As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t let it go by. He smashed his sore shoulder against this new door. He was getting the hang of it—the door gave on only the third try.
Muldoon took a whiff of the air inside, gasped, and called across the hall for Mrs. Sturdevant. This was the place, all right. He could hear the hiss of escaping gas, and the smell was nauseous.
For one crazy moment, Muldoon wanted to light his lantern so he could see his way to the window, to open it, and get some fresh air into the room. He actually had a lucifer in his hand before he realized that would be a particularly messy (not to say embarrassing) way of committing suicide.
He made his way in the dark, stumbling once or twice. He opened the broad window at the other end of the room, and thrust out his head. The view wasn’t much—the fire escape, the backs of the other buildings on the block, and the alley below—but the air was delicious. He drew in all of it his lungs could hold, then plunged back to the center of the room.
Muldoon had never been in this particular flat before, but it seemed to be a mirror image of Mr. Harvey’s place across the hall. Keeping that in mind, and following the hissing, he was able to find the gas jet without too much blundering around.
By the time he’d twisted the valve shut, his eyes were adjusted to the darkness. This time, he walked confidently to the window, refilled his lungs, then surveyed the place.
Crandall was sitting tall and straight in a wingback chair. In the half darkness, the only way Muldoon could tell he was dead was by the way his head was thrown back over the rim of carved wood that projected above the upholstery.
No one could have slept with those walnut knobs digging into his neck, but Crandall certainly looked as though he were doing it. He was immaculate in a flowered smoking jacket, with a silk scarf around his neck. Not a hair in his continental beard was out of place.
Muldoon nibbled at his own moustache while he checked for a pulse. He wasn’t very good at doing that—he kept feeling his own instead of the patient’s. He bellowed for Mrs. Sturdevant again, then dragged Crandall to the open window.
He lay the man chest down across the broad sill, and began artificial respiration by pushing vigorously on his back, the way he’d seen lifeguards do it at Coney Island.
Mrs. Sturdevant joined him. She wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, but she held a corner of her apron over her mouth and nose, and walked to Muldoon. Now that she had Mr. Harvey safely back in bed, her maternal instincts took a back seat to her curiosity.
“Mr. Crandall?” she asked. Muldoon nodded. The landlady shook her head. “Now why would a young man want to do something like that?” To Mrs. Sturdevant, anyone fifty or under was young.
“Don’t be worryin’ me about that now, woman,” Muldoon scolded, in rhythm with his efforts. “I can’t stop doin’ this, so you must go for help. I don’t suppose you’d be havin’ a telephone?”
“I’m not,” she said coldly, “Mrs. John Pierpont Morgan.”
“Just askin’. Here.” Muldoon let up pressure just long enough to hand her his whistle and nightstick. “Put the whistle in your mouth and toot while you’re poundin’ the sidewalk with the billy. That’ll bring every cop within ten blocks runnin’. Now go!”
The landlady looked dubious, but she put the whistle between her lips, took a firm grip on the nightstick, and dashed away.
It was only a few seconds before Muldoon heard her start to raise her ruckus. Help would be here soon.
As the gas dissipated and the smell of it diminished, Muldoon was able to notice the odor of something else that made him realize that whatever help did come would be too late for Mr. Crandall. He’d soiled himself. They only did that at the moment they gave up the ghost, so Muldoon knew for certain that it was hopeless.
Muldoon gave up the life-saving as a bad job, happy to leave off touching the dead man. He sniffed the air again, and decided it would be safe to have some light. He made the flame from the wall jet as bright as possible, and began to search the room for a suicide note.
The first thing he noticed was the bright red color of the dead man’s face, the same color his Uncle Liam used to turn when he was in his cups and spoiling for a fight. The gas had done it for Crandall, though; and there’d be no more fighting for him.
Muldoon suppressed a shudder. Not only was getting gassed a terrible way to die, but to sit in a chair and just wait for it to happen ... It gave him chills to think about it.
