Paradise Park

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  Collins raised his beefy hand in the air, a not-quite smile on his face. “Muldoon,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. “I didn’t expect to see you round here.”

  Muldoon wasn’t fooled. He knew there wasn’t much respect between them. He nodded in greeting, a small, sharp movement.

  “So, we’re across the aisle from each other,” the stocky man laughed snidely. “Aren’t we always? But then, Detective Graham does have a way of solving your cases. Wasn’t there a recent one? Something about a wrestler.”

  Muldoon raised one side of his mouth in a half smile, but no mirth reached his eyes. The remark was meant to hurt. Sergeant Collins often worked with Graham, just as he did with Benson. He eyed the man’s tatty suit, once of the best style, but now years out of date. He might have bought it at some second-hand store, but more likely, he’d taken it off the back of a drunk booted out of some bar.

  The man thinks he looks sharp, strutting like a peacock around a handful of hens, Muldoon thought. But the show was lost on a roomful of men. And there wouldn’t be any women coming through. Even so, he doubted they’d look much at him, except maybe in disgust and fear. He didn’t think the man knew how revolting he was. But then, he wasn’t a woman, and you could never tell about their taste in men.

  “So, you’re here for Tammany, eh?” Collins asked.

  “Of course,” Muldoon bared his teeth in a replica of a smile. “It’s why I have my job.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Collins exposed his own teeth. “You’re a copper because you know Tweed. Not because you earned it.”

  “That’s right,” Muldoon said. “And I’m here to protect my interests.”

  “Well, I’m here to protect mine. And that means… well… that you get fired!” Collins tilted his head back and laughed.

  Muldoon tightened his lips in another imitation of a smile. “If it’s up to this district, that isn’t likely to happen. It’s primarily Democratic, you know. And the last time I heard, so is most of the city, thanks to those huge numbers of immigrants you love so much.”

  Collins glared impotently.

  “Oh, and thanks to you Republican’s inability to sway new voters,” he added.

  But then again, a lot of dead men voted, too. He kept this last thought to himself.

  They walked outside the building, each carrying a handful of flyers. A man from the Radical Republicans came out with his own pile of flyers, though he wasn’t a party strongman like Collins and Muldoon. The Radicals hoped to gain votes on their merits, not on coercion. Muldoon rather liked that approach. But as long as Collins stood on the other side of the door, he would stand on his, making sure his voters weren’t bullied into voting for the Republicans.

  A line of men stood waiting to vote, ragged men and well-kept alike, one behind the other. As each man reached the door, he turned to Collins or Muldoon and took a flyer. Stepping inside, the column separated into three distinct lines. Once a man reached the table of his choice, he took a ballot. Then, when he reached the ballot box he’d drop his selection into the container.

  Muldoon had to make sure the registered Democrats voted a straight party ticket. The ballot they picked up at each table had only the names of that party listed on it, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t scratch one off and write in a different name.

  “Hey!” Collins growled suddenly. “I see that, Clark.”

  Muldoon turned to see what was happening. A skinny, bespectacled man had tried to write in different names, but got caught. Muldoon recognized him. He was a clerk for a local coal distributor, but he wasn’t a Democrat, so he wasn’t Muldoon’s problem. Still, he thought, Collins was maybe going overboard a bit. The clerk shook visibly as the sergeant threatened him, then grabbed hold of his collar and dragged him to the Republican table for a fresh ballot. As he took the new ballot, Collins snatched the pencil from the man’s trembling fingers, bit it in two and spat the pieces into an empty box. Then, he pulled the man to the front of the line, guided his hand to the ballot box, and forced his shaking fingers to drop the unchanged ticket in the slot.

  “There! That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Collins snarled, an ugly grimace on his face. “And now, you can go shave off that mustache and vote again.”

  Muldoon wondered what he looked like when he stopped someone from changing a ballot, as he knew he’d be doing not once, but many times this day. He hoped he didn’t look like that. Suddenly, his attention shifted. He turned his head sharply, looking for the source of a snatch of conversation he’d just overheard. His gaze flicked over the faces in the line, settling at last on two men several steps away. The breeze happened to have blown his direction, sending their words toward him. As they drew closer, he could hear what they said.

