d had a fit or something, but I always thought there was something fishy.”
“Did you know Simon Grossman?”
“Saw him around from time to time, but didn’t have any classes with him. You’d often see him here or in a tavern, usually with a young lady, of questionable virtue, one might say.”