Murder on Millionaires' Row

by Erin Lindsey

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’m not stupid, Rose. Two days ago you sat in that chair talking about murder, and now you tell me it’s nothing. Don’t insult me.”

  I fidgeted uncomfortably. Pietro was right, I owed him better than this. But Mr. Wiltshire had sworn me to secrecy. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be slippery. It’s just that I don’t know half of it myself. I went down to Mr. Wiltshire’s office to look for clues, and when I was there a man attacked me.”

  “Attacked you?”

  “He was turning the office upside down looking for something, and I surprised him.” I paused, remembering something Mr. Wiltshire had said. Searching for something to help break the cipher, perhaps. I’d lost track of that tidbit amid the blizzard of revelations that afternoon. Filing it away for later, I went on, “The important thing is that I found a clue that led me to Mr. Wiltshire. He was being held captive, but he doesn’t know by whom.”

  Pietro scoffed. “So he says. I’ve never heard of nobody getting nabbed who didn’t know exactly why.” He started snatching wash off the line, clothespins snapping angrily with each tug. “You need to leave this job. This man is no good.”

  I started to answer the second part but got snagged on the first. “You make it sound as if you know someone who’s been kidnapped. Or who did the kidnapping, maybe?”

  He gave me a wry look. “I spend my free time at Augusto’s, Fiora.”

  I took his meaning straightaway. Any Five Pointer would have. Strictly speaking, Augusto’s was a grocery, but like Wang’s General Store, it was much more than that. Bank, employment office, gambling house, saloon, and all-around mustering point for the local Italian community, Augusto’s was a Mulberry Street institution. It was where Pietro found most of his work and all of his trouble, a good part of both on the wrong side of the law. There could be no better place to hear about shady business—or get mixed up in it.

  Something uncomfortable occurred to me then. “Pietro, you haven’t…”

  He scowled. “Of course not! But plenty of people come to Augusto for that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing, exactly?”

  “Hire some muscle. Organize a few of the boys to teach somebody a lesson. That’s why you nab somebody—to teach him a lesson. That, or because you need something he’s got. Either way, he knows why, and it’s always about money.”

  “This wasn’t about money.”

  Pietro rolled his eyes. “Whatever it was, it’s over now, thanks God, so you should pack up your things and leave that place.”

  I picked up a pair of trousers and started folding. “You’re right about the first bit, though—I think Mr. Wiltshire did have something they needed.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Because somebody cracked me over the head with a pistol, Pietro, and I’d like to know why.”

  “A pistol?” He uttered a long, decorative string of Italian curses. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him myself.”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Mr. Wiltshire, or the rough?”

  “Both! Figli di puttana…” He jerked a faded shirt off the line, still swearing under his breath. I couldn’t help wondering whether this little display of temper was really about me or just a convenient excuse to vent his contempt for the upper classes. “Did they catch him? The cazzo who hit you?”

  “No, but he was the same man who nabbed Mr. Wiltshire. A big Irishman. Mr. Wiltshire reckons he was hired muscle, just like you said.”

  “Of course. Rich men hire other people to do their dirty business.”

  “Hire them through people like Augusto?” I paused in my folding. An idea was blooming in my mind—and Pietro could see it.

  “Oh, no.” He raised a finger in a warding gesture. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Just a few questions. He won’t mind if they’re coming from you. He’s known you for years…”

  Pietro growled and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why, Rose? Why not just quit that job and find some other place to work? Some nice, quiet house where nobody gets kidnapped?”

  Because working as a maid in a nice, quiet house is unspeakably dull. Aloud, I said, “The man who attacked me belongs behind bars. If Augusto or somebody like that can help me find him, I’ll have him arrested.” Right after he tells me who hired him.

  Pietro blew out a breath. “You will get me into trouble along with you. Nothing good ever comes of asking favors of Augusto. That man is the devil.”

