Yeah, Hy knew.
“So your friend burgled the place while you gave her a buttocking?”
Hett nodded. “Afterward, she knew it was me, but she could hardly say anything since she was married. Anyhow, me and this other bloke split everything and went our separate ways. I took most of my haul to a pawnbroker over off Bowery. But there was one item he didn’t know how to sell—didn’t know anything about.”
“A Shakespeare quarto?”
Hett’s jaw sagged “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Finish your story.”
He could see that Hett wanted to argue, but one look at Hy’s face should have told the man that Hy wouldn’t leave without getting all of it out of him. One way or another.
“The broker told me about a fancy store that sold shit like old books, old furniture, vases. The place was at Laurens and Bleecker.”
“Name?”
“Harry Martin’s. But it ain’t there anymore. I went over there to sell some stuff about six months ago.” Hett had the grace to blush. “But it had closed.”
“Finish what you were saying, Mr. Hett—you took the book to the shop on Bleecker.”
“Have you seen it—the book?” he asked.
“Yes.” Hy hadn’t thought much of it, but he kept that to himself.
“I mean, can you believe the shop owner offered me over a thousand dollars?”
It was Hy’s turn to look bumfuzzled. “A thousand dollars?”
“Yeah, a thousand.”
Hy shook his head, not sure he believed the man. He knew Lightner thought it was valuable, but a thousand? It was nothing but a skinny old book without any pictures.
“So you sold it to him?” Hy said.
Hett looked at him like he was crazy. “Hell no! I figured he was trying to pull one over on me. If he offered a thousand, it had to be worth at least five times that amount. I told him I had other offers, that his wasn’t the only one.” He shook his head, his expression one of amazement and disgust. “And then the bastard accused me of stealing it, if you can believe it.”
“You did steal it,” Hy said.
Hett sputtered. “That’s beside the point. I was there to do honest business with the man and he turns around and threatens me?” He made a snorting sound that showed what he thought of that. “When I picked up my book and tried to leave, he came after me.” He gave Hy a guilty look. “He left me no choice other than to give him a bit of a dusting. I didn’t hurt him—just knocked him down. And then I grabbed the book and ran. I figured that was the end of that. A few days later I was still figuring out what I was going to do with the damned thing when Beauchamp showed up on my doorstep.” He laughed bitterly. “Back then—before he started bleeding me—I lived at a nice place up off West Fourteenth and Fifth. Anyhow, the bastard had been in the shop when we’d had the argument. Said he recognized me. Said he chatted with the owner after I left—helped him clean up his cuts and bruises—said the man talked about the book and told him that he knew where I’d stolen it from.” He shrugged. “So that was that.”
“So you just handed over this thousand-dollar book to Beauchamp?” Hy didn’t bother to keep the disbelief from his voice.
Hett sneered. “Yeah, I did. What else was I supposed to do? It wasn’t just that I had the book, but now this shopkeeper could identify me as trying to sell it. And then there was the wife. Jesus. I went to her—you know, thinking maybe we could sell the thing and share the proceeds—”
Hy laughed. “You thought you’d make a deal with the same person you stole it from?”
“There’s no love lost between her and her husband. And he keeps her on a short leash when it comes to money—she told me that. Anyhow, when I offered her the chance to buy the book back for an extremely reasonable amount, she started yelling at me.”
“Imagine that.”
Hett ignored him. “She told me she didn’t want it—she told me that I’d better get rid of it because her husband had private detectives looking for the damned thing. She said she’d told her husband—and the police—that she’d seen the thieves and could recognize at least one of them—my friend. She said she’d lie if either of us told her husband what had really happened. And she said my friend would roll over on me in a minute.” Hett shrugged. “She was right, I barely knew the guy and he’d already sold most of what he’d taken. There’d be nothing to prove I was telling the truth. Anyhow, Beauchamp had me in a corner.” He made a frustrated noise. “The book is so damned expensive it was like I’d stolen the crown jewels, and selling it would be impossible. So when he told me he wanted it or he’d rat me out, I gave it to him,” he said, his gaze straying to the cupboard with the whiskey.
