Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “I couldn’t hear the actual words.”

  “Did they stop arguing?”

  Tony shrugged. “I dunno. They went outside.”

  “Did you see her again?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t come back. The ship from Providence ran a few hours late that night, so we got real busy and I had my hands full.”

  “What time did you see her and the guy?”

  “Maybe around nine thirty or closer to ten.”

  “When did your shift end?”

  Tony pulled a face. “I worked back-to-back shifts ’cause the night clerk didn’t show. I didn’t get out until ten the next morning.”

  The bartender from Flannigan’s found the body around seven in the morning, so that meant she was murdered between ten and seven.

  “I’d like to see the room she was in.”

  “Er, well, that’s going to be difficult.”

  Hy sighed. “You rented it to somebody else.”

  “Hey, this is a busy week for us. She just paid for the one night. When the maid went up to her room after checkout time she found her stuff still there. The room was booked, so she packed up the bags and brought them down here.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re in the lockup.”

  “I’ll want to take them.”

  “Sure, sure.” Tony pulled a heavy ring of keys from his trouser pocket.

  “I’d like to speak to whoever cleaned the room,” Hy said, following Tony into a room packed with luggage.

  Tony checked a few paper tags before grabbing a valise and a large suitcase from beside the door. “These are the two.”

  Hy took the bags and put them aside while Tony relocked the storage door.

  “I still want to speak to the maid,” Hy reminded him.

  “Ah. Marta cleaned the room, but, well, her English isn’t so good.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Hy said.

  “I’ll send somebody for her after I take care of this.”

  This was a customer waiting at the desk.

  While Tony dealt with the guest, Hy opened the smaller bag, which looked like an overnight bag. It held a hairbrush, tooth powder, and other toiletry items, but nothing of any value.

  He put everything back in the bag and then opened the suitcase. A quick investigation showed a pair of dancing slippers, a heavy shawl, four dresses, stockings, and various undergarments. The suitcase itself was well made and looked almost brand new. It was heavy cowhide, the smooth surface barely scuffed.

  He ran his hand over the crisp taffeta lining and frowned. It felt like—

  “This is Marta, Detective.”

  Hy looked up to find Zachman standing beside a terrified-looking young girl.

  “She speaks German or Yiddish. Do you speak either?” Zachman asked with a slight smile.

  “My knowledge of German is limited,” Hy admitted, not saying what it was limited to, which was mainly words you didn’t speak in mixed company.

  “You ask me and I’ll ask her,” Tony said.

  “Was there anything unusual about Anita Fowler’s room?”

  Zachman spoke rapidly, the language wasn’t German, meaning it must be Yiddish, which Hy had occasionally heard but had no idea what country it came from.

  Marta responded in the same language.

  When she’d finished, Tony said, “She went in to do the turndown, and the room didn’t look used. The guest had only unpacked one dress and her toiletries, everything else was still inside the three bags.”

  “There were three bags?” Hy asked.

  Zachman repeated his question and even Hy could understand the answer.

  “Three,” Marta enunciated, staring at Hy.

  Zachman frowned and said something else to her, and the two went back and forth.

  “What are you saying?” Hy asked when he could get a word in.

  “I told her she must be wrong—that there were only two bags. But she says there were two bigger bags and a small one,” Tony said.

  Hy saw genuine worry in the younger man’s eyes. “I didn’t steal a bag, Detective.”

  Hy didn’t think he had, either. That would have been stupid when he could have just opened the bags and removed any valuables, and Anthony didn’t look stupid.

  “Ask her what time she turned down the bed,” he said.

  “Nine o’clock,” Tony translated.

  Hy nodded and made a note.

  “If she went out later, maybe she took the third bag with her then,” Tony said.

  Hy finished what he was writing before asking Marta, “No signs of a struggle? Nothing broken? No blood?”

  Tony hesitated before turning to the maid and speaking.

