The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1)

by N. S. Wikarski

  “I did, but if I might direct your attention to the window, you’ll notice that there’s a veritable downpour going on.”

  Glancing imperiously out the window, the grand dame declined to comment further on the state of the weather. She changed the subject. “What are you here for?”

  “Madame, that’s rather a personal question!” Freddie was shocked at her impertinence until he realized that the woman was less interested in the details of his malady than in having a segue to a discussion of her own.

  She didn’t wait for a further response before forging ahead. “I’m here for my weak nerves.”

  “Nerves?” Freddie was aghast. To himself he mumbled, “I wouldn’t have thought your nerves needed fortifying!”

  “Yes, that’s it. Nerves. The doctor gives me a tonic that does the trick every time.”

  “Alcohol, I’ll bet,” Freddie muttered, again under his breath.

  “What was that? Speak up, young man. I can’t hear you mumbling over there in the corner.”

  “I said...” Freddie tried to think quickly but his mental faculties, like his clothing, had been rendered soggy by the weather. “I said, all that rain is a threat.”

  “What!” The woman apparently didn’t understand his meaning.

  “Yes, well, er... you know... a threat to livestock, carried away by flooding, that sort of thing... ,” Freddie ended lamely.

  The grand dame stared at him a long time before pronouncing judgment. “You are a very strange young man. Here for weakened mental faculties, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Freddie surrendered completely. “How astute of you to notice.”

  Before he was subjected to any further humiliation, the door to the office opened and the doctor emerged.

  “Mrs. Parker, please come in.” He glanced anxiously at Freddie. “I’ll be with you shortly if you’d be good enough to wait.”

  “Certainly.” Freddie felt a fair amount of surprise. The mention of the Templar name carried more weight than he would have imagined.

  The young man passed the time by studying the pictures that were hung around the waiting room. These consisted of tableaux of the great moments in medicine—from prehistoric times to modern. One that particularly intrigued him was a picture of a Greek physician performing surgery on the cranium of a patient who was seated in an upright position and appeared to be smiling euphorically through the whole procedure.

  Each succeeding picture presented more outrageous inspiration for someone with a macabre sense of humor, but Freddie’s contemplation of the artwork was cut short when Dr. Doyle returned.

  “Won’t you step in.” Dr. Doyle was an impressive figure. In his mid-fifties, his temples just beginning to gray, he possessed an air of graceful self-assurance that must have been quite soothing to his clientele. Freddie inferred that the doctor’s practice consisted mainly of middle-aged women complaining of nervous disorders. The doctor was dressed in a black frock coat and a pristine white shirt. A diamond-and-gold stick pin set off his black silk cravat. When Freddie approached to return the doctor’s handshake, he noted that the older man’s nails had been recently manicured and that his clothing exuded a faint hint of sandalwood. It occurred to Freddie that “ladies’ man” wouldn’t have been an inappropriate term to apply.

  “Welcome, Mr. Simpson. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “You have? I wasn’t aware that you even knew my name.”

  The doctor smiled slightly. “Mrs. Templar and Miss LeClair both called a few days ago to offer an explanation.”

  “Oh, do you know Miss LeClair?”

  “I knew her father, Armand LeClair, quite well. Met him soon after he first came to this city. He referred several of his wealthy friends to me as patients. Helped me build my practice. I doubt if I’d be as successful today without his assistance.”

  “It would appear that intervening in other people’s business is a LeClair family trait.”

  “So it would seem.” Doyle laughed good-naturedly. “But only with the best intentions, I’m sure.” He gestured toward a chair. “And now, Mr. Simpson, having made one another’s acquaintance, I invite you to have a seat and tell me what I can do for you today.”

  Freddie sat down as instructed and began. “As you already know, it’s about the murdered girl who was found at the Templar House over a week ago. I understand that the Templars asked you to perform an independent examination of the body?”

  “Yes. It’s out of my usual line but, given the delicate nature of the situation, I became involved as a personal favor to the Templars. What is it specifically that you wish to know?”