Hy could smell the lie. “That’s it?”
“Jesus, what else do you need?”
“I need to know why you’re lying.”
“What?”
“If all he wanted was the book and you gave it to him, why are you still paying him?”
Hett ground his teeth. “Look, this wasn’t the only thing he had on me.”
“What else?”
“If I tell you, you’re not going to—”
Hy cocked his head.
“Fine. He somehow found out that me and two other actors robbed the box office at Castle Garden. It should have been an easy score, but one of the guys insisted we disguise ourselves.” Hett snorted. “The arrogant bastard figured he was too well known and might be recognized. So we took some of the costumes from our last production.”
“Was that the one about the evil bankers?” Hy asked.
Hett looked delighted. “You saw that?”
“Uh-huh.”
The play had been a very unfunny comedy in which Hett had played dual roles—an old man and an old woman. The show had been the theater’s last gasp, when it could no longer lure any famous acts and when people brought rotted vegetables, which they enjoyed hurling at the actors more than they liked watching the play.
Hy knew the other man was waiting for him to flatter him about his acting. If Lightner were there, he’d probably soothe Hett’s ruffled feathers. But there was just something about the little prick that rubbed Hy the wrong way. “Go on,” Hy urged. “You dressed up like a banker, robbed your employer, and then Beauchamp learned about it. What else?”
“Hey,” Hett said, fear turning to belligerence. “Don’t act all high and mighty with me. We hadn’t been paid for two months by the end of our run at the Garden. We were owed that money.”
Hy kept his opinion about that to himself.
“And for your information,” Hett added with a sneer, “we dressed up like bankers’ wives.” He paused, a nostalgic gleam in his eyes. “In a way, I consider that one of my greatest performances. It’s a shame—”
“I don’t care, Mr. Hett. What I do care about is how Beauchamp found out about that.”
Hett flung up his hands. “Jesus, I don’t know. It’s like the guy has a nose for this kind of shit. I’m pretty sure that’s how he spends his days, snooping through every corner of the damned city.”
Hy thought he might be right about that. “Tell me about paying this lawyer.”
“What’s there to tell? I bring the money in, give it to the young man who sits at a desk in front of his office, and that’s it.” His mouth pulled into a nasty smile. “I’m not the only one, either. I always have to pay on the eighth of the month. I’ve never talked to any of the other people, but if you do something that often, on that regular a basis, you’re bound to recognize people.”
“Any names?”
“No, nothing like that. Besides, none of us exactly want anyone to know why we’re there.”
Hy nodded and then asked—as if it were an afterthought, “Any memory of where you were December seventeenth?”
Hett’s forehead wrinkled. “You mean, last year?”
Hy nodded.
“Not off the top of my head. Why?”
Hy ignored the question. “It would have been a Frida
y in December.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy, then—I perform every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.”
“And is there somebody who could confirm this?”
“Yes,” Hett said, his brow creasing with confusion. “But why do—”
“Who?”
Hett looked like he wanted to argue, but he heaved a put-upon sigh instead. “Talk to the stage manager at the Broadway.”
“I thought that dump was closed?”
“It closes in three months.” Hett forced the words through clenched teeth.
Hy jotted down Broadway Theater and glanced up. “Where’s the lawyer’s office—this Richards?”
Hett bit his lower lip, looking like he might start bawling. Hy briefly wondered if he was really that scared or just acting.
But he didn’t think Hett was that good of an actor.
“Don’t worry,” Hy said. “I’m not going to say anything to the lawyer about you.”
“It’s at Seventh Avenue and East Twenty-Eighth, third floor. The entire bloody building is infested with lawyers.”
Something else occurred to Hy. “How long are you supposed to keep paying?”
Hett gave him a hopeless look, his gaze as lifeless as a burnt-out ember. “I dunno—until I die.” A spark of spite ignited, briefly bringing his eyes to life. “Unless I get lucky and that bastard dies before me.”
