Murder on Washington Square

12

SARAH WENT TO HER PARENTS’ HOUSE EARLY, HOPING TO catch her father before he left for the day. She didn’t question why she needed to see him so badly. She only knew she did. She’d spent a restless night after the unpleasant scene at the Ellsworths. Lying awake, she’d remembered every word they’d said, how Mrs. Ellsworth had wept, and how devastated Nelson had looked when he realized that even if he was cleared of murder, he would most certainly lose his position. Most likely, he’d also never get another, no matter how discreet Richard Dennis was.

Only in the wee hours of the morning, when she was exhausted and half-sick with worry, did she remember what was probably the most remarkable part of a very remarkable day. How could she have forgotten? As distracted as she was by everything else, surely having Frank Malloy call her beautiful was the most memorable event she could recall in her recent history.

How extraordinary that he should say such a thing! Especially so because Sarah wasn’t beautiful at all. She’d long ago come to terms with that. In her youth she’d been pretty enough, she supposed, because health and youth and good nature combined to make one attractive. But then her sister had died so horribly, and Sarah had grown solemn. Determined not to waste her life, she’d put aside vanities that had no place in her new world.

Tom, of course, had thought her beautiful, but he had been blinded by love. What could have possessed Malloy, however, was a mystery. A delightful mystery, though. When Sarah remembered Malloy’s outrage over Richard Dennis’s behavior, she felt the strangest heat building inside of her. She needed a moment to recognize it for what it was-pure pleasure! And to her dismay, she realized she was actually blushing just at the memory of it!

She glanced around the crowded railroad car to see if anyone had noticed the color rising in her face, but fortunately, no one was paying her the slightest attention. Quickly, she put her gloved hands on her cheeks to cool them and glanced out the window at the houses passing so quickly and so closely by. To distract herself from disturbing thoughts, she watched for a glimpse of the occupants of the third-floor apartments passing by at eye level and tried to imagine a history for each of them.

By the time she reached her parents’ town house on the Upper West Side, she had almost succeeded in forgetting Malloy’s strange behavior.

As she had expected, her mother hadn’t roused herself yet, but her father was still at breakfast, reading the morning newspapers in solitary splendor in the dining room.

“Sarah,” he said, rising to his feet when the maid announced her. He seemed pleased to see her, although his natural reserve made it hard to tell. “What brings you out so early?”

“I was hoping to have a word with you,” she said, taking a seat in the chair he pulled out for her at the table.

“You’ll join me for breakfast, I hope.”

“I’ve already eaten, thank you.”

He instructed the maid to bring her some tea anyway and resumed his own seat. “This sounds serious,” he said with a frown. “I don’t believe you’ve ever made a special effort to have a word with me about anything.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” she assured him. “I just have some questions to ask you about… about embezzlement.”

“Embezzlement?” he echoed in surprise. “Why? Are you thinking of trying your hand at it?”

Sarah couldn’t help smiling at the thought, in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “Of course not, Father. It’s just that… well, my friend Mr. Ellsworth has now been accused of it, in addition to everything else.”

He absorbed this information. “The accusation, did it come from Richard Dennis?”

“I’m afraid so. He called in auditors to check the books on Monday morning, just to be certain everything was in order since… You see, the murdered woman was trying to blackmail Mr. Ellsworth.”

“I see. Then that would be a sensible precaution for the bank to take. And the auditors did find some discrepancies, I presume.”

“According to Mr. Dennis, they found ten thousand dollars missing.”

Her father frowned. “That’s a lot of blackmail.”

“Exactly my reaction. The woman had only asked for one thousand. I can’t believe Nelson would have been so foolish. He’s honest to a fault, Father. He’d never take money that didn’t belong to him, but even if he did, he certainly would have more sense than to take so much, particularly when he didn’t need it. He would know that someone would eventually discover the theft, and he’d be caught.”

“But if he was desperate…”

“He wasn’t desperate. Father, the woman claimed to be carrying his child, and he was willing and able to marry her. Why would he steal money from his employer to pay blackmail when he wanted to marry the woman?”