  I understood how he felt. It was a man like Augusto who’d tricked Pietro’s parents into letting him drag their two young sons across the sea in search of a better life, only to turn the boys into beggars once they arrived in New York. As far as Pietro was concerned, men like Augusto were responsible for the death of his brother and dozens like him. He’d sworn a hundred times over that he’d never set foot in that store again—only to be reminded a hundred times over that an Italian didn’t get far in New York without the help of a padrone. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sure there’s another way.”

  He sighed. “You say the man was Irish?”

  “I think they all were. Say, do you suppose there’s an Irishman who does the same sort of work as Augusto, acting as go-between for people looking to hire muscle?”

  “I’m sure of it, just as there is a German like that, and a Chinese, and a Jew…”

  “What a relief,” I said sourly. “I’d hate to think our people had cornered the market.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, there is plenty of competition.”

  “Will Augusto know them? The competition?”

  “Probably.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble…”

  He snorted softly. “Too late for that. But it’s a small enough thing. I won’t owe him much for it.”

  “Owe him? Just for answering a couple of questions?”

  “Nothing is free in Five Points, Fiora. You know that.” I started to protest, but he held up a hand. “It’s all right. It’s probably time for me to run an errand or two for him anyway. Like paying dues at the club, no?”

  That didn’t make me feel much better, but he insisted, and I suppose I didn’t take a whole lot of convincing. If we could find out who’d hired those roughs, maybe Mr. Wiltshire would let me help with the investigation. And if we couldn’t, well …

  I’d just have to think of something else.

  * * *

  I awoke with a terrible crick in the neck from sleeping on Mam’s floor. Even so, I was grateful not to have passed the night in my little room in the attic on Fifth Avenue. The frost would be long gone by now, but the memories wouldn’t melt away so easily. And if by some miracle I’d managed to fall asleep, waking up to those familiar surroundings would have left me disoriented, wondering how much of the previous day had been real.

  Then again, maybe it would have been better if I’d dismissed it all as a dream, because it would have spared me the unbearable thought of going back to my old life as if everything were normal. As it was, I suffered a terrible pang of envy when I arrived at the house to find Mr. Wiltshire already gone. Barely dawn, and already he was out scouring the city for clues, moving in a world of vibrant color and startling relief while all around me was as dull and flat as a newspaper photograph. I felt as if I finally understood something of the gambler or the opium fiend, craving the rush even though he knows it will only bring him trouble.

  Then there was the problem of what to tell Clara. I didn’t want to lie to her, but I couldn’t tell her everything, either; Mr. Wiltshire had made that very clear.

  I gave her as much of the truth as I could. “I found him at the gasworks,” I explained over tea and leftover biscuits. “Tied to a chair. They’d been holding him for nearly a week.”

  “They?” Clara’s voice was a low murmur, her fingers curled around her teacup so tightly that her knuckles were pale. We must have looked like quite the pair of gossips, huddled tête-à-têt
e at the kitchen table with our breakfast untouched between us.

  “No idea who they are,” I said. “Something to do with Mr. Wiltshire’s work, most likely. We managed to get away, but not without a fight. That’s what happened to his knuckles.”

  “Lord,” she said wonderingly. “So he was investigating a murder after all.”

  “He was, but he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. And there’s more, so much more, and I wish I could tell you all of it, but—”

  She patted my hand. “I appreciate the thought, but the truth is I’m just as happy not sticking my nose where it don’t belong. I’m just glad it worked out.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “I told you, I don’t—”

  “Not about Mr. Wiltshire. About … Clara, I saw a ghost.”

  There. After the ridiculous jig I’d done last night, I’d decided it was better just to blurt these things out.

  Clara was quiet for a spell. “Where?”

  “Here, in the house. Last night. Actually it was a shade, but … Well, never mind. I saw it in my room and I panicked.”

  “I guess! Was that the ruckus I heard in the hallway?”

  I nodded.

