Murder in the Bowery

by Victoria Thompson

  “I understand.” He held himself very stiffly, as if expecting a blow.

  “First let me ask you if you have any idea why Estelle wanted to see you that night instead of just waiting until the next day when you’d already arranged to meet?”

  “No, I don’t. She didn’t say anything in the telegram, of course, and I couldn’t imagine . . . I thought something must have happened.”

  “What did you think could have happened?”

  His body had gone rigid. “She . . . I thought maybe . . . maybe she had argued with her father.”

  “Argued about what?”

  “They didn’t get along. It could’ve been about anything.”

  “But it would’ve had to have been something terrible for her to send a telegram like that when she could have just waited until the next day. You didn’t think it was just an argument, did you?”

  “Really, Mrs. Malloy . . .”

  “Mr. Robinson, you don’t have to worry about my sensibilities. I’ve worked as a midwife in the tenements. Very little can shock me, although many things horrify me. We have learned that Estelle was with child before she met you and Arburn. We have also learned that her father did not allow anyone to court her, so she had no male visitors at her house except her cousin Norman. Do you believe Norman could have fathered Estelle’s child?”

  Robinson had gone pale. “No. Not Norman. I’m sure of that.”

  “How can you be?” Frank asked.

  “She . . . she was fond of him in an odd way, the way you’re fond of a pet, I guess. And she pitied him. She wouldn’t have felt like that if he’d abused her in any way.”

  “Did Estelle tell you who could have fathered the child?” Sarah asked.

  “I didn’t know about the child,” he hedged, plainly more than uncomfortable with the subject.

  “But you knew she wasn’t innocent when she started coming to the Bowery.”

  “If you mean she wasn’t a virgin, then yes, I did know that, but she was still innocent.” He was angry now, although his instinctive good manners wouldn’t allow him to raise his voice to Sarah.

  “I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words. You’re right, she was innocent in so many ways. But I think someone she should have been able to trust had betrayed that trust. Do you know who that was, Mr. Robinson?”

  “She never told me,” he tried.

  “But you figured it out, didn’t you? And you were as horrified as we were when we realized it, too. Did you come to understand that her father had violated her?”

  He flinched as if she’d struck him, and Frank understood that she had in a way. “Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “That son of a . . . He doesn’t deserve to live.”

  “And he’ll die soon in any case. The question is, did he kill Estelle?”

  “Why would he have killed her?” he asked bitterly.

  “Perhaps because she was going to escape him. Or because she’d taken a lover. You must have thought he’d abused her in some horrific way that day, and you may have been right. That would certainly explain why she was so desperate to see you that she couldn’t wait even one day.”

  “When she wasn’t at the flat that night, I thought she’d gone home,” Robinson said, angry again. “I was relieved, because surely she wouldn’t have gone home if it was as bad as I thought. But how could the old man have killed her? He’s too sick to leave the house.”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out,” Frank said quickly, before Sarah could reply. “Are you sure she didn’t give you any hint at all about why she wanted to meet you that night? What exactly did the telegram say?”

  “Just that she wanted to meet me that night instead of Sunday.”

  “Do you still have the telegram?” Sarah asked.

  “Of course.”

  “May we see it?” she asked gently.

  He sighed. “If you think it will do any good. Excuse me.”

  He rose and left the room.

  “What do you think the telegram will tell us?” Frank asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it can’t hurt to take a look.”

  Robinson returned with the small square of paper. He handed it to Sarah. She needed only a moment to read the typewritten words, and then she looked up with a puzzled frown.

  “What is it?” Frank asked, reaching for it.

  “It’s worded very oddly.”

  Indeed it was. It merely said, “Change time today six instead.” The signature was only her initials.

  “I thought she just didn’t want anyone to guess what it was about so she said as little as possible,” Robinson said.

  “You’re probably right,” Sarah said, although she still looked puzzled.

  Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pencil.

  “What are you doing?” Robinson asked.

  “Just copying it down. I assume you want to keep it.”

  “Of course I do. It’s the last message she sent me.”

  When Frank had finished copying all the information, including the identifying letters and numbers at the top, he handed the paper back to Robinson.

  “Do you really think the old man could’ve killed her?” Robinson asked.

  “We’re going to find out,” Frank said, rising to his feet. “Just don’t you kill him until we do.”

  12

  When Sarah and Malloy came out of Robinson’s house, Gino eagerly climbed out of the hansom cab and demanded to know if their theory was right.

  Sarah nodded and Malloy glanced away, his expression grim.

  Gino frowned his dismay. “What do we do now?”

  “You will go home and get a good night’s sleep, and so will we,” Malloy said. “I’ll see you at the office sometime tomorrow.”

  “But won’t you need me? If you’re going to visit Longacre again . . .”

  Sarah exchanged a glance with Malloy, and they silently agreed about Gino’s involvement.

  “I’ll telephone you at the office if I have something for you,” Malloy said.

