Murder in Greenwich Village

by Liz Freeland

  “Ethel’s dead,” Callie said flatly. “We just buried her.”

  Was it my imagination, or did the woman tremble at this news? Her face went slack, and she made an effort to swallow. “Dead! Oh dear. I’m sure it wasn’t . . . when did . . . when did she become ill?”

  “She was murdered,” I said.

  “You must have read about it,” Callie added. “Ethel Gail. She was killed last Thursday night. It’s been in all the papers.”

  The woman’s eyes bugged. “That was the lady who came here? That poor murdered woman?” She shook her head. “I did hear about it, of course.”

  Strangely, the news that one of the doctor’s patients had been killed in cold blood had a calming effect on the woman. She finally stopped gulping and knocking things over and looked Callie in the eye. “I’m very sorry.”

  “You see, we found Ethel’s appointment written on a scrap of paper in my pocket,” Callie said.

  I added, “Ethel never mentioned having toothaches.”

  “It probably came upon her quickly,” the receptionist said. “Toothaches do sometimes.”

  The door to the dentist’s office opened and a man shambled out, teary and dazed. I understood his pain. There were few things worse than submitting to the horror of the dentist’s chair. Which made it all the more strange that Ethel would have done so in complete secrecy. She hadn’t been one to suffer in silence.

  The door remained ajar, and I glimpsed a man in a white smock within. Sensing that this might be our best chance to talk to Dr. Alberink today, I darted toward the room. As soon as she saw my intent, the receptionist whooped at me to stop.

  “You can’t go in there!”

  But that’s exactly what I did do. The room was large. Electric lights illuminated the dental chair—so much like a barber’s chair, only sinister. I looked across a wheeled metal table containing the gruesome tools of the dental trade before I caught sight of Dr. Alberink half hidden behind a cabinet door, knocking back a belt of something. I doubted it was lemonade.

  “Get out of there,” the receptionist yelled as she barreled in behind me.

  Dr. Alberink clearly thought she was shouting at him, because he slammed the cabinet shut guiltily and turned to us.

  “Dr. Alberink?” I said.

  The receptionist grabbed my shoulder in a deadly strong pinch. “You had no right to—”

  “She only wants to speak to him,” Callie said, skidding in behind us both.

  Dr. Alberink’s eyes widened. He was a small, mousy man, with thick glasses inside round, wire frames. A strange map of birthmarks showed on his scalp through his thinning gray hair.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Miss Crombie?”

  “They’ve come about Callie Gail,” she said.

  “Ethel,” Callie and I corrected in unison.

  “I’m Callie,” Callie said.

  The doctor suddenly took on the same edgy demeanor that had caused Miss Crombie to start knocking things over. “I don’t understand.. . .”

  I explained it all over again—Ethel’s death, and our finding the appointment written on the note in her pocket, and the strange fact that Ethel had given a fake name.

  The more I told him about Ethel’s death, the calmer he became. “Oh my word. I had no idea—both that she wasn’t who she claimed to be, and that she was that poor soul the newspapers have written so much about. I’m very sorry for you, my dear,” he said to Callie. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you. Miss Gail had a cavity. A very small one. I filled it for her, and that was the end of the matter.”

  “She never told us anything about a cavity,” I said.

  “No reason she should have.” The dentist shrugged. “She wasn’t here twenty minutes. She didn’t even let me apply Novocain.”

  His explanation seemed plausible . . . except for one thing. Why had Ethel come here, of all places? “Have you ever practiced in Little Falls?” Given how few people Ethel knew in New York City, I didn’t see how she could have found this dentist unless he’d had some connection to her hometown.

  The man’s forehead scrunched into a mass of lines. “No—is it near here?”

  “It’s a small town upstate,” Callie said. “Ethel and I came from there.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know it. And, of course, Miss Gail was only here once. We didn’t chat about anything besides that tooth that was deviling her. So I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to you.”

  “No, you’re no use.” From the flat tone of Callie’s voice, her dissatisfaction matched mine.

