“Of course I remember, but I’m sure she had no idea her mother and Mr. Bergman were more than friends or that something odd was happening at the dairy.”
“Do you think I should tell Nelson we can’t find anything and just drop the investigation?”
Sarah considered his question for a long moment. “I’m afraid if we do, Theda will just hire another detective agency. At least we don’t have to tell her everything we find out, especially if it has nothing to do with her father’s death.”
“That’s true. A stranger wouldn’t be interested in protecting her. We can at least do that.”
“So go and visit your swill milk dairy.”
Malloy smiled. “And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to play matchmaker.”
* * *
• • •
Frank and Gino took the motorcar to Brooklyn. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge in a motorcar was a harrowing experience, with the wind howling as they raced across the enormous bridge at nearly ten miles per hour. Frank was sure human beings were never intended to travel so fast in an open vehicle. Trains and trolleys ran along their own tracks, and pedestrians walked in their special section above everything and down the very middle of the bridge, while wagons and motorcars were relegated to lanes on the outside edges, where they had a clear view of the East River far—too far—below. Gino thoroughly enjoyed the wind whipping around them, but Frank was grateful for the goggles they wore for protection because he could close his eyes rather than see how far above the water they were. One wrong move could send them catapulting over the edge into oblivion, and while Gino wasn’t likely to make any such move, Frank was still grateful when they reached the opposite shore.
Brooklyn had flourished in recent years as the city grew and Manhattan island filled up. Factories and business had found more space across the river in what had recently been farmland. The Green Hills Dairy occupied a ramshackle warehouse in an industrial area with no visible hills, green or otherwise.
“How do they stand the stench?” Gino asked when he had parked the motorcar and they had sat for a few moments, sizing up the dairy.
“You get used to it, I guess.”
“Pritchard’s dairy doesn’t smell much at all.”
“He also doesn’t keep cows.”
“He keeps horses.”
“They go out every day and his men keep the stalls clean and the horses groomed.”
“That’s right. But they don’t have cows, because he gets his milk from farmers out in the country.”
“And it comes in by train every day.”
“Why would you keep cows, then?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said. “Let’s ask . . . What’s his name?”
“George Wolinski.”
“Mr. Wolinski, if he’s in, although if I owned this place, I’d stay as far away from it as I could.”
As they had previously agreed, Frank went in search of Wolinski or whoever was in charge, and Gino headed for the dairy itself to get an idea of what was going on.
The offices, Frank discovered, were in a separate building, upwind from the dairy and protected by a large hedge. The smell wasn’t nearly as bad here.
Two clerks were working diligently in the large, untidy main room when Frank entered the one-story, clapboard building. One of the clerks looked up from under his green eyeshade and scowled. “You a cop?”
“No, I am not. I’m here to see Mr. Wolinski.”
The clerk didn’t look like he believed Frank. “He expecting you?”
“Probably not.”
“What’s it about?”
Frank debated what he could say that would be most likely to interest Mr. Wolinski. “I wanted to talk to him about Clarence Pritchard’s murder.”
The clerk’s eyes widened in alarm and he jumped up and scurried into one of the offices that opened off the main room. The other clerk was staring at him now, equally alarmed, although he uttered not one word.
A few moments later, the first clerk returned and said Mr. Wolinski would see Frank.
George Wolinski was just as untidy as his front room. A short, round man with bushy, dark hair and aggressive side whiskers clinging to his pockmarked face, he glared at Frank over his battered desk. He didn’t stand up or invite Frank to sit down.
“Pete said you’re not a cop, but you look like one.”
Frank smiled. When he’d been a cop that used to annoy him. Now it just amused him. “Private investigator.” He gave Wolinski one of his engraved cards instead of the cheap, printed ones, wanting to make a good impression.
Wolinski eyed it suspiciously. “Pete said you wanted to talk about Pritchard’s murder, but all I know is what I read in the newspapers.”
“Did you know Pritchard?”
“Sure. Everybody in the milk business knows everybody else.”
“What did you think of him?”
“Not much. A holier-than-thou, straitlaced prig, but I didn’t care enough about him to kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Even if he was planning to put you out of business?”
Wolinski found this hilarious, and he laughed until tears leaked out of his squinty little eyes. “Out of business?” he repeated when he’d gotten his breath back, and that set him off again.
Frank waited patiently.
“Sorry,” Wolinski wheezed at last. “But . . . Pritchard couldn’t put me out of business even if he tried.”
“And did he try?”
“I don’t know if he did or not.”
“I was told he was going to report you for selling swill milk.”
“He’s perfectly welcome to do so. Or he was, at least.”
“Isn’t it illegal to sell swill milk?”
“Sure it is, but that’s not what I sell. You can ask the inspectors.” His grin told Frank the inspectors would say whatever Wolinski told them to.
“I see. So you weren’t angry that Pritchard was going to report you?”
