Murder in Greenwich Village

by Liz Freeland

  “Otto, I don’t think you realize the dreadful situation you’re in.”

  “You mean the murder? Gosh, you don’t think I did it, do you?”

  “Of course not, but people can be convicted of crimes they didn’t commit.”

  “Sure, but I’ve got all sorts of proof that I wasn’t there last night.”

  Thank heavens! “Where were you?”

  “Looking for you, mostly.”

  “Where did you go?”

  He sighed as if he’d been over it all before, and I supposed he had. With Muldoon. “Well, first I ate supper at a café. Had a pretty darn good ham sandwich and a chocolate soda.”

  “What restaurant?”

  His forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I’ve been trying to think of the name. It was smack dab in the center of town, I know that much. Are there a lot of restaurants thereabouts?”

  Only a hundred or so. My heart sank. “Was anyone with you?”

  “Nope, I was all by my lonesome. I stopped by that hotel you stayed at, but you’d moved, obviously, since I got that one letter, and the lady there at the desk said they couldn’t just give out girls’ addresses to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, even if I did have a professional connection to Billy Murray. So I wandered awhile, then went back to my hotel and fell asleep. Then, in the middle of the night, it hit me. You’d written to me about going to your aunt’s house on Fifty-third Street—you even described the house with the red door and the lion carved into its pediment. I’ve read that letter so often in five months I practically know it by heart. So first thing this morning, I raced up there and hunted down the house.” He blew out a breath. “That’s a long street.”

  “I can imagine how showing up before breakfast went over with Aunt Irene.” Not to mention Walter and Bernice.

  “She didn’t look happy,” he admitted. “But then I told her about my song, and Billy Murray, and she perked right up and said it sounded fascinating. She even invited me to her place next Thursday, and of course she told me where you lived.” He drummed his fingers on the table, looking truly worried for the first time. “You think I’ll be out of here by next Thursday? I’d sure hate to miss your aunt’s party.”

  “You’ll be out of here by suppertime or a certain detective will have my claw marks all over him.”

  “I told Mr. Muldoon everything I could. He seems like a right type to me.”

  Everyone seemed “a right type” to Otto, including the bullies who’d beaten him up in grammar school. He never saw anything but the best—or the potential for the best—in anyone.

  “Don’t make a fuss on my account,” he said. “You have enough to worry about, after what happened to your friend’s poor cousin in your apartment.”

  “Okay, miss.” The policeman who’d escorted me in stood over us. “Time’s up.”

  I was on my feet in an instant. “I need to speak to Detective Robinson.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Rats. “Muldoon, then.”

  The policeman pulled Otto out of his chair and locked him back in the cell. When he turned around again, he looked dismayed to see me still standing there. Had he expected me to vanish?

  “I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to Muldoon,” I said.

  The man heaved a sigh. “Follow me.”

  Otto clung to the bars of the cell and shouted after me. “If you pass a music store today, look for my song. Ask a clerk to play it for you.”

  We crossed the busy room to one of the offices. The officer rapped on the glass panel and then cracked the door open. He just managed to say, “There’s a lady out here who—” before I skirted past him into the room. I had no intention of being shunted off to warm a bench for another two hours.

  “You need to let Otto go,” I said over the officer’s apologies.

  Muldoon waved the man away while keeping his eyes on me. “It’s all right, Scanlon. I can handle this.”

  “Otto didn’t do it,” I said.

  He seemed almost amused. “You have proof of that, do you?”

  “You have proof. He told you what he was doing last night.”

  His lips turned down. “I’ve got an eyewitness who says he’s lying.”

  “Wally’s an idiot.”

  “Idiots sometimes give the most honest testimony.”

  “Not this idiot,” I argued. “Didn’t you notice that squint of his? He’s half blind. Not to mention, the fathead was chomping at the bit to act the hero. Who do you think blabbed that description of the man on the stairs to the papers?”

  “I never said I took the man’s word as gospel.”

  “I should hope not. Did you look at the suit Otto’s wearing? It’s not what I’d call a dark suit. Would you?”

