Death at the Tavern

by Lee Strauss

  Without saying hello, Dr. Guthrie answered the question on Haley’s mind.

  “The police chief said no autopsy for the Marchesi man. Cause of death is already known. Even the city has to tighten its belt because of the economy these days, and the mayor doesn’t want to spend money on thugs. His words.” He paused at the door to his office. “I fancy a cup of tea. Would you mind, Dr. Higgins?”

  Haley forced a smile. These menial tasks were what the interns were for. Thankfully a new one was due to start today.

  Having lived in England before, Haley was familiar with the tea-making technique considered of high importance to the British: warm the teapot, add one teaspoon of leaves for each cup plus an extra for the pot, and pour on boiling water.

  Carrying the tray with the teapot, milk, and sugar, along with the porcelain teacup and saucer Dr. Guthrie had brought with him from Chesterton, Haley entered the office. He moved papers out of the way so she could set it down.

  “Would you like me to pour?” Haley asked.

  Dr. Guthrie grunted. “Please.”

  “So,” Haley started, feeling like she should attempt to be companionable. “Are you feeling settled in Boston?”

  Dr. Guthrie harrumphed. “If it weren’t for my two grandsons, I’d board the next ship heading home.”

  Haley felt sympathy for her new boss. Homesickness wasn’t fun. She remembered her times working on triage in war-torn France where she desperately longed to return to her family in Brookline.

  “Tell me about them,” she said. “What are their names?”

  “Oh,” Dr. Guthrie’s gray eyes looked up at Haley in surprise. “Well, there’s Philip, he’s eight, and Albert, who’s six.”

  After ten minutes of discussion about his grandchildren, Dr. Guthrie’s mood had brightened considerably.

  “That’s enough of that,” he said. He pushed a stack of files to the edge of his desk. “All this paperwork needs to be filed.”

  Haley also had paperwork to be filed. Plus, there was one body from the raid waiting in the freezer cabinet.

  “The new intern should be arriving shortly. Mr. Thomas Martin, I believe is his name. This will be a perfect task to get him started. In the meantime, I’ll prepare for the next autopsy. Would you like to assist?”

  Dr. Guthrie grunted and shook his head. “Call me if you find anything of interest.”

  Haley put a clean apron over her cotton pantsuit. Belted at the waist, the wide pant legs flared over low-heeled pumps. Ginger, her fashionista friend, would have been proud of her. Haley could imagine Ginger’s vivacious, English-accented voice saying “Bravo, Haley! Trousers are all the rage, and splendidly convenient!”

  Haley smiled at the thought as she vigorously washed her hands with soap and hot water. She then rolled the body of one Mr. Greenfield from the freezer cabinet. It took a bit of upper body strength to shift the corpse onto the operating slab, but Haley had done it so many times it was as easy as pie.

  Mr. Greenfield was handsome, even in death, and Haley couldn’t help but mourn a little for the man, and for the young life so needlessly cut short.

  The entrance wound of the bullet was obvious in the front of the body, just center and left. It was either a skilled shot or a lucky one. Haley lifted the left shoulder and confirmed that there was no exit wound. She slid a thin, rounded piece of wood, like a slender chopstick, into the wound to confirm directionality. Haley wrinkled her nose. Whoever shot this man had done it from a lower position as if the shooter had been sitting on the floor and had shot upwards at a man on his feet.

  Not too surprising, considering the melee that had been reported. Someone armed with a gun could very well have fallen.

  Using an apparatus that resembled a pair of pointy-nosed pliers, Haley expertly retrieved the bullet and let it drop into a petri dish. It appeared to be a .22.

  Haley continued with the normal Y incision procedure and from everything she could see and measure, Mr. Greenfield had been in perfectly good health.

  She’d just completed suturing the last stitch of the autopsy when there was a knock at the door. She hurried to the sink and washed her hands.

  Dr. Guthrie’s head jutted out the door of his office. “Is that him?”

  “Is that who?”

  “The blasted intern.”

  “I think it might be a journalist from the Boston Daily Record.”

  The doctor’s eyes darted to the paper on his desk.

