“Who… what monster,” he amended, “could have done that to that beautiful girl?”
Muldoon knew he referred not just to her death, but also to her shaved head. Stubbles of hair had appeared on her scalp, an odd remnant of life. Gamble hadn’t pulled the sheet any lower, didn’t share with him the awful bruising on her abdomen. The bald head was shock enough.
“Catch him, Sergeant. Catch her killer.”
“I intend to,” Muldoon said. Not just for the young woman laid out on the slab, but also for Kelly McAllister, whose hanging was just days away now. If he couldn’t connect the two cases, and bring them to a quick conclusion, the boy would hang.
Muldoon accompanied Wannamaker to the Hamm mansion on 5th Avenue. This ride was different from the last time he’d traveled there. A cab carried them through the streets.
“I… I’ll tell them,” the attorney said. “It’s my responsibility.”
Muldoon nodded. It was preferable that way. He’d rather not bear bad news of that sort. It would be hard enough just being the attendant policeman. He prepared himself for the episode as best he could.
The two were ushered into the house quickly, the tall, gaunt man in expensively tailored attire followed closely by Muldoon. They waited together in the drawing room. The lawyer seemed to draw comfort from him. Within moments, Colonel Hamm entered the room, trailed by his wife. He stopped abruptly at the sight of them. His gaze shifted from one to the other, knowing the news was bad.
“Elizabeth, leave the room,” the Colonel said.
“No! She’s my daughter, too.”
It was the first time Muldoon had seen her. She was a petite woman with palest blonde hair, strikingly pretty, with even features, full lips trembling. She was much younger than the Colonel, perhaps in her later thirties.
She was the stepmother, he knew. But perhaps she had loved the girl. Somewhere in the house, there was another daughter, the product of this marriage, and an infant son.
“Richard,” Wannamaker began. “I… ” He glanced at Muldoon, as if for support. “We’ve brought terrible news. It appears… I mean… I’ve been to the… ”
The man was floundering. Muldoon rescued him. “I’m sorry, sir. Madam. Your daughter, Margaret Hamm, is dead. She’s been murdered.” He didn’t really like to say it that way, but he knew it was best said quickly.
Mrs. Hamm slumped against her husband. The Colonel wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.
“You’re certain?” the Colonel asked as he helped his wife to the settee, settled her there, and turned to the bell pull to order her a tisane. It was a curious re-enactment of the scene just a day before.
“I’ve been there… to the… ” Mr. Wannamaker glanced pointedly at Elizabeth Hamm. “Yes, it’s Margaret. I’ve identified her this morning.”
The Colonel nodded, and then turned to Muldoon. “Then, Sergeant, I expect you to do your best to apprehend the beast.”
Muldoon nodded. “And, I’m sorry, but I have some questions I must ask.”
“Of course,” the Colonel said, and took a seat next to his wife. Mr. Wannamaker perched at the end of a chair across from the other two. He accepted a cup from his sister-in-law after the maid brought in a refreshment tray and set it in front of Mrs. Hamm. She looked uncertainly at Muldoon. He shook his head, just the smallest movement. She gave him a grateful smile and poured her own with shaking hands.
“The most pressing question I must ask,” Muldoon began, “is the whereabouts of your manservant. The footman who went to Dayton not two weeks ago.”
The Colonel looked at Muldoon, confusion in his eyes. “I didn’t send a footman.”
Mrs. Hamm placed her hand on the Colonel’s arm, and closed her eyes as if in pain. “That would be Martin.”
“Martin?” Muldoon asked.
“Yes,” the Colonel said. “He left my employ two weeks ago.”
“Left?”
“He was let go. His work… left something to be desired.”
“So, he may have held a grudge against the family.”
“Against me, you mean. I would say that’s likely. He didn’t leave under the best of circumstances. And I didn’t give him a recommendation.” Muldoon knew what that meant to a man in Martin’s circumstances. He wouldn’t work again. He had been turned out on the streets. He almost asked about the offense, but he noticed Mrs. Hamm’s hand, the one on the Colonel’s arm, as her fingers tightened in alarm. He glanced up at her eyes and saw the concern. There was definitely something there. He’d have to get at it a different way.
