“But you think she sometimes hid what she was really feeling.”
“Everybody does, don’t they? But her, she always looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
“Did she ever get mad at Miss Wilson or Miss Billingsly?”
“If she did, she never let on,” she said carefully.
“Are they hard to get along with?”
“Not at all! There was never a harsh word said in this house until—”
Frank waited but she pressed her lips together, determined not to finish her sentence. “Until Miss Northrup came,” he guessed. “So if Miss Northrup didn’t get mad at them, did they get mad at her?”
“They’s ladies, Mr. Malloy. Fine ladies. They don’t yell at each other like they do in the tenements.”
“But Miss Billingsly wasn’t happy to have her here, was she?”
“You’d have to ask her that.”
“We did, and she said she wasn’t. She said it made more work for you.”
Bathsheba seemed genuinely surprised. “She did? Ain’t that nice of her.”
“And she was jealous, wasn’t she?” Frank said, taking a chance.
“What’d she have to be jealous about?” Bathsheba said, although he could see his question had shaken her.
“Of Miss Wilson’s affections. You told Gino she and Miss Billingsly were close friends all those years, living here happily until Miss Northrup arrived. She came between them, didn’t she?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Bathsheba said with a frown.
“Yes, you do. Miss Wilson liked her better than she liked Miss Billingsly. That’s why Miss Billingsly started drinking, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know nothing about it,” she tried, but he could see the alarm flaring in her eyes.
“I know Miss Northrup caused trouble. You said she didn’t argue with Miss Billingsly, and you said Miss Billingsly and Miss Wilson didn’t argue with each other, but . . . wait, it was Miss Northrup and Miss Wilson, wasn’t it? They were the ones who argued.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. They wasn’t fighting, not like you think.”
“How was it, then?”
Bathsheba was angry now, aware that he had tricked her. “They had words one time. They wasn’t yelling. Ladies like them, they didn’t raise their voices, but they was both upset. You could tell that.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“I told you, it wasn’t like that. They . . . I couldn’t hear much. Like I said, they didn’t raise their voices, but it was something about a letter.”
“Do you know what letter it was?”
“No.”
Had Miss Wilson discovered Abigail’s secret correspondence with Cornelius Raymond? That certainly could have made her angry enough to attack Abigail. “One of the letters my wife found when she was here?”
Bathsheba shrugged and fiddled with her coffee cup. “I reckon.”
He could see she knew something she didn’t want to tell him. “We know she got other letters that we didn’t find. If we find out you’re hiding them . . .”
“I ain’t hiding nothing, and if you mean those French letters, I don’t know nothing about them.”
Frank gaped at her. “French letters?”
Bathsheba winced, and for a moment he thought she’d realized she’d used the slang term for condoms in front of a strange man, but that wasn’t it at all. “She got some letters that was written in French,” she reluctantly admitted.
Frank didn’t bother to feel relieved. “You’re sure it was French?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure. The handwriting was all foreign-looking, and the name of the person who sent it was right strange. I couldn’t read the name of the town neither, and she told me it was in France. She was real happy to get it.”
“Did she get a lot of letters from France?”
“A few, since she’s been here. She visited France in the summer, she told me. She said . . .”
“What did she say?”
Bathsheba frowned. “She said she never really knew how to talk French until she went there. But that’s silly. She learned how to talk it in school, didn’t she? She learned it so good, she was hired to teach it.”
Frank had no idea how to answer that. “Do you know what happened to those letters? The ones in French?”
“No. Your wife, she looked all over Miss Northrup’s room, and all she found was the ones under the mattress. I never did figure out why Miss Northrup’d hide letters from her friend under the mattress.”
Frank wasn’t going to enlighten her. “Would you mind if I took another look in her old room? Maybe she had a hiding spot Mrs. Malloy didn’t find.”
Bathsheba frowned again. “No, sir. Miss Billingsly, she done moved into that room now, and I don’t reckon she’d want no man poking around in her things.”
He didn’t suppose she would, but how strange. Why had Miss Billingsly moved from the room she’d had for years into the one Abigail had used? If it was a nicer room, why hadn’t she chosen it in the first place? He didn’t suppose Miss Billingsly would tell him the answers to those questions, and he was sure Bathsheba wouldn’t, even if she knew, but maybe Sarah could figure it out. “Well, if you happen to find anything, would you let me know?”
He gave her one of his expensive cards, because he wanted her to feel flattered. He thanked her for her help.
“She had a room at the school,” Bathsheba said as he rose from his chair. “An office. Maybe she kept the letters there.”
Frank figured she was just trying to distract him from wanting to search the house, but he actually thought it was a possibility. He had already looked through her desk, but if this letter was so important, she might have hidden it well. He hadn’t really searched the rest of the room either. “That’s a good suggestion.”
* * *
Gino looked up at the imposing eight-story gray stone building that took up the entire block at 55th Street and Sixth Avenue. The New York Athletic Club counted many of the city’s elite among its members, and they demanded the best facilities. Inside, the lobby seemed more like a hotel than a place men went to sweat. A smartly dressed young man greeted him with cool reserve. Gino knew the fellow had judged his clothes as tailor-made, which meant he was successful, but he couldn’t do anything about his Italian face, which meant he wouldn’t usually be welcome at a club like this.