  “… didn’t come home.”

  “That’s unusual. She seemed such a considerate child. But what of the companion? She didn’t return home, either?”

  “No. The Colonel is beside himself. Or so my Bess told me.”

  “I won’t believe it was foul play. Young Margaret was so sweet when she came into the shop that time. And she bought slippers… not one pair, but two. I remember, the first was pale blue, and the other was violet. She wanted those colors particular so as to match ribbons she’d brought with her.”

  Muldoon stepped between them. “When was she due home?”

  The two men stepped back at the intrusion. “Oh,” said the first man suddenly. “It’s Sergeant Muldoon! With the police.”

  “Aye,” Muldoon said. “That’d be me.”

  “So, your wanting to know… would it be official business?”

  “Aye, it would. I need to know when this young Miss Margaret was due home, and how she was getting there.”

  “She was coming in on the Atlantic and Great Western, as my wife Bess heard it. Coming from Dayton, on the main line. A carriage was waiting for her at the station on 27th Street, but she never got off. Waited ‘til the train was empty, so they say. But she wasn’t on it.”

  Muldoon leaned back on his heels. This “Miss Margaret” might not be his murder victim, but this was certainly the best lead to come his way.

  “When did she go missing?” he asked.

  “Yesterday evening, about seven o’clock, I suppose. That’s when the coachman returned home without her. Like to get his head cut off, so Bess told me.”

  Muldoon studied the man for a moment. He was a short fellow, in a cheap but well-made brown suit. Probably off the shelf. He looked respectable enough, a guy you could trust.

  “Your wife is a maid in this ‘Colonel’s’ house?”

  “Aye. That she is. My Bess is a right good worker. She used to be a seamstress, but her fingers get tied up a bit if she works too hard on it. So, the Colonel’s wife, she comes to the shop where Bess was working and she says to her, she does, ‘Why don’t you come and work for me?’ I guess she noticed how Bess’s fingers was hurting when she was putting them pins in. So, Bess, she says she would. And that’s how she come to work for the Colonel.”

  Muldoon turned to the other man. “And you’re a cobbler? You make shoes?”

  “I certainly do, and I’m good at it. Better than those new shoes you can get ready-made. I been making shoes my entire life. I learned it up, from apprentice to master. I’m a master now.” The second man looked challengingly at Muldoon. His shoes were a product Muldoon knew he couldn’t afford. Used were the best he could get, though he had great respect for the man and his dying craft.

  “What’s his name? The Colonel, I mean?” asked Muldoon, turning again to the first man.

  “Why, he’s Colonel Hamm. Lives up on 5th Avenue. He’s got one of them fine big houses.”

  Muldoon had heard of the man. Colonel Hamm was head of National New York Bank and Trust. Muldoon had been on 5th Avenue just once. It was a fabulous thoroughfare of mansions and money. He’d have to visit the Colonel with Detective Benson, it was more his kind of area. The men had moved beyond him, and he continued to direct others towa
rd the Democratic table where they could pick up their ballots. He scanned the crowd for pencils and shifting eyes. Really, he decided, this was a good job for a copper.

  CHAPTER 25

  April 22

  The

  New York Times sat in its usual place on the table. He knew Biggs would be irked, but he didn’t have time to wait for the man to read the paper. It wasn’t his, anyway. Mrs. Dunn continued to have it delivered even after her husband had died, though she didn’t read it herself. Or at least she said she didn’t. He wouldn’t be surprised if she took it to her own room at the end of the day and scanned it for interesting stories. Casper Biggs thought it was his right to read the paper first, since he was the oldest man in residence. Right now, Muldoon wanted to see the election results before heading uptown. He scanned the front page, and then flipped through until he found the article on page five. As he expected, Lawrence, Garvin, Daly, and Burrill each had an asterisk next to their names, indicating they’d won the election. All of them had over 9,000 votes, but Muldoon snorted to see the various numbers, ranging from 9,194 for Burrill to 9,344 for Lawrence. So much for biting pencils, he thought, recalling Collins’ antics the previous day. Each of the Republicans, he noticed, had only a little over 2,000 votes. It was a landslide for the Democrats. He folded the paper as neatly as he could and replaced it before heading for Police Headquarters. He really didn’t care about Biggs, but he’d keep the peace for Mrs. Dunn’s sake.

