“Unless . . .” Malloy said, leaning back in his chair.
“Unless what?” Sarah prodded.
“Unless Miss Wilson did kill Abigail.”
Sarah tried to make sense of this, but Gino was ahead of her, probably because he was an impulsive young man himself.
“If Miss Wilson did kill Abigail—and now we know she could’ve had a good reason to—then Abigail’s brother and lover would know they didn’t do it, and from what I told them yesterday, they could’ve figured out Miss Wilson did.”
“And one or the other of them killed Miss Wilson in revenge,” Sarah added.
“Maybe both of them together,” Gino said, “although that’s kind of far-fetched, even for this case.”
“So we don’t think Luther or Raymond killed Abigail?” Malloy asked.
Sarah exchanged a frown with Gino, who shrugged. “I guess one of them might’ve done it, but then why would they kill Miss Wilson?”
“Maybe one of them killed Abigail but was mad because Miss Wilson had drawn her into sin or something,” Gino said.
“That might be a little far-fetched, too,” Malloy said, grinning, “even for this case.”
“But it’s still possible. You said yourself, people kill people for stupid reasons. So how do we sort this out?” Sarah asked.
“Tomorrow, Gino goes back to the athletic club and asks Luther and Raymond for their alibis for yesterday and the day Abigail was killed,” Malloy said.
“Can I take a bodyguard?” Gino asked in mock terror.
“You’re right, you shouldn’t go alone. We’ll both go, then.”
“What about Mr. Hatch?” Sarah asked. “Don’t you need to find out if Abigail ever met with him?”
“I’ll go to the college to see him when we’ve finished with the boys at the club,” Malloy said.
“And if one of the boys did kill Abigail or Miss Wilson, won’t he lie about where he was?” Gino asked.
“Which is why you’ll be checking their alibis while I talk to Hatch.”
“Do you need me to do anything?” Sarah asked.
“No, thank heaven,” Malloy said. “You’ve done more than enough already. For some reason, I thought having a detective agency would mean you wouldn’t be involved in the investigations anymore.”
Sarah had to smile at that. “Do you expect me to sit at home and be bored?”
“Maybe you should be a midwife again, Mrs. Malloy,” Gino said, earning a scowl from Malloy.
“I do miss my old vocation,” Sarah admitted. “But I don’t miss being called out in the middle of the night and being away from home for days at a time.”
“Maybe the ladies could come to you,” Gino suggested with a wicked grin. “You’ve got enough room here for them.”
“Sarah is perfectly happy being a wife and mother,” Malloy said in what he probably thought was the last word on the subject.
“How very progressive of you, Malloy,” she said.
Malloy turned to Gino. “That’s not a compliment.”
* * *
“Are you going to join a club?” Gino asked Frank as they entered the New York Athletic Club the next morning.
“I’d have to find one that would take me,” Frank said. “Micks aren’t welcome most places, you know.”
“Mr. Decker’s club accepts Jews.”
Frank gave him a look. “Jews with lots of money.”
“You’re a Mick with lots of money,” Gino said.
“I’m not sure that makes any difference,” Frank said, thinking it probably did. The question was whether he really wanted to join a club or not. He certainly didn’t plan to sit around smoking cigars and reading the newspapers all day. He could do that at home.
Well, maybe not smoke cigars, but he didn’t like smoking cigars anyway.
“Mr. Donatelli,” the fellow behind the counter said by way of welcome. Frank was glad to see Gino had made an impression. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Raymond and Mr. Northrup, as usual,” Gino replied.
Frank noticed the fellow was sizing him up and trying to reconcile his Irish face with the tailor-made suit.
“How about Mr. Vander Hooten?” the fellow asked cheerfully.
“If he’s here, I won’t refuse to see him,” Gino replied just as cheerfully.
“I don’t think he’s come in yet, but Mr. Raymond and Mr. Northrup are here. Shall I tell them you’d like to see them?”
Frank pulled a fiver out of his pocket. “Why don’t you let us surprise them?”
He eyed the bill hungrily, but he didn’t take it. “I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“Nobody will ever know. We’ll say we snuck in if anybody asks.” Frank laid the bill on the counter.
“You know where to go?” the fellow asked Gino, who nodded. He picked up the bill and slipped it into his pocket with practiced ease. Then he went to assist a member who had just come in, leaving Frank and Gino to their own devices.
Gino headed for the elevator, and Frank followed. The operator greeted them respectfully and took them up.
“You think they’re still in bed?” Frank asked.
“I got here later than this the last time, and they had to get dressed before they came down.”
The corridor with the sleeping rooms wasn’t nearly as fancy as the lobby. In fact, it was actually drab, as if the club didn’t have to cater to the men who stayed here. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe just being away from their regular home was enough.
Gino stopped in front of one of the doors and pounded several times. “Mr. Northrup?” he called. “Message for you.”
