Murder on Washington Square

by Victoria Thompson

  “What else do you need to know?”

  “How far along was she?”

  “How far along?” Haynes echoed in confusion.

  “She was expecting a child. How far along was she?”

  “She wasn’t expecting a child.”

  Frank stared at him in amazement. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I can be. I saw her insides, you know. Not only that, she was using a sponge.”

  “Where would she be wearing a sponge?” he asked in confusion.

  Haynes grinned and shook his head. “I forget you Catholic boys don’t believe in those things.”

  “What things?”

  “Things that keep a woman from getting pregnant.”

  “How would a sponge do that?”

  Haynes’s grinned widened. “A woman puts it up inside of her. Keeps the man’s . . . uh, seed from getting in to make a baby. From what I saw, this one had seen some recent use, too.”

  Frank sank down in the dingy metal chair in front of Haynes’s desk. This was very interesting information. “Can I see that report for myself, Doc?”

  “Help yourself, if you can read my chicken scratching.” Haynes handed the paper to him.

  This changed everything, Frank realized as he painstakingly deciphered the crabbed handwriting. Anna Blake wasn’t what she’d seemed at all, and Frank had a good idea he’d uncover some even more unsavory facts now that he knew the truth about her. He also had a feeling he might find a lot more people who wanted her dead besides poor Nelson.

  But the biggest problem he had now was how he was going to tell Sarah Brandt about the sponge.

  Sarah looked up at the imposing building on Park Row that housed the World. Mr. Joseph Pulitzer had spared no expense in making his building the most ostentatious on the street where all the major newspapers in the city had their offices. Standing twenty-six stories, it had been the tallest building in the world when it was built a few short years ago, and it still towered over most of the city. The title of tallest building hadn’t stood very long before someone built a taller one in Chicago, but the building’s dome was covered with copper that glittered like gold in the morning sunlight. Surely that would distinguish it for a longer time. Outside on the sidewalk, a lighted globe, seventeen feet in diameter, showed the points of the compass. People loved a spectacle, and Pulitzer gave it to them with his building and with his newspapers.

  Sarah had to thread her way through the jumble of pushcart vendors displaying their fruits and vegetables to the hoards of people walking across the Brooklyn Bridge in both directions. The entrance to the bridge was nearby, and between the crowds of workers coming and going on the bridge and those employed in the newspaper offices, the vendors did a brisk business.

  Inside, Sarah could feel the rumble of the giant presses that churned out the morning and evening editions of the World. The sensation made the building feel as if it were alive and trembling. Everywhere people, mostly men, were coming and going in a great hurry, either off to find news or coming in to write it. She’d thought that Saturday morning would be a good time to catch Webster Prescott in, but now she was afraid she’d been mistaken. Did reporters ever go to their offices? She realized she was woefully ignorant of the habits of newspapermen. For all she knew, he spent all his time standing on the sidewalk outside the homes of those unfortunate enough to have made themselves newsworthy.

  Sarah made her way to the elevators, checked the building directory, and gave the correct floor number to the operator when the car arrived. A few moments later, the operator opened the doors on an enormous room that covered the entire floor of the building. Sarah stepped off the elevator with a confidence she didn’t feel, and the elevator doors slammed shut behind her.

  The room was lined with row after row of desks, broken only by the columns that supported the ceiling. Tall windows on all four sides let in the sunlight and revealed a breathtaking view of the city in every direction. No one else seemed aware of the view, however. About a third of the desks were occupied by men writing furiously or typing on typewriters. Others, most of whom were hardly old enough to be called men, were hurrying here and there, carrying sheaves of papers, depositing them on desks and picking up more.

  One of these boys glanced at her curiously as he passed, and she stopped him. “Excuse me, but could you tell me where Webster Prescott would be?”

  “Pres? Sure,” the boy said, scanning the room. “His desk’s over there and . . . looks like he’s sitting at it, too. Can you see him?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, peering in the direction he indicated. “Thank you.”