  A short time later, he hurried up the steps and crossed the large entry to the back hall and Detective Benson’s office. It would be best if the two went uptown together, he thought. He was out of his element when it came to Mrs. Astor’s “400” as they were called, the crème de la crème of New York City. But the detective wasn’t in any condition to accompany Muldoon. He lay on his floor fast asleep, the ravages of alcohol apparent on his face, deep rings around his eyes, a slight green tinge to his cheeks. Muldoon shook his head with irritation. He’d have to do it himself. There wasn’t much time left. If the Captain got wind of the missing girl, Margaret Hamm, the case would be handed over to his ‘pet,’ Detective Graham. Right now, Colonel Hamm’s reluctance to go to the police worked to his advantage. He suspected the Colonel’s motivations had more to do with having his dirty laundry aired in the press.

  He quickly scratched out a note to Benson, informing him of the new development. “The case just might take me out of the City,” he warned. “If it does, cover for me if you can. I’ll dispatch another note if necessary.”

  He stopped at the desk on his way out. Sergeant Foley was doing his report, figuring last-minute changes in the daily assignments.

  “Hello, Tim,” said Muldoon, running his hand through his hair.

  “Muldoon,” said Foley without glancing up. “You off on something for Benson?”

  “Aye,” Muldoon said. “He’s got a new lead he needs me to look into. It might take me a couple of days. So, don’t expect me in tomorrow. Maybe not even the next day. But if it takes longer, I’ll wire Benson and let him know. Then he’ll fill you in.”

  “Where you going?”

  “I don’t rightly know yet.”

  Foley scribbled something next to Muldoon’s name. “Got you covered, boy-oh. Now take off, before the Cap’n comes down and sees you. Then you’ll never get out of here.”

  “I’m going,” Muldoon said. The enmity between him and Hayle was well known by now. With a sardonic salute, he turned and strode out the door. He grabbed a streetcar at the closest stop and headed toward 5th Avenue. He rode silently, anticipating the coming meeting with Colonel Hamm. He expected the man would be at home rather than at the bank. If he had a missing kid, he thought, he’d be at home with his wife and family. Or out on the streets looking for her. But then again, Muldoon wasn’t a bank executive.

  The horse-drawn streetcar left Bowery and plodded along the iron tracks that led up 4th Avenue. He leapt off at 32nd and walked the long block over to 5th Avenue. As he neared, he caught site of the mansion. The big box-shaped house looked more like a government building than a private home. Its many windows stared down at the street from three stories and an attic. It was red brick, with Greek columns next to the door, and a triangular roof over the porch. It looked like a monstrosity to him, a kind of combination of Greek and Federal style architecture.

  He felt awkward in his policeman’s uniform as he walked up to the front door. But he was there to see the master of the house, not the kitchen staff. Dredging up confidence, he rapped on the door. He heard the tapping of heeled shoes as somebody neared the door. A second later, a pert little face peered up at him. She wore the traditional black and white maid’s dress and apron.

  “Yes, sir?” the woman asked. She took in his uniform. “Oh, are you here about Miss Margaret?” Her perfect English was studied, carefully practiced. She was clearly Irish, but worked hard at her acquired Native accent.

  “Aye, that I am,” Muldoon said.

  The maid stepped aside so he could come in. He doffed his hat respectfully.

  “If you’ll follow me, you can wait in the drawing room.”

