CHAPTER 9
Muldoon
stopped at the front desk and handed the Sergeant the bag. “Here, Foley, make sure this gets locked up. It’s some of Schneider’s personal effects. There’s a couple of bottles in there… and I’d prefer if they’re full when I see them again.”
Foley pushed aside the papers he was working on. “You both know you’re in for it. He’s been stalking around all morning, wondering where you been. I got you on my list, Muldoon. Says you’re working with Benson, so you’re covered. But I couldn’t tell him what you two are working on.”
“The Schneider case,” Benson said, then he nudged Muldoon. “Let’s get upstairs.”
Captain Hayle leaned back in his chair as the Detective and Sergeant entered. He glared at Muldoon. “Can you tell me what you’ve been doing all morning?”
“Detective Benson has been searching Karl Schneider’s apartment. Of course, he required another officer’s assistance. Since I was available, he asked that I accompany him. Sir.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Evidence of his murder. Since he hadn’t been killed where he was found, the Detective wanted to see if the crime took place in the victim’s rooms.” He carefully framed his answers to avoid mentioning Kelly McAllister.
“And did you find any evidence?” the Captain continued.
Muldoon wasn’t deceived. The Captain didn’t like him. He’d fire him in a heartbeat if he could, but he couldn’t. His was an appointed position, and by Boss Tweed, no less. Hayle was stuck with him, and he knew it. Muldoon knew the Captain wondered what connection he had with Tweed—whether he was an informant, or not. If the Captain was caught looking into it too deeply he might be out of a job himself. For the time being, he continued to push the edges, feeling out how much influence Muldoon had.
“No, nothing important,” Muldoon answered the man, guardedly. “Nothing to point to a murderer and nothing to prove motive.”
“We don’t need to prove motive!” said Hayle as he slammed his hand down hard on the desk. “We know why McAllister killed him! We have motive. We even know how he killed him. The only thing we don’t know is where the murder took place.”
“Aye, Sir,” Muldoon said. “So you said yesterday.”
The Captain glared up at Muldoon, maintaining eye contact even while he addressed the detective. “Benson, this case is wrapped up. McAllister was sentenced this morning, and he’ll be strung up on Hanging Day. There’s been a theft I need you to handle. And Muldoon… you can go walk the beat with Sergeant O’Malley. I’m certain Benson can handle this one on his own.”
The Captain’s words numbed him, and he nearly stumbled as Benson pressed a hand against his chest pushing him backwards out the door. How could he have been tried so quickly? And on so little evidence? He thought quickly… ten days. That’s all he had. Ten days until hanging day, and he had nowhere to start.
“Connect the dots,” Benson breathed as they left the office. “Do it quickly or your friend will swing on the 27th.” The words echoed in his head as Muldoon made his way to Paradise Park to find Sergeant O’Malley.
CHAPTER 10
Sergeant
O’Malley grinned broadly as Muldoon entered the Park. “The Captain finally found you, did he?”
“Aye. Made the mistake of stopping by to drop off evidence.”
“Too bad, if I’d seen you, I’d have warned you. He was raging this morning. Then, when you and Benson didn’t show up, he was right mad.”
The rain had let up, but dark clouds hung low and threatening. Muldoon leaned against a ramshackle sentry box, swinging his short daystick. The building groaned with his weight. Like the rest of this part of the city, it was bare of paint, the color long since peeled away. Its timbers were warped and slowly rotting. The building had stood nearly sixty years, a remnant of better times in this quarter, when policemen had been called Leatherheads because of the odd, tight-fitting hats they had worn. The dilapidated building wasn’t really much more in size than an outhouse, tall and thin, barely wider than the width of a door on all four sides. A round hole had been cut on each side at about head-height so a man could stand inside and still see out. The policemen rarely sat inside. It was easier to walk, especially when winter’s frigid cold set in. A man might be found frozen in his box the next morning if he wasn’t careful.
