Murder in the Bowery

by Victoria Thompson

  Sarah valiantly refused to explain. “I told you, she may have witnessed a crime, and that was all the other people had observed about her.”

  “That and her name,” Mrs. Decker mused shrewdly.

  “That’s right.” Frank admired the way Sarah kept her voice so calm, as if this were of little importance. “And we don’t want to bother people if it’s not the right family, but there are several Longacres listed in the City Directory.”

  “Let me check,” Mrs. Decker said, going to her desk. She was still a fine-looking woman, even though her blond hair was turning silver and age had softened her features. Sarah had inherited her beauty and her spirit, too, although Mrs. Decker had never had the opportunities to exercise hers quite as much as her daughter had. At least not until lately.

  Mrs. Decker rummaged in a drawer and pulled out the small book in which she kept addresses of her friends and acquaintances. She started flipping through it as she walked back to her seat. “That’s odd,” she mused when she had found the page she wanted.

  “What’s odd?” Sarah asked.

  “I have a Winifred Longacre listed, but her name is crossed out.”

  “Why would her name be crossed out?” Frank asked.

  Mrs. Decker frowned. “Usually, it means the person died.”

  Before either of them could think what to say to that, Mrs. Decker got up and went back to her desk. This time she returned with a book.

  “The Social Register?” Sarah asked.

  “I know you don’t care about these things, but it can be quite helpful,” Mrs. Decker said, not even glancing up. She paged through. “Yes, here it is. Longacres still at the same address as poor Winifred, although I’m not sure what Horace Longacre might have done to retain his listing here. I remember them now. Winifred died years ago, in childbirth, I believe, or shortly afterward. There’s a Miss Estelle Longacre listed at the same address, so that may be her daughter.” She handed the book to Sarah.

  Frank leaned over to see a listing of names, apparently in alphabetical order, followed by incomprehensible abbreviations along with their street addresses. He pulled out the small notebook he always carried and a pencil and jotted down the address beside the names of Horace and Estelle Longacre. “What do those letters after his name mean?”

  “They indicate club membership and college attended, I believe,” Sarah said, looking to her mother for confirmation as she handed the book to Frank.

  “Yes, there’s a list of the abbreviations in the front. I haven’t seen Horace in years. He was never very amiable, and after Winnie died, well, I’m sure someone may have invited him somewhere, but not anywhere I went.”

  “He belongs to a yacht club,” Frank reported, having found the list of abbreviations. “Does that mean he has a yacht?”

  “A yacht doesn’t have to be some enormous, seagoing vessel,” Mrs. Decker said. “Just a boat of some kind, although I can’t imagine him with the boating set, unless he’s changed a lot. But you don’t want to hear what I thought of him. You just want to find your witness.”

  “And it looks like we have, Mother,” Sarah said. “I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “Maybe you’ll reward me by telling me why you wanted to find this girl,” she asked hopefully.

  “I promise we will, but we don’t know very much at the moment, and it may all come to nothing.” Sarah deftly changed the subject to the children’s latest antics, which successfully distracted Mrs. Decker until they had stayed long enough to leave without giving offense.

  “How do you get a copy of the Social Register?” Frank asked as they walked away from the Decker home.

  “You have to subscribe, I believe. They update it four times a year.”

  “I can see it would be handy to have. If we subscribed, we wouldn’t have had to tell your mother anything about the case.”

  As he had expected, Sarah smiled at this. “I can see that would be a definite advantage.”

  “I’ll have Gino find out how to subscribe.”

  The Longacres’ house was only a few blocks away, so they walked over. The July air was still tolerable at this early hour. On the way home, they’d probably have to take the elevated train. The El wasn’t particularly cool, but it was fast. He’d have to remember not to complain about the heat to Gino. The boy would start telling him that was another reason he needed a motorcar.

  * * *

  The Longacre house on the Upper West Side was one of a score of identical town houses sitting side by side behind wrought iron gates that enclosed the tiniest patch of ground that could, with a straight face, be called a front yard. The patch in front of the Longacres’ home wasn’t particularly well tended, and the front steps did not appear to have been swept recently, Sarah noticed.

  A surly maid answered their knock. Sarah gave her the haughty look she had learned, at a young age, to use with unruly servants. “We are here to see Miss Estelle Longacre.”

  Sarah offered her calling card, but the maid made no effort to accept it. “Miss Estelle, you say?”

  Sarah felt a pang at the lies, knowing Estelle was most likely dead, but there was no sense in alarming anyone if that wasn’t really the case. “That’s correct. I realize it’s early, but we’ll wait if she needs a few minutes.”

  The maid went from surly to distressed in a matter of seconds. “I don’t know if she’s home,” she tried.

  As Sarah well knew, people could simply have their servants claim they were not at home if someone called whom they did not wish to see. “I’m sure she will be at home for us.” She offered the card again and this time the maid looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake. Sarah glanced at Malloy, who gave her a slight nod. Then she started walking forward, right into the house, giving the maid the choice of backing up and allowing it or getting knocked down.

  The maid backed up, scuttling out of Sarah’s way. Malloy came in behind her.

