Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  “The Ethel Gail murder.”

  A sigh huffed out of him. “Now why were you mixed up in that? Murder’s not the type of thing decent girls should be involved with. Don’t you have any sense?”

  “Ethel Gail was my roommate’s cousin. She was staying with us when she was murdered.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s some excuse.” He looked down again, threading his pencil between his fingers like a magician about to perform a trick with a coin. “You did very well on the test.” His tone was lugubrious, as if my high score were bad news.

  “Really?” I barely stopped myself from leaning forward to try to see the file.

  “You scored the second highest grade on the exam of the women who’ve taken it.”

  Second? I puffed up.

  His brows drew together. “Mind you, the test isn’t everything. We’re looking for women officers of good character.” He eyed me closely. “Do you have a good moral character?”

  I swallowed. “I believe so.”

  “You believe? You can’t give a straight yes or no?”

  “I-I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean do you have any bad habits? Is there anything in your personal history that would reflect badly on yourself or the New York Police Department if it were to come to light?”

  Without a doubt, most men, including Captain Smith, would consider having had a baby out of wedlock to be a stain on my reputation. That hadn’t been my fault, but there was no way I could tell Captain Smith about having been raped by a traveling salesman. I’d never confessed what had happened to my closest friends, not even to Callie or Aunt Irene. When I’d told Aunt Sonja, she’d banished me from her home. I certainly wasn’t going to bank on the captain being more understanding toward my misfortune than the woman who’d raised me.

  Besides, who would ever find out? Especially in the police. Yes, the baby I had given birth to had been adopted by a couple who lived in town, and I occasionally strolled by their house on Eightieth Street in hopes of catching a glimpse of little Calvin Longworth, now ten months old. But no one else in the world knew of my relationship to him but me and the home for unwed girls that had arranged the adoption. Even I wasn’t supposed to know about the Longworths—I’d only found out because I’m nosy and stole a look at my paperwork.

  Captain Smith hitched his breath impatiently. “Well? Why don’t you say something? Do you have anything to hide?”

  “No, sir.”

  No one would ever know. I’d make sure of it.

  He cleared his throat, and an adenoidal sound came out of him. “Good. Glad to hear it. Nothing worse than having an officer bring scandal down on the force.”

  “I will never do that.”

  “To be honest, Miss Faulk, your folder raises flags.”

  I was shocked. How could that be? “What flags?”

  “That murder business. And you’re a single girl, yet you don’t live at home with your parents.”

  “My parents are both dead. I was raised by an aunt and uncle. I have another aunt here, which is why I moved to New York City.”

  That wasn’t entirely untrue.

  “But now you’re living practically on your own, getting mixed up in murders. We prefer girls from good families, not independent troublemakers.”

  “I’ve never made trouble,” I said, adding, “knowingly.”

  “Hmm.” He emitted that nasal sound again. “But then we have your score. Second highest. Hard to argue with that. And to top it off, there’s this letter of recommendation from Detective Frank Muldoon.”

  It was a good thing I was sitting down, because my body felt rubbery. Muldoon had written a letter on my behalf? I couldn’t imagine what it said. He’d only ever tried to talk me out of applying to join the force.

  “Is it a good letter?” I asked, honestly uncertain.

  “Oh, it’s a humdinger. Detective Muldoon goes on for two pages about your intelligence, tenacity, and valor. Now how does a woman manage to show valor?”

  “I lured Ethel Gail’s killer to the top of the Woolworth Building.”

  “And that worked out, did it?”

  Surely he’d heard. “Perhaps Detective Muldoon failed to mention that I was nearly pitched off the top floor. But the killer was apprehended.”

  He skimmed the letter again. “No, that’s here, too.” He shook his head. “Sounds like a lot of tomfoolery to me, and it would have served you right if you’d gotten yourself killed. But you lived, so I suppose you do have some claim to valor.”

  “Thank you.”

