Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  Lightner gave a laugh of disbelief. “And n-nobody in the crew noticed the passenger never ate—never l-left his cabin, never needed f-fresh linens?”

  “There was nothin’ about that in the letter, sir.”

  “I suppose the crew were th-thrilled to have such an undemanding passenger.”

  Hy chuckled. “Aye, I expect that was part of it. The ship is called the Spirit of Freedom and is due back at Pier 42 tomorrow.”

  “Was anything else in the c-cabin?”

  “The letter didn’t say, sir. I suppose we’ll be able to ask the crew, not that anyone will remember after so much time.”

  “Well, the circumstances are odd, so hopefully somebody will r-r-remember.” Lightner took a drink of tea, shook his head at Mrs. Freedman’s offer of more, and said, “One would have thought the New Orleans p-p-police would have been curious about the body. Beauchamp is a French surname. It’s a w-wonder they didn’t look for relatives, at least.”

  Hy had wondered about that, too.

  Lightner tossed his napkin onto his empty plate and stood. “Well, it scarcely matters now. M-Mister Beauchamp has come all the way b-back to us, so I suppose he n-now belongs to us.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Jasper stared up at the three-story building on Sullivan Street as they waited for somebody to open the door.

  It was modern, certainly no older than five or ten years. Right beside it was an identical building with four bronze plaques beside the door, so it must be divided into apartments.

  Beauchamp’s house only had his name on the over-large baroque plaque.

  It was still dark outside but dawn wasn’t far away. Law pounded on the door with one huge fist, rattling the heavy slab of wood so loudly they could probably feel it on the next street.

  He also cranked the doorbell again and squinted in through one of the sidelights. He turned to Jasper and shook his head. “Maybe there ain’t—”

  The door swung open to expose a tall, bone-thin man dressed in a nightshirt and robe, his gray hair askew, as if he’d just risen from bed. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he demanded, glaring at them through bleary eyes.

  “Is this Mr. Alfred Beauchamp’s house?” Law asked.

  The man blinked, clearly taken aback. “Er, yes, but Mr. Beauchamp isn’t here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s in New Orleans.” He frowned, his sleepy gaze turning suspicious and flickering from Law to Jasper and then back. “Just what is this about?”

  “How l-long has he been away?” Jasper asked.

  “Who are you?” he demanded belligerently.

  Jasper handed him a card and he glanced it, his eyes going wide. “Metropolitan Police? What’s this about?”

  “P-Perhaps you might invite us in to wait while you get dressed, Mr.—” Jasper raised his eyebrows.

  The other man glanced down at himself and flushed when he saw what he was wearing. “Oh. Yes. Of course,” he stepped back and gestured them into the foyer. “I’m Robert Keen, Mr. Beauchamp’s butler,” he added absently, staring at them as if unsure what to do with them.

  “We can w-wait while you get dressed,” Jasper repeated, using the same firm tone he used to motivate recalcitrant servants and soldiers.

  It worked well on Keen, whose pale cheeks were stained a splotchy red. “Er, yes. Of course, sir.” He stood straighter. “You can wait in the library.” He preceded them up the stairs.

  The room the butler left them in was darkly elegant, the rich, jewel color palate of bottle green, chocolate brown, and old gold reminiscent of a Dutch Masters painting. Jasper recognized two of the end tables as Sheratons, and a Hepplewhite cabinet sat against one wall: Mr. Beauchamp had been a man with some taste and the money to indulge it.

  However, for a library, it did not contain a great many books. Those that were on the shelves were mostly bound in oxblood leather with gold printing: a collection purchased for show rather than lovingly assembled over a lifetime.

  But the items interspersed with the books were another matter entirely. The objets d’art were eclectic, ranging from a narrow-necked vase Jasper thought might be from the Tang Dynasty, to a child’s wooden pull-toy shaped like a duck, to three Shakespeare quartos, items perhaps more valuable than the vase.