  Haley answered his unspoken question. “Yes, the same one who wrote about the raid last night. I invited her over.”

  His white, bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Sam Hawke’s a lady?”

  “Yes, she is. Her name is Samantha.”

  Haley removed her apron, hung it on a nearby hook, and opened the door. As expected, Samantha Hawke stood on the other side.

  “Hello, Samantha. Come on in.”

  Samantha’s form-fitting dress clung in places, a frequent malady suffered by women throughout the city due to the humidity, and Samantha pulled at the fabric. “Oh, it’s so nice and cool in here. Such a relief.” She removed her hat and summer gloves, and placed them on the rack. “The mugginess is driving me crazy. Born and raised in Boston, you’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

  “Adaptation is not a given,” Haley said. “When air has a high moisture content it hinders the normal perspire and cooling cycle. The human body has to work even harder to cool, resulting in excessive sweating which can result in loss of water and chemicals our bodies need to function properly.”

  Samantha stared openly and Haley realized belatedly, that she’d fallen into her bad habit of expositing where it wasn’t necessary. She added quickly, “Would you like a glass of water?”

  Samantha nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Haley used the sink by the coffee and tea station and filled a glass. She offered it to her guest who took it gratefully.

  After a long drink, Samantha’s eyes landed on the body still lying on the surgical table in the middle of the room. The sheet was pulled up to the chin, leaving the face exposed.

  “Oh, sorry,” Haley said. “I’m expecting an intern to arrive any minute and was going to let him put the corpse away.” Haley stepped swiftly to the body and pulled the sheet over his head.

  “I recognize him,” Samantha said soberly. “From the club last night. He’d been dancing with a pretty lady in a lovely blue dress. They were laughing and flirting, and I imagine he thought he had all the time in the world to fall in love. Moments later he was struck down. It’s just so sad. So unfair.”

  “It’s always hard when they’re young,” Haley said. “The question is, who shot him? The police or one of Marchesi’s men?”

  “Either way, he’s still dead.”

  Haley decided to move the body herself and lifted it onto a trolley. “Who knows when the intern will actually arrive?” She deposited it into one of the freezer compartments and hoped her actions portrayed a desire for efficiency, but she suspected Samantha had caught on that Haley had moved the cadaver out of sight for her benefit.

  Once again, Haley thoroughly washed her hands before continuing on to the table where the photographs Samantha had taken were spread out.

  Samantha snapped to attention and followed her. “Do tell me you found what you were looking for?”

  Haley simply pointed to the crack in the wardrobe door and handed Samantha the magnifying glass.

  “A man’s shoe?” she asked with a note of skepticism. “That’s it?”

  “It may not seem like much, but ask yourself—why is there a man’s shoe in the wardrobe of the boudoir? Wouldn’t a man leave with the shoes on his feet that he came with?”

  Samantha held the magnifying glass over the image again for a second look. “I suppose so. Still, it doesn’t seem like much of a clue.”

  Haley chortled. “The smallest clues are the ones that usually break a case.”

  Samantha’s eyes darkened with a look of interest and curiosity. �
��You sound like you’ve had a lot of experience solving murder cases.”

  “I’ve helped to solve a few.” Haley wasn’t being humble. How could she boast about her amateur detective skills when her own brother’s case lay cold as the Atlantic in January. She changed the subject. “Congratulations again on your story in the Record.”

  “Thanks,” Samantha gushed. “I won’t lie. It felt great to get the boss’s attention and commendation, especially in front of an office full of egotistical men.”

  Haley held in a smile. She motioned to an empty chair. “Please have a seat and tell me all about what happened at the club.”

  19

  Samantha was intrigued by her new friend. Perhaps “friend” was too strong a word. Acquaintance. Dr. Haley Higgins held Samantha at arm’s length, and the wall between them, though thin, was present. Samantha wondered if the doctor was like this with everyone, or was there something about her specifically that she didn’t like.

  “You went alone?” Haley asked, stopping Samantha before she’d barely even got started relating the events from the night before.

