Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  “What was that all about?” I wondered.

  “You can’t let him know you’re a policewoman, Louise. You heard him—he’ll kill us.”

  “Why would he want to do that unless he had something to hide?”

  “Who cares why? You heard his threats. I don’t want to die—at least not till Al Jolson records one of my songs.”

  I laughed. “All right. I’ll try to hold back my curiosity till then.”

  But thoughts of Cain consumed me all the way home and into the night. Had my gut instinct been right at the beginning? Cain was definitely hiding something if he felt threatened by just bumping into Otto and me on a train.

  The next morning was chilly, with a pouring rain, and the headlines were all catastrophic. Storms across the Great Lakes had claimed over two hundred lives. Hard to believe just days before I had been sunning myself in an open car. In a gloomy frame of mind, I slogged my way down to Orchard Street to see how my uniform was coming along. Myrna had measured me so hurriedly, a fitting would probably be needed. With my umbrella open, I edged through the diminished pushcart crowds on the sidewalk, went up, and knocked at Myrna’s. The door cracked open, a dark eye appeared, and then the door shut again.

  I waited, perplexed, then knocked again. “Myrna, it’s me. Louise Faulk.”

  A minute passed and then the door swung open. Myrna, blocking the threshold, thrust a paper bundle wrapped in twine out to me. “Here.”

  I took it from her. “Shouldn’t I try it—”

  “Just go,” she said. “A police detective’s been here. Said someone had told him about me and Jacob knowing Guy. Now they’re watching my building.”

  The hallway was frigid and I was damp through, yet my cheeks blazed. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I don’t want you here.”

  The door shut and a key turned a lock from the inside.

  Distressed, I tramped back down the stairs, past children who were seeing who could leap the most stairs down to the worn tiles of the ground floor hall. That wasn’t going to end well.

  “Be careful,” I said.

  A girl in a dirty smock stuck her tongue out at me. “We don’t want you here!” she said, mimicking Myrna.

  Outside, the rain was still coming down. While I was struggling to open my umbrella, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Cain, instinct shouted. I whirled and nearly jabbed Muldoon’s eye out with my umbrella’s metal tip.

  He hopped back in the nick of time. “Watch it with that thing.”

  I sagged against the wall behind me as I opened my umbrella. “What are you doing? You scared me half to death.”

  He had an umbrella, too, which made it hard to stand together on the narrow sidewalk without causing bodily harm to someone. With his free hand, he took my arm. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

  On Delancey Street, he indicated a bakery and we went in. Several small tables were pushed against the wall and front plate-glass window. While we unloaded our dripping things, Muldoon indicated that I should claim one of the empty tables. I stood until he returned from the counter with two steaming cups of tea and a cinnamon bun. “Best in town,” he said.

  It looked heavenly, and the yeasty smell of the baking bread all around us worked on me like a pacifier on a baby. I sat and cupped my hands around the thick china mug, absorbing the warmth through my palms. “If this is about Leonard Cain, I swear I didn’t even know he was on the train,” I warned Muldoon.

  His face screwed up. “Leonard Cain?”

  Okay, so maybe this wasn’t about Cain. “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t easy. You weren’t home last night.”

  “Otto and I went to Philadelphia.” I explained about seeing Callie’s show. “I didn’t know I was supposed to check in with you before I left town.”

  “What happened with Cain?”

  “Nothing. We met him on the return trip, and he made some vague threats. He seemed to think I was mixed up with the police.”

  “You are.”

  “Yes, well, I decided it wouldn’t be wise to bring up my new job. Cain looked agitated about something. It makes me wonder if any of the story he gave of the night of Guy’s murder was true.”

  Muldoon swallowed a slug of tea. “One of our men examining the evidence from the fire did find charred pieces of bank notes. One piece looked as if it might have been a fifty-dollar bill. But whether that money was brought by Cain, or belonged to someone else, who can say?”

