“That’s crazy!” Luther insisted.
“That’s ridiculous,” Raymond said at the same time.
“Luther, you haven’t told me where you were on Saturday afternoon,” Frank said.
“I . . . I was at home, or at least on my way,” he said with obvious relief. “My father sent me a telegram and told me to come home because my mother wanted to see me. She . . . she wanted to talk about when Abby and I were little. It was . . . terrible.” He rubbed his eyes at the memory.
“And when did you come back to the city?”
“Last night. I stayed over Saturday night and went to church with them. They wanted me to stay longer, but I told them I have a job now. That’s not a lie. I accepted a position here at the club.”
“You’ll need to go downstairs with Gino and tell them to give you a list of everyone who was in the club the day Abigail died.”
“They won’t like that,” Luther said. “If you talk to all those people about me, I’ll lose my job.”
“I don’t have to talk to all of them. I just need a few of them to say they saw you here that day. You can look at the list and tell me who you remember saw you.” He turned to Raymond. “And I’ll need the name of the brothel and the young lady you see there.”
“They won’t tell you anything,” Raymond grumbled.
He was probably right, but Frank said, “I’m not the police. Luther, get some clothes on. Gino, take him downstairs and get those names. Raymond, write down the information about the brothel and then I’m done with you.”
* * *
“You should get a carriage,” her mother said as they rode through the city streets in hers.
“Malloy is talking about getting a motorcar,” Sarah said.
“Good heavens, do you think he really will?”
“Actually, he keeps saying other people want him to get one but he’s not going to.”
“Which makes you think he wants to get one.”
“Of course. He seemed a little surprised when I said I wanted to learn to drive it, too.”
“Would you really?”
“I think so. I might change my mind when I’ve tried it, but I do want to try, at least.”
“I’d be terrified,” her mother said. “They go so fast.”
“But they’re much easier to keep than a carriage. You don’t have horses to feed and care for, and you don’t need a driver.”
“So you’d drive Malloy around the city?” her mother asked with a smile.
“I think that’s what he’s afraid of, but I’m sure Gino would drive him if it comes to that. Now we need to decide what we’re going to tell Madame de Béthune.”
“I was going to leave that up to you, dear. That’s why I brought you along.”
“Why, thank you, Mother,” Sarah said, genuinely pleased. “I’m a little worried that an elderly lady might be distressed when we tell her someone was murdered.”
“She might, but on the other hand, that’s also a compelling reason to figure out what the letters say.”
“What do we do if she doesn’t want to help us?”
“We ask her if she knows anyone else in the city who can,” her mother said.
“You make it sound so easy.”
Her mother smiled. “If it were easy, you wouldn’t have needed my help.”
The de Béthunes lived in a lovely town house a few blocks from Sarah’s parents on the Upper West Side of the city. A maid admitted them and escorted them to a parlor decorated in a decidedly French style, where two ladies awaited them. Sarah vaguely remembered Millicent Avery de Béthune as someone she had known in her youth, a time that often seemed like another world. Millicent greeted her warmly and introduced her mother-in-law, who turned out to be not as elderly as they’d been led to believe.
Madame de Béthune spoke with only a slight accent and her voice was musical. She wore a gray cashmere gown trimmed with silver lace that matched her shining silver hair. A small woman, she seemed almost fragile next to her robust American daughter-in-law.
Millicent wore a stylish Prussian blue taffeta gown that only accentuated her plumpness, but her sweet, smiling face and deep dimples were captivating.
“Your letter was so mysterious, Mrs. Decker. We hardly knew what to make of it,” Millicent said when they had dispensed with the formalities and she had served them tea.
“But perhaps that was your intent,” Madame de Béthune said with a smile. “You create a mystery so we must see you in order to solve it.”
“You have found us out,” Sarah’s mother said, delighted.
“And now that you have gotten your wish to meet with us,” Millicent said, “you must grant our wish to know exactly why you needed to see us. Or rather to see my belle-mère.”
Sarah’s mother nodded to her, giving her permission to begin her explanation.
“I’m sorry to say that the reason we need your help is because a young woman was murdered almost two weeks ago.”
Millicent gasped and Madame de Béthune murmured something in French and crossed herself.
“I didn’t want to distress you,” Sarah hurried on, “but you needed to know why this is so important. She was an instructor at the Normal School of Manhattan. She had just graduated from the school herself and had been hired to teach there, which was quite an honor. She was, from all reports, an outstanding young lady beloved by many.”
“Perhaps you know that Sarah’s husband is a private investigator who serves a few select clients,” her mother said.
“Oh yes,” Millicent said. “We’ve heard all about Mr. Malloy from my father. What an interesting life you must lead, Sarah.”
Sarah didn’t bother to bite back her grin. “I do, especially when I’m helping him with one of his cases. The parents of the young lady who died have hired Mr. Malloy to find out who killed her.”
Both of the Madame de Béthunes leaned forward expectantly.
Sarah took a deep breath, hoping she would not disappoint them. “The young lady—her name is Abigail—she taught French at the Normal School.”