  He slapped the folder shut with a sigh of exasperation and finality. “All right, Miss Faulk, I’m recommending you to the board for the position of probationary police officer, starting the week after next.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d heard correctly. “You mean . . . I have the job?”

  He glowered at me. “What do you think? That I’m such a dumb cluck that I’d waste the commission’s time recommending someone for a job who shouldn’t have it?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, Captain Smith.”

  “Mind you, the probationary period is a trial. You may be fired for any infraction for three months, so mind yourself. There’s no room for showboating antics in the NYPD. Especially not from a woman. Remember that.”

  “I will.” And I’ll ignore it, as I see fit. “What about training?”

  He frowned. “Training for what?”

  What did he think? “Police work.”

  “What training do you need?” His voice turned brittle with impatience. “You show up and follow orders. Will that be a difficulty for you, Miss Faulk?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. You’re to report to the Thirtieth Street Station a week from Monday, nine-thirty p.m., for the night shift.” He tossed my folder into a tray and reached for another. “Dismissed.”

  Thirtieth Street. A week from Monday. Nine-thirty p.m. I wanted to write it all down so I wouldn’t forget, so I could prove to myself that I wasn’t dreaming. Tears threatened. I’ve done it!

  All at once, however, a worry popped into my head. “What about uniforms?”

  He scowled at me. “You’re responsible for those.”

  “But where do I find them?”

  “Do I strike you as an expert on women’s clothes?”

  “I was just curious—”

  “Don’t be curious. Show up for your job and do what you’re told.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I backed out much as I’d heard one was supposed to exit the presence of a royal personage, and didn’t breathe easier until I was outside the building. My mind was reeling. I was a police officer. Or I would be in a week. And most puzzling of all—that letter. When had Muldoon written a recommendation? And why? I certainly hadn’t asked him to. Knowing his feelings, I wouldn’t have dared. And yet he had done it all on his own. And the letter had been glowing enough to overcome the perceived negatives of my application.

  Puzzlement over Muldoon’s letter was just one of the feelings fluttering in me. Second highest score on the exam. I was going to be a policewoman. My life wasn’t going to be just typing and making coffee. I would be a part of a brotherhood, and a smaller sisterhood, of people trying to maintain order in this big, messy metropolis. I would belong to that fraternity, that family, and to this city.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Irene. And I needed to inform Mr. McChesney that I wouldn’t be able to look into the fire anymore. The NYPD wouldn’t want its officers doing paid detective work on the side. I wasn’t making much progress, anyway. Muldoon had intimated that the police were close to cracking the case, and had hinted it was an angle I hadn’t even considered. I’d let my colleagues handle it now.

  My colleagues!

  I floated in a general uptown direction toward my aunt’s house, barely noticing what streets I was on. It was a miracle I wasn’t run over.

  My thoughts swung back around to Muldoon’s visit to my aunt’s house the
previous night. His behavior now struck me in a whole new light. Could he have known about the exam results? Of course. Something like that was bound to have filtered down to him. That’s why he’d asked if I had any news to tell him. He’d probably assumed that I’d received the letter already.

  And to think, I’d taken in his nice clothes and spit-and-polished appearance and entertained the notion that he might have had a personal reason for being there. As if he’d ever tried to win my good opinion.

  His writing that letter confounded me, though. He’d made it clear he didn’t think I should be a policewoman. And yet he’d helped me anyway.

  In return for his generosity, I decided to tell him everything I knew about Guy Van Hooten’s death. True, I’d discovered nothing conclusive. But I was willing to bet he didn’t know about Myrna. She would have mentioned speaking to the police. And my mind kept returning to Jacob and Hugh, and Hugh’s refusal to do anything for Myrna’s baby. And how, the morning Guy’s body was discovered, Hugh hadn’t seemed at all cut up.

  Something about Hugh Van Hooten rubbed me the wrong way. Here was a man who obviously disliked his brother—or at least held him in contempt—and hadn’t even mourned his passing on the very morning his death was discovered. Nor had he seemed surprised, as far as I could remember. Of course, I hadn’t been there the moment he found out about Guy, but only hours later, after he’d been to the ruins of the building. Yet wouldn’t any normal brother have seemed more visibly shaken after viewing that ashen rubble?