  She made her way through the noisy room, drawing more curious stares which she ignored. This far above the presses, she could no longer feel the vibrations of them, but the clatter of typewriters and the rumble of men’s voices were equally loud and disturbing. She tried to imagine sitting in a room like this all day and cringed at the thought. But then, the reporters would be out a lot, getting their stories, so perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it might seem.

  She stopped in front of Prescott’s desk. He was engrossed in the story he was writing, but when her shadow fell across it, he looked up. She saw the recognition register on his face and the frown as he tried to dredge up a name to go with her face.

  “Sarah Brandt,” she supplied.

  “Nelson Ellsworth’s neighbor,” he added happily. He obviously thought her presence meant something good for him, a scoop perhaps. “Please, sit down, Mrs. Brandt. Let me find you a chair.”

  He borrowed one from a neighboring desk where no one was sitting and pulled it up for her. “What brings you here this fine morning?” he asked pleasantly when she was settled and he’d taken his own seat.

  “I’ve come to ask you a favor,” she said.

  His smile evaporated. He’d be wanting her to do a favor for him. “I’ll be happy to help if I can,” he said, although she could see he was only being polite so as not to alienate a potential source of news.

  “I want you to print the truth about Nelson Ellsworth.”

  Now she had his attention again. “What truth do you want me to tell?” He reached blindly for the notebook that lay open on his desk and pulled a pencil from over his ear.

  “First of all, Nelson didn’t kill that woman.”

  This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “But the evidence—”

  “—is misleading. It seems that Mr. Ellsworth wasn’t the only man with whom Miss Blake was involved.”

  “She had another lover?” he asked, brightening again.

  “Yes, and this one is married.”

  He began to scribble notes in his book. “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know,” she lied. “But he’s certainly an even likelier candidate than Nelson, and unless the newspapers stop blackening Nelson’s name, he might well be convicted of the killing anyway, even though he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Nelson was genuinely in love with Anna Blake and wanted to marry her. She’s the one who refused. She wanted him to give her money instead.”

  Prescott’s young face creased into a frown. “That’s very strange.”

  “I thought so. No honest woman would prefer money to respectability. Nelson Ellsworth is an innocent victim in this. I think Anna Blake deliberately chose him, thinking he would be easy to fool. I’m not exactly sure what her plan was, but she wasn’t interested in snagging an eligible husband. She could have had one in Nelson, and she refused him.”

  “Even though she was . . . well, in a family way?”

  “So it appears. I came down here to tell you that there’s a better story here than the one all the newspapers have been telling about Nelson, and it also happens to be the true one. You could make quite a name for yourself if you’re the first one to discover it, Mr. Prescott.”

  His eyes were sparkling with anticipation, but he hadn’t forgotten his instincts. “Why are you going to all this trouble to protect Ellsworth, Mrs. Brandt?”

  Malloy had warned her about the dan
ger of doing this, but she’d hoped Prescott was too naive or inexperienced to think of it. She’d been wrong about that, but she still might be able to convince him of her good intentions. “Because his mother once saved my life, and I owe her a debt of gratitude. Nelson is her only son, and I can’t stand by and see him ruined and maybe even executed, especially when I know he’s innocent.”

  Prescott wasn’t as easily dissuaded. “How can you be so sure? Can you give him an alibi for that night?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

  “No, I cannot,” she replied, refusing to be ruffled. “An innocent man doesn’t need an alibi.”

  Prescott shook his head sadly. “Oh, Mrs. Brandt, an innocent man needs an alibi most of all.”

  7

  SATURDAY MORNING WAS PROBABLY A GOOD TIME TO catch her mother alone, Sarah thought. She’d made two promises to Mrs. Ellsworth, and seeing Webster Prescott was just the first. She’d also agreed to convince the bank not to fire Nelson. For that she’d need more than the gumption that had taken her into the World. For that she’d need Felix Decker. Since the best way to influence her father was through her mother, that’s where Sarah headed next.