“You’re right, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“But Nelson Ellsworth isn’t in a position to prove his innocence of anything at the moment. Mr. Dennis isn’t planning to press charges against him, but he’ll still dismiss him from the bank because of the missing money. Nelson will be ruined, and he’ll never be able to find a decent job again.”

Her father took a sip of his coffee and studied her. “I suppose there’s something you want me to do about all this.”

Sarah sighed. “I’m not even sure there’s anything you can do. I guess I was just hoping you might have some advice to offer.”

Her father stared at her for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet in a way she’d never heard it before. “I’m gratified that you have come to me, Sarah. A father wants his children to have confidence in his abilities to handle difficult situations.”

She hadn’t realized it, but that’s exactly what she’d done. Once her father had seemed the most powerful person on earth to her. She’d lost respect for that power when she’d seen him misuse it with her sister, but still, deep down where her childhood memories were buried, she believed he could do anything. “I do have confidence in you, Father,” she admitted. “But it isn’t fair of me to ask you to help with this.”

“Quite truthfully, I’m not certain I can. Young Dennis isn’t likely to take advice from me about how to run his business. He’d see it as interference, and he’d be right. Going to his father about this would be even worse. I’m not sure I could even make discreet inquiries without offending them.”

“I guess I knew that,” she said. “I just didn’t want to believe it. Please forgive me for putting you in an awkward position.”

“Nonsense,” he said, brushing away her apology. “I’ll give the matter some thought and see what I can do. I can’t make any promises, mind you, but-”

“Oh, Father, I’m not asking for any promises. But I don’t even know anything about embezzlement. If I did, perhaps I could… I don’t know, do something,” she said in exasperation.

“I’m glad to say I know very little about it myself, but I can at least obtain that information with relative ease. I’ll take lunch at my club today. Someone there will be only too happy to enlighten me on the subject, I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Father. I’d be so grateful.”

He peered at her over his coffee cup. “No reason to be grateful, my dear. Now go upstairs and see your mother. I’ll send you word when I’ve learned something useful.”

Frank wasn’t sure what he was going to do with the information Nelson Ellsworth had given him about the missing money. But first he had to clear the man of murder, or stolen money would be the least of his problems.

Frank had gotten out of the cab, leaving Nelson to make his way home alone, and headed for Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. He wanted to find Harold Giddings, but he knew he’d have to wait until the end of the work-day. His mother would never tell him where he was working today, even if she knew, which was unlikely. In the meantime, he might as well do the job he was being paid to do.

A black Maria was pulling up at the door of Police Headquarters when Frank arrived at Mulberry Street. The closed carriage held the last of the drunks that had been collected off the city streets from the night before. The boys from the press shacks across the street leaned out their windows to see if they recognized any of the faces as someone who might make a good story. Frank pulled his hat lower in an attempt to escape notice as he made his way quickly inside, just in case someone recognized him as being a good source for a story about Anna Blake’s murder.

The desk sergeant looked up when he entered, nodding his greeting with a bored expression. Frank wished him good morning.

“About time you showed up, Malloy,” the sergeant said. “Some drunk’s been asking for you all night.”

“A drunk? What’s his name?”

“How should I know? Just some drunk. Said you’d vouch for him and we should let him go.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t,” Frank said with a grin.

“Hell, I figured we should send him to the Tombs for life just for knowing you,” the sergeant said, grinning back.

Frank was going to head upstairs to the detectives’ office, but then he remembered one drunk in particular who might have had him uppermost in his mind this week. He wasn’t sure why Gilbert Giddings would think he could trade on his acquaintance with Frank for a favor, but if he was the drunk downstairs, it wouldn’t hurt to find out. He might be grateful enough to tell him where his son could be found, if he even knew. Or he might have remembered something new about Anna Blake. “Is this fellow still downstairs?”

“Locked up tight,” the sergeant said, turning his attention to the parade of drunks and derelicts being herded in the front door.

Frank made his way down to the cellar of the large, square building, two floors below the street, where the dark, stinking cells held those unfortunate enough to have come to the attention of the police. Strong men had been known to break down and confess to the most heinous crimes to avoid being locked in these cells-or to escape from them to the relative pleasantness of the dismal City Jail.