Muldoon pushed off from the shack and walked slowly down the street. Two cops standing by their box very long looked like idlers, gossiping rather than preventing crimes. O’Malley stepped in alongside him. Muldoon watched the people as he strolled past. This district was rife with transgressions, all he had to do was point in some random direction and he could arrest any man or woman in his sight. But that would be pointless, he knew. There wasn’t enough room in the Tombs and all the other jails and prisons in the city combined to hold all the criminals from this one district.
Still, it was a lively place, a beat Muldoon loved. He could stand in the middle of the Park and facing any direction, he could look up two streets. The five points, as they were called: Cross to the northeast, lower Orange to the southeast, Cross again southwest, Anthony due west, and Orange again to the northwest; this was home to a multitude of Irish immigrants. Nearly everyone was on foot, walking from place to place. The tall, once-stately buildings—most constructed a century ago or more—had fallen into ruin. But the streets were long and straight, packed with vibrant humanity. Walk up any of those streets, and it would lead a man to the future of the city.
All around him, Muldoon could hear the people. In this district, the sounds were Irish, the particular lilt to their voices familiar and somehow comforting. Children dodged between passers-by, but he knew most of them weren’t playing. It just appeared as if they were. They were pickpockets, messengers, or match girls. Each had a job to do, and did it as well as they could, or they wouldn’t survive. They were clothed in rags. Secondhand cloth was remade into ever smaller items, children’s clothing being last, before the material became patchwork bedding or was discarded. And even then, somebody else would find a use for it. Although the place was filthy and vermin-filled, nearly everything was recycled. Only human and animal waste was not used again and again. The piles of rot thrown from windows were excrement, not trash.
Muldoon watched as a young boy with a heavy bat in his hand chased off another kid, and then returned to his vigil at the tall iron fence that bordered the park. His brother stood nearby, at the other end of a row of rags hanging from the bars. When their mother had finished washing, she had carried the clothes out here and hung them on the fence to take advantage of the break in the rain. If they were left alone to dry, they’d be gone within seconds; people would swarm down on the unguarded rags like buzzards to a dying dog. All along the fence, other boys watched laundry, too. But if they could pinch something off the next kid’s wash, they’d do it quick as a breath of air.
Men and women alike filled the streets. Most looked as though they loitered. But ragged people had places to go, every bit as much as wealthier folk uptown. Women carried baskets of vegetables for the evening’s meal. Potatoes and cabbages, beans and peas were all past their prime and wouldn’t last long, but they couldn’t afford to buy better quality foods. Men pushed carts full of rags, or dented pots and pans, or some other item that still had some useful life left in it, hoping to sell them for the pittance they could receive in this depressed sector of the city.
The two policemen strolled slowly through the crowd. They were well known in the Park. O’Malley was here more often than Muldoon these days, since Detective Benson had started using him in his investigations. Sometimes brawn was needed if things went bad, but Muldoon was also smart and the two made a good team. Now, Muldoon chafed at the bit that Captain Hayle controlled.
“It’s too bad the Captain is taking Detective Graham’s side,” O’Malley said. “That Kelly McAllister, he’s a nice fella, now.”
“Aye,” Muldoon said. “He’s a good man. I
don’t think he did it. He couldn’t have. He took a real licking from Schneider. Got busted up bad.”
“I seen that fight.” O’Malley nodded. “He took a pounding. I thought, right at the end there, that he was dead his-self.”
“I know. He was bent near double for that final fall. Broke some ribs. He’s lucky his back didn’t break, too.” Muldoon shook his head dismally. “I shouldn’t have let him fight Schneider. Didn’t really think he was ready, but he’s such a scrapper. He wanted his big shot.”
“Don’t go blaming yourself, now. You had no way of knowing someone would kill Karl Schneider that way. I don’t know of anyone so strong as could strangle a guy like him. Excepting you, of course.”
“Schneider was a good wrestler. He had a thick neck, and could break out of near any hold… and quick.”
“Course, he wasn’t up to your caliber. I can’t think of a man in town who is.”