  “Mr. Wiltshire was with you. Did you tell him you saw a ghost?” When I nodded again, she said, “He believe you?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, now, that’s a surprise.”

  I could tell she was wondering whether he was just humoring me, so I said, “He believes in lots of things like that.” And before I could think better of it, I told her about luck.

  In hindsight, it was an incredibly selfish thing to do. Both Mr. Burrows and Mr. Wiltshire had warned me that knowing about luck could be dangerous. In telling Clara, I was potentially putting her at risk, and for what? She could have gone through life without ever knowing and it wouldn’t have bothered her a lick—she’d just finished saying as much. I told her because I wanted someone to talk to, which is about the worst reason I can think of to put a friend in danger.

  “You sure they wasn’t just pulling your leg?” Clara asked with a doubtful frown.

  “Mr. Wiltshire isn’t the sort.”

  “No, I suppose not. Anyway, I guess it ain’t all that surprising.”

  For a moment I just stared at her, certain I must have heard wrong. “What do you mean, not surprising?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t need Mr. Burrows or anybody else to tell me that the world is run by a handful of rich folks. As to how they got rich, well … don’t see how it matters much how Mr. Burrows’s great-granddaddy found his gold, or how John Jacob Astor got his hands on so much land, or any of the rest of it. We always knew it was luck. Just didn’t know what kind, is all.”

  What can I say? If pure, good old-fashioned horse sense was a form of luck, Clara had inherited it in spades.

  “I’m not saying I believe all this stuff anyway. Just … it wouldn’t surprise me, is all.”

  “Even so, I’d keep it to myself, even from Joseph. These are powerful people, and if they want something kept quiet…”

  “I figured. So why’d you tell me?”

  “I guess because I’m tired of secrets.”

  Clara looked as if she didn’t quite believe that, but she let it be.

  “Speaking of which, why didn’t you tell me you were a nurse?”

  She tsked. “I’m no more a nurse than you are a detective. I just learned some things from Doc Morris, that’s all.”

  “But you could be, if you wanted to.”

  “Oh, is that right?” She snorted. “A colored nurse.”

  “Why not? You wouldn’t be the first. There was that woman we read about in Harper’s, remember? Mary something?”

  “Mahoney, and what of it? Can you imagine what she must’ve gone through?”

  I could, at least a little. I’d heard plenty of stories of what it was like for my da when we first arrived in New York, how he struggled to find work on account of his heritage. Things were better now; we Irish were no longer the most despised of the immigrant races. (That honor currently belonged to the Celestials, with the Italians running a close second.) Even so, plenty of people still treated me as though I were less than. There had always been a Mrs. Sellers or two in my life, and I reckoned there always would be.

  That went double for Clara, of course. If learning to be a nurse weren’t hard enough, being colored on top of it … “Still, wouldn’t you rather be doing that than…” I gestured about the kitchen.

  “Why? What’s wrong with cooking? It’s good honest work, and every dollar saved gets me one step closer to Westchester. Besides, I don’t have time for school. You got any idea how complicated that business is, how much to learn? I used to look through Doc Morris’s medical books, at the diagrams and such. I tried to memorize as much as I could, but…” She shook her head. “It’d take years, not to mention costing a fortune.”

  “There’d be no Mrs. Sellers.”

  “There’d be a hundred just like her, believe you me.”

  That, I figured, had at least as much to do with her reluctance as anything else, but I kept that thought to myself. As hard as my life had been, it couldn’t compare to what Clara had endured. For every bigot I’d faced, she’d faced ten more, and they’d treated her ten times worse. She’d carved out a decent place for herself here. Could I really blame her for not wanting to give that up just to put herself through an awful trial?

  We were interrupted by the doorbell. I crept to the foot of the stairs to listen, and when Mrs. Sellers answered, I recognized the grandfatherly voice straightaway.

  I was already halfway up the stairs when the housekeeper found me. “Rose,” she said in her usual chiding tone, “there’s a—”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said, slipping past.

