Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  Frustration rose in me, especially when our group began to disperse. I kept my eye on Oliver as we all promised to keep in touch, and when he headed uptown, I caught up with him.

  “You don’t mind if I walk with you a ways, do you?” I asked.

  “It’s a free country, toots.”

  Unlike the others, I never minded Oliver’s cheekiness. His boyishness reminded me of my young cousins I’d lived with back in Altoona. “You’re looking smart,” I said. “Have you found a new job?”

  “Nah, not yet. I got an interview, though.”

  “Where?”

  “Wall Street. I figure that this time I should go where the tycoons are.”

  “I wish you luck. If I can be any help, with a reference or anything like that . . .”

  His brows formed a V of puzzlement. “Do people ask secretaries for references?”

  I let the question pass. “Something you said earlier made me curious. About Guy and women?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I knew Guy was keeping a girl.”

  “How?”

  “I saw her.”

  My feet stopped moving. “Where?”

  “He had me chase over to her apartment a few times when he wanted to send her something. Always acted very casual-like about it. I think he might’ve broken it off with her, though, ’cause I never saw her after June.” He pushed back the brim of his hat, concentrating. “Or maybe July?”

  “Did you actually see this woman?”

  “Sure. A few times.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I guess she was pretty enough, but you’d think a fellow like Guy’d want a flashier doll than her. She was just kind of ordinary. Brown hair, brown eyes. Good figure, though.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Cowan. M. Cowan was the name on her door. ’Course, I never really talked to her. She’d just open the door, take what I’d brought, and shut it. Gave me the feeling Guy’d told her not to speak to me.” He looked into my face. “You ever meet her?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Then what are you asking all the questions for?” He studied my face. “You ain’t jealous, are you?”

  The question gave me a jolt. “Of course not. I just could have sworn I’d heard Guy mention a girl’s name once.” He had, that morning during the summer when I’d found him drunk at his desk. “It started with M. Minna or something. Do you remember the address?”

  “Not exactly, but I can tell you where it was. A blue house on Thirty-fourth between Second and Third. It’s above a restaurant. North side of the street. You can’t miss it. She was on the third floor.”

  “Oliver!” I felt like hugging him. I did hug him. “You’re a wonder.”

  “No need to get squishy.” He squirmed away. “It’s not dignified behavior for an older woman.”

  We parted company and I wasted no time going to Thirty-fourth Street. As Oliver predicted, the house wasn’t difficult to spot. The four-story building was blue-painted brick with white stone eyebrows above the windows, which made it stand out like a flower among weeds among its neighboring brownstone buildings. The Hungarian restaurant at the ground floor had a faded red, green, and white awning over the door. At the windows of the residences above, window boxes lay fallow except for a few wilting asters. The building’s door was open, but a thin woman in a pinafore apron sweeping the foyer blocked my path to the stairs.

  “Who’re you here for?” The authority in her voice made me think she was the landlady of the premises, not a domestic. But my instincts had been wrong about that before.

  “I’m looking for Miss Cowan.”

  “You’re four months too late. She left last summer.”

  I tried not to show my disappointment. “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

  “How would she have done that? She snuck out like a thief in the night. Not that she ever stole anything from me.” Her lips turned down. “But I was glad to see the back of her just the same.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes narrowed on my black clothes. “You look like a nice girl, so I’ll only say this—she wasn’t respectable. If I’d known she wasn’t, I never would’ve rented to her when she came to look at the place last fall. But she dressed real fine, had the money, and swore her husband, a traveling man, would be able to keep up the rent.”

  “Did you ever see her husband?”

  “Sure. He was in and out all the time—nice-looking fella. Dressed like a swell and bought her nice things. My guess his ‘traveling’ was mostly from uptown to here. There was a younger fella, too, that used to come see her, but he didn’t look so nice. Barely more than a boy, he was. But if there was anyone else actually living in those rooms besides Myrna Cowan, I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

  “Myrna.” That was the name I’d heard Guy say last summer in his stupor.