  Miss Crombie herded us out. “The doctor is very busy. The next patient has been waiting a long time. Doctor?”

  He nodded. “Just give me half a minute, Miss Crombie, and send Mrs. Johnson in.”

  That thirty seconds was probably the time he needed to get back to his cabinet and take another slug of the hard stuff.

  It was also the time Miss Crombie needed to personally escort us past the unfortunate Mrs. Johnson all the way to the door, which she shut firmly behind us.

  Out in the hallway, I tapped my foot in irritation. My whole body was vibrating from the encounter. Something was not right.

  “A tooth filling,” Callie said.

  “Baloney.” I stomped down the stairs. I needed to move.

  Callie hurried after me. “You think the dentist was lying?”

  “Of course he was. He and that dragon of a receptionist. Ethel didn’t have a toothache. We would have heard about it day and night if she had.”

  Callie agreed.

  “And why would she have come all the way up to see this half-blind lush of a dentist? If he’d said he’d ever even been through Little Falls, or even knew someone from there, I might have swallowed it, but—”

  “He was telling the truth about that. I could see it in his eyes. He’d never heard of the place.”

  “He’d never heard of Ethel, either,” I said. “Just you. Why would Ethel give a false name to a dentist?”

  Above us, a door opened and closed, and footsteps clattered toward us. The steps sounded so urgent, Callie and I fell silent and looked at each other, afraid it was Miss Crombie coming after us. But when the owner of the footsteps appeared, it was only one of Mrs. Johnson’s girls. The oldest one. She wore a dress two sizes too small for her, a limp ribbon in her unwashed braid, and the most fretful, careworn expression I’d ever seen on a girl her age.

  “Excuse me—miss?” The girl’s anxious gaze moved from Callie to me. “Misses?” She wiped a patched sleeve across her brow.

  “Is anything wrong?” I asked.

  “You were talking about a lady, the one who died?” She noted Callie and I exchanging glances, and she blurted, “You can’t blame me for overhearing, can you? You weren’t exactly whispering.”

  “She was my cousin,” Callie said.

  The girl’s worried gaze strayed up the stairs. She was still holding the newel post as if she might flee. Her tight dress, which squeezed her flat chest, gave her the impression of being about to burst. She chewed her lip, deliberating whether she should say anything to us.

  She’s just curious about the murder, I decided.

  Callie looked at me impatiently, shrugged, and turned toward the door. I was going to follow when the girl suddenly asked, “Are you sure the doctor didn’t do her in?”

  The question stopped us cold. “Dr. Alberink?” I asked.

  She lifted her finger to her lips to warn us to keep our voices down.

  Callie looked skeptical, whereas I was busy convicting the doctor in my mind, comparing his appearance to the photos I’d seen of the infamous Dr. Crippen, the doctor who’d hacked up his wife in England and fled with his mistress to Canada a few years back. At the time, I’d avidly followed the transatlantic chase to catch him in the newspapers. The police had apprehended him, but it just showed how dangerous a mousy man with a little medical knowledge and a motive for murder could be.

  Except what would have been Dr. Alberink’s
motive to kill Ethel? “Why would you suspect the doctor?” I asked. “Is he a lothario?”

  The girl blinked. “A what?”

  “Is he a masher?” Callie translated, flicking an exasperated glance at me.

  She shook her head. “I’m not supposed to know, but I hear things. Ma’d slap me silly if she even knew I was talking to you, and I bet that lady upstairs would, too.”

  “Why would either of them care?”

  “On account of the doctor. I hear it’s dangerous.”

  “Dentistry?” I asked.

  “It’s not Ma’s teeth he’s working on.”

  “Then what—”

  Before I could finish, Callie punched my arm. “Don’t be a clunk, Louise.”

  Understanding dawned. “You mean he . . . ?”

  “Stops babies,” the girl said.

  Her matter-of-fact tone shocked me. At her age, I’d still half believed that babies came from cabbage patches.

  And look how that turned out.