“It’s annoying, but like anything else, you pay off the right person and go on about your business. People like cheap milk. If I followed all the rules, I’d have to raise my prices, and my customers would be upset.”
They’d be healthier, too, but Frank didn’t think Wolinski would care. “Can you think of anybody who really was angry with Pritchard?”
“Angry enough to kill him, you mean?” Wolinski shook his head.
Frank had obviously wasted his time coming to Brooklyn. What else could he ask that Wolinski might know? Ah yes. “Any idea why somebody would be driving around the city at night in milk wagons that weren’t delivering milk?”
Now he had Wolinski’s serious attention. “Was Pritchard up to something?”
Maybe Wolinski was simply interested in another potential business opportunity. “Do you think that’s a possibility?”
“With Pritchard? Not likely, but . . .”
“But what?” Frank asked with interest.
“Are Pritchard’s wagons really driving around at night and not delivering milk?”
“Some of them are.”
Wolinski gave this some thought. “I don’t know. That son of his . . .”
“What about him?”
“If something is going on, I’d bet Pritchard didn’t know a thing about it, but the son, he’s a different sort altogether.”
“In what way?”
“In every way. Now, I don’t live in the city, so I just get my news secondhand, you understand. Even still, there’s stories about the boy. What’s his name?”
“Harvey.”
“That’s right, Harvey. He’s a little wild, I hear.”
“He must be very wild if you’ve heard about it all the way in Brooklyn.”
Wolinski grinned. “We’re not all rub
es out here.” His grin suddenly vanished.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Wolinski said, and began to shuffle the papers on his desk.
“You remembered something. What is it?”
Wolinski looked up, his jaw set stubbornly. “I didn’t remember anything.”
“But you thought of somebody who might have been angry enough to kill Pritchard.”
“Not angry, no. Those people are too smart to get angry. But . . . Well, if you want to know what’s going on, you should probably ask Harvey himself. He’s in charge now, isn’t he? He’s the one who would know.”
* * *
• • •
As soon as Maeve got back from taking Catherine to Miss Spence’s School, she and Sarah walked over to the elevated train station and headed down to the clinic. On the way, Sarah told Maeve her idea.
“I thought arranged marriages had gone out of style,” Maeve said when she’d heard it. By then they were seated on the train that whisked them along two stories above the street.
“Not if the bride and groom arrange it themselves.”
“This sounds like you’re the one doing the arranging.”
Which was what Sarah was trying to avoid. “I’m merely going to make the suggestion and see if both parties are interested.”
“And what makes you think they will be?”
“If Miss Vane does not marry, she faces a bleak future. She will also be separated from her child, and she has indicated to me that would cause her great pain.”
“I’ll grant you Miss Vane has every reason to consider your suggestion, but why should Mr. Robinson be interested?”
“Mr. Robinson wants to rise in society, which is difficult for someone with his background.”
“But not impossible,” Maeve pointed out. “Most of the society families in the city got their start with somebody like Black Jack Robinson making a fortune by methods that wouldn’t look too respectable today.”
“Very true. Which makes them even more critical of others seeking to do the same thing. He is well aware of this, which is why he would like to marry a young lady from a good family.”
“Which would give him a leg up,” Maeve said. “I understand that perfectly.”
“But of course the good families don’t want their daughters to marry men like Black Jack Robinson,” Sarah continued.
“Do you think Miss Vane’s family will allow it, considering her circumstances?”
“I have no idea, but I think Miss Vane might be willing to disregard their objections if they are unwilling to give consent.”
“I’m sure she would be, but you still haven’t convinced me Black Jack would be willing.”
“Did you forget? He was planning to marry a young woman in similar circumstances when we met him.”
“And that ended very badly for the young lady, if I recall,” Maeve said. “He wasn’t too pleased either.”
“Yet he sought me out the other day.”
“Maybe he wants to marry you,” Maeve said with a wicked grin.
Sarah did not find that amusing. “I’m sure Malloy would have a thing or two to say about that, but no, he isn’t interested in me at all except as his only connection to the world he would like to be part of. I think he really wanted my advice.”
“About what?”
“About how to accomplish his goals.”
“Did you tell him about your plan?”
“Certainly not! I hadn’t actually formulated it yet, and I wanted to speak to Miss Vane first. But I think he would be interested. And after I’ve spoken to both of them, it will be up to them to decide.”
Maeve shook her head. “I certainly hope you never decide I should get married.”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your matrimonial status.”
The look Maeve gave Sarah said that she didn’t believe her for a moment.
On the walk from the El to the clinic, Sarah made sure to stop and speak to every group of children they passed, earning strange looks from Maeve, who knew perfectly well that was a good way to get your pocket picked or worse.
“What are you doing?” Maeve whispered after they’d engaged with the third group of ragtag street urchins.