  “Late in the spring, the fighting started between her and her man. The other tenants complained, so of course I had to say something. Then it became clear she was in the family way. I felt sorry for her, of course, but what could I do? My Charlie and I argued about it for a week, but before we could tell her she had to go, she disappeared. Left an awful lot of nice things behind her, too.” She added quickly, “’Course, we had to sell them to cover the amount she owed us for leaving so sudden-like.”

  I was willing to bet selling Myrna Cowan’s belongings reaped more than what the couple was owed.

  A picture of what had happened to Myrna started to take shape. She and Guy had found this apartment conveniently located close to Van Hooten and McChesney. She’d lived there and Guy had visited. Then, when she’d become pregnant, the troubles had begun.

  But why had she vanished? And where?

  “I hope she isn’t a relation of yours,” the iron-haired woman said, shaking her head. “But I guess it happens in the best of families, morals being what they are these days. Like my Charlie always says, once people started having phonographs in the house, it was a downhill plunge for any kind of decency. When I was young, we didn’t live for pleasure all the time.”

  “I can believe it.” Before the woman could react, I thanked her for her help and left.

  My search for Myrna Cowan started that very afternoon. I began with the business directory and made calls from Aunt Irene’s flat, looking for a Cowan family with a missing daughter named Myrna. Unfortunately for me, if such a family existed, they were not listed.

  There was always the possibility that Myrna had come from out of town. Or that she was using an assumed name.

  I went back to my coworkers with the specific name, but no one had heard of Myrna Cowan. Guy had kept his secret well hidden from all of us except Oliver.

  By the end of the week, I was no closer to finding the mysterious Myrna. Callie’s company was leaving for Philadelphia on Sunday evening. I accompanied her to Grand Central, and Teddy met us there to see her off. I stepped back to give the two some privacy, even though Teddy was going to follow her there later. Since he had a stake in the show, he would go down for the opening and stay in Philadelphia during most of its out-of-town run.

  “Break a leg,” I told Callie when the train whistle warned of her imminent departure.

  She kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t let the flat go to ruin while I’m gone. No champagne sprees without me.” She’d loved the story of Otto and me at the Omnium.

  I laughed. “I promise.”

  After the train pulled out, Teddy offered to take me home in his car. I’d been walking all over town in my Myrna Cowan quest and was too tired to refuse. We spoke a little about Guy’s funeral.

  “Poor Hugh,” he said. “I’ve never seen him so cut up. He’s been out of sorts all week.”

  Curious. “I got the sense from him that he and Guy weren’t close.”

  “They weren’t. But he’s been having a devil of a time with the camera mount he’s been working on.”

  “Oh.” I probably sagged in disappointment, like a ghoul. As i
f I wanted the man to be guilty of fratricide. “He wants to take pictures from airplanes?” It seemed silly. “Is there much demand for that?”

  “Well, not now, of course,” Teddy said, shifting after a turn. “But just think of the possibilities for cartographers. Not to mention the military uses it could have.”

  I frowned. The idea of military men buzzing over our heads had never occurred to me.

  “But I don’t think it’s only the mount that’s upset him,” Teddy said.

  “Why?”

  “First, there’s no reason for it to. You see, he’s mostly got the bolting mechanism worked out, and the rest is just a stabilization issue. A camera has to be still while planes, given aerodynamics, naturally move, which means that—”

  I had to interrupt him. “What else would Hugh be worried about?”

  His face went blank for a moment; then he said, “Oh! I don’t know. There was some fellow at the aerodrome who nettled him the other day. That was odd.”

  “Who?”

  “Short man, with close-cropped curly hair. The name Hugh called him was Cohen.”

  Cohen. “Not Cain?”

  “Oh no. It was Cohen, I’m fairly certain of that. I think he was Jewish.”

  “A young man?”

  Teddy nodded. “Very. If he was even eighteen, I’d be surprised.”

  “Jacob Cohen.” It had to be. Strange. He’d visited Guy at the office the week before the fire. “He was at the air park in New Jersey? Was this after the funeral or before?”