  “Ma said she can’t have any more,” the girl said. “We’re already six, and some days Ma don’t even eat. So a neighbor lady told her to see Dr. Alberink and he’ll fix it so’s she won’t have it. I wasn’t supposed to hear what they were talking about, but I did.”

  I remembered seeing a room off the dental treatment room. I’d assumed it was Dr. Alberink’s private office. Probably that was the place where he performed his secondary trade. Stopping babies.

  No wonder the girl was nervous. Abortionists killed as many women as they “fixed.” At least, that’s what I’d heard. Could Ethel have actually come here for an abortion? When? It was hard for me to wrap my mind around.

  In any case, Ethel was gone. Mrs. Johnson was still up there.

  “We’ve got to stop him,” I told Callie.

  The girl hopped onto the first step and thrust her hands out to block me. “You can’t! Ma’d kill me.”

  Her mother had looked tough, but I imagined there was still a higher probability that Dr. Alberink would kill Ma.

  Callie restrained me. “Why are you telling us this?” she asked the girl.

  “I only want to know if he’s a bad doctor.”

  “Are you crazy? Of course—”

  Before I could finish, Callie shot me a warning glance.

  “Did he do in your cousin?” the girl finished.

  Callie pushed past me and took the girl’s arm. “My cousin was murdered in our home. It was awful, but it wasn’t Dr. Alberink’s doing.”

  “That we know of.” Sordid scenarios reeled through my mind, with evil Dr. Alberink playing the villain in all of them. “What if—” Callie kicked back, and the direct hit her boot heel landed on my shin made me wince. But it shut me up.

  “Go back upstairs,” she told the girl. “Take care of your brothers and sisters—and your mother, when she’s done. And if she has any trouble when you get home, you send for a doctor right away. Dr. Alberink will tell you not to, but don’t you listen to him. Right away, do you hear?”

  The girl’s eyes widened, but she nodded.

  Callie reached into her bag and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “Keep this in case you need anything.”

  I wasn’t sure whose eyes were rounder—mine or the girl’s. For the split second the child’s proud gaze fastened on the bill, I half expected her to refuse it. Then, fast as a frog’s tongue flicking out to catch a fly, her hand darted out and took it. “You won’t tell, will you?” the girl asked.

  Callie shook her head. “We won’t tell.”

  We wouldn’t?

  Without another word, the girl turned and ran up the stairs.

  Callie pulled me outside.

  “Five dollars?” My voice practically squeaked. There went the Calumet savings bank.

  “It’s only money,” Callie said. “Did you look at that poor girl? I would’ve given her the dress off my back, except for the small difficulty of having to make the trip back home naked.” She laughed dryly. “Not that half of Manhattan hasn’t seen me that way already, for all I know.”

  Her generosity made me feel petty. It hadn’t occurred to me to offer the girl anything. “You shouldn’t have lied to her about going to the police, though,” I said. “We have to tell them.”

  “Like hell we do,” Callie said.

  “I’ve heard about these doctors.” I lowered my voice. “Most of them are butchers, and he’s not even a real doctor to begin with. Mrs. Johnson might die.”

  “Do you think she doesn’t know that? Did you get a look at those children? It isn’t just the mother who’s been going without food. They were starving, and in rags.”

  “Even so . . .”

  “We don’t know what it’s like to be in Mrs. Johnson’s shoes,” Callie said. “Besides, if it weren’t Dr. Alberink, it would be someone else. Or maybe the woman would try to take care of it herself.”

  She didn’t seem to notice that I’d stopped arguing with her and was intently studying the sidewalk beneath our feet. A year ago I’d been desperately trying to think of what to do with myself. I even considered finding a Dr. Alberink . . . but I hadn’t known where to start, and had been too afraid.

  And to think, I prided myself on being observant, but Ethel had lived with us all those weeks, grappling with the same agonizing thoughts I had dealt with, yet I hadn’t guessed a thing.

  I leaned against the side of the building. “How could Ethel have gotten herself into that situation?”

  “It’s hard to imagine her in the throes of passion,” Callie agreed.

  “Maybe there was no passion,” I said.

  She looked even more alarmed.

