Murder in the Bowery

by Victoria Thompson

  “That’s true, although I don’t think the newspapers know about it yet. Her family didn’t even know she was dead until a few days ago.”

  “How could they not know she was dead? Didn’t they notice when she didn’t come home?”

  “Her mother is dead and her father is very ill. I gather he didn’t pay much attention to her even before he became ill either, so the poor girl was free to do as she liked, from what we have learned. I believe they thought she’d eloped or something.”

  “The poor thing. No good comes of allowing young women too much freedom.”

  Sarah could have argued with her, but she knew it would be a waste of energy. Besides, Estelle Longacre did rather prove the rule. “I guess the newsboys’ strike is good for something if it prevents her story from becoming public.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth had just selected another macaroon. “That’s true, although I do miss the Yellow Kid. That cartoon always makes me laugh. Tell me, do you have any idea who might have murdered this poor young woman?”

  “I’m not sure if we do. She was spending time in a very unsavory part of town, of course, so her killer most likely encountered her there, but . . .”

  “But?” Mrs. Ellsworth echoed, her eyes glittering with interest.

  “But her family is rather unsavory as well.”

  “I thought you said they were society people.”

  “A listing in the Social Register doesn’t guarantee good character.”

  “Oh dear, I know that perfectly well. What was I thinking? So what is it about this family that makes you doubt their character?”

  “Her father is rather unpleasant, for one.”

  “Ill people often are. They tend to think only of themselves as well.”

  “I have a feeling her father was unpleasant long before he became ill.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Ellsworth nodded knowingly. “What about her mother?”

  “She apparently died young, probably in childbirth.”

  “How tragic, especially for a girl. Who raised her then?”

  “She has an aunt, the father’s sister, although I don’t know how involved she might have been. The aunt and the father don’t get along.”

  “If the aunt was involved with her own family, she would have been too busy for the girl, in any case.”

  “The aunt has never married, although she does have a ward.”

  “A ward?”

  “Yes, a young man who was a cousin of some kind. When he was orphaned, she took him in.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Malloy and I thought so, too, but apparently, she’s devoted to him.”

  “I’m sure she is. I wonder if the boy had a legacy of some kind from his parents. It’s amazing how kind people can be when they’re being recompensed.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, but it would explain why a maiden lady would assume responsibility for a child.”

  Mrs. Ellsworth sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “There might be another reason, too.”

  Sarah leaned forward. “What reason?”

  “It’s unusual, of course, but it might also explain the dead girl’s behavior. Blood will tell, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Moral weakness. It’s in the blood. You say this aunt is devoted to her ward, a boy with no family whom she took to raise. What if the boy were more closely related to the aunt than being a cousin? What if the whole orphaned-cousin story was invented to explain his existence and give the aunt an excuse to raise him as her own?”

  Of course. “Because he was her own,” Sarah said.

  8

  Frank didn’t find the Bowery quite as threatening with Black Jack Robinson beside him.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Robinson,” the enormous bouncer called from the doorway of the Devil’s Den Saloon.

  Robinson stopped and introduced Frank to the bouncer, whose name was Tiny. “Mr. Malloy is doing some work for me, so if he asks for anything, he gets it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tiny said with an uncertain frown. “He’s the one who was looking for Freddie.”

  “I know. He’s going to find out who killed him.”

  That seemed to satisfy Tiny, much to Frank’s relief.

  Robinson led him around the side of the building to a narrow alley. About halfway back were the stairs that ran up the side of the building to the second floor. “That’s where Freddie would sleep.” He pointed to the area beneath the stairs. Tucked in there, the boy would be hidden from the street, especially when the alley was dark.

  After taking a fortifying breath, Robinson began to climb the stairs. Frank followed, giving the man a little space. Robinson pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, found the right one, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and hesitated only a moment before entering. By the time Frank entered, Robinson was standing in the center of the front room, looking around thoughtfully. The flat apparently had two rooms. This one was furnished as a sitting room. Lace curtains, the ones he and Gino had noticed before, hung at the windows. A horsehair sofa and matching chair sat at one end of the room. A kerosene lamp perched on a small table between them. An old-fashioned buffet took up another wall. On it stood a collection of liquor bottles and glasses. A sink and some shelves along the last wall formed a kitchen area of sorts, and a small, round table with two chairs took up the center of the room.

  Except for a little dust, the place was immaculate, making Frank wonder who cleaned it. Probably whoever cleaned the saloon, if such a thing ever actually happened. Frank had never given much thought to such matters.

  “Nothing is missing,” Robinson said. “I’ve been thinking about that since you asked me. I didn’t really look around last Sunday when I came, but I would’ve noticed even then, I’m sure. There’s just not that much here.”

  “What about the other room?”