A quick inquiry of the jailer on duty led him to a cell filled with slowly sobering inmates where he did, indeed, find Gilbert Giddings sleeping off his night’s revelries.

“You know him?” the officer asked.

Frank nodded. “Has he ever been here before?”

“Him?” the jailer scoffed. “He’s here once a week or more. When he runs out of money, he starts bothering other patrons at whatever bar he’s at. They get annoyed, and the next thing you know, the paddy wagon takes them all away.”

A new thought occurred to Frank. “Was he here last Tuesday night?”

“I could check.”

“Thanks. Meanwhile, open the door. I want to have a word with the gentleman.”

The jailer unlocked the cell and went off to check on Giddings’s records. Frank stepped into the cell, which was crammed with men curled and huddled in varying degrees of misery on nearly every square foot. Snores alternated with snivels and groans, and the smell of unwashed bodies and vomit rose up like a miasma. Frank stepped over a mass of rags that served as clothing for the man beneath it, and kicked Gilbert Giddings sharply on the hip.

He awoke with a start and looked around in alarm. His red-rimmed eyes quickly found Frank, looming over him, but he needed another moment to recognize him. “Mr. Malloy,” he said, his voice hoarse from sleep and excess. He tried to scramble to his feet, but quickly gave up the effort as his head protested painfully. Holding it in both hands, he looked up at Frank again.

“Can you get me out of here? I can’t… this is so humiliating. A man in my position…”

“You don’t have a position, remember?” Frank reminded him. “You gave it up for Anna Blake.”

To Frank’s disgust, the bloodshot eyes filled with tears. “I loved her, Malloy. I would’ve done anything for her.”

“Even leave your wife and son?”

Giddings winced at that. “I wanted to, but she wouldn’t let me,” he confessed. “She was too honorable.”

Frank didn’t bother to argue the point. Let Giddings believe what he wanted. “I guess your family was grateful for her sacrifice,” he said instead.

“They… they didn’t understand. I can’t blame them, I suppose. They lost so much.”

“You son seems more angry than your wife,” Frank observed. “He doesn’t think much of your Miss Blake.”

“He’s young,” Giddings excused him. “He doesn’t know much about life.”

“He knows about his life, and his mother’s. He knows how you and Anna Blake ruined both of them. He must hate her.”

“He doesn’t even know her.”

Frank wondered if Giddings really didn’t know. “Yes, he does. He met her at least once.”

Giddings stared blearily at Frank, not certain he’d understood correctly. “Harold couldn’t have met her.”

“But he did. Went to her house on the night she died. What do you suppose he wanted?” Frank asked.

One of the drunks nearby started coughing. The sound was raw and painful to hear, and Frank couldn’t help wondering what disease he might be carrying.

Giddings was looking at the coughing drunk with distaste, probably unaware that he himself looked no better than the filthy, unshaven wretch. At last the coughing stopped, and Giddings looked up at Frank again. “Harold didn’t know her,” he insisted.

“Then why did he kill her?”

This time Giddings reacted in a normal way. His eyes grew large, first with surprise, then with fury. He even made a valiant effort to rise, ready to confront Frank, but Frank hooked his foot behind Giddings’s heel and sent him sprawling back to the floor again.

Gasping with pain from his aching head and his bruised ego, Giddings glared at Frank. “Harold couldn’t kill anyone. He’s just a boy.”

“You better take a good look at him next time you’re home,” Frank advised. “He’s not a boy anymore. He’s taken your place as the man of the family.”

Giddings winced at the accusation, but he didn’t back down. “He didn’t kill Anna!” he insisted.

“How do you know? Is it because you killed her yourself?”

Giddings’s jaw dropped, but before he could speak, the jailer called to Frank.

“He was here Tuesday night. Came in around nine o’clock.”

“That’s pretty early,” Frank said, a little disappointed. Of course, that still would have given him time to kill Anna, since the landlady had said she’d left the house before dark.

“He got into a bar fight. He’d been hanging around all evening, cadging drinks, but he didn’t have any money of his own, so the crowd got tired of him. Threw him out into the street, but he kept coming back in. The beat cop took him in.”