  He tugged his ear in thought. “Could’ve appeared darker in the dim hallway.” His frown deepened. “Or Klemper might’ve changed suits.”

  I was about to challenge him to go to Otto’s hotel room and check, but for all I knew he already had a policeman there. And maybe Otto did have another suit. And what if he had enough money from publishing that song of his to make it look as if he’d taken Ethel’s stash?

  “Surely you can find out that Otto’s story about last night is true,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to asking every waiter and waitress in midtown if they remember serving a guy a ham sandwich.”

  “What about my aunt?” I persisted. “She’ll be able to vouch that she spoke to him.”

  “This morning,” he pointed out.

  “But doesn’t that prove Otto didn’t know where I live until this morning?”

  “It might just show he wanted us to think he didn’t. Especially after he woke up and saw the morning papers telling all about the mysterious light-haired man in the stairwell.”

  Frustration gripped me. I wanted to throttle Wally. “It wasn’t Otto,” I insisted. “Anyway, Wally just saw a man on the stairs. He didn’t witness the man killing Ethel—or even notice blood on his hands.”

  Muldoon continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “Otto Klemper was even carrying an envelope this morning, just like Wally Grimes described.”

  He tossed the incriminating envelope onto the table in between us.

  “There are a million envelopes like that one in this city,” I said. “Besides, what murderer in his right mind would show up bright and early at the apartment house where he knifed a woman in her bed ten hours before?”

  “You’d be surprised at the odd things murderers do, Miss Faulk.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I insisted. “And answer me this: Does Otto act like a guilty man?”

  He gave a shake of his head—not to agree with me, but to show his disdain for the question. “Look, it’s no good your carrying on like this. It’s admirable of you to stand up for him this way, but we both know you’d say anything to clear your sweetheart.”

  “He’s not my sweetheart, he’s a friend from my hometown. We went to school together, and he worked for my uncle Dolph.”

  “That would be your uncle the butcher.”

  Butcher, such a prosaic word from my past, now sounded sinister.

  “Just because Otto worked as a butcher’s assistant doesn’t make him a murderer. In fact, my uncle nearly fired him because he broke down weeping the first time he had to dress a pig. Otto’s notoriously squeamish.”

  “Why’d your uncle keep him on as an assistant, then?”

  “Because he’s dependable and conscientious, and good for business besides. He used to make up little songs about the shop and sing them for the customers.” I cleared my throat and sang, as best as I could remember, “ ‘Brach’s Fresh Meats are the best to eat,’ and ‘For a sausage or a ham hock, it pays to take yourself to Brach’s.’”

  Muldoon’s face was pure bafflement. “Customers liked that?”

  Evidently, my warbling didn’t do justice to Otto’s ditties. “The little songs kind of stuck in people’s minds. Like an advertisement fo
r the ear.”

  His gaze regarded me steadily. “You sound like his agent.”

  “I’m his friend.”

  “He gave me the impression that he was a little more than that.”

  “All right, he might be a little sweet on me—”

  “A little?” He emitted a sputter, plucked up the envelope, and spilled out its contents. Sheet music fanned out onto the table. The cover was eggshell blue and bore the sepia-toned drawing of a beautiful girl with braids and a cap. Above the illustration, in fat brown letters, was the title “My Tootsie from Altoona.” At the bottom left were the words Music and Lyrics by Otto Klemper. Then, on the right-hand side, in smaller letters, For Louise.

  I reached instinctively for the music, surprised to find myself blinking back tears. Not because the song was dedicated to me. This sheet music, soon to be selling everywhere for ten cents a copy, represented a dream come true for Otto. No wonder he’d been bursting with excitement, even in his holding cell.

  “Billy Murray’s going to record it,” I heard myself bragging.

  Muldoon’s mouth twisted. “You don’t say.”

  Otto had already told him, apparently.

  I opened it to the first page. Despite a painful year of piano lessons, I couldn’t sight-read music very well, so I scanned the lyrics.

