A Death of No Importance--A Novel

by Mariah Fredericks

  “We put him over here,” said Officer Shenck, leading me to a remote corner. “We don’t get so many young women in here. We thought it’d be safer for you.”

  I looked to the spot the officer indicated. There were two empty seats. I looked questioningly at him, and he said, “He’ll be along shortly.” Then, scratching his ear, he said, “Mind if I ask your interest in the case?”

  “He delivered ice to the house where I work,” I said vaguely. I had caught sight of Mr. Pawlicec. He was brought in through a side door, looking broken and shambling. Seeing me, he smiled broadly in surprise, showing the loss of not a few teeth.

  When he had been seated, the guard began to chain him to the table. I said, “Do you have to? I’m not afraid.”

  The guard continued his business. I smiled apologetically at Mr. Pawlicec, who shrugged inside his overlarge prison uniform. It seemed to me his shaving-brush hair was patchier than it had been, his face thin and gray. Except for a large purple bruise under his eye. Still, he smiled at me as if we had simply run into each other on the street and sat down for a chat.

  The guard finished and stepped back to stand against the wall; he still felt too close for privacy, but I knew he would not budge. It was hard in the din of so many people to keep my voice down and be heard, but I tried.

  “I’m sorry,” I began.

  Mr. Pawlicec leaned in to hear better. The guard brought his baton down on the edge of the table, and he sat back.

  “I’m sorry,” I said more loudly. “About your nephew. I didn’t know.”

  At the mention of his nephew, the wide, crooked smile vanished, and Mr. Pawlicec seemed to lose all liveliness. Finally he said, “I had a picture. I would show you, but they took it away.”

  “I’ll try to get it back for you.”

  “Thank you. I would like it when”—he tried to smile—“at the end.”

  The resigned way he spoke of his own execution spurred me to ask, “Why did you confess?”

  Surprised to be asked, he said, “I am guilty.”

  “But you’re not. I know you’re not.”

  He shook his head. “You think you know this.”

  “No, I do. And even if I’m wrong, and the person I suspect is not guilty, I know that you are not guilty. For one thing, Norrie Newsome was drugged. I have proof.”

  “The rich, they take all kinds of things. Maybe to ease their conscience.”

  “Norrie had no conscience. Someone gave him something to make it easier to kill him. You carry ice for a living, Mr. Pawlicec. You’re very strong. You would have had no need to drug Norrie Newsome to kill him. And no opportunity.”

  “I had tongs. They did the work for me.”

  “And what did you do with those tongs? They must have been dripping with blood. How did you get them out of the house?”

  “I wrap them in my coat.”

  “Where is that coat now?”

  “I throw it away.”

  “I saw you at Anna’s uncle’s restaurant after the murder, Mr. Pawlicec. You had it then. I noticed it hanging over the back of your chair.”

  “After,” he stammered. “I throw it away after that.”

  “Are you so rich that you can afford to throw away an unstained coat?”

  “There were stains,” he said.

  “No, there weren’t,” I said. “Because you never killed Norrie Newsome.”

  He was quiet a long time. I barely heard him as he murmured, “I wanted to.”

  “Wanting and doing are not the same. Why did you lie to the police? Did they threaten you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because they believed I had done it.” He met my eye. “And that was a great gift to me.”

  I sat back, stunned. “How could that be a gift?”

  He frowned, and I had the feeling he was struggling to work his thoughts through the words of English he knew. Finally he said, “Do you have a brother or sister?”

  “No.”

  “… Family?”

  “An uncle.”

  He nodded. “My brother Leon was the oldest. He came here first. After him, me and my sister. He found us a place to live, he found us jobs. He took care of us. Like a father. You understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He worked hard. Too hard. He got the—” He pointed his chest to indicate his lungs. “But when he dies, he doesn’t have anything. So his wife, she says to Janusz, my nephew, now you have to go to work. I am in New York, I am working, I don’t think about it. But after Janusz dies, I think, how did I let that happen? Leon took care of me. But I don’t take care of his son. For years, I think about that.