CHAPTER 11
“If you’re looking for Miss Fowler, she isn’t here.”
A woman’s voice drifted up to Jasper as he descended the stairs from Anita Fowler’s apartment, where he’d hoped to talk to her before she left for work.
The voice’s owner was a grandmotherly woman, who was standing in the open doorway to her rooms when he reached the main floor.
“She’s already g-gone to work?” he asked.
“I don’t know where she is. She came home last night just long enough to pack her bags and leave.”
“Leave?” he repeated rather stupidly.
“Yes. She seemed to be in a hurry—almost frantic.” The woman hesitated, and then said, “You must be Detective Inspector Lightner. I am Mrs. Stampler and this is my grandson, Harold.”
Her exceptionally large grandson appeared at her shoulder, and Jasper smiled at him. Harold stared dully in response.
Law had told him all about the pair yesterday. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
“Harold and I are just about to sit down to breakfast. Would you care to join us?”
“Th-Thank you, but I just ate.” Jasper did want to speak to the Stamplers at some point—he was curious as to how they managed to be Frumkin’s only tenants not in his little black book—but he didn’t want to be bludgeoned into eating a second breakfast.
“Miss Fowler works at Lillian Murphy’s Salon, but it doesn’t open until ten o’clock.” Mrs. Stampler paused, and then added, “I think she did piecework in addition to her mannequin job, so she might be there early.”
Jasper thanked her and set out on foot, since he had plenty of time to walk.
Lillian Murphy’s stylish boutique had no clients, yet when Jasper arrived at the shop, he saw several employees bustling around when he looked in the window.
A woman his age, wearing a rather shocking salmon-colored day dress, unlocked the front door, scowling as she examined him. “We are not yet open.”
“I’m l-l-looking for Anita Fowler.” Jasper showed her his badge.
She recoiled as though he’d offered her an unfashionable garment.
“What is your n-n-name?” he asked, when she continued to stare.
“Miss Eloise.”
“M-M-May I come in, Miss Eloise?”
“What’s this about?” she asked, opening the door just enough to allow him inside the shop. “Is Miss Fowler in trouble? Has she done something wrong?”
“N-Not at all. Her l-landlord died and we are asking all his t-t-tenants when they last saw him.”
“She’s not here.”
“When will she b-be here?”
“She should be here already. We ask our ladies to get to work by six. Miss Fowler is a mannequin, but she is also supplements her wages with detail work.”
“Is she often l-late?”
“Not often,” she said grudgingly.
“Is there anyone here who m-might know where she is?”
She hesitated and then said, “Let me bring out Miss Bendix; she is Miss Fowler’s closest acquaintance here.”
Jasper prowled the shop while she went to fetch the other woman. He’d never actually stepped foot into a modiste’s before. Well, at least not one that specialized in such respectable garments.
The walls and thick carpets covering the whitewashed wooden floor were a pale pink. The coffered ceiling was also pink, with gold leaf accents. The furniture was small and dainty; it was covered in pink brocades with gold wooden legs. It was the most feminine domain he’d ever entered and he felt like an interloper.
“Inspector?”
He turned to find Miss Eloise beside a much younger and far lovelier woman.
“This is Miss Bendix.” She gave the watch pinned to her bodice a significant look. “I’ll give you a few moments as I have some rather urgent business to attend to.” Her lips puckered and she narrowed her eyes. “I hope this won’t take long?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Jasper said.
“Hmmph.” She turned and disappeared into the back room.
Jasper looked down into Miss Bendix’s upturned face, reminded of a daisy. She had a remarkable quantity of guinea gold hair piled up on her head, doll-like blue eyes, and a surprisingly generous mouth for her small face.
She also looked frightened. “Miss Eloise said you were a policeman. Did something bad happen to Nita?”
“Why would you th-think that?” he asked.
She swallowed convulsively, glancing around, as if somebody might overhear. “She’s been worried—for months now.”
