Murder on Fifth Avenue gm-14

by Victoria Thompson

  “What’s the third degree?” Paul asked.

  “Where they beat a confession out of you,” Zeller said.

  Paul saw no humor in that. “Do you really beat people?”

  “Only if they don’t answer my questions,” Frank said, making Zeller grin again.

  Paul actually blanched, but Zeller said, “He’s just teasing you.” To Frank, he said, “I tell him all the time he’s too serious.” Zeller clapped a hand on Paul’s shoulder and said, “Let’s sit down so Mr. Malloy can do what he needs to do and get on with it.”

  The two men sat side by side on a sofa, and Frank chose a nearby chair.

  Paul wrung his hands. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Mr. Malloy. I don’t have any idea what happened to my father.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out everything that happened that day, and you can help me by telling me what you saw. Roderick said you went to see your father that morning in his room.”

  Paul glanced at Zeller, who nodded encouragement. “Yes, I…I was only there a few minutes.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  He stiffened. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  “Roderick said you argued.”

  Paul flushed. “We often argued.”

  Zeller placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Was it about me?”

  “No!” Paul shook off the hand and glared at Frank. “It had nothing to do with his death.”

  “How can you be sure?” Frank asked.

  “He can’t hurt you anymore,” Zeller said. “Why would you want to protect him?”

  “I don’t want to protect him!” Paul closed his eyes as he struggled with some emotion. When he opened them, they were cold. “He’d been very cruel to Garnet. I…I told him to stop.” He turned to Zeller, as if explaining to him was what mattered. “She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t even want to marry me.”

  “I know, Old Man, I know,” Zeller said.

  Paul turned back to Frank. “She’s a sweet girl. She deserves to be happy, but he was never going to allow it.”

  “What wasn’t he going to allow her to do?”

  “To divorce me.”

  6

  “THAT’S NOT VERY FLATTERING, OLD MAN,” ZELLER SAID. “I wonder you’d admit such a thing to a stranger.”

  Paul didn’t even acknowledge him. He was watching Frank, who didn’t quite know what to make of this. “Your wife wanted to divorce you?”

  “She’s not like us. She didn’t come from here, and she hated all the rules and restrictions. She hated living here with my parents.”

  “That part I can understand,” Zeller said.

  “Why didn’t you just get a house of your own?” Frank asked.

  “Because I don’t have any money of my own, and Father would never have allowed it. He wanted to keep me under his thumb.”

  Now this was getting interesting. “So as long as your father was alive, you had to depend on him for everything.”

  “Exactly,” Paul said.

  Zeller sighed dramatically. “Old Man, I think you just admitted you had a reason to want your father dead.”

  “Oh, no,” Frank lied. “I think most young men feel like that about their fathers. Tell me, Mr. Devries, how was your father dressed when you went to his room the day he died?”

  Paul shifted uneasily. “Dressed?”

  “Yes, what was he wearing?”

  Paul glanced at Zeller again. His friend was smiling, as if this whole thing amused him tremendously. “He had on a robe.”

  “Was he wearing it the entire time you were with him?”

  The color rose in Paul’s face. “What does that matter?”

  “I thought you might have noticed a wound on your father’s back. Did he remove his robe while you were there?”

  “Yes.” He spit the word out as if it tasted vile.

  Zeller muttered something that might have been an oath.

  “He liked to show off,” Paul said, angry now. “He thought himself a fine specimen of a man, and he knew I could never compare, so he’d do it to make me feel inferior.”

  “And did you?” Frank asked.

  “Did I what?”

  “Feel inferior?”

  “Mostly I just felt furious. What kind of a thing is that to do? Who displays himself like that?”

  Frank didn’t know the answer, so he said, “And did you notice anything unusual?”

  “I didn’t look at him. I never do. I wouldn’t have noticed if he’d cut off one of his arms.”

  Frank wanted to ask if he’d stabbed his father, but he’d wait on that. “And did he agree to stop being cruel to your wife?”

