Murder in Morningside Heights

by Victoria Thompson

  “We did not,” Madame de Béthune said.

  “But I looked it up,” Millicent said. “I had all sorts of books about France so I could learn about it when I married Claude. We finally found it. It’s a little town in—”

  “Bourgogne,” Sarah guessed.

  “How did you know?” Millicent said. “Belle-mère said it’s no bigger than a flea dropping.”

  This made all the ladies laugh.

  “The girl who died, her best friend mentioned that she’d visited this town. It was the hometown of the professor who teaches French at the school. She wanted to come back and surprise him with news from his home.”

  Millicent and her mother-in-law exchanged a knowing glance.

  “What is it?” Sarah’s mother asked.

  “Keep reading,” Millicent urged Sarah. “I don’t want to spoil it.”

  The letter concluded with the lady telling Abigail the name of some town official who could give her the information she was seeking. He had apparently been unavailable when Abigail was there, but this lady had told him Abigail would be contacting him.

  Sarah passed the paper to her mother and started reading the second one.

  This one was dated in December and was signed by a man, the same name the previous letter writer had given Abigail in the first letter.

  “Do you know the person he names?” Millicent asked.

  “Oh yes,” Sarah said. “Professor Pelletier is the one who teaches French at the Normal School.”

  “We had guessed as much. And this village was his hometown?”

  “That’s what he told Abigail,” Sarah said, remembering what Irene Raymond had said just this morning.

  “What does it say?” her mother asked when Sarah had finished reading the rest of the letter.

  “He says he can’t find anyone who remembers a Jacques Pelletier ever living in the village or anyone from the village ever emigrating to America at all, for that matter.”

  “How strange,” her mother said.

  “Oui,” Madame de Béthune said. “In a town like that, a son who went to America, he would be a hero. He would send money home. He would be known to everyone.”

  “But if his family had died . . .” Sarah’s mother tried.

  “They would all remember. Everyone,” Madame de Béthune insisted. “Read the last letter.”

  Sarah passed the second letter to her mother and picked up the third. This one was dated two weeks before Abigail died. She must have received it only days before her death. The same official thanked her for the donation to the church and informed her the priest had been happy to check the baptismal records. They had determined that no family named Pelletier had ever lived in that village in the past one hundred years.

  “What does it mean?” Sarah’s mother asked when she had told her.

  “I think it means that Professor Pelletier lied about being born in this village.”

  “Why would he do that?” her mother asked.

  “Belle-mère and I have been discussing this,” Millicent said. “And we have an idea.”

  “Did you see? On the letter from the lady,” Madame de Béthune said.

  Mrs. Decker shuffled to it.

  “The last thing she writes,” Madame de Béthune said.

  “‘Your written French is excellent. So much better than when you speak,’” Sarah’s mother read. “Why is that important?”

  “You say before how the girl who die, she does not speak the français so well.”

  “And you said that’s what happens when Americans teach Americans to speak French,” Sarah recalled. “Except Abigail was taught by a Frenchman, at least once she got to the Normal School.”

  “A Frenchman who lied about where he was from,” Millicent said.

  “But maybe he had a good reason for lying,” Sarah’s mother said.

  “What would that reason be?” Millicent asked.

  “Maybe he was ashamed of his real hometown.”

  “Then why would he claim to be from this town?” Sarah asked, almost thinking out loud. “It’s no bigger than a flea dropping, and even Abigail said it was a sad place, dirty and poor.”

  “He claimed it,” Madame de Béthune said, “because no one will know of it and no one will go there.”

  “So no one will ever guess that he isn’t French at all,” Millicent concluded triumphantly.

  * * *

  Frank found Gino moping in their office, where they’d agreed to meet at the end of the day.

  “No luck?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know what you’d call luck, but I did see my friend Vandy. He found three fellows who not only saw Luther Northrup at the club on the day Abigail died, but they swam with him in the pool for an hour or more.”

  “You should be happy. At least we don’t have to tell the Northrups their son killed their daughter.”

  “I suppose that is good news.”

  “What about the day Miss Wilson was killed?”

  “Nobody was sure about that. Her death didn’t make any impression on the members, because they never even heard of her, so nobody remembered that day in particular.”

  “Then cheer up, maybe Luther killed Miss Wilson.”

  “Very funny. That’s not why I’m down. I’m worried. What if we can’t solve this case?”

  “Do you think you’ll lose your job if we don’t?” Frank asked with a grin.

  Gino gave him a glare. He was getting better at it. “I’m just afraid we’ll stop getting clients if we don’t solve the cases.”

  Frank supposed he had a point. “It’s much too soon to give up.”

  “How about you? Did you have any luck?”