“She is from France herself, yes?” Madame de Béthune asked.
“No, she is thoroughly American, but apparently, she was a very good student, good enough that the college hired her to teach it. Her parents were very proud of her, of course, and as a gift, they sent her to visit France for a month last summer.”
“Ah,” said Madame de Béthune, “and there she learned she does not speak the français very well at all.”
“That’s true,” Sarah said, astonished. She hadn’t even thought to mention that detail. “How did you know?”
“Many Americans think they know how to speak the français, but . . . I know I speak the English with an accent.”
“But you speak it very well,” Sarah’s mother said.
Madame de Béthune waved away her compliment. “I have had years to practice, but I can hardly make myself understood when I first come to America.”
“So you’re saying that Americans have the same problem when they go to France,” Sarah said.
“Oui, and Americans are very patient to those who do not speak their language, but the French are not so kind.”
“Not all Americans are patient,” Sarah’s mother said sadly.
But Sarah was remembering something. “Abigail’s mother told me the people she stayed with in France laughed at her when she first got there, and they could hardly understand her.”
“I had the very same problem when I married Claude and moved to France,” Millicent said. “Sometimes I think people pretended they didn’t understand me, just to be mean.”
Madame de Béthune patted her hand. “This is what occurs when Americans teach other Americans to speak the français. Is this why you have come today?”
“Oh no,” Sarah said. “That has nothin
g to do with why we’re here. I was just explaining to you how Abigail had happened to visit France and why she knew someone who sent her letters from there.”
“Ah, a romance perhaps?” Madame de Béthune asked hopefully.
Sarah and her mother exchanged a look. “We have no idea. We only know that she received these letters . . .” She waited while her mother pulled the letters from her purse. “We also know that she told a friend of hers she had discovered a scandal at the college.”
Madame de Béthune’s eyes lit up. “A scandal? What kind of a scandal?”
“We don’t know that either,” Sarah said, certain now they had found exactly the right person to help them. “And these letters may have nothing at all to do with the scandal or Abigail’s death.”
“But they may have everything to do with it, and you will not know until you know what they say,” Madame de Béthune said.
“And that is why we need your help,” Sarah said. “I know this is asking a lot of someone we’ve just met—”
“Pas du tout,” Madame de Béthune said, her delicate hand waving away her concerns.
“Which means ‘not at all,’” Millicent said.
“I will be happy to help you,” Madame de Béthune said. “But I will need a few days.”
“Of course,” Sarah said. “You are doing us a great favor, so take all the time you need. And as I said, it may come to nothing.”
“Or we may find the scélérat who killed this poor girl.”
Sarah only hoped she was right.
* * *
Much to Gino’s disappointment, Frank left him at the club with Luther while Frank found a hansom cab to carry him down to the Tenderloin to find the brothel that Cornelius Raymond frequented. The district was lousy with houses of ill repute that ranged from fairly elegant to sordidly shabby. As he’d expected, Raymond’s favorite was one of the more elegant ones.
The place was locked up tight this early in the day. Frank’s determined knocking finally roused a colored maid who informed him they weren’t yet open for business.
“I’m not here to do business. I need to speak to the madam.”
“She won’t be happy,” the maid informed him.
“I don’t expect her to be.”
She left him standing in the foyer for so long, he finally found himself a seat in the parlor. The room was richly furnished but cluttered now with empty glasses and bottles and a few stray articles of feminine apparel scattered here and there. It reeked of cigar smoke.
After nearly half an hour, a furious middle-aged female appeared. She’d dressed in a perfectly respectable gown that she could have worn to church if she’d been so inclined. He supposed she usually did dress that way. Her hair had been done up in a remarkably elaborate style that looked a little odd. He needed a moment to realize it was a wig, and she’d put it on crooked in her haste.
He rose to his feet, and she eyed him up and down. “You don’t dress like a copper.”
“Detective Frank Malloy, at your service, ma’am.”
“At your service,” she snorted. “That’s what I’m supposed to say to you, you twit. Now what could you possibly want at this ungodly hour of the morning?”
“I’m investigating the murders of two females, and one of the men suspected of the crimes claims he was here when each of the women was murdered.”
“And why should I help you?”
Frank pulled out a five-dollar bill and held it up. She was not impressed. He added a second one to it, and she nodded.
“If your man said he was here, he must’ve been, then. Men don’t usually claim to be in a whorehouse unless they really were.”
She was right, of course. “I don’t suppose you could confirm that Cornelius Raymond was here on Saturday afternoon and on the Wednesday before last.”
She gave him a pitying look. “I don’t normally admit I know any man who might’ve come in here, you realize.”
“Of course. I’m not working on a divorce case, though. This man wants you to say he was here.”
“Then he was here.”
Frank sighed wearily. “Except I only want you to say he was here if he really was.”
“Mr. . . . Malloy, was it? I don’t pay no mind to when customers come and go. Every day is pretty much like another one here. Even the girls couldn’t tell you who they saw when. They don’t pay attention and why should they?”
