Murder on St. Nicholas Avenue

by Victoria Thompson

  Or would he? Frank Malloy no longer worked for the New York City Police because he’d displeased them. Of course, Mr. Malloy had displeased them by becoming a millionaire, and Gino certainly had not done that. Was this bad enough to lose his job over? Gino didn’t even want to think about that.

  When he reached Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street, Tom the doorman gave him a pitying look as he held the door for him. “Better hurry upstairs, son,” he said. “The chief is expecting you.”

  That’s when he knew. They were sending him to Goatsville. Goatsville wasn’t a town exactly. It was a general term of derision for the country, where nothing happened and where cops who shook down the wrong businessman or the wrong madam or who accidentally shot the wrong person got sent to die . . . of boredom. Getting fired, he thought, would actually be better.

  * * *

  Felix recognized the building on East Forty-eighth Street where Truett lived as a hotel with bachelor apartments. These residences had flourished in the past few years and provided small apartments for single men or childless couples. The building would have a restaurant that could send meals up to residents who didn’t want to cook for themselves and would provide a staff to clean and do laundry. Residents would have all the comforts and amenities without the expense of maintaining a house and servants.

  Felix paid the cab driver, and a doorman in uniform admitted him. The lobby was small but tastefully decorated and well maintained. A man in a suit with a fresh flower in his lapel greeted him from behind a desk. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Truett, if he’s in.”

  The man checked the rows of boxes on the wall behind him, where each tenant’s key would be placed if he was out. Then he smiled his professional smile. “Is Mr. Truett expecting you?”

  “No, but if he’s out, I can come back later.”

  His smile wavered a bit. “He is usually out at this time of day, but I see his key isn’t here, so you’re in luck. Let me telephone to make sure this is a convenient time.” Felix saw a small switchboard beside the boxes, and the man moved to it, inserted a plug into one of the holes, and turned the crank on the side. He picked up the earpiece and waited for the call to go through.

  Felix was trying to be patient, but after a long few minutes, the clerk put down the earpiece and removed the plug from its hole. “I’m sorry, Mr. Truett isn’t answering.”

  “But you said he was in.”

  “His key hasn’t been returned, that’s true.”

  “Did you see him go out this morning?”

  “No, I did not, but he might have slipped by me. Perhaps if you made an appointment for your next visit, you will find him at home.”

  Felix didn’t like the sound of this. Two people involved with the Panama deal were dead, and Truett was more involved than most. Another possibility was that he had fled, although Felix doubted he’d leave without the money. “Would you mind going upstairs and checking Mr. Truett’s rooms? I’m concerned about his well-being.”

  “Why would you be concerned?” the clerk asked with a frown.

  “Because, well, his business partner was murdered a few days ago. I was calling on him today to ask him what he knows about it. If he’s simply not home, then we can all rest easy, but if something has happened to him . . .”

  “This is a respectable hotel, sir. Things like that simply do not happen here.”

  Felix smiled. “I’m sure they don’t. In which case, you should have no objection to checking Mr. Truett’s rooms.”

  He thought the clerk might have argued some more, but just then the elevator doors opened and a maid came running out, her eyes wide with terror. The elevator operator came running behind her, and they were both heading straight for the desk where Felix was standing.

  The woman was making incoherent noises, half screaming and half panting. The clerk rushed out to meet her and grabbed her arm when he reached her. “What on earth is the matter?”

  “He’s dead!” she gasped.

  Felix’s heart dropped.

  “Who? Who’s dead?” the clerk demanded.

  “Mr. Truett,” the elevator operator said.

  10

  Maeve and Mrs. Decker were in the nursery, having a tea party with the children, when the maid tapped on the door.

  “I guess luncheon is ready,” Mrs. Decker said, getting up out of the child-sized chair to answer the door.

  “Mr. Decker said he’d be back in time to eat with us,” Maeve said.

  “I know, and I’m sure he would have let us know if he’d returned. I’ll have them hold our meal for us until he gets back.”

  She opened the door and had a brief conversation with the maid, but instead of returning to the tea party, she said, “Children, I’m sorry, but Maeve and I need to go downstairs for a while. The girls will bring your luncheon up to you in just a few minutes.”

  Catherine frowned in disappointment and signed the bad news to Brian, who also pouted.

  Maeve said, “We’ll be back in a little while, and then I’ll take you to Macy’s to see Santa Claus.” Neither she nor Catherine knew how to sign “Santa Claus,” but Catherine signed something that made Brian smile again. Maeve left them deep in conversation, their fingers flying.

  “Is Mr. Decker back?” Maeve asked when she and Mrs. Decker were out in the hall.

  “No, but Gino is here.”

  “Gino? In the middle of the day?” Something must be wrong.

  Mrs. Decker was already hurrying to the stairs. Maeve followed on her heels. They found him waiting in the family parlor, where the maid had left him. He jumped to his feet when they entered, and Maeve instantly knew she’d been right about something being very wrong.

  “Where’s your uniform?” He looked very nice in his suit, but he shouldn’t be wearing it now.

  He gave them a smile but there was no joy in it. “I’m not a police officer anymore.”