  “Not much. I caught Pelletier in his office and asked him what he and Miss Wilson had been talking about the day before she died. He claimed she was apologizing to him for getting Abigail hired over his objections.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought that was strange. He said she’d realized that if Abigail hadn’t gotten the job at the college, she would still be alive.”

  Gino considered this for a moment. “I guess that could be true.”

  “Unless you believe we all have our time to go, and she would’ve gotten run over by a trolley car or something that day if she didn’t work at the school.”

  “You’re just trying to confuse me now.”

  Frank didn’t deny it. “I guess we should go on home. I think we’ve done all we can for today, and it’s really getting cold outside.”

  Before Gino could reply, the telephone rang. Gino reached for it, but Frank scooped it up before he could get it, just to tease him.

  “Frank Malloy, Confidential Inquiries.”

  “Mr. Malloy, is that you?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Jacques Pelletier here. Please forgive, but you say about some letters you find. They are in French, you say, and I am too stupid to offer to read them for you. I think of this when you are gone.”

  “That’s very nice of you to offer, Professor.”

  “You have the letters, no?”

  “Yes, I do,” Frank said, stretching the truth just a bit.

  “We can meet, and I can do this for you.”

  “When would you like to meet?”

  “This evening? There is a tavern near the school.” He gave the name and address. “I can meet you there. We can have a meal together.”

  “I can be there in an hour or so. Thank you, Professor. This is a big help.”

  “That was Pelletier,” Gino said when Frank had hung up.

  “Yes. When I saw him today, I told him about finding the letters. He said he didn’t think the ones in the book were really hidden. He thought maybe Abigail stuck them in there and forgot or something.”<
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  “That’s possible, I guess.”

  “And now he’s offering to translate them for me.”

  “That’s nice of him.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him we already have somebody doing that for us?”

  Frank smiled. “Because I’m curious. I told him in his office that the letters were in French and I couldn’t read them. I expected him to offer to translate them for me, but he didn’t. He claims he didn’t think of it then, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “So I’m wondering why he waited until later to suggest it.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to ask him when we meet.”

  * * *

  The winter sun had completely deserted the city by the time the carriage delivered Sarah and her mother back to the Malloy home. They had been discussing Professor Pelletier the entire way, trying to figure out if Madame de Béthune’s theory could possibly be true.

  “More than one person told me how the French made fun of Abigail’s accent when she was there,” Sarah said.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” her mother argued right back. “And even if all of this is true and this Pelletier person is only pretending to be French, who would care?”

  “I’m sure the people at the Normal School would care. They’ve been bragging for years that they have a real Frenchman teaching the students. The parents and probably the students as well would be furious, and Pelletier would be a laughingstock.”

  “And lose his job, too. But would someone commit murder over something like that?”

  “Don’t forget that Abigail’s murder was apparently an impulse. Whoever killed her just happened to see the screwdriver lying there and grabbed it. This person probably hadn’t intended to do anything to her at all except talk.”

  “I suppose if you intended to murder someone, you would plan a bit ahead of time,” her mother said.

  Sarah couldn’t help smiling. “I think you’d at least bring a weapon of some kind. You simply can’t count on finding something effective just lying around.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m feeling brave because I know you don’t have a weapon, Mother.”

  “You underestimate me. I always have a hatpin.”

  “Thank you for the warning. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “But seriously, Sarah, I’m still not convinced.”

  “I’m not completely certain myself, and even if I were, we don’t know any reason he might have killed Miss Wilson, too.”

  “Unless she figured it out and confronted him about it,” her mother said.

  “Now you’re trying to prove Pelletier is guilty.”

  “I know. What a muddle.”

  “It is, but this is the most promising information we’ve gotten so far. I can’t wait to tell Malloy. He’ll be a good judge of whether it rings true or not. I can’t believe we didn’t even consider Pelletier a suspect until now.” They’d pulled up in front of Sarah’s house. “Will you come in for a while?”

  “I should get the carriage home. It’s too cold to leave the horses standing outside for any length of time.”

  Another good reason to get a motorcar, Sarah thought. She thanked her mother again for finding Madame de Béthune and wished her good night.

  The house was quiet long enough for Sarah to take off her coat, but by then the children had realized that someone had come home. Catherine and Brian came clattering down the stairs from the nursery with Maeve right behind them. Sarah spent the next few minutes hearing about their day. Mrs. Malloy came out of her rooms to interpret for Brian, although Sarah was pleased to realize she could understand a good bit of what he was saying with his American Sign Language. The whole family was making good progress.

  When the children had settled down, Sarah helped Maeve herd them back upstairs.

  “How did your visit with the French lady go?” Maeve asked after the children had run on ahead.

  “Very well. We found out some interesting information.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

  “And I can’t wait to tell Malloy what we’ve learned. Is he home yet?”

  “No, he’s not. He telephoned to say he wouldn’t be having supper with us tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s meeting someone for dinner.”