Aside from the chair the body had occupied, the only other furniture in the room was a plain, straight-backed, armless wooden chair and a big, handsome rolltop desk. Muldoon picked the desk as the most likely place to find the note. He resigned himself to having to bust that open, too, but got a pleasant surprise when he found it unlocked.
Little wonder. It was nearly as bare as the room. It did contain one thing of value—a Kodak, one of the new kind, where the owner could remove the film and send it to Rochester to be developed, instead of having to mail the whole camera. Aside from that, Muldoon found only a pencil, a pen, a bottle of black ink, and a crumpled piece of good-quality paper that bore a none-too-flattering portrait of Mayor Strong. The drawing looked familiar to Muldoon. He puzzled over it for a few seconds, then recognized it as part of a cartoon the Journal had run a few days ago. For some reason, the patrolman decided, Crandall had been trying to copy the style of E. Noon.
Muldoon decided to move his search for the note into the bedroom; there was certainly nothing to be found here.
The bedroom was as opulent as the sitting room had been bare, and the second most opulent thing about it was the huge four-poster bed with the red silk coverlet. The first most opulent thing was the woman who lay on it.
III.
She was jaybird naked, and as beautiful as anything Muldoon had ever seen. The sight of her took his breath away far more thoroughly than the gas ever could.
He had, in fact, a double portion of her beauty, because by a corner of the bed, just where the light from the open door could strike it, stood an artist’s easel holding a painting, beautiful though unfinished, of this same woman, equally naked.
Muldoon looked back at the real woman, and offered a wordless prayer that she not be dead. The prayer was immediately answered by a muffled groan and a writhing. The thwarted movement of a beautifully tapered leg led him to observe that she had been cruelly bound hand and foot, to the four bedposts, and blindfolded and gagged with scarves.
Some subtle instinct Muldoon didn’t even bother to notice told him it was rude to wear his helmet in the presence of a lady, especially a naked one, and he doffed it as he entered the room. Before doing anything else, he drew the curtains on the bedroom window to afford the poor girl some modesty, then lit the gas.
Muldoon was frankly at a loss. It wasn’t the first time, by any means, that he’d seen a female clad only in what God gave her to wear, but all the other times, it had been with the lady’s consent, if not her eager cooperation. This, though in the line of duty, was going to be a bit too much like taking an indecent liberty for Muldoon to feel comfortable about it.
Still, duty was duty. He had to get her out of this—the unfortunate thing was probably suffering tortures untold. “Don’t ... ah ... don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll be havin’ you out of there in ... ah ... a jiffy.”
He started with the blindfold and gag—they were safe enough. The face he revealed was fully as lovely as the form it went with. The girl’s shiny black hair made a widow’s peak, which in turn made a Valentine’s Day greeting of her whole face. She had large, clear brown eyes that looked at him with mute appeal, while her wide red mouth shaped words to reinforce the message.
“Oh, Officer,” she breathed. “Bless you, bless you. You are sent from God to rescue me. Please untie me, quickly!”
It was an intimidating prospect. She had been tied, spread-eagle, with a single length of rope, which crossed her ivory skin many times, and was knotted in the vicinity of some her most appealing curves.
/> Muldoon felt sweat start to form on his forehead.
“Please hurry,” the girl pleaded. “I am in such discomfort, and you are so strong and kind. I entreat you to end my suffering.” She closed her eyes and bit her lip before saying, “Nothing can remove the scars of my humiliation.” The lip quivered.
To hell with it, Muldoon thought. “Thank God I’m wearin’ me gloves,” he said, and began to work on the rope. Besides, she was far too delicate to be gawked at like a hootchy-cootchy dancer by the boys on the squad.
That she was painfully shy was obvious; she wouldn’t even tell Muldoon her name. Muldoon, remembering the easel, thought she might be a professional model, and asked her that.
“Not usually,” she replied, then turned her head to the pillow, as if in shame.
