Murder in Midtown

by Liz Freeland

  The clerk perceived his own difficulty now. “I don’t know how it happened,” he said. “I only turned back for a moment to help another customer . . .” He looked down at the beady eyes of the fox head in the buggy. “We don’t even carry furs.”

  “Laemmle does, down the street,” Griswald said. “That’s his tag.”

  The woman continued to weep. “I’m just a poor widow.”

  “Five minutes ago you threatened to send for your husband,” I reminded her.

  She inhaled on a sob. “M-my child is s-s-starving.”

  Our gazes were drawn to the baby, who appeared to be the opposite of starving. Also, he conducted himself with an eerie calm that made me suspect he was an experience-hardened diapered accomplice.

  To be honest, I was relieved when a policeman arrived. Though I had several days of station work under my belt, I’d never arrested anyone on my own. I wasn’t even sure where the nearest precinct was. The beat cop who came, Officer Healy, seemed as astonished as everyone else at my badge. “For the love of Christmas.” He scratched his head. “Good thing you kept your eyes open, darlin’.”

  “Officer Faulk,” I corrected him. “Nineteenth Precinct. I just happened to be looking through the window.”

  “Glad you were,” Griswald said. “And Mr. Laemmle will be, too. And who knows how many others.”

  A better idea of how many others was revealed when the woman was instructed to sit down and she clanked into a chair. Her coat’s lining was a veritable cupboard containing more silver, bracelets, and other trinkets, as well as nine silk scarves. “They were on a discount table,” she said in her own defense.

  Officer Healy and I escorted her to the Twenty-ninth Precinct on 104th, where the captain in charge shook my hand and slapped Healy on the back, joking to the other cops about his new partner. Healy was good-natured and took the ribbing in stride. “You mugs could only dream of having such a pretty helper,” he told his colleagues, winking at me.

  I extricated myself as soon as I could and hurried back to the intersection where Walter and I were supposed to meet. To my relief, he was there, practically hopping in agitation. “Where’ve you been?” His mustache hung slightly askew. “I looked all over for you.”

  I explained about catching the shoplifter; then it was his turn. “I didn’t get the ledgers. He said Mr. McChesney destroyed them, but I didn’t believe him.”

  I didn’t either. Mr. McChesney would simply have told me if he had destroyed them.

  Maybe Jackson’s hunch about Bob was correct.

  “Also, I’m not sure he believed me when I said I worked for Mr. Faber,” Walter said. “He kept staring at me—looking into my eyes. ‘I know you,’ he said. And the worst part is, he may be right.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “How?”

  “He came to one of our Thursday nights. With Mr. McChesney.”

  I sucked in a breath. “I didn’t remember.”

  “It was before you moved here. Maybe a couple of years ago. I knew at once I’d seen him before, but by then it was too late to back out.”

  “I wonder if he’ll remember where he saw you.” I felt uneasy. “Maybe the disguise was enough to throw him off the scent.”

  “I should have kept the nose,” Walter grumbled.

  And we still had no ledgers. The whole exercise had been a failure, except to make Bob’s behavior seem more suspicious. “You really think he was lying?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” Walter pushed his mustache back in place. “Guilt was written all over his face. He’s hiding something.”

  But was it murder he was hiding?

  * * *

  I went home to catch a quick nap before going to the station house for my last night shift of the week. I would have the next day off and the following night; then Sunday morning I’d begin the early shift Fiona had been working.

  Callie was home on lunch break, putting on a brave front but exuding gloom with every sigh. Mere days remained before Broadway Frolics opened. She should have been buzzing with anticipation. Instead, she was perched in the uncomfortable chair, hunched over a stocking with a darning needle. I hadn’t seen her darn anything since our leanest days at the Martha Washington Hotel, where we’d met.

  I edged onto the arm of the sofa. “I’m so sorry about Teddy.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.” The words came out so quickly, I was fairly certain she did blame me.

  “No, Otto was right. I didn’t come right out and accuse Hugh of being a murderer, but I certainly implied it.”