  “To begin with, the papers all reported that there was a stab wound in the girl’s back, but they reported very little else. Can you give me any more details of what you found?”

  Doyle seemed uncomfortable and hesitated before replying. “This is rather a tricky matter, Mr. Simpson. Truth is such a complex notion, after all. Rather than being all of a piece, it can only be peeled back, layer by layer, like an onion.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that, technically speaking, Miss Bauer was murdered and the immediate cause of death was a knife wound in her back. This is the cause of death reported by the coroner. These are the facts that were released to the press.”

  “Shall we start peeling onions now, Doctor?” Freddie asked pointedly.

  “Yes, I suppose so. In my opinion, she died of respiratory collapse and heart failure.”

  “What?” Freddie sat bolt upright in his chair, all attention.

  “As I said, a tricky matter. Was she attacked with intent to kill? Of that I have no doubt. Was she stabbed? No question. But here is where I part ways with the coroner. His medical examiner believes the knife wound was sufficiently deep to cause death. I don’t.”

  “Well, then what are you saying?”

  “That I was required to delve deeper into the matter to determine the real cause. Superficially, she appeared to have been quite healthy. I doubted she had a weak heart or weak nerves. Fortunately, a small hobby of mine proved helpful in determining the true cause.”

  “A hobby?” Freddie was skeptical.

  “Yes, you could call it that.” Dr. Doyle smiled wryly. “I dabble a bit in poisons.”

  “What?” Freddie looked at the doctor in disbelief. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘dabble’?”

  Dr. Doyle chuckled at the consternation he had created. “Perhaps that was a poor choice of words on my part. Call it a professional interest then, but I have an extensive knowledge of the subject. There are several poisons that could produce the symptoms exhibited by Miss Bauer.”

  “Really?” Freddie felt his own sense of morbid curiosity beginning to grow despite himself.

  “Yes, I found a substance coating the fabric and skin around the wound that didn’t appear to be dried blood. I scraped off a small sample that looked to be a sticky, brownish residue of some kind. Since some poisons are only effective if injected into the bloodstream, this seemed the most likely way of introducing the unknown substance.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I conducted a few tests on the sample I had collected and was able to isolate the poison in question.”

  “Cyanide?” Freddie’s own knowledge of poisons was hardly as extensive as the doctor’s.

  “Nothing quite as common as that. Cyanide is administered by ingestion, and none of the other signs associated with cyanide poisoning were present. I assumed I was looking for something that would kill in a matter of minutes. This, of course, would rule out snake venom as a possibility since that takes a while longer to work, and the victim might have had time to call for help before she died. Of the toxic substances which I knew would act quickly, I decided to test for strychnos toxifera, and my suspicions were confirmed.”

  “So it was strychnine?”

  “Only a distant cousin. The Latin name has thrown you off. I’m referring to a substance known under the name of ‘curare.
’ It’s a poison extracted from the bark and juice of trees in the Amazon jungle. Natives there have used it for centuries to coat the tips of arrows.”

  “Well, I suppose that would improve their chances of killing their prey even if their aim wasn’t too good to begin with.”

  “Yes, I should think so. Ironically, curare is harmless when swallowed. It must be injected into the blood stream in order for its poisonous properties to be activated. Its chief advantage, if you can call it that, is that it can be administered in minute quantities through an abrasion in the skin, and it will kill almost instantaneously by causing respiratory paralysis and heart failure.”

  “I see. Then it might have been possible to coat the tip of the murder weapon with this substance and poison her that way?”

  “Yes, absolutely. A knife dipped in the substance and then used to stab a person would have done the trick.”

  Warming to the subject, Freddie asked, “How would the blow have been delivered?”

  “As nearly as I can approximate, it would have been inflicted from above. I would also judge that the attack didn’t come from behind. The angle of approach suggested a murderer who was standing face-to-face with the victim and was several inches taller than she was as well.”