Pretending he didn’t notice the lukewarm reception, Gino stepped up to the counter and gave the young fellow a big smile. “I’m supposed to meet a friend here, Luther Northrup. Is he around?”
“I don’t believe he is.”
“Donnie, is that you?” a voice nearly shouted.
Gino turned to find Fred Vander Hooten grinning at him. “Vandy, how are you?”
Vandy pumped his hand and slapped him on the back a few times while they exchanged greetings. “This fellow was in the Rough Riders with me,” Vandy informed the man behind the desk. “Are you a member here now?” he asked Gino.
“They wouldn’t let me in here,” Gino said with a grin, as if it were a joke.
“We’ll see about that. Rudy, this is Gino Donatelli. Gino, Rudy Ledbetter here is the man to see about whatever you might need. Rudy, you can sign Mr. Donatelli in as my guest. Come on, let me buy you lunch, Donnie.”
Lunch was an elaborate affair in a dining room with wood-paneled walls and a crystal chandelier. The waiters wore uniforms and white gloves. Vandy was the son of one of the old Knickerbocker families, so he had a lot of time to spend at clubs like this one. He was fascinated to learn that Gino was a private investigator now and working on a case.
“Luther Northrup, eh? Terrible thing about his sister.”
“You know him, then?”
“Not well, but everybody was talking about it. She was a teacher or somethi
ng, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, at the Normal School. What do you know about him?”
“Good gymnast. An expert on the rings. You can’t imagine how hard that is.”
“Yes, I can! Did you know the club offered him a job?”
“They did? Bully! Maybe I can get him to train me.”
“He’d like that, I’m sure. Does he spend much time here?”
“Oh yes. He keeps a room here, I think. His family lives upstate somewhere, and it’s too far to go back and forth every day.”
“He must’ve been pretty upset about his sister.”
“I expect so. Wouldn’t know it to look at him, though. He’s the manly sort.”
Gino had noticed that. “Would somebody know what days he was here and what days he wasn’t?”
“I expect so. What days are you interested in?”
“Last Wednesday.”
Vandy scratched his head. “I couldn’t tell you. I was probably here. I’m here most days, but I don’t keep track. Rudy would probably know, though. Tell him I said he should help you. You should think about joining the club. A lot of the other fellows are here. Have to keep strong in case the old man gets us into another war,” he said with a laugh.
“Roosevelt’s just a governor, and governors don’t start wars, so I think we’re safe,” Gino said.
“How long do you think Roosevelt’s going to be satisfied in Albany? You better sign up here so you’re ready. I’d be glad to sponsor you.”
Gino had to promise to think about it, even though he was pretty sure they wouldn’t admit an Italian detective to a club like this. After lunch, he sent Vandy off to throw around some Indian clubs and went back to the front desk.
Ledbetter was much friendlier this time. “Mr. Northrup hasn’t come in yet.”
“He must’ve forgotten we were supposed to meet. Say, can you tell me if he was here last Wednesday?”
Ledbetter’s smile slipped a few notches. “Why would you need to know that?”
Gino pretended to look around to make sure they weren’t overheard, then he leaned in closer. “I’ve got a bet going, and I need to know where Northrup was that day. I know he keeps a room here. Do you have a record of what nights he uses it?”
Gino had put his hand in his pocket and now he pulled it out with a folded dollar bill in his palm, which he made sure Ledbetter saw. A dollar would be a day’s pay for someone like him.
“We’re not allowed to talk about the habits of our members, you understand,” he said as he pulled a ledger book out from underneath the counter. Then he opened it and flipped the pages until he found the one he wanted. He laid the book down on the countertop, turned it slightly so Gino could read it, then walked away to greet a member who had just come in.
Gino glanced at the book and saw it was a register of sorts where guests signed in for the sleeping rooms. He easily found Luther Northrup’s name. He’d come in on Monday of last week and stayed over Tuesday night. He hadn’t stayed on Wednesday night, though. He’d probably gone home after hearing of his sister’s murder.
But he’d been in the city on the morning she’d died, at least.
He tucked the dollar bill into the book and closed it, then wished Ledbetter a good afternoon and left.
* * *
Frank waited until the afternoon to visit Abigail’s former office. He’d noticed that the classes were mostly in the morning and the building was much quieter in the afternoon. The fewer students he saw, the less panic he would cause, he reasoned.
He did encounter a handful of young ladies who were startled at first and then quickly scurried away, whispering urgently to each other. At last he came to the office and was pleased to see Pelletier was there.
“Malloy, I am glad to see you,” he said, rising to his feet and shaking Frank’s hand like they were old friends. “The strangest thing happened.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, I come back to my office a few minutes ago, and the door, it was not locked.”
“Maybe you forgot to lock it when you left the last time.”
