“Just what I read in the papers. Why? What’s with all the questions?”
“I can’t really say yet. I need to go and talk to some people. Clear up a few things.” Morelli picked up his hat and turned to leave. “Oh, and thanks,” he called over his shoulder as he walked to the stairs. He didn’t hear her reply, if she made any. His mind was already on the two Mrs. Harts.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Hart Mansion
Gladys Hart was going over her monthly calendar of obligations for October when Harmon interrupted her with a discrete cough. She had not even heard the door open.
“Madam, there is gentleman here to see you. His name is Detective O’Neill of the police department.”
“Surely he’s here to see Mr. Hart, Harmon.”
“No, madam. He specified that he needed to speak with you personally. He says it’s urgent.
“Whatever could that be about?”
“I have no idea, madam. He didn’t say. However, I must tell you that he is the man who brought Angel home the night of the twelfth. Should I go and ask him for more details?”
“No, no, Harmon. I’ll speak with him. Just give me a minute to finish this.”
She wrote one last note in her appointment book and closed it with a sigh. This sounded ominous. If this police detective wanted to see her rather than Aaron, perhaps it was about Aaron. What sort of trouble could he have gotten into? And what did it have to do with Angel? She hoped it wasn’t about the bar, the Golden Ruby. She asked Aaron to stop playing around and sell the place, that owning a bar was not something respectable people did, but he had refused. He said that it was crucial to his business ambitions, that city politics happened in barrooms more often than in parlors. She smoothed her hair and folded her hands, waiting for Harmon to return with the policeman.
The man who followed Harmon into the study was tall, with very broad shoulders and sandy-colored hair. He was dressed in a cheap blue suit, which was shiny in places. Gladys wondered why a man in his position wasn’t more interested in his appearance. He was certainly a poor representative of the New York City Police Department.
“Mrs. Hart? Mrs. Gladys Eldridge Hart?”
She acknowledged him with a nod.
“I’m Detective O’Neill of the Third Precinct.” He glanced at Harmon who was standing by the open door. “I need to speak with you in private.”
“Mr. O’Neill, Harmon is a member of my staff and the soul of discretion. You have no need to be concerned. Please, have a seat.” She gestured at a chair. It was her least favorite and she knew it was quite uncomfortable. She had no desire to make this policeman at home.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I prefer to stand.” He looked over his shoulder again. Gladys wondered what had made him so upset.
“Please, Detective. What is this all about?”
“I’ve come about your daughter.” He glanced down at a notepad he’d pulled out of one pocket. “Angel Eldridge of 988 Fifth Avenue. She is your daughter, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Neill, my daughter Angel lives at 988 Fifth Avenue, on the fifth floor. Is everything all right?”
“No ma’am. Everything is not all right. We were called this morning by the maid…” he looked down at his notes, “the maid, Maria…”
“I know who Maria is, Mr. O’Neill. Why on earth would Maria have called you?”
“She called us, because she found Angel lying on the floor of the parlor in her apartment.”
Gladys’ blood ran cold. She clamped her mouth shut, rather than betray herself by the moan that pushed up from the depth of her lungs. “Angel?” The word came out in a croaked whisper.
“I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, but she was dead when we arrived.”
“What happened, Detective?” Gladys’ fingers tightened on each other, cracking her knuckles without her knowledge.
“As far as we can tell, ma’am, she was killed by an intruder.”
“She was…” Gladys swallowed and tried to summon some moisture to her throat, but it was as dry and cold as an arctic wind.
“She was murdered, Mrs. Hart.” Detective O’Neill’s face revealed no emotion. She couldn’t image what he was thinking. Surely, he dealt with death on a regular basis. New York City was a dangerous place and many people failed to live out a long life in its environs. But this was not something she was used to.
“Was she… was it very bad, Mr. O’Neill?”
“We are just beginning our investigation. I can’t tell you anything else at this time.”
Gladys looked down at her white knuckles. She couldn’t feel her own fingers, despite the pressure they were unknowingly imparting. She forced herself to unwind her hands and hold them still in her lap. “What can you tell me, Mr. O’Neill? Surely, there’s something. Do you have any suspects, any idea at all who could have done this?”
“We’re looking into it, Mrs. Hart. Can you tell me if Angel had any enemies, anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”
“She is only nineteen, Mr. O’Neill. I know that young people these days live vivid lives, but she is far too young to have enemies. She is a sweet child, nothing more.”
“How long has she lived in the apartment on Fifth Avenue?”
“Six months, not much more. She asked to have a place of her own and Aaron, that is, my husband, Mr. Hart felt that it was a good idea.”
“Did you agree, Mrs. Hart?”
Gladys noticed that the detective’s eyes narrowed. His hand hovered over the notebook. He must have thought she would say something inflammatory or perhaps even incriminating. “Yes, of course, Mr. O’Neill. She’s young, but Angel is a smart girl. And she has Maria to help.” Gladys noticed suddenly that she was speaking as if Angel was still alive. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that broke free.
“Will that be all, Mr. O’Neill?” Harmon stepped up to the detective’s elbow and turned him away from Mrs. Hart.