  The girl made a distressed noise, shaking her head before Tony had even finished, tears slipping from her huge brown eyes and sliding down her cheeks.

  “No, there was nothing like that,” Tony said.

  The maid said something else.

  “She’s sorry for crying, but she’s very sad about the woman,” Tony translated, and then shrugged, as if to say Women.

  Hy felt like an arse for making her cry. “Tell her that’s all.”

  Marta left and Hy asked Tony, “Who was the doorman you called in?”

  “Herman—that’s him over there,” he pointed to two doormen. “He’s the taller one.”

  Hy took out one of the cards that Lightner had printed up for him. “If you or anyone else thinks of anything—anything—tell them to come by the Eighth Precinct and ask for either me or Detective Inspector Lightner.”

  Tony took the card. “Sure thing. You wonder why a pretty girl like that would jump off a pier.”

  Hy didn’t set him straight.

  Herman and the other doorman were laughing about something when Hy approached.

  “I’m Detective Law.” He showed them his badge and they both stood up straighter. “I need to borrow Herman for a few minutes,” Hy said to the smaller bellboy, whose uniform was about three sizes too big.

  “Uh, yeah, of course.”

  Hy led Herman away from the hotel entrance.

  “Er, what’d I do?” Herman asked.

  He smiled at the younger man, who was tow-headed, broad-shouldered, and almost as tall as Hy. “Got a guilty conscience, Herman?”

  Herman’s eyes bulged. “No.”

  “Don’t worry—I’m not here about you. It’s about the argument Tony brought you inside to break up the other night.

  Herman frowned and then nodded. “Oh yeah, I remember. The looker and the fellah with glasses.”

  “Tell me about them,” Hy said.

  “She was really pretty. I mean really pretty. Blond, big blue eyes, and—” Herman made a gesture with both hands to indicate Anita Fowler was shapely.

  “And him?”

  “He wasn’t nothin’ special—maybe five foot ten or so, brown hair, beard, and thick glasses. Older than her—a lot older, maybe forty or so. Not a big guy. He looked upset—you know, eyes kinda wild, his face red, and he was holding his hat so tight he’d bent the brim pretty bad.”

  “Could you hear what they were arguing about?”

  “He wanted her to go somewhere with him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I heard him say to just come back to the house and talk about it. But I dunno what it was,” he added before Hy could ask. “Anyhow, I asked them to go outside if they were gonna yell.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got all puffed up and told me to mind my own business. I told him keepin’ the lobby quiet and civil-like was my business. She said, ‘Quit it, Stephen.’”

  Hy looked up from his notepad. “Stephen?”

  “Yeah, that’s what she said.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He gave me a dirty look, took her arm, and they went outside.”

  “He took her arm? Did she struggle?”

  “Naw, I would have sai
d something if she hadn’t wanted to go.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I didn’t pay them any attention because this old lady checked in with about twenty trunks and she wanted all of ’em up in her room immediately. I had to go in and tell Tony to call Thomas—that was the other guy workin’—back from his break.” He paused, and then said, “But I did notice they were gone when I came back out.”

  “Did you see either of them again?”

  “Um, not the guy. But she must have gone back up to her room because I saw her come out again—it was just past eleven.”

  “She went out at eleven? Was she with anyone?”

  “Nope. I was gonna say somethin’ to her—you know, about the piers not bein’ the safest places to go walkin’ at night.”

  You could say that again; more suspicious deaths occurred around the waterfront than anywhere else in the city—well, except for the Points.

  “You didn’t?” Hy asked.

  Herman’s lips wrinkled, his expression guilty. “Naw, I should have. But she was walkin’ fast—determined-like.”

  “In what direction?”

  “Er, that way.” He pointed toward Sanger’s ship.

  “Was she carrying anything?”

  Herman squinted, as if searching his memory. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t lookin’ at her hands.”

  He had a pretty good idea what Herman had been looking at.

  Hy did a quick sketch of the hotel, the nearby piers, and estimated the distance.