“Well,” Muldoon said, “maybe you’ll be talkin’ more easily when I’ve got you free, mmm?” He tried what he thought would be an encouraging chuckle, but his voice sounded strange. It was getting hard for him to keep his mind off where his hands were. He’d undone the knots in all the decent places first—the only one’s left were in places only a doctor or a husband was entitled to touch. In spite of his situation, he couldn’t help but feel he was taking advantage of the girl, yet he also felt a nagging, sinful regret that as soon as the last knot was gone, he would have to leave off taking advantage. Nobody’d prepared him for anything like this when he’d joined the Force.
To make matters worse, she was a Catholic girl. A gold cross on a fine gold chain nestled in the cleft of her bosom. Muldoon tried to concentrate on that—the cross, not the bosom—but it was difficult to do when it seemed that every time he’d try to take hold of the rope, his hand found some soft, springy part of the girl instead.
It was hell, never mind that certain evil parts of Muldoon’s mind were acting as if they were enjoying themselves.
The last knot was the hardest. In order to get leverage on a particularly stubborn bit of rope, Muldoon had to lean far over the bed in a way that had him staring, at close range, at a birthmark on the inside of her (he couldn’t help noticing) perfectly firm right thigh. The mark itself was fascinating, almost hypnotic. It was a “T” shape, bright pink and about an inch long, with wedge-shaped arms and a circle on top centered over the upright. It reminded Muldoon of an angel, complete with wings and nimbus.
With an effort that almost hurt, Muldoon brought his mind back to his work. He freed the last knot, and fairly leapt away from the bed. Judging from his breath, he might have run six times around the block, or gone fifteen with the great John L.
The Angel Woman might have been a bit stiff from her ordeal, but she didn’t show it. She was talking again, blessing Muldoon in her sweet voice. She got up, rushed to him, embraced him, and began to cry on his strong blue shoulder. She was just tall enough to reach it. Her hair hung straight and glossy to her waist.
It must be reported, in fairness to Muldoon, that he wanted to push her away; indeed, he tried, but in the very act, his hands were brought back to places they’d just left. He pulled them away as though he’d been burnt. This was no longer the line of duty.
“Oh, Officer,” the woman pleaded. “You must take me away from this place before another minute passes!”
“Ah ... I’m afraid I can’t be doin’ that, ma’am. Sorry,” he added feebly. Having nothing better to do with his hand, he scratched his head. “Wouldn’t you rather be lettin’ go of me? The wool they use in these uniforms is mighty itchy.”
She held him, if that were possible, all the more tightly, putting her hand inside his tunic, as though she wanted to touch his heart physically as well as with her words.
“Oh, please, please, take me away! Surely ...” she tilted her head back and looked deeply into his eyes. “Surely you must know a place where an unfortunate girl can hide her shame from the world in safety. Don’t leave me here where the murderer may return and butcher me!”
Muldoon was surprised. It had looked like an open-and-shut, if somewhat perverted suicide to him. “Murder?”
The Pink Angel shuddered against him and cried the harder. “I—I can’t speak of it. Oh, is there no man who is not cruel?”
Muldoon’s heart bled, but the boy was born to be a policeman. “How do you know it was murder?” he asked.
She would give him no answer.
“Look at me,” he commanded. Tear-filled brown eyes opened to him. “You say it’s murder, do you? Well, if that’s the truth of it, the only way to be sure of bein’ safe is to catch the murderer, isn’t that so?” And in spite of himself, he enfolded her in his arms, and gave her back gentle pats of reassurance.
“Well?” he asked.
“Yes,” the girl said, sniffing back a further tear. “I heard it, while I was bound and helpless in here. I know it was murder!” Suddenly, she dissolved into near hysteria. “Now take me away from here, or I shall die!”
Muldoon didn’t want her going all to pieces, both for the girl’s own sake, and for the sake of the detectives who would be questioning her later.
“There, there, me darlin’,” he told her, allowing himself one final pat. “You won’t have to be stayin’ here much longer, I promise. I’ll leave you to ... ah ... get dressed while I see what’s delayin’ me reinforcements.”
“Thank you, thank you, and thank God for sending you to me in my time of trial.” She took his hand, and covered it with kisses, something Muldoon found profoundly embarrassing.