He gave Frank a grin, and Frank nodded his approval. They waited patiently, because they could hear some promising noises from inside the room. After several minutes the door opened, and Luther Northrup stood there blinking at them. He wore a set of balbriggans with pearl buttons. His hair stood up in a few odd places, and his face was creased from sleep. “What the . . . you?” he said at last.
“Sorry to bother you so early, old man,” Gino said, pushing his way past Northrup into the room. Frank followed.
“What do you think you’re doing, coming in here like this? I didn’t invite you.”
“We just need to ask you a couple questions, Northrup,” Frank said. “It won’t take long.”
“And who are you?” He turned to Gino. “Who is he?”
“Frank Malloy. He’s the one investigating your sister’s death.”
He squinted, as if trying to bring Frank into focus. “Oh yeah, I remember you now, from the funeral. You said you were a professor.”
“No, I didn’t. You just thought I was. Now we need some information from you about Abigail’s murder.”
“I already told this fellow, I don’t know anything about it.”
Frank started walking toward Northrup, so instinctively, Northrup started backing up. Frank walked him right up to one of the easy chairs at the end of his room and forced him down into it. “We just need to know where you were the day your sister died.”
Northrup blinked stupidly. “What?”
“You heard me. What were you doing when you found out she was dead?”
“Oh. I . . . I was practicing on the bars.”
“You were drinking?” Frank demanded angrily.
“No! The parallel bars,” he explained frantically.
“He’s a gymnast,” Gino explained. “They swing around on these bars.”
“Why?” Frank asked, not bothering to hide his amazement.
Gino shrugged.
Frank sighed and turned back to Northrup. “Were you swinging on these bars all day?”
“No, I was doing other things, too. I swam in the morning.”
“Swam?” It was the dead of winter. “Where did you
swim?”
“Here. We have a pool.”
“On the roof?”
“No, in the basement.”
“You have a pool inside?”
Gino leaned over and whispered, “Let me do this.” He gently pushed Frank aside so he could glare directly down at Northrup. “What did you do after you swam?”
“I don’t know exactly. I was in the exercise room. I think I jumped rope for a while and lifted weights and—”
“Were you here all day?”
“Yes, until my father telephoned me to tell me about Abby.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Lots of people saw me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“Well, you better try to remember because we think you weren’t here. We think you left and went up to the Normal School to see your sister, and you got into an argument with her and you killed her.”
“What?” he cried in horror. “I never! I’d never raise a finger to Abby!”
“Then tell me who can vouch for you being here all that day.”
“I don’t know!” he fairly screamed, but then he remembered something. “Rudy. And Pete. And the other fellows who work here. They keep records. They know which members are here every day. They can tell you.”
But they wouldn’t tell Frank, not even for a bribe. “Get dressed. You’re going downstairs with us to ask them to give us the names.”
Northrup pushed himself to his feet, his expression sulky and rebellious, but before he could even take a step, someone pounded on the door.
12
“Grandmother is here!” Catherine cried, bursting into Sarah’s private parlor.
Elizabeth Decker followed her in. Sarah greeted her mother and settled her on the sofa. “Where’s Maeve?”
“I told her I’d look after Catherine for a while so she could have some time for herself,” her mother said, gathering the child into her lap.
“I thought perhaps you had some news for me,” Sarah said, sitting down beside her.
“I do. I’ve found someone I think can help us.”
“Someone who speaks French?”
“Someone who is French,” her mother said, “although she’s rather elderly. She may turn us down because of that, but if so, I’m hoping she’ll at least know of someone else in the city who could do the translation for us.”
“You haven’t spoken to her yet?”
“I haven’t even met her yet, although I got my friend to write to her, telling her I’d be calling on her.”
“Who is it? How does your friend know her?”
“She’s Millicent Avery’s mother-in-law. Of course her name isn’t Avery anymore. It’s de Béthune, or something like that. Her parents married her off to a French count, I think. He was penniless, of course, and he married Millicent for her enormous dowry that he used to return his family’s estate to its former glory. The usual story, except he died when they’d only been married a few years, so Millicent came home. She didn’t like France very much, I gather, and without her husband, well, I guess she had no incentive to stay. She has a son, however, and her mother-in-law wanted to see him grow up, so she came to America with them.”
“I wonder how Millicent felt about that,” Sarah said.
“Apparently, they get along very well. At any rate, Madame de Béthune will be able to read your letters and, hopefully, translate them for you.”
“And an elderly French lady isn’t likely to care about a scandal at some female college.”
“Exactly,” her mother said. “Now, I’ve promised Catherine that we’d spend some time together, but after luncheon, you and I can call on Madame de Béthune and find out if she’ll help us.”
* * *
Frank answered the pounding on Luther Northrup’s door to find Cornelius Raymond. He was unshaven and still tucking in his shirttail, and his hair stuck up at odd angles.
“Good morning,” Frank said with just a touch of irony. “Won’t you come in?”
Gino frowned, but Luther looked very relieved to see his friend.
