They chatted about Sarah’s plans for the house until they reached the attorney’s office. Sarah paid the cab driver, and they rode up an elevator to the seventh floor to a remarkably luxurious set of offices.
A well-dressed young man escorted them into the office of Odell Cavendish, Esquire. Mr. Cavendish was a distinguished, middle-aged gentleman and not at all what Sarah had expected Mr. Bartholomew’s attorney to look like. Sarah introduced Maeve, identifying her as her associate. If Mr. Cavendish thought it odd such a young woman would be anyone’s “associate,” he didn’t say so. Instead he invited them to sit in two of the three leather upholstered chairs situated in front of his desk.
“Will Miss Smith be a part owner in the property?” Cavendish asked.
“No. She’ll just be helping to manage it,” Sarah said.
He nodded, as if this were a common occurrence, although Sarah was willing to bet he had never before sold a property to a lone female either.
“Is Mr. Bartholomew here?” she asked.
“Uh, no, he— Ah, here we are,” Cavendish said, rising to his feet to greet the man who had just stepped into the office.
He was about forty, a tall, well-built gentleman in a tailor-made suit and handmade shoes. He wore his dark hair brushed back from his handsome face, and he was clean shaven except for a well-trimmed mustache. Cavendish came from behind his desk to shake the man’s hand, and then he turned back to Sarah and Maeve.
“Mrs. Malloy, Miss Smith, may I introduce Mr. John Robinson?”
Robinson stepped forward and sketched a small bow. “My friends call me—”
“Black Jack,” Maeve murmured, although he plainly heard her.
“My friends just call me Jack,” he said with a small smile.
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Robinson,” Sarah said, wondering if this encounter could possibly be a coincidence. “What brings you to see Mr. Cavendish this morning?”
“Mr. Robinson owns the house you wish to purchase, Mrs. Malloy,” Cavendish quickly explained.
“How odd. Mr. Bartholomew presented himself as the owner when I looked at the property.”
“Mr. Bartholomew does so with my permission,” Robinson explained. “I find people are sometimes reluctant to do business with me, you see.”
“And why would that be?” Sarah asked.
Mr. Robinson gave an elegant shrug. “I have no idea.”
“Well, now,” Mr. Cavendish said, rubbing his hands together. “Shall we get started?”
“By all means,” Robinson said, and took the vacant chair beside Sarah. “I must say, I’m surprised your husband isn’t with you, Mrs. Malloy.”
Did he know who her husband was? Had he hoped to meet Malloy today? “Do you think a woman isn’t capable of conducting business without her husband’s help?”
“Oh no,” he quickly assured her, “but few men would allow their wives to purchase property by themselves.”
“My husband and I agree that having a man own a building where women go for refuge might raise questions, so I should be the sole owner of the property.”
“And yet his money is paying for it.”
Sarah decided not to take offense. “I can’t believe that is any of your business, Mr. Robinson.”
Most men would have found her remark impertinent at best, but Jack Robinson apparently was not easily offended. “You are absolutely right. All that should concern me is whether or not you are paying.”
“And I am, so you have nothing to fear.”
“Oh, I wasn’t afraid, Mrs. Malloy,” he assured her with another smile.
Cavendish distracted them then with a stack of papers requiring one or both of them to sign. He carefully explained each of them, and when they were finished, Sarah pulled the bank draft out of her purse and presented it to Mr. Cavendish. He examined it and nodded his approval.
“Bartholomew told me you drove a hard bargain,” Robinson said.
“Did he? I’m glad to hear it. I hope you made a profit.”
“I won the house in a poker game, so anything would have been a profit. I’m just glad to see it go to someone who will do some good with it.”
“We hope to. I’ve been a midwife in the city for a long time, and I know there’s a great need in that neighborhood.”
“So you’re really going to have a maternity hospital there?”
“Of course. What did you think?”
“I won’t insult you by telling you what I thought.” He turned to Cavendish. “Are we finished?”
“Yes. I’ll just have my secretary divide up the documents and prepare packets for each of you. If you wouldn’t mind waiting for a few minutes . . .”
“Of course not,” Sarah said, and Robinson also agreed.
“Miss Smith,” Mr. Cavendish said, “perhaps you’d like to wait in my secretary’s office.”
Maeve, who had been eyeing Jack Robinson warily through the entire meeting, now looked up in alarm. “Why?”
Cavendish obviously hadn’t expected to be challenged. He glanced nervously at Robinson, and suddenly, Sarah understood. “I believe Mr. Robinson wishes to speak with me privately. Is that correct?”
Robinson nodded. “It is.”
“It’s all right, Maeve,” Sarah said. “Go with Mr. Cavendish.”
“If you need anything, Mrs. Malloy, you need only call out,” Cavendish assured her before escorting a very reluctant Maeve through the door.
“Will I need to call out, Mr. Robinson?” Sarah asked.
“Not on my account, Mrs. Malloy.”