  Guy had been broke, though. And none of the rest of us would have left fifty dollars lying around. So that did provide minimal corroboration for Cain’s story.

  “What were you doing at Myrna’s?” I asked Muldoon. “Were you the one who talked to her? She was very upset.”

  “I was just following up on what you told me.”

  That seemed like a victory of sorts. “I thought you were so sure Mr. McChesney killed Guy.”

  “I’m just looking at all the evidence. When you brought new information to me, I had to follow up.”

  “You must not be very satisfied with her answers if you’ve been watching her flat.”

  His brows jumped. “How did you know?”

  “Myrna told me. I guess someone must have noticed a six-foot Irishman hanging around. Can’t think why.”

  Scowling, he took a sip of tea.

  I leaned forward. “Was it Myrna you wanted to talk about?”

  “No, Hugh Van Hooten came to talk to me.” He scratched his jaw. “Although talk is a mild word for what he was doing. The man wasn’t happy, and neither would the brass be if they found out their newly minted policewoman had been riling up prominent citizens before she’d even shown up for her first day.”

  For some reason, I hadn’t expected Hugh to run to the police about me. “I was only asking questions.”

  “What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “Someone other than Mr. McChesney murdered Guy—you have to see that. You wouldn’t have talked to Myrna if you didn’t have doubts.”

  “I don’t have many doubts. I just want to be thorough.”

  “You can’t say the word killer and hold the image of Ogden McChesney in your head.”

  “Louise, he confessed.”

  “To setting his building on fire when Guy was already dead.”

  His lips turned down, but I didn’t pause to wonder why.

  “You were the one who told me about Guy’s being poisoned,” I pointed out.

  “McChesney could have poisoned Guy and subsequently set the fire to cover his crime.”

  “But Guy wouldn’t have been at the office in the morning when Mr. McChesney set the fire. He had to have been killed the night before, sometime after I left.”

  “So McChesney killed him the night before, after you left,” Muldoon speculated. “He poisoned his partner and fled. Went home. Then he got himself into a stew over what he was going to do when Guy was found. So after a sleepless night, he decided to burn the building down around Guy.”

  I shook my head.

  “He even confessed that his motivation was the insurance money, and according to the policy, he received more if Guy were dead.” He looked at me pityingly. “A prosecutor will eat this up, Louise. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

  “But he didn’t do it.”

  “I understand why you want to believe that, but there’s probable cause to believe that he did.”

  In frustration, I tapped my nails against my cup. “And my angering prominent citizens who might file complaints makes life sticky for you. Isn’t that really why you wanted to talk to me?”

  His lips twisted. “You’ll be part of the force soon, heaven help you. You might as well learn now that politics are part of the job.”

  “You’d let a man be executed for murder because you don’t want to upset the Van Hootens?”

  “Logic points to his guilt.”

  Yet he’d followed my tip and had been looking at the Cohens. He wasn’t as rigid in his beli
ef in Mr. McChesney’s guilt as he would like me to think. “And your gut?”

  He shook his head. “Guts and heart make great fiction, but they aren’t evidence.”

  I looped my bag around my shoulder, gathered my uniform bundle to my chest, and stood. “It might not be evidence, but my gut is telling me not to stop looking until I find the information that will prove Mr. McChesney isn’t a killer.”

  “I’ll be the first one to congratulate you if you find it.”

  I was skeptical of that, but I didn’t want to argue. “Thanks for the tea.” I started to go.

  “Louise.” He waited until I turned back to him. “Good luck on the new job next week. Chin up.”

  * * *

  Given how I’d been received at Myrna’s, I didn’t have high hopes for my uniform. When I unwrapped the paper, however, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The navy blue of the shirtwaist was of a lightweight challis that felt as soft as silk under my hands. The brass buttons she’d chosen were round, with a rosette stamped on them. She’d fashioned a white collar, as I’d asked, and included a brass clip with an inset lily on it. The skirt, of a light half-wool gabardine, was simple but had a few tucks that made it fit perfectly. They were the best-tailored garments I’d ever had made.

