Murder on Washington Square

by Victoria Thompson

  “Vain and selfish.”

  “Why vain?” he asked curiously. Malloy had already given her the reasons to think him selfish.

  “Did you see how carefully his hair was arranged? And how meticulous his clothes were? He spends a lot of time making sure he looks his best. He wants others to think as well of him as he thinks of himself.”

  “Considering how much time you spent with him, that’s very impressive,” Malloy allowed.

  “Oh, stop with the blarney, Malloy. You’re turning my head. And speaking of blarney, did you see the newspapers this morning?” she asked, outraged anew at the thought of them.

  “I try to avoid reading the newspapers as much as I can,” he said.

  “They said the most horrible things about poor Nelson! As far as they’re concerned, he’s another Jack the Ripper, slashing innocent women to death in the dark of night,” she said in disgust.

  “What did you expect? They’re trying to sell papers, not get the facts right.”

  “But they’re newspapers! Don’t they have an obligation to tell the truth? Mr. Pulitzer has devoted himself to uncovering scandal and corruption in society,” she said, naming the publisher of the World. “His paper is always crusading for one cause or another. Why would he allow his reporters to make up lies about innocent people?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask Mr. Pulitzer,” Malloy said with a tolerant grin. “The fact is that newspapers will publish anything if they think it will make people buy papers. Look at that Italian woman who killed her lover, for instance.”

  The story had sold millions of papers through her trial after she slashed her lover’s throat because he refused to marry her. “The press certainly wasn’t very kind to Miss Barberi,” she recalled, remembering the salacious details they had published about her.

  “That isn’t even her name,” Malloy said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean her real name is Barbella. Somebody got it wrong in the beginning, and the rest of them picked it up. I asked a reporter once why they didn’t correct the mistake, and he said that Barberi sounded like barbarian, so it made better copy.”

  “That’s horrible!” Sarah exclaimed.

  “I’m not arguing with you. I’m just telling you what goes on. Let me guess what they said about Nelson. They said he’s an evil seducer who ruined an innocent young woman, got her with child, and then killed her so he didn’t have to support them.”

  Sarah sighed. “One even suggested he’d killed her just because he got tired of her and wanted to find a new victim for his evil lusts.”

  “Very imaginative. At this rate, the police are going to have to arrest him just so the public feels safe from a monster.”

  Sarah groaned. “What are we going to do?”

  “We are not going to do anything. You are going home to make sure Nelson and his mother stay safely in their house while I go back to Thompson Street and try to figure out who really killed Anna Blake before Bill Broughan decides to close this case by locking up Nelson Ellsworth.”

  They’d reached Washington Square and stopped on the sidewalk at the southwest corner.

  “What are we going to do about the newspapers?” Sarah asked.

  Malloy looked pained. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? You do not have to do anything at all except worry about the Ellsworths.”

  “Malloy, you know you need my help in this! I can get more information out of Catherine Porter and the maid. I just need to catch them when Walcott isn’t around.”

  “Do you honestly think anyone will ever let you back in that house again?”

  He might be right about that, so Sarah decided not to argue. “Then I can talk to the newspapers and try to get them to print the truth.”

  “How are you going to explain your interest in Nelson Ellsworth’s welfare?”

  “We’re neighbors!”

  “You’re a woman, and he’s a man. You are no relation to him. You will be drawing the unpleasant attention of the press to yourself by trying to convince people he is innocent of killing a woman he seduced. Why would you do such a thing unless you were also his mistress?”

  “No one will think that!” Sarah insisted without much conviction.

  “Your mother would.”

  Sarah glared at him, furious because he was right. Her mother would be very upset, but it wouldn’t be the first time Sarah had disappointed her. “I long ago stopped trying to please my mother.”

  “Then protect yourself for your own sake. Believe me, you don’t want to know what the press will say about you if you become Nelson’s champion. Making a scandal of Felix Decker’s daughter would sell a lot of newspapers.”

  Sarah’s family was one of the oldest in the city, descendants of the original Dutch settlers, nicknamed the Knickerbockers. Their socially prominent position made them perfect targets, too. Sarah had already caused them enough heartache by marrying beneath her social station and forsaking their way of life. Plastering their name all over the scandal sheets would be unforgivable.

  “I hate it when you’re right, Malloy.”

  “And I’m always amazed when you admit I am,” he countered. “Now go home. I’ve got work to do. I need to get this murder solved fast because I’ve still got my own work to do, too. Don’t forget, I’m not even assigned to this case, and if anyone finds out I’m doing Broughan’s job for him, I’ll be the laughingstock of the department.”

  “I suppose you want me to tell you how grateful I am that you’re helping poor Nelson,” she said with a smirk.

  “I do, but I don’t expect you will,” he replied with a smirk of his own. “Good day, Mrs. Brandt.”

  He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving Sarah shaking her head.

  Frank strolled back to Thompson Street. The weather was turning colder. Soon the leaves would fall and winter would come with a vengeance. Tuesday evening had been a bit warmer than today but still chilly. Why had Anna Blake gone out that night? Surely not for a pleasant evening stroll. And why hadn’t she taken her purse? Had she been in a hurry?