Sarah studied his face for a moment. Like most powerful men, he was very good at hiding his emotions, but she thought she saw something in his dark eyes, something vulnerable. She chose her words carefully. “I can’t believe it is merely a coincidence that I am buying property from the very same man my husband has been looking for these past three days.”
“And of course it is not. When I heard a few weeks ago that a woman wanted to buy a house in that neighborhood for a maternity hospital, I didn’t believe it for a moment. Who would go to so much trouble in that part of the city? So I sent Will Arburn to find out who you were and why you really wanted a house.”
“And you discovered I was telling the truth?”
“I discovered you were the daughter of one of the oldest families in the city, and that you had recently married a very rich Irish policeman.”
“Who now amuses himself by working as a private investigator.”
Robinson’s expression hardened. “Will didn’t tell me that part of the story until a few days ago, when he had to explain that poor little Freddie is dead.”
“I’m very sorry. I understand you knew the boy well.”
“He worked for me, but I’d grown fond of him.”
Sarah thought it was more than that, but she wasn’t going to probe that wound any more than necessary. “My husband was quite upset when he learned of Freddie’s death, and he intends to find the boy’s killer and bring him to justice.”
“Justice?” Robinson echoed with some bitterness. “How does he intend to do that?”
“I don’t know, and I have no intention of asking him. I’m confident that he’ll do what’s right, though.”
“I think I’ll like your husband, Mrs. Malloy. When I heard he was looking for me, I was hoping to meet him here. I find it works to my advantage to catch people by surprise.”
“He might have come if he wasn’t so busy hunting for you, Mr. Robinson. May I ask why you wanted to meet him?”
“I want to hire him, Mrs. Malloy. I want him to find someone.”
“Miss Longacre?”
She’d surprised him. “How did you know?”
“My husband is a very good detective.”
He smiled grimly. “Then perhaps he’s already found he
r.”
Sarah winced, hating the thought of causing him more pain. “He has, Mr. Robinson, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you, but she’s dead.”
7
His expression did not change a bit, but the color drained from his face and tears gathered in his unblinking eyes. Sarah glanced quickly around and saw a tray with liquor decanters and glasses sitting on a side table. She jumped up and poured a generous measure of whiskey into a glass and brought it to him.
“Drink this.”
He snatched the glass from her hand and downed it in two swallows. Then he pressed the fingers of his free hand to his eyes, squashing away the tears he was too proud to shed. He set the glass on Cavendish’s desk with a clunk and drew an unsteady breath. “I must have known that was it. She couldn’t have just disappeared. She wouldn’t have gone off without telling me.”
He seemed very confident of that, although Sarah knew nothing of Estelle Longacre that would justify such confidence. “I’m very sorry.”
“How did you . . . ?” He gestured helplessly.
“Her name came up when my husband questioned Arburn after Freddie died. Malloy can be rather persistent when obtaining information.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Arburn told us she had disappeared and you were trying to find the boy to see if he knew anything. Is that part true, Mr. Robinson?”
He frowned, a sight that probably struck fear into most people he encountered. “Of course it is. Why do you ask?”
“Because Freddie is dead.”
“And you think I killed him?” he asked, outraged.
“I had to ask. When he questioned Arburn, Malloy had already been to the morgue and identified Freddie’s body. They’d called him when they found Malloy’s card in Freddie’s pocket.”
Robinson nodded. His pain was so palpable, Sarah could hardly meet his eyes.
“When Malloy went to the morgue, they also asked if he recognized a young woman who was there. Her body had also been found in the Bowery. They hadn’t been able to identify her, and no one had reported her missing even though her clothes were obviously of good quality.”
“Her family wasn’t even looking for her?” he asked in wonder.
“No.” Sarah didn’t want to get into the subject of her family just yet. “But when Arburn told Malloy about Miss Longacre, we thought perhaps . . . So we contacted her family, and they have claimed her body.”
“No!” Robinson jumped to his feet. “I won’t let them have her.”
“I’m not sure how you can stop them. They have every legal right—”
“I don’t care about their legal rights. She hated them, and they’re not going to have her.” He began to pace.
“Mr. Robinson, I know this must be very painful for you. You obviously cared for Miss Longacre—”
“Cared for her? I loved her. I was going to marry her if she’d have me.”
No wonder he was so distraught, but of course he hadn’t yet proposed and she hadn’t accepted. Would Estelle actually have married a gangster? Would her father have allowed it? Probably not, but Sarah knew rich girls were perfectly capable of defying their families and eloping. She’d done it herself. But Sarah knew nothing about Estelle to indicate that she returned Robinson’s affections or even if she deserved his devotion.
Although Sarah had to remind herself that the devotion of a gangster also might not be worthy. What a muddle. Still, the man before her was most certainly genuinely bereft.
“You have my sincere sympathy, Mr. Robinson, and I can promise you that my husband is determined to find Freddie Bert’s killer. Since it seems likely his killer also killed Miss Longacre, we can get a measure of justice for her as well.”
“And I should like to hire your husband to do just that, Mrs. Malloy.”