  She dropped her hands in irritation. “I wish you had called him a murderer outright. Why not? Poisoner’s just the name for him. He poisoned Teddy against me.”

  “Teddy’ll come to his senses, or he’s not worth having.”

  “You got the second part right. Why should I want some man-child who lets his best friend lead him around by his apron strings?”

  I imagined Hugh in an Old Mother Hubbard getup with a miniature Teddy clinging to him. It might have been funny if Callie hadn’t been so miserable.

  “You know what I almost did?” she asked, not waiting for a response. “I almost threw myself at Otto.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I said almost. Luckily I got wise to myself. I can’t just hurl myself at the nearest thing in pants every time my heart feels a little empty. I did that last summer, and poor Otto looked like a sad calf for weeks when I realized my mistake.”

  Judging from the way he’d spoken the other night, there were still a few moos left in him.

  “I just need to take myself out of the swim,” she said. “Last summer I got Ethel murdered, and you were almost killed, too. And I made Otto unhappy.”

  I wasn’t sure Otto’s bruised ego and my near death were on par, but I understood what she meant. “You’ve had an unlucky streak,” I said, “but your luck’s bound to change. You’re going to be a sensation in your show.”

  The corners of her mouth were just beginning to tilt upward when a crash of breaking glass sounded behind me. Gasping, Callie tackled me a fraction of a second before a missile whizzed past my head over the back of the sofa. We were both facedown against the worn velvet upholstery when whatever had sailed through our window landed with a thunk against the wall behind us. Something solid dropped to the wood floor, along with a confetti of plaster chips.

  Callie’s terrorized glance met mine and we slowly lifted up to peer over the sofa’s back. I was afraid we’d see a bomb or some incendiary that crazy anarchists were reported to lob through windows. Instead, what lay on the floor was only a fat brick.

  “There’s a note attached.” Callie got up and hurried over to it. She untied the twine holding the piece of paper in place and unfolded it. After a quick perusal, she said, “I think it’s for you.” She turned the page around so I could read the block letters written in red paint: YOU WERE WARNED!!!

  A gnawing began in my stomach. I didn’t have to ask who’d arranged this delivery. Cain. “On the train back from Philly, Leonard Cain warned me to stay out of his business. Last night, I convinced his stepdaughter to testify against him.”

  Callie’s eyes were saucers. “So now he’s going after you? Why? Did he see you at the police station?”

  I bit my lip. “No, he didn’t see me. He wasn’t there.” The gnawing intensified.

  “That crook must have henchmen posted outside police stations,” she said.

  “Or inside.”

  The notion of a gangland plant in our precinct made me sink back onto the couch. I wasn’t overly fond of any of the men I worked with—I hadn’t known any of them even a week. But the idea of one of them being crooked wrenched something inside of me. Especially when I remembered Captain McMartin had never been at the station at night, until last night.

  A pounding on the door made us jump. “You girls in there—open up!”

  It was Wally.

  “The unlucky streak continues,” Callie muttered.

  Wally had heard the glass
breaking, and a neighbor boy had seen a man running down the street, away from our building. The chubby kid, cap in hand, stood next to our landlady’s son. They were both breathing heavily.

  “He was a short fellow, dark, in a gray coat,” the boy told us breathlessly. “I shouted ‘Hey!’ and ran after him, but he was like Jim Thorpe. You want I should go to the police?”

  “I am the police,” I said.

  Man and boy gaped at me. To convince Wally, I had to produce both my badge and my official letter signed and sealed by the police commissioner.

  “If you’re the police, why’re people throwing bricks through my windows?” Wally demanded.

  I was not going to go into the investigation of Leonard Cain with Wally. In fact, I wasn’t sure whom to tell. It was a matter for the police . . . but which police? If Cain’s spy was someone in my precinct, I needed to be careful. There was only one person I knew I could trust.

  “Don’t blame Louise,” Callie said. “It was Leonar—”

  “People bear all kinds of grudges,” I interrupted, sending Callie a visual cue that I wanted to avoid Cain’s name.