  Myrna had told me that the Van Hootens wouldn’t accept Guy’s natural son, and Jacob’s fruitless visit to the air park indicated that Hugh didn’t intend to give his illegitimate nephew any assistance. Of course not. Hugh’s life revolved around his aeronautical adventures, and those weren’t cheap. A new young Van Hooten could eat into his inheritance, especially if old Edith Van Hooten decided to recognize the child and began doting on the baby the way she had on Guy.

  Given how well connected the Van Hootens were, I was willing to bet the police weren’t looking closely at Guy’s brother. Maybe if I told Muldoon about Jacob visiting Hugh at the air park, that would convince him the Van Hootens deserved closer scrutiny.

  When I arrived at Aunt Irene’s she was out visiting a friend, so I went to the kitchen to scrounge lunch and announce my big news.

  Walter was overjoyed. “You’ll wind up police commissioner,” he predicted.

  “That’s for civilians,” I said, unable to hold back a dismissive sniff.

  Bernice was less impressed. She hung back at the stove, hand on her wooden spoon the size of a billy club, and eyed me over a pot of soup. “What kind of a job is the police for a girl like you?”

  “A good one,” I said.

  Walter stuck up for me. “She’s already doing the work of a real detective. This’ll make it official.”

  Bernice gave the pot several vigorous stirs. “Official?” She shook her head. “I remember her almost being killed while doing her so-called detective work last summer. This’ll make her putting her life at risk official, too. Or maybe she’ll just get herself in the police business the way some do, and she’ll harass honest folks, or accept money for looking the other way while letting the not-so-honest people do their worst.”

  I swallowed back indignation. “All policemen aren’t corrupt.”

  “There’s enough dishonest ones to make you wonder where the good ones are, or why they put up with the bad apples.” Her gaze cut through the steam to pierce me. “Which kind will you be, I wonder?”

  Walter sputtered. “How can you ask that? It’s outrageous.”

  “She doesn’t know the first thing she’s getting herself into. She got a notion in her head, like the notion of a girl to take to the stage.”

  “Callie ‘took to the stage,’ as you call it,” I pointed out, “and she’s a success.”

  “Today she might be a success,” Bernice said. “There’s others who don’t last at it.”

  No names had been mentioned, but Bernice’s arrow hit the bull’s-eye. Beet-red blotches appeared in Walter’s cheeks. “I played Shakespeare,” he said, trembling with indignation and wounded pride. “Hamlet. For eight months.”

  I happened to know he played a gravedigger in Hamlet in his company’s tour of the Midwest, and maybe Bernice knew that, too, because she kept shaking her head. Walter looked as if he would brain her with the nearest convenient skillet.

  For the sake of domestic harmony, I attempted to veer the conversation away from thespians and back to my job. “What about Detective Muldoon?” Bernice had met Muldoon, and because he’d declared her chicken sandwiches the best he’d ever had, he was always mentioned in the most glowing terms in the kitchen. “He’s honest.” With my gaze, I dared her to challenge that assessment.

  “Mr. Muldoon can look after himself. Can you?”

  “The New York Police Department wouldn’t be offering me a position if they didn’t think I could.” I drew up to my full height. “I made the second highest score on the exam.”

  Bernice ladled up pea soup into a waiting bowl and plopped it in front of me. “ ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ Now sit down and eat.”

  I felt like a child. “I prefer my sermons on Sunday,” I grumbled, though I sat down obediently. “I hope Aunt Irene’s happier for me than you are.”

  “She will be,” Bernice said. “But that won’t make her righter than I am.”

  I ate the soup—my stomach was too rumbly for me to flounce out of the room as I wanted to. But Bernice and I didn’t speak any more on the subject. She was always such a killjoy. She’d hinted that she’d had trouble with the police in her past. Small wonder that she was prejudiced against my chosen profession.