“It isn’t necessary, I assure you.”
“Yes, it is. I want him to tell me what he finds, and I have learned through experience that paying a man greatly increases the chances that he will do what I want.”
“I’m sure that’s true. At any rate, my husband wants to talk with you. The more information he has, the more likely he is to find the killer.”
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a calling card. “This is my home address. He can find me there.”
* * *
“That’s a pretty fancy address for a gangster,” Malloy said when she gave him the card.
“What exactly is a gangster?” Sarah asked. They were alone in their private sitting room, so she didn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing. “I mean, I know he’s a criminal, but what does he actually do?”
They were sitting on the love seat, and Malloy studied the card for a long moment before he replied. “I suppose it depends on the gangster himself. I probably don’t know half of what Jack Robinson does, but I do know he owns several saloons and gambling hells. He probably runs some brothels as well. He’ll also deal in stolen goods or at least take a cut when crimes happen in the neighborhoods he controls.”
“Is he a killer?”
“Personally? Not now. He might’ve killed someone along the way, when he was building his reputation for being tough. Most likely he just frightened people by beating them up, though. Now he’d have his flunkies do the actual beating.”
“And the killing?”
“If it’s necessary, although men like Robinson don’t like to resort to murder. A dead man can’t make you any money. And if he did need to kill someone, he’d have one of his men do it, I’m sure.”
“Unless it was his mistress.”
“And he killed her in the heat of passion.”
“Which is how most men kill women, I assume, but why would Robinson have been that angry with Estelle?”
Malloy sighed. “There’s one thing I haven’t told you about Estelle Longacre, and it might have made Robinson mad enough to kill her. She was expecting a child.”
“Oh my! That’s a pretty serious thing to keep to yourself.”
“I didn’t keep it to myself on purpose. Doc Haynes mentioned it when I went to the morgue to identify Freddie’s body. I didn’t know who she was then, though, so it didn’t seem important, and it slipped my mind until this morning when I was going over everything I knew about her.”
“But if the child was Robinson’s, he would probably be thrilled because Estelle would almost certainly agree to marry him.”
“But it wasn’t his. She was about three months along, and she only met Robinson about a month ago.”
“So that gave him a good reason to be angry.”
“Possibly angry enough to kill her.” Malloy’s dark eyes turned cold. “I hate that he met with you alone.”
“I told you, he expected you would be there, too, and he behaved like a perfect gentleman. I have to admit, that surprised me, that and the way he was dressed. He dressed like a perfect gentleman, too. I suppose he must be rich from all his criminal activities, and he certainly looked it today. And his attorney is quite respectable, as well.”
Malloy held up Robinson’s card. “And he lives in a fashionable neighborhood.”
“All he lacks is a wife whose name is in the Social Register.”
“So he must have been thrilled to find her waiting for him in his flat that first time.”
Sarah shook her head. “Maybe that’s what he saw at first, but I’m sure he really cared for her, Malloy. You didn’t see his face when I told him she was dead.”
“But even if he did love her—especially if he did love her—he would’ve been angry to find she was carrying another man’s child.”
“But if he killed her, why would he want to hire you to find her murderer?”
“Good point. I’ll be sure to ask him that when I call.”
“And when will that be?”
Malloy grinned. “As soon as we�
��ve had lunch.”
* * *
Black Jack Robinson lived in an impressive town house on Lexington Avenue. In distance, it wasn’t so very far from his Bowery flat over the Devil’s Den Saloon, but socially, it was in another world.
A maid answered Frank’s knock and made him wait only a few minutes while she announced him. She took him upstairs, past portraits of at least a century’s worth of ancestors who couldn’t possibly be Robinson’s, and led him to a room at the back of the house that turned out to be a library. Even though Sarah had warned him, he was surprised by Jack Robinson. Well-groomed and well-tailored, he actually looked like he belonged in this book-lined room where expensive cigars were smoked and aged brandy was consumed. Today he’d been drinking whiskey, if Frank’s nose did not deceive him.
Robinson’s handshake was firm. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Malloy.”
“Thank you for letting me find you.”
“I don’t let many people know where I live. Please, sit down.” He motioned to two easy chairs positioned for convenient conversation in front of the cold fireplace. A table between them held a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. One was half-full. “Would you like a drink?”
Frank sat down in one of the chairs, finding it surprisingly comfortable. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“Some lemonade then?”
“That sounds good.”
Robinson rang and the maid came almost instantly to receive his orders. When she had gone, Robinson took the other chair and sighed wearily. “Your wife is quite a lady. You are a lucky man.”
“I know. She tells me you cared very much for Miss Longacre.”
A spasm of pain flickered across his face, and Frank knew Sarah was right. Robinson really had loved Estelle Longacre. “We hadn’t known each other very long, but the first time I saw her, I knew she was the one.”
“How did you meet her?”
He stiffened at that. Defensively, Frank thought. “What did Arburn tell you?”
“I want to hear your version.”
Murder in the Bowery Page 11