  He’d check to see if Mrs. Walcott was home yet so he could question her, and then he’d try the neighbors. He should search Anna’s room, too. Maybe someone had sent her a note asking her to meet him that night. That would be too convenient, but it was certainly worth a try. He wasn’t going to get very far at all until he found out why she’d left the house in the first place.

  The maid at the Walcott house told him Mrs. Walcott hadn’t come back yet and Mr. Walcott had gone out, too. She wouldn’t admit him to the house without their permission, certainly not to search the dead woman’s room. He could have forced his way in, but he decided to wait until the landlady could escort him. No use in alienating the Walcotts before he had all the information they could give him.

  As he left the Walcotts’ he noticed a curtain on the front window of the house next door moving. Someone was watching him, which meant someone was very curious about the goings-on at the neighbors’ house. If that person was as nosy as Mrs. Ellsworth was about her neighbors, he could learn a lot about the Walcotts and their boarders.

  The woman who opened the door had snow white hair and a round pleasant face. Her faded blue eyes glittered with delight at the sight of her visitor, and she clapped her hands together as she peered up at Frank.

  “Are you from the police?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said, removing his bowler hat and holding it in front of him respectfully. “Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your neighbors, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “It’s Miss. Miss Edna Stone. Oh, my, no, I wouldn’t mind at all. I’m not sure I can help you in any way. I have no idea who killed that girl, you know. How could I? They said in the newspaper that she died in the Square. What a horrible thing.”

  Frank nodded solemnly. “I was hoping you might have seen something that night. Maybe something you didn’t even realize was imp
ortant at the time. Could I come in and speak with you about it?”

  “Oh, gracious me, of course you may. Excuse the mess. I’ve been so upset about that poor girl’s death, I haven’t had a chance to tidy up.”

  She escorted him into a parlor that was so spotlessly clean, even his mother couldn’t have found fault with it. He wondered what on earth she could do to tidy it up.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Detective Sergeant. Would you like some coffee?”

  Frank allowed that he would. If she gave him coffee, she’d settle in for a nice long visit. He really doubted she’d seen anything the night Anna Blake had died, but he was sure she could tell him a lot of gossip about her and the others in the house. He made himself comfortable and looked around the room while he waited. Miss Stone had doilies everywhere and almost as many knickknacks as his mother, but he didn’t see a speck of dust on anything. No photographs, either. Miss Stone might very well be alone in the world.

  The old woman returned a few minutes later with two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies on a gleaming silver tray.

  “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” he protested.

  “No trouble at all,” she assured him, settling into her own chair and handing him one of the cups. “These cookies are probably stale. There’s no one here to eat them but me.”

  The cookies were fresh and delicious. Frank ate two and complimented her on them before he asked his first question. “How long have you lived here, Miss Stone?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life, Mr. Detective Sergeant. I was born in this house.”

  Which meant she’d inherited it from her family, along with enough money to keep herself modestly even though she’d never married. How fortunate for her. Few women were so lucky.

  “How long have the Walcotts lived next door?”

  “Not quite a year now, I expect. They bought the place from Mr. Knight. His wife had died, and he was tired of living there all alone. At least that’s what Mrs. Walcott told me. Mr. Knight never even mentioned he was selling. Didn’t even say good-bye, either. Just up and left. Moved uptown, she said, into one of those fancy apartment buildings. I knew him forty years, and he didn’t say one word to me. Of course, he got funny after his wife died. Never was very sociable, and when she was gone, he just stayed inside most of the time. Didn’t even work in his garden anymore. Widowers get like that sometimes.”

  “What do you know about the Walcotts?”

  Miss Stone considered the question. “I’m trying to remember if she told me where they came from. Can’t say I recall, but they were thrilled with the house. Mr. Knight sold them most of his furniture, too, since he didn’t need it in his new place. Seems like she said her family left her a legacy or some such thing. That’s how they could buy the house.”

  “When did they start taking in boarders?”

  “Almost right away. Her husband couldn’t work, you know. Had some sort of nervous condition. So they needed the money.”

  Frank almost smiled at the description of Mr. Walcott as nervous. “I thought she had a legacy.”

  “She didn’t say, but it couldn’t have been much. Not enough to keep them, at least. She said she enjoyed having company in the house. They’d never been blessed with children, and she liked having other people around. Her husband liked to travel, so the boarders were company for her, as well as income.”

  So far this story agreed mostly with the one Walcott had told him. “I understand that the two women who were living there lately had only been there a few months. Who lived there before?”

  Miss Stone frowned as she tried to remember. “I don’t know all their names. One had red hair, I remember, and I’d swear it wasn’t natural. You know how you can just tell,” she added conspiratorially. “The way she carried herself, well, she didn’t seem quite respectable either, if you know what I mean. In my day, a young woman didn’t flaunt herself like that. But she didn’t stay long. Probably, the Walcotts agreed with me and turned her out. There was another one, Blevins or Cummings her name was. Something like that. Real pretty girl. She was there longer, but they told me she got married. I’m not surprised, as many men as came to call on her, she probably had her pick.”