Muldoon considered the various wrestlers in the city. There were few men left in town willing to fight him. Harry Hill had to issue challenges to outsiders now. He didn’t have a match every Saturday any longer. But the pay was better. The local champ from some distant locale would arrive in town, fresh-faced and unsuspecting, eager to prove his skill against the New York City man. He would come with a reputation of his own, and an ego to match. And then he’d get in the ring with Muldoon. Harry Hill’s back room would be filled with fans, drinks in hand, thick tobacco smoke curling toward the ceiling. Clutching fistfuls of cash, they’d bet heavily, the regulars for Muldoon, newcomers for their man. But Muldoon always won.
“You don’t put any stock on these rumors about the devil, do you?” O’Malley crossed himself quickly. “What with that star marked on him. I heard there’s devil-worshiping witches on the prowl. They come out at night, like rats.”
“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the devil,” answered Muldoon. He’d heard the troubling rumors, too, about men who gathered at night and held secret meetings. Even in New York City, not everyone was happy with the outcome of the war, and he suspected there were still some rebellious souls holding the meetings. “Men make men’s problems.”
They turned a corner, heading back toward the shack. Muldoon looked sidelong at O’Malley. “You haven’t heard of a man with crimson eyes, have you?”
“Crimson eyes… you mean… red?” O’Malley laughed. “Every night. Comes from staying too long at the bars.”
Muldoon snorted.
“Well… ” O’Malley dropped his voice. “Maybe I’ve heard of someone. Something. Word on the street says there’s a beast. A devil. It’s him, they think killed Schneider. Could be, he’s the one you’re asking about?”
A cold finger slid down Muldoon’s spine. “Could be,” he said, squelching the raw sensation. Men make men’s problems. Whatever else he might be, he isn’t a devil.
He stopped as they reached the policeman’s shack. “You know,” he said. “The Captain’s stuck me down here on the beat, and he said the case is over. But he didn’t tell me I couldn’t do a little talking to folks while I’m here.”
“Well now… I suppose he couldn’t stop you from talking. You’ve got to do that to get your job done anyway.”
“And we’re right down here, near the scene of the crime.”
The two spent the rest of the afternoon questioning people who might have seen something. They walked back over to the location where the body had been found, where Cross Street headed slightly northeast out of the Park. There wouldn’t be any clues left… if there had been any at the start. Too many people crowded into this district, and every inch of ground was traveled, muck stirred up by passing feet.
At the spot, Muldoon glanced around, imagining the Park as it would have been when Schneider’s body was dumped in the road. It would have been dark, as it was when Muldoon had last been here. But the area stayed lively until perhaps three in the morning, and even after that, some people would be on the streets. There might have been a nightwalker around. The prostitutes traversed the streets very late, some of them coming home from a better district where they had waited outside exclusive gaming halls and clubs, hoping to catch the eye of a willing customer.
Muldoon looked up at the buildings, their windows opening onto the street like blind eyes unable to see, or tell, what had occurred a few nights previous. Now, he had to move quickly to find out what they’d looked down on. He chose the first building, and entered its cool recess. On the ground floor was a grocery. In this district, it was mostly a front… to be a grocer. Men and women alike ran the various stores, but in the back rooms they sold liquor in squalid barrooms.
A short, round man worked behind the counter, pulling tins out of a crate and stacking them on a shelf along the back wall. Muldoon was impressed. This was probably the only legitimate grocery on the Park.
“Can I help you?” The proprietor turned as he heard the cop’s feet scraping on the wooden floor.
“I hope you can. Two nights ago, a man was murdered. His body was dumped just outside your store.”
The grocer quickly crossed himself. “Ah, and you'd be talking about that German fellow… Schneider was his name?”
“Aye. I’m looking into the case.”
“I heard they’ve gone and charged one of our own. An Irishman. You trying to clear him… or hang him?”
“Clear him,” Muldoon said.
“That’s different, then. I’ll talk to you, but I don’t have much to say. I didn’t see anything. It happened at night, you know.”