  “She’s the one they mentioned in the paper—the jumper?”

  Hy nodded absently. “Yep.”

  “She sure didn’t seem like the sort.”

  He looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “I dunno, she just seemed so—” His pale cheeks flushed. “This is gonna sound stupid, but she seemed pretty happy—even though she was arguing. I got the feeling she was sorry for the guy who was buggin’ her, you know? Being nice to him before she could give him the brush-off.” He shrugged. “She seemed happy,” he added again, more certainty in his voice. “Like maybe she was lookin’ forward to somethin’.” He amended, “Not like she was lookin’ forward to killin’ herself.”

  CHAPTER 28

  By the time Jasper dragged himself up the front steps of his house, he was knackered.

  The door opened before he reached for the handle.

  Rather than Thomas, his footman, Jasper looked down at his newest servant.

  John was dressed like a miniature Paisley, his hand outstretched. “G-G-G-Good eve-eve-eve-evening, my lord.”

  Jasper gave him his hat and cane and removed his gloves. “You’re on d-door duty, are you.”

  “Thomas is up-up-upst-st-st—” John sighed and took Jasper’s gloves, dumping them into his hat and setting both on the marble-topped console table with a thump.

  “Is that your only injury?” Jasper gestured to John’s bruised jaw.

  The boy shrugged.

  When he saw Jasper’s raised eyebrows, he heaved yet another sigh. “Yes, m-m-m-my l-l-l-l-l-ord.” He scowled, but Jasper knew the displeasure was for himself and not Jasper.

  Jasper nodded and headed up to his chambers. He wished there were some way to help the boy, but he’d not taken charge of his own stammering with any particular trick or method. Even now there were times when it became worse, usually when he was tired or out of sorts.

  He suspected that John’s problem was that he had a lot to say and nobody had ever stopped to listen. Therefore, he felt compelled to get things out quickly, which only made the situation worse.

  Jasper entered his chambers to find Thomas returning folded laundry to its proper drawer.

  “Good evening, Thomas.”

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  He walked past the visibly agitated man, already knowing what he’d find when he looked into his dressing room.

  “Good evening, my lord,” Paisley said.

  His valet was seated on a chair, his foot propped up on a footstool that was just beyond the door that connected the dressing room to Paisley’s room.

  Jasper smiled at his disgruntled expression. “How is the ankle?” he asked, pausing in the doorway and glancing over Paisley’s shoulder into the room beyond.

  He had never entered his valet’s domain and had a sudden curiosity to see what the other man kept in his personal space.

  “Much better, my lord.” Paisley’s forehead wrinkled when Jasper edged past his chair and into his room.

  Although the room was quite large—Jasper believed it was originally meant to be the sitting room for the mistress chambers—it was furnished like a monastic cell.

  The only wall hangings were a cross above the single bed—the first overt sign of Paisley’s Catholic background Jasper had ever seen—a map of the Empire, and a picture of the Queen.

  A pair of slippers were tucked neatly beneath the bed and there was a book on the nightstand. Jasper cocked his head to read the spine: Little Dorrit.

  When he finished his inspection, he turned back to find Paisley watching him.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  Jasper shrugged, feeling oddly guilty for looking about. “I’ve n-never seen your room before, yet you’re in mine all the time.”

  Paisley gave him the flat stare that usually reduced underservants to tears.

  Jasper’s face heated under the snubbing look, but he persevered. “How is the book?” He gestured to the nightstand.

  “I’m enjoying it.”

  “Hmm. P-P-Perhaps I might borrow it when you are done.”

  “It is from your library, my lord.”

  “Ah, then I shall definitely b-borrow it.”

  Thomas darted into the dressing room, put a pair of Jasper’s shoes in their place, and darted out again.

  Paisley’s frown deepened.

  “You’re not t-t-terrorizing poor Thomas, are you?” Jasper asked, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and leaning against the doorframe.