  Teddy frowned in thought. He looked almost pained. “Just before. Do you know this Jacob Cohen person?”

  “He was our office boy. Mr. McChesney fired him.”

  “He and Hugh had a big dustup. Hugh practically had him dragged out of the hangar. ‘Don’t come around here bothering me with this again,’ he said. Or something very like it. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it at the time, but if he’s who you say, maybe it was to do with some money Van Hooten and McChesney owed him.”

  No. Jacob would have gone to Mr. McChesney for that, and he would have done so months ago, after he was fired.

  There was only one reason Jacob Cohen would have gone to Hugh—some business between him and Guy that was left unfinished.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mr. McChesney knew where Jacob Cohen had found work after leaving Van Hooten and McChesney, but for a moment on Monday afternoon it seemed touch-and-go whether I would be able to get the information from him.

  “He’s too sick to see anyone,” Mrs. Carey told me at the door.

  “I only need to speak to him for a moment,” I said. “It’s very important.”

  She wouldn’t budge. Mr. McChesney had caught a chill at the burial and was in a weak condition. The doctor had ordered him to rest undisturbed, and she was going to carry out that order.

  In the end, she conveyed the question about Jacob Cohen from me and came back with a slip of paper. DeVaux’s Fur Warehouse, West 20s, was all it said. No other greeting, no signature. But I recognized his writing, so I knew it was from him. Strange.

  Still, it was the information I needed. I only hoped Jacob still worked at this place. I thanked Mrs. Carey and hurried downtown.

  After asking around, I was directed to Twenty-ninth Street. Several furriers plied their wares there, and a few other clothing makers seemed to be migrating up to the area, as well. A great wheeled garment cart nearly ran me down. Inside DeVaux’s, I looked around in wonder at racks and racks of all different kinds of fur. It seemed as if the world had been picked clean of any mammal with a pelt.

  The manager I chased down had little patience for my questions. “Cohen works nights,” he said, barely noting my presence over the top of his spectacles. The clipboard he clasped to his chest seemed as much a part of his uniform as the suit on his back, the measuring tape around his neck, and the fat red pencil snugged over his ear.

  “Do you know where I could find him now?”

  “Who’re you with?” The eyes behind those glasses were guarded. “The city? He’s over sixteen.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t have any trouble with my people. It’s all legal here. Ask anybody.”

  “I’m not from the city. This is a personal matter.”

  The sides of his mouth curved down. “I got no time for personal.”

  “I just need to know where he lives.”

  “Like I said—”

  “Please, sir,” I blurted out, surprised to hear the desperate quaver in my voice. I didn’t relish coming back to this place at night. “It’s a grave matter.”

  The impatience in his gaze turned to impatience mixed with pity. “Get yourself mixed up in something, did you? Doesn’t surprise me these days, the way you young people racket around. In my day, parents didn’t put up with nonsense. You’d be out on the streets.”

  As if putting children out on the streets was a solution to young people racketing around.

  I swallowed any argument, though, and attempted a weak, pleading smile. Oliver Twist, bowl upraised. “Please. It would mean so much.”

  He relented. “Go see Herb. He’s got everybody’s address. Tell him I said it was okay.”

  After more cajoling, the man called Herb opened a file drawer and dug out a card with Jacob Cohen’s address on Orchard Street written on it. He stood over me, meaty arms crossed, as I copied the information. “Nothing down there’s worth the trip,” he said.

  “How would you know?” He didn’t even know why I wanted to speak to Jacob.

  “I grew up off Delancey, till the city showed up to take my brother and me to the orphanage. The orphanage was hell, but even hell was better than the tenements.”

  What could I say? I didn’t choose Jacob Cohen’s residence. “Thanks for the address.”

  He shook his head. “You’ll see.”