  “Thank you, Miss,” he said, following her across the large entry and through a door on the right. She left him there and he turned to look at the room, hoping to get a gauge on the man who lived here. The place was immaculate, the type of room he’d only seen in pictures. Muted coral paper with thin stripes and tiny heart-shaped flowers adorned the walls. The white cornice contrasted with the pale coral ceiling. Deep red, intricately designed Oriental carpets covered the floor. A marble fireplace dominated one wall, a small fire burning on the grate. He marveled at the wealth that would allow someone to keep a fire burning in an empty room of this size.

  Two sets of French doors led out to a garden patio. They were closed this time of year. But around them, velvet curtains, red to match the rugs, were open to let in the feeble morning light. The ever-present rain had started again and spattered against the window. Between the doors, an ornate grandfather clock stood sentinel. Two wing-back chairs skirted the fireplace, providing a warm, cozy place to read. He imagined sitting in the bigger of the two, the red chair, and putting his feet up on the little footstool. The other chair was a pale coral, smaller, feminine. Seats for the Mister and Missus. But the fabric was little worn, so the set-up was mostly for show, he gathered.

  Before the grouping by the fireplace, a second set of furniture was carefully arranged. Here, there was a delicate settee and two fine chairs arranged around a smaller Oriental rug, this one in coral tones to match the fabric of the chairs. A small round table stood beside the settee, draped with a floral tablecloth and topped with an expensive vase filled with huge blooming flowers. Needlepoint pillows decorated each of the seats in the room. The daintiness of the furnishings spoke of a woman’s touch. A slight stain on one showed this was the setting most used.

  Muldoon didn’t sit, afraid to break the delicate chair legs with his weight. So, he stood and waited. He moved to the fireplace and gazed into the flame. But when he saw burning houses, he turned away. It was his demon… those burning houses of Pensacola. He paced the room, returning periodically to the fire’s warmth.

  Nearly forty-five minutes passed before the Colonel entered the room. He was a tall, aristocratic man, nearly six feet in height and razor-thin, a pointed goatee dignifying his chin. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Muldoon in front of his fire, but seemed to regain his composure almost as quickly as he’d lost it. Muldoon narrowed his eyes. Why had the man seemed surprised to see him? Hadn’t the maid gone to get him? Or was he hiding something?

  “What can I do for you?” The Colonel asked a bit gruffly.

  “I’m from the Metropolitan Police,” Muldoon began, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He recognized this man. He had been at Harry Hill’s. He was the man with the top hat. And he’d been at the Quaker Meeting House, Muldoon was nearly positive. Had he been sitting just to the left of the speakers? He’d been in profile, an earnest
expression on his face as the men spoke their revolting words.

  “So I can see,” the Colonel said, looking pointedly at Muldoon’s uniform. “But what are you doing here? I certainly didn’t make any reports.”

  “No,” Muldoon said. “But I’ve had a report nonetheless. It’s about your daughter.”

  “My daughter?” The Colonel strode toward Muldoon and paused just inches away. Challenging. Authoritarian. Military.

  Muldoon stood his ground. The man had inadvertently put him at his ease. He knew how to handle a military man. And even though only a sergeant, he was suddenly on equal footing with the Colonel. He was the one with the information Colonel Hamm needed.

  “It’s come to my attention your daughter is missing, that she was expected two days ago off the New York & Atlantic, but she wasn’t on the train.”

  “How did you come by that information?” the Colonel asked.

  Muldoon raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  “Yes, that’s true,” the Colonel affirmed, turning slightly away. “But she sent a message. It was delivered by the porter.”

  “And that message was… ”

  “That she’d decided to stay for a time.”

  “The message was written in her own hand?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean… I don’t know. You’d have to ask her sister, or her step-mother.”

  Muldoon was taken aback. This man had raised a daughter and didn’t even recognize her handwriting? Colonel Hamm turned to the fire and traced a finger across the big mirror above the mantle. Muldoon shook his head slightly. Some servant would have to come back in here and wipe away all sign of the smudge the man left behind. But, in the small action, he could see the Colonel’s worry.