Frank looked down at Giddings. “That was the night Anna died. You told me you couldn’t remember what happened that night. What were you doing in the bar?”

He looked up, his eyes resentful. “I didn’t remember everything. I went to visit Anna that day, but she wouldn’t see me. They wouldn’t even let me in. That woman, Mrs. Walcott, told me not to come back again, that Anna was going away.”

“So you went to the bar?”

“I couldn’t go home. My wife… she doesn’t understand. So I went out.”

“How did you get into a fight?”

“I told you, I don’t remember anything after I left her house until I woke up here the next morning.”

“Did you try to see Anna that day?”

“I wanted to, but I was too sick. I had to wait until the next morning.”

“That’s when we met,” Frank guessed, remembering how frantic Giddings had been to find her.

Giddings nodded and rubbed his head again, unable to meet Frank’s penetrating gaze.

“So that means even if you could remember, you wouldn’t know if your son went out to see Anna Blake that night or not,” Frank said.

This brought Giddings’s head up, his eyes wild with fury. “My son didn’t even know where she lived! If you try to blame him for this, just because you can’t find her real killer, I’ll have your job!”

Frank didn’t bother to point out that he was no longer in a position to be any danger to Frank’s job. He had more important things to think about. Frank had been hoping that Giddings would turn out to be the one who’d killed Anna. It was still possible, since Giddings claimed not to remember what he’d done that evening. He’d had time to find her and kill her before going to the bar. And if he couldn’t remember killing Anna, he could have been truly surprised to learn later that she was dead. That would explain why he’d acted like an innocent man the morning Frank had first seen him. But the boy was still a good suspect, too, and Frank knew for certain he’d seen Anna that night. “Your wife said you were home with her and your son the night Anna died, Giddings,” Frank said. “Now why would she say that?”

Giddings rubbed his temples. “She’s a good woman. She doesn’t deserve this.”

Frank gave him another light kick to get his attention. “Where is your son working today?”

Giddings started up stupidly. “How should I know?”

That’s what he’d expected, but he still didn’t like it. He stepped back over the ragged bundle of a man sleeping between him and the door. The fellow hadn’t stirred during the entire conversation, which meant he was either dead drunk or just dead. Frank walked out of the cell, and the jailer closed the door behind him.

“Keep that one until I tell you to let him go,” Frank said, indicating Giddings.

Giddings blinked, still rubbing his head. “I thought you were going to let me go,” he said.

“Didn’t anybody ever warn you that liquor makes you stupid?” Frank asked, then turned away. He needed some fresh air.

From her parents’ house on Fifty-Seventh Street, Sarah took the Sixth Avenue Elevated Train down to Twenty-Sixth Street and walked over to Bellevue Hospital to visit Webster Prescott. As she’d feared, he was in a fever and didn’t seem to know who she was. She forced some soup down his throat and bathed him with cool water. Then she put some hot compresses on his wound, to draw out the inflammation that was poisoning him. When she left, he seemed to be sleeping more comfortably. She told the nurses she’d be back to check on him later, hoping that would motivate them to give him better than average care in the meantime.

She’d posted the letter to Prescott’s aunt that morning. With any luck, the woman would receive it in the afternoon mail and be over to visit him tomorrow. Until then, Sarah would keep a close watch on him. Breathing a silent prayer for his recovery, she left the hospital and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk when she realized she had no idea what to do next.

Malloy, she knew, was going to find Mr. Giddings’s son and try to get him to confess to Anna’s murder. Sarah should have been relieved. Once the murder was solved, they could concentrate on solving up the embezzlement at the bank and clearing Nelson’s name once and for all.

But she didn’t feel relieved. She’d never met this boy, but for some reason she couldn’t believe he’d killed Anna Blake. And she also couldn’t shake off the feeling that she’d left something undone. She thought she knew what it was, too. She’d never gone back to the Walcott house to question Catherine Porter or the maid again. They must know more than they’d told her that first time. The maid hadn’t been there, of course, but Catherine had. And she’d been Anna’s friend, or the closest thing she’d had to one, at any rate. Maybe, if pressed, Catherine could provide a possible reason why Anna might have gone out to the Square that night. Sarah couldn’t shake off the feeling that once she knew that reason, she would understand what had happened to Anna Blake. Or at least she’d have a clue as to who might have killed her. And why.