  “If you’ll tell Miss Longacre we are here,” Sarah reminded the maid, offering the card once again.

  This time, the woman took it and scurried off, leaving them standing in the foyer with the front door hanging open.

  “We don’t appreciate Hattie nearly enough,” Malloy said, pushing the door closed.

  “A good maid is to be treasured,” Sarah agreed.

  After the sunshine outside, the foyer seemed quite dark, but even when Sarah’s eyes had become accustomed, she realized it was still too dark. Maybe they were trying to hide the collection of dust, she decided, spying some gathered in a corner.

  “What if they won’t see us?” Malloy asked.

  “They’ll see us. If Estelle is here, she’ll be dying of curiosity, and if she’s not here, they’ll want to know why two strangers are looking for her.”

  The maid returned, descending the stairs with marked reluctance. When she reached them, she grudgingly said, “Miss Longacre will see you.”

  She turned on her heel and started back up the stairs, not even bothering to invite them to follow. Sarah exchanged a surprised glance with Malloy and shrugged in response to his silent question. Was it possible Estelle Longacre was indeed here?

  They wouldn’t find out unless they went upstairs, so Sarah hurried to catch up with the ill-mannered maid. Malloy was right behind her.

  These stairs hadn’t been swept in a while either, Sarah couldn’t help noticing. Everything about the Longacre house looked neglected and sad, and the neglect was not recent either. Wallpaper was curling in spots along the stairway, and rugs had been worn patternless where feet had tracked across them over a period of years.

  Upstairs, the maid went to an open doorway and stepped in to announce them. “Mrs. Malloy and . . . some man.” Without so much as glancing at them again, she stepped out of the room and headed away down the hall.

  Sarah had to cough to cover a laugh that would have ruine
d her credibility. Then she stepped into the room to find a middle-aged woman nervously awaiting her. She was small with mousy brown hair pulled back in a severe, unflattering bun. She might once have been pretty, when youth would have put roses in her cheeks, but those cheeks now were drawn and pale and traced with fine lines. Her faded blue eyes looked Sarah and Frank over anxiously and more than a little fearfully. Her dress was an ugly brown and hung on her, as if she’d recently lost weight. One hand convulsively clutched and unclutched the fabric of her skirt while the other fiercely gripped Sarah’s calling card.

  “Miss Longacre?” Sarah asked when the woman failed to greet them.

  “Yes.”

  This couldn’t be right. No gangster would take this woman as his mistress, and she was much too old to be described as a “girl.” “Miss Estelle Longacre?” Sarah tried again.

  The woman stiffened as if Sarah had slapped her. “Of course not. I’m Penelope Longacre. Who are you and what do you want?”

  “As you know,” Sarah said, gesturing to the card the woman held, “I am Mrs. Frank Malloy, and this is my husband.”

  “And what are you wanting with Estelle?”

  “We’d like to speak to her about a private matter,” Malloy said.

  Miss Longacre made a rude noise. “I’m sure you would. But you won’t see her today. She’s not home.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Sarah asked.

  Fear sparked in her eyes again, but she said, “Of course I do.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll tell us where we can find her.” Sarah softened her tone to one of genuine concern. “You see, we are also trying to make sure that she’s safe.”

  “Safe from what? And you still haven’t said why you want to see her.”

  “She isn’t here, is she?” Sarah said gently. “In fact, she’s been missing since last Saturday.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, but she shook her head in silent denial.

  “And you have no idea where she might be,” Sarah said. “Or perhaps you do, but it’s not a place you care to go to retrieve her.”

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded desperately.

  “I’m a private investigator,” Malloy said.

  She frowned in confusion. “A private . . . ? Did Horace hire you?”

  “No, I was hired by someone else to find someone else, but in the course of my investigation, Miss Longacre’s name was mentioned, and we have reason to believe she might be in some danger.”

  Now Miss Longacre was terrified. Her watery gaze frantically darted between the two of them. Finally, she said, “What kind of danger?”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Malloy said, “what relation are you to Miss Estelle Longacre?”

  The woman drew an unsteady breath. “She’s my niece. My brother’s girl.”

  “Maybe we should speak to him, then,” Malloy said. “If he’s at home.”

  “He’s ill,” she said almost angrily, as if she could hardly forgive him for being sick. “This is his house, and that’s why I’m here. The girl disappeared, and he didn’t have anybody to do for him, so he sent for me. That’s the only time he thinks of me, when he needs something.”

  “Do you think he’s well enough to see me?” Malloy said.

  “Why would he want to?” she snapped.

  Malloy was holding on to his temper with difficulty, Sarah could see, but he kept his voice level when he said, “I have news about his daughter that I think he’ll want to hear.”

  “Nothing you tell him about her will be something he wants to hear, but I can see you’re not going to give up until you get your chance,” she said in disgust, pushing past them as she walked to the doorway and yelled, “Marie!” startling them both. Seeing their shock at her uncouth behavior, she said, “The bell’s broken. He never fixes anything. Why should he? He says he won’t be around much longer, so why should he care about somebody else’s comfort?”