  She’s my tootsie from Altoona!

  She’s my all-time, ragtime fräulein!

  And believe me, I’d as soon-a

  Lose my wealth,

  Even health,

  Than lose that sweet, sweet gal from Altoo—oo—na!

  Well, maybe the tune was catchier than the lyrics.

  When I looked up, Muldoon’s intent stare was an inquisition in itself. Feeling my face redden, I slapped the sheet music back onto the table. “We’re just friends.”

  “Why?” he asked. “He’s obviously devoted to you, seems like a nice young man, and you’re both young.”

  Oh brother. “Is the NYPD going into the matchmaking line now?”

  “Consider it a public service,” he said. “I’ve spent a decade watching this city grind people up. Young men and women come here, fresh and eager, and for every one who finds success, a dozen find disappointment, struggle, and worse. Do you think Ethel Gail’s the only woman murdered here this year? I guarantee you, she isn’t.” After this recitation of doom, his voice dropped into a concerned, avuncular tone. “You’re an attractive, well-brought-up, intelligent girl. Be sensible. Go back home where you belong.”

  Poor Detective Muldoon. Never had advice fallen on deafer ears. If anything raised my hackles, it was a stranger telling me how to live my life. The man didn’t know the first thing about me. Did he think nothing bad ever happened to girls in small towns and cities, even under the watchful eye of their families? If so, he had meatloaf for brains.

  “Back to Altoona?” I asked. “And do what?”

  “Marry Otto, or some other decent man who’ll take care of you.”

  That crooked nose of his made perfect sense now. I couldn’t be the first person itching to take a poke at it. Where was a butter bell when you needed one?

  “You’re wasted on the police force,” I said. “You could make a good living writing songs yourself—maudlin ones best played to sad violins, about sadder-but-wiser girls crawling back to their dear hometowns.”

  His lips flattened into a mirthless line. My obstinacy bugged him as much as his arrogance bothered me.

  “If Otto seems so decent to you, why are you keeping him locked up?” I asked.

  “We don’t want to let a suspect go unless there’s at least some reason to believe that he might be telling the truth.”

  “Guilty until proven innocent, you mean.” I was mad enough now to eat bees. “I suppose that’s why you’re cooling your heels around here all day.”

  His lips turned down. “I’ve been on duty since last night. Robinson is out checking your boy’s story. I only stayed this long so I could speak to you.”

  “If you wanted to speak to me, you certainly weren’t in a hurry. Or was that simply meant as another lesson about the cruel city?” Waiting on that bench had certainly been cruel to my sacroiliac.

  “I had to interview Otto first. Thoroughly. You see, Miss Faulk, I sensed last night that you weren’t being entirely truthful.”

  That penetrating gaze had my insides squirming again. Maybe he was a good detective, after all. To cover my guilty flush, I puffed up like my aunt reading a negative review. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “No—at least not a habitual one. Everyone fibs a little if they think they have good cause. Sometimes they fib by leaving something out. Last night I was interested in what you weren’t telling us. So this morning, when your friend Otto showed up, I said to myself, ‘That’s it.’ Was I right?”

  This was tricky. If I said yes, I would be lying and implying that Otto had been there last night. If I said no, I was pretty sure I would be hounded until I gave up the names of every male between the ages of eight and eighty whom I talked to last night. After seeing the summary way Muldoon had hauled Otto off to the hoosegow, I wasn’t eager to submit any other of my acquaintances to that treatment.

  “Otto was not at the apartment last night,” I repeated. “I never believed he was. What’s more, I don’t have to stand for being interrogated—unless you think I killed Ethel. I’ve wasted hours here that should have been spent with my friend Callie, who’s still traumatized by what happened to her cousin. And now it appears that I’ll need to spend the afternoon scaring up a lawyer to free Otto.”

  I had no idea how to find a good one, or how much it would cost.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Muldoon said.

  “I can’t let him stay here. Or allow you to haul him off to somewhere even worse.”

  “He hasn’t been arrested. He’s just being held for questioning.”