He went back through the sitting room to the hall. Mrs. Sturdevant was still pounding determinedly on the sidewalk with the nightstick, but her blasts on the whistle were getting a mite breathy.
All the neighbors, who should have been home in their beds, to Muldoon’s way of thinking, were trying to get her to stop the racket. All but the children—they were offering to help blow the whistle.
Muldoon was about to go outside and break up the show, but before he could, heard a familiar voice calling from the far end of the block. “Don’t worry, Mother, help is on the way!”
Well, well, Muldoon thought. The captain himself—there was no mistaking the church-organ tones of Captain Ozias Herkimer, the commander of Muldoon’s precinct. In quality of voice, and in ability to say things that sounded just beautiful, whether you could understand them or not, Muldoon ranked the captain second only to William Jennings Bryan himself, whom Muldoon had heard speak at the Madison Square Garden a week ago Wednesday.
Muldoon wondered what had brought the captain out, but it didn’t matter as long as someone was coming to help. He climbed back up to Crandall’s flat to reassure his witness.
“I’m back, miss,” he called, as heartily as he felt was proper in the presence of gruesome death. “Are you ready to be leavin’ here yet?” It was almost as if Muldoon were calling to take her out walking.
There was no answer from the bedroom. He tried the door; it was locked. He put his ear to it; there was no sound from within, no movement, no rustling of petticoats, no anything.
Muldoon called on all three of his name-saints to preserve him as a feeling of dread washed over him. Had the murderer somehow returned? Had the poor girl been unable after all to withstand the shame of her predicament and chosen the final way out?
For the third time that evening, Muldoon broke down a door. His shoulder fairly throbbed with pain, but he gave that no thought. There might still be time.
The door gave way. The bedroom was empty. Muldoon stood a moment, stupefied, then rushed to the open window. Out there and down the fire escape was the only place she could have gone.
And so she had. Sticking his head out the window, Muldoon saw the young woman, wrapped only in a sheet, hurrying down the ladder to the alley below. Her small, bare feet made no sound on the rungs. She was descending toward a light-colored rectangle. Muldoon turned momentarily, and saw the easel now stood empty. She’d taken the painting and dropped it before her—not wanting to leave behind any evidence of her degradation, Muldoon thought.
�
�Hey!” Muldoon shouted. “Hey, stop! Are you daft?”
She paused for a moment, and looked at him almost wistfully. Then she went the rest of the way down the ladder, picking up the painting, and the length of rope she’d been bound with, when she reached the bottom.
Muldoon was hampered by his great size, but he managed to clamber out onto the fire escape. Before he could start down, though, the young woman paused again, this time raising her arm.
She’s wavin’ me goodbye, for the love of Pete, Muldoon thought. She is daft.
Then there was the roar of a gunshot, and the whine of a bullet ricocheting off the brick wall above his head. Muldoon went sprawling on the metal slats.
He would never have fired at a woman, of course, but Muldoon’s instinctive response to being shot at was to reach to his holster.
It was empty, She’d shot at him with his own gun. Feeling the biggest fool God ever made, Muldoon risked sticking his head out over the edge of the landing. He had to have one more look at this creature if he died for it.
She was still there. Her anxious look changed to a smile when she saw him; a sad smile, but a smile nevertheless. She raised her other arm, brought it to her mouth, blew Muldoon a kiss, then disappeared around the corner of the building.
IV.
“You,” Captain Herkimer told Muldoon a half hour later, “are the biggest fool God ever made!”
Herkimer looked more like a sea captain than a police captain, with his weatherbeaten face and grizzled, half-circle beard. Right now, he resembled a sea captain in the act of putting down a mutiny. The veins stood out on his neck and broad forehead. He sought to dominate Muldoon, not by leaning over and yelling down at him—he lacked the height for that—but by leaning forward and yelling at the bottom of the patrolman’s chin. Muldoon was vaguely afraid the captain would leap up and bite him on the throat.
“If you expect me to believe that ... that tale of yours,” he went on, “you’re even a bigger fool than that!”
The Lunatic Fringe: A Novel Wherein Theodore Roosevelt Meets the Pink Angel Page 3
