by Liz Freeland
“And you thought of me?” He snorted. “The old man barely tolerated me. He considered me to be Guy’s creature, and you know what he thought of Guy.”
“Yes, but you would often be seen as the de facto head when both Guy and Mr. McChesney were out of the office.”
“Only because I took charge. Someone had to, or that office would have been even more of a disaster than it was.”
I acknowledged the truth in his words with a nod. “My aunt spoke of a missing payment from Van Hooten and McChesney around the time you started with the company. Or soon after.”
“I can’t explain that. I can only profess my innocence. Look at me. If I’m a criminal, then I’m the most unsuccessful one in town. I don’t have a bean.”
True. I doubted an accomplished thief or embezzler would be idly waiting to have his furniture sold out from under him.
“You shouldn’t go around pointing fingers at people with no evidence,” he said.
“I only want to piece together what we know. The timing made me curious, and Mr. McChesney said he didn’t want to incriminate a person he trusted.”
His expression soured. “If I’d stolen a dime from him, that old man wouldn’t have covered for me. He never liked me.”
That seemed an exaggeration. True, Mr. McChesney never voiced any appreciation for Jackson. “But he told me he would give you an excellent recommendation.”
“Was that before or after he went to jail? Not much good to me now, is he?”
I frowned. The man invited antipathy. And now even his own wife had abandoned him. Given what I’d seen of how Jackson treated her, I couldn’t blame her. Yet I wasn’t entirely without pity for him.
“Until I was talking to Miriam tonight,” I confessed to him, “I don’t think I gave enough thought to what seeing Guy after the fire that morning must have done to you.”
He stared at the carpet beneath his slippers, saying nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I saw my roommate’s cousin’s body after she was murdered. I still have nightmares.”
“Had it not been for your dentist appointment, you might have been the one who discovered what was left of Guy. More nightmares for you.”
I’d almost forgotten about my fictitious dentist appointment. It seemed eons ago since I’d sneaked off to take the civil service exam. And now I was a policewoman.
“It’s Bob you should be talking to, not me,” Jackson said. “Ogden McChesney wouldn’t lift a finger—or tell a fib—to cover for me. Only two people would he do that for. Bob’s one.”
“Who is the other?”
“You.”
I drew back. “I didn’t steal anything.”
He laughed. “Of course not. You lack the imagination to be a criminal.”
I stood. When I’d worked with Jackson, I’d disliked him. Now every time I ginned up a little sympathy for him, he managed to make me dislike him all over again. “If you’d ever put forth half an effort to be kind, you might make more friends,” I said.
“Do you really believe it’s as easy as that? Perhaps it is, for you. You have a knack for getting along. But I know who I am, and what people think of me. I’ve heard the jeers at my stiffness all my life. Do you think I wouldn’t be different if I could, that I wouldn’t be the kind of man whose company others enjoyed?” He slumped down. “I thought Guy was my friend. He gave me a job, at any rate. Then he treated me like his lackey. You don’t think I heard him call me Old Baldy? And we were at Harvard together!” He shook his head. “Now he’s dead, and hypocrite though he was, I’ve no one to replace him with. Even my own wife doesn’t want to be around me.”
“How was Guy a hypocrite?”
“He looked down his nose at my Negro wife, yet he was hiding a Jew bastard.”
The thin crust of sympathy I had left for him crumbled to dust. “How did you find out about Guy’s son?” Weeks ago, he’d said he didn’t know much about the women Guy went with.
“Guy talked about him once after he had a few whiskies in him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why should I have? Guy told me about the boy in confidence.” He shook his head. “Sharing a drink, you were his best friend. Then he’d sober up and become a Van Hooten again.”
He emptied the last of the bottle into his glass. I certainly didn’t want to stay to watch him drink it. I started for the door.
“Going off to arrest someone, Officer Faulk?”
I’d had about enough of his digs. “You’ve always underestimated me, Jackson.” And overestimated yourself. “I will find out who killed Guy.”