“Yes. That’s all for now.” He looked from one to the other. “I may have additional questions. Thank you, ma’am.” He followed Harmon to the door and then turned back. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hart.”
Gladys noticed his eyes harden and a faint smile creep across his lips. He wasn’t the least bit sorry. He must be glad to see someone in her position faced with such a grim reality. She looked away, but said nothing.
The door closed quietly and she was alone with her thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Morelli
Morelli went back to Eats during lunchtime. He had new questions for Maggie McElwaine, and he hoped that she would be there again. For once, he got lucky, and she was behind the counter. Rather than go in and scare her off, he sat across the street and waited for her shift to end. The first thing, he decided, was to ask about her brother, and then to work his way around to the question of Angel Eldridge.
The rain had passed, and it was a clear September day, chilly and windy. Today he was wearing a wool vest under his overcoat, which helped a bit, but he was still cold to the bone by the time she appeared. Morelli crossed the street in five long strides and fell into step beside her, watching her from the corner of his eye. She was nearly as tall as he was. She glanced at him but kept walking. He realized that he liked being able to look her in the eye.
“Good afternoon, Maggie.” He kept his voice low, so as not to frighten her. When she gave no reply, he continued. “I need to speak to you about your brother, Mickey.”
Maggie stopped in her tracks and whirled toward him. He raised a hand, thinking she was going to do him some violence, but she stood stock-still. Her face was pale under the freckles, making them stand out like a leopard’s spots.
“What do you know of my brother? And who the hell are you?”
“I told you my name the other day, Maggie. It’s Morelli, and I don’t mean you or your brother any harm.”
“Then why are you haunting me? Asking questions where you have no business?”
“B
ut I do have business, Maggie.” Morelli stepped closer, put his arm around her back, companionably, and turned her to the direction they had been walking. “Let’s just keep heading wherever you were going, the apartment on Downing, perhaps, and we can talk as we go.”
Maggie’s back was an iron band under his hand, but she started moving. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Morelli, but I don’t like you already.”
“I’m sorry for that, but I need to ask you a few questions. I’ll tell you more about my business when I can. Is your brother Mickey here in the city?”
She was silent and didn’t look at him, just walked along the sidewalk.
“I know he got out of Sing-Sing recently. It was in the paper. I just need to know if he’s mixed up with Aaron Hart. I know that you know Mr. Hart. I saw you talking to him the other day. Not a very happy talk. And when I asked you about him, you disappeared.” Morelli could feel her shaking under his hand. Which just confirmed his opinion that Aaron Hart was not a nice man. He had made her very afraid. Morelli’s anger burned. One beautiful girl dead and one scared out of her wits—and Mr. Aaron Hart somehow in the middle of it all.
“Listen, can we stop and talk about this? I’m willing to listen to anything you want to tell me and I’ll help you if I can.” They had stopped in front of a Horn & Hardart. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
He steered Maggie toward the door of the automat. She glanced back, as if looking for a way to flee, but allowed him to lead her inside. The place was busy as usual, but there were a few empty tables.
“I’ll be right back.” He went to the cashier and got some nickels. He held out a hand full of coins to Maggie when he returned.
“Have whatever you like. I’m flush.”
Maggie took a few nickels and selected a ham sandwich. Morelli selected a slice of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee. They had the best coffee in town.
Maggie didn’t say anything as they sat at a tiny table in the back. She was young and had an open face. Her green eyes were clear as glass, but there was a wariness about her mouth, as if she was holding back words.
“Maggie, tell me about your brother.”
“Mickey’s a good boy. A bit headstrong, but he’s young. I told Ma that I’d look out for him, but it ain’t been easy. He’s always getting into something.”
“Is he into something with Aaron Hart?”
Maggie looked down at her hands. “I don’t know. I tried to tell him not to get involved with Mr. Hart, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Are you involved with Mr. Hart, Maggie?”
Morelli’s voice was as gentle as he could make it. She didn’t answer. The waitress brought their coffee and he watched Maggie stir sugar into it. Hopefully the sweetness would help her get over the shock of his questions.
“Tell me about it, Maggie. I want to help.”
She lifted her eyes then. “How can you help?” Her tone was bitter. “I let the wrong man close to me and now he thinks he owns me. Probably does, as I’ve got no way to get free.”
“How did you meet him, Maggie? When did this start?”
“My cousin, Sean, took me to the Golden Ruby. Sean knows Mr. Hart and he introduced us. Aaron was charming and sweet. Took me dancing and found me an apartment while Mickey was gone.”
“Did you know he was married?”
Maggie looked up, startled. “I didn’t ask. He’s such an important man. I was just happy that he liked me, at the beginning.”
“But something changed. Did he hurt you, Maggie?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. He just started talking crazy.”
“What was he talking about?”
“His plans. He had big plans about a lot of things.”
“And that upset you?”
“Yeah, it was like Mickey, only worse. Aaron might be richer and smarter than Mickey, but he’s still got that crazy look in his eye. That he’d do anything to get what he wants.” She fell silent, toying with the spoon beside her cup.