Pulling her cape more tightly around her, Sarah set off toward the Second Avenue Elevated for a quick trip downtown to the Walcott house.

All the way down on the train, she tried to decide what she should ask the women if she was fortunate enough to get in to ask them anything at all. Catherine might not be home, or the maid might not admit her. If the Walcotts were home, they might throw her bodily into the street. Without Malloy, she had no official reason to question them, and they would surely know it. In fact, she was probably foolish to even consider this. On the other hand, she couldn’t just go back to her house and wait. She had to do something.

With some trepidation, Sarah climbed the steps to the Walcotts’ front door and knocked. After what seemed a very long time, the door opened, and the maid looked out to see who was there.

“Good morning,” Sarah said, not really sure it was still morning but willing to take the chance. “Is Miss Porter in?”

The maid was frowning, trying to place her. Sarah smiled benignly, praying she wouldn’t be able to. Finally, the girl said, “You’re that lady what was here before about Miss Blake. You come with that policeman.”

Sarah managed not to flinch. “That’s right. Miss Porter asked me to call when I was by this way again,” she lied.

The girl looked doubtful, but she said. “Come in, please, and I’ll see if Miss Porter’s at home.”

Sarah stepped inside, as bidden, but the maid left her standing in the hallway instead of inviting her to have a seat in the parlor, silently telling her she might not really be welcome. Of course, the maid knew perfectly well whether or not Catherine Porter was at home. What she’d meant was that she would check to see if Miss Porter was at home to Mrs. Brandt. If Miss Porter didn’t wish to see her, she would simply instruct the maid to say she wasn’t at home. It was a convenient fiction that saved people from having to be overtly rude but still allowed them some control over their social lives.

Sarah wasn’t quite sure what she would do if Miss Porter refused to see her. She could always force her way past the maid and go upstairs and find the poor woman, cowering in her room. Such an approach was hardly likely to result in Sarah being able to elicit information from Miss Porter, however. She was smiling at the thought when she heard the maid coming down the stairs again. To Sarah’s relief, Catherine Porter was right behind her.

She did look wary, Sarah noted, so Sarah smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “Good morning, Miss Porter. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“What do you want?” Catherine Porter asked when she was halfway down the stairs, not bothering with the usual social niceties.

A very good question, and one Sarah didn’t dare answer truthfully. “I was hoping you would have a few minutes to visit with me. We’re still trying to find out who killed poor Miss Blake, and I thought perhaps you might be able to help.”

“I already told everyone, I was asleep when she went out that night,” she said defensively. She came down a few more steps, though. Sarah could see now that she wore a housedress and her hair wasn’t done, so she hadn’t been planning on going out or receiving visitors.

Sarah knew Catherine was probably lying about having been asleep, since Anna had left the house in the early evening, but she decided to work up to that question. “I thought perhaps you’d overheard Anna’s argument with the young man who came to see her that evening,” she tried. She glanced at the maid, who was still hovering, unwilling to miss this conversation, although she should have discreetly withdrawn by now.

For some reason, Catherine glanced at the maid, too, as if looking for reassurance. “Is Mrs. Walcott at home?” she asked the girl.

“No, ma’am. She went out early. Said she wouldn’t be back for a while,” the girl replied.

Catherine came down the rest of the stairs. “I guess I could spare a few minutes,” she allowed. “Although it won’t do you any good. I don’t know anything that will help.” She glanced at the maid again. “Go back to work. It’s all right.”

The maid nodded reluctantly, then slipped away down the hall. Catherine Porter led Sarah into the parlor and closed the doors behind them. When she turned, Sarah instantly saw the change in her. The last time they had met, Catherine had been worried, but now she looked almost frightened. Her face was pale and lines of strain had formed around her mouth. Her youth and health had been her most appealing features, but those seemed to have faded, leaving her worn and lifeless.

“I don’t know anything about Anna’s death,” she said before Sarah could even think of which question she wanted to ask first.

“You said you were asleep when Anna left the house that night. What time do you usually retire?”