  “Ma’s not going to like this,” Wally grumbled. “And she ain’t gonna pay for that window.”

  The next hour was consumed with bickering about who bore responsibility for paying for the window’s repair. I finally agreed to pay, if Wally would at least board over the broken pane until I could get new glass. Not one to shy away from a bargain, Wally tacked some wood over the hole so we wouldn’t freeze.

  When he was gone and the flat was finally empty again, I stretched, exhausted. “I need to get a little shut-eye before the nightly grind starts again.”

  “You’re going to sleep?” Callie asked. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep ever again. What if Cain decides to lob a bomb into our window next time?”

  It was a worry, but I tried to calm her fears and my own. “Taking out an entire apartment building wouldn’t be his style.”

  “You’re right. His style is assassinating people on quiet streets when they least expect it. Aren’t you scared?”

  I yawned. “I’ll be more scared after I sleep.”

  “Sure, toddle off to bed.” She shook her head. “And if I don’t see you again before you wake up for work tonight, it was nice knowing you.”

  I didn’t see her again. When I got up, the stocking she’d been darning was wadded into a ball with the needle stabbed through its heart. Nearby, on the table, lay a note.

  Gone to buy new stockings. Then rehearsal.

  —C

  P.S. Be careful!

  I dressed in the mended uniform Myrna had made for me—the last time, perhaps, I would have to wear it. I’d taken Fiona’s advice and ordered a sturdier outfit from the seamstress she recommended, who said it would be ready tomorrow afternoon. Tomorrow. I was so looking forward to having an entire day and night off, I could taste it. A full twenty-four hours of rest and freedom. Of course, I would have to get up very early on Sunday, so it wouldn’t make sense to sleep too much during the day.

  For all my bravado in front of Callie, Cain’s brick wasn’t far from my mind as I made my way to work. Several times I felt my heart leap as footsteps sounded behind me, and on a streetcar I sized at least three men up as potential assassins. It was a relief to approach the precinct, where I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be killed.

  I’d just turned onto Thirtieth Street when someone grabbed my arm. I lurched around, ready to take a swing at my attacker. Instead of a Cain thug, though, Bob’s face, twisted with anger, loomed close to mine. “I thought you were my friend!”

  I tried to shrug him off. When that didn’t work, I gave him a swat. “I am, but I won’t be if you don’t let go of my arm.”

  He didn’t let go. “You sent a spy after me. Why?”

  “Because I knew you wouldn’t be honest with me. You were hiding something the last time I saw you. I’m not sure you told the truth today, either.”

  He laughed sharply. “You’re one to talk! You dressed up your aunt’s butler.”

  Walter was right—he’d been recognized.

  “The glued-on mustache was a tip-off,” Bob said. “After he left, I finally remembered seeing him serving drinks. I telephoned your aunt’s house to find out where you were working.”

  “And my aunt told you?”

  “No, the man did. He didn’t recognize my voice.” He sneered. “Some spy.”

  Poor Walter. He’d be crushed. Almost as crushed as my arm. I’d always sized Bob up as a weakling, but I hadn’t imagined him in the throes of anger. His grip was strong, and his uncharacteristic rage alarmed me. I’d looked into the face of a man driven to desperation before, and I recognized the signs now in Bob’s bespectacled eyes.

  “If you swear you don’t have the ledgers, you don’t have them,” I said, keeping my voice measured. “I just needed to make sure.”

  “Of what?” he barked. “That I was a thief? He said he wouldn’t tell!”

  “Who said? Guy?”

  “Guy?” He shook his head. “What does Guy have to do with any of this? Ogden McChesney was the one who gave me his promise.”

  “Promise of what?” I asked.

  “That he wouldn’t tell anyone I’d taken money from the company. And now here you are. The police. And he told you!”

  So Jackson had been correct. “If Mr. McChesney knew you stole from the company, why did he keep you on?”