  As she rode the Sixth Avenue Elevated uptown, she wondered whether she’d made the right decision in going to Prescott. He’d seemed enthusiastic about her story and had promised to investigate. Of course, that might mean he’d come up with something even more outlandish than the reports of Nelson being a killer. It might even mean involving herself in this scandal. That was, however, a chance she’d been willing to take. If her good name was completely ruined in this cause and decent women no longer hired her to deliver their babies, she could always throw herself on her father’s mercy. He’d be only too glad to take her back into his home—and his control—once again, she thought grimly.

  But she wouldn’t borrow trouble, as Mrs. Ellsworth would have advised her. She had to hope Malloy was making progress in finding Anna’s real killer. Meanwhile, she’d do what she could to make sure this terrible situation wasn’t any worse for Nelson than it already had been and that he had a job to return to when he could safely leave his house again.

  Her parents lived on Fifty-Seventh Street, not far from the Plaza Hotel and Marble Row on Fifth Avenue, home to the more ostentatious of the wealthy. The Deckers’ town house appeared modest on the outside, which suited them. They had always been modest about their wealth.

  The maid seemed surprised to see her, since few members of society were stirring at this hour, but she admitted her and escorted her to the back parlor, which was the comfortable room the family used. In a few minutes, the maid came back, alone.

  “Your mother asked me to take you up to her room, since she isn’t dressed yet,” the girl said.

  Sarah smiled. Her mother must be appalled that Sarah was not only dressed but out and about so early on a Saturday, although by most people’s standards, it wasn’t early at all. She followed the maid up the stairs and down the corridor. Her mother’s voice bid her enter when the girl knocked.

  Elizabeth Decker looked like a girl herself, draped in a silk dressing gown and half reclining on her settee. Her golden hair lay loose on her shoulders, and in the dimly lit room, the silver strands weren’t visible. Neither were the fine lines that the years had etched on her lovely face, and the smile of greeting she gave Sarah banished any lingering illusion of age.

  “Sarah, how delightful to see you!” she said, reaching up to return Sarah’s kiss of greeting.

  Her mother’s cheek was soft beneath her lips, and Sarah felt a rush of fond memories at the touch. Memories of happier days, long before she and her sister had grown old enough to see the world the way it really was and to rebel against the lives they had been bred to assume.

  “What urgent business has brought you out at this unfashionable hour?” her mother asked, bringing her back to the present.

  “What makes you think I have urgent business?” Sarah asked, seating herself on the slipper chair beside her mother. The room was decorated in shades of rose, with elaborately carved cherry wood furnishings. The color, Sarah realized, was very flattering to a woman of a certain age, especially when the morning light was filtered through it.

  “I don’t want to sound accusing, but it seems the only time you come to visit me is when you need my assistance in one of your wild escapades,” she chided.

  “Oh, Mother, I—”

  “I’m not complaining, mind you,” her mother said, raising her hand to stop Sarah’s protest. “I suppose I should be glad you live such an interesting life. Otherwise, I might never see you at all. Now, what is it you want me to do?”

  “Actually, it’s father’s help I need this time,” Sarah admitted.

  Her mother sighed in feigned disgust. “So you’re only using me to influence your father,” she complained. “I might have known it would come to this. Really, Sarah, I’d think you’d learned your lesson. The last time you asked for our help, it ended very badly.”

  Sarah winced, remembering just how badly. “No one is going to end up dead this time, I promise.”

  “I should hope not! Mrs. Schyler won’t even speak to me anymore.”

  “Oh, Mother, you never liked her anyway. She’s a terrible woman.”

  “Yes, but you might alienate someone I do like if I’m not careful. Who is it you want to meet this time?”

  “I’m not sure,” Sarah admitted.

  “Not sure? Then how do you think your father can help?”