“I don’t know. Nine o’clock. Or ten, maybe. I don’t pay attention. I go to bed when I’m tired.” She walked over to the sofa and sank down wearily.

“You go to bed after dark, though,” Sarah guessed, taking a seat opposite her.

“Sure. I’m not a farmer,” she said derisively. She was lying, then, about having been asleep when Anna left the house, which meant she’d also been lying about not knowing why Anna had left.

“I guess you got in the habit of staying up late when you worked in the theater,” Sarah tried.

“You have to,” she said. “The plays are at night, and by the time you get changed and out of the… Wait, how did you know I worked in the theater?” Her eyes widened, and she looked wary.

“You told me,” Sarah reminded her, smiling with what she hoped was reassurance. “Your friend Irene said you and Anna and Francine were all actresses.”

“Irene,” Catherine scoffed. “She’s no friend of mine.”

“Was Francine a friend of yours?”

“I knew her, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did you live here when she did?”

“She left before I came.”

“Where did she go?” Sarah asked, wondering if this Francine might be able to tell her anything.

“I don’t know. Some place in the country. She got a rich man to take care of her, so she left.”

Sarah could just imagine. Most likely, the “rich” man was no longer rich, nor was he spending time with Francine anymore. “Is that what you were planning to do? Find some rich man to take care of you?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Catherine pointed out. “Lots of women do it!”

Lots of women in every class did it, Sarah would have to admit. Becoming a rich man’s mistress, or his wife, was one of the few opportunities women had of escaping poverty. Sarah didn’t feel like discussing this with Catherine, however. “Did Mr. Walcott court you the way he courted Anna?” she asked to change the subject.

“I don’t know what you mean.” This time the fear in her eyes was too real to mistake. “Mr. Walcott is… he’s a married man.”

“Married or not, he used to hang around the theater, waiting for Anna and bringing her flowers. Did he do that for you, too?”

Catherine glanced at the parlor doors. Was she worried that someone might be eavesdropping? Or was she worried about something else? “He just… he offered me a place to live. That’s all. He said he ran a respectable boarding house and I’d like it here.”

“Because you could entertain your gentleman callers upstairs with his approval?” Sarah asked mildly.

Catherine didn’t like these questions. “I told you, this is a respectable house.”

“Not according to the men who used to call on Anna Blake,” Sarah said. “They were both permitted above stairs with the full knowledge of the landlords. I can’t say for certain what went on in Anna’s room, but I do know that both gentlemen in question believed they had gotten Anna with child. This would indicate to me they were intimate with her.”

“That was Anna, not me,” she insisted.

Sarah decided not to press the issue. “Did you see the young man who visited Anna the night she died?”

“Yeah, but I never saw him before. He wasn’t a regular…” She caught herself and quickly added, “I mean, he’d never been here that I ever saw.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Looked like a common laborer, if you ask me. Mary didn’t want to let him in, but he pushed his way past her and started shouting for Anna.”

“Didn’t you ask her who he was?”

Catherine glared at Sarah. At any moment she might realize she didn’t really have to sit here and answer these questions. Sarah had no authority at all, but she didn’t betray any hint of that. She glared right back at Catherine determinedly. Finally, she said, “Anna said he was Mr. Giddings’s son.”

“Who was Mr. Giddings?” Sarah asked, managing to conceal her feeling of triumph and hoping Catherine wouldn’t remember that Sarah had been here the morning Giddings had come looking for Anna.

“One of her… a friend of hers. He helped her with some… some business matters.”

“I see,” Sarah said, seeing more than that. “And what did the boy want with her?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t my business.”

“Did he go upstairs with her?” Sarah asked, remembering that the coroner had said she’d been with a man shortly before her death.

“Not likely! Not the way they was fighting!”

“They were arguing? What about?”

“I wasn’t listening on purpose,” she said, defensive again, “but he was shouting. It was hard not to hear what he was saying.”

“And what was he saying?”

“He wanted her to leave his father alone. He said there was no more money. I think… he said something about her giving the money back, I think. And he…”

“He what?”

“He said…” Catherine took a deep breath. “He’d kill her if she didn’t.”