Murder on St. Mark's Place

by Victoria Thompson

  She’d fried up a pork chop and some potatoes and onions. Bakery bread completed the meal, and Frank realized he was starving. She sat down opposite him at the small wicker table she’d placed on the porch, still smiling the way she did when she thought she knew something he didn’t.

  “Somebody’s been murdered,” he guessed, trying to wipe that grin off her face. He found it far too disturbing.

  To his relief, she frowned. “The sister of one of my patients, a girl named Gerda Reinhard. She was only sixteen. Her family doesn’t have any money, and her sister is afraid her murder will never be solved.”

  “She’s probably right,” Frank said before allowing himself to taste the meat. It was juicy and tender, not fried to shoe leather the way his mother would have done.

  That really made her frown. “I thought maybe you could help.”

  He gave her a look that usually turned hardened criminals into quivering, terrified jelly, but she didn’t bat an eye.

  “I promised her sister that I’d find out what I could, at least,” she said. “Can you at least tell me if there are any suspects? If the police think they know who did it or something?”

  Frank took another bite of the meat and told himself he was only asking for trouble. There was nothing he could do for this girl’s family, and it was cruel of Sarah Brandt to let them think otherwise. Still, he heard himself say, “What happened to her?”

  “They found her in an alley. Someone had beaten her and—”

  “Oh, the red shoes,” he said knowingly.

  “What?”

  “She was wearing red shoes, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. How did you know?” She seemed pleased that he’d guessed so quickly.

  “Everybody at Mulberry Street was talking about it,” he said, referring to the offices of police headquarters on Mulberry Street. “And you’re wasting your time. They’ll never find out who killed her without offering a reward ... and not for the police,” he added when she would have interrupted him. It was common knowledge that the New York City police only investigated crimes for which they would receive a reward. “You’d need a reward to get a witness to come forward. They’ll never find her killer unless somebody saw him do it. There’s just too many possible suspects.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this is no society girl this time,” he said, reminding her of the murder the two of them had solved last spring. “Gerda Reinhard was pretty free with her favors, if you know what I mean. Out every night, different men each time, she was just asking for trouble. Got what she deserved, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody asked you!” she cried, outraged. “Are you saying that a girl who tries to have a little fun deserves to have the life beaten out of her?”

  How could he have forgotten how unreasonable she could be? He swallowed down the last bite of his chop, which no longer tasted quite so delicious. “I’m saying that when a girl takes up with strange men the way this one did, night after night, she’s bound to find a bad one sooner or later.”

  “And you think this bad one should be allowed to go out and kill another unsuspecting young woman because this girl’s family is too poor to pay a reward to catch him?”

  Frank’s dinner was turning into a molten ball in his stomach. “I’m saying that it’s not very likely he’ll be caught.”

  “Isn’t it worth a try, though? Things are changing in the police force. You’re bound to get noticed if you solved a case like this.”

  “Noticed by who? Your friend Teddy Roosevelt? Haven’t you been reading the newspapers?”

  “I certainly have! His testimony is going to get that corrupt Commissioner Parker removed from office, and then he’ll finally be able to accomplish the reforms he wants. That will mean excellent officers—and detectives—will be promoted.”

  He shook his head. “Not likely. Parker is a Platt man,” he said, naming the Democratic party boss who ran the city by pulling the strings of elected politicians. “The governor would have to approve his removal, and that won’t ever happen, no matter what the mayor decides. So if you think I’ll waste my time trying to impress the likes of Roosevelt—the man who offended every man who likes a Sunday afternoon beer in this town—then you’re out of your mind.”

  She sighed in disgust and stabbed at her meat with her fork without making any attempt to eat it. Another man might have thought she’d given up, but Frank knew Sarah Brandt better than that. She never gave up. He braced himself for her next angle of attack, but even still, she caught him on his blind side.

  “I also wanted to talk to you about Brian.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Frank informed her. “My mother takes care of him, and she knows what’s best for him. Seeing you upsets him, so I’m going to have to insist that—”

  “Your mother told me he’s feebleminded,” she said baldly, without the slightest regard for the pain this would cause him.

  And it did cause him pain, the kind of agony someone like Sarah Brandt with her privileged background could never understand. “You must have noticed that yourself,” he said, his teeth gritted in an attempt to control himself.

  “I don’t think he is,” she said, laying down her fork and crossing her arms over her well-padded bosom. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with his mind at all.”

  Now Frank was really sorry he hadn’t throttled her earlier. He could have spared himself this, at least. “My son’s mind is none of your concern,” he tried, but she was having none of it.

  “I told you I gave him a horse when I visited him today. It was a fancy carved thing I picked up from a street peddler. It had a real leather saddle and bridle, and Brian had them off that horse in seconds. Your mother said he’s very clever at figuring things out, even though he’s only three years old.”

  Frank had to grip the edge of the table to hold himself in check. “Maybe she also told you he doesn’t talk. Doesn’t make a sound, and he can’t understand a damn thing you say to him.” He was fairly shouting now, but even that didn’t seem to bother her. She just stared back at him, cool as you please.