  Robinson led the way. As Frank had expected, it was a bedroom, much smaller than the other room. The iron bedstead had been neatly made up with a slightly faded quilt covering the linens. A washstand stood against one wall and a row of pegs on another wall provided what closet space might be necessary. Nothing hung there now. Robinson studied the room for a moment, then looked behind the door.

  “The trunk,” he said in surprise, closing the door to reveal the space. “I had a trunk sitting there.” The outline in the dust was plain to see, as were the drag marks where it had been pushed or pulled from its corner.

  Frank nodded. Just as he’d suspected.

  “What is it?” Robinson demanded.

  “She was found in a trunk about a block from here. Whoever killed her tried to carry her away, but he probably decided it was too much trouble and just left the trunk in an alley. Some boys who wanted to steal the trunk found her.”

  Robinson had to close his eyes for a moment as he absorbed this new horror. When he opened them again, they were shining with fury. “But how could he have gotten the trunk down the stairs with her inside?”

  “He must’ve had help.”

  “So there was more than one of them?”

  “Not necessarily. He may have left and come back with help or maybe he found someone outside. A stranger wouldn’t have asked what was in the trunk.”

  “But who . . . ? It could’ve been Freddie,” he guessed after a moment. “He might’ve been right outside.”

  “It’s possible. That would explain why he was killed, at least. The killer would’ve been afraid Freddie would tell on him.”

  “But why wait? Why didn’t they kill him right away?”

  “Maybe the boy ran off. Maybe someone saw them together and the killer didn’t want to take a chance just then. Who knows? I’ve been thinking the boy must have seen something that put him in danger, though. He must’ve known it, too, because he was hiding out with his friend Raven.”

  “Maybe this Rav
en knows something.”

  “I’ll find out. Do you remember if the trunk was here on Saturday night when you arrived?”

  Robinson frowned as he tried to recall. “I came into the flat. The lamp was still burning in the front room, I remember.”

  “Did you look in the bedroom?”

  “Of course I did. I called for her, and when she didn’t answer, I looked in. I thought she might’ve fallen asleep or something. The room was dark, but I could see well enough to know she wasn’t there.”

  “And did you see the trunk?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I may have glanced behind the door, just to make sure she wasn’t there. But she’d have no reason to hide from me, so I probably didn’t.”

  “And if the trunk was missing, would you have noticed? In the dark?”

  “I . . . Probably not. I’m not even sure I looked. But if it was there, that means she wasn’t dead yet.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I . . .” The color drained from his face, and his eyes widened in horror. “Oh dear God, do you think she was here, in the trunk, when I got here? That I could’ve saved her?”

  Frank grabbed his arm and steered him back to the front room, where he could sit down. “Estelle was strangled. If she was in the trunk, she was already dead, and there was nothing you could’ve done. You said yourself the trunk might’ve been gone by then, too.”

  “But how? It hadn’t been dark very long when I got here. The killer couldn’t take a chance of being seen stealing something from my flat.”

  “How long were you here?”

  “Not long. As soon as I realized she’d gone, I went downstairs to see if she’d left me a message or if anybody in the Den had seen her. Nobody had, and Freddie wasn’t around, so I locked the place up and went home. I thought I’d see her the next day at our regular time.”

  “Who has a key to this place?”

  “Me. Estelle, so she could come whenever she wanted. Freddie, because he stayed here. And the bartender keeps one downstairs. He sends somebody up to sweep it out now and then.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did Arburn get in?”

  “I . . . He might have used the bartender’s key or . . .”

  “Or had his own key made.” Which meant he could’ve come and gone whenever he liked.

  “One more thing I need to discuss with him,” Robinson said.

  “When you got here Saturday night, was the door locked?”

  He hesitated, trying to remember. “Yes, it was. I tried the knob, and then knocked when it wouldn’t open. I thought Estelle was there and would let me in. When she didn’t answer, I used my key.”

  “You said you locked it when you left that night.”

  “Yes, I always lock it. This is the Bowery, after all.”

  “And it was still locked when you returned on Sunday.”

  “Yes. Why are you so worried about whether it was locked or not?”

  “Because the killer was very careful. He must’ve used Estelle’s key to lock up behind himself.” Or his own, but Frank wasn’t going to bring that up. “I’m just trying to figure out when he might’ve moved her out. I think you’re right. He probably came back after dark so no one would see him. It would’ve taken two people to carry the trunk down the stairs and as far away as it was found. Freddie was a good-sized boy. He might’ve been the one who helped. Do you think he would have helped somebody taking a trunk out of your flat?”

  Robinson rubbed his temples as if they ached. “He wouldn’t have helped somebody steal from me.”

  “What if he thought the person was acting on your orders?”

  “He’d do it then, but why would he think that?”

  Another reason to think it was Arburn. “I don’t know yet. I’m just trying to figure out what might’ve happened. It was late at night and dark and Freddie came here looking for a place to sleep and he saw somebody trying to get a trunk down the steps. It would take a lot of nerve for somebody to steal from Black Jack Robinson.”