  A muscle in Paisley’s jaw clenched, indicating his displeasure that Jasper was stretching the fabric on his trousers.

  Jasper removed his hands. He told himself that he only did it so that he wouldn’t agitate the chair-bound man.

  “I’m just watching to make sure he is taking care of your needs properly, my lord.”

  “He’s doing fine.” That wasn’t a lie. The man had been there when Jasper woke up, run his bath, shaved him, and laid out his clothing.

  The skin around Paisley’s inexpressive gray eyes tightened.

  “But he’s n-n-not you, old chap,” Jasper added, pushing off the door. “Do hurry up and get well before—”

  “My lord?”

  Jasper looked up to find the footman had returned. “Yes, Thomas?”

  “There’s a Mr. Vogel to see you, my lord.”

  * * *

  Adolphus Vogel had looked physically imposing even in the Astors’ massive ballroom.

  In the smaller of Jasper’s two sitting rooms—where John had put him—Vogel was almost overwhelming.

  He was also seething. And pacing. He spun on his heel when Jasper opened the door and charged toward him.

  “Good evening, M-M-Mister Vogel. How may—”

  “Where’s my wife?” He glared hard at Jasper, his irises so dark they were indistinguishable from his pupil.

  “I don’t know,” Jasper said, sincerely hoping that the woman had taken his advice and was on a ship to Europe as they spoke.

  Vogel closed the short distance between them and raised his hand—which was holding a cane.

  The instant Vogel came within striking range, he brought his arm down with fearsome strength.

  Jasper sidestepped and swung his left leg in what the Marseilles streetfighters called a fouetté à bas and lads from the London stews would call a roundhouse kick.

  The toe of his boot caught Vogel just behind his right knee and the huge man bellowed like a bull as he went down, flinging his cane with a cry of angui
sh and clearing off the surface of a nearby console table as he flailed his arms to break his fall.

  He yelped as he bounced off an ottoman and then slid down to the polished wooden floor with an undignified thump.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted, clutching at his leg. “I think you broke my bloody knee.”

  Jasper allowed himself a moment to enjoy the sight of the self-pitying bully before he spoke. “I doubt that.”

  The door burst open, and John and Thomas hurried into the room. They stopped a few feet from Vogel, staring with wide eyes and open mouths.

  Vogel tried to cradle his knee but was prevented from doing so by his prodigious stomach. Tears squeezed from his squinting eyes. “You attacked me,” he accused, conveniently forgetting that he’d been about to brain Jasper with his cane.

  Jasper spotted said cane and picked it up.

  He turned to Vogel, weighing the walking stick with his hand. “It’s got a l-l-l-lead core,” he observed calmly, inwardly doing a bit of seething of his own. If Vogel had caught Jasper on his already cracked skull it was questionable whether he would have survived it.

  “This is a lethal weapon, M-Mister Vogel. I should arrest you for attempted grievous b-b-bodily harm.”

  Vogel sneered, making his red, sweaty, jowly face even uglier. “Do it. I’ve got an entire building full of lawyers who’d love nothing more than to give you a thorough thrashing. They’ll get me out of the Eighth Station in less time than it would take to book me in.”

  “I’m w-w-willing to give it a go.” Jasper smiled.

  Vogel flinched away from the expression on his face and Jasper couldn’t help chuckling; he’d dealt with cowardly bullies like Vogel all his life.

  “Is his carriage outside?” he asked his servants without taking his eyes from the man sprawled on his floor.

  “Yes, my lord, a great big bastard of a thing with four outriders,” John whipped out, with not even the hint of a stammer.

  Jasper turned and gawked at the boy, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Run and tell them to come f-fetch their master,” Jasper said.

  “Tell me where my wife is,” Vogel demanded through clenched teeth after John had left the room.

  “I don’t know,” he repeated.

  “You’re a fucking liar. She came here the other night—I know she did because I have her followed everywhere.”