  “Yes. I’d been there before, with Johnny—Mr. Milwaukee—so I knew what I was getting into. Many women go to clubs without dates, usually with other women, granted, but it wasn’t like my gender was greatly outnumbered. In fact,” Samantha found herself leaning in even as Haley leaned back, “they drink, smoke, and dance as freely as the men.”

  Samantha hoped to have shocked the upright doctor, but Haley didn’t even blink. Of course, there was probably no sin or vice that Dr. Higgins hadn’t encountered in her line of work. It was Samantha who had been surprised at first, but now she felt a little worldly. She couldn’t help but think that Haley Higgins could use a night out to loosen up.

  “I was sitting at the bar when Edoardo Marchesi approached me.”

  Besides the lifting of a dark brow, Haley didn’t interrupt. Samantha relayed everything that had followed, his strange, confronting conversation, the disgruntled stares of Officer Tom Bell from across the room, the raid, how she’d hid. Finding Tom Bell injured on the floor.

  “I’m glad to hear that Officer Bell is going to recover,” Haley said. “I’ve learned something interesting about the Marchesis as well.”

  Samantha’s reporter instincts clicked in, and she pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear and listened.

  “Stefano Marchesi was the father of Agnes O’Reilly’s baby.”

  “Snowflake? No!” Samantha couldn’t contain her shock. “Really? How do you know this?”

  “I had a conversation with the second victim’s friend, Chantilly. It seems Stephen March was quite the ladies’ man, and not too careful about it, I might add. Chantilly insists that Miss O’Reilly and Mr. March were in love.”

  “But still, how can they be sure?”

  “It doesn’t matter if Stefano was actually the father,” Haley replied, “only that they believe that he is.”

  “Ah, I see,” Samantha said. Perception was everything. “Maybe Primrose killed Snowflake. It’s certainly motive since Primrose’s encounter with March was obviously before Snowflake’s.”

  “That thought crossed my mind too,” Haley said. “Are you postulating that Primrose killed Mr. March as well?”

  Samantha lifted her shoulder. “You know what they say about a woman scorned.”

  “Yet, the witness said a man entered the tavern moments before Mr. March was shot down,” Haley added.

  “Ah. The shoes!” Of course, Samantha thought. “Primrose dressed up as a man. Did the witness say if the man was fat?”

  “I don’t think so, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Haley said. “Some witnesses don’t give out details unless specifically asked. It’s quite possible that Primrose, or maybe another woman, did indeed pose as a man, entered the Bell in Hand, and shot Mr. March. Unfortunately, Madame Mercier has already disposed of the evidence.”

  Samantha narrowed her eyes grimly. “Son of a gun!”

  Haley’s gaze flittered upward in thought.

  “What?” Samantha asked.

  “When I was at the Bell in Hand with Chantilly, I saw a man speaking to Mr. Tobin.”

  “The waiter?”

  “Yes,” Haley confirmed. “Mr. Tobin, the waiter at the tavern. I didn’t see the man come in through the front door, which makes me presume he came in from the employees’ entrance. Mr. March was a rum runner, and I’m quite sure this fellow is too. As much as Mr. Tobin protests, I’m fairly certain he’s being supplied with contraband. Keeping our net wide, I think it might be a good idea to talk to him.”

  “What did he look like?” Samantha asked.

  “Average height and weight, unkempt. His right ear was deformed, and the way he turned his left ear to Mr. Tobin when he spoke makes me believe he’s hard of hearing in the right. I’d actually met him before when I went to the wharf.”

  “I’ve met him too!” Samantha said. “When Mr. Milwaukee and I went to Long Wharf to ask a few questions, a man that fits that description was working with Bobby Ryan. It was hard to miss that ear.”

  “Bobby Ryan, the unnamed man with the bad ear, and Mike Tobin. They’re all connected somehow.”

  “Mr. Ryan and his buddy bring in the contraband and Mr. Tobin sells it,” Samantha said.

  “I’m fairly certain Mr. Tobin has been a client at the brothel,” Haley said.

  “Mr. Ryan as well.” Samantha relayed how she’d seen Bobby Ryan and Madame Mercier together at the market.

  Samantha watched as Haley took in this information. Something flickered behind her brown eyes, and she wrinkled her brow as if in deep thought.