  “You can say I didn’t do it. But I should have. Not the son, I would not have killed the son. But the father—I should have killed him. I switched routes so that I would be able to get into the house.” He looked down at his chained hands. “But I didn’t have the courage. I went into that house and I left it with that man still alive. I let Janusz’s murderer live. If there were a God, I would thank him for my boss calling the police. I would thank that God for having me arrested. Because now, they will understand that we can kill also. Now they know what it is when someone destroys your children and does not see anything wrong with that. And now—they are afraid.”

  “Frightened people do terrible things, Mr. Pawlicec. Fear doesn’t make them kinder.”

  “But maybe it makes them change—in order to survive. And if not, well, in the end, there are more of us.”

  He glanced at the guard, who had long ago turned his attention elsewhere. “Please, Miss Prescott. You would not have come here if you did not…”

  He struggled with the words, and I said, “I want to help you, Mr. Pawlicec.”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes, and you can help me. By saying nothing. Whatever it is you think, whatever proof you have, stay silent. Let me be tried, let me be guilty.”

  “They will execute you.” He did not react. “Do you know that word?”

  Swallowing, he nodded.

  “It will not be quick,” I said.

  “I know.” He nodded to himself as if to clear his head of the images that had come into his mind. “And that is why, if you could, I would like very much to have Janusz’s picture. When that time comes, I will be afraid, and I might think, no, tell them the truth. Tell them you are a coward. Tell them to go to Miss Prescott. But if I can look at Janusz, and remember, I will be strong.”

  “You are asking me to help you die.”

  He dropped his head. “Yes. I am sorry.”

  I tried another argument. “The person who did this is probably very wealthy. Wouldn’t it make more sense to show the world that the rich can be cruel?”

  “The world knows. It just doesn’t believe it’s possible to do anything. This will show them that it is possible.”

  “Your sister—does she believe in what you are doing?”

  His smile was sad. “She does not believe I did it either. She says she will tell everyone I am innocent. But no one will believe her.”

  “Do you think it’s fair to her, to lose both her brothers?”

  “No, it is not fair. But it wasn’t my choice. I didn’t surrender to the police. It was only when they arrested me and I saw there was no chance of convincing them that I was innocent that I decided not to try. For once, injustice will work in our favor.” He patted my hand. “Anna can explain it better.”

  I knew that to keep talking was pointless. Mr. Pawlicec was convinced of the rightness of what he was doing—and even if he wavered, Inspector Blackburn was also convinced. The world had the story it wanted, and the person who had the most to lose did not care to tell them otherwise.

  And yet I stayed on the hard bench, because I knew when I walked away, it would be the last time I ever saw Josef Pawlicec alive.

  “Time, miss.” The guard was back at the table. Hoisting Mr. Pawlicec to his feet, he added, “Say your good-byes.”

  There w
as nothing more to say, and yet when told I had to leave, I felt panicked. My hands and Mr. Pawlicec’s were raised with the unconscious intention of shaking hands good-bye. But he was pulled back before our hands met, leaving the space empty between us.

  I shouted, “I will get your nephew’s picture back.”

  He nodded as he was turned around, called, “Thank you,” over his shoulder. Then they led him through a metal door and he was gone.

  * * *

  I don’t remember much after that, except the sound of the doors as they slammed behind me one after the other on the walk back. As I found myself back on the street, I was startled by the noise of the traffic, the brightness of the winter sun, the chill air on my face. Disoriented, I walked for some time, trying to shake the feeling that I had just woken up with no knowledge of what had happened as I slept.

  “It’s Jane, isn’t it?”

  A woman’s voice, cultured and concerned. I looked in its direction. And saw Lucinda Newsome, bent slightly, a gloved hand raised as if to steady me.