“What’s going on here?” Raymond demanded when he was inside.
“We were just asking Luther some questions,” Frank said. “I assume the young fellow down at the front desk told you we were here.”
Raymond gave Frank what he probably thought was a murderous glare. “Of course he did. He was concerned about Mr. Northrup’s well-being.”
“Did he think we were going to beat him or something?” Frank asked, thinking he might demand his five-dollar tip back.
Raymond straightened a little and adjusted his suit coat, probably realizing what a comic figure he cut. He’d forgotten his vest completely and his shirt had no collar. “I don’t know what he thought, but he suggested I might want to join you.”
“That was very thoughtful of him,” Frank said, enjoying Raymond’s discomfort. “You saved us a trip. We were going to call on you next.”
“They want to know where I was when Abby died,” Luther said rather plaintively. “They think I killed her.”
“How dare you?” Raymond snarled.
“We dare because both of you had good reasons to be angry with Abigail,” Frank explained patiently, “and both of you seem to have nasty tempers that could get out of hand.”
“What reason did I have?” Luther demanded.
Frank considered Luther for a long moment until he fairly squirmed. “I think you’ve been angry at Abigail your entire life for all the times she proved she was smarter and better than you are.”
Luther flinched as if Frank had slapped him, and Frank turned to Raymond.
“And you were angry at Abigail because she wouldn’t give you an answer to your proposal. You’d expected her to accept immediately and be grateful for the offer, didn’t you?”
Raymond shook his head. “I . . . I . . .”
“And when you demanded to know why she wouldn’t accept, she told you she was in love with someone else. Maybe she even told you that person was a woman. Maybe your pride couldn’t take such an insult, so you grabbed the first thing you saw and attacked her with it.”
Raymond was still wagging his head, but he’d gone pale and his eyes were wide with terror. “I never touched her! I didn’t even know about”—he swallowed loudly—“about that woman until he told me.” He gestured toward Gino, who’d been watching the whole thing with avid interest.
“We only have your word for that,” Gino said.
“Oh, you can believe me,” Raymond said. “If I’d had any idea she was involved with a female, well, I would never have made her an offer in the first place!”
Frank could easily believe that. “Then you won’t mind telling us where you were the day Abigail was killed.”
That stopped him.
“Tell him,” Luther said softly. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Raymond gave him a murderous look, but he said, “I was visiting a . . . a young lady.”
Luther made a choking sound and Raymond flushed.
“Does this ‘young lady’ live in a brothel?” Frank asked.
Raymond looked as if he might explode, but Luther said, “Yes, she does.”
“Don’t most people visit brothels at night?” Gino asked, earning a glare from Luther.
Frank had been thinking the same thing.
“The young lady is very popular,” Luther reported, his eyes shining with suppressed mirth. “If you want her complete attention, you have to go in the daytime.”
Frank didn’t think Luther deserved to take such pleasure in his friend’s embarrassment. “So you knew the man who wanted to marry your sister was in love with a prostitute?”
Luther looked up in alarm. “I didn’t . . . I mean, they weren’t married yet, were they? W
here’s the harm?”
For a moment, Frank remembered fondly how the police were practically expected to give suspects the third degree. That privilege would’ve come in handy just then and maybe taught Luther Northrup a valuable lesson. Instead, he turned his disgust on Raymond, who quickly jumped to his own defense.
“I’m not in love with her! One doesn’t fall in love with a prostitute!”
“One just spends his afternoons with her,” Frank said. “Were you with her Saturday afternoon, too?”
“Saturday?” Raymond echoed in confusion.
“He surely was,” Luther reported with that gleam again.
“Were you?” Gino asked with interest.
Raymond grunted a yes.
“What time did you get there?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Sometime in the afternoon.”
“And what time did you leave?”
“Probably around seven.”
“That seems early for a Saturday night,” Gino said. “The evening’s just getting started.”
“He doesn’t like to see other men take her upstairs,” Luther reported gleefully.
Raymond looked as if he’d like to rip Luther’s head off.
“And are you one of the men who took her upstairs after he left?” Frank asked Luther.
Luther’s amusement evaporated when he saw Raymond’s expression. “Of course not! I don’t even go to that place.”
Frank didn’t bother to ask how he happened to know so much about it if he didn’t. “Then you weren’t with Raymond on Saturday afternoon. Where were you?”
“I . . . What does it matter?”
“Because that’s when Miss Wilson was killed.”
“Miss Wilson?” Luther echoed in confusion.
“The woman who gave Abigail the ring.”
Both Luther and Raymond stared back in shock.
“She’s dead?” Luther asked.
“Murdered people usually are,” Frank said.
“Murdered?” Raymond said. “And you think one of us did it?”
“Even if you didn’t kill Abigail, you both had a reason to kill Miss Wilson,” Frank said. “You might’ve even thought Miss Wilson killed Abigail and you were just getting revenge.”
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 20