  “Don’t you see? We have to tell the police. Ethel might have been attacked.”

  My voice was shaking, and Callie looked at me as if I were half mad. “If she was, we’ll never be able to prove it now.”

  Yes, I knew that. “All right, but what if Dr. Alberink was somehow connected to the murder?”

  “How? Her appointment was weeks ago,” Callie said. “Whatever happened in that office, Ethel recovered from it. She seemed fine those last days. Didn’t she?”

  Those wild scenarios came to mind again. “What if Ethel threatened to expose the doctor?”

  Callie shook her head. “That would have meant exposing herself. I’d lay money that this was a secret Ethel intended to take to her grave.”

  And, in fact, she had.

  As astonishing as this news was, however, it explained so much. Why Ethel had acted like an invalid. Why she’d stayed with us so long . . . and even why she’d come to New York City to begin with. Where better to hide her sins than in the city she assumed was full of it?

  It also explained something else. I touched Callie’s arm. “The money—I bet it wasn’t stolen at all. She probably paid it all over to Dr. Alberink.”

  “Of course,” Callie said.

  “But where did she get it?”

  Callie’s frown deepened. “What day did Dora visit us?”

  “Wasn’t it near the end of last month?” I remembered our happiness at the idea of her taking Ethel back to Little Falls with her . . . and how crushed we were when she disappeared after one day, leaving Ethel more entrenched in the apartment than ever. Ethel had said she was too unwell to travel.

  No wonder.

  Callie’s eyes met mine, the blue in them hardening to ice. “You’re right. Dora knew. She must have known.”

  “Well . . . it’s the sort of thing sisters would tell each other, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but then why would she have abandoned Ethel with us and then never contacted her again? And then not have shown a scintilla of emotion at her death?”

  I bit my lip, imagining Aunt Sonja at my funeral. Would she shed a tear? Concentrate, Louise. “I suppose the father was someone back in Little Falls.”

  “She didn’t go to the police, so that makes it likely that it was someone she was fond of.”

  That wasn’t necessarily the case, I knew. “I wou
ldn’t go to the police, would you? I mean, if I were ever in the situation Ethel was in. Probably she was just too mortified.”

  “Why is it always the woman who should feel ashamed?” Callie’s lip twisted in disgust. “And if Ethel was a victim of a random attack, why would Dora be so mad at her?” I could have told her my thoughts on why, but she shook her head. “No, my hunch is, to cause such a rift between sisters, it had to be someone both she and Dora knew. But who?”

  “Someone Dora wanted her to stay away from, apparently.”

  Suddenly Callie’s thoughts and mine joined. We stared at each other for a moment, stunned by the possibility taking root in our minds.

  The color drained from Callie’s cheeks. “And to think—I felt bad that Detective Muldoon suspected them.”

  “Do you really think it could have been . . . ?” I asked, not quite believing it.

  “I’m not sure, but would you mind if we make a stop before going home?” she asked. “I need to speak to Dora and Abel before that train departs for Little Falls.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The Seasbury Hotel was located east of the new Grand Central Terminal, past Second Avenue, just at the point where Forty-second Street’s commercial buildings gave way to several blocks of brownstones that had seen better days. The afternoon had grown warmer, and a slaughterhouse toward the river emitted a noxious smell that had Callie and I wrinkling our noses as we hurried into the lobby.

  Maybe at the dawn of the Gilded Age the Seasbury had been a stylish establishment, but now its décor managed to appear both garish and threadbare. Crimson wallpaper had sun-bleached to a pale plum, clashing with mustard-colored drapes that I assumed had once been gold. Up close, leather-upholstered furniture showed crazing from age and wear. And even inside we hadn’t entirely escaped the eau d’abattoir stench.

  Callie surveyed the lobby. “When do you think this place was considered fashionable?”

  “Eighteen seventy-never.”

  I approached the bored-looking clerk at the front desk and asked for the room of Mr. and Mrs. Abel Chandler.

  “Four eleven.” The man added, as if he’d said it a thousand times, “Stairs at the back, elevator’s out of order.”