  Jasper dragged a gloved finger across the surface of one of the shelves and it came away coated with dust.

  He looked up to find Law watching him. “Seems like the mice have been playin’ while the cat was away.”

  Jasper had to agree. The room felt as if it hadn’t been cleaned—or even entered—in a very long time. Well, except for the ball and claw service table against one wall. He couldn’t help noticing slightly less dusty circles where bottles had recently sat. So somebody had come in here to help themselves to whatever had been in those bottles.

  He heard movement behind him and turned to see Law going through the desk.

  The young detective quickly worked through the upper drawers and then crouched to inspect those on the bottom. He stood, unfolding his six-foot-five frame with a wince, his knees popping, and shook his head. “Nothin’ but stationery, some pens, bits of paper, and odds and sods—it’s almost like it’s been cleaned out.” He waved a hand to encompass everything around them. “Who do you reckon has been payin’ for all this these past months?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Jasper murmured, parting the dusty velvet drapes. The window looked out over a charming walled garden. From his vantage point on the second floor he could see over the vine-covered wall into the backyard of the identical house next door. The same care had not been taken with that yard, and a rather careworn rectangle of grass was bisected by a dirt path leading to a small outbuilding.

  Between the two houses was a driveway that led to a two-story carriage house.

  “What do you make of this, sir?”

  He turned to find Law holding a small key.

  Jasper took it and turned it over in his hand: the number 47 was stamped on one side, the tiny initials NYBT embossed on the other. “Looks l-like a key to a deposit box.” Jasper had two very similar keys: one for a box in London and one for his new bank here.

  “That’s a private safe at a bank?” Law asked, making Jasper realize the average person did not have a need for such a thing.

  “Yes. Where did you find it?”

  Law lifted up the heavy desk chair—another Hepplewhite, if he wasn’t mistaken—to show Jasper the bottom; there was a small wooden box affixed to the underside of the seat.

  “Ingenious,” he said, cutting Law a look of surprise. “How did you know to ch-ch-check there?”

  The towering man gave him a sheepish look. “When you grow up sharin’ a room with thirty other boys, you learn to hide things. I’m not sure why Beauchamp would need to hide things, though—he looks like he had plenty of brass to buy privacy.”

  The door opened, and a far more proper-looking Keen entered the room, followed by a maidservant, her cap askew, carrying a tea tray.

  “You can put that on the table, Mary, thank you.”

  The girl deposited her burden, cut Jasper and Detective Law curious looks, and then darted out the door.

  “I apologize for my appearance earlier,” Keen said. “I took the liberty of bringing tea in case—”

  Jasper gestured to one of the seats around the tray. “Why don’t you take a cup with us, Mr. K-Keen.”

  * * *

  Hy bit back a smile as the stiff-lipped butler instinctively responded to the quiet authority in the Englishman’s voice. He was pretty sure that Keen would have told Hy to go to hell if he’d invited him to have a seat.

  “I t-take mine dark,” Lightner murmured.

  Rather than be offended at being told what to do, the butler looked grateful—and relieved—to have a task.

  The Englishman relaxed into the big wing chair, crossing one expensively trousered leg over the other, as if settling in for a cozy chat.

  “When was the
l-last time you saw Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Not since last year.” Keen looked up from the pot, which he’d just rinsed with steaming water and was now spooning in tea. “December seventeenth.”

  “You recall the d-day exactly?”

  “Only because he gave all the servants an early day off.”

  “Why was that?”

  Keen put the last of the six spoonsful in and poured in the boiling water before lidding the pot and glancing up. Something about the tea ritual must have stiffened his resolve because he gave Lighter a sharp look. “I don’t feel comfortable answering personal questions about my employer.”

  Lightner’s eyebrows rose.

  Keen gritted his jaw, and then heaved a put-upon sigh. “He was going to entertain a lady friend and didn’t want anyone here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why.” When Lightner said nothing, Keen went on. “My guess is whoever was coming to dinner shouldn’t have been here.”

