Chapter Twenty-Six
The Twenty-Third Precinct station house on East Eighty-Eighth Street was a plain brick building with bars across the lower windows and a mixed fleet of bicycles, motorcycles, and patrol wagons parked out front. I followed the doorman through the bustling booking area, nervous as a hen in a fox’s den, keenly aware that the information I was about to divulge could be used against Eliza if the detective saw fit. I could only hope that his earlier meeting with Dr. Huntington had cracked his mind open to new possibilities.
The doorman led me into a room in the back, where half a dozen clerks were clacking away on typewriters. The wall behind them was covered end to end with photographs of what I assumed were wanted and convicted felons. Through the open doors in the hallway on my right, I could see uniformed men hunched over piles of files and official-looking forms. The doorman led me in the opposite direction, past a row of washrooms and a janitorial closet, around the corner into a truncated hall. The doorman rapped on the only door in the hallway. “You’ve got a visitor,” he announced, before retreating the way we’d come, leaving me standing at the door.
Detective Maloney sat at a child-size desk under an unshaded electric light, in what looked like a converted supply room.
“Well, well, look who’s here,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
“Good afternoon, Detective.” I glanced around the cramped space. The desk, two chairs, and some hard-used file drawers were the only furnishings. There were no framed clippings on the walls commemorating promotions or notable arrests, no plaques honoring years of service or involvement in charitable activities. The only item on the walls at all, aside from a calendar advertising Pope Military Bicycles, was a faded photograph of a man in an old-fashioned, double-breasted police uniform. The subject was an older, fleshier version of Maloney, with the same humorless mouth, and eyes that seemed to be challenging the camera. I guessed he was Maloney’s father, the man Simon suggested had been murdered by his own peers because of his refusal to participate in graft.
“If you’re here to gloat, you can just turn right around,” the detective said.
“I’m not here to gloat,” I said, crossing the few feet to his desk. “I’m here to give you evidence.”
Surprise flared in his sunken eyes.
“That’s what you wanted from me, wasn’t it?” I asked, settling onto the chair across from him. “Evidence to help you convict the murderer? Well, I’m here to give it to you.” There were stacks of file folders, arrest reports, and Bertillon cards piled on both sides of the desk. Taking Dr. Hauptfuhrer’s list from my bag, I laid it in the narrow space between them and slid it toward him. “Starting with this.”
He picked it up, frowning at me with suspicion, and flipped through the pages. “This don’t look like psychological records to me.”
“It’s not. It’s a list of babies that Dr. Hauptfuhrer delivered in secret over a period of twenty-three years.”
He cocked a rust-colored eyebrow. “Hauptfuhrer delivered babies?”
“In secret,” I said again. “Apparently, he took them from mothers who didn’t want them or were told they couldn’t keep them and sold them to barren women of means.”
He flipped back to the beginning and scanned the pages more slowly. “Where’d you get this?”
“From the doctor’s filing cabinet. I went back to his office after the murder.”
His head snapped up. “You’re telling me you stole this from the crime scene?”
I shrugged. “Somebody had to try to find out the truth,” I replied, with more nonchalance than I was feeling.
“Do you realize I can have you thrown in jail for—”
“Yes, yes, I know, Detective,” I broke in with a sigh, “but why don’t you at least let me tell you what I’ve discovered before you throw another innocent person into jail?”
He scowled at me, tossing the list onto the desktop. “All right, let’s hear it. But this better be good.”
I explained first how the list worked, leaning across the desk to point to the various columns. Next, I told him about the birth announcements I’d located in the newspapers, identifying some of the prominent families who were on it.
“So what about it?” he asked when I was done. “Are you saying this had something to do with the doctor’s murder?”
“Come now, Detective, you’re an intelligent man,” I said, sitting back. “Surely you can figure it out.”
“Why don’t you spell it out for me?” he drawled.
“Every person on that list had a secret that Dr. Hauptfuhrer could have revealed, which means that every one of them had a potential motive to kill him. Now that you know Eliza doesn’t have Huntington’s chorea, you have no grounds to assert that she killed the doctor in some sort of irrational fit. That being the case, I respectfully suggest you consider the possibility that someone else committed the crime.”
He looked down at the list, tapping his pencil against the desktop. “And you’re suggesting I question everybody on this list?”
I sat up straighter, sensing a breach in his resistance. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve already narrowed down the field for you.” Taking a deep breath, I told him everything.
He listened without interruption, his chin propped on one fist, his eyes darting over his knuckles with each new revelation. “You realize you just gave Mrs. Miner a reason to kill the doctor,” he said when I was done. “If he took her baby, she would have had it in for him.”
“I gave you a lot more than that,” I retorted. “Even if you could explain why Eliza would kill the only person who could help her locate her daughter—not to mention why she’d wait twenty years to do it—she had no reason to kill Miss Hauptfuhrer or to try to kill me by throwing me in the meat cooler. Lucille, on the other hand, would need to silence all three of us to ensure that her secret remained safe.”
