Murder on Waverly Place

by Victoria Thompson

  The girl shook her head. “Mrs. Gittings was mean to him. She said he was stupid.”

  “Did they argue?” Sarah asked.

  “No, no, the Professor, he is very quiet. He would say nothing when she said mean things to him.”

  “But she trusted him with the money,” Malloy remembered. “He knew the combination to the safe. He could have taken it and disappeared.”

  “No, they were saving for something,” Serafina said. “At least . . .” She stopped, remembering.

  “What is it?” Sarah prodded.

  The girl pursed her lips as she tried to recall. “At first, the Professor and Mrs. Gittings would talk about what they were going to do when they had enough money. They were going to bankroll something, they said. I did not understand what it was, but they would get very excited when they talked about it because they would get very rich. The Professor, he had done it before, but he was just a steerer then and did not earn much money.”

  “A what?” Malloy asked sharply.

  “A steerer,” Serafina repeated uncertainly. “I think that is the word.”

  “What else did they say about it?” Malloy asked urgently.

  “I do not know,” Serafina said in dismay. “I did not pay attention, but it does not matter, because then she changed her mind.”

  “What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

  “She saw they could make a lot of money from the séances. She said . . . she said it was easier and not as dangerous. She said no one would get killed,” she remembered suddenly.

  “That’s what she said?” Malloy asked. “That nobody would get killed?”

  “Yes, this other thing, what the Professor wanted to do, that was dangerous, but the séances were not. She said they attracted a better class of people.” Serafina glanced at Mrs. Decker apologetically.

  “And did the Professor agree with her?” Sarah asked.

  “No, no,” Serafina said. “He was not happy. They would argue about it at night sometimes, after Nicola and I went to bed.”

  “Why didn’t he just take the money himself?” Malloy asked.

  “They did not have enough yet. I think . . .”

  “What do you think, dear?” Mrs. Decker asked when Serafina hesitated.

  “I think they would never give me my part of the money,” she said bitterly. “I think they would have taken it all and left us with nothing.”

  Sarah thought that, too.

  “So the Professor stayed because he didn’t have enough money yet to do whatever it was he wanted to do with it,” Malloy said, drawing Serafina’s attention back. “But Mrs. Gittings had changed her mind and just wanted to keep doing the séances.”

  “Yes, she asked did he not like living in a nice house and not worrying about the police. She said he was stupid to think about anything else. But he said they could live in a mansion and never have to work again.”

  Malloy sat back and considered what she had told him.

  “Do you know what it was he wanted to do?” Sarah asked him.

  “I have a good idea,” he replied.

  “What do you think it was?”

  “They call it the Green Goods Game.”

  “What is it?” Sarah asked.

  “It’s a way to trick people out of their money. They send out letters all over the country, offering to sell people counterfeit money.”

  “Is that legal?” Mrs. Decker asked in amazement.

  Malloy’s mouth quirked, but he managed not to smile. “Not at all. But lots of people are curious enough to travel to New York to find out more about it. The operators pay all their travel expenses, too, even if they decide not to buy in. So the suckers come to New York and somebody—the one they call the steerer—meets them at the train and takes them to a hotel. Then the steerer takes them to meet the one they call the Old Gentleman, who is someone who looks very respectable. The Old Gentleman shows them a suitcase full of what they think is the counterfeit money, except it’s real money.”

  “Real money? Why would they show them real money?” Sarah asked.

  “To convince them it’s good quality so they’ll buy it.”

  “How much does counterfeit money cost?” Mrs. Decker asked with interest.

  “Ten cents on the dollar. When the sucker is convinced, he pays for the money, and the operators lock it into a suitcase for him. Then the steerer escorts him right back to the train that will take him back home and puts him on it.”

  “I do not understand,” Serafina said. “How does this make any money if they sell real money for less than it is worth?”

  “Because when the sucker is distracted, the operators switch suitcases. When the sucker gets home and opens it, it’s full of sawdust or blank pieces of paper or bricks or something.”

  “But don’t they go back to New York and complain that they were swindled?” Mrs. Decker asked, outraged.

  This time Malloy couldn’t help smiling. “What would they say? That they were trying to buy counterfeit money and someone cheated them?”

  The women all exclaimed their surprise.

  “How clever!” Sarah said. “And you think this is what the Professor wanted to use the money for?”

  “Yes, but they’d need at least ten thousand dollars in cash to show the suckers. The operators usually have somebody who gives them the money to show the suckers and takes about half the profits. The steerer and the Old Gentleman and their other helpers each get a share of the other half.”

  “How much could someone earn doing this?” Sarah asked.

  “At least a couple thousand dollars.”

  “A year?” Mrs. Decker asked.

  “No,” Malloy told her. “A day.”

  The women gasped. A couple thousand dollars was a good annual wage for a working man.

  “No wonder the Professor was trying to convince Mrs. Gittings to do it,” Sarah said.

  “But Mrs. Gittings was afraid it was too dangerous,” Serafina reminded them.

  “It is,” Malloy said. “Sometimes the suckers get suspicious, or they figure out what’s going on, and they pull a gun or the operators do. Sometimes people get shot.”