  “Do a lot of men come to the house?” Frank asked.

  Miss Stone looked insulted. “It’s not that kind of a house, Mr. Detective Sergeant. I know the difference.”

  “I didn’t mean to say it was. I just understood that the two women living there now also had several suitors each. I was wondering if you’d noticed that.”

  A little mollified, she said, “I’m not one for minding my neighbors’ business, you understand, but I couldn’t help noticing that each girl seemed to have two or three different gentlemen who called on her. I don’t know how they kept them straight.”

  “Or how they kept them from encountering each other,” Frank observed.

  Miss Stone smiled her agreement. “The girls didn’t step out with their gentlemen, either, the way girls do nowadays. I don’t think it’s right, you understand. A young woman should never be alone in the company of a young man unless they’re engaged, and even then . . . But I suppose I’m hopelessly old-fashioned. Girls today, they do heaven knows what. Except these girls didn’t. The men would go inside to call on the girls, and then they’d leave alone. They never even took the girls for walks in the park or anything like that. They were very respectable.”

  Frank could think of another explanation. If the men in question were married, they couldn’t take a chance of being seen in a public place. Liaisons like the ones Frank knew took place there—liaisons that resulted in pregnancy—also couldn’t happen in a public place.

  “Did you ever speak with any of the boarders?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t believe I did. Young women like that, they don’t have time for an old lady like me.”

  “What about their gentleman friends?”

  “Oh, gracious, no! They were always in too much of a hurry. Pulling their hats down over their eyes so they could pretend they didn’t see me and didn’t need to speak.”

  Frank nodded his understanding. He suspected the men were actually trying to avoid being recognized, but he didn’t bother to explain that to Miss Stone. “Did you notice anything unusual the night Anna Blake was killed?”

  She offered Frank the cookie plate while she tried to remember. He took two more.

  “Of course, I didn’t know she was going to be murdered,” Miss Stone explained, “so I wasn’t paying particular attention, you understand.”

  Frank nodded again as he chewed on a cookie.

  “This probably has nothing at all to do with that poor girl’s death.”

  Frank kept nodding and chewing.

  “I have a difficult time sleeping. That happens when you get older. I was in bed, so I don’t know what time it might have been, although I know it was late, but I thought I heard someone opening the cellar door.”

  “At the Walcott house?”

  “I can’t be perfectly sure. I didn’t get up to look. Why should I? Only a busybody would be that curious. And the houses are so close together, it could have been the neighbor on the other side, for all I know. You see, I told you it probably didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  Frank had to agree. Anna Blake wasn’t murdered in anyone’s cellar. “It does prove you’re observant and have a good memory,” Frank said to placate her. “Did you notice anything earlier in the evening? Do you remember which gentlemen came to call?”

  “I don’t want you to think I just sit by my window watching who comes and goes next door,” Miss Stone said, a little offended.

  Frank gave her his charming smile, the one that used to work on his mother when he was a boy. “I know that a lady living alone likes to know who comes and goes in the neighborhood. You can’t be too careful, you know. I’m sure if you saw anything suspicious, you’d report it immediately.”

  Miss Stone allowed herself to be placated again. “Of cour
se I would. Except I didn’t see anything suspicious that night. I did see a gentleman come to call earlier in the evening, but I’m not even sure which one it was. They’re very careful about turning their faces away, you understand, and I never imagined it would be important to keep track of them.”

  “Do you have any idea when he left?”

  “I’m sorry to say I don’t. Why would that . . . ? Oh, I see, if the girl had left with him, he might be the killer.”

  Miss Stone was proving to be quite a detective herself. Too bad she wasn’t quite as nosy as Mrs. Ellsworth. He bet Mrs. Ellsworth could’ve told him the eye color and religious affiliation of each and every one of the Walcotts’ gentlemen callers.

  “Have I been any help at all?” she asked anxiously.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Frank lied. “Sometimes the smallest detail is the one that solves the case. Like I said, you may have seen something important without realizing it. If you think of anything else, please send for me.” He gave her his card, thanked her for the refreshments, and took his leave.

  Frank glanced at the Walcott house as he left Miss Stone’s. All seemed quiet, and he considered trying again to talk with Mrs. Walcott. Then he decided he’d have a better chance of seeing Giddings at his place of business at this time of day, something he could do without breaking his promise not to tell Giddings’s wife what had happened. Frank wanted to find out if he was the one who’d called on Anna the night she died. He’d stop by the Walcotts’ early tomorrow to catch the landlady before she had a chance to leave the house. Maybe she could at least explain why someone had opened her cellar door late that night.

  Sarah arrived home to discover several reporters on the sidewalk in front of the Ellsworths’ house. Poor Mrs. Ellsworth, the most exciting thing to happen on this street in her lifetime, and she already knew all about it. More, in fact, than she wanted to know.

  Sarah debated the wisdom of trying to get past the reporters to the Ellsworths’ front door, but she decided to try to sneak in the back instead. Unfortunately, she still had to deal with them. As soon as they recognized her, they converged on her, plying her with shouted questions and offering her bribes to get them in to see the Ellsworths.