  “Of course he doesn’t understand what you say to him. That’s because he’s deaf.”

  2

  “DEAF?” HE SAID THE WORD AS IF HE’D NEVER heard it before. Plainly, he’d never heard it in connection with his son.

  “When I met Brian the first time, I only saw him for a few minutes, and your mother told me he was feebleminded, so I didn’t think anything about his behavior. But something bothered me. He was so silent. I’ve seen lots of children with damaged brains, and they were all as loud and boisterous as other children. But not Brian. I think that’s one reason why I went to your home instead of leaving word for you at the station. I wanted to see Brian again and figure out why he was so silent.”

  He was still trying to get his understanding around this. “And now you think he’s deaf?” he asked incredulously. He obviously also thought she was insane.

  “Let me tell you some things that I suspect are true about Brian. He’s a very sound sleeper. Loud noises don’t wake him up. In fact, no noise of any kind wakes him up. And when you call him, he ignores you. Unless perhaps he’s looking at you, and then he comes. He has signs that he uses for things, and even though he doesn’t talk, he uses the signs to make his needs known to your mother. Am I right?”

  He was frowning. Of course, he was usually frowning when he was with her, but this frown was different. He wasn’t trying to frighten her this time. He was thinking, and not liking the things he was thinking about.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” she prodded, knowing he must be testing her theory against what he knew of Brian’s behavior. “Your mother even told me he’s clever about taking things apart. That proves there’s nothing wrong with his mind. In fact, he’s probably very bright.”

  If she’d thought to comfort him, she failed. “Do you think this is news I want to hear?” he asked her in amazement. “Do you think I want my son to be
deaf? He’s already a cripple!”

  “But don’t you see, if he’s deaf, he can be educated. He can even learn a trade and—”

  “He’s still a cripple,” he reminded her, his face dark with the anger he still felt over this fact.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, too, and I know this surgeon who—”

  “Do you think I didn’t take him to a doctor when he was born?” He was beyond angry now. She’d wounded his pride. “I took him before he was a week old. I would’ve paid any amount of money to have him made right again, but they said nothing could be done.”

  “Who told you that?” she asked, outraged.

  “The doctor,” he reminded her impatiently.

  “Which one?”

  “How should I know? That was three years ago!”

  Sarah somehow managed not to sigh in dismay. “Malloy, let me ask you something. Are all the detectives on the New York City police force as good at their jobs as you are?”

  Once again, she’d stung his pride. “No!”

  “Of course they aren’t. Some of them are just as good as you are and some are not quite as good and some are completely worthless.”

  “What does that have to do with—?”

  “Doctors are the same way. Some are very good at what they do and some are not quite as good, and some are completely worthless.”

  “He was a doctor!” Malloy insisted.

  “Malloy, where do you think the expression ‘quack doctor’ came from? Some doctors don’t know any more about medicine than you do! Well, perhaps a bit more, but not much. It’s entirely possible that the doctor who saw Brian didn’t know much about clubfoot, and that this surgeon I know might be able to help Brian walk. I can’t make any promises, but I can at least arrange for you to—”

  “Mrs. Brandt, I don’t need for you to arrange anything for me,” he told her, gritting his teeth again. “And I don’t need your help. I can take care of my son myself.”

  Sarah caught herself just short of issuing another lecture. Malloy wouldn’t appreciate it, and she might very well alienate him completely. Besides, he was right. He could take care of his son himself. “Of course you can,” she agreed reasonably. “All I’m suggesting is that you go home and test my theory. See if Brian can hear. And if he can’t, well, there are schools for the deaf in the city. I’m sure they would be happy to help you learn how to communicate with him.”

  He pushed his plate away. He couldn’t push it very far because the table was so small, but the gesture told her he was finished with her and this conversation. Too bad she wasn’t finished with him.

  “Think about it, Malloy,” she tried. “If Brian is only deaf, he won’t need someone to take care of him for the rest of his life. He can earn his own living, and he might even marry and have a family of his own and—”

  “No woman would marry a deaf cripple.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” She could see she’d given him enough to think about without planning Brian’s future, so she let it drop.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, rising from his chair.

  “Of course you do,” she agreed, standing also.

  “Thanks for the...” He waved toward his plate, and Sarah nodded in acknowledgment.

  He looked ready to bolt, but before he did, she had one last request. He didn’t realize it yet, but she had done him a good turn with Brian, and he would soon feel the need to repay her.

  “Malloy, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you at least find out if there are any suspects in Gerda Reinhard’s death? It would mean a lot to her sister.”

  He was still shaking his head in wonder as he disappeared through her garden gate.

  SARAH SAT DOWN at the back of the United German Lutheran Church on Sixth Street. The crowd at Gerda Reinhard’s funeral looked pitifully small in the cavernous interior. Gerda’s sister Agnes was still in bed, on Sarah’s orders, and the rest of her family was still in Germany and probably didn’t even yet know of her death. A few of Agnes’s friends and neighbors had come, and a small group of young women who must have known Gerda were sitting on the other side of the church. At the very last moment, just before the minister took his place in the pulpit, a young man Sarah recognized as Lars Otto, Agnes’s husband, came in. He wore an ill-fitting black suit, probably borrowed for the occasion, and his sandy-brown hair had been slicked down with an abundance of hair tonic. He walked stiffly down the aisle, his lanky frame all knees and elbows, carrying his hat clutched tightly in both hands. He seated himself with obvious reluctance at the front of the church, took out a handkerchief, and mopped the sweat from his face. The weather had cooled considerably today, but Mr. Otto was under a lot of strain.