  Sarah sighed. She’d have to tell her mother the whole story. “Well, you see, there’s been a murder . . .”

  “Oh, Sarah, how do you manage to get involved in these things?” her mother cried in dismay. “I’m almost twice as old as you, and I’ve never even known anyone who was murdered!”

  “I didn’t know this person either,” Sarah defended herself. “Not well, at least.”

  Her mother put a hand to her forehead and shook her head sadly.

  “My neighbor has been accused of killing her, you see and—”

  “Oh, dear, stop right there. Let me ring for some tea. I can see this is going to be a long story, and I, for one, need fortification. Pull the bell, will you, dear?”

  An hour later, Sarah and her mother were finishing up their tea and the last of the delicious pastries the cook had sent up with it, just as Sarah finished her story.

  “I promised Mrs. Ellsworth I’d help Nelson keep his job at the bank, but I know there’s nothing I can do. If I walked in there and asked to see the president of the bank, they might let me in to see him, but he’d probably laugh right in my face or worse. It seems that when a woman takes an interest in helping a man, people always assume there is some romantic attachment between them. That’s not only annoying, but it also causes people to misinterpret the woman’s motives in trying to help.”

  “You don’t have to instruct me in the ways of the world, Sarah. I understood them long before you were born. At least you have the good sense not to involve yourself in this. You could do this poor man more harm than good if you did. Can you imagine what the newspapers would say if they found out who your father is?”

  Sarah simply nodded, knowing anything she said on the subject would upset her mother. She only hoped she never had to explain just how Webster Prescott had come to name her as Nelson Ellsworth’s paramour in The World.

  “You were right to come to us,” her mother was saying. “I’m sure your father can speak to the president of this bank, whoever he is. Of course, if your friend is arrested for murder, I’m not sure even your father’s influence would save the man’s job.”

  “My friend Mr. Malloy is working on the case. I’m sure he’ll find the real killer very soon,” Sarah said to reassure her.

  Her mother looked far from reassured, however. “Are you still seeing that policeman, Sarah?”

  “I was never seeing him, Mother,” Sarah said. “We are friends, nothing more.”

  “An unmarried female can never be just friends wi
th an unmarried man, not in the eyes of the world. You must know that yourself. Do you have any idea how easily such a relationship can be misconstrued?”

  “Of course I do,” she insisted. “And believe me, there is nothing between us that could even be misconstrued.”

  “I hope not. You know we didn’t approve of your marriage to Dr. Brandt. Not that we had anything against him, of course. He was a fine man. But you gave up everything for him, Sarah.”

  “I didn’t give up anything I ever regretted losing,” Sarah said, ignoring the flash of pain the mention of her late husband caused.

  Another kind of pain flashed in her mother’s eyes, but she chose not to dwell on it. “Even though we didn’t want to see you so reduced in circumstances, at least Dr. Brandt was a respectable man with an honest profession. But a policeman, Sarah? They’re worse than the criminals they deal with!”

  Her mother was right; policemen were corrupt. Malloy was as honest as he could be, under the circumstances, but even that wouldn’t meet her mother’s standards. “You’re worrying for no reason, Mother. I have no intention of marrying Mr. Malloy, and he has no intention of marrying me.”

  “I don’t see how he could have,” she said. “He’s Irish, isn’t he? They aren’t allowed to marry outside their faith.”

  By “Irish,” she meant “Catholic,” and being Irish Catholic was a far greater sin in Elizabeth Decker’s eyes than being a dishonest policeman. Sarah wanted to chasten her for such prejudice, but she knew it would be a waste of breath and would only distract her from her real purpose in being here. “As I said, we aren’t going to marry, so it can’t possibly matter,” she said wearily.

  Only then did she see the depth of concern in her mother’s blue eyes. “There are more things than that to worry about, dear. Be careful, Sarah. I know you’re lonely, and this man knows it, too. He’ll try to prey on that loneliness. Don’t let him deceive you, darling. Don’t be a fool.”