  When I emerged from the subway on Delancey and turned onto Orchard Street, I started to have an inkling of what Herb had been trying to tell me. My progress was immediately slowed by the swarm of humanity in front of me. The street was lined with peddlers and pushcarts, and around them crowded women laden with baskets and bags, checking out wares. Young children darted here and there, most below school age, but some obvious truants. There were also dogs underfoot and various vehicles trying to push through the jumble. As far as my eye could see, five- and six-story residences towered above the street like a cavern, their balconies and fire escapes full either of discarded furniture and other unneeded household goods, or people themselves. Old people, young children, and mothers grabbing a moment of rest from their unceasing labor all looked down on the crowd below.

  I threaded my way toward the buildings on the north side of the street and found 145 Orchard Street, which had a leather goods store at ground level. A plump man in a patched coat was leaning against the resident entrance, chewing on an unlit cigar. He sized me up. “Cohens are up one flight in the back.”

  I was astonished. “How did you know who I was looking for?”

  “The only ones like you who come around are the charity ladies, nurses, or ladies to see the Cohens. You don’t look like the first two.”

  He said it like a compliment, but I wasn’t sure. “Thank you for the information.”

  He spat. “Think nothing of it.”

  The day was bright, but I never would have known it from the building’s interior. No light penetrated the dim hallway except through the filthy glass of the side panels along the doorway, one of which had broken and was partially boarded over. The stench of the place I’d experienced before but never so intensely—it was the smell of poverty, of too many bodies crushed together too closely, and right away I nearly tripped over one of them. A little girl holding a stuffed sock that had been made up to resemble a doll. She gaped up at me wordlessly even as I hopped away from her with an apology.

  Other children weren’t so silent. The wails of two different babies pierced the air, coming from somewhere above, and three children were m
aking a Luna Park fun ride of the stairwell’s rickety banister, with two sliding down while the third tried to knock them off with a broom. They paid as little attention to me as they did to the fussing baby perched on a basket on one of the stairs.

  I scooted past them all and hurried up to knock at what I hoped was the right door, eager to have this interview over with and be gone. If Jacob Cohen worked nights, surely he would sleep during the day. Which meant he would be at home, but he probably wouldn’t appreciate the interruption. Although the man outside had indicated that many women visited the Cohens. Belatedly, I began to wonder why, and to worry.

  Steps approached from inside, and the door swung open abruptly. The woman before me wasn’t who I’d expected to find here. She was around my age, tall, and pretty. Dark eyes looked down at me from a heart-shaped face. If her complexion seemed a little sallow, it might have just been the poor lighting, or the effects of living in this place. Why was she living here? She didn’t look poor. Her dress was simple but beautifully tailored in navy-blue brilliantine. It set off her slim figure to perfection. She was far too young to be Jacob’s mother, and I doubted Jacob was married. Yet there was a baby in a crib behind her. Was she a sister, a cousin?

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Jacob Cohen.”

  Her expression tensed, and her demeanor became less welcoming. “Why?”

  “I need to speak with him. I work—worked—at Van Hooten and McChesney.”

  I hoped the name of the company would earn me an entrée. I was mistaken. Her full lips turned down in a scowl. “Jacob doesn’t work there.”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard. Guy Van Hooten died the week before last.”

  Her grip on the edge of the door grew tighter, as if she were depending on that claw hold to keep her upright. “That’s nothing to do with us.”

  “If I could just come in for a few moments . . .”

  Behind her, the baby cried, and she turned instinctively toward it, leaving the door unguarded. I seized the opportunity to step inside.

  It was a small room, perhaps ten by ten square, and every inch seemed occupied. A stove stood at one end, flanked by a drop-leaf table on one side and a rocking chair on the other. Opposite the stove was another table with a sewing machine on it. A dressmaker’s form stood nearby with a half-finished dress on it. A cabinet held supplies needed for the dressmakers’ trade—fabric folded neatly on shelves, with nooks for thread, pins, and various notions. The remaining wall space was a network of hooks and shelves containing all the necessities of life—toiletries and brushes, canned goods, towels and rags, keepsakes, candles, crockery for grease and flour, and a brand-new teddy bear.