He mulled this over, his pencil tapping more rapidly on the desktop.
“There’s more,” I said. I extracted the bundle from my purse and placed it before him, unfolding the handkerchief corners to reveal the pen and inkwell inside. “I took these from Hagan’s desk.”
He bent for a closer look. The light from the overhead fixture threw his eye sockets into shadow, accentuating the gauntness of his face. For the first time, I noticed the lines of fatigue that ran down the sides of his nose, and the hair that straggled over his ears, badly in need of a cut. Detective Maloney, it struck me, did not lead an easy life. As he reached for the handkerchief I saw that his nails were bitten to the quick, and that he wore no wedding ring. Seeing him in this barren little cubicle, set apart from his fellow officers with nothing but piles of files to keep him company, I had a sudden, visceral understanding of the lonely life he’d carved out for himself after his father’s death.
He pulled the items toward him by a corner of the handkerchief. “Did you touch them?”
I shook my head.
He contemplated the nest of potential evidence, rubbing his chin. “Why would Hauptfuhrer tell Mrs. Fiske her daughter was sick if he never got confirmation?”
“I expect he thought a wedding announcement was imminent. He was probably hoping she’d postpone it until a definite diagnosis could be made. He understood that the disease was hereditary and no doubt felt that if Olivia was afflicted, the Earl should be informed.”
I waited while he mulled this over.
“The Fiskes are leaving town on Saturday,” I prompted when several more moments had passed. “If you’re going to question them, you’ll need to do it soon.”
He looked from the list to the evidence and back again, still frowning and rubbing his chin. I felt a fresh wave of anxiety. He had to agree to investigate the Fiskes. There was no other way to prove Eliza’s innocence. Catching a glimpse of the photograph over his shoulder, I had a sudden inspiration. “I understood the Maloneys were men
of honor,” I said.
He looked up sharply, as if suspecting a hidden taunt.
I nodded toward the picture on the wall. “It’s what he’d tell you to do, isn’t it? Make sure that no stone is left unturned?”
He swiveled toward the picture, then back toward me, surprise and acknowledgment written clearly on his face.
I could tell I’d hit a bull’s-eye. “If I’m right,” I went on, “and you don’t investigate, an innocent woman could go to the electric chair.”
He sat back slowly in his chair, lips pressed into a hard, thin line.
I held his gaze, willing him to concede, knowing that if this didn’t work, I had nothing left in my bag of tricks.
“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll have them dusted for prints.”
Relief sapped my limbs. “Can you do it today?”
He flipped open his watch. “I suppose I could get them there in time.”
“What about comparing the prints to the ones on the sword?” I pressed. “Can that be done today as well?”
He grimaced. “We got a little thing called procedure for evidence in custody,” he said sourly. “But I should probably have an answer by late tomorrow.”
I stood up, hardly able to contain my excitement. “Could you let me know as soon as you find out? You can telephone me at my home.” I wrote the number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. He pocketed it without a word.
Impulsively, I held out my hand. “Thank you.”
He didn’t take it. “Don’t get me wrong. My money’s still on Mrs. Miner.”
I let my arm drop. “Don’t worry, Detective. I wasn’t about to accuse you of having a heart.”
• • •
I retraced my steps down the maze of corridors and out of the building, feeling as though I had just moved a mountain. With the lab checking the fingerprints and the police investigating the Fiskes’ activities, Eliza’s vindication might only be a few days away. Now that I finally had some cause for celebration, I was eager to share my news.
And not just with anyone, I admitted to myself as I drew up at the end of the block. I wanted to share it with Simon. I looked down the avenue toward his saloon. I was ashamed that I’d ever suspected him of pushing me into the meat cooler. He had gone out on a limb to help Eliza, and I wanted to tell him about her clean bill of health so he’d know we’d been right to believe in her.
As if of their own accord, my feet turned south toward the Isle of Plenty. I owed it to him to keep him informed, after all. While I was at it, I could find out why he’d been asking for me on the morning of my captivity and put that little mystery to rest.
To my great disappointment, he was not at the saloon when I arrived. A man eating fried potatoes at the counter informed me between mouthfuls that he was over on Eighty-Ninth Street, at a “relo” near the river. I left the saloon and turned in the direction the man had indicated, unsure of my precise destination. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried; I saw Simon the moment I stepped onto the block in question, sitting atop a heap of furniture and bric-a-brac stacked in the middle of the sidewalk.
I stopped, transfixed by the sight. He was leaning back over a faded carpet that had been thrown on top of the haphazard pile, his knees bent over a battered bureau underneath, popping peanuts into his mouth as he chatted with a man in a woolen cap who was standing on the sidewalk beside him. A stout woman in a red head kerchief sat on an overturned bucket at the man’s feet, clutching a small box to her chest as she watched three little boys pitch pennies against the nearby stoop.
A relocation. That’s what the man in the saloon had meant. These people were being evicted. One saw it every now and then: a family turned out onto the street with all their possessions, regardless of the season or time of day. I was wondering if I should wait to speak with Simon another time when he looked up and saw me. Straightening my hat, I continued to the foot of the pile.