  “Because it was just once.” He thought again and backtracked. “Well, three times. Janet had just had the twins, and one of them was in the hospital. I needed money, and I had nowhere to turn, no one to ask for help. You have no idea what it feels like to be under that kind of pressure and have no one to turn to. And no one at the office would have found out, except that your aunt called Ogden about missing a check. And then . . .” Tears filled his eyes. “I confessed to Ogden right away. And I paid it all back. Every penny.”

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Then why would he do this to me? Why are you persecuting me?” He took my other arm then and shook me like a rag doll. “Why won’t you leave me alone? He said I’d never go to jail!”

  “Bob, listen. It wasn’t Mr. McChesney who told me about you.”

  “I don’t believe you. No one else knew!”

  “I guessed, and so did Jackson.”

  “Is this blackmail?” With every word he grew more hysterical and gave me a firmer shake. “Is that what you want?”

  “I only want to help Mr. McChesney. He didn’t kill Guy.”

  “And you think I did?” His eyes snapped open wider. “You want to send me to jail?” He shook me again. “I can’t go to jail. I have children!”

  My teeth rattled. I didn’t hear the voice shouting behind me, or realize what was happening until Schultz appeared behind Bob and spun him around.

  “Hold it right there, fella!” Schultz said. “That’s a police officer you’re assaulting.”

  It could only have been the uniform that momentarily cowed Bob in front of the world’s oldest policeman. “I can’t go to prison!” he cried again.

  Schultz puffed out his chest and drew up to his full height, which was still several inches below Bob’s chin. “We’ll see about that.”

  Bob looked like a cornered animal. This could escalate into something very bad. “It’s okay, Schultz,” I said.

  “Not on my watch, it’s not,” Schultz insisted. “This man can’t go around assaulting girls in the street, especially not police girls.”

  “I didn’t assault anybody!” Bob shouted.

  Schultz turned as red in the face as Bob. “I saw you, fella!”

  I stepped between the men just as Bob lashed out. His swinging fist hit the side of my eye, knocking me sideways.

  I stumbled and then looked up through one squinted eye. Schultz was vibrating in outrage. “That’s it! You’re coming to the station, bub!”

  Oh God. I did not want this. “I’m fine,” I li
ed, still reeling. Bob’s shaking me and that punch had left my brain feeling as if it were coming unglued from my skull.

  With his other arm, Schultz steadied me.

  “Bob and I used to work together,” I explained.

  He glared at Bob, whose glasses were askew and whose teeth were chattering with nerves. Yet his throwing that punch seemed to have subdued him finally. “I’m sorry, Louise,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Schultz’s gray brows met in consternation. “So that’s how it is. Couldn’t leave her alone, could you?”

  Bob’s eyes widened in offense at the implied salacious spin on his words. “I’m a married man,” he protested.

  Schultz made a sound of disgust. “They usually are.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Bob was in trouble, but it soon became clear that I was, too. Intimidated by the blue uniforms and brass buttons that descended on him after Schultz marched him into the precinct, Bob spilled the short, sad history of his career as an embezzler. The police heard about his twins, the pneumonia that afflicted the smallest boy, the doctor bills. He admitted stealing. “It was five hundred dollars—$446.63, to be exact—and I repaid every penny. Just ask Ogden McChesney. He’s in one of your jails, so it shouldn’t be hard to talk to him.”

  The sergeant and Jenks exchanged glances. “McChesney’s the geezer who burned down a building and killed his partner,” Jenks said.

  “You were part of that?” Donnelly asked Bob.

  “No.” He pointed at me. “She was trying to prove I was mixed up in it. That’s why she was harassing me and sending her aunt’s butler to pretend to be working for Ogden McChesney’s attorney.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, I winced.

  Eyebrows shot up and two surprised faces swung toward me. Never mind for the moment the implied police harassment indicated in Bob’s words. In unison, Jenks and Donnelly exclaimed, “Your aunt’s butler?”

  If my job survived the night, which was starting to look unlikely, I’d never live that down.