  “Did he say who it was?”

  “Yes, that Professor Pelletier.”

  15

  Frank hadn’t been sure what to expect, but the tavern Pelletier had sent him to was a perfectly respectable place where family men obviously went to drink without worrying about being robbed or getting into a fight. A rotund German and his equally stout wife ran the place, and they poured him a beer almost before he sat down at one of the tables.

  Business was slow tonight. The dropping temperatures were probably keeping people home. He’d expected Pelletier to be waiting for him, but he saw no familiar faces at all among the handful of customers. Frank sipped the beer, but decided he wanted coffee to warm him up instead. He told the waitress he was waiting for someone and that they’d order dinner when his friend arrived.

  Earlier customers had left newspapers behind, so he occupied himself by scanning them, stopping every now and then to read a story. Each time the door opened, he looked up, expecting to see Pelletier, but the man never appeared.

  “I think your friend is not coming,” the German said after a while. “Maybe the cold is too much for him.”

  “Maybe it is.” Frank’s stomach growled, reminding him Pelletier had promised they would eat. “In any case, I’m tired of waiting for him. Can you bring me some supper?”

  The dish being served that night was a thick stew, so Frank enjoyed a bowl of it, along with another beer. When he was finished, he checked his watch and realized over two hours had passed since he’d told Pelletier he’d meet him in one hour. Pelletier had only been coming from a few blocks away, so he had either been detained or changed his mind about coming.

  Frank had traveled all the way up to Morningside Heights for a second time that day in the bitter cold and this time for nothing at all. He paid his bill and bundled up, pulling on gloves and winding a scarf around his neck. Then he set out for the unpleasant trip home.

  Although it wasn’t late, the streets were fairly empty, probably because of the cold. People would be sheltering their horses as best they could and huddling in their homes until the morning sun brought the temperatures back up a bit. Frank paused a moment outside the tavern and looked up and down the street, just in case Pelletier happened to be running down the street in a frantic effort to catch him before he left. But he saw no one running or hurrying or even the least bit interested in him.

  With another sigh, he started down the street toward the nearest El station. He’d taken only a few steps when he heard someone calling. He stopped to listen. There it was again.

  “Malloy!”

  The call was weak, as if the person were sick or injured. He looked around, trying to decide from what direction it had come. The cold and the buildings distorted sounds.

  “Here,” the voice called again. “Across the street. Hurry, please.”

  This was definitely someone hurt. Frank headed across the street, moving carefully over the cobbles so he didn’t twist an ankle and fall in the darkness. The shadows lay thick in front of the storefronts, closed now, their windows black.

  “Where are you?” he called, his words making tinny echoes.

  “In here. Can’t walk,” the voice called.

  It seemed to be coming from the alley that ran between two of the stores. Could it be Pelletier? Had someone waylaid him on his way to their meeting and tried to kill him as well?
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  “Pelletier?” he tried.

  “Oui, please help!” He sounded desperate.

  Wishing for a light, Frank entered the alley, moving slowly and stepping carefully. The meager light from the streetlamps faded quickly as he moved down the narrow passage. “Where are you?”

  He jumped at a skittering sound before he realized it was a rat racing away from him. The stench of garbage and dung clogged his nose, making him wish he hadn’t eaten so much stew. “Where are you, Pelletier?”

  Just as he took another step, he heard a slight scraping behind him. Before he could turn, something swept quickly, softly, across his face and tightened around his neck.

  * * *

  Sarah let herself back into the house quietly, so Catherine wouldn’t hear. She didn’t want the children to know she’d been out and wonder why.

  Maeve jumped up from where she’d been sitting beside the telephone in the foyer. “Any word?”

  “I sent a telegram to Gino’s parents’ house, but the telegraph operator told me it was foolish to wait for an answer that might not come. They’ll bring it right over if it does. I gave them a nice tip and promised an equally large one for a delivery.”

  “I’ve been telephoning the office every fifteen minutes, but there’s still no answer.”

  “No, I’m sure Gino left, and he probably went home. He’ll telephone as soon as he gets my telegram, I’m sure.”

  “Or finds Mr. Malloy, if he knows where he was meeting this professor,” Maeve said. “Or come over here, if he doesn’t. We’re probably worrying for nothing. If they’re meeting for a meal, they’ll be in a public place, after all.”

  “But Malloy won’t know he might be meeting with a murderer,” Sarah said.

  “And the professor doesn’t have any reason to harm Mr. Malloy,” Maeve pointed out reasonably.

  “You’re right, of course,” Sarah said, taking off her coat and hat and gloves and savoring the warmth of the house.

  “Mrs. Malloy and the children already ate supper while you were out, but Velvet is keeping ours warm.”

  “I don’t think I could eat a bite,” Sarah said.

  “Just try. It’ll give you something to do while you’re waiting, at least.”