“What are you doing here?” he asked when I was within earshot.
It was hardly the warm welcome I’d been secretly hoping for. I smiled up at him uncertainly. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“Who told you that?”
“Your man, Donald Kearney. He said you came looking for me at Eliza’s yesterday morning.”
There was no mistaking the surprise that flashed across his eyes. He hesitated for a full two beats before saying, “You must have misunderstood him. I did stop by, but only to ask if he’d seen anyone go in or out during the night.”
He was lying; I was sure of it. I stared at him in dismay, not wanting to believe what my eyes and ears were telling me. I’d been convinced, after my last chat with Lucille, that it was she who’d arranged my ordeal in the meat cooler. But if that were true, why wouldn’t Simon want me to know that he’d been asking for me at the shop? The only reason I could think of was that he’d gone there to determine whether I’d escaped from my imprisonment during the night. “Do you make a habit of stopping by the Brauns’ shop at the crack of dawn?”
He must have heard the edge in my question, because his own tone was curt as he replied, “A woman had her head chopped off a few days ago, and the possible perpetrator is out of prison because of me. It seems to me the least I can do is check on her whereabouts every now and then.”
How I wanted to believe him. If he’d just admitted that he’d been asking for me and given some plausible explanation, I would happily have done so. But Kearney had no reason to lie to me, while Simon… I bit my lip, trying to see past the boy I’d known, into the mind of the man before me.
“All right,” he said gruffly, glancing across the street. “I told you I haven’t been looking for you, so you can be on your way.”
I wasn’t going anywhere, I decided. Not until I knew what he was playing at. “We need to talk.”
“Now’s not a good time,” he said, looking back across the street. “I’m busy.”
Following his gaze, I saw a handful of men chatting idly on the opposite sidewalk. Except for the men and a boy riding a bicycle at the end of the street, the block was empty. “Oh yes, I can see how busy you are,” I retorted.
“Why don’t you wait for me at the saloon?” he said with ill-concealed impatience. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m finished here.”
Why was he so eager to get rid of me? “I think I’ll just wait here,” I said, crossing my arms.
If looks could kill, I would have been lying facedown on the sidewalk. “If you won’t leave,” he snapped, “you’re going to have to come up here where you’ll be out of the way.”
I looked around the empty street in amazement. “Out of the way? Of what?”
“Just come or go.”
“Fine.” Lifting my skirt with one hand, I climbed up a rolled mattress at the back of the pile and picked my way over a lamp and a protruding pair of table legs to sit beside him. “My, isn’t this comfy,” I said, patting something hard and lumpy beneath me.
“You can leave anytime.”
I glared at him. “What are you doing up here, anyway?”
“The Longobardis have been evicted. They’re waiting for a cart to pick up their things.”
“And you’re playing king of the hill while they wait?”
“I’m keeping the wolves at bay,” he said, jerking his head toward the opposite sidewalk.
I looked again at the ragtag group of men that was assembled there. This time, I took note of the assorted implements that were dangling from the men’s hands: a bat, a stick, what looked like pieces of steel pipe. I swallowed. “What do they want?”
“You’re sitting on it,” he answered, popping another peanut into his mouth.
I stared at him. “Do you mean they think they can just walk over here and take things that don’t belong to them?”
He shrugged. “They’re hungry. Hunger makes a man mean.”
I felt a prickle up the nape of my neck. I wished now I had taken his advice and gone to wait in the saloon. I ran my hands over the edge of the carpet, searching for something underneath with which to defend myself.
“Just sit there and look charming,” he said in a low voice. “You don’t want them to think you’re afraid.”
This was not an easy instruction to follow. I did my best, however, imitating his relaxed pose and even forcing a brittle smile. “How long have they been there?” I asked between clenched teeth.
“About ten minutes.”
“What do you suppose they’re doing?”
“Getting up their nerve.”
“What happens when they…” I stopped, seeing him stiffen. Looking back across the street, I saw that the men had started toward us, led by a flat-nosed man swinging a short length of pipe.
Simon handed me the bag of peanuts. Peeling off his coat, he stood and straddled the top of the pile. “Gentlemen, you’re just in time,” he called. “The cart will be here any minute, and we can surely use your help.”
“We’ll help you, all right,” snickered the man with the pipe, as the group formed a ragged half circle around us. “We’ll help take this junk off your hands.”
Mrs. Longobardi grabbed the boys and pulled them against her as her husband started toward the men, muttering in Italian.
“No, Gianni,” Simon barked. “Stay there.” He turned to me. “You too,” he said. “Don’t move unless I tell you to, and keep your trap shut. Understand?”
I bobbed my head up and down.
He jumped off the pile and landed neatly as a cat on the sidewalk, facing the leader with his legs splayed and his arms hanging loosely at his sides. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he said, sounding genuinely sorry. “I promised these people I’d deliver them and their belongings safely to new lodgings.”
A Deadly Affection Page 37