  “So that explains what the Professor wanted the money for,” Sarah said.

  “If I’m right about it, it does,” Malloy allowed. “But none of that matters now. What matters is if it gave him a reason to kill her, and I don’t think it did, at least not until they had enough to bankroll him for a Green Goods Game.”

  “But they fight all the time,” Serafina insisted.

  “Lots of people fight but never kill each other,” he told her. “Beside, they didn’t have enough money to set up his own game yet. When they did, he might have killed her if she refused to go along with him on their original plan. But that hadn’t happened, and he still needed her to keep running the séances.”

  “Did he?” Sarah asked.

  Malloy frowned. “Did he what?”

  “Did he need her to run the séances?” She turned to Serafina. “Could you do the séances without her?”

  “I don’t . . . Yes, we could,” she decided. “At first she got clients for me, but after a while, people began to bring their friends and . . . No, we did not need her anymore.”

  “So the Professor could have killed her to make sure that she wasn’t around to mess up his plans,” Malloy said.

  “Except,” Sarah reminded him with a superior grin, “he wasn’t even in the room when she was killed.”

  11

  THAT EVENING, LONG AFTER M ALLOY AND SAR AH’S mother had left and when Catherine had finally gone reluctantly to bed, Sarah and Serafina had to tell Maeve and Mrs. Ellsworth everything they had discussed earlier in the day. Serafina had chosen not to return to the house on Waverly Place that afternoon as the Professor had asked. Even though she had scheduled clients who might have appeared, she simply couldn’t stand the thought of going back into the room where Mrs. Gittings had died.

  Mrs. Ellsworth asked dozens of questions during Sarah�
��s narrative as the four of them sat around Sarah’s kitchen table, but Maeve just listened quietly, her expression unreadable. She was especially attentive when Sarah was describing the Green Goods Game.

  When Mrs. Ellsworth finally ran out of questions, Maeve spoke up at last. “What does this Professor look like?”

  They all looked at her in surprise.

  “He’s tall and very dignified,” Sarah said. “Like a butler in a fine house. Dark hair with some gray at the temples.”

  “That is powder,” Serafina said.

  “What is powder?” Sarah asked, confused.

  “The gray in his hair. He thinks he looks more respectable with gray in his hair.”

  “How odd,” Mrs. Ellsworth remarked. “Most people don’t want their hair to turn gray.”

  “Why did you want to know what he looked like?” Sarah asked Maeve.

  “No reason,” she said, although Sarah was sure she had a good one. “Are you and Mrs. Decker going to visit those people tomorrow?”

  “We’re going to see Mrs. Burke first thing, but not Mr. Sharpe and Mr. Cunningham. After we thought about it, we couldn’t figure out any way it was proper for us to visit a widower and a bachelor.”

  “Oh, my, that certainly wouldn’t be proper,” Mrs. Ellsworth agreed.

  “How are you going to question them, then?” Maeve asked.

  “Mr. Malloy is going to see them.”

  “But I thought he couldn’t question them without risking his job,” Mrs. Ellsworth said.

  “He’s going to pretend that he’s just trying to get more information to use against Nicola.”

  “But what if they refuse to speak with him?” Mrs. Ellsworth asked.

  Sarah sighed. “Then I guess we’ll have to figure out something else.”

  “You could have another séance,” Maeve said, surprising them again.

  “Another séance?” Sarah echoed.

  “Yes,” Maeve said, leaning forward eagerly. “From what you said, they’ll both want to see Serafina again as soon as they can. They probably are both still very interested in their own plans for her. One of them might have killed Mrs. Gittings just so he could do that very thing! So why not give them the chance?”

  “I could invite them for a private reading,” Serafina offered.

  “I thought you didn’t want to go back to the house,” Sarah reminded her.

  “Not for another séance, but I could do the reading in a different room,” the girl said bravely. “I want to help Mr. Malloy.”

  “And Mother and I could be there to engage them in conversation,” Sarah said.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Ellsworth said. “Perhaps Mr. Malloy will find out all he needs to know without our help.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sarah said fervently.

  FRANK DECIDED TO CALL ON JOHN SHARPE FIRST. CUNNINGHAM didn’t strike him as the type to rise early. Sharpe lived in a tastefully large town house on a quiet, tree-lined street just off Park Avenue. A maid answered the door, a plump Irish girl with a plain face and a fancy starched apron who knew exactly what he was, and she didn’t want to let him inside. She acted like she was afraid he’d try to steal the silver or something.

  “Just tell Mr. Sharpe that Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy is here. I need to give him some information about Madame Serafina.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Sharpe don’t know no Madame anybody,” she sniffed.

  “Just tell him what I said. I’ll wait,” he added, shouldering his way inside before she could slam the door in his face.

  She gasped in outrage, but short of screaming for help, she had no option but to leave him standing in the entry hall while she went to announce his arrival.

  Frank looked around while he waited. Somebody with good taste had chosen the furnishings. A lush carpet covered the floor and ran up the stairs. The wallpaper had fancy swirls in shades of brown, and several chairs that looked like they’d come from a castle sat against the wall, in case visitors got tired while they waited. Frank was admiring one of the large paintings of country scenes when he heard the maid hurrying back down the stairs.