“Atta girl. Never say die.” He lifted his glass. “Me? Saying die is what I do best. Someday I hope to take myself literally. I’ve been sitting here planning it all out.”
I told myself to go, but I couldn’t make my legs move. His words had frozen me. “What are you talking about?”
“My death.”
“Jackson, you can’t be serious.”
“Why not? I’ve even got the place all picked out. Ever been to the waterfront? On the Hudson side, before you reach the steamship piers, a little farther down the island . . . that’s where I’d do it. Pier Twenty-seven would be perfect. There was an accident there last year, a fire, and it’s not repaired yet. Often it’s deserted. It would be so easy.” He smiled at me, and a shiver worked all the way to the marrow of my bones. “That’s the great thing about never learning how to swim. One never need worry how to end one’s life. You just step off into the water, into oblivion.”
Was he really telling me he was going to drown himself? “Jackson, whatever problems you’re having now, it doesn’t mean things won’t get better.”
His brows rose into his long forehead. “My wife will return, I’ll find a job, the bluebirds will sing again?”
“Sneer if you want, but all of those things might happen. They won’t if you simply give up, though. You have to make an effort, and have faith that—”
“Thank you for those inspiring words, Pastor Louise.”
I suppressed a growl of frustration. “Why did you tell me you would take your own life, if you didn’t want me to encourage you not to?”
He shrugged. “It was just the drink talking.”
Of all the maudlin, self-pitying displays, this took the cake.
“I’ll go and let you to converse with your drink, then. You’re obviously not going to listen to me.” I left the flat, hoping with all my might that it would be for the last time. Sympathy had its limits, and mine for Jackson Beasley had just been reached.
But what if he meant what he said?
Poor Miriam.
By the time I got home, I felt dead on my feet and ready to catch a few hours of sleep—catch being the operative word. To a person working nights, daylight hours flitted by and sleep could prove elusive. Most days I’d barely managed to grab more than a few hours of solid sleep. To slumber during the day required a constant battle against street noise, slamming doors, and the Bleecker Blowers rehearsing their latest number.
When I woke up at five, I stumbled out to find Otto and Callie on the sofa. Seeing me, Otto sprang up. His self-conscious avoidance of my gaze alarmed me, as did Callie’s gloomy expression.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She waved her hand, not speaking. Otto took it as a signal to speak for her. He was dressed in a checked sport coat and a wildly striped silk tie and matching handkerchief. The Jolson influence.
“It’s off with Teddy,” he announced.
Callie hurled a pillow at him. “I didn’t say it was definitely off.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “Unless ‘Teddy’s dropped me’ means something other than what I think it means.”
“He’s just mad, on account of Hugh.”
I felt a sick gnawing in the pit of my stomach. “What did Hugh do?”
Her mouth tightened, and she fell silent again.
“Apparently he blames Teddy for taking you to the air
park,” Otto explained.
“And Teddy blames me,” she added.
“You’d think Hugh would be glad, if not grateful, that I’m trying to find out who killed his brother.”
“He’s sore that you accused him,” she said.
Otto nodded. “Being accused of fratricide doesn’t sit well with some people.”
“Well, I had to rule out the possibility,” I said in my own defense. “Anyway, he convinced me I was on the wrong track, and managed to scare me half to death in the bargain. I don’t know what he’s bellyaching about.” Hadn’t complaining to Muldoon been enough for him?
“He says Teddy’s taking you there was disloyal.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. Loyalty? Are they friends or members of some outfit like the Black Hand?”
“Exactly,” Otto said. “What kind of weak-willed fool lets his friend pressure him to break off with his girl?”
Did Teddy really intend to make a split with Callie because of this? I felt terrible. “Maybe I could apologize to Hugh . . .”
She drew up. “Don’t you dare. Hugh can go—fly an airplane. Teddy too. They’re both lunatics, anyway.”