Morelli watched her. She was scared and fragile. How the hell was he going to do his job without this girl getting hurt in the process? He didn’t want her to end up like Angel Eldridge.
“Were you arguing about Mickey when Hart came into the diner yesterday? Or was it about something else? Were you arguing about Angel, maybe?”
“I don’t know who Angel is.”
“Are you sure?” Morelli pulled the photo of Angel and Aaron Hart out of his coat pocket and showed it to her. She looked at it for a moment and then looked away.
“Never seen her before.” Her mouth was set. She didn’t want to talk about something. Morelli put the photo away.
“When you argued with Hart, were you trying to end it with him?”
Maggie coughed out a laugh. “I’ve tried to get away from Aaron before. It don’t work.”
“Is that why you left the apartment on Bleeker?”
Maggie looked startled. “You knew about that, too?”
“I’m a private detective. It’s part of the job.”
“I was trying to get him to leave Mickey be. Said he has plans for Mickey and he won’t forget them. I’ve been trying to get Mickey to leave town, so he won’t get into any more trouble, but he won’t listen either.
“Do you know where Mickey is right now?”
“He was going to meet me at the apartment after work. That’s where I was headed.” She stood up to leave.
Morelli reached for her arm to hold her. “Would you mind if I come with you? I need to talk to him.”
“What for? What are you looking for, Mr. Morelli?”
“I’m looking for some answers, Maggie. That’s all.”
Morelli held the door open for Maggie and they continued on to the Downing Street apartment. Maggie let herself in with a key, but the apartment was empty. It was only two rooms. Morelli stood in the doorway as she looked in the back, which contained a small kitchen and a bed. There was no sign of Mickey McElwaine. Maggie leaned wearily against the wall and stared at Morelli. She clearly didn’t want him there.
“I need to go and make some more inquiries, Maggie. Would you call me when Mickey gets here, so I can come and talk to him?” He offered her his card.
Maggie looked at it for a long time, as if trying to decide whether to trust him. Morelli didn’t push her, just let her think. He wanted her to agree on her own. She finally came to a decision.
“I have no intention of going looking for a telephone so I can call you when I see him, but you’re welcome to come look for yourself. I can’t promise he’ll be around to talk to.”
“Can I stop by later tonight, just in case?” He put the card down on a small table near the door.
“Sure. I’m not going anywhere until my next shift.”
“Take care, Maggie. I’ll see you later.” He closed the door behind him and headed uptown. It was time to go and see the real Mrs. Hart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Hart Mansion
Sunday Afternoon
The Eldridge-Hart mansion was a large stone edifice at the corner of Park and Sixty-second. Five huge stories tall, and looking to be a block deep, topped with round towers and extravagant cornices, the building must have had hundreds of rooms. Morelli walked up the short path from the wrought iron gate, admiring the tiny immaculate lawn with its elegant, carved statuary. He climbed the marble steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man in a black suit who must have been the butler.
“Good afternoon. My name is Morelli. I’d like to speak with Mrs. Gladys Hart, please.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir? She’s very busy.”
“No, but I need to speak to her today; it’s a matter of great importance.”
“If you’ll give me your calling card, sir, I will see if she has time to speak with you.” The butler held out his white-gloved hand.
Morelli fished in his pocket for one of his business cards. The butler looked with distaste at the rumpled card with its crossed-out n
umber.
“If you’ll wait here, please.” He indicated a spot in the entry hall. Morelli came in and stood waiting as the butler went down the hall, hopefully to alert Mrs. Hart of his arrival, and not to call the police to have him picked up for trespassing.
The entry opened into a magnificent marble foyer with a curving stone staircase. There was gleaming white marble wherever he looked, along with framed portraits and dark wood furniture.
Eventually, the butler returned. “Mrs. Hart will receive you in her study. If you’ll come with me.”
He turned and walked away, expecting Morelli to follow along behind, like a trained pooch. He had to walk quickly to keep up with the butler, who was eerily silent as he glided through the house.
They stopped in front of a pair of carved wooden doors showing some kind of warriors on horseback. It was too dim to make out the carvings, but they looked a bit bloodthirsty from what Morelli could tell. The doors opened into a well-lit room, with tall windows along the front of the house, pale blue wallpaper and a lush carpet on the floor. There were several groupings of chairs and sofas around the room, as well as a delicate ladies desk. Mrs. Hart rose from a chair closest to the window. She was a petite brunette, thin and attractive, in a pinched sort of way. She stood waiting for him to attend her, without offering her hand.
“Mrs. Hart, thank you for taking the time to see me.”
Morelli walked over, glancing back at the butler, who closed the door and left them alone. Morelli could see his card lying on the small mahogany table beside her chair.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Morelli?” Her voice was cold. She did not ask him to sit down, so they stood facing each other.
“I need to speak to you about your daughter Angel.” He watched her carefully for a reaction. Did she know that her daughter was dead?
“I’m listening.” Her face was frozen, but her eyes were alive with nervous energy.
“Do you know where she is, Mrs. Hart?”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you, Mr. Morelli. I haven’t seen my daughter in a few days.”
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