  Sarah could sympathize with him. Burying his sister-in-law would be an ordeal under the best of circumstances. Gerda, however, had not simply died an untimely death. She had been murdered under scandalous circumstances. The shame and embarrassment the family must feel would be considerable. Added to their grief, the burden must be great indeed.

  Lars hung his head, not even glancing at the closed casket that sat only a few feet away from him. The minister took his place and began reciting the appropriate Scriptures, the ones that offered hope to the bereaved. Sarah wondered how much hope they would offer in this case. Most people believed Gerda had only gotten what she deserved. Could a girl as sinful as Gerda was rumored to be really be expected to walk the streets of gold?

  As she mulled over these questions, Sarah glanced at the group of young women who had known Gerda in life, girls who must be much like her. They stared straight ahead, apparently hanging on the minister’s words, their young faces stricken beneath the layers of heavily applied makeup. Their cheap finery looked out of place in the solemn surroundings, like peacocks in a chicken coop. Gaudy and tasteless peacocks, too.

  Sarah wished for organ music to drown the oppressive silence, but the Ottos wouldn’t waste money on an organist for this occasion. From Lars Otto’s expression, he would not have wasted money on any of this, except that common decency demanded at least the minimum of ceremony, even for a girl as undeserving as Gerda. A girl so thoughtless as to get herself murdered.

  The service was not a moment longer than necessary. The minister seemed aware that he should waste no time in committing this girl to the ground, and before Sarah knew it, he was pronouncing the benediction. She waited a moment, expecting some pallbearers to come forward to carry the casket out, but no one did. Instead, Lars Otto made his way out of the pew and started down the aisle. There was to be no graveside service, which would have required a hearse and more expense. Gerda’s remains would be carried to the cemetery in the gravedigger’s wagon and deposited in lonely solitude with no one to mourn her.

  As Lars passed, Sarah hurried to follow him, wishing at least to find out how Agnes was doing.

  “Mr. Otto,” she called, stopping him as he started down the front steps outside. He turned to face her.

  Lars Otto was a tall man, thin and lanky, with big hands and feet, and a face too sharp and angular to be called handsome. Sarah noticed his knuckles were skinned when he adjusted his hat, testimony to how difficult his job must be. She thought she remembered he was a butcher by trade. He frowned when he saw Sarah, not recognizing her.

  “I’m Mrs. Brandt, the midwife. I’m very sorry about Gerda. How is Mrs. Otto doing?”

  “How do you think? Can’t even hold her head up now, with all her friends whispering behind their hands. I work hard to give her a good life, and her sister does this to ruin everything.”

  Sarah blinked. She had forgotten the bitter anger cases like this engendered. She resisted the temptation to point out that Gerda hadn’t gotten herself murdered on purpose. “I’m sure no one will hold this against you and your family. Not your true friends, at least,” she added at his grunt of disdain.

  Unimpressed, he turned away, anxious no doubt to get back to his family.

  “Please tell you wife I’ll come by to see her this
afternoon,” she called after him. He gave her no acknowledgment. Well, if he was always this rude, he was probably right to worry, since he probably had no true friends to stick by him.

  “Oh, look, he’s already gone!” a voice behind her cried in dismay.

  “Go after him, then,” another suggested sarcastically.

  “Oh, and chase him down the street, I guess,” the first voice replied, equally sarcastic.

  Sarah turned to see the three young women she had noticed earlier emerging from the massive doorway of the church. In the merciless sunlight, their clothes looked even more garish. Plaids and feathers and too much jewelry, painted lips and painted cheeks. Sarah couldn’t believe the girls thought the paint looked better than their natural skin, which was young and smooth and should have still had the flush of health beneath the startling brightness of the rouge.

  Behind them, the other mourners came out, casting disapproving looks as they made their way around them. Sarah nodded to those she knew as she made her way back to where the girls stood, arguing about something.

  “Are you friends of Gerda’s?” she asked, trying a friendly smile.

  They looked up, startled, then grew instantly wary. “Yes, ma’am,” one of them said after a moment. Did they look guilty? Sarah could hardly credit it, but she had to admit they did. Perhaps her instincts had been surer than she’d imagined. She’d thought only to approach them and find out a little about Gerda, but could they know something about her death, too?

  “I’m a friend of Mrs. Otto, her sister,” Sarah said, stretching the truth just a bit. “I knew Gerda a little, but not very well. She seemed like a nice girl. I’m sure you’re going to miss her.”

  They nodded uncertainly, making the feathers on their ridiculous hats shiver. They were studying Sarah, as if trying to decide what to make of her. Then the plump one prodded the one in the red plaid jacket with her elbow and said, “Ask her. Maybe she knows.”