  “But—”

  “I can’t afford to wear out my welcome with Longacre,” Malloy said. “We won’t find out anything if I do, so it’s better if I see him alone.”

  Gino grudgingly agreed, wished them good night, and strode off into the evening to find another cab.

  Malloy helped Sarah into the waiting one and gave the driver their address on Bank Street.

  “I suppose this means we don’t need to speak to Penelope,” Sarah said as the cab pulled away from the curb.

  “Not yet, at least.”

  Sarah shivered, in spite of the warmth of the evening. “I was hoping I was wrong about Longacre.”

  “I was, too.”

  She slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it, and she knew a moment of pure joy that they had found each other.

  “I hate that you know about these things,” he said.

  “I knew about a lot of them before I ever met you. I just never knew people killed over their secrets. Do you think I could be of any help at the Longacre house?”

  “You certainly can’t question Longacre in his bedroom.”

  She smiled at the ridiculous thought. “Of course not, but maybe I could talk to the servants while you’re busy with Longacre. They might tell me even more than they told you, especially Tom.”

  “I’m sure you could utterly charm Tom. I’m not too sure about Marie, though.”

  “Was she charmed by you?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “And yet look how much she revealed to you. I think I know how to handle her.”

  “All right then. We’ll both go tomorrow.”

  * * *

  At first Gino couldn’t figure out why somebody had left a bundle of rags outside the door o
f their office. Admittedly, the hallway was dim, with only the morning sunlight filtering through the frosted glass of the doors lining it, so he couldn’t see very clearly. When he got closer, the bundle of rags took on a more recognizable form, though, and when he nudged it with his foot, it sat right up and glared at him.

  “Hey!”

  “Who are you?” Gino asked.

  “I’m . . .” He caught himself. “Never mind who I am. You’re one of them detectives, ain’t you? The ones looking for who killed Two Toes.”

  “That’s right. Do you have some information for me?”

  “I might.”

  “Well, whether you do or whether you don’t, you need to move so I can get into my office.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet and stepped back so Gino could unlock the door. His visitor was a runty little fellow, all knees and elbows. His dark eyes were enormous in his thin face, but they looked like they’d seen way too much in his short life.

  “Have you been here all night?” Gino asked.

  “Yeah. It seemed like a good place, and I didn’t want to miss you.”

  Gino had to admit, the boy was resourceful. “Have a seat.” He pointed at the chair beside his desk. The boy sat down warily while Gino took his usual seat behind his desk and found some paper and a pencil in the top desk drawer. “All right then, what do you have to tell me?”

  The boy squinted at the paper from beneath the brim of his battered cap. “What do you need that for?”

  “I’ll write down what you tell me if I think it’s important.”

  “Everything I’m going to tell you is important.”

  “Even your name?”

  “I ain’t no fool, not after what happened to Two Toes.”

  “I see.” And he did. “Did you see something? Or hear something?”

  “Both. I mean . . . Well, it was Wednesday, I think, last week. Somebody was looking for Two Toes.”

  “Somebody besides me and Mr. Malloy, you mean?”

  “Yeah, somebody besides you.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “Yeah.”

  Gino was going to have to work on his interrogation skills. “So who was it?”

  “Willy Arburn.”

  Gino laid down his pencil. “Arburn is the one who hired us to find Two Toes in the first place.”

  “Oh . . . But if he hired you to do it, why was he looking, too?”

  Gino considered that for a moment. Why would Arburn have been looking? “This was Wednesday, you said?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. The day before I heard he was kilt.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Late. We ain’t selling papers, so we was all just hanging around under the bridge, pitching pennies and shooting craps.”

  A very dangerous activity, but Gino knew the newsies would say it was only illegal if you got caught. “And Arburn just asked if any of you had seen Two Toes?”

  “No, he pulled me aside ’cause he knows I’m pals with Two Toes.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  The boy’s dirty face nearly crumpled at this, but he managed not to cry. “I didn’t know what was gonna happen, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t, and you shouldn’t blame yourself. You’re not the one who killed Freddie, are you?”

  “No!” he nearly shouted, outraged.

  “Well, then, it’s not your fault. The man who did it is the one to blame. Just tell me what you said to Arburn.”

  The boy swallowed. “I said I ain’t seen Two Toes in a few days, but Raven would probably know where he was.”

  Gino managed not to wince. He didn’t want to confirm the boy’s worst fears that he had led Freddie’s killer right to him. In fact, Gino didn’t know if he had or not, because why would Arburn want to harm the boy?

  “He said I done good and give me a nickel,” the boy added sadly.

  “We know Arburn was looking for Two Toes, but that doesn’t mean he’s the one who killed him. What you said probably didn’t cause any harm to anybody.”

  “Do you really think so?” the boy asked hopefully.

  “Of course. I guess a lot of people know Raven and Two Toes were pals, not just you.”