“Finally,” Otto said, “you’ve come to your senses.”
Callie hopped off the sofa, her eyes red with tears. “Now look! I’ll be all puffy for the run-through tonight.” She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door.
I stumbled to the kitchenette to make coffee. Although I was awake now.
Otto tagged after me. “You think she still likes him?”
“I think she might love him.”
He sank down on a step stool we kept by the kitchen door. It was a long moment before he spoke again. “Well, at least I have my music.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “You have more than that. And someday you’ll be head over heels for somebody new.”
“Sure.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“And maybe you’ll get another song hit out of it. ‘The one I love belongs to someone else’—what do you think of that?”
“I think you’d better stick to police work and leave the songwriting to the experts,” he said. “Have you made any more progress in your investigation?”
After the disturbing end of my conversation with Jackson, I hadn’t given much thought to what he’d told me about Bob, who surely had to be the one hiding the missing ledgers.
But even if Bob had done something illegal, and the secret was in the ledgers, what could that possibly have to do with Guy’s death? Unless Guy had found out about the discrepancy and blackmailed Bob . . . In that case, Bob might have wanted to harm Guy.
The trouble was, I couldn’t imagine Bob doing violence against anyone. And Mr. McChesney had said that Guy had no interest in the financial records of the company. So how could he have known enough about the missing money to blackmail anyone?
Mr. McChesney could be wrong about that, though. Just as my instinct that Bob couldn’t be a thief might be wrong. Muldoon had warned me against relying solely on gut instinct.
The time I’d spoken to him about the company finances, Bob hadn’t said much. But he’d certainly acted suspiciously that morning coming off the elevator at Mr. McChesney’s. I’d bet money he’d been hiding those ledgers under his coat. But if he hadn’t wanted to answer general questions weeks ago, he wasn’t likely to open up to me now that I actually suspected him.
I could do something drastic like show up with my badge, but that would be taking a risk. If he complained to anyone at the department, I’d be done for. I was already lucky that Muldoon had quashed Hugh Van Hooten’s complaint. I was just a probationer. Any infraction would be excuse enough for the NYPD to give me the heave-ho.
I looked at Otto. Coffee wasn’t all that was percolating. So was a plan.
“I don’t like that look in your eye,” he said.
“You visited the office and met all my coworkers, didn’t you? Including Bob?”
“Yes—I remember him.” He looked even more nervous. “What do you want me to do?”
“Relax. I can’t use you. I need someone Bob’s never seen.”
It was time to call on my master of disguise.
CHAPTER 18
“I’m not really conversant in legal lingo,” Walter warned as we approached Bob’s street. He was dressed in a gray suit, black coat, and bowler hat. Wire spectacles and a thin mustache completed his look. He’d wanted to wear a putty nose, but I thought that would be going overboard.
“Bob isn’t either. You’ll do fine. Just speak plainly to him, but be firm.”
“Plain but firm,” he repeated.
I assumed if Bob kept the ledgers anywhere, it would be at home, so the plan was to ambush him there. Or, rather, Walter would do the ambushing. I would wait nearby.
For this mission, Aunt Irene had lent Walter a calf-skin briefcase, given to her by Mr. McChesney. It seemed apt that it would be part of his disguise as the assistant to Mr. McChesney’s attorney.
“Tell him the ledgers are vital to Ogden McChesney’s defense, and if you don’t get them, the police will certainly come back for them.”
“Is that true?”
“No,” I admitted, “but try to make it sound true.”
Walter turned on 103rd Street while I waited on Lexington Avenue, pacing up and down the block. Had we missed Bob? I checked my bracelet watch. After ten. If he had already started at a new job, he might have left for work already.