“Mais non, I am sure I lock it. I have been très prudent after . . . Well, after poor Miss Northrup . . . I remember I lock it this morning, because I drop the key and almost drop the books I carry when I try to pick it up. Then when I return . . .” He gave one of his Frenchy shrugs.
He did look a little distressed.
Frank remembered Tobias telling him that first day that he didn’t have a key to this room, but he decided to test Pelletier. “Maybe the janitor cleaned while you were gone and forgot to lock it.”
“Au contraire, only two keys exist, one to me and one to Miss Northrup. I insist to open the door for the janitor myself. I do not like anyone to access my things. The person who opened the door must have her key. Do you know who that could be?”
A little frisson of excitement shivered down Frank’s spine. “Her keys haven’t been found, at least not that I know of. We think the killer took them.”
Now he really did look distressed. “Mon Dieu, that is a horrible thought. He has been with the keys all this time. He might have . . .” He gestured helplessly.
“Yes, he might’ve,” Frank agreed, thinking there was a key to Miss Wilson’s house among them, too. “Is anything missing?”
“I do not think so. My desk, he is locked always, of course. Nothing else was disturbed, I do not think. I did not look in the desk of Miss Northrup. I did not want to presume, and I would not know if anything was missing, non?”
Frank well remembered how Pelletier had insisted he didn’t normally lock his desk, but he didn’t mention it. “I came today to pack up her things for her parents,” Frank said, indicating the wooden crate he carried under one arm, “so I’ll be glad to check to see if anything is missing.”
“But how would you . . . ? Ah, mais oui, I remember. You look in her desk when you are here before.”
“And I didn’t see anything of value or even of interest then. Nothing worth stealing, at least, but I’ll notice if anything is gone.” Without waiting to be invited, Frank set the crate on the floor and plopped himself down in the chair at Abigail’s desk. Everything looked the same as it had on Monday, so if the killer really had come in, he’d been very neat.
Frank wanted to search the room thoroughly, and he didn’t want to do it in front of Pelletier. He considered asking him to leave, but that would probably make Pelletier suspicious and more likely to stay. Frank decided to be obnoxious instead. He started to hum tunelessly and earned a frown from Pelletier, which he pretended not to notice. Then he scooted his chair back abruptly and bumped into Pelletier’s. “Oh, sorry. There’s not much room in here, is there?”
“Miss Northrup, she is much smaller,” he said coldly, turning back to his papers.
“Are these her books?” Frank asked, indicating the shelf over her desk.
Pelletier looked up from his work again, clearly annoyed. “Everything on that side is hers.”
“Thanks.” Frank started pulling the books down off the shelf and slapping them onto the desktop as loudly as possible.
Pelletier rose from his seat and gathered up the papers he’d been reading. “I will leave you now. I will be in the library. If you will please to let me know when you are finished.”
“Oh, sure. Hope I’m not driving you off.”
Pelletier gave him a sour smile and left. Frank waited until his footsteps had died away, and then he started searching the desk. Or at least that had been his intention, but when he opened the top drawer, he stopped dead. In the drawer were several things that had not been there three days ago. The first thing he saw was the last thing he’d expected: Abigail’s keys. Or at least someone’s keys, and he was pretty sure they would prove to be hers.
Sure enough, when he tried the smallest key on her desk, it worked perfectly. On
e of the others worked on the office door. The third one would probably fit Miss Wilson’s house. A long brown ribbon was attached to the ring, probably so she could wear them round her neck if she chose. Ladies often didn’t have convenient pockets for such things. The other thing he found in the drawer was a packet of letters tied with a ribbon similar to the one securing the letters Sarah had found under Abigail’s mattress.
He was sure neither the letters nor the keys had been in the desk on Monday when he’d searched it. This meant that whoever had taken Abigail’s keys—and it was most likely her killer—had probably come into the office at some time after her death and taken the letters. Then this person had returned both the letters and the keys today, probably because they didn’t want to be caught with them. He’d left the door unlocked because he had to leave the key in the desk.
But why go to all this trouble? Letters could be burned, and the keys could have been tossed into the river or somewhere else where they’d never be found. Was the killer too naïve to think of this? Had he simply returned them because he didn’t know what else to do with them? Sarah would probably tell him it was just good manners to return someone else’s property. He supposed he’d have to get used to well-mannered killers if he was going to deal with society.
He slipped the ribbon off the letters and flipped through them. Some of them were from Irene Raymond. He pulled one out of its envelope and saw it was in her handwriting, so these would be the letters she told them she’d written herself to Abigail. He also saw a few from other females, probably more friends of Abigail’s. No letters from any other young men, however; but to his delight, he saw that several of them were from France.
Just as Bathsheba had described, the return addresses were in French, the spidery handwriting almost too ornate to read. He pulled a couple of them from their envelopes, but the letters were also written in French. He’d have to find someone to read them. For one fleeting moment he considered Pelletier; but no, he was too close to the murdered girl. He might even lie about what the letters said if he thought it would embarrass the school or someone who worked there. He might even try to protect Abigail. Frank would have to find someone who hadn’t even known Abigail or anyone else involved with her.
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 14