  Robinson looked up at that. “Yes, it would.”

  “So maybe the person lied and said you’d sent him. Maybe you wanted the trunk moved right away for some reason.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “To you, but why would Freddie question it?”

  “Because he’s lived on these streets his whole life, and he doesn’t trust anybody.”

  Malloy nodded. “You’re probably right. So the killer had gone for help, and he and his friend carried the trunk down the stairs.”

  “But Freddie saw them, and they saw him,” Robinson guessed. “But how would he know about Estelle being killed?”

  “He wouldn’t have, not then. But they told me at the morgue that some boys had found the trunk and discovered her body.”

  “Do you think Freddie was one of them?”

  “If he was, he’d probably have recognized the trunk, but if he wasn’t one of the boys who found it, he would’ve at least heard about it. If he’d seen somebody carrying the trunk away and then heard about the woman’s body found in a trunk, he’d probably have figured it out.”

  “Which is why he was hiding.”

  “And when he heard you were looking for him, he might’ve thought you killed her and were after him, too.”

  Robinson swore. “Stupid kid. I could’ve protected him.”

  Frank couldn’t argue. “I need to talk to the men who work in the saloon downstairs.”

  “They already told me they didn’t see anything.”

  “Of course they did, but if they saw something and now your lady friend is dead, you’re the last person they’d tell.”

  Robinson opened his mouth to protest, but he must have realized the truth of that because he stopped himself. “All right. Do what you have to do. Just remember you’re working for me now.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be reporting what I find out, and I may have more questions for you later.”

  “You know where to find me. You can leave word with the bartender downstairs or at my house, too.”

  Frank left him sitting there in the room where he’d first met Estelle Longacre and where she had most likely died. If only he could find someone to give him a better idea of what Estelle was really like. Everyone he’d met so far either loved her or hated her. While she had behaved very oddly for a young lady brought up in society, she couldn’t have been as bad as some had made her out to be. She’d had reasons for doing what she’d done, Frank was sure. If he could figure out what those reasons were, he might be able to figure out who killed her. He’d at least have a better idea of why she’d died.

  The Devil’s Den Saloon was starting to fill up, but it wasn’t nearly as lively as it would become later in the evening. Tiny the bouncer sat perched on a wooden chair just inside the door, his long, thick legs stretched out before him as he kept an eye on the small crowd scattered around at the battered wooden tables or bellied up to the bar along the rear wall. He would, Frank realized, have no trouble at all carrying a trunk with a dead woman inside down a flight of stairs.

  “Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Frank asked.

  Tiny grunted, his eyes wary.

  “You know that Mr. Robinson’s lady friend was murdered a week ago Saturday night.”

  Tiny’s broad, pockmarked face sank into a frown. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “She was supposed to meet Mr. Robinson upstairs that night, only he was out of town and didn’t get the message. He got here around nine thirty, and she wasn’t there. We figure she was dead by then, and whoever killed her stuffed her into a trunk and carried her out.”

  “That seems like a lot of trouble. Why not just leave her there?”

  “If you killed Black Jack’s woman, would you want him to just wal
k in and find her there?”

  “He’d find out sooner or later.”

  Or would he? Maybe the killer had intended to dispose of Estelle’s body in a way that she would never be found. It would certainly explain why he’d gone to all the trouble to get help and sneak her out in the trunk. If she’d just disappeared, would her family and Robinson both have just figured she’d run off? Would anyone have even suspected murder? Any efforts to find her would have been fruitless, and eventually, they would’ve all given up even trying. “Yeah, I guess he would find out eventually,” Frank tried. “But the fact is that the killer took her out in a trunk. I was wondering if you heard anything suspicious that night.”

  “The boss already asked me. He asked me right after she disappeared, in fact.”

  “And did you?”

  “I told him no, and it’s the truth. It gets pretty noisy in here at night. We’ve got a piano player.” He nodded to a disreputable-looking upright behind him. “And people sing if he plays something they like. And when the place is full, everybody’s shouting. You have to if you want to be heard.”

  So if Estelle had screamed, no one would have heard. Still . . . “If somebody was dragging something across the floor upstairs or thumping down the steps . . .”

  “I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t see anything, and that little tart didn’t show her face in here, not ever. She was too good for the likes of us once she took up with Mr. Robinson.”

  “She’d been here before that, though,” Frank guessed. “Will Arburn brought her.”

  “On them tours of his. She come to look us over like we was a circus sideshow or something, her and them rich friends of hers.”

  Frank could understand how that might cause offense. “But what about Freddie? Did you see the boy at all on that Saturday night or the next day?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t, would I? He’d sell his papers and go off someplace with his pals and then he’d come back here when he wanted to sleep. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a week or more. No reason I should.”

  “Would it help your memory if I told you the same person who killed the girl also killed Freddie?”