  “Of course not. He just laughed at me. He knows…knew I couldn’t do anything about it. And poor Garnet, she couldn’t do anything about it either.”

  “And now you’re both free,” Frank said.

  Zeller leaned close to Paul and pretended to whisper. “He’s thinking you killed the old bugger.”

  “Well, I didn’t. I almost wish I had. At least then Garnet would respect me.”

  “Now you’ve got all your father’s money,” Frank said. “Or at least I assume you’re his heir. I know rich families sometimes don’t like to divide up the family fortune, so they only leave the money to one of the sons, like Vanderbilt did, but you’re the only son.”

  “I haven’t thought about it,” Paul said.

  “You should,” Frank said. “Women usually respect men with money.”

  “He’s right, Old Man,” Zeller said. “You can buy her that house now. That’ll cheer her up.”

  Paul didn’t look too sure of that. “Not having Father around anymore will cheer her up.”

  Frank thought Paul would have to dispose of his mother, too, if he really wanted his wife to be happy, but he didn’t say so. “What did you do when you left your father’s room?”

  “I…uh, I went to my mother’s room,” he replied as if he needed a second to catch up with the change of subject.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I told her how angry I was at Father.”

  “Did she offer any advice?”

  Paul sighed. “She didn’t know how to handle him either.”

  “But she went to see him just the same.”

  “Oh, yes, she stormed off and gave him what for, but it didn’t do any good. It never does. He knows…knew he could do whatever he wanted to us and there was nothing we could do about it.”

  “That’s true,” Zeller said. “He’s even threatened to put his wife in an insane asylum if she caused him too much trouble.”

  Frank wished he could be shocked by the revelation, but other men had done that very thing. The law gave them absolute power over wives and children, and many a man had gotten away with murder just because the victim shared his house and his name.

  “Did he threaten your wife, too?”

  “My wife didn’t kill him, either, Mr. Malloy. You’re wasting your time here. You should be talking to that woman he kept.”

  Ah, so Paul knew about the mistress, too. “Don’t worry, I will.” Frank managed not to sigh. He didn’t think he’d learned much in this interview, but at least he’d managed to fill some time. Maybe when he got back to Police Headquarters, he’d have a message from Donatelli.

  “YOU’VE GOTTA HOLD YOUR TEMPER, MR. MALLOY,” Donatelli told Frank for at least the fourth time. “No matter what he says, you just let it pass.”

  “If you tell me that one more time, I’m not gonna let it pass,” Frank said. He instantly felt bad for alarming Donatelli, who was obviously terrified of this Angotti character. “Don’t worry, I know how to act.”

  “I think if you treat him like you do Mr. Decker, you’ll do fine.”

  Frank didn’t think Decker had ever burned down somebody’s store or had them killed because they didn’t show him enough respect, but he understood the connection. Felix Decker’s techniques might be more refined, but he could ruin a man jus
t as effectively as Angotti.

  “What is this place you’re taking me?” Frank asked. They’d been walking through Little Italy for a couple blocks now, and they stopped to let a gaggle of ragged children race by, running from a street vendor whose wares they had pilfered.

  Donatelli had to shout over their screams. “It’s a club. Normally you have to be a member to get in, unless you’re a guest of Mr. Angotti.”

  This was too much like the Knickerbocker Club—only members were welcome, and no Irish need apply.

  The similarities ended there, however. This club met in a nondescript building on a narrow side street with no sign alerting passersby to what went on inside. A burly fellow stood outside, ready to keep out unwelcome visitors. He eyed Frank and Gino suspiciously.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Malloy. Mr. Angotti is expecting him,” Donatelli said.

  The fellow grunted and rapped on the door. Another unfriendly-looking fellow opened it a crack. The two men exchanged some words in Italian, and the door swung wide. Donatelli let Frank go in first. Frank suspected it wasn’t out of courtesy.