  “What is it?” Samantha asked.

  Haley’s focus cleared. “I think I know who the killer is.”

  Samantha shouted, “Who?”

  Haley hesitated and Samantha could see apprehension in her eyes. The doctor was reluctant to speak a name without proof. Before Samantha could convince her to confide in her, they were interrupted by a knock on the door. It slowly opened, and the figure of a slim male in his twenties stepped in. He removed his hat then said, “Hello, I’m Thomas Martin.”

  “Yes,” Haley said, standing. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m Dr. Higgins, assistant medical examiner, and this is my associate, Miss Hawke.”

  So, that’s the word, Samantha thought. They were associates. Now she just wished her associate would tell her who she thought had killed Stefano Marchesi. Darned poor timing on Mr. Martin’s part!

  Haley answered the intern. “Dr. Guthrie is in his office. Go on in, and introduce yourself.”

  Samantha followed Haley’s gaze through the glass wall of Dr. Guthrie’s office where the three of them stared at the strange, long-limbed man who housed a mass of wild gray hair. His long chin rested on his chest, and his eyes fluttered closed.

  “Oh, yes, all right,” Mr. Martin muttered cautiously. Then he pivoted to face Haley. “I almost forgot. I’m sorry, just with meeting you and I confess to being a little nervous.”

  “What did you forget?” Haley asked kindly.

  “Your taxi is here. The driver asked me to tell you.”

  Haley looked at Samantha with confusion. “That’s odd,” she said.

  Samantha didn’t understand. “What’s odd?”

  “I didn’t order a taxi.”

  * * *

  “Are you ready?” Haley said. Proverbial butterflies fluttered in her chest as they often did when she felt she was close to closing a case. “We can take my car.”

  “Take your car where?” Samantha asked.

  “To the brothel. We need a bit more information.”

  Samantha collected her messenger bag and camera bag. “Can I borrow your phone to let Mr. August know what I’m up to?Otherwise, he’s bound to sack me.”

  “You can use the one on my desk.” Haley hated to waste the taxi driver’s time and wanted to clear up the misunderstanding. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Haley walked quickly down
the whitewashed hallways of the hospital and up the steps. She felt bad about leaving Mr. Martin alone with Dr. Guthrie on his first day. Dr. Guthrie’s personality was best explained.

  She’d reached the main floor when a male voice called out to her. “Dr. Higgins.”

  Haley stopped and turned. The voice belonged to geriatrician Dr. Gerald Mitchell. He was taller than Haley, had salt-and-pepper hair oiled back, and possessed a pleasant face. He had good manners and loved going to places like the opera, live theater, and more recently talking pictures. Haley knew this because she often accompanied him to such events.

  She smiled as he approached.

  “It’s been busy in the basement,” he said with a chuckle. Gerald had warm brown eyes that twinkled and an excellent bedside manner. His patients loved him.

  “Yes. Some weeks are like that.”

  “How’s the new ME?” He inclined his head and lowered his voice and teased, “Should I be worried?”

  Haley and Gerald had an easy friendship. He had recently celebrated eighteen years of marriage to Elsa who’d suffered a serious stroke in 1926 and remained in a vegetative state. They had no children.

  Gerald was devoted to his wife, so his companionship with Haley had remained platonic. He liked to go out on the town, but not alone, he’d said. Even for someone as naturally cheerful as Dr. Mitchell, he found attending cultural events alone depressing.

  Haley didn’t mind the arrangement. She wasn’t the marrying kind, or rather, she was married to her work. She also found it dreary to go out on her own, and she enjoyed Gerald Mitchell’s company.

  “I should hardly think so,” she replied. “Dr. Guthrie is too old, even for me. I knew him in England, you know?”

  “How coincidental!”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Anyway, I’m speaking at a fundraiser for the geriatrics department tonight,” Gerald said. “I didn’t mention it before because I thought you might find it boring. Then when I saw you just now, I realized I might find it boring. Would you consider rescuing me from such a fate? I realize it’s rather last minute, but the food promises to be stupendous. If you’re busy with something else, I understand.”