“I’ll need to speak to the servants,” Muldoon said. “And I’d like a list of your daughter’s friends.”
“Her friends?” Mrs. Hamm asked, that fear again in her eyes.
“No,” the Colonel said. “I cannot allow that. The servants, of course. You can speak to them. I’ll arrange it with the butler. If you come back later, you can see Burnes. He’ll help you with the staff. As for her friends, I’m afraid I can’t allow that. Their fathers wouldn’t allow it, either.”
“Colonel,” Muldoon said. “We’re talking about your daughter. I need to speak to any possible witnesses.”
“Those girls cannot have been witness to such a horrible deed!” The Colonel slammed his hand down on his knee. The slap echoed through the room. Mrs. Hamm jerked back, then quickly concealed her sudden fear. Muldoon raised an eyebrow. The woman had been hit. Had the children? Had the Colonel created the bruises across his daughter’s abdomen? But, certainly not those on Schneider. He appraised the man’s build. Not so gaunt as his brother-in-law, yet nowhere near the bulk of Muldoon.
“The girls may have some knowledge, however slight, that may help shed light on the case. Something even they don’t realize is important,” Muldoon said.
“No.” The answer was emphatic.
A tiny movement at the door caught Muldoon’s eye. At first, he ignored it, not wanting to see his specter, but his eyes flicked toward it. The door slid silently shut. Perhaps a servant listening in, he thought. Not one of his silent soldiers.
“I’ll send a man later to question the servants,” Muldoon said, giving in to the Colonel’s steadfast position. “May I speak to your other daughter?”
“No,” Mrs. Hamm said. “I won’t have her disturbed. She’s only ten… and this will be hard enough on the child.”
Muldoon nodded. He hadn’t expected that interview, considering the Colonel’s attitude about the friends.
“And now, Sergeant. I believe we’ve answered enough questions. Send your man. If he calls at the back door, the staff will be expecting him.”
Muldoon put away his little notebook and stubby pencil. He wasn’t sure where the new information was taking him. He’d have to study it a bit further. “Thank you, Sirs, Madam,” Muldoon said, bowed slightly, and took his leave, shutting the parlor door behind him.
As he retreated through the house, a slight sound from the staircase drew his attention.
“Sir… ” There it was again, the tiniest little whisper. He turned aside from his direct route to the door and paused near the banister. A little girl, perhaps ten years old, stood a few steps above him. Tears marked her face. He smiled at her reassuringly.
“You must be Miss Melanie,” he said. “Your aunt told me you’re Miss Margaret’s sister?”
“Yes, I am,” the girl said. She was a pretty little thing. Though only half-sibling, she was a shadow of her elder sister. Muldoon could see the likeness. That would be hard for the Colonel and his wife in the years to come, he thought. Her appearance would bring memories of the promising young life they’d lost.
“Her friend is Alva,” the girl said.
“Alva?”
“Yes… oh! Smith, Alva Smith. It’s unfair Papa wouldn’t tell you. She was Margaret’s best friend. If she can tell you something… I mean, if she can help… then you should know.”
“Thank you. I’m certain she can help. But I don’t think her father will let me spe
ak with her.”
“You can find her at the track. She goes on Saturdays. I know her papa doesn’t like it, but she does what she wants. They say she’s a woman of her own mind… well, anyway, Margaret always said so.”
“And how will I know when I see her?” Muldoon asked.
“Oh, ask any of the boys,” she waved her hand in the air. “They all know her.”
Muldoon smiled at the child’s naiveté. The little girl’s voice talked about adult things, but didn’t fully realize that Miss Smith was, perhaps, a bit scandalous.
“Thank you,” Muldoon said.
“Oh, but don’t go in that!” she exclaimed, then covered her mouth. She glanced about quickly, as if hoping no one had heard. She continued quietly, “You need to wear your very best clothes. You’ll be quite dashing. And then she’ll talk to you. I don’t think she would if you only wear your policeman’s clothes.”