“Ensuring that Mr. Robinson knows I’m at the clinic.”
“Are you going to get them together today?” Maeve asked in amazement.
“No, I’m just going to approach her . . . or rather, you’re going to since I can’t be seen to show favoritism by singling out any one of the women with special attention.”
“What?”
“All you need to do is chat her up and see if you can find out if the baby’s father is a factor at all and then see how open she is to considering Jack.”
“To considering an arranged marriage, you mean,” Maeve said.
“Don’t pretend you aren’t thrilled that I’ve asked you to do this. Gino wouldn’t have the first idea how to handle it,” she added to remove any possible objection.
Maeve, knowing exactly how Sarah was manipulating her, groaned, but she said, “Does she have to decide today?”
“She doesn’t have to decide at least until she’s met Jack.”
“Will she meet him today?”
“Of course not. Men aren’t allowed in the clinic, and she certainly isn’t going to traipse out to his carriage to show herself. If all parties are agreeable, I’ll arrange something.”
* * *
• • •
I hope you learned something useful,” Frank said when Gino finally rejoined him at the motorcar. As Gino climbed up into the driver’s seat, Frank wrinkled his nose at the accompanying aroma. “I’m starting to be glad we’re not in a closed carriage.”
“I’m hoping the smell will blow off on the drive home, but I’ll have to clean my shoes to get rid of it altogether. You will not believe what goes on in there.”
“I know about the swill and—”
“You don’t know anything.” Gino shuddered. “Those cows . . . I wondered why they keep them, and now I know. They don’t have to pay to transport the milk and they don’t have to worry about it going bad since it only takes a day or so to get it from the cow to the customer. That means they don’t bother to pasteurize it either, which saves them even more.”
“So Wolinski has plenty of profits to bribe the inspectors with.”
“Do you really think inspectors ever come here?” Gino asked in wonder.
“Probably just to pick up their bribes.”
“That makes sense, because the cows . . .” He shuddered again.
“What about them?” Frank asked, thinking he probably didn’t really want to know.
“They never leave their stalls for their entire lives, and the stalls are . . . Well, just as filthy as you’d expect, and some of the cows are sick. Really sick. And if they get too sick to stand up, they put them in a sling and just keep milking them until . . .” He swallowed. “Until they die.”
Frank glanced over at the dairy, seeing the run-down building in a whole new light. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
• • •
Sarah was disappointed to learn no one was in labor today, but at least she got to see two of the babies who had been born that week. Babies and mothers were all doing well, and the expectant mothers in residence seemed to be thriving. Sooner or later a difficult birth or a mother too worn down by circumstances would result in their first disappointment, but so far the clinic was accomplishing its goal of helping mothers and their babies survive.
Sarah had greeted Jocelyn Vane and inquired about her health but had spent no more time with her than she had with any of the other women. Maeve, on the other hand, had managed a private visit with her, although Sarah noticed she managed to speak privately with at least two other w
omen as well, so her conversation with Miss Vane would not appear extraordinary.
As Sarah had hoped, Black Jack Robinson knocked on the door a couple of hours into her visit, and they’d kept him waiting another hour before allowing him to take her and Maeve home. Sarah noticed Jocelyn Vane was on hand to escort them out. She and Maeve exchanged a conspiratorial look as she opened the door for them, and she waited there to watch Mr. Robinson emerge from the carriage and help Sarah and Maeve inside. She also noticed him noticing Jocelyn with appreciation.
Sarah introduced Maeve as her nanny. “Although she often helps Malloy and me in our investigations.”
“Are you investigating anything interesting at the moment?” Mr. Robinson asked, already interested.
“I’m not sure how interesting it is, but a friend’s father was murdered on New Year’s Eve, and she asked Malloy to help find the killer.”
“The man who owned the dairy? What was his name?”
“Clarence Pritchard.”
“That’s right. I saw it in the newspaper. What a dreadful thing when people aren’t safe on a church lawn.”
“We don’t believe it was a random act,” Sarah said, realizing Black Jack Robinson might have some insights into at least part of the mystery of Mr. Pritchard’s death.
“Really? He wasn’t the victim of an overzealous thief?”
“No, he wasn’t even robbed. In fact, we’ve found several people who might have had a reason to get him out of the way. And, uh . . . May I ask you a question without giving offense?”
This amused him. “I’m not sure. I suppose that depends on the question.”
“Then I’ll ask and you may choose to be offended and not answer.”
“By all means. You have me intrigued now, Mrs. Malloy.”
“Can you think of a reason why someone would need the use of a milk wagon in the city late at night?”
VII
Mr. Robinson was even more amused now. “May I assume this wagon is not delivering milk?”
“Yes, you may assume that. And you may also assume more than one wagon is being used. They leave the dairy with nothing in them at a time when the dairy is usually closed.”
Murder on Trinity Place Page 11