  Even Callie, when she got back on Sunday, approved. What’s more, she’d bought a hat that she claimed would look perfect with my uniform. The blue hat had navy-blue netting over a tan silk crown. Callie had dressed it up with two ruby plumes attached to the brim with a tuft of rabbit fur. It was nicer than any hat I owned.

  “You can have it,” she said when I tried it on. “I’ll probably be too busy to do much running around these next weeks.”

  It seemed a peculiar thing to say. “Wearing a hat doesn’t require a whirlwind social life.” I frowned. “Is this about Teddy?” He hadn’t been by, and she hadn’t mentioned him.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said with a finality that made me drop the subject.

  On Monday night, I dressed in my new uniform and Callie’s hat and headed uptown.

  The Thirtieth Street police station was relatively new and always a bit of a shock to stumble upon. Situated midway between Sixth and Seventh avenues, it resembled a medieval fortress of gray stone and orange brick, complete with crenellated turrets on the bottom half. I’d just so happened to walk by it several times in the past week, trying to imagine myself actually belonging there. Now I marched through the arched stone entrance between the green lights, brimming with nerves and pride. It was time to start living the life I’d dreamed of for months and months.

  Once inside, it occurred to me that my dreams hadn’t featured a precinct overseen by a desk sergeant whose pocked, ruddy, unsmiling face looked like hammered meat. Several police officers stood around, some obviously dealing with cases they’d brought in. A woman blocked my path, arguing with a uniformed officer who’d caught her boy stealing.

  “How dare you call my Tommy a thief!” she blasted at the policeman.

  “He swiped a watch from a peddler, bold as brass.”

  “Hogwash,” growled a boy of around ten years in a slouch cap. Tommy, I presumed. “I found it on the sidewalk.”

  His mother rounded on him. “Shut your mouth, you!” Then she turned back to the officer and explained, “He found it on the sidewalk.”

  “I was gonna give it back,” Tommy said.

  His mother yanked his cap off his head and cuffed him with it across the ear. “I told you to keep quiet.” She looked up at the sergeant but spoke in a voice loud enough to reach every corner of the precinct. “You hear that? He was going to give it back.”

  “Then why’d he run in the opposite direction when the peddler shouted at him to stop?” the officer asked.

  The sergeant, towering over the scene behind his high desk like a judge on the bench, groaned and interrupted the argument. “If you want your Tommy not to get arrested, teach him not to pick things up off the sidewalk. Or maybe the reformatory will.”

  Tommy’s mother dissolved into sobs. “He’s a good boy.”

  As the officer led them away, the sergeant scowled at me. “You in the hat. What do you want?”

  My heart thumped in my chest. Should I salute? I wasn’t sure. “I’m here to work. Sir.”

  The man wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “Criminy! That’s all we need. You want to become police commissioner, or did you have something else in mind?”

  “You don’t underst—”

  “We’re busy here, lady. If you’ve got a complaint, fine. If not—”

  “My name is Louise Faulk. I was directed by Captain Percival Smith to report to this station to begin my job as a probationary policewoman.”

  He stared at me in disbelief, but slowly took in the brass buttons on my dress, which was partially obscured by my coat. “You’re Faulk?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Father in Heaven.” He shouted for a nearby officer. “Hey, Jenks. Come look what downtown sent us. I didn’t expect our newest police matron to arrive looking like a kid playing dress up.”

  A tall officer with a long face came over to inspect me. His dry smile made me bristle.

  “What’s the fashion this year, Jenks?” the sergeant asked him. “Feathers or fur?”

  Jenks nodded at my hat brim. “Looks like this one hedged her bets.”

  “Very smart,” observed the sergeant. “Did you ever see such a uniform? Must’ve been made in Paree!”