  “Morning, Miss Gallagher.” Sergeant Chapman made a vague gesture with his hat. “Have a moment?”

  I took the liberty of showing him to the parlor, wishing fervently that Mr. Wiltshire were here to see what my efforts had turned up. I felt sure the detective would have something for me, a faith that was not disappointed.

  “Your boss got back all right, I hear.” Eying my stitches, he added, “I take it you had something to do with that.”

  I gave him a quick version of the day’s events, along with a description of my assailant. “Does he sound familiar?”

  “A big Irishman?” Chapman lifted a graying eyebrow. “Sure, he sounds real familiar.”

  “Too familiar.” I sighed. “Well, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

  “You fended these roughs off by yourself?”

  “Mr. Wiltshire helped.” I didn’t like taking more than my share of the credit, but Mr. Wiltshire wanted his trade kept secret, and I figured a more accurate version of events would raise questions on that score. The gentlemen of Fifth Avenue were not known for their pugilistic prowess.

  Chapman narrowed one sleepy eye, but he didn’t press the issue. “Found something on your friend Roberts. Probably water under the bridge at this point, what with your boss turning up, but I figured since you’re only a couple of blocks from the station, wasn’t much trouble to come by.”

  “I appreciate it. There’s still a lot I don’t understand, and I’d like some answers about what happened to me.”

  “Well, I can’t give you that, least not yet, but here’s what I got. Turns out our friend Roberts has his fingers in more than a few pies. On top of being a Freemason, he’s a member of a smaller outfit called the Brotherhood of Seekers.”

  “How very mysterious sounding.”

  “Ain’t it, though.” He shook his head. “These secret society types. Rich fellas acting like a bunch of kids with a clubhouse, you ask me. Anyways, looks like the Crowe brothers are members of this brotherhood, too—or were, in the case of Jacob. So I looked into it some, and it turns out their sacred mission involves”—he paused to consult his ledger, holding it out at arm’s length and squinting—“psychical research with a vie
w to unmasking the great metaphysical mysteries of our time. So.” He snapped the ledger closed. “There you go.”

  “Metaphysical mysteries?”

  “Quite a mouthful, ain’t it? Near as I can figure, it means they spend their time researching things we can’t explain.”

  “Ah,” I said knowingly. “The paranormal, you mean.”

  “If you say so. I’m mentioning it because you was looking for a link between the Arbridge kid and the murder. I’m guessing this is it. Sounds to me like a ghost story is just the sort of thing the Crowe brothers and their little secret society would be interested in.”

  “You think Peter Arbridge might be involved in the murder?”

  “Could be. I’ll be seeing him next. And I’ll want to see your boss, too, when he gets in. I’m guessing he’s holding more than a few pieces to this puzzle. You’ll tell him that for me?”

  I agreed to pass on the message. “Does this mean you’re handling the Jacob Crowe case now, instead of Detective Ward?”

  “More or less. I got a feeling this thing is more complicated than it looks, so I decided to pull rank. Didn’t make myself a friend, but…” He shrugged and put his hat back on.

  It seemed we were through, so I showed him to the door. “I appreciate you coming by to tell me this, Sergeant. Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “I promised I’d get back to you, and I’m a man of my word.” Touching the brim of his hat, he said, “Miss Gallagher,” and was gone.

  I hovered in the foyer for a few minutes, toying with the lace of my apron and thinking through what Sergeant Chapman had said. That’s how I happened to be standing there when my employer burst through the door—looking very grim indeed.

  “Mr. Wiltshire!” I took his coat hurriedly. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m afraid not.” He paused to brush a lock of hair out of my eyes, checking my pupils in a gesture so reflexively intimate that he scarcely seemed to be aware of it. “Better,” he said distractedly, and started to walk away.

  “Wait, you can’t just…” I bit my lip, because of course he could just. “Please,” I said more calmly, “won’t you tell me what’s happened?”