This was a nice neighborhood, more recently built up than neighborhoods downtown, with bright four- and five-story brick buildings lining the avenue, which rose on an incline here. On a cross street I even spotted a couple of wood buildings from the days when this was the hinterlands. Now, their bright white clapboards seemed to mark them as doomed for demolition. Even the signs and awnings looked newer here, and there weren’t so many pawnshops and second-hand stores. I shaded my eyes and looked in the window of what appeared to be a small department store, with tidy glass-front counters and attentive clerks as well groomed as the customers.
At the watch counter, a clerk pulled out a pocket model for a matron with a baby buggy. The woman deliberated as if she had all the time in the world, and asked to look at several more. The clerk, who obviously didn’t have all the time in the world, strained to keep his patience, especially when there was another customer at an adjacent counter impatient for his attention. Finally, he left the matron to debate the matter of the watch to herself.
When he turned away, the woman took one of the watches and slipped it into her baby carriage. Thinking again, she chose another and cached it away, too. Then she turned to go.
I blinked, not quite believing what I’d seen. Bold as brass, the woman pushed her buggy toward the front exit, bestowing a smile on the doorman posted there. The man clearly hadn’t seen her take the items, and the watch clerk was still preoccupied. I debated what to do. Wait till she came out and tackle her? Follow her and hope I came across a policeman?
You’re a policeman, jinglebrain.
I patted my satchel, which had my badge inside it. “You’re always a policeman,” Jenks had told me. This was why.
I reached the door just as the woman was coming out, still smiling grandly at the doorman. Her smile died when she found her buggy blocked by me.
“Excuse me.” Her tone was so imperious, I wanted to laugh. “I need to get by.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “And quickly, am I right?”
The haughty look on her face dissolved into doubt.
The doorman wedged closer to see what the problem was. He scowled at me. “See here, miss. You need to step aside and let this lady pass.”
“You wouldn’t want me to do that,” I said.
The woman’s throat clutched in annoyance. “Of all the—”
“Sir, this woman just stole from your store.” I dug my badge out of my purse and held it up for their inspection. “I’m Officer Faulk, New York City Police. Ma’am, I witnessed you take at least two watches
from the counter and put them into your baby carriage.”
By this time, a small crowd had gathered, both from inside the store and around me on the sidewalk. The woman played to her audience, sputtering indignantly. “That’s outrageous! I did nothing of the kind. I’m a customer here.” She turned to the doorman. “Are you going to allow me to be harassed by this, this person?”
The watch counter clerk attempted to poke his nose out the door. “What’s going on?”
The doorman pointed at me. “Lady says she’s a policeman.”
“She’s a lunatic,” the thief insisted.
“She stole two watches from your counter,” I told the clerk.
His brows rose, but then he took several steps back to check his counter. When he turned back, his forehead was lined. “We’d better get Mr. Griswald.”
Cornered, the woman burst into tears. “But I need to go home and feed my baby,” she wailed. “Wait till my husband finds out how you treated me.”
The men exchanged worried glances, and I lost patience. “For Pete’s sake. She’s lying. Look in the perambulator if you don’t believe me. I’ll bet she doesn’t even have a baby.”
To prove my point, I yanked the yellow blanket from the bed of the buggy, revealing a plump, bald baby in a woolen footie suit. I would have been embarrassed had there not also been two gold watches nestled next to him. Also a silver gravy boat, and two very finely carved ivory hair combs, as well as a fox stole with the price tag still attached to the tail.
The crowd gasped.
“Fetch a policeman,” the watch clerk instructed his coworker.
The doorman looked at me, and I held up my badge again.
The watch clerk stared at it, his face a mask of indecision. “Fetch a real policeman, just in case,” he told the doorman. Then he spoke to the thief and me. “You ladies come with me. Mr. Griswald needs to hear about this.”
Remembering Walter, I hesitated. How long would this take?
The clerk’s brow arched. “Unless you aren’t really the police?”
My chin lifted. “I am.” I followed the clerk to a back office, where a round man in a tight gray suit—Mr. Griswald, I presumed—gaped at the amount of merchandise the woman had attempted to make off with.