  Freddie pictured an image in his mind. “You mean, someone who was on close terms with her, someone she trusted?”

  “Yes, that’s the most probable scene.”

  The young man shook the unpleasant picture out of his head. “At what time would her death have occurred?”

  “The coroner’s office has estimated it to have been between ten o’clock and two in the morning.”

  Freddie thought about the knife in Franz Bauer’s room. “What about the murder weapon the cops say they found? Did anybody test to see if it contained traces of poison on the blade?”

  Doyle shook his head. “Since the coroner’s office believes the cause of death was a stab wound, it’s unlikely the police will pursue the poison angle. The matter will be for the courts to decide.”

  “I see.” Freddie could guess the most likely verdict for Elsa’s brother, whether guilty or not. “And was there anything else you noticed about the condition of the body?”

  The doctor thought back for a moment. “No, that’s all I can recall—no other evidence of a struggle, no bruising.”

  Freddie sat silent, wrapped in thought.

  “I did, however, discover that she was more than four months pregnant.”

  “What!”

  “Yes, that fact was kept out of the newspapers as well. There was no point in opening up another avenue of scandal for the hotel.”

  “The Templars must have a great deal of respect for your discretion.” Freddie rose to go. “Thank you, Doctor. This has been most helpful.”

  “Give my regards to Mr. LeClair’s daughter and tell her she may call on me for any assistance she requires in this matter.” Doyle ushered Freddie to the door.

  By this time the rain had stopped, and Freddie decided to walk back to the office. “Well, Engie,” he said, carrying on a mental conversation with his absent friend, “I think we’ve found a new motive for murder. I just hope you’re sitting down when I tell you what it is!”

  Chapter 13—The Fabric Of Truth

  By Friday evening, Freddie was straining at the leash to have a long talk with Evangeline. They had only managed to communicate by hurried notes and telephone calls since the beginning of the week. He took the early commuter train back to Shore Cliff and didn’t bother to stop at home first. As he walked down Center Street in the purple dusk, he could see several lights burning in the windows of Evangeline’s house. Knowing Delphine’s thrifty rules of domestic management, he concluded that she would have kept only one room lit if her mistress were away. Therefore, the lights must mean that the lady of the house had returned to the country. He was grateful for this since telephone service had only been installed in the city and not as far north as Shore Cliff. Keeping in contact with Evangeline during their investigation had become a challenge as she moved about from one place to another.

  Freddie dashed up the stairs and rapped on the front door. After a few minutes, he saw a shadow behind the curtains of the side window and knew that Delphine was staring at him. When the door still didn’t open, he renewed his attack. He raised his voice loud enough to disturb the entire street. “It’s no good pretending you didn’t see me, Delphine. You may as well let me in, or I’ll continue to knock until I rouse either the dead or your next door neighbors!”

  He could hear her muttering, “Mon Dieu! Quelle sottise!” as she undid the lock and swung the door open.

  “Bienvenue, Monsieur Freddie,” she said caustically as the door opened.

  “Same to you,” Freddie replied without cordiality. “Where’s Evangeline?”

  “Mademoiselle is resting. She has just come back from the city, and she is very tired.”

  “I still want to see her!” Freddie barked. “Tell her it’s important.”

  Delphine tilted her chin up defiantly but motioned him to follow her down the hall. When the housekeeper opened the door to the library, Freddie could see Evangeline leaning back in one of the wing chairs with her eyes closed and her feet resting on a tapestry-covered ottoman. The massive ball of fur and inertia she called a cat was curled up in her lap asleep.

  "Pardon, ma chérie. Tu dois ouvrir les yeux. Ton chiot est revenu.”

  Freddie’s French vocabulary didn’t extend far enough to include Delphine’s latest insult. Evangeline scowled, her eyes still shut. “Delphine, je suis très fatiguée et je n’ai pas de chiot!” When she opened her eyes and saw Freddie standing in front of her, she gave Delphine a long-suffering look. “Très amusant.”