  “I guess.”

  “And a lot of people know where Raven’s place is.”

  “Yeah, they do.”

  “So anybody could’ve been looking for him, and anybody could’ve found him.”

  The boy dragged his sleeve across his mouth. “I reckon you’re right.”

  “I appreciate you coming to tell me. And here’s your reward.” He pulled a dollar from his pocket. The boy’s eyes lit up.

  “Thanks, mister.”

  “And if you hear anything else, be sure to let me know.”

  The boy was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned back. “You won’t tell Arburn I told you, will you?”

  “What can I tell him? I don’t even know your name.”

  The boy grinned hugely at that, and then he was gone.

  Gino leaned back in his chair to consider what the boy had said. Maybe he’d been telling the truth when he assured the boy that Arburn probably wasn’t the killer, but maybe not. Why would Arburn have gone looking for Freddie the very night they’d told him he’d been found? And after they’d assured him they would keep working on the case? There was only one way to find out for sure.

  Gino picked up the telephone earpiece and jiggled the switch hook to summon the operator. He gave her the Malloys’ number and waited for Maeve to answer. She’d let Mr. Malloy know where he’d gone if the Malloys went home first. He’d leave a note here if Mr. Malloy came to the office looking for him.

  * * *

  “You’re like a bad penny, ain’t you?” Marie said when she saw Frank and Sarah standing on the Longacre doorstep that morning. “And don’t think I don’t know this is way too early in the day for visitors.”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Sarah said in that authoritative voice she’d used on Marie the last time.

  This time, Marie didn’t even pretend she wasn’t going to admit them, though. When she’d closed the door behind them, she said, “He’s awake if you want to go on up, although I wouldn’t take no lady with me if I was you.”

  “I thought I’d wait down here with you,” Sarah said. “We could chat.”

  “Chat, is it? I suppose you’ll be wanting something cold to drink, too. Come along, then, if you’re not too grand to sit in the kitchen.” She turned and started toward the back of the house, not even bothering to see if Sarah was following.

  Sarah gave Frank a satisfied grin and went after her.

  Malloy wondered if he would merit something cold to drink when he was finished with Longacre. With a sigh, he started up the stairs to the dark, stuffy sickroom.

  He knocked loudly, so Longacre would know it wasn’t Marie, and then he opened the door to find Longacre glaring at him from his chair this time. He wore the same stained dressing gown and disreputable slippers. “Can’t you leave a man alone to die in peace?”

  “Are you planning to die today? I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course I’m not going to die today, but dying is hard work, and I don’t have any energy left for you and your questions.”

  “That’s too bad. I’d think you’d want to see your daughter’s killer caught and punished before you go.”

  Longacre had no answer for this, as Frank had suspected he wouldn’t. If he’d killed Estelle, he certainly didn’t want to be caught and punished.

  Without waiting for an invitation to sit that was probably not going to come, Frank again cleared a chair and straddled it, resting his arms along the back of the chair and meeting Longacre’s steady stare.

  “Aren’t you going to ask m
e if I found out who took Estelle’s body?” Frank asked after a long moment of silence.

  “I figured that’s why you came and you’d tell me in your own good time.”

  “That’s not why I came, but I believe it was Jack Robinson who took her.”

  “I thought as much, after you told me he’s the one Estelle was meeting. What does he think he’s going to do with a dead body?”

  “He doesn’t confide in me. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  Longacre snorted in derision.

  “I also thought you’d ask me if I’ve found out who killed Estelle.”

  “You’d look a lot happier if you had.”

  Frank thought he was probably right. “I did find out some new information since I saw you last, though. I found out you sometimes go out.”

  Longacre’s eyes narrowed. “So what if I do?”

  “I just thought it was interesting that one of the times you went out was the night Estelle died.”

  “I suppose Tom told you that. Well, he’ll find himself out of a job for his trouble.”

  “And you’ll find yourself with no servants to take care of you in your dying days,” Frank said. “Have you tried to hire a new servant lately? It’s not easy to find one who won’t take advantage of you, especially when you’re sick.” Frank had no idea if this was true or not, since he’d never hired a servant in his life, but he was gratified to see Longacre believed him, if the sudden panic in his eyes was any indication. “And of course there’s Marie’s meat pies, which I am told are delicious.”

  “She told you that herself, I guess.”

  “So where did you go that night?”

  “Where do you think I went?”

  “I think you probably followed Estelle, which would mean you went to the Bowery.”

  Longacre gave no indication he’d even heard. He simply stared back, expressionless.

  “When did you first realize Estelle was sneaking out?” Frank tried.

  Silence.

  “Ah, so she outsmarted you, then. She and Norman Tufts. You didn’t know what she was doing and you didn’t care either. You probably—”

  “I knew! And I cared! What man wouldn’t care if his daughter was making herself a harlot?”

  “That’s a harsh judgment.”