  “Did that happen often?” Lightner asked.

  Keen shrugged. “A few times a year.”

  “You have no idea who it was?”

  “No.”

  The man was a lousy liar.

  But, surprisingly, Lightner moved on. “Mr. B-Beauchamp told you he was going to New Orleans?”

  Keen frowned, tried to stare the Englishman down, but dropped his eyes back to the tray, his hands fiddling with a silver tea strainer. “He left a letter.”

  “A l-letter.”

  Keen looked up at the skepticism in Lightner’s voice. “Yes, it was an emergency—that’s what the letter said. That he’d received a telegram.”

  “From whom?”

  Keen’s jaw tightened, but he answered all the same. “He said it was from his family.”

  “Ah. Do you h-have an address? Names?”

  “He didn’t mention either in the letter.” He hesitated and then added, “To be honest, I didn’t even know he had any family.”

  “How long have you w-worked for Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Three years, not long after the house was finished and he moved in. I’ve worked for him the longest of any of the servants,” he added.

  “Do you know where he l-lived before?”

  “He never said.” Again, Keen hesitated and then added, “He had new address plates made for his valise and some other luggage right after I started working for him. I recall the old address was someplace in Chicago.”

  “D-Did he indicate when he would return from N-New Orleans?”

  “He only said it would be some months, but he wanted me to move into the house while he was gone. He said he didn’t want it to be left unoccupied.”

  Lightner’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t normally live at the house with the other servants?”

  “Mr. Beauchamp doesn’t like having any servants live in.” He frowned. “It was unusual—I’ve always lived in anywhere I’ve buttled, but he claimed he liked his privacy.” Keen said the word as if it were something exotic.

  “So it has just been y-y-you here all this time—alone?”

  “Only at night, but the others come in at the usual times.”

  “What times are those?” Lightner asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  Hy couldn’t help thinking about the Englishman’s servants; most of them had already been awake and dressed when he’d shown up this morning.

  Keen’s mouth tightened and he sighed. “Mr. Beauchamp required us here between five and seven o’clock, depending on the position, but I’ve allowed them to come in later.”

  And slept in himself, Hy couldn’t help noticing.

  “He kept a full staff while he was away, indefinitely?”

  “Yes, he said to keep everyone on, even though there was very little to do, because he wasn’t sure when he’d return.” He shrugged. “He was a wealthy man and could afford to indulge his whims.”

  Lightner scribbled something in his book.

  “It turned out to be a good thing, too.”

  Lightner looked up. “I’m sorry, wh-wh-what was that?”

  “I mean him having me move in.” He pursed his lips. “This is a nice street, but I’ve had to call for police three times while I’ve been here.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “Just burglars trying to get into the house once, and the carriage house twice.”

  “D-Did they steal anything?”

  Keen’s expression shifted to one that was unexpectedly aggressive. “Not with me here. When I heard them in the house, I shouted down that I had a gun and they were off like a shot.” He smiled. “Pardon the pun.”

  “Do you? Have a g-gun, that is?”

  “Er, no.”

  “Ah.” Lightner made another note. “Very brave of you.”

  Very stupid if you asked Hy, although nobody had.

  “And the other times?”

  “Just a few nights afterward—and then again.” He shook his head. “It was like this was the only house they could think to burgle.”

  “It was the same m-men—you saw them?”

  “Oh. No, I assumed they were the same. I told the coppers that, but they were worse than usel—” He broke off, his face flushing.

  Lightner just smiled. “We’ll get dates and d-d-details from you in your statement. Tell me, when was the l-last time you heard from Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “Well, that letter, actually.”

  Lightner’s eyebrows shot up. “Just the one l-l-letter in over s-s-six months?”

  “Yes.” The single word had an edge of belligerence.

  “And you didn’t think it odd that he n-never sent word?”