  “This way, if you please,” she said, her chin high and her nose higher. She wasn’t going to apologize for doubting him, and she wasn’t going to be one ounce more polite than she needed to be.

  He followed her up the stairs to a parlor where Sharpe was waiting for him, and she closed the door behind him.

  Sharpe stood with his back to the cold fireplace, legs apart, hands clasped behind him, his expression defensive. He wasn’t going to be one ounce more polite than he had to be either. “You have news about Madame Serafina?” he said the instant the door closed. “How is she?”

  “She’s very well,” Frank said, looking around with interest. This was a formal parlor, a room seldom used. The velvet-upholstered furniture looked like nobody had ever sat on it, and the bric-a-brac cluttering every flat surface seemed well dusted but seldom admired.

  “Where have you taken her?” Sharpe demanded.

  “I haven’t taken her anywhere,” Frank said.

  “The Professor said you did. She isn’t at the house, and he claimed he didn’t know where she’d gone.”

  “When were you there?” Frank asked curiously.

  “Yesterday. I . . .” He seemed a little embarrassed. “I went to see if she needed anything.

  “She doesn’t,” Frank said. “When she’s ready to see clients again, I’m sure she’ll let you know. Do you mind?” he added and took a seat on the nearest sofa before Sharpe could say if he minded or not.

  Plainly, he did. He hadn’t intended for Frank to stay longer than it took to find out where Serafina was hiding. He wasn’t going to object, though, not until he had the information he wanted. “When is she coming home?”

  “As soon as I find Mrs. Gittings’s killer,” Frank said.

  “I thought you’d already found him.”

  “How did you know that?” Frank asked. Sharpe had left the house before they’d even known DiLoreto was in it.

  “The Professor told me yesterday. He also told me you let him escape,” he added with more than a trace of disapproval.

  Frank felt a flash of irritation, but he knew better than to let Sharpe see it. “We’ll find him,” he said with more confidence than he had any right to feel.

  “He could be anywhere by now,” Sharpe snapped. “You’ll never find him.”

  “We’ll find him,” he repeated belligerently. “He won’t leave town without the girl.”

  Sharpe’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s in love with Madame Serafina,” Frank said. “Didn’t you know?”

  “So what if he is?” Sharpe challenged. “The Professor said he was nothing more than a servant. Madame Serafina would never waste herself on a man like that.” He didn’t sound very certain, though.

  Frank didn’t press the issue. “Mr. Sharpe, would you mind answering a few more questions while I’m here? I need to make sure we have all the information we need so that when we do find this DiLoreto, we’ll be able to make a case against him.”

  “I already told you everything I know,” he protested.

  “I’ve found out some more information since then, and I need to check the facts with you, to make sure you saw the same things everybody else did. It will only take a minute,” he added apologetically.

  Sharpe muttered something under his breath, but he chose one of the stiff-looking chairs near Frank and perched on it. “What do you want to know?”

  Frank reached into his coat and pulled out his notebook and pencil and made a little show out of finding the right page. He could hear Sharpe making impatient noises, but he didn’t allow himself to be hurried.

  “When you went into the séance room, did you see anybody except the people sitting around the table?”

  “Of course not.” This was a stupid question, and now he was annoyed.

  “Did you see the Professor before the séance
started?”

  “Of course. He answered the door when I arrived and showed me into the parlor, just as he always does.”

  “Did you see him after that?”

  Sharpe frowned. “I saw him after the séance, when we realized Mrs. Gittings was dead.”

  “But not before that?” Frank prodded. “Didn’t he escort you into the séance room?”

  “I’m sure he did,” Sharpe said, fuming. “That was his usual practice.”

  “But are you sure he did that day?”

  Sharpe frowned, disturbed that Frank was making him think about all of this again. “I couldn’t swear to it, no,” he finally admitted.

  “And later, when did he come into the room?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying any attention to him.”

  “You said he was standing in the doorway when everyone started leaving the room.”

  “Then that must have been when I saw him.” He was growing exasperated now.

  “So you didn’t see him until after Madame Serafina opened the door and called for him?”

  “No, I didn’t. I don’t see what any of this has to do with—”

  “Do you remember hearing a violin playing during the séance?”

  “A what?”

  “A violin. Some of the other people in the room remember hearing a strange noise during the séance, like a violin.”

  Sharpe frowned again, trying to remember. “I think there was something. The spirits often make odd sounds. I was listening to what Yellow Feather was saying, so I wasn’t paying attention to anything else.”

  “Do you remember if you heard the noise through the whole séance?”

  “No, I don’t, and I can’t see that any of this will help you find that boy who killed Mrs. Gittings.”

  “Madame Serafina said you’d been to lots of spiritualists before you came to her.”

  Sharpe stiffened in surprise. “What business is that of yours?”

  “None,” Frank admitted obligingly. “I was just wondering if you’d figured out some of the tricks they use. A lot of them are fakes, you know.”

  “I certainly do know,” Sharpe said indignantly. “You wouldn’t believe the balderdash some of them told me.”

  “Did they try to pull tricks on you, too?”