Why, indeed? Nobody who visited a place like this wanted people to remember. Except Cornelius Raymond, of course. “But he does come here?”
“Corny? Sure. He’s smitten with our little Lila. She has a particular speciality that he likes,” she added slyly. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested—”
“I don’t suppose she’d vouch for him,” Frank said gruffly.
“She’ll do anything you want her to if the price is right,” the madam said.
He should’ve known he was wasting his time here. And his money. He crossed the room and handed the bills to the madam. “Thanks for your help.”
She cackled, stuffing the bills into her bodice. “Anytime.”
* * *
Hatch’s secretary looked up in alarm when Frank entered her office. He figured she was even more spooked now that Miss Wilson had been murdered. At least she relaxed a little when she realized who he was.
“Did you have an appointment, Mr. Malloy?”
“No, but I’m sure he’ll see me if he’s in.”
Alice jumped up from her seat. “I’ll check.”
She obviously knew he was in, but she had to ask if he’d see Frank. Frank felt bad that he didn’t really have any news to report, but that couldn’t be helped.
Alice returned in a few moments and escorted him into Hatch’s office. The instant the door closed behind her, Hatch said, “Do you have news already?”
Frank shook his head. “But I did hear something you ought to know, and I have a question for you.”
Hatch’s face fell, but he invited Frank to sit down. “What’s the question?”
“I found out that Miss Wilson and Miss Northrup had an argument the day before Miss Northrup was murdered. It was about something Miss Northrup had learned, some piece of information. She had decided to tell you what it was, and Miss Wilson didn’t want her to.”
“What was it?”
“No one seems to know. My question is, did she meet with you the day she died and did she tell you whatever it was?”
Hatch thought this over for a long moment. “She didn’t meet with me. She may have asked for an appointment. You can check with Alice about that, but if so, she didn’t keep it. And you don’t have any idea what she wanted to tell me?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I do have a suspicion. She described it as a scandal of some kind.”
“Dear heaven, I hired you to prevent a scandal.” Hatch was genuinely distressed, as Frank had expected.
“I’m doing my best, Mr. Hatch, but I have to tell you, we’ve discovered some things about Miss Wilson and Miss Northrup that would be considered, uh, sensational if the press found out about them.”
Hatch frowned, but he seemed more annoyed than alarmed. “Do you mean the romance between them?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Frank said in surprise. “What do you know about it?”
“As little as I have to,” Hatch said. “Oh, everyone knows Abigail had a smash on Miss Wilson. Do you know what a smash is?”
“Yes, it, uh, came up when we were questioning your students.”
“Many of the girls develop strong feelings for the female teachers. They usually outgrow them in time, but Abigail did not. Instead she developed a romantic friendship with Miss Wilson.”
This was something new. “What’s a romantic friendship?”
Hatch shrugged. “Women are highly emotional creatures, a
s I’m sure you know. They tend to feel things more deeply than we do.”
“Including friendship?”
“Exactly. Some females become as devoted to each other as lovers. These friendships often take the place of romantic relationships with the opposite sex.”
“Especially with women who don’t attract suitors or husbands.”
“You seem familiar with the concept, Mr. Malloy.”
“I told you, we’ve learned a lot about Miss Northrup and Miss Wilson.”
“And you said what you’d learned might be considered sensational.”
“Yes. You mentioned romance and—”
“Mr. Malloy, I hope you aren’t going to suggest there might be something improper about the relationship between Miss Wilson and Miss Northrup,” Hatch said coldly.
“And what would you say if I did?” Frank said, fascinated by the turn of the conversation.
“I would say you would be doing a disservice to two ladies of spotless reputation who did not deserve to have their good names slandered. No one wants that, I’m sure.”
“Not even if the stories are true?”
“Not even then. You see, Mr. Malloy, this matter was settled long ago in a very public way.”
“The matter of Miss Wilson and Miss Northrup’s friendship?” Frank asked, confused.
“No, the question of possible impropriety between ladies who are intimate friends. You see, there was a legal case in England about forty years ago. It was a girls’ boarding school, not so very different from our situation here at the Normal School. One of the students accused the two ladies who ran the school of engaging in improper behavior with each other. It seems they would share a bed late at night, when all the students were asleep, and they were overheard to say some, uh, questionable things to each other that indicated . . . well, improprieties. As you can imagine, the parents withdrew the students immediately. All of them. The school closed and the reputation of the two ladies was ruined, so they sued the accusing parent for slander.”
“They did?” Frank asked in amazement.
“Of course. And they won, in spite of testimony from several of the older girls about their behavior. The judges, you see, knew perfectly well that respectable females experience no desire for sexual relations and submit to them in marriage merely as a means of procreating. And to please their husbands, of course. That being true, it’s difficult to understand why either of these ladies would have been interested in such activities at all. In addition,” he continued, stopping Frank’s interruption with a raised hand, “sexual relations can only be conducted if one of the participants has a male member in order to complete the act. In the case of two ladies, there is no male member, and therefore, there can be no act of sexual congress.”
Murder in Morningside Heights Page 21