  Delphine whirled around and, without a word, closed the door behind her.

  “What did she call me this time?” Freddie’s tone was resigned.

  “She referred to you as ‘my puppy.’”

  “Well, I suppose it could have been worse. Her allusion to the canine species might have extended to a rude reference to my mother.”

  He sighed and drew up the wing chair next to Evangeline, who by this time was sitting forward trying to shake off her drowsiness. Monsieur Beauvoir, disturbed by all the human racket interrupting his nap, had jumped down on the floor to wash his face and make himself presentable to company.

  Freddie was about to launch into a colorful narration of his visit to Doctor Doyle when he noticed the solemn expression on Evangeline’s face. The story died on his lips. “What is it, old girl? You look as if you’d just returned from another funeral.”

  “It feels something like that.” She rubbed her hand across her brow. “This morning, I went to the O’Malley house to collect Elsa’s effects.”

  “So that’s what put you in this bleak mood.”

  Evangeline grimaced. “I wish that were the only reason.” She then told her friend about her encounter with the very drunken Mr. O’Malley and his less than paternal feelings toward Elsa.

  “Good Lord!” Freddie exclaimed. “Maybe he did it!”

  Evangeline nodded. “It seems he had a motive at least as strong as Franz did.”

  “He might even have hidden the knife in her brother’s room!”

  “That thought also occurred to me. If Franz really is telling the truth, and if the police didn’t plant the weapon, then O’Malley is the most likely person to have done so.”

  Freddie scratched his head. “Well, this is becoming a fine kettle of fish!”

  Evangeline rested her chin in her hands and stared off into space. “I have more fish to add to the kettle, my lad. Both Franz and O’Malley were outraged at Elsa’s involvement with a mysterious gentleman. They both said he bought her expensive gifts. I may have just found one of those gifts.”

  “What?” Freddie sat bolt upright.

  “Follow me.” Evangeline walked across to the desk and opened a cardboard box that had been placed there. “These were Elsa’s things. Patsy
packed them for me before I arrived. Inside, I found a separate parcel sent back by the police. It contained everything they didn’t want to keep as evidence. Have a look at this.”

  Freddie sauntered over to the desk and stood watching over Evangeline’s shoulder. She held up a gold object that flashed and sparkled in the firelight.

  Freddie whistled through his teeth. “That must have cost a pretty penny. What is it?”

  Evangeline held the object out for him to examine. It was a lady’s hair ornament, about four inches long and shaped like a cross. The face of the ornament was encrusted with sapphires and rubies. Combs were soldered to the ornament and these would have held the jeweled object pressed against the back of the wearer’s head.

  “How would somebody wear a contraption like this?” Freddie was mystified.

  “Like this.” Evangeline demonstrated. “You see, the hair would have to be swept up toward the crown of the head in a topknot or a pompadour and secured by pins. Then the combs on this ornament would fit against the back of the head.”

  Freddie studied the effect. It reminded him of the elaborate combs that Spanish ladies wore with their mantillas.

  Evangeline removed the ornament from her hair and gave it back to him for further inspection.

  “Do you think the stones are real, Engie?”

  “I’d say so. I know expensive jewelry when I see it.”

  “How did this slip by Mrs. O’Malley?”

  “I don’t believe she ever opened the bundle from the police station. Otherwise, I’m sure this would have ended up in a pawn shop, and Mrs. O’Malley’s financial circumstances would have improved considerably. No doubt this was a gift from Elsa’s mysterious admirer.”

  Evangeline rummaged around in the packing box once more. “There’s something else here you should see.”

  Producing a crumpled piece of fabric, she spread it out on the desk to smooth out the wrinkles.

  “A handkerchief!” Freddie almost danced with excitement. “That must be the one Bill told me about—the one he saw clutched in Elsa’s hand after they found her.”

  “Yes, but it’s odd just the same. This doesn’t appear to be a lady’s handkerchief. The dimensions are too large. The weight of the fabric is too heavy. There’s no lace trim.”