Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  He doesn’t have one.

  Someone has used a Remington pump-action shotgun to great effect. The nose is gone and so are both eyes. The rest of the face is a pulp of splintered bone and raw meat.

  The medical examiner estimates that the victim has been dead two to four hours. He deems the shooting too vicious for it to have been professional. The killer’s blowing the man’s face away gives the crime a touch of the personal.

  The dead man is carrying no formal identification. His wallet and billfold are gone. But his car and clothes indicate wealth. One of the uniforms suggests organized crime, but the detective on the scene nixes that. The Packard is not the car of mobsters. It’s grand, all right, but it moves too slowly. No, this guy wasn’t a mobster. Just some poor rich slob who got himself into trouble, maybe with an angry husband who paid someone to off him.

  The hat’s inner band contains the initials E.A.P. A check of the car registration shows it to belong to one Katherine Goodfellowe. The dead man is tentatively identified as Eric Alan Powell, her husband of eighteen months.

  The widow is devastated, but she’s in for more bad news.

  A check into Powell’s background unearths a wanted person ad in Chicago for marriage fraud. Investigators also turn up rumors about gambling debts. They learn that Powell was a familiar face in the demimonde of secret, affluent gamblers. He reportedly owed fifty to a hundred thousand dollars. Investigators theorize that Powell made the fatal mistake of crossing a loan shark. They begin to push the loan shark theory hot and heavy, but soon run into trouble. No one is willing to admit to having lent Powell money. This isn’t surprising, of course. No one wants to concede anything self-incriminating. But not even the snitches the cops depend on can supply a single name or firm figure to the amount of money Powell supposedly owed.

  They do, however, turn up something else.

  Word has it that Powell had a terrible argument with his best friend, a fellow by the name of Bobby Kelly. Powell and Kelly had been pals since childhood. Kelly is a convicted thief, albeit a small-time one. The argument is said to have been bitter and violent, and it took place only three days before the shooting.

  Police reconstruct the crime as follows: The two men meet to supposedly work out their differences. They’re sitting talking in Powell’s car when Kelly makes an excuse to get out. Maybe he says he has to take a leak. He walks off, does his thing. He comes back and sees Powell relaxing behind the wheel, taking a smoke. Something clicks in Kelly’s head—or maybe this has been his plan all along. He takes out his shooter and holds it down low. He approaches the car and signals for Powell to roll down the window. Powell does and Kelly gives it to him—right in the kisser.

  Police fan out, searching high and low for Bobby Kelly, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  Despite all the rumors and information unearthed about Powell, no other viable suspects are developed. The investigation stalls, and then cranks to a halt. No one is ever arrested.

  Good story. Did it have anything to do with Esther? Or her affair with Sexton Whitfield? Was there a connection between Whitfield, Powell and Kelly? Or was I just mixing apples with oranges?

  The same photo of Powell accompanied each article. He sat cross-legged on a wooden chair next to a small writing desk in a gaudily furnished room, full of stuffed chairs with plaid throws and mincing tables with lace doilies. The gas lamp on the wall threw odd shadows, but you could see his face clearly enough, perceive the deep-set dark eyes, the smooth chin and arched cheekbones.

  One small line in a Times report especially caught my eye. An unnamed source was quoted as having told police that he’d seen Kelly a week prior to Powell’s death and that Kelly had hinted he was on to “something big.” I found this interesting, but according to the news reports, investigators failed to find any use for this information.

  Was Kelly’s “something big” the Goodfellowe heist?

  Police suspected that Esther’s disappearance was tied to the heist because of the proximity of the two incidents. Couldn’t the same logic be applied to Powell’s death? Investigators had never confirmed the motive behind his murder. Could it have been related to the heist?

  The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed.

  Had he somehow fallen victim to the scheme? Perhaps stumbled upon it and had to be silenced? Or might he have been a knowing accomplice? Given the fact that Powell’s circle of acquaintances had apparently included criminal elements, and that his best friend and suspected murderer was a thief, it seemed much more likely that Powell’s involvement would’ve been active rather than accidental. Was Powell’s death the result of a falling out among thieves? If so, then what, if anything, did Esther have to do with it?