  Heat washed over me. They were giving me the business, and if I hadn’t already been so nervous I would’ve given some right back to them. I should have. Instead, I remained mute with discomfiture, which only provided my new colleagues with more amusement. A few more officers, catching wind of fun, joined in.

  “She’s prettier than the last few they sent us.”

  “Maybe she’ll make better coffee.”

  “Got a better figure than Fiona and Martha, that’s for sure.”

  One of the men leaned close enough to sniff my hair. “Smells better, too.”

  “Give ’er a pinch and see if she’s softer than Fiona.”

  I hopped back. None of these men were going to touch me if I had anything to say about it. “Lay a hand on me and you just might lose it.” The grinning faces around me froze, or collapsed. Perhaps I was overreacting, but I didn’t care now. “I came here to do a job. You seem to think my being here is some kind of joke, but I took a test the same as all of you had to, and I made the second-highest score.”

  The men exchanged glances, and for a moment it seemed I’d impressed them into silence.

  The sergeant scratched his sideburns. “Number two, huh?”

  “Wonder what happened to number one?” another man asked.

  “Probably got sent straight to the Eighth Precinct. They got new flush terlets in the jail cells this year, too.”

  Several men thought this was hilarious.

  The sergeant finally put a stop to it all. “All right, Two.” It took me a moment to register that Two meant me. “The Captain’s not in—it’s a little late for him—so you’ll have to make your acquaintance of our big brass some other day. But you follow Officer Jenks and he’ll get you set up. And the rest of you mind your p’s and q’s, and especially fingers. Officer Two here looks dangerous. I don’t need any one-handed officers. You’re all useless enough already.”

  His listeners hooted with laughter. Red-faced, I stalked after Jenks. It was not a promising beginning.

  Jenks showed me the room where officers signed in, and rummaged through a drawer until he found a card for me to fill out with my address and vital statistics. A short statement agreeing to the terms of my probationary period was typed at the bottom, and I signed it. When I was done, Jenks handed me a badge. The whole procedure was far less ceremonious than graduation from my secretarial course had been. At least there I’d received a certificate and a handshake.

  “You pin that on your uniform,” he said, nodding at the badge,
“but keep it with you even when you’re not at the station and not in uniform. You’re always a policeman. Well, policewoman. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  He shook his head. “Guess there’s nothing to be done about that.”

  “I’ll probably be getting older.”

  He snorted. “Sooner than you think, around this place. I should give you the nickel tour.”

  The ground floor contained the reception where Sergeant Donnelly held court, a few offices for the higher-ranking officers, other rooms for questioning suspects, and a meeting room. A small pantry had a small cook stove wedged in the back. “Here’s where you make the coffee,” Jenks told me. “Should have everything you need.”

  “I make coffee?”

  “The sergeant likes having it available for the boys on their beats when they come in. It’s hard for them, working all hours.”

  And to think, just a month ago I’d stood in the kitchenette at Van Hooten and McChesney, dreaming of the day when my job wouldn’t involve being commanded to make coffee for my male coworkers.

  We moved on then, but not far. “There’s three floors up,” he said, pointing to a staircase, “but those are the men’s cells, dormitories for the officers between shifts, and extra rooms for the detectives.” The policemen’s schedule was a complicated grid of short and long shifts, rotations that often required officers to catch forty winks at the station instead of going home. “You women don’t have to worry about that so much because the captain puts you on more regular shifts. He thinks it ain’t right to keep lady officers sleeping at the station. When you do have two shifts in the same day, though, there’s a cot downstairs for you.”

  He then showed me down to my new domain—down being the operative word. The female prisoners were kept in cells in the basement, and evidently policewomen were relegated to this area, too. My duty was to look after the female prisoners in the cells and be on call when new arrestees arrived. “You gotta keep everyone in line,” Jenks said as we walked. “Sergeant Donnelly doesn’t like trouble, especially from women. Just ’cause they’re females, don’t think it’s a cakewalk. Give me a cell full of thieving and murdering men over a pack of slatterns any day.”