  I must have nodded, because she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I … yes.” Dazed by the sudden appearance of a young woman I had recently envisioned spooning her father to his death, I looked up at the street signs. I had wandered to Eldridge Street, not too far from my uncle’s refuge.

  “You’re surprised to see me here,” she said, placing her hand back inside her muff.

  Her frankness made it difficult not to respond in kind. “Yes.”

  “I volunteer at the Rivington Street Settlement House. I teach immigrant children.”

  “That’s … very admirable.”

  “No, it’s not. I teach singing, which is absurd, but it’s all they’ll let me do. I take a great interest in the immigrant community—working women, especially.”

  She made this declaration with some defiance, as if she expected ridicule. When I didn’t answer, she looked down at her hidden hands and added, “Given what my family’s done, it is literally the very least I can do. Coming down here is the only time I don’t feel ashamed.”

  A reassuring pleasantry came to mind, but I resisted. The young woman wanted to be truthful—and I wanted to hear what she had to say.

  She took a step toward me. “You might not believe this, but I didn’t know anything about the Shickshinny Mine until the notes came. I didn’t even know we owned mines. What my father did, where our money came from, it was all sort of … business to me. When Norrie told me about the death threats, I actually said, ‘Why would anyone want to hurt us? What have we done?’ He said, ‘Well, the slobs of Shickshinny feel differently.’ I had no idea what he meant. He wouldn’t tell me either. I had to go to a library and look it up in old newspapers. Can you imagine? Such criminal ignorance?”

  I was about to say I hadn’t heard about Shickshinny at Mrs. Armslow’s when she burst out, “We never spoke of it! Eight children, a hundred men dead…”

  Emotion choked her words, and she stared at the pavement to compose herself. Finally she managed, “It eats away at you, knowing everything you have, everything you see around you, the beautiful dresses, the endless food, the warmth, is because you’ve used up a life and tossed it away. Our family talks endlessly about all the good we’ve done this country. The fact is, the world would be far better off without us.”

  “Did your brother feel as you do?”

  “No. He didn’t. When I told him I knew the truth about Shickshinny, he just shrugged as if it had nothing to do with us. I was astonished. No, appalled. You probably think I’ve been unkind to Charlotte Benchley, but she brought out the worst in my brother. If they had married, I feel certain his life would have been wasted in luxury and excess.”

  “You tried to talk to him the night he died.” Lucinda pressed her lips together and looked intently at a spot in the distance. It was no use; the tears fell anyway. “What did you want to talk to him about?”

  Embarrassed by her tears, she tried to smile. “… Atonement?”

  “You needn’t feel responsible for what your family has done.”

  “Oh, I have blood on my hands,” she said, gazing down at her muff, which, now that I looked, was indeed very beautiful and no doubt cost the earth.

  20

  That evening when I returned to the Benchley house, I went straight to my room, pulled off my shoes, and lay down on my bed. For a long, long time, I took in the cracked plaster of the ceiling, the brown patch of damp in the corner, the rattle of the windowpane. I thought about guilt. I thought about justice. And Norrie’s ruined face, the broken, bloody teeth, the gouged holes where eyes had been.

  A knock on the door brought me back. “Yes?”

  The door creaked open and Louise appeared. Sitting up, I stammered, “Did you ring? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—”

  “No, I didn’t ring.” She gestured to the desk chair. “Is it all right if I…?”

  Moving it closer to her, I said, “Of course, please.” No family member had ever visited my room before. I wasn’t certain as to the protocol.

  She sat. Then said, “I’m not disturbing you? I know it’s your day off.”

  “No, no. I … company is very welcome.”

  “Just you’ve been out so much since we got back from Philadelphia, I hardly ever see you.”

  “Miss Charlotte has kept me busy,” I acknowledged.

  “Yes. She got another invitation just this morning. Well, this one was for all of us. Lucinda’s birthday party.”

  “Birthday party?”

  “I know, it’s very strange, but her stepmother wanted it. And her grandmother. Norrie’s death has been so hard on her, maybe they think it will cheer her up.”