  Chapter 42

  I needed to talk to Katherine Goodfellowe again, but instinct said to wait. I had to be prepared before seeing her. I had to have as much information as possible.

  Despite all the hoopla and hype as the hunt for Kelly heated up, the articles contained very little real information beyond the fact that Powell and Kelly had been childhood friends. They did mention, however, that Kelly had an older sister. Her name was Katie Jones and she was adamant about her brother’s innocence.

  She lived in a five-flight walkup on Larchmont Avenue in the Bronx. The next day, I climbed the stairs to a dusky hallway, located Apartment 29 and rang the bell. A petite blonde answered. She opened the door without even asking me to identify myself. Amazing. In a city with as much crime as New York City, most people, not just women, exercise caution before opening the door to the unknown. Yet here she was, looking at me with open curiosity.

  But all that changed seconds later.

  When I identified myself and explained that I wanted to ask about her brother, her face closed and she nearly slammed the door shut. I put a hand out to stop her.

  “Please. I’m not here to write anything bad about him.”

  She looked me up and down. “What’s a spade doing writing anything about him at all?”

  “I’m actually doing a piece on Esther Sue Todd.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Name doesn’t sound familiar? About three years ago, she disappeared.”

  “Yeah? And what’s that got to do with Bobby?”

  “Don’t know that it does. But it might.”

  For a moment, perplexity overtook suspicion, but then suspicion surged back.

  “You trying to make Bobby responsible for something else that happened?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You reporters—you disgust me.” She made to swing the door shut.

  “Listen, I’m giving you a chance, fair and square, to set the record straight. Nobody else did that before, did they?”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “What paper did you say you were working for? I ain’t never heard of no Negro reporters.”

  “I work for a colored paper. The Harlem Chronicle.”

  “Never heard of it. Who reads it?”

  “Quite a few people.”

  “Folks that matter?”

  “White folks, you mean?”

  “Ain’t that the only kind worth mentioning?”

  I made an effort to check my temper. “All I can say is this: Once something gets into print, good or bad, it has a way of finding readers, and influencing belief. It doesn’t always matter whether the folks who did the writing were black or white. What does matter is that it gets written down in black and white.”

  She gave me two seconds of cool appraisal. Then she stepped back and gestured for me to enter.

  I walked into a small, square vestibule with a chipped green-and-white-checked tile floor, dingy mint green wallpaper and a painted tin ceiling. Nothing of Christmas cheer here. A beat-up table with playing cards sat to one side. There was a chair, too, and a pencil and pad. The setup reminded me of a hotel. One article had mentioned that Katie Jones worked at the Sunset Arms, a small lower East Side establishment that catered to the one-hour trade. She led me to a tiny living room. It was boxy, with che
ap furniture and a scratched dirty wood floor.

  I smelled the cat before I saw it. I like cats, but this one made me nervous. Torn ear, one eye sealed shut with dried yellow pus, the other a baleful green. Tattered dirty white fur and about the size of a small terrier.

  The cat was taking up the one halfway comfortable looking seat in the room and Jones shooed the animal away. The beast sprang down with an angry yowl. Jones kicked it. The cat hissed and raised a paw to strike. Jones gave the animal a look that would’ve frozen a snake. The cat dropped its paw, flicked its tail with what dignity it could muster and stalked out. At the door, it paused, favored each of us with one evil last look and then exited.

  “Don’t take Lucifer seriously,” Jones said.

  “Lucifer? His name is Lucifer?”

  “It’s a she.”

  Right.

  She sat in Lucifer’s chair and motioned for me to take a seat on the sofa. The sofa was covered with animal hair. It was also low and slumped in the middle. I perched on the edge, knowing that if I relaxed and slid backward I’d have a heck of a time getting up.

  “Now you say you’re writing about somebody else—not Bobby?”

