The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries Book 14)

by Rhys Bowen

  “None,” he said. “That’s the interesting part. There is no disk to be seen. And the locomotive didn’t come off the track.”

  “So that adds fuel to your belief that your killer orchestrated this. Somehow he changed the disk while the train was in the station and then removed the disk before there could be any investigation.”

  “It does seem that way.”

  “And was there any person of note on board that we know of?”

  “Persons of note rarely travel in crowded El carriages,” he said.

  “And speaking of ‘of note’—no more notes have arrived, I take it?”

  “Not as far as I know. But then I wouldn’t expect one.” He held out a large envelope. “I’ve had one of our men write out a list of the various victims for you. This is for your eyes only, remember. Your friends should not be privy to this.” I noticed that he tried to avoid calling Sid and Gus by their nicknames, as if they were too shocking to be spoken out loud. It was another small way of displaying his disapproval of their unacceptable lifestyle.

  I opened the clasp on the envelope and took out several sheets of typewritten paper.

  “They are in chronological order,” Daniel said.

  I was already reading the first sheet. “‘May 10: Dolly Willis. 285 Flushing Avenue, Brooklyn. (Feebleminded woman of sixty-two. Lived with her sister. Pushed into the path of a speeding trolley.)

  “‘Note said: “Trolley and Dolly rhyme. A fitting end this time.”’”

  I looked up. “‘This time’? Does that mean there might have been other times before that you don’t know about?”

  Daniel frowned. “Now, that’s an interesting thought. There are always unsolved homicides in the city, and in cases like this one, deaths that might never have been ruled a homicide. If we hadn’t received the note it might never have been established that she had been pushed under a trolley.”

  “You mean that she was a feebleminded woman and could have stepped into the path of a trolley without assistance?”

  “Quite possible. And people were intent on waiting to cross the street themselves so no one would have noticed the well-timed push. It was hard to come up with witnesses a few days later, and only one person said that the old woman seemed to have suddenly gone pitching forward.”

  I paused, digesting this. “So this man may have been perfecting his methods for ages before the first death we know about?”

  Daniel sighed. “It’s possible. Yes. But we’d have no way of knowing if the deaths were ruled accidents, or if he didn’t manage to kill the first times.”

  I read on down the page: “‘May 31: Simon Grossman. Age twenty. Lived with parents, Dr. and Mrs. Grossman, 258 Fifth Avenue. Student at New York University. Drank a cup of coffee laced with cyanide in Fritz’s, a crowded coffee shop frequented by students on MacDougal Street.

  “‘The note said: “Simon says good-bye, or would if he could speak.”’”

  I looked up at Daniel. “A student at New York University. And I take it not in any way related to poor old Dolly?”

  “Not in any way. He was the son of a well-respected doctor, and she lived with her sister who was a former housemaid.”

  “And she had never been employed by the doctor, I take it?”

  “She had not. She worked for a prominent banker, was given a little legacy when he died, and went home to take care of her mother and sister in Brooklyn. The mother passed away a few years ago, and the two sisters lived happily together until this.”

  “How sad,” I said. “And how senseless. A feebleminded woman couldn’t have been a threat to anybody, could she? Why choose her, I wonder.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I wish I could tell you.”

  “I see what you mean when you say there’s no connection. A simpleminded old woman and a university student, and such different methods of murder. In your experience, does a poisoner normally resort to a more violent crime?”

  He shook his head. “I’d say no. Poisoners are usually secretive, quiet, reserved types. If you poison, you don’t have to be present when the murder takes place.”

  “So the only thing these murders have in common is that they were terribly risky,” I said. “Pushing someone under a trolley on a crowded street and putting cyanide in a coffee cup in a crowded café both come with a strong chance of being observed.”

  “That’s true. He does like to take risks.”

  “Maybe he gets a thrill out of taking risks,” I said. “Were the other murders equally risky and public?”

  “Risky, yes. Public, no,” Daniel said. “Read on.”

  I turned to the next page: “‘June 21: Maud Daughtery, age sixty-three. Widow. Lived with her only son, 485 10th Avenue. Chelsea.

  “‘The note said: “Mother didn’t always know best.”’

  “What did that mean?” I asked, looking up from the paper.

  Daniel shrugged. “We took that to mean that she did not lock her bathroom door when taking a bath. There was a table lamp on the dresser beside the bath, and someone dropped it into the water, thus electrocuting her.”

  “She lived with her presumably grown-up son,” I said.

  “She did. Terrence, aged forty-two. A studious and reserved young man who is employed as a tutor to an Upper East Side family.”

  “And might have had reason to hurl a lamp into his mother’s bathtub?” I asked.

  Daniel smiled. “We looked into that, believe me. From what we learned of the mother, she was an overbearing and unpleasant woman who bossed everyone around and probably made her son’s life miserable. However, he was in a schoolroom with three children at the time his mother was killed, and he seemed genuinely distraught at her death.”

  “And I also take it that this woman was in no way related to either simple Dolly or the university student?”

  “That’s right. In no way related. Never lived in the same part of the city or moved in the same circles. And the same is true for the other victims.”