“Thank you for the hint,” he said, and squeezed her hand lightly as he noted the tears welling up again in her eyes. She squeezed back, then turned and ran lightly up the stairs.
Outside on the step, he wrote again in his little notebook. Who was Alva Smith, he wondered?
CHAPTER 31
Benson
was in his office when Muldoon got to Police Headquarters. Notebooks, sketches, and descriptions of missing property, and lists of possible suspects lay before him on his desk.
“It looks like you’re making some progress,” Muldoon said as he sat down.
“Yes. It’s coming together quite well.” Benson leaned back in his chair and pushed aside his work for the moment. “How is it going for you? Did you find anything in Dayton?”
“Aye,” Muldoon said, a cheerless tone in his voice. “It was her. Margaret Hamm.”
“Then we’ve got to go to the Captain. Don’t be surprised if he pulls us off this one… ”
They climbed the stairs to the Captain’s office. Half an hour passed before he called them in. Muldoon was sure he kept them waiting out of spite. Detective Graham lounged in his chair in front the big desk. Benson slid onto the other chair, and Muldoon stood just inside the door, hat in hand.
“So?” Captain Hayle leaned forward in his chair and glowered at them as if at intruders. “Have you solved the burglaries? Or is it the dead woman. Or one of the other unsolved cases piling up in your office?”
“I… I’m making good progress, Captain. But it’s about the woman. I’ve learned her identity,” Benson said.
Muldoon clenched his jaw. He couldn’t appreciate the way Benson got credit for his discoveries. But he liked the guy, and working with the detective got him off the beat.
“So?” the Captain asked.
“She’s Margaret Hamm,” Benson said. “The daughter of Colonel Hamm. Of Fifth Avenue.”
“You’re certain of this?” Captain Hayle straightened sharply.
Benson looked up at Muldoon. He took the cue.
“Aye, Sir. The body’s been identified by the Colonel’s brother-in-law, one Mr. Wannamaker… of Dayton, New York.”
A slow smile curved across the Captain’s face. “And you’ve interviewed these men?”
“I have.”
“Good,” Captain Hayle said. “Carry on.”
“This is a case I would be interested in!” Graham leaned forward in his chair and tapped the desktop with his index finger. “I have a much better reputation for closing cases.”
“Perhaps. But I would prefer these two continue their investigation.” Captain Hayle leaned back in his chair, elbows bent, with fingertips together to form a steeple. The oddly benevolent smile didn’t reach his hard eyes. “You’re dismissed.”
They stepped into the hall. Muldoon pulled the door behind him with a click. “What was that all about?”
“He expects us to fail.” Benson glared back at the closed door.
“Why? With such a prominent family… why would he want us to fail?”
“Exactly for that reason,” Benson said. “Because then he would have reason to fire us… Boss Tweed be damned.”
“I’m not gonna let him do that,” Muldoon said. “I’m sending Sergeant O’Malley to question the staff. And we need to find that footman. He brought the girl back to New York, so he’s got to be somewhere in town.”
CHAPTER 32
Muldoon
pushed his way through the throngs of people at the racetrack. He’d changed into his new suit, the one he’d bought with his wrestling money. Ready-made was his first choice. It was cheaper to get clothes off the shelf, but it was hard to find his size. He’d paid well to get a tailor-made suit, and lucked out when the second shop he’d walked into had a suit already made. The original buyer had changed his mind, and all it had needed was taking in around the middle. The suit was a soft gray-black with a top hat to match. He chose a polished maple walking stick with a gold knob at the top. It was relatively simple, he didn’t go in for ostentation. But he knew he looked as fashionable as any other gentleman who strolled through the stands.