  “I’m working on a column about a woman named Esther Todd. She was a pianist, a protégée of Mrs. Katherine Goodfellowe. I was wondering if your brother knew her.”

  “I don’t know if he did or didn’t.”

  “You never heard him mention her name?”

  “She a spade?”

  “Yes,” I said, bristling but trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. “She’s a dark-skinned individual.”

  Jones shook her head. “My brother don’t have no truck with spades. Me, I ain’t got nothing against you people. But my brother can’t stand your kind.”

  That might’ve been true. He might’ve avoided blacks in the light of day. But that didn’t mean he avoided them under cover of night.

  “Did Mr. Powell or your brother ever speak of a man named Sexton Whitfield?”

  “Nope. Who is he?”

  “Never mind. Do you have a picture of him?”

  “My brother? Wait a minute.”

  The only picture I’d seen of Bobby Kelly was a newspaper photo at the library. That photo was grainy and shadowed. I hoped Jones’s photo would be of better quality. I also hoped that by asking her for it and showing a bit of sympathetic interest, I’d soften her up.

  She was back in a minute. The photo was no bigger than the palm of my hand, but it was clear and crisp. Bobby Kelly was in his early thirties, but had a baby face, dark curly hair, broad shoulders and the face of a youngster, with a dimpled chin.

  “Nice looking,” I said and handed back the photo.

  “Thanks. I keep thinking about him out there alone, scared. Too scared to even call me.”

  “He got anybody other than you?”

  She shook her head, gazed at the photograph for a moment, and then eyed me. “You one of them people say my brother had something to do with Eric’s death?”

  “Did he?”

  “’Course not. Bobby and Eric were friends from way back. We grew up together. Bobby worshipped Eric. Followed him around like a puppy. Did everything Eric ever told him to do.”

  She dropped the photo on the coffee table and grabbed up her pack of cigarettes. “One time, Eric stole a box of cigs from Jimmy Lean’s grocery store. He took Bobby behind the woodshed to smoke them. Bobby had asthma. He knew he shouldna been smoking. Eric knew it too, but it didn’t matter.”

  She lit herself a cigarette, shook out the match and inhaled deeply. “Bobby got real sick. Had to be taken to the hospital. Cops showed up, wanted to know where they got those cigarettes. Eric must’ve told Bobby to lie and Bobby did. Said he took him. Bobby was only nine. Sheriff knew he was lying, but he couldn’t do nothing. So they both got off scot-free. Bobby hurt Eric? Hmph, he wouldna never laid a hand on him. Woulda died for him first.”

  She exhaled a stream of smoke. “The cops keep asking me if I know where he is—like I’d really tell if I did.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout where he is. I just hope he stays there till they find out who did it. Or at least, till they know he didn’t.”

  “Did Bobby ever tell you about Eric having enemies?”

  She gave a short humorless laugh. “He didn’t have to. Everybody knew about Eric, everybody but that high-sidity wife of his. I told Bobby to get away from Eric. I warned him, ‘Eric’s dangerous. He’s crossed the wrong people.’ But Bobby wouldn’t listen. And when Eric got blown away, some folks made sure Bobby got the blame.”

  “You’re saying it was a setup?”

  “I know you don’t believe me. Nobody does.” She paused. “Well, one person did. Or made out like he did. But maybe, he was lying, too. He came here, just like you, with promises about clearing Bobby’s name. Got me to talk to him. Then he left and never looked back.”

  I frowned. “Who was this?”

  She shrugged. “Some writer. Not like you, though.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He was a writer, not a reporter.” She tapped her foot. “Look, I think this was a bad idea talking to you.”

  “Could you give me his name, the writer?”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe we can put our heads together. Come up with something.”

  She was suspicious, but then shrugged. “Fine. I think I got his card somewhere. You stay right here. Don’t start snooping.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  I put my steno book away and she left the room. The minute she walked out, Lucifer skulked back in. Made me wonder whether the cat had been lurking just outside the door. The beast saw me and stopped in its tracks. I didn’t move, just watched it. The cat bared its two little fangs, gave a hiss and walked in an arc around me toward the chair.