  “This murder did take a good deal of nerve, as you say,” I commented. “To break into a house, wait until someone took a bath, and then electrocute her. That would take observation of the family’s habits and a good deal of planning. That is not the same kind of crime as pushing someone in front of a trolley.”

  “And they become progressively more daring. Read on.”

  I turned to the next sheet of paper. “‘July 12. Marie Ellingham. Age seventy. Address 352 East Fifty-second Street. Died of arsenic poisoning. Police not able to determine when and how it was administered.

  “‘The note we received said, “Judge not that ye be not judged.”’

  “What could that mean? Was she judgmental by nature?” I asked.

  “Her husband was a retired judge.”

  “And presumably you’ve checked into whether he might have had a motive for poisoning her?”

  “We went through the whole household thoroughly. He was visibly upset by her death. Devastated, actually. It seems they were a devoted couple. There was no trace of arsenic to be found in the kitchen, on the utensils, anywhere. The cook and maid had been with them for years. The only thing of interest was that the bedroom window was at the rear of the house, facing a small garden, and it was open.”

  “So someone could have climbed in, administered the poison, and departed again.”

  “Exactly, except it was quite a climb to the window, and he would have risked being seen from the windows of the houses behind.”

  “And no ties to the other three victims, I assume?”

  “None.” He leaned closer. “And the interesting thing, Molly, is that this death would have been ruled as natural causes if we hadn’t received the note. Marie Ellingham was prone to gastric troubles, she had a delicate stomach, and her own physician was quite willing to say that the bout of vomiting had been too much for her heart at her age.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. I looked at the papers. There was only one more.

  “‘August 22. Herman Hof
fman. Age forty-five. Lower West Side. Twenty-nine West Street. Owned a small meat-processing business. He was found in his meat safe on Monday morning, dead.

  “‘The note said: “Frozen, packed, and ready for delivery.”’”

  I shuddered. “How horrible. Poor man. What an awful way to die. And that note—it shows a character completely devoid of human feeling, wouldn’t you say? Pleased with his own cleverness.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. A warped and twisted person who delights in killing. All I can hope is that he meant what he said when he talked about saving the best for last—that he really intends to stop this killing spree.”

  “Going back to the meat packer—what do we know about him? He didn’t supply meat to the judge or any of the others, I take it?”

  “He had married and moved to the city about a year ago. Until then he ran a butcher’s shop in the Catskills. From what his wife tells us, it was an extremely happy marriage, a second for him after his first wife died. A first for her, somewhat late in life, but they were both looking forward to a bright future.”

  “If he was locked in the meat safe all weekend, didn’t she report him missing?” I asked. “Isn’t that suspicious?”

  “That’s the thing. He had told her he was going up to Woodstock to visit his mother. She didn’t want to come, not being too fond of his mother. So she thought she knew where he was.”

  “And she hadn’t recently taken out a life insurance policy on him?” I asked.

  Daniel laughed. “What a gruesome little thing you are. Most women would have reached for the smelling salts at the very start of this conversation, not discussed it as calmly as if it concerned the price of sugar.”

  “You know I’m not most women.” I turned back to the mirror to put a final pin in my unruly hair. Then something struck me. I put down the hairpins and leafed through the papers.

  “There’s one missing,” I said, waving them triumphantly.

  “What do you mean? You’ve read them all.”

  I shook my head. “The murders are all about three weeks apart, right up to yesterday’s train crash, if we include that. But there wasn’t one in early August. Why not? Could that have been one murder he couldn’t pull off, or a note that somehow didn’t get delivered to you? Or was he off on vacation at the seashore?”

  Daniel took the papers from me and examined them, frowning. “That’s an acute observation, Molly. But if there was one murder he couldn’t commit, how would we ever find out about it?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems that’s your best chance of solving this,” I said. “Because at the beginning of August, somebody might have lived to tell the tale.”

  Seven

  Downstairs a clock chimed with a sweet, melodious ting.

  Daniel stood up. “I should be going. The commissioner wants me at today’s briefing and will no doubt be annoyed that I’ve come up with nothing new.”

  “Apart from the missing date in August,” I pointed out.

  “That may have a perfectly simple explanation,” Daniel said. “It was devilishly hot. There were the usual summer epidemics in the city at that time. Our killer could have caught some disease and been too sick to carry out his planned murder. Or he could have decided to let the early-August victim live. Or it could be that he hadn’t actually planned these murders to be three weeks apart, and the dates were purely circumstantial.”

  “I think he sounds like the sort of meticulous individual to whom dates would matter. It’s also important that several of these deaths, if not all, could have been ruled as accidents. Feebleminded Dolly stepping out in front of a tram; the overbearing mother accidentally knocking her lamp into the bath; the judge’s wife dying of gastric trouble; the butcher accidentally locking himself into the safe. Only your university student’s cyanide would have shown up as a deliberate murder.” I looked up at Daniel. “This is a game to him, Daniel. A game of cat and mouse, and he wants to make sure you stay on his trail.”

  “You can say that again.” Daniel sighed as he walked toward the door. “He is enjoying taunting me, showing up my inadequacies.”