  Little sunlight penetrated into the main room. Dark curtains covered the windows, shielding the occupants from observation by anyone passing by on the street outside. Gaslights illuminated tables where men played cards or other games of chance. He felt as much as saw the players peering at him through the haze of cigarette smoke. All conversation ceased. Frank felt their hostility like a force as he followed his guide through the room to another door on the far side.

  “Wait here.” The man knocked, then went inside.

  Frank couldn’t help thinking how easy it would be to stick a knife in him and dump his body in the river. Would Donatelli defend him or would he side with his own people? Was he a cop first or an Italian? Frank didn’t know. He didn’t even know if he was a cop first or an Irishman.

  The door opened and his guide beckoned them inside.

  This smaller room was furnished like a parlor, with sofas and chairs and side tables arranged around a fireplace. A gaming table stood off to one side, almost as an afterthought. The light in here was better, and the cigarette smoke not so thick. Several somber men stood around, their attention focused on Frank and Donatelli. Frank soon realized his host was the well-dressed man seated on one of the sofas.

  “Gino,” he said, reaching out a languid hand.

  Donatelli stepped forward and took the hand, nodding respectfully. “Thank you for seeing us, Don Angotti.”

  “How is your mother?”

  “She’s very well. She said to tell you she is baking you a cassata to thank you for your help.”

  “I should tell you that isn’t necessary, but I like your mother’s cassata too much to do that.”

  They both chuckled.

  “You have brought someone to see me,” Angotti said.

  Angotti’s accent was slight but unmistakable. Frank suddenly realized they were speaking English for his benefit.

  “Yes, Don Angotti. This is Detective Sergeant Malloy, the man I told you about.”

  Frank stepped forward and waited for Angotti to size him up. Angotti wasn’t a big man, but his dark eyes were shrewd and cunning. He didn’t have to use his muscles to get what he wanted. The suit he wore probably cost more than Frank made in a month, and Felix Decker probably didn’t own a finer one. His shirt was pristine.

  “Gino speaks highly of you, Detective Sergeant Malloy.”

  “Officer Donatelli is one of our finest men.”

  Angotti’s lip curled. “It is a pity to waste him on the police department.”

  Frank refused to be baited. He merely nodded.

  Donatelli cleared his throat. “Mr. Malloy would like to ask you some questions.”

  “And I will decide if I answer them or not.”

  “Of course,” Frank said. “You know we are investigating the death of Chilton Devries.”

  “So Gino tells me.”

  “He had an appointment with you the day he died.”

  “Did he?”

  “He thought so. The question is, did you see him that day?”

  Angotti’s gaze was sharp as broken glass. “And if I did?”

  “Mr. Angotti, Chilton Devries died because somebody stabbed him in the back.”

  “Gino told me he died at his club. Have you questioned the men he saw there?”

  “He died there, but he was stabbed someplace else. He was stabbed with something long and thin…like an ice pick.”

  “Or a stiletto, Gino tells me.”

  “Or a stiletto. He probably didn’t know how badly he was injured, and he didn’t bleed much on the outside. But he did bleed to death, and he died at his club, but he’d been stabbed earlier in the day.”

  “And you think I stabbed him?” He seemed only mildly concerned.

  “No, but Mr. Devries was a wealthy man with lots of powerful friends. His family is telling them that he came to see you that day, and then he died. I believe his family and his friends would be happy to blame you for killing him.”

  “Because I am a foreigner.”

  “Because you’re not one of them.”

  “And why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I want to find out who did kill him, and I need your help.”

  Angotti frowned. “I do not understand you, Mr. Malloy. Why do you not want to blame me when everyone else does?”

  “I told you, I want to find out who really did it.”

  “And you do not think I did?”

  “No, I think you’re too smart to kill someone like Chilton Devries, even if you wanted to, and I can’t figure out any reason why you would.”

  “That is because you did not know Mr. Devries very well. If you did, you could figure out many reasons.”