  “Is he dying?” Sarah asked.

  “He claims he is, although I don’t see any sign of it yet.” She sounded disappointed.

  Sarah was getting a clear idea of why Estelle Longacre might want to escape her life.

  The unhappy maid appeared in the doorway after an uncomfortable wait.

  “Take Mr. . . .” Miss Longacre glanced at the card she still held. “Mr. Malloy up to see Mr. Longacre.”

  “He won’t like it,” the maid warned.

  “Mr. Malloy has news of Miss Estelle.”

  “Then he surely won’t like it,” the maid said.

  Miss Longacre sighed long-sufferingly. “Take him up anyway. If he complains, tell him I made you do it.”

  The maid shook her head at such foolishness, but she said, “Come on then,” and took off with Malloy on her heels.

  When Sarah turned back to Miss Longacre, she was rubbing her forehead as if it ached.

  “Perhaps we could sit down,” Sarah said.

  “Yes, of course,” she said absently, and moved to a grouping of upholstered chairs in front of the cold fireplace. The furniture in here matched the rest of the house, and Sarah could see that no one had changed anything in this room for a generation. The upholstered pieces were worn and faded, and the decorations hopelessly out of style.

  Miss Longacre sat in one of the sagging chairs, and Sarah chose one opposite so she could watch her reactions.

  “I can’t offer you any refreshment,” Miss Longacre said. “Marie either won’t bring it or it will be inedible when it arrives. She even manages to ruin tea.”

  “I understand your brother is a widower,” Sarah tried, hoping to get a conversation started.

  “Yes, Winifred died right after Estelle was born. That was almost twenty years ago.”

  “And he’s never remarried?”

  Miss Longacre looked up, her gaze sharper, less watery now. “Why should he? He had the girl.”

  So all he’d wanted was a child. Most men wanted a son and heir, of course, but perhaps Longacre was content with a daughter. If she’d grown up in this house, she hadn’t had much in the way of amusement, though. “Has Mr. Longacre seen a doctor? I should have mentioned that I’m a nurse, and I’d be happy to—”

  “There’s nothing a nurse can do except clean up after him,” she said, not bothering to hide her disgust. “He’s seen more doctors than you can shake a stick at, and not one of them can help.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Miss Longacre’s frown said she doubted that very much.

  “I suppose it’s been lonely for Estelle, growing up without a mother.”

  “I don’t know how much company a mother would be, but my Norman takes her places.”

  Sarah’s skin prickled at this, knowing the places Estelle had been going of late and that someone named Norman had accompanied her. “Norman?”

  “Yes, Norman Tufts. He’s my ward. A cousin’s child. He was orphaned very young, and I took him to raise.”

  Malloy had said Arburn thought Tufts was a family connection, and it appeared that he was. “That was very kind of you.”

  She didn’t seem to know how to accept the compliment. “He’s a good boy, and he was always a companion to Estelle.”

  How much of a companion? Sarah wondered. If he was the one who had escorted her to the Bowery dressed as a man, was that something a “good boy” would do for his cousin?

  “Your husband,” she said before Sarah could think of something else to ask. “He said he knew where Estelle is. You might as well tell me. Horace will tell me himself soon enough.”

  And Malloy would want to see her response, which they wouldn’t be able to do if Horace told her. Sarah glanced at the door, which still stood open.

  Miss Longacre waved away Sarah’s concerns. “Don’t worry. Nothing happens here that Marie doesn’t know about.”

 
Sarah took a moment to decide exactly where to begin. “We were investigating a missing newsboy. His brother was trying to locate him.”

  “Somebody paid a detective to find a newsboy?” she scoffed.

  “The brother had come into some money and wanted to give the boy a home.”

  Miss Longacre was still not impressed.

  “During the course of our investigation, we learned that the boy worked for a gangster.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise, but Sarah couldn’t be sure what part of that statement had surprised her. “What does all this have to do with Estelle?”

  “Estelle was seen visiting the gangster on numerous occasions.”

  Miss Longacre seemed genuinely surprised, but perhaps not as surprised as she should be. “That’s . . . impossible.”

  “I hope this won’t come as too much of a shock to your brother.”

  She ignored Sarah’s concern. “Is that where she is? With this gangster?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It seems he is looking for her as well.”

  Miss Longacre took a moment to consider this information. If she’d known about Robinson—and Norman might have told her—then they’d probably thought she’d run off with him. “Then where is she? You said she’s in danger.”

  “We are very much afraid . . . And I’m sorry to tell you this, but we have reason to believe that she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” She said the word as if uncertain of its meaning.

  “Yes, we think she was murdered.”

  “Dead,” Miss Longacre said again, as if savoring the word. Then she leaned back in her chair and smiled like a cat who had gotten in the cream.

  * * *

  The maid led Frank up to the second floor. All the doors were closed along the hallway. She stopped outside one and rapped loudly. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  “There’s a Mr. Malloy here to see you about Miss Estelle.”

  As she had done downstairs, she stepped out again without waiting for a reply and walked off, even though Mr. Longacre was clearly replying, loudly and not happily.