“About what?”
Miss Bendix shook her head, the action making the golden curls dance. “I don’t know—she wouldn’t say. I’m worried that she isn’t here—she seemed fine last night when she left.” She worried her full lower lip. “I think it must have been something to do with that man.”
“Which m-man?”
“Her landlord—he won’t let her out of her lease agreement, and poor Nita has to work all the time to afford it and—” Her mouth snapped shut, and she shook her head and gazed up at him, her huge eyes putting him in mind of an anxious spaniel. She opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it again.
“Miss Bendix,” Jasper said gently. “If you know s-something about Miss F-F-Fowler’s whereabouts, you should tell me.”
“But I don’t want to get her in trouble.” She stepped closer—close enough that he could smell rosewater. “Miss Eloise doesn’t like her.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t like any of the mannequins very much, but she especially dislikes Nita.” Her flawless ivory skin pinkened, causing her to match her surroundings almost perfectly. “Nita is quite the prettiest of us. And Miss Eloise—well, she doesn’t like her.”
So the older, homelier woman was jealous of her prettier subordinate.
“What d-did she tell you about her l-landlord—Mr. Beauchamp.”
Miss Bendix shivered. “He was a regular tom,” she said, her careful accent slipping and revealing a Scottish brogue. Again, she glanced around. “Nita won’t ever say, but I feel like he has some sort of hold over her.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Nita doesn’t like talking about her past. All I know is that she’s from somewhere in the South. She has an accent.” Her lips twitched into a smile. “It’s charming, but she hates it.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Two years. We worked at another dress shop together, but it closed. She got me in here.” She looked around the shop, a frown of distaste on her mouth. “It doesn’t pay nearly as well, bu
t there is always the chance to pick up piecework, not that I’m good enough with a needle for most things. We were saving our money to afford a place together. Last year, a few weeks before Christmas, Nita was supposed to move in with me and another girl—Millicent—but she couldn’t get out of her lease. So Millie moved in with two other girls, and I’m still stuck at home, with my ma and auntie.”
“Do you know where she might have g-gone if she’s not here or at h-home?”
Miss Bendix shook her head solemnly. “She works all the time and hardly ever goes out, even on payday. We used to go and have tea and pastries.” She gave him a shy smile, as if confessing a guilty secret. “But she hasn’t done that in months.”
“Does she have a b-beau?”
“No—but just because she works all the time, not because men aren’t interested. Last year she came with me to several dances at my church, Saint Cecilia’s, and never wanted for partners. But she doesn’t go anymore because she takes piecework home at night and comes in early. She works all the time, sir, and just to pay the rent on that wretched place—” She bit her lip and then shook her head. “It’s like that Mr. Beauchamp owns poor Nita. Sometimes she just looks so—hopeless.” She blinked her huge blue eyes up at him. “I hope she’s not in any more trouble with him, sir. He’s already caused her plenty.”
Jasper hoped so too.
CHAPTER 12
“Oh yes,” Trimble crooned, licking his thumbs and index fingers for the fifth or sixth time while he stared at the dial on the safe. “That’s a pretty girl. Want to share your secrets with Uncle Wilfy, do you?”
Hy turned to Lightner, who was gaping at the skinny old man, a wide-eyed mix of amusement and revulsion on his normally inscrutable features.
“Get on with it, Wilfred,” Hy ordered Trimble, who’d been talking to the wall safe as if it were a skittish woman he was courting.
Trimble gave him a wounded look. “I need to check her out a bit, first. Rushin’ me won’t help matters.” He licked his index fingers and thumbs again and rubbed them together, the compulsive gesture turning Hy’s stomach.
Wilfred Trimble was on his way to Sing Sing for a burglary conviction. He was helping Hy for two reasons. One, it got him out of the Tombs for the afternoon, and two, Lightner had promised to put in a good word for the old safecracker if he helped open Beauchamp’s safe and picked the locks on the two doors.
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