He didn’t stop at the windows, but moved on past. He wasn’t a betting man, and didn’t feel the pull of excitement at the thought of winning a wager. The thrill of gambling paled next to the exhilaration of actually participating in an event. Let others lay bets, but he would take part in the action. He tore his gaze away from a soldier leaning in at the window. He couldn’t be Paddy Ryan, but a specter haunting him even here. His heart beat rapidly, and he could hear the rush of blood in his ears. Panic rose, and he felt the urge to run, as he did so many nights. Run from the sight of bloodied, half-gone men, arms or legs dangling… or missing altogether. And his friend, missing among them, yet haunting him still.
He paused where he stood, in the center of the wide hall, and drew in a deep breath. He held it as gambling men shoved past him on their way to or from the windows. And then he started again, his emotions under the taut veneer of control that filled his waking hours.
Somewhere, Alva Smith, a woman he didn’t know and couldn’t picture, sat hidden in the crowd. His gaze slid past living folk, and occasional others. He turned his mind to the girl. It would help if he had an idea of what she looked like. If he followed the society pages he would probably have recognized her. But he didn’t, so he wandered aimlessly through the multitudes, looking for a brash young woman surrounded by men. The problem was that at the track, most women fit that description.
And then he saw her, or at least he thought he did. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she had an air about her, one that attracted the men… almost a devil-may-care kind of attitude. She lounged gracefully in a private box, delicate opera glasses pinned to her blouse. She was a sight, really, in a pale blue grosgrain walking dress and a royal velvet casaque. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant coiffure, royal blue ribbons woven throughout. She wore a tiny cap, tilted forward at a saucy angle. Above her head, she twirled a parasol, oblivious of frowns from behind her. He judged her to be eighteen or so.
He made his way down the steps toward her. As he came closer, he realized her features were more striking than he had at first given credit. Her eyebrows were finely arched over flashing eyes. Her nose was perhaps a bit too small, and her lower lip rather pouty. But it was her zealousness that shone like a star, and attracted the various men and youths gathered about her. She drank it in like sustenance. At one and the same time, Muldoon was drawn, and repelled.
“Miss Smith?” he asked as he neared.
She glanced up at him, then turned in her seat, sudden interest reflected in her eyes. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“No, Miss.”
“Good! Then it shall be all the more delicious finding out who you are.”
He was a bit put off by her forward remarks. He wasn’t used to a woman quite like this. At least, not one who called herself a lady.
She stood up and moved away from her companions as if they no longer existed for her. One young man made a move to follow her, but Muldoon stopped him with a
look. Cowed, the man sat again, grumbling loudly. The others jostled him good naturedly, but they all watched enviously as she mounted the steps to Muldoon’s side. He turned to walk with her.
“Tell me,” she said. “What is your name?” She tilted her head and gazed up at him through the corners of her eyes.
“William Muldoon.”
“Muldoon… ” she said, tasting the name in her mouth. “I rather fancy that. It’s not a name I’ve heard before. Is it Irish?”
“Aye, Miss Smith,” he said.
She laughed, a low tinkling sound, and glanced sidelong at him through lowered lashes.
“You’re not concerned about your race, then?” Muldoon asked, and looked back toward the track where high-bred thoroughbreds paraded the field.
“No,” she said. “It’s just a passing fancy. I come here, because my father says I shouldn’t.”
He could hear a slight southern twang in her voice, but there was something else too, as though she had spent years in another country. It added an element of excitement to her that he hadn’t ever felt before. His pulse quickened, and he struggled to control it. This was definitely a woman he could not have.
“Why have you sought me?” she asked suddenly and turned to face him. She placed a gloved hand against his chest.
He took her hand away, afraid she would feel the rapid beating of his heart. He tucked her arm into the crook of his own. Drawing her beside him again, he continued walking.
“I need some information, and I believe you may be able to provide that to me.”
“I see,” she began. “You’re an investigator. This must be about poor Margaret.” She raised a finger and barely touched the corner of her eye to wipe away the tiniest tear. At first, he thought it was for show, but the rapid changes in her expression told him that she fought hard to hold back the flood that threatened. Muldoon didn’t speak again, but waited for her.
“And what is it that you need from me,” she whispered at last.
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