  “Are you saying you had a reason to kill him?”

  “Not personally, but I know things about him that make me glad he is dead.”

  “Could you tell me what those things are?”

  “Why should I?”

  “So I can find out who really killed him and make sure nobody bothers you about it.”

  “Why would you do this for me?”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because I want to find out the truth.”

  Angotti chuckled again. “No man cares so much for the truth, Mr. Malloy. Why are you really doing it?”

  “Because one of Devries’s powerful friends asked me to, and he does care for the truth.”

  “Would this friend not be happy to find out a foreigner killed Mr. Devries?”

  “He would be very happy, but only if it was true.”

  “I would like to meet this friend. He sounds like a man worth knowing.”

  Frank let a moment go by, in case Angotti had something else to say. “So, did you see Devries yesterday?”

  “He came here, yes.”

  “I know he’d seen you before. Can you tell me what he wanted?”

  Angotti studied Frank with his sharp gaze. “He wanted me to kill someone.”

  Frank blinked, and Gino Donatelli gasped.

  “Who? Why?”

  Angotti smiled, amused by their reaction. “I would be very foolish to tell you who I killed, would I not?”

  He would, indeed, even though Frank knew he wouldn’t have done the work himself.

  Before Frank could figure out how to answer him, Angotti said, “Yes, I would be foolish to tell you if I had killed someone, but I did not, Mr. Malloy. Would you like to know why?”

  “Yes, I would.” Frank was glad to hear his voice didn’t sound as flustered as he felt.

  “Mr. Devries came to see me. He thought I was a man who would do anything for money. He did not have respect for me. He told me a story about a woman. He told me she was evil and had done terrible things. He wanted me to have her killed.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No. I did not believe Mr. Devries. I thought the story he told me about this woman was a lie, but I did not say this to h
im. Instead I went to see this woman. She told me a very different story, and I believed her.”

  “So she’s still alive.”

  “She was when I last saw her.”

  “When was that?”

  “A few days ago. Then Mr. Devries came to see me yesterday. He was going to pay me for killing this woman, but I told him I did not kill her. I told him he was a liar.”

  Frank couldn’t help grinning at the image of Angotti calling Devries a liar. “I guess he was mad.”

  “Yes, but he could do nothing about it.” Angotti gestured to indicate the men standing around the room.

  “And a few hours later, he was dead.” Then Frank had an unsettling thought. “Could he have gone to see this woman himself?”

  Angotti’s eyes widened. “You think he may have killed her himself?”

  “And maybe she was the one who stabbed him. Do you remember what time he left here?”

  Angotti looked over at his men, who had a brief discussion in Italian. “Around noon.”

  Frank wasn’t sure exactly when Devries had arrived at his club, but if he’d had the time…“Can you tell me where to find this woman?”

  Angotti gestured to one of his men who gave Frank an address not too far from where Norah English lived.

  “What is this woman’s name?” Frank asked.

  “Mrs. Richmond. I am sure you will enjoy her story as much as I did.”

  FRANK DIDN’T REALLY EXPECT FELIX DECKER TO BE AT home yet. In fact, he was hoping he wasn’t. He really wanted to talk to Mrs. Decker. She apparently wanted to speak to him, too, because she only kept him waiting a few minutes in the small receiving room before the maid escorted him up to the parlor. Not the front parlor, either, but the one the family used for every day. Mrs. Decker no longer considered him company.

  “Mr. Malloy, how delightful to see you,” she said, giving him her hand when the maid had shown him in. “I’m sorry my husband isn’t home yet, but I expect him within the hour if you’d like to wait.”

  “Thank you, I would.”

  She smiled conspiratorially. “Good. I ordered coffee, unless you’d like something stronger.”

  “Coffee is fine.”

  “Please, have a seat and tell me what you’ve been up to. I went to Sarah’s house earlier today, but she’s out on a delivery.”