  “All the more reason to figure out who might have a personal grudge against you. I think you should do as I suggested, and make a list of criminals who were convicted and executed thanks to you. My guess is that this is someone’s brother or best friend, seeking revenge on behalf of a dead prisoner.”

  “But why is he including innocent people in his revenge?” Daniel lingered with his hand on the door handle. “Why would anyone gloat over pushing a simple old woman under a trolley?”

  “That’s what you need to find out,” I said. “Either they are all random killings, or all but one are random killings, meant to hide the one instance in which he wanted a person dead. Or … he is enjoying sending you off on fools’ errands, or…” And I paused, considering this, “Or he has some kind of agenda and reason for wanting these particular people dead.”

  “And me with no way of finding out why.” Daniel frowned, turned to go, then remembered something. “Oh, Molly, I meant to tell you. I did accomplish something positive this morning,” he said. “I stopped by Sloane’s and ordered two beds—one for the spare room, and a single one for the maid’s room upstairs. That way my mother can come to stay right away to take care of you, and she can help you look for a new servant. Perhaps you’d feel strong enough to make a list of the various sheets and pillows and things that we’ll need, and I can ask Wanamaker’s dry goods to deliver. The sooner our life is back to normal, the better for all of us.”

  Then he gave me an encouraging smile and closed the door behind him. I sat at the vanity, looking at my reflection in the mirror and trying not to feel annoyed. I suppose he genuinely thought he was doing me a kindness by bringing his mother down to look after me, but I took it to mean that he wanted me out of Sid and Gus’s clutches as soon as possible. I finished my toilette and went downstairs, easing myself down step by step, as walking was still painful. I came into the drawing room to find Sid on the floor, creeping around on all fours and growling as she chased a delighted Liam.

  “I’m a bear,” she said, looking up as I came in. “A very fierce bear.” And she growled again, making Liam shriek, half in delight and half in terror.

  “Don’t be too realistic,” I said. “I don’t want him having nightmares.”

  “He likes it,” she said, standing up and brushing off the dust from her black silk trousers. “It’s good for children to be scared from time to time. How about some luncheon—the delicatessen had a fine-looking ham this morning, and we’ve tomatoes as an extra treat?”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said. Having grown up without ever meeting a tomato, I still hadn’t really developed a taste for them, but I did know they were a luxury item, and there was a hot debate going on as to whether they were a fruit or a vegetable.

  “And you’d like some lunch, wouldn’t you, young man?” Sid swept up Liam and carried him through to the kitchen. It had rained during the night, leaving the air bright and fresh with just a hint of fall about it. The windows of the conservatory behind the kitchen had been opened, letting in a refreshing breeze. I sat Liam on my knee and fed him soup and mashed potato, both of which he ate with relish in spite of the garlic I could taste in the former. Clearly he’d grow up to be a young man of cosmopolitan taste.

  “Do I gather that Daniel was annoyed I had been to your apartment?” Sid asked as she bustled about the kitchen, retrieving items from the meat safe. “He certainly seemed put out when I told him.”

  “He wasn’t angry with you. He was frightened. He thought someone might have come to kidnap me,” I said.

  “He seems obsessed with your being kidnapped, Molly.” Sid undid wax paper and laid slices of ham on a plate as she spoke. “Does he have reason to fear for your safety? Are you keeping something from me?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I had promised Daniel that I wouldn’t mention his investigation. I managed a bright smile as she brought
the plate across to the table. “I’m afraid Daniel is overreacting at the moment. I think my being involved in the train crash yesterday has really unnerved him, especially after what happened to us earlier this year.”

  “I can certainly understand that.” Sid put a plate of spring onions and tomatoes next to the ham. “But this Italian gang is no longer making threats to you personally, is it?”

  “No. That’s all settled,” I could say with honesty. “The moment all charges were dropped against their leader a sort of truce was established. I don’t think we’re ever going to be able to subdue them completely, with new Italian immigrants pouring into the city all the time. Daniel thinks that we’ll have to learn to live with them.”

  “I’m glad I’m not in his position,” Sid said. “Wanting to do the right thing but always having to compromise. It can’t be easy.”

  “No,” I said. “His mother wants him to leave the police and go into politics.”

  “Senator Sullivan. It has a certain ring to it, and he’d garner the Irish vote,” Sid said with a smile.

  “Oh, and speaking of Daniel’s mother,” I went on, as I reached to put a slice of apple in front of Liam. “Daniel dropped another little bombshell as he was leaving. He’s been to Sloane’s and ordered a couple of beds so that his mother can come to stay immediately and help me hire another maid.”

  “Perfectly sensible, given the circumstances,” Sid said.

  “Whose side are you on?” I demanded.

  “Nobody’s side, just seeing Daniel’s rationale in doing this. He knows you aren’t in any fit state to go to Sloane’s and buy beds yourself, so he’s saving you the trouble. And it would also make sense to have your mother-in-law around for a while as you get the house up and working again. You can’t go shopping at a department store with a wriggling baby on your hip. And we might not always be available to babysit. Gus has been asked to give a lecture on Professor Freud’s interpretation of dreams and the latest research in Vienna, so she’ll need to prepare for it.”