  Hard on her, yes, I thought. But perhaps not for the reasons her family imagined. Had that overwrought, guilty young woman lashed out at her brother once she realized the extent of his callousness? Was her father’s overdose an accident or part of her “atonement”? If the latter, just how far would she take her crusade?

  Louise broke into my thoughts, saying, “Charlotte says Lucinda’s never liked her, she doesn’t see why she should celebrate her being born. But Mother says we can’t give offense when the whole city feels so badly for them.”

  The whole family would be gathered, I thought, with Lucinda the center of attention. “Miss Louise, will you tell me something?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember your mother’s Pep Pills? The ones that went missing? You told me you didn’t remember what happened to them.”

  Louise looked away. “Is it important?”

  “If it matters enough to lie about, I think it could be important. Don’t you?”

  “The reason I lied has nothing to do with the murder. But I promised…”

  “Who did you promise, Miss Louise?” She looked unhappy. “It was Lucinda Newsome, wasn’t it? You gave her the pills?”

  “No,” she said surprised. “It was Rose Newsome.”

  “Rose.” Stupidly, I echoed the name, hoping against hope Louise would correct herself.

  But she nodded. “The new Mrs. Newsome. I’d just realized I’d come down without my gloves, and I was feeling so terribly self-conscious about my hands, trying to find a way to get rid of the bottle, and she saw me holding it behind my back. She said, ‘What’s that? Something secret?’ I never expected her to be so nice. As if we’d been friends forever.”

  I nodded, knowing just that tone of voice.

  “And when I showed her how I’d forgotten my gloves, she laughed and told me a story about how she’d stepped out of her shoe at some important dinner she attended with Mr. Newsome. She said, ‘To be honest, that’s why we ran off to Europe. Like Cinderella, I’d lost my slipper! Only no fairy godmother for me to make it right.’”

  “Then she said, ‘But tonight I will be your fairy godmother.’ And she sent one of the servants off to get me a pair of gloves.”

  “That was very kind of her.”

  “I know. So when she asked, ‘A
nd what’s that little bottle there?’ I told her it was Pep Pills and how I was to give them to Charlotte, only I couldn’t find Charlotte…”

  “And then?”

  “She said she’d just seen Charlotte and she would give them to her. But I should stay where I was, hiding, until the maid brought me the gloves. Then she got this worried look on her face, and I said, ‘What?’ She said, ‘Will you do me a great favor?’ I said of course, because she’d been so kind to me. She said, ‘Please don’t tell anyone I have these.’ She said there were people at the party who thought badly of her, and if I told anyone I’d given them to her, they’d be straight off to tell her mother-in-law she was taking pills.”

  “And you promised,” I said.

  “I did. But I feel badly that I lied to you about it. Was it important?”

  “Yes, Miss Louise. I think it was.”

  There was another knock at the door. I was apparently very popular this evening. Opening it, I saw Bernadette, who said, “Man at the door for you.”

  I thought of my uncle. “Old?”

  “Oh, not old.” She smiled ever so slightly. Michael Behan was Irish, after all.

  I tried not to hurry. But when I went out and saw him standing on the street, I felt the exhilaration of finding something you thought was lost, the deep relief of knowing you will not have to live without it after all.

  “When did you get back?” I asked.

  “A few days ago. I thought of calling, but I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me.”

  “Why did you come, then?”

  “Thought I might as well make sure.” He smiled. I smiled back.

  Glancing toward the kitchen, I closed the door and stepped outside. “Did you find out anything more about Mr. Farragut?”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. Have you found out anything more?”

  “I have.”

  “You go first.”

  I told him—all of it. Every memory of the Newsome murder, from the discovery of Norrie’s body to my conversation with Lucinda that afternoon and Louise’s recent revelation.

  Leaning against the house, I said, “So, there it is, the mystery of the Pep Pills solved. I knew I hadn’t seen them when I was in the room. Did you learn anything more in Philadelphia?”