  “Held in a pen with men who look like thieves and killers,” I pointed out.

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Miss Faulk. You have my word that no harm will come to your sweetheart.”

  He was just needling me now. “I told you, he’s not my sweetheart.”

  He crossed his arms. “I’ve never met a woman who pleaded for a man she wasn’t either related to or in love with.”

  “Well, you’ve met one now,” I said. “What’s more, I will free him from this place and see him cleared, even if I have to hunt down the real killer myself.”

  Worry rippled across his dark features. “I don’t recommend playing detective. It’s not a parlor game for girls.”

  “Neither is seeing a butcher knife buried in your roommate’s back.” I’d had all the condescension I could stomach for one day. “I hate to disappoint you, Detective Muldoon, but I will find a lawyer to help Otto, and I’ll prove he didn’t commit this atrocity. And afterward I won’t be scurrying back to Altoona so I can badger some man into taking care of me. I’ve been in this city six months and have managed just fine so far.”

  His face set into a frown. “Six months? Otto said you left Altoona at the end of last summer. Almost a year ago.”

  No, not such a bad detective at all. One small inconsistency and Muldoon had come as close as anyone had to ferreting out the only notable skeleton in my cupboard. My cheeks warmed. The air felt charged, and my gaze darted out of the path of his.

  It’s said that confession is good for the soul, and there were moments, sometimes days, when I longed for someone to whom I could confide my tale of woe. I’d almost told Callie a dozen times only to change my mind, fearing I’d see pity in her face. I dreaded that. Once or twice I’d even considered taking Aunt Irene into my confidence. But some instinct always made me pull back. As long as I’m the only one who knows, maybe it could be as if it never happened. The confusion inside me would settle, and I’d be myself again.

  After a hiccup of panic, I fumbled for a recovery. “Did Otto say I came directly to the city after leaving Altoona?”

  “No . .
.”

  “I took a secretarial course before I came here.” It wasn’t a lie, technically. I’d been at the top of my class at Central Pennsylvania Secretarial School—two years ago, after high school. “I lived with friends.” That was a lie, and unnecessary.

  Did Muldoon have a sixth sense for falsehoods? His eyes narrowed on me speculatively, as if trying to fathom my deepest secret.

  A secret he had no hope of prizing from me. “Good day, Detective Muldoon.” Head high, I marched out, waved a quick good-bye toward Otto’s cage, and headed uptown.

  For all my bluster about managing just fine on my own, I wasn’t a fool. I knew I needed to enlist the aid of someone more powerful—and wealthier—than myself. Luckily, I had the perfect person to turn to.

  CHAPTER 4

  Trepidation niggled at me as I approached my aunt’s house. Though nearing noon, it was still early in the day to bother Aunt Irene, who could be a dragon about her working hours. Also, although I wasn’t here strictly to beg for money, hiring a lawyer to help Otto would inevitably cost more than I had in the bank, otherwise known as the Calumet baking powder tin where Callie and I kept our household money. Aunt Irene had already helped me more than I could repay—not that she would ever ask me to. To her I owed my job at Van Hooten and McChesney, not to mention all the uncountable little extras she’d supplied me and Callie with during the past months. Plus, she’d embraced me when the family I’d grown up around turned their backs. My debt to this woman I’d barely known before I’d arrived in New York was already incalculable.

  Asking for help also grated at my sense of independence. I’d come to this city wanting to be self-reliant. So far I couldn’t brag very much on that score, and yet if I wanted to compare myself to someone who had forged her own path, I only had to look at my aunt herself. She’d left Altoona before I was born, back when she was still my aunt Sonja’s little sister Irma Mayer. Irene Livingston Green wasn’t just a pen name, it was the mantle of a new persona my aunt had assumed twenty years ago. She’d arrived with only a few dollars she’d won in a magazine writing contest and a vision of herself as someone completely different from the one the family circle in Altoona expected her to become. And with some alchemy of determination, talent, and luck she transformed herself into that person she’d envisioned.