  “He doesn’t need to report to me,” Keen snapped. And then he seemed to remember who he was talking to. “See here, er, Inspector, I thought it was unusual, but not strange. He often took off on trips.”

  “This l-l-long in duration?”

  “Well, no, but then again this was the first time he’d mentioned family, so I assumed it might be different. Besides, our pay packet arrived as regular as clockwork every month so I thought all was well.” He hesitated. “Is all well?”

  “Do you have his l-letter?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “If you must know, I had intended to keep hold of it, but one of the maids accidentally threw it out with the rubbish.” He looked from Lightner to Hy and back. “I think I’m going to have to insist on knowing what this is about.”

  “How many s-servants are employed here?” Lightner asked, as if the man hadn’t spoken.

  “Five, including me.”

  “D-Did Mr. Beauchamp’s man go with him to New Orleans?”

  “He didn’t employ a valet. His footman—Michael Delany—served as his personal servant in addition to general footman duties.” Keen’s eyebrows pulled into a V, and he looked up from the tea he’d begun dispensing. “I’m beginning to be concerned, Inspector. Did—”

  “I’m afraid Mr. B-Beauchamp is dead.”

  Keen dropped the teapot onto the cup with a loud clatter, slopping boiling water onto his hand. He leapt up and gave a startled yowl, cradling his scalded fingers.

  Hy watched as tea ran over the lip of the tray and onto the expensive-looking carpet. If Keen was acting surprised, then he was a damned fine actor—almost as good as his famous namesake.

  Lightner took a napkin from the tray and handed it to the butler, who wrapped it around his hand, stared dazedly at them, and slumped onto the settee. “Good Lord.”

  “Do you know who Mister Beauchamp was m-m-meeting for dinner the l-last night you saw him?”

  Keen blinked, as if he were waking from a dream—a bad one—wincing as he dried off his hand. “I, er, don’t know for sure—it’s just some gossip from a messenger lad, but we all thought it was Helen Vogel.”

  Hy just stopped himself from whistling, but he must have made some sound because Lightner looked at him.

  “Helen Vogel,” Hy said. “There’s a photogr
aphic shop on Bowery that sells photographs of her in their window.” He didn’t mention that he’d considered buying one himself whenever he’d had a few pints and passed the shop.

  “Van Horne’s,” Keen said with a knowing look. “The newspapers call her Helen of Troy,” he added in an almost reverent tone.

  Lightner glanced at the three daguerreotypes on the mantlepiece; all were of the same man, the frames ornate silver. “Is that Mr. Beauchamp?”

  Keen nodded. “Yes. He is, er, was rather fond of pictures of himself.”

  Hy couldn’t see why. The man was short and portly, his too-small features all bunched together in the middle of his round face. He also seemed to have more than the usual number of teeth.

  “Had she come to the house before—M-Mrs. Vogel?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Er, sir?”

  Lightner turned to Hy.

  “If it really was her, there was a good reason she wouldn’t want anyone to know—she’s married to Adolphus Vogel.”

  “That name seems f-f-familiar.”

  “It should do. He’s one of the richest men in the city. And he also owns most of the slaughterhouses in New York and Jersey.”

  He could see that Lightner’s mind went to the same place as Hy’s did when he heard the word slaughterhouse.

  CHAPTER 3

  “You don’t understand, Inspector, I’m forbidden by law from—”

  “Dispensing l-large sums of cash from a depositor’s account in response to cheques fr-fr-from a dead man?” Jasper asked.

  Mr. Sorenson, the executive vice president—whatever that title meant—at the New York Savings Bank & Trust, looked to be on the verge of crying. The information that he’d been accepting banking instructions from a man dead since last year had started his day badly.

  Jasper lazily spun his cane and smiled across at the flustered banker. He knew that he could have merely presented his key for unquestioned access, but he suspected such a cavalier action would come back to bite him. Both he and Sorenson knew he could acquire a court order, but that would take time, and Jasper was impatient to get on with the case.