  Of course, newspapers were also full of negative stories about cops. Scandal sold papers. That didn’t mean all cops were crooked.

  When I was done, I went upstairs to the office. Might as well type some pages.

  After a few minutes, Aunt Irene, in a cloud of silk and fringe, fluttered in. She enveloped me in a gardenia-scented hug and then held me at arm’s length. “Well! You’ve done it. What a sensation. My own niece, a policewoman. Sugar bun, I’m bursting with pride.” She winked. “Or is that Officer Sugar Bun.”

  “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  “Walter couldn’t help himself. I knew something was up the moment he met me at the door. Once I started questioning him, it was only a matter of seconds before I squeezed it out of him.”

  “Maybe you should be the detective.”

  Her response gratified me. I preened in her admiration for a few minutes—my second-place exam finish might just have happened to come up in the conversation—and then attempted to strike a more humble note.

  “Of course I’ll be a probationer for three months.” That reminded me of Captain Smith’s warning. “And I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”

  The folds of her face flattened. “Why?”

  “First, I won’t be able to type for you. I’m going to be working the night shift, at least at first, so mornings might be a problem.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll just hire someone else.”

  She didn’t seem at all unhappy at that prospect, either. I thought of a few of my more egregious typing errors. Small wonder.

  “Also,” I said, “I’ll need to tell Mr. McChesney I can’t continue to look into Guy’s death.”

  My aunt blinked at me in surprise. “You’ve found out who caused the fire?”

  “No. That is, I’m not certain.” I frowned. “Not certain at all, in fact.”

  I gave her a rundown of all that had happened with Myrna, and my suspicions about Hugh.

  “Then I don’t see how you can just give up the case,” she said.

  “I can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. Being a policewoman and pursuing my own investigation wouldn’t be right. The police are looking into Guy’s death, and my doing so on my own makes it seem as if I have
no confidence in their efforts.”

  “Well, do you?” Aunt Irene asked.

  A light knock and a hitched throat turned our attention to the doorway, where Walter stood looking more butlery and somber than usual. “Detective Muldoon is downstairs,” he said.

  My glance met Aunt Irene’s. For a moment it seemed almost as if by talking about my investigation we’d conjured him up.

  My aunt recovered herself faster than I. “Well, show him up. What’s the matter with you, Walter? Frank Muldoon is a friend here.”

  Walter didn’t move. “I believe he’s come in the capacity of a policeman. He asked to see Miss Louise. He seems very serious.”

  “Then we’ll just have to try to cheer him up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  That ma’am more than anything made Aunt Irene and I look at each other in bewilderment when Walter left. His formality shook us.

  “When isn’t Detective Muldoon serious?” I said.

  She flapped a handkerchief, fanning herself. “Perhaps he wants to have a little tête-à-tête with you. I thought you two seemed chummy last night.”

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Nevertheless, I’ll leave you alone.” She took a step toward the door.

  “No, please.” I grabbed the fringe of her sleeve. “Stay.”

  Why did worry suddenly grip me? Walter’s manner had made it seem as if Muldoon had come to arrest me. Also, being faced with Muldoon so soon after I’d learned about the letter he’d written on my behalf caused my stomach to twist up. I’d known I was going to have to thank him, but all at once being beholden to him felt awkward.

  When Walter ushered him through the door, Muldoon looked as anxious as I felt. He still wore his overcoat and had held on to his hat, as if he anticipated making a speedy exit.

  Aunt Irene sailed forth to greet him. “How good of you to stop by, Detective. I was just telling Louise that I needed to see to something downstairs. I’ll have Bernice send up some tea. Or would you rather have coffee?”

  The more effusive she was, the deeper the lines to the side of his mouth became. They were like dimples of doom. “Thanks, but I can’t stop long. Maybe I shouldn’t even be here, but I was close and thought someone from Van Hooten and McChesney should know before news about Ogden McChesney becomes public.”