  “Good heavens,” Mrs. Decker said. “Please, sit down and tell us what happened.”

  “I guess you haven’t seen a newspaper this morning,” he said, still maintaining that awful smile that didn’t do a thing to cover the sadness in his dark eyes.

  He picked up a newspaper that lay folded on the table and opened it for them to see.

  Maeve felt the jolt of recognition clear to her toes. The sketch artist had really captured Gino’s likeness and the drama of the scene. She could easily imagine how angry he must have been at the reporters threatening Una Pollock.

  “It’s very flattering,” Mrs. Decker said with feigned enthusiasm.

  He winced at that. “So I’m told.”

  “They fired you over this?” Maeve said, not certain exactly why she was so angry. Probably it was because they’d fired him, but it might have also been because she didn’t like the idea of him defending Una Pollock.

  “They didn’t fire me. I quit.”

  “Why would you do a thing like that?” Mrs. Decker said.

  “Because they were going to send me to Goatsville. Because of this.” He tapped the picture in the newspaper.

  “Where on earth is Goatsville?” Maeve asked, certain now that she was angry at the New York City Police Department.

  “It’s where they send cops who get in trouble. It’s not really a place. It’s just out in the country. They call it Goatsville because nothing ever happens there, so the beat cops have time to help herd the goats.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Decker asked in amazement.

  “No, not really,” he said. “At least I don’t think so. But I didn’t want to find out for sure. Besides, I can’t leave the city now, not while we’re working on this case. So I quit.”

  Maeve couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that, and apparently, Mrs. Decker couldn’t either.

  “They called you handsome,” Mrs. Decker noticed, gl
ancing at the newspaper again.

  He reached out to snatch up the paper, but Maeve slapped her hand over it. “Wait. Where did they get this picture of Una?”

  “If you read the article, you’ll see they interviewed her mother.”

  “Mrs. O’Neill?” Mrs. Decker said. “Oh dear. I guess no one warned her about the newspapers.”

  “Una’s attorney tried, but they can be awfully persistent. They probably even paid her for the story,” Maeve said. “At least I hope they did. I’d hate to think they got all this for nothing.”

  “Those rats probably convinced her she’d be helping her daughter,” Gino said.

  “That’s a very good likeness of Una, too,” Mrs. Decker said. “Do you suppose she posed for it?”

  “Did she?” Maeve asked, outraged.

  This made Gino smile for real, she was sorry to see. “I think her mother might’ve shown them a photograph of her.”

  Maeve discovered she didn’t want to be placated. She wanted to be angry about something. Anything. “What are you going to do for a living?”

  Gino raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to work for Mr. Malloy’s detective agency.”

  “Does Frank have a detective agency?” Mrs. Decker asked in surprise.

  “No, he doesn’t,” Maeve said.

  “Maeve told Una Pollock that he does,” Gino told Mrs. Decker with a wink.

  “I see. I suppose he does then, if we count as detectives.”

  “I don’t think we do,” Maeve said.

  “Speak for yourself,” Gino said. “I’m a detective.”

  “But nobody’s paying us, don’t forget.”

  “I thought we were using Mr. Pollock’s money,” Mrs. Decker said.

  “To pay for Una’s bail and attorney,” Maeve said, “but I don’t think we can pay ourselves with it.”

  “Besides, it’s not Pollock’s money in the first place,” Gino said. “And I don’t need to be paid.”

  “Oh, did you suddenly become a millionaire like Mr. Malloy?” Maeve asked, hating the acid in her voice but unable to hold it back.

  To her annoyance, this only made Gino grin again. “No, but I’ve got some money saved, so I can work for free for a while.”

  “And what will you do after that?” Mrs. Decker asked in genuine concern.

  Gino shrugged. “I can probably get a job with a real detective agency. And maybe Mr. Malloy will really open one when we tell him how much fun we’ve been having.”

  “You think this is fun?” Maeve asked, outraged again.

  “Yes, and so do you, when you’re not being jealous of Una Pollock,” he replied.

  “I’m not jealous of anyone!”

  Gino’s grin never wavered, which made her even madder. “Maybe if you bash my head in, they’ll put your picture in the newspapers.”

  “Children, please don’t fight,” Mrs. Decker said, and even though she was trying not to, Maeve could see she wanted to laugh at them.

  Maeve supposed they were pretty funny. “Lucky for you, I don’t really want my picture in the newspapers.”

  “And it will be nice to have your help full-time, Gino,” Mrs. Decker said. “I’m sure Mr. Decker will agree.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Maeve asked to change the subject, which was becoming very uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know. I thought he’d be back by now. Maybe I should be concerned. He was going to see a possible murderer, after all.”

  “Mr. Decker can take care of himself,” Gino said with more confidence than Maeve thought he should have on the subject.

  Even Mrs. Decker looked skeptical.

  The maid tapped on the door and stepped in. “Telephone for you, Mrs. Decker. It’s Mr. Decker.”

  “Well, at least he wasn’t murdered,” she said, rising from her seat. “And he’d better have a good excuse for being late for lunch.”

  Maeve and Gino stared after her, wide-eyed.

  “Do you think she was serious?” Gino asked when she was gone.