“Are your rooms behind the store?” Muldoon asked.
“Aye, but the window’s on the other side from where the bloke was dropped. Got a tenant rooming on that side. You might want to talk to him.”
“That I would,” Muldoon said. “Just a few more questions?”
The grocer nodded.
“You were home Sunday night?”
“Of course. I got my wife. She’d never abide it if I weren’t in the sack all night alongside her.”
“Right. And the front is locked up good and tight, you don’t have anything else going on in here?”
The man’s face reddened, more with anger than guilt Muldoon thought. He bit out his words. “If I did, I wouldn’t have the wife I got now.” Watching his own hands the grocer set the tin he’d been gripping onto the counter between them. He turned his gaze back on Muldoon, the flush fading from his skin. “No, we’re quiet folk, sergeant. I know it’s just your duty… to ask such a question. Let me show you, so as to set your mind at ease.”
Muldoon nodded at O’Malley, where he stood leaning against the door. Turning back to the grocer, he assured him the small shop would be safely guarded by the man in blue. A door behind the counter opened to a short hall with two doors, one on each side. They entered the door on the left. Inside was a set of rooms, the large front room with an attached kitchen, and a small back bedroom. A third room, not more than a closet, was being redone for a child.
“It’s for the babe,” said the man, running a hand over his balding head. He swelled with pride. “He’s getting big for the cradle. Going to need his own room soon.”
Muldoon nodded, returning again to the main room.
“Where are your wife and child now?”
“She’s at her Ma’s. She goes over there to watch the wee ones so’s the old lady can work. The babes don’t do too well over here, what with the grocery.”
“Get into trouble, I suppose?”
“That’s about it. Now, do you want to see the other side?”
Muldoon nodded, following through to the other apartment. The grocer fumbled with his keys, finally unlocking the heavy door. Nobody was inside. “Mr. Kavanagh’s a good tenant. Comes in early, so I can lock up. And he don’t go out again ‘til morning.”
“Good. Then, he might have something to tell.”
“If you’d come back again, around six this evening, he should be in.”
Muldoon strode over to the window, pulling
back the curtain. On the sill, a nearly empty whiskey bottle sat on a cloth, a glass at its side. His stomach knotted. The longing was as strong as it had been the first day he’d gone without a drink. He pulled his gaze away. Next to the glass lay three dice. Muldoon fingered the curtain. It was Irish lace. Good stuff. Like his parents had when he was growing up. He turned to the grocer. “Did your wife make these?” he asked.
“Sure, and she did. She’s good at that sort of thing. It’s her gift… learned it from her ma, though the poor woman’s working in the shirtwaist factory now. Sewing. Waste of a good talent, as I say.”
Pulling the curtain further aside, Muldoon looked out the window. Kavanagh had a clear view of the crime scene. He’d be very interested to see what the man had to say this evening.
He spent the rest of the afternoon making little progress. Most of the apartments lining the street were empty this time of day. Still, he climbed stairs and knocked on doors. Those women he found home had little to say. Many, he suspected, weren’t home the night of the murder, Sunday night or not. They had to make money somehow, and much of it was got during the night. By the end of the day, he had little to show for his trouble, but he’d begun building a picture of who lived along the block, near enough to have seen the dumping of the body. He’d have to return after work and see if more folks were home then. Others, he might have to hunt down in the saloons and gaming halls around town.
At five, the two policemen began the walk back to headquarters. It was hard to believe, but the neighborhoods actually got worse before they got better again, going north along Mulberry. They checked in with the Sergeant and headed home, each going his separate way. Muldoon had hoped he’d see Detective Benson, but he hadn’t. He wanted to go over with him the few things he’d learned, and the possibilities that were forming in his head. But he suspected the detective could be found in any one of the city’s many saloons. Muldoon’s thoughts turned back to Kavanagh and his perfect view.
Paradise Park (The William Muldoon Mysteries Book 1) Page 6