  “Coward,” I said.

  Lucifer gave me one of her evil looks. I thumbed my nose at her, no longer impressed. Jones returned and handed me a little white calling card.

  “Tillman Carter,” the card said. “Writer.” There was a phone number.

  Carter. The name rang a bell.

  “What exactly did he want to talk to you about?”

  “Said he was writing a book. He wasn’t really interested in Bobby, though. It was Bobby’s relationship with Eric. He said he was talking to a lot of people who’d known Eric or handled the case: the cops, the medical examiner. I don’t think he got to talk to Mrs. Goodfellowe. He wanted to, but she turned him down flat.”

  But he had spoken to her. I remembered now. She’d mentioned him. He’d made charges, she said. Asked questions—apparently, the kind she found highly insulting.

  “Anyway, he’s the only one who said he didn’t believe Bobby did it.”

  “Did he say why?”

  She shook her head. “All I know is, he said he’d get back to me and never did.”

  “You didn’t try to contact him?”

  “I tried to put a call through, but the operator said the number had been changed and she couldn’t give me the new one. For all I know, he could’ve been lying about everything—just like you.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I think you should go now.”

  I thought so, too.

  I was halfway down the stairs when I heard her call me. I looked back over my shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  She was standing at the top of the stairs. “If you find this Carter fellow, would you ask him why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why he gave me hope, and then took it away.”

  Chapter 43

  Was there a connection between the Powell-Kelly case and the heist or Esther’s disappearance? I still didn’t know after talking to Katie Jones. Was I barking up the wrong tree again? For some reason, I sensed a tie. But I couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Who was Tillman Carter? Had he just been feeding Kelly’s sister a line when he said he believed in Kelly’s innocence? Or had he actually found a ne
w angle on the Powell killing? And, by extension, the heist and the Todd kidnapping? Maybe his reasoning had nothing to do with Esther’s case, but suppose it did?

  The Gotham High Bookstore on 48th Street and Sixth Avenue had one of the most comprehensive book collections in Manhattan. I went there right after seeing Katie Jones.

  A salesgirl who looked as though she couldn’t have been more than fifteen was standing behind the information counter. When I asked her where I might find the works of Tillman Carter, she pointed to the back of the store, the psychology section.

  “He’s a doctor?”

  “No, I don’t think so. An alienist is what they call him. You know, someone who studies criminals. Tries to figure out how they think.”

  Interesting. I followed the girl’s pointing finger and headed to the rear of the store. I walked past the travel section, the true crime section, the zoology and cookbook sections, to arrive at the psychology area. It wasn’t big, so it was easy to find Tillman Carter’s works. I took down a copy of each one and went to a small, nearby table.

  Carter had three titles—The Delinquent Son, The Criminal Family and Criminal Friendships. Slim volumes with nice titles, surprisingly poetic for books about killers, thieves and con artists of the worst kind. Carter had a solid, straightforward style of writing, too. In the preface to Delinquent Son, Carter said he believed society could reduce crime through prevention if it only understood what made people “turn bad” to begin with. He also thought we could predict who was likely to react in a criminal manner, what kinds of personalities indulged in crime once and which tended to be repeaters—repeat offenders, he called them. Interesting term.

  What interested me most about Carter’s books, though, was the frontispiece. I was looking for the book Katie Jones said Carter told her he was writing when he came to see her. When had that visit taken place? These three books were done earlier. Delinquent Son came out in 1919, Criminal Family in 1921 and Criminal Friendships in 1923. The books appeared every two years, like clockwork. Criminal Friendships could’ve been the book Katie Jones was talking about, but I doubted it. The timing was too close. Powell died in October of ‘23. It was highly unlikely that Carter would’ve been able to do research, finish writing the book and have the publisher put it out within two months. Of course, there was an easy way to check. See if Criminal Friendships mentioned the Powell killing.