  “I hope not.”

  That made him grin yet again.

  “You’re much too happy for someone with no job.”

  “I’m not too worried. My mother would let me live with them forever, and Mrs. Malloy will always feed me. You said so yourself.”

  She wanted to be mad at him, but she found herself melting just a bit. “And maybe Mr. Malloy really will open a detective agency.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? All that’s left is to tell him about it.”

  “I wonder what he’ll say when he finds out Mrs. Decker works for him.”

  That made them both laugh.

  “Who did Mr. Decker go see this morning?” Gino asked when they’d sobered again.

  “Truett and that investor he knows. Zimmerman, I think his name is. This afternoon he and Mrs. Decker are going to visit the widow of the fellow who killed himself.”

  Maeve told him about the discussion she and the Deckers had earlier about whether or not Truett could be the killer. “Mrs. Decker still thinks he didn’t know about the robbery until she told him.”

  “I guess that’s possible, even if he killed Pollock. He might’ve figured he could just walk right into the house and get the money, so why go to all the trouble of waiting until the middle of the night and breaking in?”

  “Then who did break in? Who else even knew the money was there?”

  Before he could answer, Mrs. Decker returned. They both jumped to their feet when they saw her expression.

  She gave them a small, sad smile. “Mr. Truett is dead.”

  * * *

  Truett’s hotel wasn’t too far from the Deckers’ house. Gino didn’t bother with a cab, so he was there in short order. The building was fairly new and very nice. He’d have to consider a place like this for himself when he got another job.

  He saw two uniformed police officers he didn’t know in the lobby and stopped, not wanting to get on their wrong side. If only he’d been wearing a uniform—but he’d have to get used to being a civilian now. He noticed a harried-looking man with a carnation in his lapel standing by the desk.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Decker,” Gino told him, wishing he’d gone home and changed into his good suit. He probably looked presentable enough in his old suit to be one of Mr. Decker’s employees, but he knew people judged you on how you dressed. “He sent for me.”

  “Oh yes,” the man said. “He asked me to send you right up. It’s the fourth floor, right rear. He’s all right,” he added to the cops who probably would’ve stopped him.

  They didn’t look happy, but they let him pass. At least they weren’t likely to recognize him from his picture in the paper. They wouldn’t know he was a cop, or at least had been a cop until a few hours ago, so they probably wouldn’t make the connection.

  The elevator operator was a white man who was even whiter than usual. Gino was used to seeing colored men operating elevators, but in nicer hotels where the tips were better, white men got the job.

  “Did you know Truett?” Gino asked when he’d closed the door and the gate and cranked the handle to set the car in motion.

  “Of course I knew him. I know everyone who lives here.”

  “Did he get many visitors?”

  “Are you with the police?” he asked suspiciously.

  Gino managed not to wince. “I’m a detective.”

  “You’re kinda young, ain’t you?”

  To be a police detective, he was, of course. “I’m very good.”

  The man snorted, but he said, “He didn’t get many visitors. He was gone a lot, so I expect he saw his friends outside.”

  “No visitors at all?”

  “Well, a colored boy came by from time to time, but he was just delivering things.”

  That was probab
ly Eddie. Gino wondered what Eddie was delivering, but probably even Eddie didn’t know that. “No lady friends?”

  “We don’t allow the gentlemen to have lady visitors.”

  Gino nodded. “And it’s your job to make sure they don’t sneak in, I guess.”

  The man shrugged, and Gino knew that Truett could’ve had a female visitor if he’d tipped the elevator operator well enough. But that information wasn’t helping him figure out who killed Truett. “Did anybody visit him recently?”

  “You mean since I took him up to his apartment last evening?”

  Which would have been just after he left Una Pollock’s house. “Yes.”

  “No, I didn’t see a soul.”

  “Were you here all night?”

  “No, that would be Fred.”

  So the first order of business was to figure out when Truett was killed, and then if this Fred had seen anyone. “When does Fred come in?”

  “He’ll be here at six tonight. Here you are,” he said as the elevator lurched to a stop, and he flung open the gate and then the outside door.

  Gino thanked him and stepped out into the hallway. He didn’t need the instructions the clerk had given him downstairs. The gathering outside Truett’s door would’ve tipped him off as to which apartment it was. He strode up to the group mingling in the hallway. A young woman was comforting an older couple who seemed quite distressed. The young woman was assuring them it must have been an accident. Gino, of course, was sure it wasn’t.

  Gino excused himself, sidled past them, and made it to the door, where a uniformed cop stood guard. “Is Mr. Decker here? He’s expecting me.”

  “Ah, Mr. Donatelli,” Mr. Decker’s voice called from inside. He had been talking with another man in the entryway. “I’m so glad you were available.”

  “So am I. Do we know what happened?”

  The other man had come over, and he looked Gino up and down with no sign of approval. Gino did the same to him, noting his cheap suit, worn shoes, and the fact that his bowler hat sat firmly on his head even though he was indoors. Gino pegged him instantly as a police detective but, fortunately, not one with whom he’d worked before. He was probably one of the precinct detectives who wouldn’t have spent much time at Headquarters.